Category Archives: tourism

Pawpaws to the People!

tourism, travel, Uncategorized

It’s pawpaw season, and festivals celebrating this regional native fruit are popping up all over. Visiting one of these seemed like the folkloric thing to do, and in fact I couldn’t believe that I had somehow reached my advanced age and had not done so already.

The Pawpaw Festival in Albany, Ohio (near Athens, and also near the United Plant Savers sanctuary which my adventurous colleague and partner in crime, Arlene, and I were visiting this week) is, I would dare say, one of the biggest in the country. We spent a couple of hours there experiencing All Things Pawpaw.

First, the taste. Upon arrival, we sought out the free sample tent where we could set the mood. Volunteers sliced us a big hunk and explained that you just squeeze the soft, yellowish pulp out of the rind, and swirl the big dark pits around in your mouth to get all the good stuff off them. (Then throw them out because they are poisonous if chewed and consumed, apparently.)

Next we found the craft beer tent, where for a few bucks you could try a variety of pawpaw brews (and take the glass home to boot). We listened to a band that defied genre classification, and then made our way to the food court. We sampled an Indonesian satay with pawpaw peanut sauce, and later tried Thai mango sticky rice with pawpaw mousse.

There were also vendors selling pawpaw bread, official paw paw festival t-shirts with designs dating several years back, and pawpaw plants. (As well as a lot of non-paw paw-related stuff.) We were saddened to have missed the pawpaw cook-off.

A full harvest moon rose over the festival grounds, as we finally admitted paw paw overload. Still, I insisted on stopping by the free sample tent one more time to leave with the sweet custardy taste still lingering on my taste buds.

  • Kombucha in various pawpaw flavors (still tastes I assume like vinegar)
  • Pawpaw peanut sauce is a winner in my mind.
  • This is what a pawpaw tree looks like.
  • There were no pawpaws in the coffee thank goodness.

Let Freedom Ring Elsewhere for a Change

tourism, Wilmington; Brandywine Valley

For the first time since 1986, I had the 4th of July off, officially. Because I have worked on the Smithsonian Folklife Festival every year since then and it always incorporates the 4th of July. Only two times in all those years was I somewhere other than the National Mall on the 4th: sick, once and attending my great uncle’s 90th birthday party the other time.

This year, our shorter Festival did not encompass the holiday. Seemed, therefore, like a good time to experience Independence Day elsewhere. We picked the Brandywine Valley, and nearby Wilmington, Delaware. According to my research, Wilmington was reputed to have a good fireworks display, and there are plenty of DuPont mansions and other cultural wonders nearby.

With our destination about two hours from home and in no hurry to get an early start, our adventure commenced with lunch. Others might have enjoyed grilled hot dogs for the 4th; we dined on Mayalsian fare at Rasa Sayang, which is (aptly considering the date) located in a shopping center called Independence Mall a short distance north of Wilmington.

Next up, a trip to Europe via one of the lesser known DuPont estates: Nemours. At least I had never heard of it, as it seems to fly more under the radar than its sister estate, Winterthur. The 77-room mansion and extensive French gardens were the home of Alfred I. DuPont and his second, and then third, wife (until they bailed for Florida). It was built in the 1910s as a sort of Delawarian version of Versailles. Visitors are invited to wander by themselves around the grounds and house; friendly guide-staff let you explore at your own pace, but answer questions if you have any.

Next, a caffeine pick me up in the Trolley Square neighborhood, then finding a parking space near the waterfront in Wilmington to settle in for the 4th celebration. (Parking was delightfully available and free, the perks of a small city versus the nightmare of parking in DC.) We killed time riding up and down the Christina River on the water taxi, and then strolling nearly the entire length of the River Walk. Finally, it was time to find a place to watch the fireworks.

Our viewing space was directly across the river from the place they were shooting off the fireworks; any closer and, according to the security patrol, we would be in the zone where fireworks debris might fall on our heads. (The Christina is deep but not particularly wide, as you may have guessed.) Sure, the backdrop of the Washington Monument and the thrill of being in an excited hoard of half a million people was missing, but the show was just as impressive and the smaller crowd and immediacy of the display made up for not being in Our Nation’s Capital. Thanks, Wilmington, for making my first Fourth of July in over thirty years fine and DC-free.

