T's Travels

Beach H[e]aven, NJ

Sometimes even just a few days at the beach makes a difference. Maybe it’s not enough to get a real break from the daily onslaught of reality and unreality, but staring at the ocean for a couple of hours over the course of two days, walking along the edge of the surf, watching the sun set over the sound, or stargazing after sunset can make a difference. Especially if you’re with an old friend you don’t get to spend a lot of time with and you’re down toward the southern end of Long Beach Island (NJ), in Beach Haven, and the weather is perfect.

That’s how I spent two days last week—beach time, me and Marge, towels, chairs, sand, plenty of sunblock. Can’t post pictures of restaurant food because we never went out! Can’t recommend any businesses because we never did any shopping! The most we did was buy a few groceries and drive down to the end of the island because I’ve only been to LBI once, when I was a child.

Being together with Marge felt like the old days. Back before I got married, she and I had lived across a fire escape from each other and would often put together our dinners by “I have some of this, you have some of that …” We did the same thing at the beach.

We had also spent a lot of time in clubs with bands. A lot. These days she’s a Dave Matthews fan so at the beach house we were constantly doing a battle of the bands between DMB and Frank Turner (with and without the Sleeping Souls). I think I won but she certainly did educate me on the depth of Dave’s music and the guitar stylings of Tim Reynolds. (We even had a little Frank moment on the beach when I was wearing a Be More Kind shirt and ran into someone who said, “I don’t believe it! Frank Turner!”—a highlight of the trip.)

The best part of being on the beach was watching the surfers. I’ve been to California plenty of times but I never saw better waves than were breaking at Beach Haven while we were there. The surfers took full advantage, morning and evening. I could have stayed for days just to watch them.

But work and the real world called. And I answered. Thought about putting a little sand in my suitcase so that when I got back home it would spill out on the floor and I would feel beach a little longer. But I knew that then I would just have to pull out the vacuum cleaner and I wasn’t eager to get that far back into reality. I can’t say this enough: If you get an opportunity to go visit the ocean, even if it’s just for a few days, take it. Beach. It’s worth it.

The Streets of Baltimore

“. . . the prettiest place on earth is Baltimore at night” —Bobby Bare

I fell in love with that city just after I got married and found a job at Hopkins. I have always loved Philadelphia and so Baltimore, another Federal-era town, was a natural fit, but it’s Philly-more-funky.  I don’t get to Charm City near as much as I would like but last night I had the pleasure of dinner and a show—with my Husb, no less!

We met up with Marion Winik and her friend, Doug Preston, and headed for Brew House No. 16 at the corner of Read and Calvert streets. Not one to stick to convention (and that would be putting it mildly), writer and writing professor Marion became involved with the creation (specifically, the liquor license) at the Brew House and is now its most enthusiastic supporter. After we sat down, she introduced us to owner Harry Hummel and told the story of how they bonded as neighbors in Glen Rock, PA, when their sons became friends (there’s even a hayfield fire in the story). So when Harry and brewmaster son Ian needed a liquor license in the name of a Baltimore resident, now-relocated Marion stepped in. Thus was born Brew House No. 16, housed in an old firehouse building (yes, complete with the poles).

Dinner menu . . . what to eat on a hot, hot day. For starters the three-hummus plate (roasted garlic and lemon, cilantro lime, roasted bell pepper) and a basket of soft pretzels (homage to PA, of course). Note: Be sure to order the housemade mustard with the pretzels and you’ll never have Herlocher’s commercial version again! (I say “commercial version” because I don’t believe what they’re selling in the grocery stores is the same as what we used to have at the Train Station . . . but I digress.)

And drink choices? Husb went with the excellent Brew House Coffee Porter (“flavors and aromas of coffee, roasted chocolate malt”)—very memorable. I had the lighter Strawberry Fields, “an American wheat ale brewed with 20 lbs of strawberries from Calvert's Gift Farm. Mild in bitterness and body.” In fact, I had two.

