Yankee Magazine January/February 2022

N E W E N G L A N D ’ S M AG A Z I N E

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January / February 2022

CONTENTS

features 74 /// The Soul of Skiing

94 /// Keeping Time How the rescue of hundreds of thousands of vintage newspaper images has given the city of Portland a priceless family album. By Abraham A. Schechter

88 /// Conversations: Richard Blanco Tracing a winding path from Cuba to Florida to Maine, this Obama inaugural poet embraces the idea of finding home right where he is. Interview by Melanie Brooks

102 /// The Balloonist

ON THE COVER

Few could have predicted Brian Boland’s rise to the top of the hot-air balloon world. No one could have imagined how it would end. By Ian Aldrich

New England’s time-honored remedy for winter’s coldest, darkest days: a bowl of creamy, hearty seafood chowder. Story, p. 44. Photo by Michael Piazza; styling by Liz Neily

above :

At Northeast Slopes in East Corinth, Vermont, a youngster catches a ride back in time before the chairlift era. Story, p. 74

Yankee (ISSN 0044-0191). Bimonthly, Vol. 86 No. 1. Publication Office, Dublin, NH 03444-0520. Periodicals postage paid at Dublin, NH, and additional offices. Copyright 2021 by Yankee Publishing Incorporated; all rights reserved. Postmaster: Send address changes to Yankee, P.O. Box 37128, Boone, IA 50037-0128.

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NEWENGLAND.COM

OLIV ER PARINI

Offering small crowds, dirt-cheap lift tickets, and loads of camaraderie, Vermont’s community ski hills are seeing a revival. By Lisa Gosselin Lynn

WINTER WONDER IN

Mural by: ProBlak and GoFive

Credit: Jason Wessel Photography

BOSTON

Shop I Dine I Stay I Play Your Official Guide to Exploring Boston

Bostonusa.com/winter

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More Contents

departments 10

home

DEAR YANKEE, CONTRIBUTORS & POETRY BY D.A.W.

24 /// Historical Romance

12 INSIDE YANKEE

There’s a still life around every corner in Maine photographer Ari Kellerman’s 18th-century Georgian. By Annie Graves

14 FIRST PERSON A treasured collection of handkerchiefs proves that even a small scrap of cloth can be big enough to carry a mother’s memory.

By Ann Klotz

32 /// Open Studio Boston artist Alison Croney Moses taps into the power and poetry of wood.

By Annie Graves

32

food

WEEKENDS WITH YANKEE Q&A Catching up with Steve Nichipor, professional White Mountains guide and featured Weekends with Yankee guest. By Ian Aldrich

Take a deep dive into New England’s classic warm-up, chowder, in all its tasty forms.

By Nadine Nelson

52 /// Local Flavor Caramelized onion takes mac ’n’ cheese to a whole new level of comfort food.

By Amy Traverso

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52

travel

LIFE IN THE KINGDOM When rural property is worth more than ever, what does that mean for those who value the land most?

By Ben Hewitt

Warm up to winter at Little Lyford Lodge & Cabins, a legendary sporting retreat in Maine’s North Woods. By Ian Aldrich

64 /// The Best 5 These New England sites bring long-untold stories of Black history into unforgettable focus. By Kim Knox Beckius

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UP CLOSE Even in a city full of famous landmarks, it’s impossible to pass up the quirky Boston icon known as the Hood Milk Bottle. By Joe Bills

128

58 /// Weekend Away

68 /// Cozy Winter Towns From Maine to Connecticut, we round up some great places to go in the snow.

FIRST LIGHT In revealing the landscape to us, winter light is more disciplined, more rigorous, and somehow closer to the truth. By Castle Freeman Jr.

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44 /// In the Thick of It

54 /// Recipe Remake Grandma’s carrot cake gets updated for today’s kitchens. By Katherine Keenan

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ADV ERTISING RESOURCES

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Weekends with Yankee......... 21 Retiring to the Good Life............................ 36 My New England............... 56 Winter in Vermont............. 66 Marketplace..................... 122

J E S I K A T H E O S ( P O R T R A I T ) ; L I Z N E I LY ( F O O D ) ; G R E TA R Y B U S ( C A B I N )

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EDITORIAL Editor Mel Allen Managing Editor Jenn Johnson Senior Features Editor Ian Aldrich Senior Food Editor Amy Traverso Home & Garden Editor Annie Graves Associate Editor Joe Bills Senior Digital Editor Aimee Tucker Associate Digital Editor Katherine Keenan Contributing Editors Kim Knox Beckius, Sara Anne Donnelly, Ben Hewitt, Rowan Jacobsen, Nina MacLaughlin, Julia Shipley ART Art Director Katharine Van Itallie Photo Editor Heather Marcus Contributing Photographers Adam DeTour, Megan Haley, Corey Hendrickson, Michael Piazza, Greta Rybus

Publisher Brook Holmberg ADVERTISING Vice President Judson D. Hale Jr. Media Account Managers Kelly Moores, Dean DeLuca, Steven Hall Canada Account Manager Cynthia Fleming Senior Production Coordinator Janet Selle For advertising rates and information, call 800-736-1100, ext. 204, or email NewEngland.com/adinfo.

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Director Kate Hathaway Weeks Manager Valerie Lithgow Specialist Holly Sloane PUBLIC RELATIONS

Roslan & Associates Media Relations LLC PRODUCTION Director David Ziarnowski Manager Brian Johnson Senior Artists Jennifer Freeman, Rachel Kipka

NEWSSTAND Vice President Sherin Pierce NEWSSTAND CONSULTING

DIGITAL Vice President Paul Belliveau Jr. Senior Designer Amy O’Brien Ecommerce Director Alan Henning Marketing Specialist Holly Sanderson — YANKEE PUBLISHING INC. ESTABLISHED 1935 | AN EMPLOYEE-OWNED COMPANY

President Jamie Trowbridge Vice Presidents Paul Belliveau Jr., Ernesto Burden, Judson D. Hale Jr., Brook Holmberg, Jennie Meister, Sherin Pierce Editor Emeritus Judson D. Hale Sr. CORPORATE STAFF

Vice President, Finance & Administration Jennie Meister Human Resources Manager Beth Parenteau Accounts Receivable/IT Coordinator Gail Bleakley Staff Accountant Nancy Pfuntner Accounting Coordinator Meg Hart-Smith Executive Assistant Christine Tourgee Maintenance Supervisor Mike Caron Facilities Attendant Paul Langille

Linda Ruth, PSCS Consulting 603-924-4407 SUBSCRIPTION SERVICES To subscribe, give a gift, or change your mailing address, or for any other questions, please contact our customer service department: Mail Yankee Magazine Customer Service P.O. Box 37900 Boone, IA 50037-0900 Online NewEngland.com/contact Email customerservice@yankeemagazine.com Toll-free 800-288-4284 — Yankee occasionally shares its mailing list with approved advertisers to promote products or services we think our readers will enjoy. If you do not wish to receive these offers, please contact us.

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Connect with Yankee

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@ YA N K EE M AG A Z I N E

LET IT SNOW! A curated look at New England featuring standout shots from our Instagram community.

Virginia Rollison (@ginnymae) Boston, Massachusetts

Tucker Finerty (@tuckerfinerty) Stratham, New Hampshire

Giovanni Dumeng (@giotakesphotos) Vernon, Connecticut

Daniela Amieva (@danielaspassaporto) Bristol, Maine

Kyle Pheland (@frontdoornpt) Newport, Rhode Island

Julie Houle (@julieh1015) Brattleboro, Vermont

Use our Instagram hashtag #mynewengland for a chance to be featured in an upcoming issue!

C O Z Y W I N T E R G E TA W AY S

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As much as we love getting out into the snow, there’s much to be said for finding the perfect escape from it, too: cabins with crackling fireplaces, inns with plush sofas and hot toddies at the ready. Find New England’s best lodging options to snuggle up to this winter: newengland.com/cozy-getaways FO L L OW US O N S O C I A L M E D I A @YA N K E E M AGA Z IN E

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LE T TERS TO THE EDITOR

Uplifting “Voices”

CONTRIBUTORS

L I S A G O S S E L I N LY N N The editor of Vermont Ski + Ride and former executive editor of Ski says her most memorable ski trips would be powder skiing in British Columbia, backcountry treks in Switzerland, and—as she describes in “The Soul of Skiing” [p. 74]—visiting Vermont’s community-supported ski areas. “Any skier who has ever felt the least bit jaded needs to make a pilgrimage to one of these tiny areas to rediscover the elemental joy of sliding on snow,” she says.

L' M E R C H I E F R A Z I E R In spotlighting places around New England that celebrate Black history [“The Best 5,” p. 64], we were guided by the advice of Frazier, director of education at the Museum of African American History in Boston and Nantucket, along with Valerie Cunningham (below). Frazier is a historian, activist, poet, and artist whose work appears in the permanent collections of such places as the Smithsonian, the White House, and the Minneapolis Institute of Art. VA L E R I E C U N N I N G H A M Returning to her native New Hampshire after traveling widely as a military spouse, Cunningham focused on graduating from UNH as an advocate for equitable historic preservation and inclusive public educational programming. She is the founder of the Portsmouth Black Heritage Trail [“The Best 5,” p. 64], which is one of those historic sites, she says, “that allow visitors to transcend time, touch the past, and hold onto that memory forever.”

MICHAEL PIAZZA Despite creating sumptuous images of chowder for our cover story [“In the Thick of It,” p. 44], this Boston-based photographer admits he doesn’t actually love clams all that much. “But they’re beautiful to photograph,” says Piazza, whose portfolio includes food assignments for the likes of Food & Wine and The New York Times, as well as a number of cookbooks. “As soon as we got that sack of clams out and started working, I knew it was going to be a fun day.”

MELANIE BROOKS A New Hampshire author who teaches writing at Northeastern University, among other New England schools, Brooks already knew much about Richard Blanco when she visited him at his home in Bethel, Maine, for Yankee’s “Conversations” series [p. 88]. One thing she didn’t know? The award-winning poet’s adopted hometown has another claim to fame: It holds the record for building the world’s tallest snow-woman.

O L I V E R PA R I N I Photographing “The Soul of Skiing” [p. 74] “landed close to home for me,” says this Vermont native, “as I spent nearly every weekend of my childhood winters at the Middlebury Snow Bowl. I now have a 3-year-old and 1-year-old, who will both be learning to ski at Cochran’s this winter!” Based in Burlington, Parini specializes in portrait and travel photography, and his work has appeared in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and EatingWell.

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I have subscribed to Yankee for years and am a native New Englander: born in Portland, Maine; my father from Waterville and his dad an Irish immigrant who worked for the Maine Central Railroad; my mother from Monson with parents from Finland.

I grew up in Keene, New Hampshire, and was ordained there.

I was deeply moved by “Their Voices Carry Far” [November/December].

This story revealed the beautiful way that hope and peace can be shared through music from the voices of young people—sisters connecting with each other as they “heal the wounds of their pasts.” Thank you, Yankee, for sharing this touching journey of immigrant young women and a wonderful director and founder, Con Fullam.

Rev. Dr. Patrick Larracey Plainville, Indiana

Take Two I was disappointed to see Amanda Gorman’s name written “Amanda Gordon” in the interview with Jill Lepore in the latest issue of Yankee [“Conversations,” November/December]. For all that she has overcome and all that she has achieved, it is truly a disservice to her to have overlooked this error.

Karen Prazar Via email Dear Karen: We regret and apologize for this typo, which was caused by a transcription error and has since been corrected in the online version of the article. It is in no way a reflection on the achievements of the nation’s youngest inaugural poet, whose name appears again—spelled correctly—in this issue as part of our conversation with poet Richard Blanco [p. 88]. —The Editors

A Doctor’s Legacy I must tell you how much I enjoyed reading “Living with Ghosts” by Oliver Broudy [September/October]. I eventually guessed Mr. Broudy bought NEWENGLAND.COM

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I L LUS T R AT I O N BY D. A .W.

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A N G E LO LY N N ( LY N N ) ; K AYA N A S Z Y M C Z A K ( F R A Z I E R ) ; H E L E N P E P P E P H O TO G R A P H Y ( B R O O K S)

Dear Yankee

A Most Unusual Gift of Love

FROZEN SEASON A row of ice stalactites hangs Above the porch like crystal fangs, And any hammock worth its swing Will keep away till half past spring.

—D.A.W.

I L LUS T R AT I O N BY D. A .W.

A N G E LO LY N N ( LY N N ) ; K AYA N A S Z Y M C Z A K ( F R A Z I E R ) ; H E L E N P E P P E P H O TO G R A P H Y ( B R O O K S)

For Now And Ever

his home from Dr. Thomas Plaut, whose One-Minute Asthma booklet helped this nurse teach, and parents learn from, all the important asthma basics and so much more. It’s written in elementary-school-level language to appeal to a broad variety of readers. I’d always offer up a silent thanks to Dr. Plaut when a parent told me they really “got it”—and felt confident understanding asthma and using prescribed meds—after they were provided with his invaluable little booklet. I never knew Dr. Plaut’s background or that he lived in Massachusetts until his passing. May his memory be for a blessing.

Audrey Martino RN, Ped-BC, CCM North Andover, Massachusetts We want to hear from you! Write to us at editor@yankeemagazine.com. Please note that letters may be edited for length and clarity.

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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the poem reads:

“There is no moment of my life when you are not a part of me; you hold my heart; you guard my soul; you guide my dreams so tenderly.

And if my will might be done, and all I long for could come true, with perfect joy I would choose to share eternity with you.”

Dear Reader, The drawing you see above is called For Now and Ever. It is completely composed of dots of ink. After writing the poem, I worked with a quill pen and placed thousands of these dots, one at a time, to create this gift in honor of the the love of two of my dearest friends.

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Inside Yankee |

MEL ALLEN

Love Stories

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those images, and with them Portland’s collective memory, has occupied him since 2009 [“Keeping Time,” p. 94].

About 65 miles north of where Schechter labors over his photos, Richard Blanco still writes the stunning poetry that caught America’s attention when he was President Barack Obama’s inaugural poet in 2013. As Blanco grew to love his hillside home in Bethel, Maine, his poems found an ever-expanding audience of fans who followed his lifelong quest for home and identity [“Conversations,” p. 88].

For decades, Vermont’s Brian Boland was a larger-than-life hot-air balloonist. In the course of reporting a profile on him, senior editor Ian Aldrich went up twice in a hot-air balloon (once attached to an open-air bench, so that only a strap separated him from the land hundreds of feet below) to better understand the passion that led Boland to become the best-known pilot in the world. Ian has a considerable fear of heights, but good writers become obsessed with getting their stories right—and his story about this unforgettable explorer of flight is one you will not soon forget [“The Balloonist,” p. 102].

Finally, I hope that when you sit down to savor these stories, you will also have by your side a bowl of chowder, one of the most cherished of all New England foods. Connecticut chef and author Nadine Nelson serves up traditional and surprising recipes [“In the Thick of It,” p. 44] that will likely begin your own love story, spoon to mouth.

Mel Allen editor@yankeemagazine.com

JARROD MCCABE

t f irst glance, there would seem to be little connecting the stories you will find as you turn the pages of this issue. Ski hills that for generations have been the center of their communities. A library archivist who rescued his city’s memories. A Cuban-American poet who found both a home and inspiration in small-town Maine.

A legendary hot-air balloonist. Except for this: Each shows a deep attachment to place and a passion to pursue what brings meaning and joy to one’s life.

While many skiers associate New England with destination mountains—Killington, Okemo, Stowe, Sugarloaf, Sunday River— that today belong to mega ski companies, “The Soul of Skiing” [p. 74] steps back to when community hills nourished the sport. And while many dozens of these small, beloved places have closed over the past decades, others have made a comeback and continue to endure because people who grew up on those ski hills held memories they could not forget.

Abraham A. Schechter of Portland, Maine, understands how memories resonate through generations. When he learned that hundreds of thousands of photo negatives dating back to the 1930s were on the verge of being destroyed, he sped on his bicycle to rescue them from the former Portland Press Herald building, which was being gutted before its new life as a boutique hotel. Each image captured something that happened on a day in the life of his city. His dedication to restoring

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First Person

|

ANN KLOT Z

About the Hankie Even a small scrap of cloth can be big enough to carry a mother’s memory.

ILLUSTR ATION BY

CINDY RIZZA

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s I join the second-grade morning meeting, Fiona points and asks, “What’s that, Ms. Klotz?”

“This? ” I say, pulling the square from the stretchy gold band of my watch. “It’s a hankie.”

“Why do you have it? ” wonders Giulia, on my right, her unbrushed curls tumbling down her back.

Why do I have it? Because my left eye leaks, I always have a hanky, gentler than Kleenex. My tear duct, an eye surgeon explained, was never connected. The procedure he endorsed failed. I still weep from one eye.

I’ve t ucked a hank ie into the band of my Mickey Mouse watch for decades. If I appear without one, colleagues inquire about its absence, even on Zoom. Hats have gone out of fashion, as have lorgnettes, but hankies, just vintage enough, linger at the corner of memory.

After the undertaker rolled my mother’s body away 11 years ago, my daughter and I returned to Mom’s

empt y condo. In the early morning hours of a chilly April, Cordelia slept the exhausted sleep of 15. I, full of grief, prowled the halls, annoyed by the beige wall-to-wall carpeting.

This was not the house I grew up in, but it is where I expected my mother to be, asleep in her chair, TV blaring, the ubiquitous glass of bourbon by her side. The absence of her presence choked me.

Her room was in shadow, the light on her bureau glowing softly. I slid out the top left drawer and ran my hand over her pile of handkerchiefs.

Starched and ironed, they carried her scent. Shalimar? Chanel No. 5? I could not name it, but it was the perfume she wore when she and Daddy went to dinner parties. She dabbed it on her wrists, behind her ears, on her hankie. With the smell of powder and lipstick, her fragrance clung to her mink coat, which I, a little girl left at home, stroked as if it, too, were animate. I picked up the stack of hankies, buried my nose in them, wept.

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11/4/21 11:13 AM

Alone that night in her vacant room, I imagined my matchstick mother kneeling straight-backed on her mother’s prie-dieu, swollen knuckles clasped, elfin ears uncurled beneath her soft silver hair still shot with black. Murmuring prayers she knew by heart, she marked loss upon loss upon loss: four brothers, one sister, two parents, one son, all gone. I stroked the carved wood. To kneel would feel melodramatic, but I wanted to place my knees where hers had been. I wanted her back, her whole irreverent self.

Buck up, I heard her voice in my head. I’m here. Here in my head, not here in this house. The new way I would carry her.

Now, in a dresser made from the doors of the Baldwin Locomotive Company—the family business—a spacious drawer holds many, many handkerchiefs. White ones with lacy edges are my favorites; after that, I love ones with red borders or those that have been embroidered.

Hankies grow threadbare and vanish unexpectedly, so I try not to get too attached and keep adding to my collection: f lea markets, antique fairs, eBay. Each fabric scrap had a life before coming to me. When a student marries, I give her a bride’s hankie, a frothy lace confection. My husband sighs, exasperated, when he finds hankies littered about the house; I shed them as Hansel and Gretel dropped pebbles to mark their path home.

Why do I have it? Here’s the real answer. My mother always carried a handkerchief, up her sleeve or in her purse, and when she died, I stole her hankies from her dresser drawer and brought them home. At our daughter’s wedding last summer, I read e.e. cummings’s lines, “I carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart).” I carry Mom’s heart, a hankie at my wrist, prepared to dry my eyes.

I smile at Fiona and Giulia, and say, “Because I like them.”

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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First

LIGHT

The Quiet Before (Bald Mountain, Camden, Maine) PHOTO BY JACOB HESSLER

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NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 11:22 AM

YA N K E E C L A S S I C

Winter Sun It is leaner than the light of other seasons— more disciplined, more rigorous, and somehow closer to the truth.

BY C ASTLE FREEM AN JR .