Reconstructing Beaufort

tourism, ,

Beaufort, South Carolina is a charmingly historic small city in “the Low Country” (aptly called this because it is just about at or below sea level, and when it rains as much as it did when we visited a couple of weeks ago, it almost recedes right into the various bodies of water surrounding it).

While on a family visit to Hilton Head, where our former Yankee relatives have retired, we took a side trip. My husband had seen a television feature about the National Reconstruction Era History Site(s) in and around Beaufort. Turns out the only one really open on a regular basis is the Visitor’s Center, but it was still worth the trip.

I for one learned many things I did not know about Beaufort and its surroundings. For one, that the city was taken over by the Union army early on in the Civil War, and consequently, after the war it had a sort of leg up on helping freedmen (and women) make the transition from enslavement to reach their educational and economic potential.

Sadly, along with these positive forces, there were the negative ones which led to what the National Park Service exhibition calls “unmet promises” which is shorthand for “legal (and also many illegal) ways to keep African American people from advancing.” The exhibit panel that most disturbed me was the Black Code laws which were voted into law in SC in December 1965. This included: “XXXV. All persons of color who make contracts for service or labor, shall be known as servants, and those with whom they contract, shall be known as masters.” Wait, I thought they abolished slavery. I guess not really.

We read all the very informative panels very thoroughly, because about five minutes into our visit, the sky opened up once more and poured more buckets of rain down on the already soaked earth. It subsided enough for us to go exploring around some historic neighborhoods, and to also have lunch at a nice Thai restaurant. We got back to our car just before the next torrential downpour, soaked in history and contemplation.

  • Inside the Visitor’s Center’s small but informative display.
  • A public art project of painted benches interprets Reconstruction.
  • We came upon the future site of a Harriet Tubman Memorial.
  • Robert Smalls was a Civil War hero and late a prominent citizen and politician.
  • Beaufort is chock full of historic sites, many of them churches.

Swiss Sojourn in West Virginia

#HelvetiaWV, tourism, ,

West Virginia may seem like an unlikely place for a tiny Swiss American town. But, as a folklorist, I often expect the unexpected. Cultural adventures that might surprise other people don’t faze me and my colleagues.

So, it was with delight that my friend and colleague Arlene and I set off, after interviewing ginseng trader Tony Coffman, for an evening in tiny Helvetia, WV, which was a stopover highly recommended by former Smithsonian co-worker and current head of the WV Folklife Program, Emily Hilliard. Emily was so excited about our visit to Helvetia that she helped, via email, to rally a bevvy of locals, which led to an impromptu creek-side party.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, we had to make sure to reach the town before five p.m., when the Kultur Haus (sort of general store and museum, as well as post office, rolled into one) closes for the evening, and in order to have enough time to eat dinner before six, when the Hutte (the town restaurant) shuts down for the night. The Kultur Haus is the home of a charming collection of Fasnacht masks – well, if you find giant leering faces and fancifully menacing creatures charming. Fasnacht is the Swiss answer to Mardi Gras, and during that wintry celebration, hundreds of people descend upon Helvetia.

But it was sunny and warm on this May evening as we parked near our abode for the night, the Beekeeper Inn, and there was hardly another person in sight as we took the short walk between the historic wooden buildings. After visiting the Kultur Haus, we settled into our dining experience. We met the keeper of the town web site, Dave Whipp, for dinner and he offered advice on menu choices, historic background on the town, and told us stories about some of the inhabitants, past and present. I had homemade sausage, which was covered in tasty tomato sauce and accompanied by sauerkraut, a potato pancake, and hot apple sauce. Arlene went for the bratwurst. Just when we thought we could eat no more, we surrendered to warm buttery peach cobbler.

Rolling out of the restaurant, we walked the short distance back to the Beekeeper and were greeted by Clara Lehmann and her husband Jonathan Lacoque, filmmakers, and their five year old twins, and Clara’s mom Heidi. Clara grew up in Helvetia, went away for awhile, but returned to raise her family. Thanks to the internet (which apparently they get there, although cell service was blissfully nonexistent for us during our whole visit), they can do work from this most isolated spot for big clients like Google. They are currently putting the finishing touches on a film about her grandmother, one of the biggest movers and shakers and promoters of Helvetia, who passed away recently.

