When Vermont author David Goodman isn't writing, he's skiing or, even better, writing about skiing. His newest book is Best Backcountry Skiing in the Northeast: 50 Classic Ski Tours in New England and New York (Appalachian Mountain Club Books; backcountryskiing.info).
Halfdan Kuhnle Trail, Blueberry Hill Cross-Country Ski Center Looking for romance? Try this: Start with a stay at the gourmet Blueberry Hill Inn; then head out the back door up Romance Mountain on the Halfdan Kuhnle Trail, the highest groomed Nordic ski trail in Vermont. From Romance Clearing high on the slopes, beautiful views of the Green Mountains and a long, twisting descent await you. I enjoy feeling "out there" without being too far out on this seven-mile-long tour. Goshen, VT. 802-247-6735; blueberryhillinn.com
Mountain Road, Bretton Woods Nordic Center A ski lift on a cross-country trail? Just one of many unique Mountain Road features. I took the Bethlehem Express chairlift at the Omni Mount Washington Resort's Bretton Woods ski area; then gently switchbacked five miles down the side of a mountain on groomed cross-country trails into the sprawling 100-kilometer Nordic network. I was repeatedly forced to a stop by the huge views of the Northeast's tallest peak that greeted me at each turn. Bretton Woods, NH. 800-314-1752, 603-278-3322; brettonwoods.com
Sam's Run, Craftsbury Outdoor Center One of my favorite ways to travel through Vermont's Northeast Kingdom is to slide along an incongruously gentle groomed passage known as Sam's Run, a 8.3-kilometer cross-country ski trail that's part of the nonprofit Craftsbury Outdoor Center. After meandering through deep woods, the trail bursts into the open with huge views of the Lowell Mountains. Craftsbury Common, VT. 802-586-7767; craftsbury.com
Chris's Run, Trapp Family Lodge My favorite way to end a day at this renowned ski center is to descend the long, sinewy Chris's Run (formerly 40 Year Trail). Situated between the Austrian-themed lodge and the rustic Slayton Pasture Cabin, the trail is bathed in afternoon light and framed by a beautiful Green Mountains skyline. Stowe, VT. 800-826-7000, 802-253-8511; trappfamily.com
Wildcat Valley Trail, Jackson Ski Touring Foundation Deep powder; high-speed cruising; classic New England countryside; hundred-mile views: The adrenaline-pumping gem of this world-class network does it all in a 12-mile odyssey from the top of Wildcat Mountain to the village of Jackson. Pinkham Notch to Jackson, NH. 603-383-9355; jacksonxc.com
In downtown Northampton, Massachusetts, there's one tree that looks particularly well prepared for winter. A colorful stockinette sweater hugs its trunk, with holes carefully placed to accommodate its branches. A yarn monkey dangles from one of the boughs.
Around the base of the tree are three twentysomething women knitting furiously. Brie, Rachel, and Katie comprise Riot Prrl, a yarn-bombing collective. Yarn bombing is a fairly new phenomenon that sprang from the rising popularity of knitting among the younger generation. As these new knitters progressed in skill, they eventually encountered the same conundrum that has stumped yarn lovers for centuries: At some point you just don't need any more scarves. But instead of slowing down, they've turned their hobby out into the street, producing the happiest, politest graffiti in history.
"It gets boring making a scarf and then making a hat and then making the same exact hat but in a different color," Rachel says, looking up from her work. "But when you're doing the yarn bombing, every piece can be so different."
Different indeed: If an item can be found in a public space, odds are that somewhere a yarn bomber has already measured it for a custom sweater. Trees, statues, and even rocks have gotten the knitted treatment. It's believed that the trend started in Houston, Texas (where they really don't need scarves), in 2005 and has since swept the world, with bombers spread from Australia to Finland. New England, naturally, is well represented in this new knitting underground.
As the young women work, a parking monitor spots them and hurries over. "Is this your handiwork I see all over town?" she asks. They hesitate for a moment before saying yes. Yarn bombing, though nondestructive, is still technically illegal. "I love it," the monitor explains. "I see them all along my meters, and I think, Huh, that looks better than a plain pole!"
Rachel says they hear that a lot, though at first they weren't sure how people would react. "For a while we'd tag only under the cover of night," she says. When they installed their first major piece, a 46-foot-long rainbow cover for a metal railing, they went so far as to wear knitted mustaches. "We thought we should have a little bit of a disguise," Brie chimes in, "but it didn't work out." "I kept getting yarn in my mouth," Rachel adds.