This may be a brew pub but it’s not all bleu-cheese burgers and sweet-potato fries! We had a cornucopia of entrée choices, from pan-roasted rockfish to duck confit poutine. Husb did order traditional, the Firehouse burger (“Roseda angus beef, double-smoked maple bacon, roasted garlic aioli, hand-cut fries”), and Marion went with the chili-glazed mussel bowl (“roasted garlic, preserved lemon, sweet chili glaze, toasted baguette”) and a salad. Doug and I were of a like mind: we both ordered the crispy split-pea cake (“yellow split pea polenta, grilled mushrooms, roasted sunchokes, red pepper hummus, pea shoots”), which came with some red-pepper hummus on the side. It was perfect for the hot day, light and delicious, perched on a bed of greens. I love it when a restaurant dares to be a little different with the vegetarian entrée and goes beyond a “veggie burger.”

We could not linger, regrettably, because we had a show to go to. So we headed down to Creative Alliance, housed in the Patterson Theater on Eastern Avenue. Their mission statement spells out exactly why I love Baltimore so much: “The Creative Alliance builds communities by bringing together artists and audiences from diverse backgrounds to experience spectacular arts and education programs and engage in the creative process. We provide support to area artists, promote Baltimore as a center for creative production, act as a positive force in our community, and advocate for cultural expression rooted in a sense of place.” C’est tout.

I paused before we went inside because the sun and clouds were conspiring to do spectacular things.

Then I had to admire the exterior of the Patterson, itself a beauty.

Inside, on the first floor is an art gallery (check out their website for everything Creative Alliance offers—they do a lot) and a music venue (with a bar!). While we had auditorium-type seating for the show, Marion said that sometimes they do a club layout with tables and chairs. The performer—Steve Forbert (you who know me are right now not surprised). When Marion found out that Doug was a long-time fan, of course she got in touch with us about joining them . . . Steve, with Mark Stuart accompanying, did not disappoint the full room of loyal fans—btw, look for his autobiography to be published at the end of the year.

The end of the night, we walked across the street to the car, which was parked in front of Matthew’s Pizza, “Baltimore’s First Pizzeria” (someone at the show told me that a neighborhood date in the 1960s meant a movie at the Patterson and pizza at Matthew’s). The colored milk jugs strung high above Eastern Avenue were lit, giving a festival atmosphere to the evening—yes, “the prettiest place on earth.”

Hotels of the Past (#37)

Searching the Web for pictures of old Pennsylvania hotels I found a blog with a long, detailed, and fascinating piece about the Hotel Walton in Philadelphia. Looks like I'm not the only one who likes to collect these histories.

And then I came across the very grand Bellevue Stratford:

I was reminded of this place yesterday while listening to an episode of Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar, a radio show from the 1950s. Johnny Dollar was a freelance insurance investigator and for this particular case he traveled to Philadelphia, where he stayed at the Bellevue Stratford, convenient to the offices he went to on Walnut Street. This postcard looks like it's from the 1970s, which would place it more in the era of the Legionnaires' disease outbreak and just before (little-known fact) Bob Beru was the head concierge (his day job, that is).

Hotels of the Past (#31)

Yesterday I headed south for a book reading and signing by Marion Winik for her latest release, Highs in the Low Fifties, at the Holy Hound Taproom in downtown York, PA. Husb and I lived in York County for many years so I figured I wouldn’t have any problem finding the address 57 W. Market Street. Right downtown. Been there many, many times.

 

And yet I found myself going around the block again and again, thinking, “Where the hell is it?” Downtown has changed a bit—most significantly George Street is now two-way the whole way. But that wasn’t it. It was that I was thinking it would be one of the little storefronts and it is actually in one of my favorite buildings in York--an old hotel!

 

When we lived there in the 1990s–2000s a lot of discussion in the newspaper revolved around what to do with the old National Hotel on the corner of Market and Beaver streets. And it was the same debate that always comes with one of these old hotels. Tear it down? Preserve it? Modify it for 21-century tastes?

 

Obviously someone saw potential in the building and for the past year the first floor has been home to the Holy Hound Taproom. Gorgeous room, 30 beers on tap, bar food menu, some live music, plenty of events—if only I lived closer! The place was busy the entire time I was there; in addition to the book crowd, plenty of regulars came and went. The Baltimore band 27 Lights played between Marion’s readings.