S

een from this house on one of the short days of winter, the sun sneaks up over the eastern ridge in the direction of the village of Dummerston at about seven in the morning. It dodges furtively across the southern sky like a pickpocket at a county fair. By half past three in the afternoon it has darted behind the hill to the west, toward South Newfane. And there you have it: a winter day. The sun’s transit, confined to the seven-mile trip between these two Vermont hamlets, is hurried and perfunctory. The winter sun itself has none of the ease or leisure of other seasons, and it has no more warmth than a landlord’s smile. The day is over almost before it has begun.

On many overcast winter mornings, I have noticed, the sun is visible at all only at the very beginning and again at the very end of its brief day. It appears

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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First

LIGHT

| WINTER

SUN

Frozen Landscape 1 (Charlotte, Vermont) PHOTO BY JIM WESTPHALEN

momentarily between the cloud cover and the horizon at sunrise and again at sundown, but otherwise it is hidden.

On such a day in summer or autumn, it might mount above the clouds and reappear around noon, but in winter the arc of the sun’s path is too shallow to carry it so high.

The winter day and the peculiar, candid light it brings are all an affair of arcs and angles. The sun itself is 91,918,707 miles away from Dummerston and South Newfane. Over a distance that great, the difference between our closeness to the sun in summer and in winter doesn’t amount to much. Rather it is the changing angle with the horizon of the sun’s apparent path that gives us our seasons.

In the northern summer, the earth, orbiting the sun on its tilted axis, leans toward the sun. The sun rises and sets relatively far to the north along the horizon, and its path intersecting the horizon makes a wide angle that carries the sun steeply to the top of the sky and keeps it there for most of the day. In winter the northern hemisphere leans 18 |

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away from the sun. All the angles are narrowed. The sun rises far to the south along the horizon, and its course takes it past the horizon at a sharp angle, allowing it only a small corner of the sky to pass through before it sets. To figure for yourself the changing geometry of the summer and winter sun, think of slicing a melon crosswise, first near the middle, then far to one end.

In return for the elusive winter day, the north gets winter light: a simplified, purified reduction of the softer light of summer and fall. In summer the light is long, the shadows deep, the colors rich; winter light is leaner in every way, but just for that reason it seems by comparison more rigorous, more disciplined, and somehow closer to the truth—as though summer light were a novel, winter light a sonnet.

The fierce simplicity of winter light is evident in its disdain of shadow.

Shadows—converging, changing their shapes, approaching, receding—are the essence of the light of other seasons, but winter light has little use for shadows, and where it employs them, they are

pale, gray, and short, like the winter day.

Winter light will not stand for any mystery. It strips the woodland of its shadows and makes each tree, each branch, each rock stand forth for what it really is. Winter light is light that scours and diminishes, but makes more keen.

Again, while sunlight in summer or fall borrows the colors of the landscape—green, yellow, brown—winter light seems to have color of its own.

The icy, bitter blue of a f ine winter noon is no earthly color, but belongs to the light itself. And similarly for the moment of winter light that to me seems to sum it up, when, crossing a clearing in the brief dusk, I come to a wooded rise to the west and see the sun set behind the hill in a wash ash of old rose, darkening to scarlet and crimson.

That last quick f lash of light is lurid, fiery, uniquely wild. Behind the black bars of the tree trunks in the wood, the winter sunset is like a tiger.

Originally titled “Winter Light,” this essay was first published in the February 1993 issue of Yankee.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 11:26 AM

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11/9/21 3:40 PM

First

LIGHT

| WEEKENDS

W I T H YA N K E E Q & A in winter. There’s also such a range of things to do. When I first started, things like climbing and backcountry skiing were fringe activities. You didn’t see people fat-tire biking.

That’s all changed.

Q. What’s the advantage of taking a guided outing in the Whites?

Catching up with a professional White Mountains guide and featured Weekends with Yankee guest.

H

ow does a Connecticut kid from the suburbs end up becoming one of the most prominent outdoor guides in the White Mountains of New Hampshire? “A little bit by chance,” says Steve Nichipor, director of guided programs for the Omni Mount Washington Resort in Bretton Woods. “I didn’t see much snow as a kid, and even to this day I’m enthralled by it. Watching it, playing in it—I just love it.” That’s a good thing, because today it’s his job to lead visitors from across the world into one of the most pristine winter wonderlands in the country. Here, Nichipor shares what his favorite winter action is and what the summer crowds are missing by not visiting the Whites when the snow flies. —Ian Aldrich 20 |

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Q. What’s your earliest memory of visiting the White Mountains?

I was a student at Bates College and I hiked with my geology class up Tuckerman Ravine. It was fall, and the weather, even for Mount Washington, was pretty decent. I hadn’t done a hike like that before.

And those views were something else too. It was all new to me. I loved it, so I just kept coming back. And then after college I moved here.

Q. For people who associate the Whites only with summer hiking, what are they missing out on?

The hiking in winter is a lot nicer and smoother, for one, because you’re not having to walk on rocks the entire day. There’s also just the beauty of the place. It looks so completely different

Q. When you’re off the clock, what’s your favorite winter pastime?

Skiing on Mount Washington. If you get the right conditions, there’s nothing like it. So that means going to Tuckerman Ravine on a weekday, when the crowds aren’t as big. Or, if I know it’s going to be crowded there, I’ll head over to Gulf of Slides, which is more remote.

Q. What’s your advice to someone thinking about doing a first big winter adventure in the Whites?

Be flexible. Research your options and be willing to change, so that if conditions aren’t what you need them to be, you have another plan. Hiking something like Mount Washington is a big endeavor, and the weather is always changing, so it’s OK to be disappointed. There’s no harm in playing it safe—not up here!

Our visit with Steve Nichipor of the Omni Mount Washington Resort is featured on season five of Weekends with Yankee. To find out how to watch, go to weekendswithyankee.com.

COREY HENDRICKSON

Steve Nichipor

You’re more likely to see places you wouldn’t normally see. Anyone can plan a trip via some online research, but chances are you’re just going to be led to the same places as everyone else.

Not too long ago I had a woman come up here to hike Mount Washington.

When we couldn’t do it, I suggested Eisenhower. And she loved it. She thought it was better than Washington.

There are a lot of mountains up here, and all of them have trails to the top.

You don’t have to stick with what everybody else is doing.

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First

LIGHT

| UP

CLOSE

Bottle Stopper Even in a city full of famous landmarks to see, it’s impossible to pass up this quirky Boston icon.

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E D W A R D W E S T M A C O T T/ A L A M Y S TO C K P H O TO

I

f you’ve ever wondered what a 58,620-gallon bottle of milk looks like—and who hasn’t?—the answer can be found just outside the Boston Children’s Museum, on Fort Point Channel. There stands a 40-foot-tall milk bottle sporting the logo of Massachusetts’s own H.P. Hood, as it has ever since it was acquired by the museum 45 years ago and became a signature Boston landmark.

In the early 1930s, inspired by the shape of a bottle from a nearby dairy, Arthur Gagner of Taunton, Massachusetts, constructed this wooden building as an eye-catching retail stand for his homemade ice cream. In the coming years, as car ownership boomed, crazy roadside attractions would become more commonplace, but Gagner’s was one of the nation’s first.

In 1943, Gagner sold the bottle to another local ice cream maker, the Sankey family, who ran the stand for the next 24 years. Afterward, the bottle was abandoned and fell into disrepair; its facade grew so weathered it even caught the eye of famed photographer Walker Evans, whose 1974 Polaroid images of it now belong to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not long after Walker photographed the forlorn structure, though, clothing designer Carol Scofield made it her mission to find it a new home.

Turns out, that would be the Children’s Museum, which was about to relocate to its current downtown location.

Hood signed on as a sponsor and funded the restoration, and on April 20, 1977, a barge carried the rebranded bottle across Boston Harbor to its new digs. Several vendors have operated out of the milk bottle since then, but most recently it has returned to its roots as an ice cream stand.

And since you are probably just as curious as I was: It would take roughly 9,300 cows to fill the bottle in a single day, and more than 32 million Oreo cookies could be dunked before all of that milk was absorbed. Just please, don’t ask how I know. —Joe Bills NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 11:39 AM

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Home

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P R I VAT E TO U R

HISTORICAL

ROMANCE

There’s a still life around every corner in Maine photographer Ari Kellerman’s 18th-century Georgian house.

BY A N N I E G R AV E S P H OTO S BY A R I K E L L E R M A N

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NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 11:43 AM

“I’m the first person to use this to cook since the ’60s,” says Ari Kellerman of the hearth in the keeping room of her York, Maine, home.

As part of Maine’s oldest homestead that’s still in its original setting, the residence is rich in historical atmosphere—something Kellerman puts to good use in her photos, such as the still life with dahlias shown opposite.

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11/4/21 11:43 AM

Home

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P R I VAT E TO U R

A

t one time, all things were new, and that is certainly true of John Sedgley’s house.

To imagine this York, Maine, beauty in its early heyday simply requires that you step through time—280 years, give or take a few decades—and engage your imagination. The mortar is drying on the massive brick hearth in the keeping room, the hand-hewn beams still smell slightly fresh, and John’s father, the original John Sedgley, a master turner skilled in the ways of the lathe, has just gifted him an almostperfect chair. Blink, and it’s gone.

But the warm, rich light remains behind, the wisdom that built this structure, the feeling of harmony and architectural balance infused into its bones. The large, two-story Georgian home sits in a pocket of history outside the village of York, on the Sedgley Homestead, the oldest homestead in Maine in its original configuration.

Classically red, this imposing centerpiece is offset by companions that add

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their own grace notes: a 1780s Cape, a few outbuildings, stables, and a workshop converted to living quarters. They gather together like old friends barricaded against time, handing down remembrances.

“It’s our 18th-century enclave,” says Ari Kellerman, 33, an ardent historian and photographer, gesturing around at the buildings that are today owned by three separate families, with shared land of 6.4 acres in common. With her cascading hair and f lowing dress, Kellerman herself seems plucked from another time, but don’t be deceived.

“It’s fun to romanticize the past, but I wouldn’t want to live there,” she says with a smile. Regardless, the setting and the house are picture-perfect for a photographer whose feeling for living history and sensitivity to the currents of time are conveyed in her moody images. It’s partly what drew her to the Sedgley Homestead in the f irst place. Old corners of history have their own particular relationship to light and dark, often proving hard to resist.

Rembrandt couldn’t.

“This place and this town were a very intentional move,” says Kellerman, a native Mainer. She and her husband, Jordan, had lived around the U.S. and in Europe, but “Maine is home.” And during Covid, while everyone was reevaluating their home life, the couple, both working in Portland, began casually looking up and down the coast for a place to spend the next chapter of their lives. They’d already renovated a 1970s house, making it convincingly “old,” but as any rehabber knows, you can go only so far. And that house was never to be forever. Their next move “was meant to be all about the home, and that home was always going to be 18th-century,” Kellerman says emphatically. “I’d fallen in love with Georgian architecture long before I knew what to call it.” clockwise from top : The entryway, painted Palmer Green from Benjamin Moore’s Colonial Williamsburg collection; a timeless view of the 18th-century exterior; another of Kellerman’s sumptuous still lifes; the upstairs bath, with a tub painted Palmer Green (“I’d put it everywhere if I could,” says Kellerman); “lockdown puppy” Winnifred, who seems right at home in her artistic surroundings.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/9/21 1:49 PM

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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P R I VAT E TO U R

clockwise from left :

The dining room, which gets the best light in the house; a larder scene; one of the first still-life photos that Kellerman created after moving onto the Sedgley Homestead, which she says has been “an incredible source of inspiration for me, being surrounded by other artists in our enclave.”

But let’s take a quick detour, because it’s not as if Kellerman is a novice when it comes to antiquity. She is well schooled in the Byzantine. In Greek culture and language. She has studied theology and conflict transformation.

She is a knowledgeable dealer in 18thcentury Georgian jewelry. And she is the education director at the Old York Historical Society, with its collection of nine historic buildings, where among other duties she develops the summer programs and shares her knowledge of what it’s like to cook on a hearth. So… Six months into their search, the Sedgley house popped onto the market. “I knew I’d dreamt of this house the minute I stepped into the keeping room, and could visualize all of the hearth-cooked dinners! ” Kellerman says. And she remembers, “It took my husband three more rooms before he lost his poker face and told the realtor this was our house.”

The house is a classic arrangement of two rooms down, two rooms up.

Step into the entry, and straight ahead there’s a tight twist of stairs, a nautilus scampering up to the bedrooms.

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Next to the entry are the rooms that anchored the lives of its early inhabitants. To the left, a formal parlor that is Kellerman’s studio, where she sets up still lifes inspired by Dutch paintings, shimmering with figs and silvery fish, or photographs products for freelance clients. To the right, the keeping room, a warm glow of old wood, low ceilings, beams, and that massive fireplace.

The hearth wasn’t working when they bought it, “but I knew just the restoration mason to call,” Kellerman recalls.

“I was on Richard Irons’s schedule before we’d even closed.”

Tucked behind this well-preserved main structure there’s a large ell off the back, sprawling into a comfortable living room, and a kitchen that stretches into a dining area, with a brick terrace beyond. It’s open and elegant in a way that would have been unimaginable to Sedgley and his descendants. And somehow, that seems right too.

Because even though this is a story reaching back centuries, it is also very much a story of our time. Where the original homestead was firmly a fam30 |

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ily affair, this new homestead has gathered a disparate group of people, unrelated, who’ve come together with a common cause: a love of antiquity.

And a shared love of this house.

“We weren’t quite sure what the close living quarters would bring,” Kellerman confesses, “ but I never imagined it would gift us fast family.” With many of her photo shoots postponed last year, she worked at home, forming bonds with her homestead neighbors, who’ve all lived here for years, and are generous with their knowledge. And a previous owner, Carl Crossman, was an antiques appraiser for Antiques Roadshow for eight seasons, so the stewardship runs deep, she notes. “Sharing a common goal like the preservation and beautification of this property has placed us at the center of our own historic village.”

Then, too, there are the stories waiting to unfold, mysteries waiting to reveal themselves. Like the forgotten orchard, buried in the overgrowth, that they’ve begun rehabilitating. Kellerman’s husband has spent the morning

A space still “in progress,” as Kellerman describes it, the keeping room has so far been furnished with an 18th-century Welsh dresser (aka china hutch) and a period worktable.

battling tangles of bittersweet, freeing old apple and cherry trees. Someday, Kellerman envisions, there will be a glass house in the cleared space, where workshop participants who’ve just cooked 18th-century recipes on Sedgley’s hearth can eat what they’ve made.

And then there’s the eight-foot hearth itself, raising its own questions. One brick is marked 1715, and so for a while, that’s how the house was dated. The National Register, however, says it’s c. 1720. Kellerman thinks that a truer date is probably somewhere in the 1740s. Regardless, it is old. And for a photographer steeped in antiquity and the nuance of time, that’s more than enough.

To see more of Ari Kellerman’s photos or to learn about her “seasonal New England” immersion workshops, go to arikellerman.com.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/12/21 2:56 PM

“JFK’s Victura” A moment in history

Forrest Pirovano’s painting, “JKF’s Victura”portrays young JFK and Jackie sailing in the wind.

John F Kennedy’s beloved sailboat, “Victura” is a 25foot Wianno Senior classic gaff-rigged sloop, built on Cape Cod. It was given to John by his parents in 1932 on his fifteenth birthday. Although through the years JFK owned larger boats, “Victura” remained his favorite boat for the rest of his life. This beautiful limited edition print of an orignal oil painting, individually numbered and signed by the artist, Forrest Pirovano, captures the detail of the painting and gives the subject a sense of time and place.

This exquisite print is bordered by a museum-quality

white-on-white double mat, measuring 11x14 inches.

Framed in either a black or white 1½ inch deep wood frame, this limited edition print measures 12¼ X 15¼ inches and is priced at only $149. Matted but unframed the price for this print is $109. Prices include shipping and packaging.

Forrest Pirovano is a Cape Cod artist. His paintings capture the picturesque landscape and seascapes of the Cape, which have a universal appeal. His paintings often include the many antique wooden sailboats that grace the surrounding waters.

FORREST PIROVANO, artist P.O. Box 1011 • Mashpee, MA 02649 Visit our studio in Mashpee Commons, Cape Cod All major credit cards are welcome. Please send card name, card number, expiration date, code number & billing ZIP code.

Checks are also accepted.…Or you can call Forrest at 781-858-3691.…Or you can pay through our website www.forrestcapecodpaintings.com

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2/14/19 11/12/21 10:07 9:41 AM

Home

|

OPEN STUDIO

To Carve a Life Boston artist Alison Croney Moses taps into the power and poetry of wood.

BY ANNIE GR AVES PHOTOS BY JESIKA THEOS

push the wood to its limits, and it pushes back,” says Alison Croney Moses. “Sometimes you can hear it, protesting.”

She is, at this moment, flanked by a nearly life-size sculpture bearing two pods, the cedar wood smoothed to silken softness, the entire piece embodying its title, My Babies. It is one piece in her series called My Black Body, and in a matter of hours it will be on its way to Philadelphia, where it will join its companion sculpture, My Belly, and a 3½-minute video, We Are Black Vessels—all her contributions to the Designing Motherhood exhibition at the Center for Architecture and Design. Her daughter, who is 2, was very upset to see them go.

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It was daunting to work at this large scale, confesses Croney Moses, 38. Although as a student in furniture making at the Rhode Island School of Design, she had certainly made tables and chairs. And after eight years at the Eliot School in Boston—where she is now associate director but has previously taught woodworking and coordinated programming for thousands of young people—she has had plenty of practice keeping her woodworking skills alive. Creating larger-thanlife wooden shells of almost ethereal beauty, spiraling out of thin cedar, holly, and redwood veneers. Sanding these objects, or her chunky little cedar pods, until they pass the touch test—so irresistibly smooth that they demand hands on.

“But after having my second child, I was trying to figure out how I am going to make art again,” she says. And there it was, the eternal conflict. On the one hand, raising two small children with her husband, David, and meeting daily job demands. On the other, trying to carve out the space to do creative work. Yet here she is, at the Sculptor’s Workshop in Boston’s Allston neighborhood, a studio building that houses other local artists, including renowned woodworker Mitch Ryerson.

Then Croney Moses articulates the philosophy that threads through her life, like grain through wood, fusing the elements of her life that she details as “artist, craftsperson, NEWENGLAND.COM

11/9/21 10:54 AM

Alison Croney Moses with her 2021 sculpture My Babies, featuring two small pods nestled into the main figure, all carved from a single block of cedar. “It captures a moment in time after the birth of children,” she says, ”when mother and children are still dependent on each other.” opposite : A close-up of White Shell, sculpted in holly veneer.

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OPEN STUDIO

left : Redwood Shell was the first largescale project that Croney Moses made between the births of her children, she says. “I was able to get back into the woodshop and connect back to my own identity by making with my hands.” below :

Croney Moses at work, “pushing the wood to its limits” as she fits pieces of veneer together, creating a sinuous new form.

educator, art administrator, mother, and Black woman.” Just do it. “Do something, or this will never happen,” she insists. “You can’t dwell on choices.

You can’t obsess. You can’t get stuck.

You just have to make the decision.

And if it doesn’t work out, you adjust, adjust, adjust.”

And she laughs, a full-bodied reaction to the notion that somehow each of these roles might be separate endeavors.

“My life is not that compartmentalized.

Everything feels very much related, which is the way that it works for me.”

Which is how Croney Moses came to form a moms-of-color group in her neighborhood of Jamaica Plain, where Black women come together to support one another. At the same time, she was purposefully creating a more diverse environment for her own children. “Currently it’s rare for my kids to see people who look like me every single day in a very close way,” she says. “If I 34 |

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want to value my own skin and show [my children] that value, then I have to be around people who look like me.” In turn, she poured all of these experiences into her My Black Body artwork. “I’m trying to incorporate things that I value in my personal life into my arts practice,” she explains.

“So that it’s one and the same.”

And so, it makes perfect sense that Croney Moses’s sculptures take the form of vessels: things that hold other things. Skilled with chisels, angle grinders, band saws, and molds, she cuts and forms the wood, using bent lamination and coopering—traditional techniques that, she explains, are perfectly suited to making vessels. “When you curve something and then you cooper it together—which is cutting in angles to it to glue together—you naturally make some sort of vessel, whether it’s shell-like, or petals, or pods.”