Now they do most of their work in the daytime, and the worst they ever encounter is the occasional odd look. They say their only agenda is to spread a sense of whimsy through the city and maybe elicit an occasional smile. As to whether they're artists or vandals or fiber-craft rebels, they seem happy to let others decide. Katie recalls meeting one woman who was so excited to see her putting up a piece by her home that she came out and took her picture: "She called me 'a joy-bringing leprechaun.'" As far as tags go, that's a pretty good one.
How's this for comfort food: Take your favorite ingredients and wrap them up in a delectable crust. It's the basic definition of pie--something sweet or savory (or both) cooked in something starchy--and it's a technique that has inspired cooks as long as humans have stood before a stove. Egyptian, Greek, and Roman records all document foods that meet this criterion. The word pie itself dates back to 14th-century England.
Perhaps it's all this accumulated history that gives pie such a familiar, cozy feeling. If summer turns our thoughts to blueberry pie, and fall wouldn't be fall without at least one slice of apple pie, then winter is certainly a time for hearty savory pies filled with meats, vegetables, and cheeses in various combinations.
The chicken, beef, and pork pies presented here were all inspired by traditional British recipes, but we wandered father afield for our meatless offerings, with a French take on classic Greek spanikopita (made with winter greens, mushrooms, caramelized shallots, feta, and walnuts) and a New England spin on the traditional French galette, or open-faced tart, here made with sweet potatoes, beets, and local goat cheese. It's an international lineup, but it's as homey as can be.
Tim O'Neil is trying to save the world, one driver at a time. For the past 27 years, this longtime rally driver has traveled the country, teaching the dos and don'ts that come with making the road a better, safer place. Since 2000, most of that work has come from his Team O'Neil Rally School & Car Control Center, a sprawling, woodsy home base in Dalton, New Hampshire. It's a magnet not just for budding rally-car competitors but also for folks who want to brush up on their driving techniques, especially in winter. "Summertime makes us numb," O'Neil says. "We get used to the sunny days and dry roads, so that even really good drivers are petrified when that first snow hits." For more about Team O'Neil and its courses, visit: team-oneil.com
Gear Up Good winter driving, O'Neil says, begins with good preparation. He advises that every vehicle be equipped with two survival kits: one for clothing (extra jackets, gloves, hats) and another for equipment (jumper cables, flat-tire kits, flashlights, extra cell-phone battery, windshield-washer fluid). "You find some old Yankees around here and you open up the backs of their cars and you'll find they have their kits," he says.
Test Drive Scrape off the summer rust by finding an open space and getting to know your car again. Slam on the brakes to find out where the antilock braking system (ABS) kicks in and whether your brakes in general need an adjustment. Does the car pull to one side? Also, try out your car's different driving modes, such as "sport" and "winter," and reacquaint yourself with how they affect the car's handling.
Stay Focused Three simple words: Know your surroundings. If it's late in the day and a warmer afternoon has given way to cooler temperatures, ice may form. North sides of hills can be slicker than south sides. Bridges freeze faster than roads. And winter driving means you double the number of car lengths between you and the vehicle ahead. "When people aren't paying attention, that's often when they have accidents," O'Neil notes. "They're not monitoring the conditions."
Four Over Two When it comes to tires, it's about quality and quantity. O'Neil advises running four snows, not just two, especially on front-wheel-drive vehicles. "If you come around a corner, the front will grip much better than the back and you may lose control," he says. Unsure what to buy? Find a trusted mechanic, O'Neil says, and ask what he runs on his cars: "When I had my shop, people used to come from all over to get the tires I put on my car."
Snow Job Because snow tires are made with a softer rubber, the best ones don't necessarily offer a long estimated-mileage life. "They're designed to go over the snow and compress it to make it grippy," O'Neil says. A good winter tire with lots of life on it will leave a trail of crisp tread marks. If the trail looks like something smooth went over the snow, it's time to go shopping.
Eyes on the Prize If you get locked in a skid, O'Neil says, the number-one thing to do is to keep your eyes on where you want to go. "You're more likely to steer in that direction," he explains. It may sound counter-intuitive, but in situations where the back of the vehicle is sliding around, turn the car in the direction in which you want to head, let off the brake, and accelerate gently: "The front will pull you out of the skid and help put weight on the back tires, giving them better grip."
Last year, winter came slowly to north-central Maine. Low snowfall and mild temperatures had run through most of December, giving the deer a reprieve. But in January the season turned cold and unrelenting. For six weeks, there was no thaw, and now the snow on the eastern side of Moosehead Lake lay three feet deep in places, including the deeryard near Lily Bay.