Soon we were joined by the next door neighbors, a concert pianist/composer (originally from England), and his wife, a nurse (originally from Louisiana). Wine, beer, more food materialized, and the cheerful conversation punctuated by the babble of the creek stretched until darkness, the evening chill and some early mosquitos drove everyone toward warm beds.

The next morning, a sumptuous breakfast at the Hutte set us up for the whole rest of the day. Reluctantly, we pried ourselves away from the table and left for more West Virginia adventures. But the memory of the good company, local charm, and global connections lingers on. Aufwiedersehen, Helvetia. Hope to be back some day. There are still plenty of choices on the menu of the Hutte to try!

Arlene resorts to reading the paper map over breakfast.
  • Some of the many Fastnatch masks at the Kultur Haus.
  • View of the Beekeeper Inn from the Hutte.
  • One of the Hutte room views.

Museum Moments in Western Massachusetts

tourism, travel, , ,

I am privileged to have some old women friends (literally, now) who date back to high school, and even most of them to elementary school. It’s a small group, and we have done very different things with our lives, but we still enjoy getting together, doing stuff, and laughing over a few glasses of wine when we can manage to find a weekend to gather.

Back in late April, six of us converged at our friend Linda’s home in Western Massachusetts. We had all sorts of great plans to go on a hike, sit on her back porch, etc. but the weather was rainy and in the 40s. (At one point it even started spitting snow.) So much for the out of doors. Instead, we visited a couple of museums. And ate a lot. And drank more wine.

First up, the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge. The iconic portrait artists spent the last part of his career and life in this quaint Western Mass town, and this large spiffy museum has an impressive collection of his work. A separate building houses his studio. Special exhibitions highlight other American artists – when we visited, one of my personal heroes, Rube Goldberg, was also celebrated in a smallish side gallery.

One of Norman’s most popular paintings (at least for Stockbridge fans) is a Christmastime portrait of the town of Stockbridge, which is located a few miles down the road from the museum. He took some liberties in painting in the local mountains, which cannot actually be viewed from downtown, and also included a couple of buildings that are not really visible from the vantage point of the painting. But, otherwise, as witnessed by my own attempt to capture the town photographically, it was an accurate depiction. We ate lunch at the Red Lion Inn‘s pub, a step back in time for sure.

After an evening of camaraderie, and making plans for our next gathering, most of our party split for their respective homes in Vermont or Virginia, leaving only three of us to find a still-rainy day Sunday occupation. We decided (by process of elimination, since most local attractions were either not open for the season or not open on Sundays) to visit the Berkshire Museum in Pittsfield.

This is a very eclectic collection of art, history, and nature, which includes an aquarium in the basement, and a huge open room in on the second floor featuring a sort of “cabinet of curiosities” highlighting their vast holdings of – well – miscellany. Mummies vie with moose heads, full sized plaster reproductions of famous works of art like the Winged Victory, and a few examples of Bragg Boxes, a sort of early educational kit developed by the museum’s first director, “who believed that museums hold the power to educate and uplift the masses.”

I was personally uplifted by a multi-room exhibition of the machines of Leonardo daVinci, also inhabiting the second floor until next September. Leonardo is another of my personal heroes, and although most of these machine models were instruments of war, they were fun nonetheless. Many were working models that one could try cranking, lifting, or otherwise manipulating, which delighted visitors of all ages.

Good friends, good museums, and a great weekend all around. Here are some photographic highlights.

  • Norman’s view of downtown Stockbridge
  • My own attempt to capture the same scene.
  • Old friends looking cold outside Rockwell’s studio.
  • Posing in front of Leonardo’s elegant tank.

Over the Cherry Blossoms

tourism,

The annual deluge of tourists is diminishing as the cherry blossoms fade. I had a good dose of them in various locations and at various times of day and night, as per the picture gallery below. (Featuring the Tidal Basin, our own Cherrydale neighborhood, and Kenwood, Maryland.)

But first, a poem to mark their passing.

Past Peak

Ungracious green, pushing pink

To the verge. Swirling, disturbed,

By passing (not pausing) hordes

Apathetic, unperturbed.