She admits that sometimes it can be a little tricky to get them to join up. Those effortless, swooping shells?

“You’re gluing on a mold that is forcing a compound curve, which wood does not like to do. By the end of the shell, those edges don’t come together anymore, because they’re like, I don’t want to do this, my curve does not meet your curve!”

That tension is what Croney Moses leans into: the process of making. In My Babies, she purposefully let the glue lines show, recalling how she felt she was coming apart at the seams when she was pregnant.

And how having children has shifted who she is, and how that goes into her work too.

Her son sees her as an artist; her daughter mourns the loss of sculptures that feel like family. But, she emphasizes, “I think it’s really important that children see everyone as artists, and therefore themselves as artists. The only thing that makes an artist is that you’re trying.

You’re willing to take a creative risk. You try, you make a mistake, and you find a solution to it. That is being an artist.”

And that is what f ills these vessels. Because when I ask what she pours into these pieces as she’s making them, Croney Moses responds, without a moment’s hesitation: “Everything.” alisoncroney.com

M I C H E L L E D A V I D S O N - S H A P I R O P H O T O G R A P H Y ( R E D W O O D S H E L L)

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11/9/21 11:00 AM

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Would you love having a ride to your appointments or your weekly grocery shopping? Retirement communities often have transportation available for such trips. They may even offer rides for things like an evening at the local theater. No more worries about driving at night or in bad weather!

5. Get in Shape, Right on Site Forget the hassles of commuting to a local gym. Many retirement communities offer fitness classes and have an indoor pool and/or a gym.

With amenities like these, they make it easier for you stay healthy and feel younger longer.

6. Feel Secure in Your Surroundings YANK0122

As people age, they may be less steady on their feet or find themselves not | 37

11/9/21 1:30 PM

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seeing as well as they did just a few years ago. Retirement communities know and understand the aging process, and they work to ensure that all accommodations are safe and accessible for you, both now and in the future.

7. Make the Most of Meal Time In retirement, you may fi nd that cooking meals — whether it’s just for you or for you and your spouse — is a chore you’re ready to give up. Retirement communities offer a number of different meal plans to make life easier for their residents. These options also provide the opportunity to dine with other residents and build new relationships.

8. Get Health Care Where You Are

Elevate your lifestyle.

Whether you enjoy a life of constant activity or something a bit more laid back, everything you need is available here at Meadow Ridge.

9. Have Expert Support in Emergencies

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38 |

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Choosing a retirement community that offers on-site health care can be a game-changer as you age. Many offer rehab facilities and assisted living, which means that if you find yourself needing extra care, you’ll able to stay close to your spouse and your community of friends.

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Even if you never need it, having ready access to emergency care as you get older is something that will help put both you and your family at ease. Just knowing that your retirement community staff is trained in emergency support can be deeply comforting.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/9/21 1:31 PM

SPECIAL ADVERTISING SECTION

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10. Enjoy the Freedom of Your New Life Making the move to a retirement community can offer ease and peace of mind — what more could you ask for when it comes to entering the next chapter of your life? Consolidating your bills into one payment makes your life simpler, while being in a safe, caring community means fewer worries for you and your family.

Create a vibrant, interesting life in your retirement and enjoy the freedom that comes with it by making the move to a retirement community.

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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An friends Anactive active community community of of friends isiswaiting Taylor. waiting for for you you at at Taylor.

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INDEPENDENCE, OF MIND. MIND. INDEPENDENCE,FREEDOM, FREEDOM, AND AND PEACE PEACE OF Taylor to pursue pursue your your TaylorCommunity Communityisismore morethan thanaaplace place to to live, live, it’s it’s aa place place to passions, hobbies, and cultivate what makes you—YOU. Retirement is the thetime time passions, hobbies, and cultivate what makes you—YOU. Retirement is totospend opportunities are are spenddoing doingwhat whatyou youlove loveand andat atTaylor Taylor you’ll you’ll find find the the opportunities endless. you’ll not not only onlyget getto to endless.And Andwith withso somany manylike-minded like-minded people people living living here, here, you’ll do dowhat whatyou youenjoy, enjoy,but butfind findnew newpeople people to to enjoy enjoy life life with! with!

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11/9/21 3:43 PM

HOUSE FOR SALE

| Home

New meets old at the Moses Brown Ives House, whose throwback cobblestone courtyard is actually a recent addition; inside is a “smart home” control system and updated fittings, such as the sleek bathroom sink and sconces shown below.

Best in Class A historic Providence mansion with Ivy League ties is also one of the most modern in the city.

BY JOE BILLS

COURT ESY OF LIL A DEL M AN COMPA SS

n 1835, Moses Brown Ives built a Greek Revival mansion just across the street from his childhood home in Providence, Rhode Island. While the house remains among the grandest New England examples of the style, what really sets it apart is the high-tech upgrade it received from an entrepreneur who recently called it home.

Nestled in the corner of its College Hill block, with Charlesfield Street behind and Brown Street just beyond its eastern wall, the house has expansive southern and western lawns that are walled for privacy and terraced in a way that creates distinct outdoor spaces, each with its own grand view of the city. The unquestionable star of the western lawn is what might be the oldest and surely the stateliest beech tree in Providence.

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Home |

HOUSE FOR SALE

right : A view through the mansion’s twin living room spaces, each with a fireplace; outside is a wraparound porch and a patio that looks out toward the western lawn. below left : Tucked into the corner of the light-filled kitchen is a butler’s pantry, but for serious entertaining there’s an expansive catering kitchen on the floor below.

In a sense, the story of the house tells both the best and worst of a family who helped shape the city, right down to the Ivy League university that bears their name. Born into privilege, Moses Brown Ives was the eldest son of Thomas Poynton Ives, cofounder of the mercantile trade 42 |

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firm Brown & Ives, and his partner’s sister, Hope Brown. The boy was named after Hope’s uncle, Moses Brown, who, along with his brother John, was among the most successful, philanthropic, and controversial pillars of early Providence. The business interests of the Browns included

shipping and bank ing, but their legacy is stained by their slave trading. (Although Rhode Island law had “banned” slavery in 1652, enforcement lagged by a few hundred years.) After Moses Brown became an abolitionist in the 1770s, the slave trade eventually drove a wedge between the brothers.

NEWENGLAND.COM

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COURT ESY OF LIL A DEL M AN COMPA SS

below right : A number of bedrooms in the residence have been transformed into spacious suites.

meo3830786_YankeeMagPuzzleAD 11/7/17 9:54 A

COURT ESY OF LIL A DEL M AN COMPA SS

WILL MOSES In 1832, Moses Brown Ives joined Brown & Ives as a junior member, and married Annie Allen Dorr, whose brother would lead Rhode Island’s Dorr Rebellion in 1841. Ives would become one of the city’s most prominent merchants, while also serving in leadership roles for institutions like Providence Bank and Brown University. When he died in 1857, his estate made a $40,000 bequest (about $1.4 million today) toward the establishment of Rhode Island Hospital.

Following Ives’s death, his daughter, Hope Brown Ives Russell, oversaw the first major renovation of the family home. Among the changes was a reorientation that moved the main entrance from the Charlesfield Street side to the Power Street side. In 1897, she donated the house to the Episcopal Church, and it was used as a bishop’s residence for many years.

The Moses Brown Ives House did not return to private ownership until 2007, when the church sold the property to Angus Davis, a young tech entrepreneur and Rhode Island native whose speech-recognition software company had recently been acquired

by Microsoft.

Under Dav is’s ow nership, the house was extensively reinvented.

With eight f ireplaces, eight bathrooms, and nearly 10,0 0 0 square feet of living space on the building’s four levels, this was no small task.

What may be Davis’s most signif icant addition to the property, however, is behind the walls. True to his tech roots, Davis brought video and audio capability to nearly every room and tied together the heating, cooling, security, and lighting controls with the installation of an automated Control4 system.

“It’s prett y amazing,” says Bob Walsh, the realtor who shows me around the property. “You can basically operate the whole house from a mobile device. That’s pretty rare for a home this old.” As we stroll from room to room, he occasionally stops JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

YK0122_Home_HFS.indd 43

to show me where TVs or control panels are hidden.

The wood-paneled entry hall is stately. All of the first-f loor rooms— including the formal living room, the library, and the dining room— are high-ceilinged and beautifully appointed. But the open-concept kitchen, with its white marble countertops, steals the show. The kitchen was extensively remodeled by the current owner, who bought the house in 2016 to be closer to his daughter while she was in college.

Although the house technically has eight bedrooms, current usage has created four suites: three on the second level and another on the third.

The rest of the second f loor is all business, with an off ice and a laundry room, while the billiard room and a comfortable bar on the third f loor stand ready for leisure time. The basement houses most of the utilities and master controls, as well as a catering kitchen, a gym and sauna, and a magnificent wine cellar and stone-walled tasting room.

When I first stepped through the wrought-iron front gate and into the cobblestone courtyard (another addition by the current owner), I had the sensation of leaving one world for another, as if the Brown University campus that had grown up all around this property was instantly far away.

The seeming contradictions of this modernized country mansion in the city are what make it truly unique, with each owner having cast a vision of their own onto the template created

by Moses Brown Ives. What might be next? This new/old house needs nothing, so perhaps the next owner will opt to settle in and enjoy what is already here. But if history is any indication, probably not.

The Moses Brown Ives House is being offered for $4.7 million. For more information, contact Bob Walsh at Lila Delman Real Estate at 401-274-1644 or visit liladelman.com.

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Food

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SPOTLIGHT DISH

IN THE THICKOF IT Take a deep dive into New England’s classic warm-up, chowder, in all its tasty forms.

By Nadine Nelson Photos by Michael Piazza | Styling by Liz Neily

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A whole clam in its shell and a sprinkling of oyster crackers provide classic finishing touches for New England Clam and Seafood Chowder.

Silo soup mug by Farmhouse Pottery

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Food

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SPOTLIGHT DISH

C

howder is a culinary contradiction.

On the one hand, it’s utilitarian, the perfect repository for humble ingredients like salt pork, onions, and potatoes, plus whatever protein is on hand. On the other, it can be luxuriously rich, serving with honor as one of the iconic ambassadorial dishes of New England.

It also tells the story of our region’s foodways. Consider the chowder recipe penned by Sarah Josepha Hale, the inf luential 19th-century magazine editor, author of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and New England culinary mythmaker (her campaign to make Thanksgiving a national holiday resulted in the menu many of us still eat today). Her views on domestic life inf luenced countless women of her era. And although hers is not the first recorded recipe for chowder, it’s a classic early example: To Make Chowder: Lay some slices cut from the fat part of pork, in a deep stewpan, mix sliced onions with a variety of sweet herbs, and lay them on the pork; bone and cut a fresh cod into thin slices, and place them on the pork, then put a layer of pork, on that a layer of biscuit, then alternately the other materials until the pan is nearly full, then season with pepper and salt, put in about a quart of water, cover the 46 |

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NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 3:04 PM

Japanese seasoning puts a twist on New England tradition in Mussel and Miso Chowder.

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Food

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SPOTLIGHT DISH

left :

Spicy sausage adds a kick to this hearty Portuguese Clam and Kale Soup. below : Roasted Winter Vegetable and White Bean Chowder draws on some of the cooking staples of New England’s indigenous peoples.

stewpan very close, and let it stand, with a fire above as well as below, for four hours; then skim it well, and it is done. This is an excellent dish and healthy, if not eaten too hot.

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SILO SOUP BOWLS BY FARMHOUSE POT TERY

Note the absence of clams or milk.

Those came later, as the New England dairy industry expanded and shellfish gained respectability. But whatever its ingredients, chowder has always been a community dish, freely interpreted.

Most historians agree that the word chowder derives from the French chaudière, or cauldron, the pot of choice for this peasant soup. French and British villages along the English Channel were known to have big cooking vessels ready and waiting for f ishermen to add a portion of their catch. As these f ishermen migrated across the Atlantic to Newfoundland and down to Maine, they brought NEWENGLAND.COM

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11/9/21 3:44 PM

Food

|

SPOTLIGHT DISH

Warmed with aji amarillo and cayenne pepper, Peruvian-Style Shrimp Chowder is a tasty nod to South American chupe.

their pa r ticu la r method of soup making to the New World. There, they discovered that indigenous peoples had long relished quahogs and other seafood layered in longsimmered pottages with meat, corn, beans, and other vegetables, depending on the season. These were not chowders, but there was some resonance in the communal cauldron.

Chowder’s popularity reached critical mass in the 19th century, when summer picnics and clambakes up and down the New England coast became synonymous with making and serving chowder on the beach. As Marjorie Druker, chef and owner of the New England Soup Factory, puts it, “Chowder is New England soul food.”

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But what, exactly, is chowder today? Yes, potatoes and onions are common. The classic, creamy clam or seafood version is iconic. And tomatoes are generally frowned upon outside of Manhattan—so much so that in 1939, a Maine state representative named Cleveland Sleeper drafted a bill making it a crime to add them to chowder, with offenders’ punishment being to dig clams during high tide.

(The bill was never actually introduced in the legislature.)

It ’s genera l ly understood that chowders are thicker than soups but less hearty than stews. And different parts of the country have their own distinct styles, with the most recognized being New England, Rhode

Island, Manhattan, Long Island, New Jersey, Delaware, Hatteras, and St. Augustine. Looking beyond the United States, you’ll find hearty soups from Portugal, Peru, and Japan that could qualify as chowders, too. Maybe chowder is simply a universal catchall for hearty bowls of comfort.

The following recipes make great use of seafood, sausage, winter vegetables, and pantry staples. They represent a wide variety of styles and can accommodate most diets (including vegan, gluten-free, and dairy-free), seasonal provisions, and personal preferences. In short, they offer all the tools you’ll need to make chowder your own.

(Continued on p. 112) NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 3:16 PM

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11/10/21 4:58 PM

Food

|

IN SEASON

Caramelized Onion Mac ’n’ Cheese Inspired by fondue, this may be the ultimate comfort food.

Amy Traverso is Yankee’s senior food editor and cohost of our TV show, Weekends with Yankee (weekendswithyankee.com).

BY A MY TR AVER SO

t the risk of bragging, this is the best mac ’n’ cheese I’ve ever had, and there’s a good chance you’ll feel the same way. Here’s why: The cheese sauce was designed to resemble fondue, which is objectively one of the most delicious things you can make with cheese. It’s also incredibly smooth and creamy, since I replaced the usual milk (which can curdle and turn gritty) with a combination of white wine and cream. It’s a more grown-up flavor, but one that also tests very well with kids.

Then there’s the onions, this month’s seasonal ingredient. Caramelized onions are the vegetable world’s equivalent of bacon, something so good it improves any dish. All they ask of you is the patience to wait 40 or 50 minutes, stirring occasionally, until they turn a deep mahogany brown. The rest of the dish comes together in a snap.

You can use any variety of onion here, all of which are abundantly available right now from local farms. Buy them in bulk, as they store well when you keep them in a dark, dry, roomtemperature spot. Pro tip: Do not store onions with potatoes, as each accelerates the ripening process of the other.

CARAMELIZED ONION MAC ‘N’ CHEESE

S T Y LED A ND PHOTOGR APHED BY

L I Z N E I LY

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3 tablespoons olive oil 4 medium onions, peeled and thinly sliced ¾ teaspoon granulated sugar 1½ teaspoons plus ½ teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for pasta water NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 3:37 PM

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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First, prepare the onions. Heat oil in a large frying pan over mediumhigh heat, then add the onions along with the sugar and 1½ teaspoons salt.

Cook, stirring and turning often, until onions release their juices and begin to turn golden, 10 to 12 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low and cook, stirring often, until onions turn golden brown, 35 to 40 minutes more. Set aside.

Meanwhile, preheat oven to 400°.

Cook your pasta in a large pot of boiling, well-salted water until tender to the bite, 7 to 12 minutes. Drain pasta in a colander.

In another large frying pan over medium-high heat, melt 2 tablespoons butter. Sprinkle with flour and cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Whisk in wine until smooth, then whisk in cream. Sprinkle in cheese, one large handful at a time, stirring until the mixture is smooth before adding the next handful. Add mustard, ½ teaspoon salt, and cayenne pepper. Add the cooked pasta and the caramelized onions to the cheese mixture, stirring until evenly combined, then pour all into a 9-by-13-inch baking dish.

In a food processor, pulse bread with remaining 1½ tablespoons butter.

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11/15/21 10:58 AM

Food

|

RECIPE REMAKE

Grandma’s Carrot Cake A classic Yankee recipe updated for today’s kitchens.

STORY AND PHOTO BY

K AT HER INE K EEN AN

his carrot cake won first prize in a Yankee recipe contest more than 70 years ago. Fondly titled “Grandma’s Carrot Cake” by the original recipe writer, this dessert retains its homey charm in our revamped version below, which has a few new twists for modern cooks. A luscious frosting made with rich cream cheese and browned butter (made by simmering the butter until the milk solids caramelize and take on a nutty flavor) perfectly complements the cake’s spices, which we bumped up for added flavor. We also swapped the round layers to a time-saving 9-by-13-inch format that rises well and slices cleanly, thanks to an egg-rich batter. The result is a simple, flavorful cake that you can serve for breakfast or dessert—after all, it’s at least part vegetable.

GRANDMA’S CARROT CAKE FOR THE CAKE

A carrot cake recipe from Yankee’s June 1949 issue ( TOP) gets richer and spicier in our modern remake.

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Butter, for greasing pan 1½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for the pan 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon ground nutmeg ½ teaspoon ground allspice ½ teaspoon table salt 1½ cups firmly packed light brown sugar ½ cup vegetable oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract NEWENGLAND.COM

11/4/21 3:33 PM

4 large eggs, at room temperature 2 cups grated carrots (for best results, grate by hand) ½ cup chopped walnuts or pecans

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FOR THE FROSTING

4 tablespoons unsalted butter 1 block (8 ounces) full-fat cream cheese, softened 1½ teaspoons vanilla extract ½ teaspoon table salt 2½ cups confectioners’ sugar

Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position. Grease a 9-by-13-inch baking pan with butter, then sprinkle it with f lour, shaking to coat every side.

In a medium bowl, whisk together 1½ cups f lour, cinnamon, baking powder, baking soda, nutmeg, allspice, and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the brown sugar, oil, and vanilla until smooth. Add the eggs and whisk until smooth. With a rubber spatula, gently fold the f lour mixture into the wet mixture until no streaks remain. Fold in the carrots and nuts.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until the sides of the cake begin to pull away from the edge of the pan and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes. Remove and let cool.

Meanwhile, make the frosting.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring often, until the butter foams and turns golden brown and the milk solids settle to the bottom, 5 to 7 minutes. Remove from heat, pour into a bowl, and set aside to cool to room temperature. Add the cooled butter to a large bowl with the cream cheese, vanilla extract, and salt, and beat until f luffy, about 1 minute. Add the confectioners’ sugar and beat on low speed until smooth, about 1 minute. Frost cake and serve. Yields 12 servings.

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OMNI MOUNT WASHINGTON RESORT BRETTON WOODS, NH Escape to Omni Mount Washington for an unforgettable winter adventure set in the majestic White Mountains. Hit the slopes of Bretton Woods, consistently ranked among the best for grooming, snow quality, and scenery. Fly high on the Bretton Woods Canopy Tour, relax in the full-service spa, or enjoy a picture-perfect sleigh ride. And at the end of the day, take in the views from your private balcony in one of the new Presidential Wing guest rooms.

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POWDER RIDGE MOUNTAIN PARK & RESORT MIDDLEFIELD, CT Powder Ridge Mountain Park & Resort is your mountain home for winter sports including skiing, snowboarding, snow biking, and tubing. The lodge blends country elegance with modern sophistication and is accented by repurposed barn board and two floor-to-ceiling fieldstone fireplaces.

OKEMO MOUNTAIN RESORT LUDLOW, VT With lift tickets, ski lessons, rentals, and slope-side accommodations all in one place, Okemo is the perfect spot for your next family escape. Plus, state-of-the-art snowmaking means no matter what weather comes New England’s way, fresh powder is guaranteed.