It's a short truck ride to Lily Bay from the Region E headquarters of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife in Greenville. If white-tailed deer could have a say about surviving at the tenuous northern edge of the species' range, this part of Maine would be the last place they'd choose. "Normally Jackman and northwest of Moosehead have the most severe winters in the state," biologist Doug Kane tells me during the drive. "But east of the lake has been just as severe this year." As he talks, an afternoon squall blows in out of nowhere. Kane slows the truck in the whiteout. The temperature, dropping, will hit eight below by evening. "If the deer can get through this stretch," he says, "and if spring comes a little early, the mortality might still be moderate. This is the critical time."
On wooden snowshoes I scramble behind Kane over a five-foot-high snowbank and into a part of the yard. The squall passes as quickly as it appeared. Weak sunlight fights its way through the thick evergreen cover around us. In a few minutes, I see deer sign everywhere: deep, beaten-down paths pockmarked by tracks, piles of snow-dusted deer pellets, chewed tips of branches. Kane wends his way to a fixed wooden stake, where he takes weekly snow-depth measurements: 28 inches.
He snowshoes along the beaten-down paths, occasionally sliding a metal yardstick into the snow, like a dipstick, to find the supporting crust below, getting a sense of what a walking deer must deal with. Even more than overall snow depth, this "sinking depth" is a critical factor during a season when deer survive in large part on the energy reserves they've stored up over the summer and fall from grasses, protein-rich legumes, and oil-filled acorns and beechnuts.
Once the snow comes, the woody browse left for them offers scant nutrition. Large bucks can lose as much as 30 percent of their body weight over the winter. Deer spend much of each winter day lying down or walking slowly, conserving precious energy.
"Fourteen inches," Kane calls out, lifting the dipstick. Then, "Sixteen." Then, "Fourteen," again. "A couple of feet would be up to their bellies," he says. "That's when they really have to work to get around."
A large deeryard in Maine will shelter a couple hundred of the animals, most in small groups of related females. They take advantage, ideally, of wind-protected south-facing slopes; a mature, closed-top conifer canopy; shared paths for easier walking; a mix of softwood and hardwood browse. The part of the yard within the state park at Lily Bay is nearly ideal.
Across the road, on private land cut over more recently, it's a different story. I follow Kane on snowshoes through scrappy cover and smaller trees. The twig ends and shrubs have been stripped chest-high. The sinking depth on Kane's dipstick reaches 22 inches, nearly two feet--perilously deep. The measurement will be added to a growing statewide database that will help inform biologists' efforts to bring back a deer herd that has declined dramatically in recent years. Sportsmen's newspaper articles and op-ed columns and blogs have called the decline a crisis--and hunters have put increasing pressure on the state's fish and game department to do something about it.
I keep hoping to see deer, bedded down or shaking snow from their coats as they bound through the woods, but Kane isn't here to sightsee, and the day is getting on. We head back to the truck without a single sighting.
I get my wish a half-hour later--along with a deeper appreciation of the issues facing Maine's winter deer herd. The Lily Bay yard spills over into the planned community of Beaver Cove, a mostly seasonal cluster of homes where eight of the year-round families have been feeding deer this winter. Some of them have been spreading grain. One family puts out dog food; another one, food scraps such as potato and banana peels.
A colleague of Doug Kane's, Scott McLellan, picks me up and drives me out to meet a retired couple, Mike and Mary Hachey. The Hacheys have set out a mineral lick in their backyard, and since January 1 have been scattering sliced apples twice a day. At 4:30 p.m., Mike Hachey walks out into the plowed area and dumps out the evening allotment. Before he's even back inside, deer materialize from the woods edging the property, as if called by a dinner bell. Ten, twelve, eighteen of them, all of them looking healthy. A few more tentatively join the crowd; I count 22 in all, and it feels disorienting, slightly thrilling, but weirdly unnatural, as if I'm watching tame deer at a petting zoo's afternoon feeding.
Along with the calories and nutrition, the feeding of deer brings a number of unintended consequences, from increased road kill and predation by dogs and coyotes, to the potential introduction of food that's incompatible with a deer's digestive system, to a loss of ability to find natural food sources. Part of McLellan's visit is a gentle education campaign. Feeding deer is a politically and emotionally charged issue in Maine, one that biologists would like to discourage.
The snow in the woods around Lily Bay hangs on--not moderately--into May. Of the past 60 winters in north-central Maine, Doug Kane's data puts this one in the top third in terms of severity. Figures on the deer herd's mortality won't be fully evident until the following hunting season, but they immediately help shape the population modeling and number of hunting permits granted statewide--one of the few management tools available to state biologists. In late spring, the last of the families feeding deer in Beaver Cove puts out food for 75--and finally calls the state to ask for help.