 

Of course I came home and started researching the building. Like so many old hotels I’ve found, this one has a few links to celebrities and a long life of changing owners and names. This description comes from John Gibson’s History of York County, Pennsylvania (Chicago: F. A. Battey Publishing Co., 1886):

 

“The National House, corner of Market and Beaver Streets, was built by Z. Durkee, and long known as the White Hall. It is the largest hotel in York. Some of its early proprietors were John Welsh, Daniel Ahl, Daniel Miller, Hodges, Rhinehart, Maish, and Mrs. West. It was called ‘the Tremont House’ for a time by one of its proprietors, who came from Tremont, Schuylkill County. When it was purchased by Frederick Stallman, its present owner, the name which it now bears was given it. The great English novelist, Charles Dickens, stopped at this hotel in 1841, and said that he was here served with the best piece of road beef while on his visit to America. During the Revolutionary war, and many years later, peter Dinkle kept a store on this site. He was an ardent patriot, and furnished supplies to the army.”

 

A few years before Dickens, President Martin van Buren also stayed at the National House, but this writer must have thought that wasn’t worth mentioning.

 

It looks like the Holy Hound is well established in downtown York. I hope other people thinking about what to do with old hotels take note.

 

Photo from the Holy Hound Taproom website

Music and pasta

I have often told my college freshman students that—no matter what they thought or how much they planned—they didn’t know what life was going to bring and every experience has something to be learned. As I sat in the Calvary Episcopal Church in Summit, NJ, a few nights ago, those words came to me as well.

 

I met Reinhilde a long time ago—both young, in publishing, and about to be married. We have stayed in touch over the years, talking husbands and books and trains and bears. Recently she told me she and Georg would be coming from Germany with Cäcilien-Chor Frankfurt (which began in 1818) to perform in the Voices Unite program with the Masterwork Chorus of Morristown, NJ, and she hoped I could come to one of the shows.

 

So a few days ago I drove east to meet Reinhilde and Georg for lunch (you knew there had to be food in here somewhere) and then attend their evening performance at the Calvary Episcopal Church in Summit.  We met at a little restaurant, La Foccacia, that had become a favorite for them in their short time in New Jersey.

 

I had looked at the menu on-line and thought I’d be ordering the grilled shrimp salad—shrimp over baby greens, asparagus, avocado and apples (as Reinhilde said, “Is there such a thing as too much shrimp?”)—but when I saw the lunch specials I ordered the spinach and ricotta ravioli instead, with a spinach, almond, and mandarin orange salad to start. Georg’s appetizer was a gorgeous plate of burrata (with asparagus, tomato and extra virgin olive oil).

 

My entrée was different from any I’ve had before. Ravioli done badly is heavy, chewy lumps of dough with watery, bland filling (we’ve all seen that). But at La Foccacia the pasta was so delicate that I could see the spinach and ricotta inside. The sauce was nearly transparent as well. There was nothing heavy or bland about this dish—it was savory and delicious.

 

And left room for dessert! I had the tiramisu but when I saw Georg’s lemon sorbet in its cute little lemon, I wished for that. Reinhilde had the tartufo (which I know better as a bombe) and generously shared the vanilla part with George (spousal privileges).

 

We had to part—they had other responsibilities, including a rehearsal—but that evening found me sitting in a pew in a very full church, listening to American and German voices unite to sing Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruckner, and more. We didn’t have church music when I was growing up so it was all new to me. As I watched and listened to them sing, I thought we really do just never know where we’re going to go, what we’re going to experience. The choirs received a standing ovation, as they should have, at the end. It was a very impressive night. I’m so glad I went.

 

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Hotels of the Past (#19)

Yesterday I drove Route 22 through Central PA and passed the Hotel Wayne outside McVeytown (really close to this barn, a well-known landmark). The Hotel Wayne is a classic PA roadside gathering place, or as one reviewer put it, “FYI: This place is not a hotel. it is a bar.”  Beer, karaoke, New Year’s Eve celebrations—from the Facebook page I’d say the locals love it. They even just had a film crew in for a new reality show, Hollywood Hillbillies.

I didn’t stop (it was early Sunday morning), but the name got me thinking about other “Waynes.” There’s another Hotel Wayne, this one on the ever-popular Route 6 in Honesdale, built in the early 1800s. This Hotel Wayne is a hotel with a restaurant. Their website gives a good overview of the history. Like the other Hotel Wayne, this one had a TV crew film there, but it was for Ghost Finders.