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SUICIDE SIX SKI AREA SOUTH POMFRET, VT Suicide Six Ski Area has been attracting families year after year since its opening in 1936. With 24 trails and three lifts, this Vermont destination provides a great way to connect with nature and each other. Go from carving trails to strolling downtown in no time, with local shops to explore just a stone’s throw from the Woodstock Inn’s iconic front steps. Warm up with seasonal offerings at the spa and inspired menus at the Red Rooster before embarking on your next snowy adventure.

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SUNDAY RIVER

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HANCOCK, MA

Whether you’re staying at the Grand Summit Hotel or the Snow Cap Inn, a trip to Sunday River is sure to be fun for all ages. With 135 trails and glens, a luxurious spa, and dining options ranging from casual to elegant, Sunday River is your happy place this season.

Nestled in the Berkshires of Massachusetts, Jiminy Peak Mountain Resort is the ideal place to instill a love of winter sports in the next generation. Ski lessons with expert instructors are only the start of what Jiminy Peak, the largest ski and snowboard resort in southern New England, has to offer.

SundayRiver.com

JiminyPeak.com

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LITTLE LYFORD GREENVILLE, MAINE

A LEGENDARY SPORTING RETREAT IN MAINE’S NORTH WOODS GETS GUESTS WARMED UP FOR WINTER.

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Scenes from Little Lyford Lodge & Cabins, situated on 66,000 acres of permanently conserved forestland and run as a rustic retreat by the Appalachian Mountain Club. this page : Roughly 80 miles of AMC-maintained trails entice crosscountry skiers at Little Lyford.

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opposite :

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An overview of the Little Lyford campus shows original log structures dating back 140 years, which the AMC renovated after buying the property in 2003. The group also rebuilt the main lodge and added a bathhouse and sauna.

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L I T T L E LY F O R D LODGE & C ABINS GREENVILLE

BANGOR

Daylight was fading fast when the Little Lyford sign finally came into view.

For three solitary hours, my 10-year-old son, Calvin, and I had skied the sevenmile Hedgehog Trail, a through-the-forest course that made us feel as if we had the entirety of Maine’s North Woods to ourselves.

And then, just as our bodies had started to yearn for a warm cabin and a hot meal, our destination was at last within reach.

“Let’s go!” Calvin shouted, bursting ahead on the f inal meandering stretch to the Little Lyford Lodge & Cabins campus. What we arrived at was like something from a Virginia Lee Burton illustration: cabins aglow with kerosene lamps, smoke curling out of chimneys, fellow skiers putting up their equipment for the day. Not long after, my son and I were in dry clothes and parked in front of our cabin’s stove as we feasted on the cook’s dinner of seasoned salmon with rice, vegetable soup, and blueberry cobbler. A short time later, in the winter silence, we were sound asleep.

For generations of travelers, Little Lyford has had that kind of effect. The allure of this former 19th-century logging outpost in Maine’s Moose­head

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Lake region, along the next-to-last section of the Appalachian Trail known as the 100-Mile Wilderness, resides in its remoteness. There’s no electricity, and good luck picking up a cell signal. But in a region that can see snow six months of the year, Little Lyford affords guests the chance to go as deep into the backwoods winter experience as they desire. Some 80 miles of groomed Nordic trails snake through the surrounding landscape. There are sleds and snowshoes 62 |

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What united us was a kind of jubilation for a season that can feel like a slog to get through.

to borrow, ponds to skate, and small mountains to traverse.

There are also other nearby camps to explore. Along with Mediwisla and Gorman Chairback, Little Lyford is one of three properties owned by the Appalachian Mountain Club within a day’s ski of one another, which means that over a long weekend you can hunker down at one camp or hang your hat at a different cabin each night. The AMC will even snowmobile your luggage from car to camp and back again.

We chose to stay put, but around us were the comings and goings of all manner of skiers: a family of five from Maine who’d broken away for a quick vacation, a trio of old friends from Massachusetts, and, much to my awe, a couple with their toddler son, whom the dad had pulled by sled on their ski over from Gorman.

W hat united us was a k ind of jubilation for a season that can feel like a slog to get through. On our f irst morning, I woke to the sound of another guest belting out a decent NEWENGLAND.COM

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version of “Northwest Passage” on his way to the lodge. Elsewhere there was banter about ski itineraries and routes.

Calvin and I didn’t exactly fill the hills with music, but our time there did include a lunchtime climb to Laurie’s Ledge on Indian Mountain, where we were rewarded with sweeping views of ponds and mountains that extended all the way to Mount Katahdin. Calvin palled around with new friends, building and testing sledding jumps. We skied out to a nearby pond. And we feasted—a lot.

“We sometimes refer to the AMC as ‘Another Meal Coming,’” joked co-manager Tiffany Soukup.

It was pushing dinner before we spent any serious time in our cabin.

Nighttime brought books and card games. Finally, at an hour that was far earlier than we were accustomed to, we called it a day. The night was still and quiet. We lay in the dark, listening to the stove as it crackled away and soothed us to sleep. outdoors.org/ destinations JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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opposite , from left : Guests relax on the porch of the Den, one of five dogfriendly cabins at Little Lyford; books and games are available in the main lodge to while away a snowy evening. this page , from top : Little Lyford Ponds at sunset; the cozy interior of the main lodge, where guests gather for meals and camaraderie in between their winter adventures.

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THE BEST 5

Windows on Black History Long-untold stories come into unforgettable focus at these New England sites.

BY KIM KNOX BECKIUS

or New Hampshire aut hor a nd h istor ia n Va ler ie Cunn ingha m and Boston-based artist and educator L’Merchie Frazier, giving voice to the experiences of Black New Englanders is a constant quest—not just a 28-day exercise every February when Black History Month comes around. Their work 64 |

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uncovering and interpreting artifacts, documents, and even a burying ground enriches the American narrative and makes New England a signif icant destination for learning about African-American culture and contributions. They are our guides, as we spotlight five engaging places that may well leave you asking: Why have I not heard this history before?

African Burying Ground and Black Heritage Trail Portsmouth, NH An artful and moving place to confront the reality of slavery in colonial New England, the African Bur ying Ground Memorial Park honors nearly 200 souls whose gravesites were paved over and built upon as Portsmouth grew. For Cunningham, the park’s dedication in 2015—after archeological and DNA testing confirmed this to be New England’s only known 18th-century cemetery for free and enslaved Africans—capped work she had begun in the 1960s to identify and highlight landmarks. Take a self-guided tour of 23 additional sites along the Portsmouth Black Heritage Trail, which Cunningham founded, or choose a themed guided tour offered by the expanded organization she still serves, the New Hampshire Black Heritage Trail. At 80, ever a crusader for the long-forgotten, she’s meticulously researched the newest tour, inspired by the movie Green Book. blackheritagetrailnh.org Rokeby Museum Ferrisburgh, VT A 90-acre farm that was home to four generations of Robinsons from 1793 until 1961, Rokeby Museum provides “an excellent explanation of what the Underground Railroad really was, not all the mythology,” Cunningham says.

K AT H R Y N R OY/ S TAY I N G A F LOAT B LO G .C O M ( M U R A L) ; ©D E B C R A M – US A TO DAY N E T W O R K ( M E M O R I A L)

In New Bedford, Massachusetts, you don’t have to look far beyond the famed local maritime history to find signs of the city’s rich Black heritage, including this celebration of area jazz musicians by mural artist Kat Knutsen.

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THE BEST 5

Historical letters shed rare light on the clandestine operation that funneled escaped slaves northward. Via visual and theatrical audio presentations in the education center, you’ll meet two fugitives from slavery, Simon and Jesse, and trace their 1830s journey to safe haven at Rokeby, where the abolitionist Quaker farmers didn’t hide them—they employed them. Next, tour the home, outbuildings, and grounds where Merino sheep were grazed, and dive deeper into the true story of how freedom seekers became part of the fabric of New England farm life. rokeby.org Museum of African American History Boston, MA The largest, most powerfully affecting assets in the Museum of African American History’s collection stand side by side on Beacon Hill: the 1806 African Meeting House, America’s oldest surviving Black church, and the At the entrance to the African Burying Ground Memorial Park in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a life-size bronze statue representing Mother Africa holds flowers left in tribute by visitors.

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Abiel Smith School, which was the first school built, in 1835, specifically for Black children. Two of the nation’s oldest buildings crafted by and for those of African descent, they “represent intentional effort to gather, to own, and to project themselves as people of value, worth, and contribution,” says Frazier, the museum’s director of education and interpretation. Among the 5,000-plus objects in the museum’s collection is a 1773 first edition of poems by Phillis Wheatley, the first published AfricanAmerican author. Each artifact and artwork is a revelation “about American history and the contributions of Blacks in that history,” she says. maah.org New Bedford Historical Society, Whaling National Historical Park, and Whaling Museum New Bedford, MA Frederick Douglass arrived in New Bedford a fugitive from slavery. He departed three years later, in 1841, a self-made man on the cusp of oratorical fame. His time in this cobblestoned town coincided with the peak of its whaling fortunes, and Cunningham says most people “are just not aware” of Black mariners’ role in the early American economy, nor of the Quakers and

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free people of color who made New Bedford a popular terminus on the Underground Railroad. Separately and in collaboration, New Bedford Historical Societ y, New Bedford Whaling National Historical Park, and New Bedford Whaling Museum strive to bring this history to the fore.

At the museum, you’ll meet abolitionist Captain Paul Cuffee, who was of African and Native American descent, and the community of Cape Verdeans who emigrated to New Bedford seeking opportunities. The national park’s guide to Underground Railroad sites invites you to navigate further on your own, as does the Black History Trail created by the historical society. And keep your eyes peeled for standout murals around town that pay homage to Frederick Douglass, the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry Regiment, and local jazz greats. nbhistoricalsociety. org; nps.gov/nebe; whalingmuseum.org Abyssinian Meeting House and Portland Freedom Trail Portland, ME America’s third-oldest intact African American meeting house is the crowning jewel, says Cunningham, of the 13-stop Portland Freedom Trail.

Built in 1828 by Black artisans on land provided by African-American abolitionist and Underground Railroad conductor Reuben Ruby, the timber-frame structure was saved by Ruby’s quick-thinking son from the Great Fire of 1866, which destroyed much of the coastal city. Today a restoration in progress, it is envisioned to once again become a hub of culture and discovery. From Franklin Street W harf, where anti-slaver y activists met stowaway slaves and ensured their safe passage to Canada, the two miles of the Freedom Trail extends to the former site of Mariners’ Church, where Daniel Colesworthy operated an anti-slavery bookshop and published the first Afrocentric history of the world. abyssinianmeetinghouse.org; portlandmaine.gov | 65

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West Mountain Inn

eat fresh

sleep well be together

Set high on 150 private acres incredible views farm-to-table dining cozy tavern romantic guest rooms gala barn weddings and events ARLINGTON, VERMONT westmountaininn.com • 802.375.6516

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winter in QUINTESSENTIAL

vermont Historic & Romantic Inns Gourmet Restaurants Farm Table Hospitality

vermont Relax at the Top of Vermont!

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12 miles of trails | farm historic home & railcar exhibits | open year-round

Manchester, VT | hildene.org 800-578-1788

In the heart of Woodstock, Vermont Nine unique rooms and suites, some with private sauna www.TheWoodstockerBnb.com | 802 457 3896

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Travel

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O R EUSTO DUOROCRESS

At the base of a snowcovered Mount Battie, the town of Camden, Maine, casts glimmering lights across the harbor.

Cozy Winter Towns ust as foliage time transforms New England into a wondrous new landscape to ex plore, so, too, does winter. Yet experiencing the best of the snowy season isn’t always about being outdoors. Sometimes it’s all about finding a place that envelops you in history, scenery, and a sense of profound contentment when a chill wind blows. New England is filled with towns that can do just that; the following are some of our favorites.

CONNECTICUT ESSEX: Famously dubbed “The Perfect Small

American Town” in the New York Times bestseller 1,000 Places to See Before You Die, Essex delights winter visitors with a Main Street stuffed with early Colonial and Federal-era homes and some 30 antique and specialty shops; a self-guided village walking tour redolent with maritime history; and the

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chance to take in sweeping views of the Essex River estuary from a coastal hilltop at Stavros Reservation. And when the snow flies, it’s hard to imagine a better hideout than the Griswold Inn’s 18th-century Tap Room, warmed by an old stone fireplace, the glow of a vintage popcorn machine, and a twinkling year-round Christmas tree. essexct.com LITCHFIELD: The Litchfield Hills region may be famed for fall foliage drives, but its byways are just as beguiling in winter. Starting from Litchfield’s White Memorial Conservation Center, a 35-mile counterclockwise loop will bring you past a classic red covered bridge, the prettiest lake in the state, and Litchfield Distillery (whose cinnamon bourbon is guaranteed to take the chill off) before returning to Litchfield, where you can spend the day shopping for antiques, art, and gifts along the village green. For an unforgettable overnight, check out Winvian, a collection of 18 luxury themed cottages tucked into meadows and forest in nearby Morris. townoflitchfield.org MYSTIC: This scenic, bustling seaport (population about 4,200) has everything needed for a coastal weekend getaway, even

in winter: walkable streets lined with shops and cafés, restaurants with fortifying seafood in abundance (think: clam chowder, buttery roasted cod), and two of Connecticut’s most popular attractions, Mystic Seaport Museum and the Mystic Aquarium. Plus, the glittering ribbon of the Mystic River runs through it all—something you’ll appreciate from your cozy room at the Steamboat Inn, Mystic’s only waterfront lodging, where amenities include working fireplaces, whirlpool tubs, and views of boats gliding to and from Long Island Sound. thisismystic.com SALISBURY: Preserved farmland and expansive fields surround this township, incorporated in 1741, which includes the artist-packed village of Lakeville. The streets are filled with antique homes, just enough shops to supply the essentials, and a handful of restaurants and bakeries (don’t miss coffee and croissants at Sweet William’s). Homebodies will love the four-star White Hart Inn, whose on-site taproom, café and general store, and farmto-table restaurant make it a cinch to stay put when the snow piles high. Come in February and you may be lucky enough to

S U S A N C O L E K E L LY

These New England destinations have ambience that’s easy to warm up to.

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catch Olympic hopefuls flying high at Satre Hill, a dizzying, 30-meter-long slope that hosts the Eastern National Ski Jumping Championships. discoverlitchfieldhills.com

MAINE BAR HARBOR: Off-season rates and a break

from crowds of summer tourists put this coastal town in a whole new light. Acadia National Park is still a draw, but with much of the Park Loop Road closed to cars, it’s now largely the province of cross-country skiers and snowshoers. In town, enjoy extra elbow room at popular spots such as Choco-Latte (order the namesake drink, a warming blend of espresso, chocolate, and spices) and Havana, a Latin-inspired fine dining restaurant. Guests at the Saltair Inn, a cheery waterfront eight-room B&B, can get their hosts’ inside tips on winter fun—or simply snuggle into a fireplace-equipped suite. visitbarharbor.com BETHEL: Opened in 2019, the wow-worthy Maine Mineral & Gem Museum is the latest jewel in the crown of this mountain town and its environs, which already have one of New England’s top ski resorts, Sunday River, and the state’s best crosscountry skiing network. There’s Maine Guide–led dogsledding adventures here, too, courtesy of the acclaimed Mahoosuc Guide Service. Bethel itself is a walkable and laid-back town of black-shuttered Victorian homes, with a requisite village green and white steepled church, and centrally located lodging in the form of the Bethel Inn Resort, where winter escapes could include horse-drawn sleigh rides, ice skating, and soaks in an outdoor heated pool. bethelmaine.com CAMDEN: Summer in Camden may belong to its famous windjammers, and autumn to the coastal foliage fireworks, but winter here casts a spell of its own. Imagine strolling along the waterfront at Harbor Park … inhaling the salty smell of the sea while riding the double chair to the top of Camden Snow Bowl … warming up with award-winning pan-Asian fare at Long Grain … and relaxing next to the fireplace at the Norumbega Inn’s dream stay for bibliophiles: a two-story, book-filled Library Suite. camdenrockland.com KENNEBUNKPORT/KENNEBUNK: In these side-by-side towns, you don’t have to trudge far through the snow to find a warm and welcoming refuge, from the vibrant gift shop Daytrip Society and hip home boutique Minka in Dock Square, to Kennebunk’s Mornings in Paris café and Old Vines Wine Bar, a favorite for cocktails and small plates. At Batson River Brewing & Distilling, one of last winter’s must-try dining experiences has returned: cozy heated fish shacks for up to six people. In February, look for special offers and events during Paint the Town Red, a celebration of valentine season. gokennebunks.com

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~ An Historic 1851 B&B with all the modern amenities ~

Self-Guided Walking Tours • Intimate Weddings • Workshops on How to Become an Innkeeper • Quilters’ Retreat • Murder Mystery Dinners Book Direct @ 802-875-4288 • 321 Main St. • Chester, VT • innvictoria.com

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Nicholson Inn Freeport, Maine

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RANGELEY: Filled with spruces and pines

Classic New England Bed & Breakfast

Minutes from Portland & Casco Bay. Visit us on your way to Bar Harbor, Acadia, and Maine’s Ski Resorts.

Gourmet à la Carte Breakfasts Daily Steps from LL Bean & all Retail/Dining Parking, Hi-Speed WiFi & All Private Baths

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Woodstock, Vermont www.woodstockinn.com

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Touch the wild in a way you never dreamed MAKES possible! Located A GREAT in the beautiful, GIFT! accessible hillcountry of Southern NH.

NHSchoolofFalconry.com Call Nancy Cowan 603-464-6213

Email: falconers@comcast.net 70 |

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top-heavy with snow and dotted with iced-over lakes and rising ridges, this wild Maine landscape inspires snowmobilers, snowshoers, and ice fishing die-hards alike.

Yet it’s also well suited to those dreaming of hibernation. The area’s grande dame, the Rangeley Inn, offers rooms year-round; nab one of its comfy couches and while away the day with a good book, or head down to the tavern for drinks and an armchair by the fire. Bonus: Just down the block is The Red Onion, where the house-made chili is justifiably famous. rangeleymaine.com

MASSACHUSETTS CONCORD: A blanket of snow turns

this treasured New England town into something right out of Currier & Ives.

Spend a laid-back afternoon wandering the crowd-free Minute Man National Historical Park or browsing the compact downtown, with beloved, decades-old retail standbys such as the Concord Bookshop, the Cheese Shop, and the Grasshopper Shop. Side trips could include hitting the slopes at Nashoba Valley in Westford and the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Lincoln. And when you’re ready to turn in, the Colonial Inn provides the requisite historical coziness. visitconcord.org NANTUCKET: Bustling beaches, cobblestone streets lined with shops, and 13,000-plus acres of preserved land have long made Nantucket a world-famous summer playground. But winter has its charms, too, as the island invites visitors to stroll its wideopen stretches of sand, unplug and curl up with a book, and grab a bed, meal, and souvenir at bargain prices. At the Nantucket Hotel & Resort, among the fringe benefits of an off-season stay are the portable fire pits on the porch, which tempt you to pull up a wicker chair and contemplate island life for a while. nantucketchamber.org NORTHAMPTON: Winter warm-ups come in many forms in Northampton, from the lush greenery of Smith College’s 19th-century Lyman Conservatory to the steamy interior of artisan bakery Hungry Ghost Bread.