I phone wildlife biologist Lee Kantar, the deer and moose spokesman for Maine's Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. Kantar is a thoughtful, measured speaker who understands the frustration that hunters feel about the diminishing deer herd; he empathizes with residents' desire to do something to help.
He also has a clear view of a larger picture, one unclouded by mythology and emotion. "Hunters remember the good old days," he says. "Post-World War II, post-wolf, pre-modern forestry, pre-road density, pre-snowshoe hare and coyote. The reality is that deer are responding to large landscape-level changes to the northern forest over several decades."
The trajectory, he points out, has been downward since the spruce budworm epidemic more than 30 years ago; it devastated a huge part of the working forest and led to a massive salvage operation, which destroyed a lot of forest. Partly in response, environmentalists helped push for a law that limited the clear-cutting that timber companies could do. To continue meeting their volume needs, the industry then built more roads, accessing additional areas.
"Good winter habitat has been severely reduced," Kantar says, "and meanwhile, winter does what winter does. Everyone wants us to do something, but we're limited by biological and ecological reality. And the reality is: Maine is an awfully hard place to grow deer."
John Quincy Adams once declared it "the most magnificent and elegant private mansion that I have ever seen on this continent." Even by today's standards, the John Brown House is impressive: a three-floor Georgian estate anchoring the southern end of Providence's historic College Hill neighborhood. The tourists who gather for a glimpse of its opulent interior are guided first into a back room that looks surprisingly modern. The guide explains that this used to be the kitchen. "Now we've transformed it into a space for exhibits," he says. Then, gesturing toward a row of placards on the wall, "And now we have up a very sad and powerful exhibit on the slave trade." A small ripple of awkward surprise passes through the group as everyone realizes that this is one of those museums.
Having an honest conversation about slavery can be like forcing children to eat their broccoli--especially in New England, where we prefer to skip ahead to the Amistad and the Underground Railroad. We'd rather celebrate our heroes than parse their ethics, but that doesn't change the fact that before it was a hotbed of abolition, New England was one of the corners of the triangle trade. Sixty percent of all slave ships to leave the American colonies sailed from Rhode Island cities, primarily Newport, Bristol, and Providence.
The Browns weren't the largest slave-trading family in Rhode Island, but they may be the most famous. The business pursuits of the four Brown brothers (a fifth brother had died at age 26) were instrumental in transforming Providence into a thriving city, and their name still graces its Ivy League university. The exhibit describes the brothers' second venture into the slave trade, in 1764, a badly bungled affair in which more than half of the enslaved Africans died before reaching the West Indies. The experience affected the brothers in profoundly different ways. Moses, the youngest, became a Quaker abolitionist, renounced the slave trade, and lobbied successfully for a federal law banning the building and equipping of slave ships in U.S. ports. John, in whose home the exhibit resides, became a vocal defender of the trade and was the first person prosecuted under his brother's law. (He was acquitted, but was forced to forfeit his ship.)
The exhibit is only a small portion of the museum. The rest of the tour deals with other aspects of John Brown's life: He was a patriot in the Revolution and a pioneer in the China trade. The exhibit has been criticized at times for going too far and for not going far enough, but that may just mean that it has struck the right balance. It certainly does enough to get people to think. As the tour group passes through the home's pristine period rooms, the normal oohing-and-ahhing over the mahogany desks and silver place settings is muted somewhat, as visitors are left to question how they were paid for.
Find additional information on slavery and African American history in New England.
Photo Credit: Ian Aldrich
After the birth of our son my wife and I made a pact to incorporate more rituals into our family life. Travel factored into a lot of it. Day trips and weekends certainly, but also midweek excursions; one or two night trips that would get us out of the house without thrusting us into the thick rush of fellow Saturday or Sunday tourists.
My wife went to college at Mt. Holyoke in South Hadley, Massachusetts, and spent a considerable amount of her non-classroom hours exploring nearby Northampton. For years we'd put off visiting the city, but when it came time to pick destination for our newly created post-Christmas jaunt, we finally decided to make good on all the talk. Okay, I admit it holds a certain advantage other places can't match. Like free built-in babysitting in the form of a sister-in-law who lives in Northampton. But other things called to us, too. The gluttony of bookshops, quirky stores, and a United Nations like gathering of restaurants. I swear, Northampton is the only place where it's just taken for granted that yes, it is no big deal that a Tibetan restaurant is sandwiched in between a bank and a salon.
You can understand the pull, right?
Our visit began smack-dab in the middle of downtown at the Hotel Northampton, which first opened its doors in 1927.