Florida, Part 2: Great Men and Chickens

chickens, Florida, Great Men, , ,

Florida as we know it today, one might conclude from formal public art and street signs, was created by Great Men. Of course, we all know that is not true, but Great Men are on display almost everywhere around the state. Ponce de Leon, though he failed to find the Fountain of Youth, did “discover” Florida (as the History Channel explains, this happened on April 2, 1513). His name is commemorated in parks, streets, and a whole town in the state.

Henry Flagler came much later, but is credited with inventing tourism in Florida. Although one encounters Flagler’s name in many places in Florida, we learned all about Flagler while in Key West, through a very illuminating exhibition at the Custom House museum. One of his chief feats was masterminding the Florida East Coast Railway, an enormous and costly venture (in funds and number of workers killed during the construction) linking the most remote but also the most populated and economically successful of the chain of islands to Miami. Voila, tourism is born, sort of.

We did not drive the length of the highway that now follows Flagler’s accomplishment, but arrived on the water via the Key West Express from Fort Myers. The day before taking the boat down, we explored this fine town and discovered that most things there are named after Three Great Men who wintered there: Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, and Harvey Firestone. Statues of this threesome lounge in the middle of a fountain in Centennial Park on the edge of downtown.

So much for Great Men. Let us now turn to chickens. Key West is proudly quirky, and one of these quirks comes in the form of “gypsy chickens” which roam the streets, yards and parks freely. Forget the famed six-toed cats of Hemingway’s adobe (speaking of great men); chickens rule in Key West, whole families of them. When we got tired and bored of battling the tourist frenzy of Duval Street, we settled on a park bench (which are few and far between in Key West unfortunately) and watched the chicken show, featuring dueling crowing roosters, and hens clucking in complaining “mom tones” to their tiny fluffy offspring.

Florida. So much more than warm winter weather, palm trees and water, water everywhere. Even more than great men and chickens.

  • African American soldier of the Civil War statue, Ft. Myers
  • Street art in Ft. Myers
  • Edison, Ford and Firestone
  • Key West quirky signs
  • Route 1 ends in Key West
  • Porch art in Key West
  • Small delicious Cuban restaurant, Key West
  • The art of Mario Sanchez from Key West
  • One of the many

George Alfred Townsend: A Gap(land) in our Knowledge

culture, tourism, travel, , , ,

Nature and some largely forgotten history converged on a little post-Thanksgiving jaunt we took this weekend.  The Appalachian Trail intersects with a small park called Gathland in rural Washington, County, Maryland.   I wish I could say we went on a hike, but since the light was failing when we finally got there, we just explored the mute, stone testimonies to the man who was George Alfred Townsend, AKA “Gath.”

One of the two interpretive signs that deal directly with this enigma of a war correspondent and author of several novels includes the quote, “Mankind is always interesting, but is also fatiguing.”  As a successful writer, with it would seem substantial financial means, Gath and his beloved wife Bessie built a country estate to escape mankind and Washington, DC.

As most of the other ten or so signs describe various aspects of Civil War campaigns in the area, one does not learn much more about Gath, his life, and work from the site.  Bessie gets even shorter shrift.  The buildings remaining in the park, constructed from an attractive local stone, include Gath’s “empty tomb” – highly creepy, even if his mortal remains did not end up there – and the ruins of what appears to have been a very large barn.  There are also two houses intact, and the park web site promises a museum in one of them, open in the tourist season.

The central attraction of the property is a massive and curious memorial to war correspondents, planned and perhaps financed by Gath.  It towered over the peaceful late fall landscape like the sole remaining wall of a castle, with arches and crenelations, statuary and niches.  And a weather vane.

Perhaps we will return to visit the museum if/when it is open. Perhaps we will acquire a copy of one of Gath’s novels, such as The Entailed Hat, or Patty Cannon’s Times (as you see from this link, it is available on Amazon) and read it to better understand this contemporary of Mark Twain’s.  Perhaps not.  Meanwhile, visiting what remains of Gath’s country estate and trying to decipher his life from the meager outdoor interpretation available in the park made for an interesting afternoon.