Bookstores and coffee shops also provide refuge from the chill, including The Roost, whose rib-sticking Rooster Rolls offer what the Food Network has called “the best breakfast between bread.” Stay close to it all at the Hotel Northampton, where select rooms have jetted whirlpool tubs and gas fireplaces, and where the Wiggins Tavern serves up fine dining in an intimate 18th-century setting complete with stonework, dark wood, and a cracking hearth. visithampshirecounty.com STOCKBRIDGE: In pastoral western Massachusetts, the 18th- and 19th-century buildings along Main Street look much the same as when Norman Rockwell painted them in the 1950s. (Fans of the iconic American illustrator should be sure to

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visit his namesake museum, which houses the world’s largest and most significant collection of Rockwell’s work.) The Red Lion Inn, c. 1773, is one of the nation’s oldest continuously operating historic inns, and its welcoming pub, the Lion’s Den, is guaranteed to shut out whatever weather’s howling outside. stockbridgechamber.org WILLIAMSTOWN: No town embodies the beauty of the Berkshires like Williamstown, walled by the Taconic Mountains to the west and overlooking Mount Greylock to the southeast, and the home of Williams College since 1791. Art lovers will especially appreciate a winter stay here, with the Williamstown College of Art, The Clark, and Mass MoCA (in nearby North Adams) going strong through the snowy months. A few miles from downtown on Route 2, one of the newer options on the lodging scene, Tourists, promises a stay that’s both rustic and modern. destinationwilliamstown.org

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NEW HAMPSHIRE HANOVER: It’s easy to fill a snowy weekend

at this scenic town tucked alongside the Connecticut River and enlivened with all the perks that come with hosting an Ivy League school, from Dartmouth College’s sprawling art museum, the Hood, to the diverse array of shops and eateries downtown. For a toasty (and tasty) side trip, the King Arthur Baking Company in nearby Norwich offers oven-fresh goodies, as well as classes in how to make them. And don’t miss dining at Pine, the Hanover Inn’s sleek restaurant anchored by a huge fireplace inspired in part by a blacksmith forge. hanovernh.org/discover-hanover JACKSON: After a requisite swing through the outlet stores of North Conway, settle in for a winter stay in Jackson, a mountain town anchored by a circular green ringed with inns, antiques shops, and cafés that has been thriving as a vacation escape since the mid-19th century. The panorama of peaks is mesmerizing, whether seen from local cross-country trails, the slopes of Wildcat or Black Mountain, or the windows of a cozy country retreat, such as the Inn at Ellis River or the Christmas Farm Inn & Spa. And if you’re traveling with your sweetheart, the Honeymoon Bridge offers the backdrop for a romantic winter selfie. jacksonnh.com LINCOLN: While nature has made this part of New Hampshire undeniably beautiful, man-made attractions also have a big role to play, especially in winter. Take a scenic drive on the Kancamagus Highway, just as jaw-dropping in winter as it is in fall; wander the glittering Ice Castles seasonal installation in nearby North Woodstock; or ski right in town at the family-friendly Loon Mountain Resort (with another classic ski spot, Cannon Mountain, right up the road).

Loon, by the way, is home to the newish (2016) RiverWalk Resort, which has an outdoor hot tub and heated pool, fire pits,

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a True Year-round outdoor destination Plan Your Visit at MaineLakesandMountains.com

FIND SOLACE ESCAPE HERE

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RESOURCES

and luxury suites with fireplaces, soaker tubs, and mountain views. westernwhitemtns.com MEREDITH: When temperatures drop, New Hampshire’s Lakes Region sparkles with ice-covered expanses that draw the sports-minded set: Set on the shores of Winnipesaukee, Meredith hosts both the crowd-pleasing New England Pond Hockey Classic and the Great Rotary Ice Fishing Derby. But for those not into sub-freezing thrills, Mill Falls at the Lake—comprising four hotels and inns, a spa, shops, and three restaurants—makes a comfy home base for those inclined to appreciate this resort town’s winter beauty from the inside out. meredithareachamber.com PORTSMOUTH: Walkability makes this historic port town a tourist favorite yearround, but it’s especially appealing in winter.

Regionally famous restaurants sit alongside independent boutiques selling everything from kitchenware to fine stationery; there’s also more than 300 years’ worth of historical architecture to explore at Strawbery Banke Museum (which invites ice skaters to enjoy its postcard-perfect pond). Nestle in at the centrally located Ale House Inn, whose 10 rooms include a deluxe king that lets you enjoy views of the snowy town, bridge, and harbor while still in your flannel PJs. goportsmouthnh.com

RHODE ISLAND BLOCK ISLAND: Enjoy the slower pace and

natural beauty of off-season on Block Island, where much of the land is designated as protected, meaning that the beautiful seaside views here are nearly untouched. Make it feel even more like your own private island with an overnight getaway at the Colonial-style 1661 Inn, where the cozy amenities among the property’s 24 rooms include whirlpool tubs and fireplaces, or the Victorian-era Hotel Manisses, famed for its chill-banishing “flaming coffee.” blockislandinfo.com NARRAGANSETT: Drawn by the surf at Narragansett Town Beach, the wetsuit crowd comes here in winter for some of the year’s best waves. But for those inclined to stay on dry land, a winter stroll on Scarborough Beach is lovely, while a drive on Ocean Road, which runs along the sea through the arches of the Towers—the lone remaining artifact from a Gilded Age casino that burned decades ago—is a must. Soak up the ocean scenery at the 1880s Coast Guard House Restaurant, which offers expansive views and igloo dining, before retreating to a gasfireplace-warmed suite at boutique hotel The Break. narragansettcoc.com NEWPORT: When winter comes to this famed sailing town, getting out on the water

can mean twirling your way across freshly groomed ice at the Gurney’s Resort skating rink. Stepping out on the Cliff Walk or Easton’s Beach is invigorating. Thames Street shopping, Newport Mansions, the Audrain Automobile Museum, and other attractions offer indoor respite. And overnight guests appreciate the Chanler at Cliff Walk’s butler-drawn aromatherapy baths or afternoon tea at Castle Hill Inn all the more. discovernewport.org WESTERLY: A mere 10 minutes from this historic town on the Connecticut border is one of Yankee’s favorite coastal walks in any season: Napatree Point, a slender 1½-mile peninsula dipping into Block Island Sound with sweeping views that encompass Watch Hill Lighthouse. But splurge on a stay at Ocean House, and you may find it hard to part from the warm glow of the massive c. 1895 lobby hearth (there’s also an awardwinning spa on-site to boost guests’ inner glow as well). southcountyri.com WICKFORD: Salty breezes enliven this waterfront town that boasts architecturally intact churches and historic homes dating back to the 1700s, made even prettier with a dusting of snow. Take a self-guided walking tour of 20 noteworthy buildings; browse the dozens of independent downtown shops; or do both with help from a refueling stop

New Shows.

More to Watch.

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VERMONT

INN to INN WALKING TOUR

at Shayna’s Place for strong coffee and superlative sandwiches. Or if suds are more your thing, settle in with a winter beer at Tilted Barn Brewery’s taproom, just up the road in Exeter. wickfordvillage.org

VERMONT MANCHESTER: Enjoy art against a backdrop

of snow at the Southern Vermont Arts Center, home to Vermont’s largest sculpture park and gardens; step back in time at the museum estate Hildene (which also has snowshoe rentals for exploring 12 miles of trails); or just putter around the designer outlets in search of stylish winter togs. The 21-room Inn at Manchester stands ready to greet visitors with rustic charm and fireplaces aplenty. manchestervermont.com MIDDLEBURY: Boutique shops, restaurants, and churches frame the downtown of this village nestled along Otter Creek, whose appeal has long been known to Middlebury College alumni and their families. A wood-fired pie at American Flatbread is an essential experience here, as is carving a few turns at the Middlebury Snow Bowl. For a memorable stay, book the Swift Room at the c. 1814 Swift House Inn: private deck, wood-burning fireplace, and a two-person soaking tub (plus: homemade cookies!). experiencemiddlebury.com STOWE: Chalets abound, craft beers flow, and fires crackle in the self-proclaimed “ski capital of the East.” Stowe Mountain Resort offers 40 miles of ski trails on two mountains, Mount Mansfield and Spruce Peak, along with four terrain parks and a cross-country ski center. Lounge and nibble fireside après-ski (we recommend pubgrub favorite Doc Ponds) before retiring to the cozy mountain inn or resort of your choice—a number of which, like Stoweflake and the Lodge at Spruce Peak, have heated outdoor pools and hot tubs. gostowe.com WAITSFIELD: In the heart of the Mad River Valley, a winter wonderland famous for its skiing, Waitsfield is a place to soak up local flavor—both literally, at famed brewer Lawson’s Finest Liquids and the Vermontcentric grocery Mad River Taste Place, and figuratively, at craft hubs such as Artisans’ Gallery and Mad River Antler. It also claims one of the few round barns still in existence: the namesake of the Inn at Round Barn Farm, a gourmet bed-and-breakfast set on 245 acres that turns downright magical after a snowfall. madrivervalley.com WOODSTOCK: While this isn’t a ski-in/ ski-out destination (Killington and Suicide Six are nearby, but you’ll have to drive), Woodstock’s charm factor is hard to top once you return from playing outside.

Within an easy walk of the Woodstock Inn & Resort, where the pampering includes a 10,000-square-foot spa, there are excellent restaurants and an eclectic mix of shops, plus a classic town green and photogenic covered bridge. woodstockvt.com

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MAP ILLUSTR ATION BY M I C H A E L B Y E R S

WALK FROM INN-TO-INN AND SEE VERMONT AT 10 MILES A DAY INN VICTORIA TO GOLDEN STAGE INN TO THE PETTIGREW INN THE COLONIAL HOUSE INN & MOTEL TO GOLDEN STAGE INN THE PETTIGREW INN TO THE COLONIAL (11.25 miles) (13 miles) HOUSE INN & MOTEL INN VICTORIA Chester, VT 802-875-4288 InnVictoria.com

Proctorsville, VT 802-226-7744 GoldenStageInn.com

(6.7 miles)

Ludlow, VT 802-228-4846 PettigrewInn.com

(10.8 miles)

Weston, VT 802-824-6286 CoHoInn.com

www.VermontInntoInnWalking.com • 833-Inn-2-Inn (833-466-2466)

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The Soul o

Dylan Kidder, a volunteer at Northeast Slopes in East Corinth, Vermont, greets young skiers on the T-bar with a high five.

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11/4/21 4:59 PM

l of Skiing With small crowds, cheap lift tickets, and loads of spirit, Vermont’s community ski hills are seeing a revival.

BY LISA GOSSELIN LY NN PHOTOS BY OLI V ER PA R INI

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I above : Looking down the slope of Brattleboro Ski Hill offers a view of neighborhood streets and homes, underlining the small-town vibe. opposite :

In its early days, Brattleboro charged 35 cents for a day of skiing; today it’s still barely more than the price of a fancy coffee.

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t’s a Friday afternoon, and snow falls steadily.

Cars rush north on I-91, wipers clicking, roof racks loaded with skis. At exit 2 in Brattleboro, Vermont, many pull off, headed for Mount Snow, Bromley, Stratton, or Magic.

Some stop in at the Vermont Country Deli on Route 9 to pick up a jar of maple syrup, muffins for breakfast, or the specialty, an iron skillet packed to go with gooey, oven-ready mac and cheese. Stocked up, the weekenders drive on to their condos and ski houses. In the morning, they will race the crowds to get the first powdery tracks.

But just past the deli, a few cars make a left and then a quick right turn into Living Memorial Park, the town rec area. Here, less than two miles from the I-91 exit ramp, the weekend has already started.

Lights beam out across the broad, open slopes of Brattleboro Ski Hill. Skiers and riders are letting out whoops as they carve loose S turns. To one side of the hill, four teenagers are shoveling snow over a section of drainage pipe to make a mini DIY terrain park.

At the base, cars keep pulling in—mostly Vermont plates. Parents shuff le kids through the gap in the chain-link fence marking the perimeter of the town softball field that sits at

the bottom of the slope. They pay $5 at a small shack (cash or check only, a sign reminds), and then until 9 p.m. it’s unlimited rides up 204 vertical feet to the “summit.”

Christina Gilchrist watches her husband load the T-bar with their 4-year-old son. “This place is ah-maazing,” she says. “Everybody kept telling us to come here, and I can’t believe that in all these years skiing Vermont I never did until now.” During Covid last season, the Gilchrists moved from New York City to her family’s house in Townshend, Vermont.

“Don’t get me wrong, we love Vermont’s bigger mountains, and places like Stratton are good for my husband—he’s an expert. But for my son to have a lesson and lift ticket it’s often at least $150,” she says. Here, kids under 5 ski free. A season pass at Brattleboro Ski Hill is $75; $200 for a family.

“This place takes all the pressure off,” Gilchrist says. “I want a place that takes all the elitism and the expense and the competition out of skiing.” As she speaks, she gets more animated, her voice reaching a passionate crescendo. “This,” she says, waving her mittened hands wide, “this is a dream. This is what skiing should be all about. I am so grateful this is here.”

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“This”—Brattleboro Ski Hill—is one of what was, for many years, a dying breed: community ski hills. In 1938, when the Guilford Street Ski Tow (as it was called then) was set up on Brattleboro’s Charles Clark Farm, it marked the beginning of a boom in skiing.

All around New England, at places where skiers had shouldered their wood planks and hiked for turns, people started to put in lifts.

“Between 1934 and 1945, we saw more than 30 ski tows go in at hills around New England,” says Jeremy Davis, founder of the New England Lost Ski Areas Project.

In 1934, in Woodstock, Vermont, a Dartmouth College ski coach named Bunny Bertram hooked up a rope-and-wheel system to a Ford Model T engine and created the nation’s f irst uphill ski tow at a hill that was later named Suicide Six. Elsewhere in Vermont, East Corinth’s Northeast Slopes put in a tow in 1936, and Stowe’s rope tow opened in 1937.

By 1938, Brattleboro had something similar. Its rope tow rose 1,100 feet. Powered by electricity, the rope traveled on Ford Model A wheels aff ixed to 16-foot poles. The tow could run 300 skiers to the summit in an hour.

On a busy weekend, the ski area would see more than 1,500 people, some coming from as far as Connecticut and Rhode Island. That same year, Brattleboro Ski Hill launched the nation’s second ski patrol (after Stowe). The following season, lights were hooked up.

Night skiing tickets were 25 cents. A full day cost 35 cents.

Ruth Lane moved to Brattleboro in the 1950s, around the time a T-bar replaced the rope tow. She joined the ski patrol in 1956 and served for 41 years, initially as one of 60 members who rotated among Brattleboro Ski Hill, Hogback Mountain, and Maple Valley.

“It’s what we did on weekends, something the whole family could do,” she says. “My daughters grew up skiing here. We were devastated when Hogback and Maple Valley closed, but I still ski Brattleboro.” Though she’s no longer on ski patrol, she still takes a shift as a volunteer lift attendant, overseeing “The Castle,” as the summit lift shack is called.

Spencer Crispe, a ninth-generation Vermonter and a lawyer in Brattleboro, learned to ski at Brattleboro Ski Hill as soon as he could walk. “I’ve been skiing here my whole life,” he says. “It’s the reason I’m a skier.” Crispe, 42, JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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has skied all 110 mountains in Vermont over 3,000 feet, both those with trails and those without; his grandfather, Luke Crispe, helped to start Stratton Mountain. “We lived in town, and our parents would just turn us loose at Brattleboro. I still ski there. It’s one of my three favorite places in the world.”

Brattleboro Ski Hill went through its financial ups and downs and, after a low-snow year, even closed in 1995 for two years. Then the townspeople rallied and formed a nonprofit.

Two years later it reopened with the land owned by the town, but everything else—the Dopplemeyer T-bar, the grooming machine, the snow guns—belonged to Brattleboro Ski Hill.

“We rely a lot on donations,” treasurer Hannah Neff says. “Everyone is a volunteer.”

After a fire destroyed the snowmaking pump house shack this past season, the ski area set up a GoFundMe page to help raise money to replace it. “I’m hoping we’ll gain new supporters to recover some of our inevitable costs,” says Neff. “Covid demonstrated just how important this ski hill is to the community.”

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BRATTLEBORO SKI HILL

Brattleboro, VT Stats: Two trails, two skiable acres; one T-bar; vertical drop 204 feet.

Just for Fun: Family Fun Day with hot dogs, s’mores, and a costume party (tentatively set for March 5). Eat & Drink: Brattleboro has lots to choose from, including Duo for upscale Vermont cuisine; Yalla, an authentic Middle Eastern spot; and top-notch breweries Whetstone and Hermit Thrush. Stay: The Latchis Hotel, a downtown Art Deco landmark. Details: Tickets $5. brattski.org

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East Corinth, VT Stats: 12 trails, 35 skiable acres; two rope tows, one T-bar; vertical drop 360 feet. Just for Fun: Full-moon skiing under portable lights, announced via Facebook as weather permits.

Eat & Drink: You can’t beat the ski hill’s own Nor’easter Burger: local grassfed beef, caramelized onions, melted Cabot cheddar. In nearby Bradford, look for Colatina Bakery and the Little Grille. Stay: Make a weekend of it at Lake Morey Resort, about 15 miles away. Details: See website for complete ticket information. northeastslopes.org

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bout 100 miles north of Brattleboro, in the village of East Corinth, Wade Pierson gears up for a busy Saturday night at Northeast Slopes. “Yankee ingenuity, that’s how we keep going,” he says, gesturing toward the two rope tows that have been whisking skiers up the broad hillside every winter for more than eight decades. They are the oldest continually running tows in the U.S., he estimates. The area’s tagline is “Keeping It Real Since 1936.”

Beyond the addition of a T-bar, the ski hill doesn’t look much different than it did in the 1930s, when Percheron draft horses dragged farm tillers to groom the ski slopes on what was then Eugene Eastman’s sidehill farm. Across Route 25, behind a split-rail fence, a bull nuzzles a hay bale. He glares at the skiers booting up in the dirt parking lot and slowly chews his cud.

The short winter afternoon fades into a clear, starlit night. The air is crisp, and the Milky Way appears as a brightening streak across the big northern sky. Soon, lights flash on for night skiing, and by 6 p.m. the parking lot is full.

There’s a party atmosphere here. Everyone seems to know each other. The attire is more Carhartt than Patagonia, and the gloves are mainly Kinco work gloves—for good reason, as you need the leather palms to grasp the rough, inch-thick hemp rope. Not many folks use poles, as it’s too hard to grab the tow rope while holding them.

Kids latch on, get jerked up the hill, then skitter off at the summit. They form free-range packs, screaming and catching air on small bumps or jumps on the 360-foot vertical drop to the bottom. In the lift line, there is chatter, flushed faces, and a sense of unbridled joy.

Although the base lodge is closed this season due to Covid, there’s a lean-to outfitted with discarded furniture: tattered overstuffed armchairs, mismatched chairs and tables.

“Pretty much everything here is recycled,” Pierson says with a shrug.

Nearby, someone is grilling burgers on a steel griddle fashioned to f it a two-burner Coleman stove. The smell of the sizzling meat wafts uphill, and a line forms before the first patty is f lipped. Made with grass-fed local beef from the Waits River Country Store just down the road and topped with cheddar and grilled onions, the $6 burgers at Northeast Slopes rival the best $20 burger in Aspen.

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Pierson, a sixth-generation Vermonter, inherited his role as a Northeast Slopes volunteer from his father. “My dad was a farmer and a mechanic—he helped put in the T-bar and volunteered here for 50 years,” he says. “In the fall, he’d go down to the ballfield and scoop up the outhouse with his tractor and run it up to the hill. Put a road sign over the holes in the twoseater, and that was our summit lift shack.”

In the early 2000s, after a few lean snow years and a dwindling number of visitors, Northeast Slopes was at risk of closing. “My dad and a few others decided we really needed a T-bar here, so we managed to raise about half the $180,000 it was going to take,” Pierson recalls. Then a local patron named Leland Blodgett heard of the effort. “He called my dad and says, ‘How much do you need?’ My dad estimated about $72,000.” A few days later, that amount appeared in the ski area’s bank account.

Blodgett passed away not long after. A grooming machine, a hand-me-down from a ski area out west, is named “Leland” in his honor.

When not running the ski area, Pierson operates a school bus service, and recently he shifted his focus to transportation for people with special needs. “We want to make sure that every kid who wants to ski here can, regardless NEWENGLAND.COM

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PHOTO CREDITS

I F YO U G O

NORTHEAST SLOPES

of need,” he says. Less than a mile down the road is the Waits River Valley School, and the school kids come to ski here every Wednesday afternoon—and whenever else they can.

On this Saturday, three middle schoolers, two brothers from Haverhill, New Hampshire, and their cousin who lives in East Corinth, kick out of their skis to warm up in the lean-to.