Our room looked out onto King Street and the nearby Calvin Theater. If you look closely you might be able to see my one-year-old son banging on the window. It's one of his favorite hobbies.
Our room's balcony provided us with an incredible view of the hotel's foyer.
Once we settled things in our room, we bundled up again and explored the downtown. We didn't get far before I pulled out the camera. I'd made it just a few steps in fact before I was snapping pictures of the hotel's neighbor, the Hampshire County Courthouse.
It's hard to find fault with any city that uses the grounds around its courthouse for outdoor art. On display: the metal work of sculptor James Kitchen.
From there we bounded across Main Street and stumbled upon a yarn and knitting shop called J.A. Tapper Co., which immediately caught the eye of my wife.
This wall of yarn was just the tip of the iceberg.
Let me put this out there: I'm not a fan of malls. I avoid them at all costs. But what compromises a "mall" in Northampton, I found to be pretty enticing. For starters, it's not gigantic, just 30 small shops. Then there's the atmosphere of the place. It's right on Main Street in a historic building with creaking wood floors and restored tin ceilings.
Customers await their caffeine at Rao's Coffee & Cafe.
Experienced parents remember to bring their young son's toy bag. For newbie parents, it's a different matter. Which is one of the reasons we ended up at A Child's Garden. Plus, we loved the wooden toys.
These were just a few favorites we discovered at A Child's Garden.
New England is ripe with meeting houses and churches packed with history. Northampton is no exception. Pulpit leaders include Jonathan Edwards, who helped spark the Great Awakening with the publication of his "Faithful Narrative." Puritan settlers built Northampton's first meeting house in 1655. The current building dates back to 1877.
Northampton's First Church was designed by the well known Boston architectural firm, Peabody & Stearns and is the fifth church to occupy the site.
In addition to a thriving restaurant scene, Northampton offers a healthy supply of bookstore options. There's Broadway Books and Booklink Booksellers but our favorite was Raven Used Books, a cavernous shop just off Main Street that's stocked with Nietzsche and trashy hollywood bios. If they'd allowed it. I would have moved in.
As of fan of toast and books, I found Raven's innovative bookends to be sheer genius.
Throughout our two days in Northampton, other gems emerged, too. Like...
Sid Vintage. Get it?
Stepping into Sid's is a bit like going back in time. The collection of stuff found here includes a number of things you probably haven't come across in several years. Whether that's good or not, is in the eye of the beholder.
With our sister-in-law taking charge of the child care duties, my wife and I escaped to the movies at the Pleasant Street Theatre. Which, considering we've been able to do this only one other time, in the last year, was a pretty big deal. For those wondering, we saw The Descendants. Well worth it, just so you know.
After the movie we prolonged the night a bit with tea and croissants at the Amanouz Cafe.
I admit: I was tempted.
Our second full day in the area featured a short drive to Amherst for a visit to the Eric Carle Museum, whose main building is an open, sun drenched space that caters to the kid in all of us.
There was plenty for my son to discover at the museum, including The Very Hungry Caterpillar, who just so happens to be the star of one of his favorite books.
One of the highlights of the Eric Carle Museum, in addition to the galleries, is the art room where kids and parents are free to make their own creations.
Now that city living has given way to a new life in rural New Hampshire, I've discovered that something as mundane as getting a slice of pizza is something to celebrate. Which is the reason I hit the streets late on our second night, appetite in full force. I eventually ended up at Mimmos Pizza on Pleasant Street, which takes a lot of pride in its big slices.
I wasn't disappointed.
Waddling out of Mimmo's I didn't quite make it in time to nearby Sweeties, which, ahem, offers quite a selection of chocolates and other candy.
Is that a wall of candy? Why yes it is!
The walk back to the hotel room was almost as beautiful as the giant wall of candy. Almost.
Northampton's Main Street, still donning its Christmas apparel.
At the end of our second night, my wife and I were already talking about returning to Northampton again, maybe in the summer, for a second trip. And another new ritual.
At a Jewish day school in Northampton that her children attended, Simona Pozzetto was known as "the challah lady," despite the fact that she'd been raised Catholic in Milan, Italy. Her bread was so beloved that some children refused to eat any loaf that wasn't Simona's.
As it is, Simona's is an unlikely story. But, if you press further, her story rises, like the challah braid, all the strands blending together into one big, beautiful loaf. One Friday morning, I visited Simona to learn to make challah. She kneaded and folded the dough on the kitchen counter as she talked about the bread and about her life.
