Don't take me to the River

You know when you have a song stuck on repeat in your head?

But the song is one that makes you want to poke your ear drums with sharp knives?

That is my problem today. All because I heard this song on television this morning.

I'm assuming that most of you New Englanders (at least those of you in Rhode Island, Connecticut and Massachusetts) have heard it on the radio or seen the commercial.

I don't know where to even begin with why the song bothers me so much.

Maybe it's that the singer just sounds horribly off-key. Maybe it's that I'm so turned off by the commercial, what with the woman flailing her arms about with no rhythm whatsoever dancing and just the overall "low-budget" feel for what's marketed as a "high class" establishment.

Maybe it just offends me that Twin River markets itself as a "gaming" facility and not a casino. But to me, slots machines + restaurants + entertainment = a casino.

Mostly, though, I hate the dog racing.

It's just interesting to me that Twin River was originally called Lincoln Greyhound Park.

Then it was changed to just Lincoln Park. (But the greyhound racing was still a major draw.)

Now it's Twin River. Investors have poured hundreds of millions of dollars into making it the third-largest slot machine facility in the country. And the dog racing is spun to be part of the "entertainment."

So no, I won't be taking myself to the River, thankyouverymuch.

And the song on repeat in my head is only serving to further solidify that vow.

- Jane

Mums the Word

Last weekend we hopped in the car and meandered down the windy, hilly roads of north-western Connecticut. We brought a picnic lunch to Lake Waramaug in Litchfield County, and lounged on a small sandy beach watching brave people in bathing suits wade into the water. The sun warmed our backs as we nibbled on assorted delicacies and took in the stunning views: glassy still water; brilliant foliage dotting the hills; and cows. (Yes - cows. There is a cow pasture that sits on the northern edge of the lake.)

Who knows what awaits us this weekend. Will it be more leaf-peeping and country driving? Will we hit some farmstands and load up on apples, gourds, pumpkins and cider? Maybe it's time for hayride? A visit to a winery?

Welcome back, Autumn. So glad you're here.

Concord

Nope, not the town, although it is lovely. I'm talking grapes. The Concord grape was actually developed in Concord, by one Ephraim Wales Bull. He planted seeds on his farm, located next to Bronson Alcott's farm, from the wild grape varietal Vitis labrusca. In 1843, he started evaluating his seedlings. Over 20,000 seedlings and six years later, he settled on the perfect one. That vine still grows at his former home. Bull never saw much profit from his grapes after selling the vines for $5 a piece to competing growers.

One Dr. Thomas Bramwell Welch, a New Jersey dentist, developed and pasteurized the first Concord grape juice, in 1869, to be used in communion in his church. And of course, peanut butter and jelly wouldn't be peanut butter and jelly without Concord Grape Jelly.

But it's as a table grape that it really shines. Yes, they have seeds. So what? Have you ever eaten a Concord grape? They are one of the few types of produce that is truly seasonal. You can buy red or green grapes year round. Apples, even, get imported from New Zealand (New Zealand!!) or shipped in from Washington, but a Concord grape is only around for a month or so. We're nearing the end of the season now.

Oh, they're good. They pop in your mouth, the skin, a bit thick, pulling away from the tangy sweetness of the pulp inside. Mmm. Go down to your local market now and buy some. Come February, when you're picking over strawberries that look like styrofoam and wincing at the $3 a pound apples, you'll remember those grapes and smile, looking forward to next September and October, when you can indulge once again.

'scuse me. I have to run to Stop & Shop and get some more, before somebody else hogs 'em all up. Better wash my purple fingers first....

Hey, Who's the New Guy?

...that would be me.

I'm Kate. Sarah, of the Trenches variety, and Ms. Chicky herself, have graced my inbox with their vaulted words, and I'm dipping my toe into the world of group blogging.

Can you lean just a little closer for a minute? Just... pull in a little... yeah, c'mere. Okay, listen. It's kind of a secret. Ready? I'm not a real New Englander.

It's a little sad, I know. I'm just a transplant, and will never be a true Yankee. I pronounce R's at the end of words that end in R, and can allow names that end in vowels to go R-less. I could not - seriously, I've tried - care less about sports. I live in New Hampshire and don't own a gun.

But I like it here. I consider myself a permanent transplant; after we've survived two or eight more years of my husband as grad student at UNH, we plan on moving closer to Boston. I don't get nearly enough opportunities for road rage up here on the Seacoast.

What else, what else? I never know whether my interests are interesting or merely another set of lists. I knit, I travel, I have children (Emily is 7 and Jacob is 3) with the option for more in a year or two. I blog. I'm a sort-of psychologist, doing crisis assessments in the emergency room. I, I, I... you get the idea.

I hope this is fun. I hope to get to know some fabulous new people, because that gives me more chances to gossip about the unfabulous ones out there. I hope not to be boring.

Finding the Catskill Mountain House

We were staying at a small bed & breakfast in the mid-Hudson River Valley this week when we found out--on our last day there, of course--about a nearby site that was heralded as just the balm for sore eyes. Needing no convincing, and not daunted in the least by unfavorable weather conditions, we headed out in the direction of the Catskill Mountains toward what James Fenimore Cooper called the “greatest wonder of all creation.”

In the moist gray-blue air, this is what we got:

Then the clouds below us became a cloud around us. I could see and feel its movement as the fog crept around a corner and took over not only the land on which we stood, but also the invisible vastness in front of us.

The voice in the guidebook we’d consulted told us the view from the site of the old Catskill Mountain House was “so lovely that it transcends mere description to become a symbol of the profoundest yearnings within the soul of the beholder.” I was prepared to believe it; even in absence—the absence of the house, which was burnt down almost 50 years ago, and the absence of the view, which was hidden by all the weightless wetness of a levitating pond—there was something transcendental. And I thought, for sure, I’d be returning. I hadn’t seen what I’d hoped to, but I’d seen something.

It’s not the manifestation that keeps us coming back. It’s the promise.