STOCKBRIDGE - THE BERKSHIRES

In a daring gambit to avoid the stress of group travel to Boston and take in some scenery, I rented a car with another gentleman in the cast and we set out from Baltimore with our bearing northerly. Armed only with a vague idea of the general direction of Boston (and an atlas), we avoided the interstates and meandered our way through small town after small town (above). The day was slightly overcast, and the colors of autumn a little past their prime, but the scenes and vistas as we drove along, combined frequently with the nostalgic smell of burning leaves, were immensely interesting and enjoyable. As the daylight faded we decided to ‘go to the whip’ and put some miles behind us, the village of Stockbridge in the Berkshires our target destination.

At around ten of the clock we pulled up to the Red Lion Inn (www.redlioninn.com), my now favorite place in the world. Established as a stagecoach stop in 1773 and rebuilt in 1897, this is one of the few remaining American inns in continuous use since the 18th century. It’s charm is overwhelming. The main lobby, when we entered, had the familiar feel of a country cottage, with the roaring fire filling the room with a welcoming, homey glow. We took the elevator (one of those ornate cages that slowly glide up the middle of a winding staircase) to our rooms, small but clean and cozy. We then went down to the basement to the pub. Evidently this is the social center of the town, and the locals were quietly enjoying pints and quiet conversation in the style of a village pub in Ireland. The smell of spiced cider suffused the air, two musicians played softly and well, and we had fresh turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sandwiches that would compete with any Thanksgiving leftovers. Wonderful. The pints were quite nice as well. And numerous.

The next morning I visited the Norman Rockwell Museum (www.nrm.org). His studio pictured above. I’ve always liked his illustrations, but found a new respect for his abilities as a painter and a story teller. One painting, familiar to my family for years, was particularly poignant. It’s called "The Marriage License" and shows a young couple signing their marriage license as an elderly town clerk looks on. The relevance comes from the calender in the background, which shows the date to be June 11th, the date of my parents anniversary. I learned from the exhibition that the model for the elderly clerk in the painting had lost his wife just weeks before sitting for the painting. It added a little sadness to the obvious optimism of the painting, and augmented the pleasant wistfullness that I have attached to the painting since my father’s passing several years ago.