In Padua, Simona received her bachelor's degree in psychology. For her work as an organizational psychologist in Milan, she needed to learn English, and so in 1999, her employer sent her to America to the Penobscot School in Rockland, Maine, for English-language immersion. She indeed learned English, earned a master's degree in social work at Simmons College in Boston, and met many Americans, including Ed Weisman, a native of Framingham, Massachusetts. They married in Milan in 2002 and returned to live in the United States. Ed is Jewish, and, though Simona wasn't actively looking for a new faith, she found herself drawn to his.
"The more I read, the more it made sense to me," she says. "I was so convinced of it that to my surprise, I converted." Simona loved to cook and bake, and in addition to her Italian specialties, she learned to make challah, the traditional braided bread served on special occasions, including Shabbat, the seventh day of the Jewish week (from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday).
Ed and Simona adopted two children from Ethiopia, a brother and sister, ages 4 and 2. Then, a year later, Simona gave birth to a baby boy. Within just seven years, Simona went from living with her parents outside Milan to living in a small town in Massachusetts with her new husband, speaking her new language, practicing her new faith, raising three multicultural children, and baking challah that's been hailed as "like my grandmother used to make!" At first, Simona followed the recipe published on the King Arthur Flour Web site. Then she began to adapt it--and that is what has earned her bread its accolades.
As we talked, carpenters were working on the house next door. "My parents bought it," she explained. "They'll come in the summer and plant grapes in the backyard and have gardens." The children will also know her world, her Italy. But, on Friday evenings, they'll all gather around the Shabbat table, and they'll eat Simona's challah.
RECIPE:
William John Woods, a maker of exquisite toys and rattles, knows about fine lines. He works with the grain of exotic woods and fashions his pieces by hand, with the eye of an artist. He knows that his toys must be pleasing to parents, but they won't succeed unless they please kids. He also knows the fine line between making art and making a living. "You can't spend all day making the one perfect piece," he says. "You have to do 10 really good pieces. Otherwise you'll be selling supersized fries."
Seeing Woods at work in his shop in Ogunquit, Maine, doing what he loves and bringing joy to children, especially at this time of year, it would be easy to think that he's one of the lucky ones who has found the line between too little and too much. But luck hasn't had much to do with it. During a 35-year career making toys, he has had, at various times, to fill in by doing general carpentry, constructing cabinets, and building houses ("though that's a young man's sport," he says).
Woods used to do 20 shows a year throughout the Northeast, but the road trips proved too inefficient and too expensive. He's settled on just one show a year, the nine-day League of New Hampshire Craftsmen's Fair at Mount Sunapee Resort in August.
He experimented with retail sales in specialty and gift shops but backed off because the demand was too high. To make a lot more toys, he'd have had to hire other people. "I'm a craftsman," Woods says. "I've never desired to be a toy manufacturer." Thanks in large part to the Internet, he's grown and refined his business to a point where he can stay busy year-round, working comfortably alone, making toys that average families can afford.
On a cold morning in late November, Woods bends over a belt sander in his shop, making a really good rattle. He's busy with Christmas orders. He's glued thin blocks of contrasting hardwoods (purpleheart, yellowheart, and ebony) into the rough shape of a rattle, and embedded three or four brass BBs in cavities at each end; now, with 50-grit sandpaper whirring just millimeters from his fingers, he lets the belt smooth the hard, square edges of the wood into a sinuous miniature barbell.
His hands work quickly and surely, turning the rattle from end to end, spinning it off and back onto the belt, the wood disappearing from the blocks as if it were melting away. A multicolored whole emerges. "People don't think of a sander as a sculpting tool," he notes. "But that's what it is." He tosses the smoothed rattle into a plastic dishpan alongside others of different contrasting woods, and reaches for another set of glued blocks.
Woods works in batches, for production's sake. The newest rattle will soon take its turn on a sander with a finer belt, then on a sander with soft inflatable spindles, then into a shallow vat of walnut oil, and finally on a mesh rack to dry--its color, grain, and finish growing more lustrous at each stage. Sometimes he pauses and just looks at the rattles shining on the rack. Every new creation, he says, still amazes him.
While the rattles dry--and before they undergo a round of 400-grit hand sanding, followed by polishing on the buffing wheel and a beeswax finish--Woods takes an inch-and-a-quarter-thick block of maple to his band saw and cuts out a body for a toy car. The fenders are bubinga, a gorgeous rose-colored wood favored by guitar makers. He scoops the trimmings into another plastic bucket. "These aren't scraps," he says. "They're people bodies." He'll turn them on his lathe and, later, craft them into tiny two-tone figures that suggest drivers of cars and planes and helicopters.