As I write notes at a table, blowing on my fingers to warm them, they become curious and come over.

“What are you writing about?” the older brother asks.

“This place,” I reply. “How often do you come here?”

“Every day it’s open.”

“Really, every day?”

His brother jumps in. “Every day.”

“What else do you do when you’re not skiing?”

There’s a pause, and then the cousin says, “I help my granddad farm. Sometimes we hunt and snowmobile. Mainly we ski.”

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“What would you do if this place went away?” I ask.

There’s a long silence. “Oh, I just don’t know,” the cousin says, gazing up the hill as the thought sinks in. It’s something he seems never to have considered in his 13 years in East Corinth. “This place is my family,” he says quietly. “I just don’t know.” t one time there were 119 ski areas in Vermont—an impressive number considering the state has 251 towns. They were to each community what basketball courts and local pools are today: places to play, to exercise, and to gather with neighbors. Today, there are 22 ski areas with uphill lifts that operate publicly.

Seven of the largest are owned by ski resort conglomerates (Vail Resorts, Alterra Mountain Company, and Powdr Corporation), two are private ski clubs (Hermitage Club and Quechee), two are in receivership ( Jay Peak

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opposite :

Wade Pierson, a secondgeneration volunteer at Northeast Slopes.

below :

Kids hitch a ride on Northeast’s beginner rope tow, which runs off the engine of a 1960 farm truck (which in turn sits in a red building salvaged from the set of the 1988 movie Beetlejuice, much of which was filmed in the local area).

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from left :

Ascutney blends both liftserved terrain and, for backcountry skiers, pristine upper slopes; executive directors Shelley and Glenn Seward, who helped lead the former ski resort’s transition to a community nonprofit; visitors to Ascutney’s dedicated tubing park sit back and enjoy the ride.

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and Burke), and four are still independently owned (Bolton Valley, Bromley, Magic, and Smugglers’ Notch).

The remaining nine are run as nonprofits.

Middlebury College and Northern Vermont University support Middlebury Snow Bowl and Lyndon Outing Club, respectively. The Woodstock Foundation owns Suicide Six, and a co-op of passholders owns Mad River Glen.

The rest are small, community-supported nonprofits: Hard’Ack, Brattleboro, Northeast Slopes, Cochran’s, and Ascutney.

“These smaller places are so important to the future of skiing,” says Molly Mahar, president of the trade organization SkiVermont.

“These are the feeder hills that get people and kids into skiing. Even the big places know the roles they play and often try to help them out.” Mount Snow, for instance, sends its ski instructors to Brattleboro Ski Hill on weekdays to teach local kids for free.

Up until 2010, Brownsville’s Mount Ascutney was a “big place,” a full-f ledged ski resort that was trying to make a profit. In the 1930s, skiers started cutting trails on the 3,144-foot monadnock that looms over the Connecticut River Valley. In 1947, the first two rope tows went in. Over the years, Ascutney added five

chairlifts and a base lodge. Condos and second homes mushroomed around the trails. A hotel went in at the base and is still run by Holiday Inn Club Vacations. One of the ski area’s owners, Summit Ventures, invested $80 million in the mountain operations.

Despite efforts by a number of owners to make Mount Ascutney financially viable, the resort repeatedly failed. In 2010, it closed, seemingly for good. By 2014, all its chairlifts had been sold off. In 2015, the base lodge burned. It was a little bit like the Grinch taking the last Christmas light bulb.

“This was a time when we were at risk of losing our school, our restaurants, our general store, and our post office—we had to do something,” says Glenn Seward, a former operations manager at Ascutney, who was chairman of the select board at the time. “Brownsville had lost its identity as a ski town.”

Glenn and his wife, Shelley, now both retired, met when they were on junior ski patrol at Ascutney; when they were married, they held their reception at the mountain. Shelley, a Brownsville native, has never lived more than a mile from the base area. “My dad was a ski patroller and my mom sold lift tickets and I literally learned to ski here at 2,” she recalls.

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“We didn’t need or want someplace as big as what Ascutney had been,” Shelley Seward says. “It had to be right-sized, and it had to work for the community.”

In 2015, villagers packed into the town hall and voted overwhelmingly to purchase what remained of the ski area: 470 acres. Working with the Trust for Public Land, they raised more than $900,000 and founded Ascutney Outdoors, a nonprofit. The Sewards personally kicked in for a used T-bar they found in Quebec. A tubing lift went in just above the Holiday Inn hotel, and an 800-foot rope tow went up too. In 2018, an attractive 4,000-squarefoot base lodge was completed.

“We didn’t need or want someplace as big as what Ascutney had been,” Shelley says. “It had to be right-sized, and it had to work for the community. We charge $15 for an afternoon.

A family can ski here for $25.”

Skiers began returning to the area, and the town’s fortunes started looking up. The local school is stronger than ever. A group of community members purchased the local general store and leased it to executive chef Peter Varkonyi, a New England Culinary Institute grad, and his partner, Laura Steven. Their Brownsville Butcher and Pantry now stocks fresh oysters, house-cured meats, local cheeses, and Friday-night takeout meals that locals claim rival the best in central Vermont. (“Who would have thought a while ago that you could JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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buy Alaskan king crab and sushi-grade tuna in Brownsville?” asks Glenn.)

As part of the strategy to “right-size” Ascutney, the T-bar goes only partway up the mountain, leaving the steeps and glades of the upper portion for a growing number of backcountry skiers to explore. When a storm dumped 52 inches at Ascutney in December 2020, skiers left at dawn from as far as Burlington and Stowe to ski the untracked powder that piled up here.

“We’re growing, but at our own pace,” says Jim Lyall, an architect who helped design the new base lodge and who was part of the volunteer effort to cut a huge network of mountain bike trails on Ascutney, making it a summer destination too. As Lyall clicks into his backcountry skis to skin up, he adds, “Making people skin up keeps the slopes from getting overcrowded.”

Over near the rope tow, Laura Farrell is setting up turning gates, something she does every day the ski area is open. Farrell founded Vermont Adaptive, the state’s largest adaptive sports organization, at Ascutney in 1987. That program moved on to bigger mountains, and Farrell is no longer involved. Her mission now is to get local school kids skiing, regardless of their ability to pay.

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ASCUTNEY OUTDOORS

Brownsville, VT Stats: Ten trails, 26 skiable acres; one rope tow, one T-bar; vertical drop 450 feet. Just for Fun: Ascutney’s lift-served tubing park, a relative rarity in Vermont. Eat & Drink: Brownsville Butcher & Pantry for breakfast fare and hearty burgers and sandwiches. Stay: A Holiday Inn resort is handily located just below the base, while in nearby Windsor, the Windsor Mansion Inn and the Snapdragon Inn are historic properties not far from the Simon Pearce factory store. Details: Tickets $20/$10 youth. ascutney outdoors.org

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At Cochran’s Ski Area in Richmond, 9-year-old ski racer Charlie Brown zips downhill. The greatgrandson of founders Mickey and Ginny Cochran, Charlie has been skiing here practically since he could walk.

“There’s a certain stubbornness and determination and New England mentality you get from skiing here.”

—Ryan Cochran-Siegle

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above : A slopeside

family portrait shows the three original Cochran sisters (from left, Lindy, Barbara Ann, and Marilyn) along with some of the younger generation (from left, Ryan Cochran-Siegle, Tim Kelley, and Jimmy Cochran). opposite :

Race bibs worn by members of the “Skiing Cochrans” hang in the main lodge.

Farrell’s own kids, Bobby and Brad, learned to ski at Ascutney and became top ski racers, going on to train at Stowe’s Mount Mansfield Academy, where their dad, Jim, also coached.

Bobby made the U.S. Ski Team, while Brad, until recently, was coach for U.S. Ski & Snowboard’s Eastern Development Team.

“The thing about skiing is, I’ve seen it change people’s lives,” Farrell says. “What we do here is we make this accessible to people who may have never thought they would be able to ski, be it for physical or economic reasons. Skiing is challenging, and for a kid to be able to control and master speed, that gives them the feeling of If I can do this, I can do anything.”

Ascutney, at its current size, is perfect for this, she believes. “This place isn’t intimidating—it’s cozy and welcoming. And for those

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who come from out of town, when they get here, they are not just weekenders who are skiing by themselves. When you come to a small area like this, you become part of a community.” inny Cochran grew up in Brownsville and met her husband, Gordon “Mickey” Cochran, a teacher at W indsor High School, in the 1950s while skiing at Ascutney. Mickey coached the high school ski team. They married and introduced their own kids to skiing on that same mountain.

But then a job change took the family to Burlington. Mickey went to work for GE, and after a couple of years they bought a farmhouse on 600 acres in Richmond. They put up a rope tow on the hill behind it, strung up lights, and

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began selling lift tickets in 1961. Their house was the warming hut, and their kids became the ski instructors (daughter Barbara Ann remembers being just 11 when she was teaching adults to ski).

Ginny and Mickey’s four kids went on to make the Cochrans one of the winningest family dynasties in sports history. The eldest, Marilyn, won the overall World Cup in giant slalom in 1969; Barbara Ann won the Olympic gold in 1972; son Bobby, a downhill racer, became the only American ever to win a gold medal in Austria’s legendary downhill race, the Hahnenkamm; and the youngest, Lindy, raced World Cup as well and finished sixth in slalom in the 1976 Olympics. And their children, in turn, have competed at the highest level as well.

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On any given day, you can find many of the Cochran clan still involved in the Richmond ski hill where they grew up. Grandson Jimmy Cochran, a four-time national champion and two-time Olympian, manages the ski area. His aunt Barbara Ann, a professional coach who works with some of the sport’s top athletes, is the ski school director and created the Ski Tot program, in which parents learn how to teach their kids skiing.

On weekends, other Cochrans can be found running around, setting up gates, tending the firepit at the base, or serving Friday-night lasagna dinners at the long picnic tables in the base lodge where the family’s historic race bibs hang on the walls.

Today it seems as though the whole family is here. Jimmy is at the summit of the rope tow. Barbara Ann is at the base lodge. Her son, Ryan Cochran-Siegle, and her nephews Tim and Robby Kelley (Lindy’s sons) are at the sugarhouse next door, boiling down sap from their trees for their separate business, Slopeside Syrup.

The dirt parking lot is packed with families pulling race skis and helmets out of their

I F YO U G O

COCHRAN’S SKI AREA

Richmond, VT Stats: Eight trails, 15 skiable acres; one rope tow, one handle lift, one T-bar; vertical drop 350 feet. Just for Fun: Mid-March “Rope-A-Thon” fund-raiser. Eat & Drink: Pub food and house brews at Stone Corral Brewery, and farm-to-table fare at the Kitchen Table Bistro, a cozy brick farmhouse. Stay: Just 14 miles away, Burlington offers lots of options, including the boutique favorite Hotel Vermont.

Details: Weekday tickets $10/$8 youth; weekend $19/$14 youth; Friday nights $5. cochranskiarea.com | 85

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N AT E PA DAV I K ( M A P) ; M A R K F L E M I N G ( B L AC K M O U N TA I N )

cars. In 1998, the area became the f irst ski area in the nation to become a tax-exempt 501c3. “It was always a nonprof it—it just became official then,” jokes Bobby. The mission is: “No child will be denied the opportunity to ski or ride.”

Tiny bobbleheads in helmets lumber up the slopes to the lifts, balancing their skis on two arms in front of them like waiters carrying trays full of glasses. A stray kid falls, starts to cry, and gets picked up by another parent.

This weekend is Rope-A-Thon, the time when Cochran’s Ski Area raises the money it needs to operate and provide the opportunity to learn to ski and race to those kids whose parents might not be able to afford it.

At Rope-A-Thon, donors pledge a certain number of dollars to skiers, who then do laps on the high-speed rope tow all the weekend.

The only score that is kept is how many donors and how many dollars. At the end of the weekend, Cochran’s will have raised $115,446 from 1,788 donors. Barbara Ann, 70, is already furiously scribbling thank-you notes in the lodge.

I find her son, Ryan, in the steamy sugarhouse. In 2018 he competed in PyeongChang; last season, he was 10th on the World Cup, the top-ranked American male, before a crash sidelined him for the season.

“It’s good to be home,” he says. “I’m hardly ever here at this time of year. I miss sugaring because I’m usually in Europe racing.” He is healing now, but it is still too early for him to ski.

I ask him what it is about Cochran’s that turns out such good skiers. Is it that “if you ride surface lifts you double your time on snow,” as Tiger Shaw, a two-time Olympian from Stowe and president of U.S. Ski & Snowboard, has said?

Ryan thinks for a minute. “There is certainly some of that. Riding a rope tow or T-bar, you learn how to make your skis track and you use a lot of muscles you wouldn’t if you were on a chairlift.”

Former world champion Lindsey Vonn and current U.S. Ski Team racers Paula Moltzan and Mikaela Shiffrin all grew up skiing at small ski areas with surface lifts: Vonn and Moltzan at small hills in Minnesota, and Shiffrin, for the most part, at Burke in northern Vermont.

Ryan continues: “But there are two parts to it. First, it’s a great opportunity to focus on your form and develop as a skier. Second, emotionally you find a different connection to skiing than say if you went up to Stowe every weekend. You’re a little more invested. Growing up here and making do with what we had was a big part of it. If there was no snow, we would go make a jump and do that all day.

There’s a certain stubbornness and determination and New England mentality you get from skiing here.”

I ask him the same question I asked the kids at Northeast Slopes. “What would happen if this place or others like it went away?”

His answer is quick and simple: “You would lose skiing’s soul.” Then he adds, “A goal of mine is to ski every little area in Vermont.”

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Trail rides in the summer give way to schussing down the slopes in winter at Black Mountain in Jackson, New Hampshire.

a Weekend: Seven miles away, the Inn at Weston is a short walk from the famed Vermont Country Store. magicmtn.com MIDDLEBURY SNOW BOWL, Hancock, VT: Owned by Middlebury College since 1934; the historic lodge with a huge fieldstone fireplace is as iconic as it gets.

Stats: 17 trails; vertical drop 1,000 feet.

Make It a Weekend: Stay right in the heart of town at the c. 1827 Middlebury Inn, overlooking the village green. middleburysnowbowl.com MOUNT ABRAM, Greenwood, ME: Only a few miles from Sunday River’s super ski resort, this is the uncrowded, budget-friendly alternative. Stats: 44 trails; vertical drop 1,150 feet. Make It a Weekend: With inns and restaurants catering to skiers, Bethel is just a dozen miles away. mtabram.com

OLD-SCHOOL SKIING IN NEW ENGLAND The region that birthed Alpine skiing in America is still blessed with dozens of smaller, beloved ski areas with deep local roots. Here’s a sampling to get you started.

BLACK MOUNTAIN, Jackson, NH: Classic twisting wooded trails since 1935 in the heart of the Mount Washington Valley. Stats: 45 trails; vertical drop 1,100 feet. Make It a Weekend: Jackson is famous for its miles of cross-country trails and its bounty of cozy inns. blackmt.com CAMDEN SNOW BOWL, Camden, ME: A community-owned ski mountain whose views of Penobscot Bay give skiers one of the most stunning panoramas in the East. Its toboggan chute is a shout-outloud experience. Stats: 26 trails and glades; vertical drop 850 feet. Make It a Weekend: Camden is known for its array of year-round inns. camdensnowbowl.com DARTMOUTH SKIWAY, Lyme, NH: Share the trails with elite racers from Dartmouth’s ski team. Stats: 30 trails; vertical drop 968 feet. Make It a Weekend: In the heart of a lovely college town, the Hanover Inn serves some of the region’s best food. sites.dartmouth.edu/skiway

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KING PINE SKI AREA AT PURITY SPRING RESORT, East Madison, NH: A small hill that still boasts one of the steepest runs in the state, giving a challenge to all levels. Stats: 17 trails; vertical drop 350 feet. Make It a Weekend: The resort offers a park-yourcar-once experience, while just down the road is the Snowvillage Inn. kingpine.com MAD RIVER GLEN, Fayston, VT: The only cooperatively owned ski area in the country is known for its natural snow and no snowboarders. Enjoy its last-Tuesdayin-January tradition of a 1949 lift price ($3.50). Stats: 53 trails; vertical drop 2,037 feet. Make It a Weekend: Pitcher Inn in Warren in one of most touted in New England. madriverglen.com MAGIC MOUNTAIN, Londonderry, VT: Explore narrow, twisting trails that are little changed from when they were first cut decades ago. Stats: 39 trails and 11 glades; vertical drop 1,500 feet. Make It

PATS PEAK, Henniker, NH: Run by the same family for decades and beloved for its tubing hill, trails that flow to a homey lodge, and M&M chocolate chip cookies. Stats: 28 trails; vertical drop 770 feet. Make It a Weekend: Five minutes away is the farm-to-table dining and eco-friendly lodging of the Colby Hill Inn. patspeak.com SKI BUTTERNUT, Great Barrington, MA: A family favorite known for lovely beginner and intermediate runs along the edge of a state forest. Stats: 22 trails; vertical drop 1,000 feet. Make It a Weekend: A perennial pick on “best small town” lists, Great Barrington has a food scene to rival any in New England. skibutternut.com SUICIDE SIX, South Pomfret, VT: Get your snow fix with history at the site of the first ski lift in the country, c. 1934. Stats: 24 trails; vertical drop 650 feet. Make It a Weekend: The elegant Woodstock Inn owns the hill and offers ski discounts to guests. suicide6.com TITCOMB MOUNTAIN, Farmington, ME: The oldest ski-club-operated hill in Maine is a world apart from massive Sugarloaf, 45 minutes north. Stats: 16 trails; vertical drop 350 feet. Make It a Weekend: Find snowshoeing and snowmobile trails in Mount Blue State Park, and stay by the water at Wilson Lake Inn in Wilton. titcombmountain.com Note: Indy Pass offers low-cost season passes that give you two days’ skiing at many smaller Northeastern ski areas. For information, go to indyskipass.com. | 87

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CONVERSATIONS

RICHARD BLANCO

A POET’S JOURNEY TOWARD HOME.

I N T E RV I E W BY M E L A N I E B R O O K S

P

oet Richard Blanco lives less than a mile from the village common of Bethel, a picturesque ski town in western Maine, in a home set against a wooded hillside. Inside, its high windows flood the rooms with natural light, and outside, an expansive second-story balcony boasts a stunning view of the Presidential Range. Quiet and secluded, the space is any writer’s dream retreat.

“I’ve always craved that sense of home,” Blanco says, “and of all places, I found it here in Maine.”

For Blanco, a gay Cuban poet and civil engineer from Miami, discovering this feeling of community and belonging in Bethel—a town of about 2,600 people in the whitest state in the U.S.—was unexpected.

But here he felt reverberations of his tight-knit childhood community of Cuban exiles who survived and helped each other as they navigated life in a new country. “Everybody here respects each other for who they are and understands that we all need each other. I like to say that Maine is like one big condo association,” Blanco says with a laugh. “This idea of one for all and all for one, because when eight feet of snow falls, you are in it together!”

A decade ago, when Blanco received the phone call from Barack Obama’s presidential inaugural committee that he’d been chosen as the inaugural poet, he was inspired in part by the kinship that he’d found in Bethel to write “One Today,” the stirring poem he read at the inauguration. And three weeks after the inauguration, on Blanco’s 45th birthday, the community gathered to celebrate his achievement.

It was a touchstone moment in Blanco’s lifelong journey to understand his particular place in this world.

When Blanco’s mother was seven months pregnant with him, she left Cuba with Blanco’s father and older brother and flew to Spain. Shortly after Blanco was born, they immigrated to the U.S. and eventually moved to Miami, where he would live until he was 30. By the time he was 4 years old, Blanco had technically belonged to three countries. For most of his life, though, he struggled to connect with any of them. His quest to unpack his own history and to understand the broader questions of home, identity, and place is the beating heart of his work, which

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This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Melanie Brooks: Tell me about riding out the pandemic in Bethel. What was that year like for you?

Richard Blanco: As a writer I’m used to being alone, just at my desk, figuring out all of this stuff quietly.

However, I really do miss the ritual of what poetry and being an author in the world had become, where you get to connect with audiences. Where they tell you stories across the booksigning table, or you get to see people’s smiles and tears and their reactions. And that, I really miss.

