T's Travels

The Old Sled Works, Duncannon, PA

Picture it (which should be easy because it’s what we’ve been living): Days and days of gray and white—clouds and snow, snow and clouds, slush, ice, snow again. Never all that deep but definitely persistent. Cap it off with a nasty polar vortex of cold.  But just when you think it’s never going to end, it does. You are greeted by a glorious sunny Sunday. The mercury rises toward 50, snow melts all over the place, the sun is so bright it makes you squint. Gotta get out and do something!

What a great day to head to the Old Sled Works in Duncannon, PA! Based on the full parking lot, we certainly weren’t the only ones thinking that walking around an antique center perusing stuff from the 20th century (or older) was a good way to spend the day. While we’re seasoned flea market/antique place visitors (hello Renninger’s Extravaganza!), and the Old Sled Works is just across the river from Harrisburg, PA, we had never been there.

Over the years, we’ve read, been told, witnessed that eBay has had a significant impact on the local flea-market market. Too many times we’d go somewhere and it was just tables and tables of stuff that they couldn’t sell on eBay—the good items were out on the Internet. Well, you can’t have a day of walking and chatting and laughing and sharing memories with an eBay vendor. Which makes it so much more significant that the Old Sled Works is the real thing—not just a bunch of leftover junk but stands and stands (we did a lot of walking) full of household goods, furniture, tools, memorabilia. Since it’s February and Super Bowl Sunday we saw both Valentine’s decorations and football souvenirs.

That would have been enough for me. But then things got even better! There’s a soda fountain. It had been closed for a number of years and just reopened in December. Soup, sandwiches, local ice cream. Lots of authentic décor and some really cool gadgets on display. It was a long walk to get there but you’ll work up an appetite, too. The very old TVs on display were playing Three Stooges shorts so we even had entertainment while we ate.

And if that isn’t enough, would you believe small museums? If I coulda rolled in them, I woulda! Instead I just walked through them—the Old Sled Works (yes, it was once a factory), the transportation section, the antique games. I was thrilled to see pinball machines. The real kind, pre-fancy electronic controls. I hit my husband up for a quarter to play one. I didn’t do too well but then it takes a lot of quarters to get to know a machine. I didn’t care (much); it was bliss just to play. (There are also some other machines for playing, including a real Pong. Boop! Boop!)

In one very weird (to me) moment I was transported back to my college days when I came across the Alaskaland player piano. The note says it was taken out of the Colonial Park Alaskaland—I didn’t know there was more than one. My point of reference was always Altoona (ever have an Aleutian volcano? Bet you can’t finish it!).

We covered the entire place but it took a while. I even walked up the very old stairs to the second floor for a bit. I asked to see a bracelet in a case, Husb picked up a book, no big purchases but many things to consider for later. We came out into the bright sun and warmth (the car said it was indeed 50) and headed home. It won’t be long before we’re back there again. The Old Sled Works makes for a great day!

 

Judy's on Cherry (and the Pagoda), Reading, PA

Unusually warm November weather brings the temptation to play hookey from work (winter is out there somewhere!) and get out on the road. Mary the Photographer, of course, is retired so for her it’s just taking advantage of a gorgeous late fall day. So that’s what we did.

I took the shunpiker's route from Harrisburg to Reading—weaving up and down country roads, sometimes on Old US 22, sometimes not. Once we were on 422 I started reminiscing about taking that road to Hershey as a kid. I pointed out where my father was so pleased to buy us all 15-cent hamburgers, how we never got to eat at the Ranch House Restaurant (still there!), and all those other landmarks of my memory.

In Wernersville I noticed an old building with a mansard roof, many windows, fancy entrance; it was obvious it had been a hotel in the late 1800s. Then we saw another one, and another one. I didn’t know of any business in Wernersville that would have required that many hotels, so once I got home I looked it up. At the turn of the century (late 1800s-early 1900s) Wernersville had been a resort town, like Cambridge Springs and Jim Thorpe! (Far more recently it had also been home to the Gosselin family, but until the day there’s one titled “Terry the Writer and Mary the Photographer,” this blog doesn’t cover reality shows.) Today the Heidelberg Heritage Society is headquartered in Lerch Tavern, on the main street of Wernersville. Looks like I’m going to have to make a trip back there one of these days . . .

But I digress. This was supposed to be a non-work day. Mary and I were headed to Reading. Plans included lunch and a visit to the Pagoda because Mary (gasp!) had never been there. With a little research I found a restaurant in center-city Reading that sounded perfect. As we drove through West Reading, though, I thought about ditching it in favor of one of the many little restaurants that lined Penn Avenue, where people were sitting outside enjoying the day and their meals, but I didn’t. I had selected this place on Trip Advisor reviews and what I was in the mood to eat. Judy's on Cherry was it.