Woods once made toy trucks modeled after the Hood dairy trucks he saw as a boy around Brighton, Massachusetts, where he grew up. Over time, though, he discovered the wisdom of making his toys more generic, to let kids imagine them however they wanted to. Each little figure could be a boy or a girl, a woman or a man.
The maple and bubinga, the walnut and cherry, shaped by the band saw, then sanded and finished, will become beautiful toys, no two exactly the same. To my eye, Woods' pieces are better than "really good." They're works of art. "But they're meant to be played with," the toymaker says. "That's the most important thing."
To see more of William John Woods' work, go to: ogunquitwoodentoy.com
Photo Credit: Annie Graves
There is no better way to know a famous tourist town than arriving off season, when the tourists have left, and the locals reclaim their streets, their beaches, their way of life that brought them here in the first place, perhaps generations ago. I rarely visit a beautiful place without daydreaming at some point about what it might be like to live there. And it was no different this time when we came to Provincetown, at the tip of the outer cape.
Credit: Annie GravesColorful buoys that will soon top the famous lobster trap Christmas tree.
If you've been to Provincetown, Massachusetts in the height of summer, you know there are few more entertaining destinations in the country. You can pass a day simply people watching on Commercial Street, the three mile long living carnival of homes, shops and humanity that runs parallel to Cape Cod Bay.
You can walk for hours through the undulating dunes of the Province Lands in the Cape Cod National Seashore. You can simply throw down a blanket on the beach and let the enervating surf cool you down. And you can share all of this with some 50,000 plus like minded visitors, who are willing to wait for traffic to crawl through town, wait for restaurant tables, wait for parking by the beach.
Credit: Annie GravesApproaching Fisherman's Wharf by boat.
Which is why I love off season. There may be at best barely 3000 year-rounders to share the streets with you. Like bookend visits, I came to Provincetown in April and again this November, just before the town's famous Thanksgiving lighting of the Pilgrim Monument. The monument seems to follow your gaze wherever you are in town, or even on the wind swept dunes. The monument symbolizes the town's pride in its history—and reminds everyone that the pilgrims first made landfall right here in Provincetown Harbor, and signed the Mayflower Compact while anchored offshore. If you had forgotten that fact before coming to town, you won't soon forget it again after visiting the Pilgrim Monument and Provincetown Museum.
Credit: Annie GravesProvincetown's Pilgrim Monument.
Commercial Street beckoned with only a relative handful of cars and pedestrians, all of waving to each other as if we were all in on a wonderful secret.
The Outer Cape's ocean waters moderates temperatures—flowers bloom here earlier and stay longer. In April the lovely, well kept homes that hug the narrow, winding streets were already boasting flourishing gardens.
Credit: Annie GravesApril flowers start the season with color.
And here I was just days before Thanksgiving, looking at roses refusing to relent to winter's black and white world.
Credit: Annie GravesA November rose resists the coming cold.
If you want to know the details we checked into the Anchor Inn and Beachhouse.
Credit: Annie GravesThe Anchor Inn and Beachhouse.
We were greeted by Molly, the resident Labrador. Provincetown boasts it is the most dog friendly town in America and that was certainly borne out as no matter where we strolled, we saw dogs and their owners—and you couldn't walk for more than a few minutes without seeing a welcoming dog dish filled with water.
Credit: Annie GravesMolly taking her ease.
Credit: Annie GravesJust two of Provincetown's many canine residents.
To get a room at the inn with a sweeping view of the bay in summer would have required a reservation made perhaps in the dark heart of winter. But even though a number of B&Bs and inns close up after Columbus day, so too, there are always others who keep welcome signs posted year-round.
Credit: Annie GravesSunrise from the Anchor Inn and Beachhouse.
The venerable Lobster Pot Restaurant is famous for its "line out the doors and down the street," our waitress told us as she seated us. Sharing the dining room of this mother and son run restaurant was a couple huddled in one corner, and a playwright from New York City who said he'd been coming for nearly 20 years and celebrating his birthday right here each time at the Lobster Pot. We caught a break since the restaurant would soon close until April. Our meals: blackened tuna sashimi and sole almondine showed why even though it is one of Provincetown's most famous dining stops, it is one of those rare places that lives up to its following.
Credit: Annie GravesThe famous Lobster Pot Restaurant.
Credit: Annie GravesTuna sashimi at the Lobster Pot.
Credit: Annie GravesSole almondine at the Lobster Pot.
Mornings start early when your room faces the rising sun. Which is good because I was ready to explore. On foot. Off season when Commercial Street and the entire town hums to a different rhythm.