And finally (at least I think so, at least in PA) there’s the 1906 Wayne Hotel, in Wayne, where my sister—lover of all things Victorian—spent her wedding night. Their site has a lengthy history of the town and the hotel. This postcard is clearly pre-1985 restoration:

Past as Place

I often scan the terrain as I drive, looking for roadside pieces of the past. I understand that businesses need to update, modernize, expand . . . but the generic landscape really makes me yearn for what used to be. Too much these days looks just like what I saw in the last mile, or the one before that. It doesn’t take many Paneras, California Pizza Kitchens, Targets, Lowe’s before my eyes just glaze over and I don’t see any of it.

And so I was sad to see the Pennsylvania Turnpike gradually changing all its rest stops to “travel plazas”—all faux Adirondack (which this writer certainly doesn’t like). The original buildings were white fieldstone, Colonial style, with gas stations, Howard Johnson’s restaurants, and a gift shop.

To my eyes, the Howard Johnson's were places of glamour (I’m not kidding). We never ate there—too expensive, of course—but if we had, I would have ordered their famous clam strips and then had to choke them down because six-year-old me didn’t know that I don’t like clams and there was no way I could get away with not eating them. Dodged that bullet!

Although, yes, all of the new travel plazas are of the same style, I don’t mind the new look (as long as they keep it clean) as much as I mind that the old buildings are being razed. Where is all that fieldstone going? What’s going to happen to the Midway tunnel under the road between the North and South plazas? How long will it take before all the food service turns into automats?

But I digress. What brought this generic landscape to mind yesterday was my route through Lancaster. I turned left onto Route 30 (the Lincoln Highway) from Route 896. Rockvale Outlets on my left, Waffle House on the right. I’ve passed these many, many times. The next strip-mall on the right, however, was different—no Lemon Grass Thai! (Moment of panic, but thanks to the Internet I now know they’ve moved into town.) Beyond that, for some reason—maybe it was the fog, or fatigue, or some of both—I expected to see the Glass Kitchen at the Willows. But that’s been gone for nearly 20 years, replaced by the American Music Theatre.

I drove on, past the Target and the Wendy’s, up the hill. On the left (heading west) is a new shopping development. Maybe it seemed more imposing because it sits on the hill, but I can’t say. I have no idea what’s there (although I’m guessing a Bed Bath & Beyond) because of course my eyes glazed over.  

I kept driving. And a little speech I heard Bailey Quarters give on an episode of WKRP (when she’s trying to save a building) came to mind:

“Art deco is just about the last architectural style in which humanistic design and fine craftsmanship were valuable considerations. After that came the glass and steel box. Originally it was considered an art form, but it caught on mainly because it was cheap to hang curtains of glass and have load-bearing walls. The machine was a metaphor for these constructions. The machine was in, people were out. Space became more important than the place. Singularity of design replaced variety, which of course is the very essence of life.”

Place is important. And that’s what I write about.

The Philadelphia Folk Festival

Have you ever been to the Philadelphia Folk Festival? I first heard of it in 1973 when Rusty—someone we had met during George McGovern’s primary campaign and who can’t possibly be described in just a few words—asked if we were going to go. My response: “Our parents would kill us.” (“We” was my best friend Deb and I—and we were 15. Also we didn’t want to push our boundaries, at least not that far.) Rusty had introduced us to John Prine’s music and we knew he was right when he told us what a great weekend it would be, but all I could see was the grounding for the rest of my life I’d get.

Years later (once grounding was no longer an issue), I got to the ’Fest—first time as audience, second time as volunteer for the weekend. Once you volunteer, you see the ’Fest from a completely different perspective. The dirt of the Old Poole Farm (or mud, depending on the weather) gets in your skin and you never forget it. A few vivid memories: Richie Havens singing “Freedom,” Michael Cooney riding around on the flatbed of a truck singing and playing his guitar, lying in our tent falling asleep at night to the sound of guitars in the campground. Volunteering is not for everyone but it is a life-altering experience.

The ’Fest is this weekend and it’s calling to me. I just looked at the lineup—phenomenal as always. It’s a great place to hear people you’ve never heard of (and people you have) and witness the best in performances. If not this year, make sure you get there one of these years (as long as you won’t get grounded for it). And if you can't get there, you can listen on-line at iradiophilly.com!