We found the restaurant pretty easily, with parking right out front. The building had been a farmers’ market; the brick exterior and wooden floors remain, as well as the high wooden ceilings. The atmosphere is inviting and warm (maybe it’s that hearth-fired oven); I like that it doesn’t look like anywhere else I’ve ever eaten. The menu has some unique qualities as well: butternut squash soup with crab and curry, “Cowboy Ciao” (smoked salmon, arugula, bruschetta tomatoes, couscous, roasted corn, nuts, dried fruit, pesto buttermilk dressing), and “Mediterranean Mezze Tasting Plate” (chickpea, garlic ground almond and yogurt, and fig black olive tapenade, roasted red pepper, feta and thyme relish, crispy flatbread).

Speaking of that flatbread, our server brought us some just after taking our order. It was warm and delicious. I resisted eating more than one slice, though, because I had already ordered the butternut squash soup and mini crab salad sandwich combo. Mary chose the Enraged Penne Pasta (spicy plum tomato sauce with fresh basil and parmesan cheese), which went very well with the flatbread. The food was delightful—my soup smooth but not too creamy, the crab sandwich a perfect size for a side, plus a little salad of greens with a very light dressing. I could have stopped there and been quite happy.

But on the other side of the wine list was the dessert menu. I had to look. And there, right in the middle of the list, was “Mrs. Wesner’s Coconut Layer Cake.” What could I do? A really good coconut cake is very hard to come by. So often they are bright-yellow, tough, oily concoctions with inches of fluffy sugar troweled on and a smattering of coconut on top just so they can call it “coconut cake.” Based on my lunch, though, I thought maybe, just maybe, this one would be different.

I’m so glad I did. It was the best coconut layer cake I have ever eaten. It tasted like I had made it (and wouldn’t I like that recipe so I could). The cake itself was laced with coconut, the frosting was delicate (not too thick or too sweet), it was perfection. I thought about taking some home, but it wouldn’t have done me any good—that too would go away (be eaten, possibly by my husband) and then I would still have to drive back to Reading for more. So it will live in my memory (and some day I will be back in Reading . . .).

As we left the restaurant, I told Mary to look up the street. There, looking down on us, was our destination, the Pagoda. A short ride later, we were on Duryea Drive, headed up. Warm fall day, enough leaves still on the trees to make it pretty. On the way up I told her about Charles Duryea testing his cars on that very road by having his daughter do the test-drive (see my first book). We rounded one final curve, and Mary finally got to see the Pagoda that I’ve raved about for so long. It was closed (it’s open weekends so you can buy souvenirs and climb to the top) but there were many people outside enjoying the weather and the view of Reading. I never get tired of it. After that we drove the rest of the way up the mountain to the Fire Tower and where the hotel was (see my next book [almost done, I swear!] for that history) before heading down again toward home.

What a great way to spend a day off—driving the countryside with a friend, eating at a really nice restaurant, and catching waves of both history and memories. I will be back at work tomorrow but the mellow from today will stay with me. Everyone needs to play hookey once in a while.

Photos of soup and Pagoda by Mary Brenner

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:

Missy's Arcade, Titusville, PA

Where does one decide to eat in a new town? I spent a few days in Titusville, PA, this week (great place! You’ll be hearing more about it later . . .) and asked the front desk where we stayed for breakfast suggestions. She said, and I quote, “Missy’s Arcade. Best in town.” (Coincidentally, the night before, I had seen the Arcade and figured that’s where I’d have breakfast.)

Good choice! Missy’s is a cozy place right downtown. It’s decorated in retro pop culture, heavy in Coca-Cola, but also full of Mayberry and wise-cracking signs.

The breakfast menu had all the staples—I considered blueberry pancakes, but went lighter with a simple “egg, hash, toast.” Mary the Photographer chose the cheese omelette. When I read “hash,” I thought “hash browns” (I had not yet had Missy’s delicious coffee yet, obviously). No, it was real corned beef hash. You don’t often see that on a breakfast menu anymore.

Missy’s is a throwback in more than just décor and hash. The waitress knew her customers (other than us, of course) and served up comments and coffee and laughs; I don’t think anyone is considered a stranger, just someone who hasn’t been there before.

Before we left Mary insisted I take my camera to the ladies room because the walls are covered in records, both albums and singles.

Missy’s Arcade is a perfect choice for breakfast—good coffee, good food, good service. I’m sure lunch measures up, but I hope to return for breakfast first, to try those pancakes.

Photos (the good ones) (c) 2012 by Mary Brenner.

 

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.

America's best idea indeed . . .

I just watched all six nights of PBS's National Parks series. Usually I don't have the patience for these programs or don't care about the subject matter (baseball? I think not!). But the Parks are near and dear to my heart.

Well done, beautifully photographed. My only complaint (as registered elsewhere) is too many white-male experts, not enough of everyone else. I highly recommend the series to every single blessed American (and by "blessed" I mean blessed to have these parks in our country). From the Yellowstone beginnings to the reintroduction of gray wolves (I saw one last year!), from the fights over Hetch Hetchy to the fights over the Grand Tetons (imagine!), even from the slaughter of Native Americans to the slave quarters in Florida to the Japanese-American internment camps in the West and the Flight 93 site in Pennsylvania, it's one great big swath of history. It's our best and our worst, it's who we are.