Breakfast could not have been more convenient—about five steps from the inn's front door. Bayside Betsy's, with its tables looking out to the beach and the brightening sky, all made brighter by delicious and hearty fare. As is the case with so many of Provincetown eateries, your waiter (in this case Steve) had a personality that mixed serving with comedy.
Credit: Annie GravesBayside Betsy's serves breakfast with a view.
Credit: Annie GravesOur waiter Steve is part of the experience at Bayside Betsy's.
After breakfast, several hours of meandering followed.
We saw workers fixing, repairing, battening up, at once getting ready for winter, and at the same time laying the foundation for the spring and summer ahead.
Credit: Annie GravesThe off season is the right season for repairs.
I don't think there is a dull block along Commercial Street. Whether exploring famous MacMillan Wharf with fishing boats bobbing by the dock,
Credit: Annie GravesBoats at MacMillan Wharf.
Or walking to the end of the pier to look at the famous mural with its tribute to the women who sustained the fishermen on their long, dangerous voyages
Credit: Annie GravesFisherman's wives art mural at Fisherman's Wharf.
or meandering down alley ways which peek onto the sand and water,
Credit: Annie GravesThere were views around every corner in Provincetown.
or just appreciating the trim cottages, or looking at the home where Norman Mailer lived and wrote (now a writer's colony since his death), a day unfolds at whatever pace you want.
Credit: Annie GravesWalking the waterfront with the Pilgrim Monument in the distance.
Credit: Annie GravesNorman Mailer's house is now a writer's colony.
Off season there are fewer shops open, sure, but also few people tugging at the stuff you want. I think every store had 50% off sales—and it's no surprise that the days after Thanksgiving lading to Christmas sees a surge of visitors who come for fun and bargains.
Credit: Annie GravesPlenty of shops remain open in the off season.
Marine Specialties is part shopping mecca and part vaudeville showâin this case the performers being the eclectic shelves filled with anything you might ever imagine to see if a store was stocked by someone with a great sense of humor. Pith helmets? If you've been looking, you've come to the right place.
Credit: Annie GravesMarine Specialties offers can't-miss browsing.
Credit: Annie GravesPith helmets? They've got those.
There are any number of lunch stops, but I discovered Napi's one spring and we spoke about it for months afterward.
Credit: Annie GravesNapi's restaurant - famous for its food and ambiance.
It is part art gallery, part repository of Provincetown memories, and for decades has stoked the fires of its customers. I asked our waitress for the recipe of its famous Portuguese kale soup and in moments she returned with a printed copy.
Credit: Annie GravesPortuguese Kale Soup from Napi's.
Portuguese Kale Soup Recipe from Napi's in Provincetown, MA
Ingredients 1 lb. linguica 1 lb. chorizo (a spicier version of linguica) 1 bunch kale 1 lb. dried kidney beans or 3 cans of the beans 1 large onion, diced 2 large potatoes, chopped 2 small cans of tomato paste Salt and pepper to taste Cider vinegar
Directions
After lunch we had to climb the Pilgrim Monument, its tower rising over 252 tall. The walk is relatively easy, with gusts of wind at the top all but taking your breath away, but no more so than the hawk's eye view of the town, the bay, the distant dunes.
Credit: Annie GravesView from atop the Pilgrim Monument.
The museum itself is one of those treasures that can all too easily be overlooked. There is a room devoted to Polar explorer and Provincetown native Admiral Donald MacMillan's numerous explorations. And I guarantee you will come away with a greater appreciation of the pilgrim experience after visiting the Pilgrim wing and it's diorama of the Mayflower.
Credit: Annie GravesA white wolf brought back from one of Admiral MacMillan's polar expeditions.
Credit: Annie GravesThe jaw bone of a finback whale leaves childrens' mouths agape.
In summer you may share sunset watching at Race Point in the National Seashore with a hundred or more people—but on this November afternoon, with the wind billowing and sand swirling, we seemingly had the entire coastline to ourselves. When you are alone on the dune backed shoreline, it is easy to forget that only a mile or so away is a town filled with light and noise and camaraderie. In the Provincelands offseason at twilight it is lovely and lonely, as if on a deserted island.
Credit: Annie GravesDunes at Race Point.
Credit: Annie GravesSunset at Race Point.
A final Provincetown dinner had to be fish, fresh from the water just beyond our table at the Central House at the Crown and Anchor Inn.
Credit: Annie GravesYou can never go wrong with fresh fish in Provincetown.
The last thing we did the following morning was to gather up those ubiquitous real estate brochures—with cottages and condos, and homes ranging from affordable (especially if you rent it out in high season) to this is great when we win the lottery.
Could we live in Provincetown? We could. Could you?
Credit: Annie GravesI could live here. Could you?