Davy Jones Memorial, Beavertown, PA

I’m a Monkees fan by osmosis. My older sister loved them, I shared a bedroom with her, she controlled the record player, therefore I heard every one of their albums over and over and over again. It was understood that Davy would one day be my brother-in-law (although I was young enough that I thought that was really weird). Eventually--as it almost always happens--my sister moved on to more “suitable” boyfriend material and we both forgot about that mad crush of hers.

When I reached adulthood, I knew I loved ‘60s pop, and specifically the music that came out of the Brill Building. That’s a natural path (back) to the Monkees. Over time I bought all the CDs, including the “missing links” (i.e., outtakes) CDs. When they reunited (well, almost) for the 20th anniversary tour I insisted my sister go with me. We stood on our seats and screamed like we were 12. It was one of the most fun concerts I’ve ever attended.

When they toured again (10 years later?) we went again, this time with my friend Iris. Again we screamed, and laughed, and sang along. The shows didn’t make us feel young so much as carefree. The Monkees had started before we (as kids) were even aware of the Vietnam War. The year they ended, antiwar protests had become common. It was a totally different world.

Last week the world changed again. A friend emailed me with the subject line “Davey Jones” (yes, she spelled it wrong). I thought she was going to tell me he was scheduled to make another appearance at Bland Park (outside Altoona) this summer, where her sister-in-law and nieces had once had lunch with him. Instead she broke the news that he had died. I took it harder than my sister did. I’m sure everyone else thought the same things my sister and I said: he was the youngest, he just did a rock-n-roll cruise, he couldn’t have gone before we met him, how could it be?

Usually when a celebrity dies, thoughts of attending the funeral or memorial service pass with a “I wish I could be there.” I knew that Davy’s home was in Beavertown, just an hour north of me. But he had a home in Florida as well, where he was when he died, and his wife was not from Pennsylvania. Then Altoona-area DJ Michael Shoenfelt got this idea in his head to host a memorial for Davy—for Davy’s fans—in Beavertown. With help from the mayor and the town’s fire and police, some volunteer musicians, and a whole lot of good vibes, the Davy Jones Memorial was held.

I may have missed a chance to meet Davy, but I didn’t miss the memorial. Iris and I drove up for a day that was sunny and cold, funny and sad. The musicians were great—playing both Monkees’ and Davy’s solo songs, riffing quite well on “Gonna Buy Me a Dog” and bringing a tear with “I Wanna Be Free.” Two adorable teens in mod clothes wandered through the crowd. One of them, Alexandra, brought the biggest laugh of the day when she said that she discovered the Monkees when a teacher said, “If you like the Beatles, you’ll really like the Monkees.”

Notes from Peter and Micky and Alan Green (Davy’s collaborator on his autobiography) were read. Some of the best stories came from the locals—Davy riding his horse to the recording studio, needing a truck to haul furniture, or getting his house rewired. Over and over again they said what a regular guy he was, except that he had strangers coming to his door just to meet him.

After the program was over, the crowd walked through town to the church Davy had planned to convert into a museum. When I had first heard about his plans, I was writing my first book on small museums. I tried to contact him about it, but didn’t hear anything. Then he stopped mentioning it in interviews and I thought that like so many others he had come to realize the commitment a small museum takes. Turns out it was just taking a while. He had the church renovated, he was collecting items. I don’t know what will happen now, but I hope someone else can carry it through.

Iris and I walked back to the fairgrounds, put our chairs in the car, and followed the crowd to Davy’s house. The front yard was in the midst of getting landscaped. We saw Christmas lights hanging in a tree at the end of the driveway. Someone behind me said to his companions, “You know how he put up Christmas lights? He took them out of the package and threw them up in the tree and said, ‘Plug 'em in.’” That's exactly what it looked like.

Again and again I heard people say that the area around Beavertown reminded Davy of England, but what I saw yesterday was the embrace of a Central Pennsylvania community. This was the kind of memorial celebrities should hope is given for them. It was funny, tearful, loving, full of thanks for the gifts shared and good wishes for the journey he is now on.

Note: People who want the commemorative candy bar (partial proceeds to the Beavertown Historical Society) should email [email protected] and put “Davy Jones” in the subject line for order details. Davy’s family requested donations be made to the National Multiple Sclerosis Society.