On a more personal level, this is my safe haven, in more ways than just the pandemic. My partner and I created our own little retreat in our house. Mark had never boiled an egg, and suddenly he became this gourmet chef! We’d have date night and have dinner out here on the deck. So the essence of why

we came here in the first place—just to get away from it all—really helped to weather the storm, in a way.

I was still in my house. Still writing every day. Watching the birds or the chipmunks.

I think we are all finally realizing a different kind of value to getting away from it all. And I think we’ve all realized that home is a lot larger than the boundaries of our front porch, and we’re understanding and appreciating what community really means.

That whether you’re an engineer or an Amazon delivery person or a cashier at the grocery store or a teacher or a stay-at-home parent—everybody has the same value. And I think that’s such a beautiful and important lesson that I hope we take into the future.

M.B.: You speak to the idea of lessons we might learn from the pandemic in “Say

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This Isn’t the End,” the poem you wrote for The Atlantic in June 2020. Can you talk a little bit more about that?

R.B.: That was a really tough poem to write.

I’ve never had to write about something that was happening while it’s happening, a moving target. I don’t write out of darkness. I’m a writer that writes out of hope, even when I’m writing from a social-political standpoint.

I’m trying to find hope in all of this. It’s an insistence.

So I tried imagining a post-pandemic world and thinking about a paradigm change in a way. What can we take with us? What can we hopefully not forget? So in that realm of things, just really honoring community.

It takes a village not only to raise a child; it takes a village to sustain us throughout our entire lives.

It’s about all those things

that we took for granted and thinking about the larger scope of our vulnerability.

There’s a line in the poem: “We’re never immune to nature.” We think that because we have all this technology or because we’re human beings, nothing can take us down. But there’s collective vulnerability here, and that feels powerful to understand.

M.B.: We definitely are all in a place of vulnerability now, and there’s this loud hum of anxiety all around us.

I’ve heard you call poetry a “soothing balm” in times of trauma, and it seems like we need that balm now more than ever. How has that impacted your work?

R.B.: I think poets are always listening to that hum in some way or another.

Not just in the context of the pandemic, but also in the context of all of the other reckonings that we’re having. We turn to poetry in moments of crisis because poets have been thinking about these things already, except maybe now it’s being heard a little bit more.

I recognize it’s an opportunity: Let’s record all this on an emotional level.

Let’s deepen this because the fear and anxiety aren’t necessarily productive. So what do poets do? What do artists do? They take that anxiety and fear and distill it into something tangible, ground it in something that is larger than itself, and offer a way of weathering the storm. I think that’s part of what art always does. It documents what NEWENGLAND.COM

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ALISSA HESSLER

includes award-winning poetry collections such as City of a Hundred Fires and Looking for the Gulf Motel, as well as two memoirs.

Blanco’s latest book of poems, How to Love a Country, grapples with the questions What is home to all of us? and How do we embrace that home and each other as we confront the issues that are tearing us apart? His unflinching verse illuminates dark truths about America’s past and present, including racism, political strife, gun violence, xenophobia, and homophobia. Yet he shapes his words with love, clinging to the promises of what this country could be. “I’m not a writer of doom and gloom,” he insists. “I have to evoke hope because I want that hope.”

I met Blanco five years ago when I interviewed him for my book, Writing Hard Stories: Celebrated Memoirists Who Shaped Art from Trauma; that day, I felt the same approachability in person that I’d felt reading his work. When I proposed this interview, he invited me to stay overnight at his guesthouse. In June, I spoke with Blanco and his partner, Mark Neveu, over dinner in Bethel, and then continued speaking with Blanco about his life in Maine, his acclaimed work, and his plans for the future.

Richard Blanco at home in Bethel, Maine.

ALISSA HESSLER

is a seemingly anxious or unfathomable moment, translating it in a way that we can digest slowly. Little by little.

M.B.: So what does that look like in your current writing?

R.B.: Because my space has been very closed off, instead of writing about the really grand things I’ve been writing about for the past eight years, I’m suddenly writing about chipmunks and asking, How do the small things speak for the whole? It’s a new challenge. I’m Cuban, and brevity is not the soul of our wit, but I’ve been finding myself attracted JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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to the idea of economy, the brevity of what I have right in front of me. I cut my finger the other day, and I wrote a poem about that! I’m noticing the ant every morning—I think it’s the same ant—that wants to get into the agave syrup. Everything that was around me every day has suddenly become amplified because that’s all I have, and maybe that’s all I ever really did have.

We still don’t know what’s coming tomorrow, so take it moment by moment. Slice it thin.

M.B.: When did poetry become your medium for

making sense of things?

R.B.: I used to trace my discovery of poetry to when I started working as an engineer, believe it or not.

So much of my job involved writing, all sorts of written and oral communication, which led to a fascination with language. That’s when I started writing creatively.

I took a poetry class at a community college. I got into an MFA program. I got three books published.

The White House called.

Bada bing, bada boom. For most of my life, I thought that was the story of why and how I became a poet.

But then, less than a year ago, I realized I never, ever

remember not knowing two languages. Some of my earliest memories were of translating for my parents at 3 or 4 years old—not whole conversations, obviously, but small words or names of things. “How do you say this?” or “How do you say that?” I understood that my parents spoke and thought a certain way in their language and that I knew this other language as well and was capable of thinking of things in two different ways. So even though I was in my mid-20s when I began writing poetry, the seed of my fascination with language had been planted when I was just 3 years old. That’s really when I developed a love for it, an ear for it.

M.B.: How did your family react to your pursuit of poetry?

R.B.: I was already an engineer, so after that, it didn’t matter. My mother would write to family in Cuba and say, “He’s studying poetry.” She’d say, “Yeah, he’s a poet, but he’s also an engineer.”

She had to qualify that. I don’t blame her. Not just generationally, but also culturally. What could my being an American, English-language poet possibly mean to her?

M.B.: She doesn’t read English, right? So she can’t actually read your work?

R.B.: Right, but about three or four years ago, one of my books, Looking for the Gulf Motel, got translated into Spanish, and I sent it | 91

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M.B.: When I read your work, I’m reminded of a quote by the poet Charles Simic: “I am in dialogue with certain decisive events in my life as much as I am with the ideas on the page...

My effort to understand is a perpetual circling around a few obsessive images.”

Your writing circles these obsessive images of your cultural heritage and identity, but also zooms in

on the larger theme of home.

When did that obsession begin for you?

R.B.: I think it started when I was in the womb.

When I look back on my life, it’s a narrative that had been there from the very beginning, when my mother left Cuba. Then, growing up in Miami, which is such a cultural bubble because it doesn’t really feel like the United States, those questions of home and identity were always on my mind. Supposedly we came here to be American, but the quintessential America

The inauguration provided a kind of closure for my story and my mother’s story. We were finally Americans— always were, I came to realize.

on TV was not like my home. The foods on TV and the foods on my dinner table were nothing alike.

So since I was a little kid, I was always fantasizing about what it meant to be American. I always say I grew up between these two real, imagined worlds, living somewhere in between, waiting to finally get home—whether that

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was the old Cuba or the real United States. I didn’t realize I had all of those thoughts until my very first poetry assignment in my MFA program, which, ironically, was: Write a poem about America. And my mind just exploded.

M.B.: It seems like you’ve been trying to complete that assignment for your entire writing career.

You repeatedly ask the questions: Where am I from?

Where is home? Where do I belong? Do you feel like you’ve found any answers?

R.B.: For a while, I kind of gave up on the questions— or, should I say, I just started living in the questions instead of worrying about the answers. I’d moved to Maine because this opportunity arose through my partner’s work. And I didn’t really know what I was going to do here or write about. It was a leap of faith. But you know when you look back on your life and feel like it’s scripted somehow? Well, the White House calls and asks me to write a poem about America and all of those questions got tossed up in the air again. Writing the poem as well as the experience at the inauguration itself with my mother who grew up in a dirt floor home in rural Cuba. And there we were, sitting steps away from President Obama and Beyoncé. I realized, Wait! My questions about home are part of the American narrative. That makes me an American. Of course! The inauguration provided a

The future poet at age 3 or 4 in New York City, where his family arrived after immigrating from first Cuba and then Spain.

kind of closure for my story and my mother’s story. We were finally Americans— always were, I came to realize. In a way, the poem is the response to those questions I had in my heart.

M.B.: After writing the inaugural poem, you seemed to lean into the idea that the poet has a civic duty to speak to issues that connect us all. How to Love a Country addresses important topics of this current moment head-on. Can you talk about that shift?

R.B.: Years and years ago, I created a spreadsheet with goals: personal, professional, spiritual—that was the engineer in me. And I wrote that I wanted to work toward being “a poet of the people.” If anybody is the poet of the people, it’s the inaugural poet, because the inauguration is arguably the most public event for poetry. Millions of people hear one poem all together at the same time. I felt a responsibility to the many

COURTESY OF RICHARD BLANCO

to her. Part of my motive, especially in my earlier poems, was to write about my parents, to write about their story as well as my generation’s story as the translators of those stories, as the “bridge generation” as we call ourselves. I feel like part of my writing has always been to heal my mother. She left her entire family behind in Cuba— eight brothers and sisters, parents, grandparents, everybody—for the sake of an American ideal that she didn’t even really understand. So she’s my lifeline to this country as well as to Cuba. And I’ll never forget the email she sent after she read the translated book. “I finally understand what you’re doing. I had no idea,” she wrote. “I never understood how much you loved us.” It was a breakthrough moment for my mother and me. She finally got me. She didn’t know how much I was paying attention. I think her sense of what I did as a poet really shifted. Even though she’ll still occasionally say things to me like, “Do they pay you for that?”

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COURTESY OF RICHARD BLANCO

communities of my country.

And so I found myself drawn to writing poems that were “bigger” than me, yet still part of those very important questions of belonging.

How to Love a Country contains a litany of poems on everything from socioeconomics to gun violence—I became a more socially conscious poet. It was no longer just about me.

But, like me, many of us have those same questions, that same yearning to find home right in our own country. It made me want to investigate those themes even further, and hold them up to the light of America’s promises of liberty and justice for all.

It’s interesting that How to Love a Country feels like it was written yesterday, yet I started it back in 2014.

M.B.: What was it in 2014 that made you start writing about these issues?

R.B.: Artists are always pushing. We’re always looking at what’s not working. The circumstances that we need to keep on questioning. While it seemed on the surface that having an African American president was a huge milestone for America, and it obviously was, we— and I speak for all poets— we also knew that that was still part of our country’s narrative in progress. It wasn’t as if we checked a box, and racism was over.

And of course a few months into Trump’s presidency, we had the events of Charlottesville.

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USING COUNTRY IN A SENTENCE From How to Love a Country: Poems by Richard Blanco

My chair is country to my desk. The empty page is country to my life-long question of country turning like a grain of sand irritating my mind, still hoping for some pearly answer. My question is country to my imagination, reimagining country, not as our stoic eagle, but as wind, the country its feathers and bones must muster to soar, eye its kill of mice. The wind’s country as the clouds it chisels into hieroglyphs to write its voice across blank skies. A mountain as country to the clouds that crown and hail its peak, then drift, betray it for some other majesty. No matter how tall mountains may rise, they’re bound to the country that raises them and grinds them back into earth, a borderless country to its rooted armies of trees standing as sentinel, their branches country to every leaf, each one a tiny country to every drop of rain it holds like a breath for a moment, then must let go. Rain’s country, the sea from which it’s exiled into the sky as vapor. The sky an infinite, universal country, its citizens the tumultuous stars turning like a kaleidoscope above my rooftop and me tonight. My glass as country to the wine I sip, my lips country to my thoughts on the half moon —a country of light against shadow, like ink against paper, my hand as country to my fingers, to my words asking if my home is the only country I need to have, or if my country is the only home I have to need. And I write: country— end it with a question mark. Lay my pen to rest.

C O P Y R I G H T © 2 019 B Y R I C H A R D B L A N C O ; R E P R I N T E D W I T H PERMISSION FROM BEACON PRESS, BOSTON, MASSACHUSET TS

M.B.: You speak to the despair that’s stirred up by things like Charlottesville, but I also hear a deep yearning in your poems for what this country can be. Where does that hopefulness come from?

R.B.: It’s quite a simple answer. That eternal hope comes from my parents, and especially from my

mother. Immigrants, in a way, hold America up to its promises and they never give up. Their narrative is: I left my entire country; I left my family. This is going to work out. And I’m not going to give up on this idea.

Certainly I will be critical, but I will not give up. And so it’s that spirit of hope that I carry, the quintessential

“American Dream,” for lack of a better expression.

My mother leaves Cuba for Spain seven months pregnant. Forty-five days after I was born, they move to the U.S. My dad starts working in a bomb factory. Their son grows up to become presidential inaugural poet. How can I not be hopeful?

M.B.: I know you’ve connected with Amanda Gorman, who read “The Hill We Climb” for President Biden’s inauguration. I’m curious what thoughts you’ve shared with her, in the process of passing the inauguralpoet baton.

R.B.: We connected before the inauguration. Her main questions to me were “What should I expect?” and “What is it going to be like?” There are only three of us alive, and, as my partner says, more people have been to the moon than have been presidential inaugural poet. It’s really beautiful, because in that moment every poet and their inaugural poem are like the snapshot of how America sees itself or what’s going on in America. And what I love about Amanda is that she represents this idea of keeping the youth of the country believing and dreaming and hoping that great things are possible. I feel that I sort of paved that road a little so that Amanda can keep on paving that road even further. Anyway, I told her not to worry; it’s

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©ABR AHAM A . SCHECHTER

By rescuing hundreds of thousands of old newspaper images, a Portland archivist has given his city a priceless family album.

By Abraham A. Schechter

PHOTO CREDITS

k eeping

©ABR AHAM A . SCHECHTER

PHOTO CREDITS

I

n late 2009, I seized upon an unusual opportunit y that few archivists ever encounter. Maddy Corson, the granddaughter of the Portland Press Herald ’s founder, alerted me that the newspaper had again been sold and that the building constructed by her grandfather in 1923 was being gutted. For me, as the Portland Public Library’s archivist, preservation and access to history are of primary importance.

Hurrying downtown by bicycle, I saw large piles, stacked boxes, and bags of unorganized photographic negatives in the Gannett Building’s basement. Being a lifelong photographer, I recognized the mounds of cellulose fragments as camera originals, surely holding a century of regional history.

Finding the demolition supervisor, I asked him about the film. He was surprised that I wanted the discarded negatives, even after I told him what they meant. “You want this stuff? Then you gotta take it away this week, or it’s all going to a smelter,” he said, referring to the film’s silver content.

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“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “I’ll take it all.”

With Maddy’s support, along with the library’s, the film was moved out of the damp basement to a workspace for me to begin the herculean task of salvaging and rescuing what has turned out to be a priceless trove of more than half a million unique photo images, taken between 1936 and 2004.

It took three years to analyze, organize, and arrange all the film; during that first pass, I examined more than a million exposures.

Afterward, I began rehousing the images, now protected in alkaline enclosures, at the library.

The processes are painstaking, requiring precise locations, names of buildings and people, and dates so that these images—which had been right on the precipice of a smelter!—can be rediscovered by the public.

From the start, I understood there would be years of work ahead, but the urgency of preserving the images was my greater concern.

And even while looking at those sorry mountains of scattered negatives, I could visualize the completed work. The archive is still in progress.

opposite : The author at home. In addition to his full-time job as an archivist, he writes essays and studies and teaches philosophy, “believing that each person’s observations are eminently worth recording.” above :

Snapshots from the Portland Room archives at the Portland Public Library only hint at the scope of Schechter’s work—not just acquiring raw material, like the trove of photographic images he’s rescued from the former Portland Press Herald building, but also arranging, describing, preserving, digitizing, and otherwise paving the way to make history available to future generations.

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JANUARY 1950 (opposite): A snowy but bustling Portland Terminal Company pier reflects how the rebound of commercial shipping in the postwar years generated employment here for some 350 longshoremen.

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The unexpected joy in this stewardship is how the project took on a community aspect.

My volunteer assistants have been senior citizens with a flair for history and memory. They remember many of the subjects in the photos, and our work together has been as satisfying as it has been productive. We’ve used a space in the library’s Portland Room, and passers-by have watched the project take shape. They ask questions, and the years of banter have forged a fellowship of appreciation for valuing local history.

Everyone has stories, and I listen.

When the pandemic forced quarantining, my work on thousands of image scans I’d made from the negatives moved to my dining table.

There, I began building digital archives. Digi-

tization and accuracy is demanding; each image has information to be respected.

Over the past year, I’ve heard from many people who live far from Maine. The comments are profoundly touching. They give me encouragement that I’ve been doing the right things in the right ways, ever since the day I saw those acetate heaps about to be lost forever. These images, these frozen moments in the lives of places and people, are indeed meaningful.

I’ve also been learning about the sustaining power of nostalgia. People tell me about the stores, restaurants, parks, and schools they remember. And I see how a still image can ignite emotional and detailed memories from people far and wide. I digitized and posted a

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MARCH 1948 (above): For generations of inner-city kids, there’s often been no play space more convenient than an open bit of sidewalk.

Here, Joyce Hansen and her brother Tracy play marbles along Portland’s Federal Street.

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AUGUST 1938: The newspaper images that Schechter rescued paint a picture not just of Portland but also of life in Maine’s rural communities—such as Harrison, which was hosting its Old Home Week when this photo was taken of a young visitor from New Hampshire, Marcia Corliss, writing in her diary during the Three-Gaited Championship horse competition.

DECEMBER 1939: In the early decades of the automobile age, Portland’s first sale of the “New Esso Gas” was a newsworthy event. In this image, a full tank of the improved motor fuel formula, dubbed Esso Extra, is being sold to State Motor Vehicle Inspector James A. Adams (second from left) at the Esso Service Station on Forest Avenue at Dartmouth Street.

JUNE 1940: With roots going back to 1768, the Portland outdoor farmers’ market has long brought the bounty of the countryside to urban dwellers. Now based in Deering Oaks Park, the outdoor market was located for many years on the Federal Street side of Lincoln Park, the site of this photo of a group of kids fascinated by the flapping and cackling chickens on the farmer’s scale.

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SEPTEMBER 1938: The history of trolleys in Portland dates back to the early 1860s, when horse-drawn cars clopped down the streets; they were succeeded by electric versions starting in 1895. In this photo taken on Monument Square, Maine Electric Railroaders Association members set forth on an allday tour of the city’s rail lines. (Trolley car service in Portland would end just a few years later, in 1941.)

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MAY 1945: Proof that Mainers are used to handling the curveballs that New England weather can throw at them: With their May 11 game against South Portland High School canceled by a freak snowstorm, Deering High baseball players have a little fun on the field as Gene Sturgeon prepares to slide into home plate with a sled.

JANUARY 1940: Opened on Congress Street in 1921, the Puritan Tea Room reigned as a fixture of downtown Portland for more than half a century. The modernization shown in this 1940 photo was accompanied by a caption proclaiming that the Puritan was the first establishment in New England to have year-round gas-powered air conditioning, assuring “the correct temperature and humidity for all seasons.”

MARCH 1950: Printmaking students work on their silkscreen designs at the Portland School of Fine and Applied Art, then based at the Charles Q. Clapp House on Spring Street. Founded in 1882, the school is the oldest arts educational institution in Maine; today it’s known as the Maine College of Art & Design and makes its home in a sprawling Beaux Arts–style building that once housed a department store.

JULY 1948: Named for one of the founders of the Maine Society for the Protection of Animals, the Stanley T. Pullen Fountain on Federal Street has served as an urban oasis ever since its construction in 1910. Used as a horse watering trough both then and now, the fountain was called “The Bubble” by children like Freddy Collins, whose dog Tippy looks grateful for a drink of water on a hot summer day.

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FEBRUARY 1950 (opposite): One look at the joyful smile of Munjoy Lunch owner Frank Vartanian, shown at an 80th birthday party thrown by his customers and neighbors, and it’s easy to see why the man was so beloved during his three decades running the popular Congress Street diner.