Teddy Roosevelt in Buffalo: Mystery in History Solved

culture, tourism, travel, , ,

While in Buffalo recently for the annual American Folklore Society meetings, I had some free time to explore this fascinating city.  (Yes, it is much more than hot wings and Niagra Falls.)  I set off to explore why Theodore Roosevelt was inaugurated in Buffalo in 1901.

I set off on a brisk (due to the 40sF temperature and wind) walk from downtown, admiring the architecture along the way, and soon arrived at the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Historical Site

This stately mansion houses not only the library where Roosevelt was inaugurated, but an impressive array of interactive displays for deeper dives.  While you wait for your guided tour through the house, you are immersed in an exhibit on the 1901 Pan Am Exposition,  a sort of world’s fair designed to showcase everything progressive and superior about America.  Considering that electricity, and even ice cream, were new things back then, there was a lot to ooh and aah over at this fantastic city of the future for the people of the day, and putting yourself in their place via the displays was fun.

Things get decidedly darker when the tour guide puts on a video that explains how, after a rousing speech about the wonders of the exposition and of America, President McKinley is shot while greeting well wishers.  (Obviously at least one person, Leon Czolgosz, did not wish him well at all.)  TR was the Vice President, and when poor McKinley finally succumbed to his wounds (unfortunately he did not die instantly but suffered in the hands of inferior medical practices of the day), Roosevelt was summoned to Buffalo to pay his respects and get sworn in.

The next area imagines the many pressing issues of the day that must have been going through Roosevelt’s mind as he prepared to take over the presidency.  Many of them sounded disturbingly familiar to those of us reading the news in 2018:  immigrants flooding the country; poor race relations; and rampant devastation of natural resources in some of the country’s most spectacular wild landscapes, among others.

Poor old Teddy had his hands full, in other words.  As those of us who know a little something about his personal history (or find out more through a visit to one of the many TR historical sites around the country), he was not exactly perfect.  (Let’s not get into such things as the eminent domain of the Philippines, destructive safaris in Africa, etc.)

In any case, the tour through the house, standing in the library were the inauguration took place, seeing a pile of facsimiles of telegrams (the email – or even Twitter – of the day) that he needed to address, and then diving into more history in the upstairs rooms of the mansion where you can pose with a larger-than-life cut out, pretend to be president, and contemplate further how far, but then again how close, we still are to issues of 1901, was all very interesting and powerful experience.  Thanks to our tour guide and the staff of the site for an enlightening couple of hours.

 

A Spark in Salisbury

culture, National Folk Festival, tourism

This past weekend, I attended and helped present some artists at the National Folk Festival in Salisbury, Maryland.   The National is a long weekend event organized by the National Council for the Traditional Arts in partnership with local organizations, which moves every three years (theoretically at least) between cities willing to give up a substantial portion of their downtown to street closings, endure the infrastructure that it takes to put up stages on said streets, and brave throngs of locals and tourists who (hopefully) swarm to the event.

It’s a huge gamble for a relatively small city.  But, to their credit, Salisbury bought into it (thanks to the persuasive organizers and a feeling that the city “deserved” such an honor as a prestigious national festival) and the result seems positive.  Even though it rained most of the weekend, people came out with their umbrellas and their rain slickers in numbers not expected in such weather.

As usual, the line up of artists was stellar, including some things that Salisburians have surely never experienced and never even imagined existed.  Inuit throat singers?  Peruvian scissors dancers?  Tap dancing feet as a percussion instrument?  Check.  And some local things that tourists didn’t know was a thing… like muskrat skinning and cooking.

 

On the Sunday, I worked with participants from the Pocomoke Indian National during a sort of pop-up presentation at their demonstration area.  They decided to show the visitors huddling under the tent, sheltering out of the persistence drizzle, how to make fire with friction, using a board and a sort of reed.  The visitors watched patiently as the participants tried time and again to coax a spark out of the damp wood.  Finally, a tiny spark emerged and took hold into an ember, which was nurtured into a warm flame.  Cheers arose from the small but attentive audience.

I thought that spark and the resulting flame an apt metaphor for the National in Salisbury.  From the spark of the idea to stage the National in the city, the flame of the festival resulted, and will hopefully bloom (despite the damp and other obstacles that might be thrown in the way) into two more years of an exciting event showcasing excellent folk practitioners from the region and the world.