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photo of a popular doughnut shop, and another of a delicatessen—and streams of comments followed, regaling me about what everyone loved to order, summer jobs, school days, and family traditions. When I post photos of stores, people tell me about what they bought at these places.

One man told me that he had no pictures of his father’s furniture store from decades ago. I found one and posted it, to his great joy.

I do not consider nostalgic viewers of archives as different from me. While I’ve been assembling archives out of the film, I’ve been reconstructing a world that is still remembered by many. And I’m part of this, too. These photos restore the histories of people who previously had only their memories to provide images. Anecdotes faded and blurred by time are suddenly sharpened.

Photography can uniquely say, “Yes, this happened,” and, “It was really there, and so were you.” Archival photographs are evidence, stopping time in the click of a lens shutter.

There remains more to do. The Victorian railroad stations, houses and neighborhoods, repair shops, pastries, holidays, events, celebrities, relatives and friends, children’s street games, and big snowstorms are gradually being seen again. We have these worlds, and the more they inspire and instruct, the more they are worth cultivating and conserving.

Go to digitalcommons.portlandlibrary.com/ pphnegs to see additional images from Abraham Schechter’s archival photo project. To read more of his writing, go to laviegraphite.blogspot.com.

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OCTOBER 1955 (above): The Portland Fire Department has been coming to the rescue of city residents since 1768—including the four-legged kind, as proved by this photo taken on Mechanic Street of firefighter Joseph Miller carrying a cat to safety.

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Brian Boland in 1975, photographed by his former high school student, Paul Stumpf, who was taking his first cross-country flying lesson with Boland over Farmington, Connecticut.

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balloonist THE

Few could have predicted Brian Boland’s rise to the top of the hot-air balloon world.

No one could have imagined how it would end.

BY I A N A L DR ICH

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*Name has been changed for this story at the family’s request.

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In Vermont’s Upper Valley region, Brian Boland was the sort of figure it was impossible not to know about.

From his home at the Post Mills Airport, a small, private World War II–era facility he’d purchased in the late 1980s, Boland led a life of perpetual motion. Though it could take some coaxing for him to admit it, he was arguably the world’s leading hot-air balloonist. Over the course of a career that spanned half a century, the 72-year-old had logged more than 11,000 hours of f lying time, a staggering total that dwarfed most of his contemporaries’. He designed and built the balloons he flew, and over the years

COREY HENDRICKSON

n early July last year, Ellen Blake phoned her daughter to ask what she wanted for her birthday.

Heather* would turn 37 on July 10, and because she shares the day with her younger brother, her parents wanted to use the occasion to spend some time with both their kids.

Perhaps her brother could come down from his farm in Hinesburg, just outside Burlington, Vermont, and the family could do something together, Ellen said.

Heather, who lives with her 10-yearold daughter a few miles south of her parents in Wilder, Vermont, liked the idea. “I’ve never been in a hot-air balloon,” she suggested.

“Then we’ll call Brian to see about his scheduling,” her mother replied.

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First launched by Boland in 1994, the Experimental Hot-Air Balloon Festival salutes those who build their own aircraft—each one, in Boland’s eyes, being “a huge, magical, educational work of art.”

he had broken world records and piloted flights all over the globe, including a series of rugged adventures in Venezuela that became the subject of a TV documentary.

But it was in, and above, his Vermont community that Boland became a larger-than-life figure. Standing 6 foot 4 and with a booming voice that could be heard from hundreds of feet in the air, Boland f lew year-round, and the sound of his burners firing and the sight of one of his colorful balloons hovering in the sky were built into the rhythm of life in and around Post Mills. From his basket, he liked to drop candies and stuffed toys onto the JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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yard of a young family he knew in nearby Thetford. His early-morning f lights could inspire neighbors to rush out of their houses in their pajamas (or, in a few memorable instances, with nothing on at all) to wave hello. He made announced visits to schools and unannounced ones to weddings and barbecues, even when he didn’t know a soul at the gathering. “The balloon is here! ” he’d announce triumphantly, before being welcomed, without fail, into the scene. Even those who didn’t know Boland probably had a connection to him, or at least a story about “the balloon man.” | 105

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“You never had to wonder who the heck he was,” says Boland’s second wife, Kathy. “A lot of people, you wonder what their essence is.... Not with Brian.”

Fred. Two gas-powered fans inf lated the fabric, and then Boland fired the basket’s propane burner, blowing heat into the balloon and giving it lift. Before long, the nearly 10-story structure was towering overhead, and the passengers climbed into the basket.

Just before the balloon took off, Boland gave the group a bit of safety advice. “Sometimes the landing can hit hard,” he told them. “Bend your knees to absorb some of the shock, and hold on to the basket.”

IN ITS VILL AGE OF 300 RESIDENTS, THE POST MILL S

Airport is the closest thing you’ll find to a community center. The property spreads across 52 acres, with a pair of long grass runways, an airplane hangar, and various outbuildings, along with the two-story structure where Boland lived with his longtime partner, Tina Foster. Off the back of the main house sits the Experimental Balloon and Airship Museum, which pays homage to Boland’s long career and the different vehicles he’d f lown over the years. Every May, thousands of people gather just outside its doors for the Experimental Hot-Air Balloon Festival, where pilots from around the country show off and fly their creations. In the winter, aeronauts with nothing more than backpack propeller systems and skis make use of the place.

For more than three decades, the man at the center of the action was Boland. He welcomed friends and newcomers alike to make his airport—and whatever project he might be working on—a part of their life, too. For Boland, a former high school art teacher, his home doubled as his laboratory. One summer he became obsessed with treehouses and proceeded to build a series of them on his land. Another time he transformed a f leet of Chinese three-wheeled motorbikes into head-scratching new transportation: a mobile picnic table, a mobile barbecue, a mobile bed, and what he proclaimed as “the world’s shortest car,” measuring just 45 inches long. His love of being on the water led him to motorize a pair of kayaks he’d tethered together, which he parked not far from something he called a “canoe car.” Last

COREY HENDRICKSON

The Blakes did. Ellen and her husband, Roger, live in a ranch house with a backyard that fronts onto the Connecticut River, and the blue metal roof of their garage was one of Boland’s identifying markers from the air. He knew, for example, that his landing options would dwindle if he continued a few miles south, where the Ompompanoosuc meets the Connecticut. Or that crossing into New Hampshire meant adding a good 25 minutes of driving for his “chaser,” the person tasked with ferrying a balloonist home after landing. Over the years, Roger Blake had watched Boland land in his backyard, in a neighbor’s field, and on a party barge.

“If you want to stay married, don’t become a balloonist,” Boland had joked to him once.

For the Blake family’s balloon trip, Boland had scheduled a departure of 6:30 a.m. on July 15. But an hour before takeoff, Boland—who often rose at 4:30 in the morning to check the wind—decided to postpone. Humidity had pushed a band of fog over the landscape, making visibility poor. “Let’s keep in touch during the day, and if the wind is favorable this evening we can go up,” he told Ellen.

Calling off a passenger flight was always bittersweet for Boland, who delighted in showing friends their home turf from a different vantage point. He loved helping people set the scene for tender moments, too: Wedding proposals had been made in his basket, and he’d quietly watched families scattering a loved one’s ashes over a particular spot. Yet Boland also relished going up by himself—his “therapy flights,” he called them—when he could turn control over to the wind and just be still. His days were never as good if he couldn’t fly, and he could be difficult to be around if he was grounded for a long stretch, as he had been following major heart surgery the year before.

But even while he would f ly solo in conditions other balloonists wouldn’t consider, Boland could be ruthless with his protégés about safety. (“He’d rap you upside the head if you didn’t have a backup igniter in your pocket,” says one aeronaut.) Double-check your burners, he’d preach, and never risk the weather.

With the Blakes’ f light postponed, Boland made the most of the day, working around the airport with his close friend and regular chaser, Aaron Johnson, a former Army paratrooper whom he was training for flying certification.

Late that afternoon, with visibility improved and calm winds, Boland made plans for an evening flight.

Around 6, the Blakes arrived: Ellen and Roger, along with Heather and her young daughter, but minus Heather’s brother, who had to return to his farm. As they pulled in at the airport, Boland, who was wearing jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and his signature tweed cap, was working with Johnson on hauling out the equipment. Soon the whole group was unfurling one of Boland’s favorite bigger balloons: a blue, yellow, and orange striped number he called Middle

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winter, his fixation with diners inspired him to buy a retired coach bus and begin to build a restaurant on wheels.

The famously frugal Boland also saw art where few others did. A little more than a decade ago, he and about 100 volunteers turned a giant pile of scrap wood into a dinosaur he nicknamed the Vermontasaurus. Old roof shingles became “Mount Shingle”; a retired farm silo, a rocket ship.

Boland’s imagination and playfulness were everywhere you looked—and you were invited to join right in. “Jump on the deck!” reads a sign posted on a door. “Turn around.

Hit the gong loudly with the hammer and yell.”

“He had this way of getting people involved and feeling like they could be a part of something that maybe they didn’t think they could do,” says Foster. “He was a guy who really loved life and sharing that with others.”

Nothing about this could have been expected from a quiet boy from the suburbs who found solace in drawing.

The second of three children born to Margaret and Frank “Pat” Boland, Brian spent his early years in Hicksville, New York, the working-middle-class hamlet on Long

Island where his parents carved out a typical American life: Margaret stayed at home with the kids, while Pat, a fireboat engineer, put in long days in New York City.

Shy and reserved, with a strong artistic streak, Brian rarely brought friends to his house. Instead, he preferred being by himself in his room, filling up sketch pads with intricate drawings of soldiers and battle scenes.

“He didn’t stand out in a crowd,” says his older sister, Sue Weyermuller. “If our parents compared us, they’d say I was the social butterfly and he was the introvert. He wasn’t one of those kids you felt bad for because they were on the outside looking in. He was just happy to be a loner.”

In that respect, young Brian seemed to ref lect a bit of his father, a strict but quiet man who found contentment in tinkering in his basement workshop. “He was the kind of guy who, if you were watching TV with him, would see an advertisement for some product and exclaim, ‘I invented that 10 years ago,’” says Foster. “And then go rummage through a closet to show that he actually had come up with the thing.”

above :

At Boland’s Experimental Balloon and Airship Museum, photos gathered by his friends (including one showing Boland tooling along in his “canoe car”) offer a collective portrait of his adventurous spirit. right : One of the museum’s dusty jalopies, transformed into a guest book by Boland’s visiting fans.

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THE BALLOON CARRYING BOLAND AND THE BLAKE FAMILY

rose quickly. In a matter of seconds, the group was soaring several hundred feet off the ground, a gentle northeast breeze pushing them over the airport’s grassy runways and toward Lake Fairlee. A nervous excitement ran through 108 |

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For Boland, real ballooning was an artistic endeavor, and the process of building and making something you could fly was almost sacred. the guests, especially Heather’s young daughter, who had been a reluctant participant. Even after Heather had assured her about Boland’s long experience, she had been adamant that her grandfather, Roger, be with them.

“I’ll only go if Papa is in that balloon,” the girl had told her mother.

As they f loated over the land, she kept her distance from the edge of the basket, clutching her grandmother’s hand. But slowly she began to relax. Boland had helped: As the balloon settled at a height of about a mile above the ground, he pointed out a landscape that looked both familiar and different. Over the shores of Lake Fairlee he gestured to a girls’ camp that Heather had considered sending her daughter to. In the near distance was Lake Morey, which to Roger’s eye looked unexpectedly close to the body of water they now hovered over. To the northeast was Interstate 91, which Boland traced with his finger and explained some of the obstacles that planners had faced in laying it out. In time, the balloon’s youngest passenger stepped to the edge of the basket and cautiously looked out.

Roger watched his granddaughter. But he also watched Boland and how he operated the balloon. Roger had owned a car repair shop in White River Junction for nearly three decades, and with his natural curiosity about how things operate, he observed how Boland reached overhead to periodically fire the burner, sending up a quick blast of flame.

The pilot didn’t lay on the trigger for long, Blake noted— just enough to keep the balloon’s altitude steady.

The group was still floating over Lake Fairlee when the balloon started a mild descent. Standing behind Boland and to the left of his wife, Roger took only slight notice. It’s probably just part of the tour, he thought. He wanted to show us what 5,500 feet would be like, and now he wants to head down to get us closer to the ground to show us smaller details.

It was about then that Boland looked up at the burner and saw the pilot light had gone out.

“That’s not good,” Boland said.

CORE Y HENDRICK SON (S TUMPF ); COURT ESY OF PAUL S TUMPF (C AR)

When Brian was about 7 or 8, the Bolands moved to a bigger house in nearby Northport. Along with his sister, Brian attended the brand-new John Glenn High School, and it’s there he grew a little more into himself. He found friends to hang out with, played soccer, and excelled in his art classes. As he neared graduation, he had a steady girlfriend, Sharon, whom he’d met at a dance, and he talked about becoming an art teacher.

In the fall of 1967, he enrolled at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn; among its demanding professors, Brian, who favored creating large abstract paintings, would find his talent validated. He and Sharon married in 1968, and later that year they had a son, Jeff. After f inishing his four-year program in three, Brian remained at Pratt for his master’s degree. The young couple scraped by, living in a cramped fourth-f loor apartment near Pratt, with Sharon working part-time as a secretary in the school’s architecture department.

As Brian Boland would later recall, his entry into ballooning was born out of desperation. Eager to avoid submitting a written thesis for his master’s—and having read about an aeronaut who’d piloted around Colorado—he had proposed building a hot-air balloon as a form of sculpture.

“I thought, ‘Wow, I’ll knock this off in two weeks and have the rest of the year free,’” Boland told The New York Times in a 1979 profile.

Instead, the project spanned eight months, an early sign of the all-consuming, made-from-scratch work ethic that would define Boland’s career. He poured hours into learning about the intricacies of different nylons, then scoured Manhattan’s fabric district for the right material.

He sketched diagrams, spreading out big sheets of paper in his apartment, and he set up a table and his grandmother’s Singer sewing machine in the basement of the apartment building so he and Sharon could cut and stitch the different sections together. For days, the couple soaked wicker for the balloon’s basket in their bathtub.

On the morning of May 17, 1971, before a small crowd of students and faculty gathered at a Pratt parking lot, Boland debuted the result: a 17-story-high multicolored balloon he’d modeled after a beach ball. He called it The Phoenix.

“It was very big, and that was part of the attraction for him,” recalls Sharon. “And he loved that people came to see it and were excited about it. It was showy and fun, and there was this festive atmosphere. And I think, for him, it all of a sudden predicted his future.”

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B A L L O O N I N G WA S H U M A N K I N D ’ S F I R S T S U C C E S S F U L

above :

Paul Stumpf at last year’s Experimental Hot-Air Balloon Festival, his driving cap a nod to the ones worn by his mentor. below : Boland was famous for his offbeat creations, such as pairing a balloon with an old Messerschmitt convertible (in the cockpit is his second wife and frequent ballooning companion, Kathy).

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conquering of gravity. On a chilly Paris day, November 21, 1783, Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier and François Laurent d’Arlandes made history when they lit a pile of straw and wood to carry them 500 feet into the air in a silk balloon. A balloon craze spread across Europe and the United States, drawing fascinated crowds—sometimes even frenzied ones—by the thousands. Over the next two centuries, gasfired ballooning launched a spate of adventurism as well as military innovation, as when Abraham Lincoln commissioned a balloon corps during the Civil War. But it was very expensive, complicated, and often dangerous.

That all changed one day in October 1960, on a farm in Bruning, Nebraska, where an aeronautics engineer named Ed Yost strapped a pair of propane tanks to a seat resembling a lawn chair, attached that to a 40-foot-tall nylon balloon, and sailed about 500 feet high for a good 25 minutes.

Yost’s simple invention—a nylon envelope, aka balloon, with a propane burner system for heating the air inside it— would greatly democratize the sport of ballooning, opening it up to a new generation of enthusiasts.

“There was just this whole spectrum of people who got into it,” says Kathy Delano, Brian Boland’s second wife and longtime business partner. “[In those early days] you’d go to these festivals, and there’d be people who had practically nothing but their balloon and then you’d have the Malcolm Forbeses of the world.”

The ballooning community was still very much in its infancy when Boland unveiled his creation in that Brooklyn parking lot back in 1971. And at first, it didn’t seem like one he was destined to join. After graduating, Boland moved his young family to Farmington, Connecticut, where he’d been hired to teach art at the local high school. They bought a small house. Sharon stayed home to raise their son. Boland’s thesis project was put into the attic, and he poured himself into his teaching.

At the high school, Boland quickly developed a following among his students. He was an energetic presence, gesticulating with his hands as he paced around the room, talking excitedly about his students’ work or some side project he was creating.

“He made you feel good about yourself,” recalls former student Paul Stumpf. “He really connected with us, asking questions, showing support for whatever it was we were working on. He didn’t look at things in a conventional way.

One day he’d bring in his sewing machine for a project, and the next day he might throw a bunch of us in his VW bus and drive us to New York City to take pictures. He was always getting into trouble with the administration.”

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Losing his son made Boland realize that “life was not forever,” that it was important to “go for it, whatever it might be.”

“I feel slightly weird,” he told them. “I have some feelings in my legs.”

Boland rose shakily to his feet. “It’s a miracle! ” he declared to the stunned group. “I can walk!” He then went off to collect his balloon.

While there are other vocations that might have suited Boland, ballooning allowed him to be many different things while staying true to the core of who he was, Kathy says. The showman, the obsessive, the frugal inventor, the artist, the adventurer—sometimes all at the same time. And the more he flew, it seems, the more he discovered himself.

“He was just this incredibly dynamic guy,” says Kathy, who divorced Boland in 1984 but remained close with him over the years. “You never had to wonder who the heck he was. A lot of people, you wonder what their essence is.

What do they really mean? Not with Brian. Sometimes he’d do something outrageous, and other times he’d make you smile. And other times you’d just be like, ‘God, I can’t believe you did that.’ But he was really someone to know and to have had in your life.”

T H E BA L L OO N BEGA N T O D E S CE N D W I T H FRI GH T E N I N G

speed, tilting forward as it dropped in a near free fall.

Boland, who’d already swapped in a fresh fuel tank, searched his pockets frantically for a second igniter.

The Blakes watched him with alarm. Roger Blake grabbed the edge of the basket; his daughter did the same, while his granddaughter curled into a ball on the f loor.

Ellen Blake leaned against her husband. Nobody spoke— not out loud, at least. This can’t be happening, Ellen repeated to herself as she watched the treetops rush closer.

Boland finally located a new igniter in one of the sacks where he kept extra supplies. He ripped open the package and reached up to relight the f lame. He then laid on the trigger to send a prolonged blast of heat into the balloon.

It was too late. By Roger’s estimation, they were just 60 feet above the ground when Boland fired the f lame, and the balloon’s downward momentum was too strong to stop.

(Continued on p. 118)

COREY HENDRICKSON

art teacher had disengaged his basket on his “third 25-foot bounce into the air” because the balloon had started smoking. “The wind rose fast with the sun Tuesday or the balloon would have taken me up,” an unfazed Boland told the Courant, vowing to try again once repairs were made and the “impulse strikes me.” In another incident, Boland was arrested after landing a balloon on the roof of a bakery; a school official had to bail him out. But Boland’s ambitions only grew. In 1975, he had built the world’s largest airship, a cigar-shaped vessel as big as the Goodyear Blimp that required 40 people to get off the ground.

“At one point the school was hiring another art teacher,” Stumpf says, “and in the interview they asked him, ‘Do you fly balloons?’ He said no. They said, ‘Good, you’re hired.’”

By the late 1970s, ballooning consumed Boland’s life.

He had left teaching, gotten divorced, and remarried. With his second wife, Kathy, he built a business that would put their hands into every part of ballooning, from rides to repairs to custom builds. “Depending on how you look at it, I have become the largest home-built maker—or the world’s smallest balloon manufacturing company,” Boland told The New York Times. “In any case, there are only 13 other people on earth who do what I do.”

Boland’s piloting exploits put him in equally select company. He and Kathy set 18 world and national records for altitude, distance, and duration. Boland was the first to pilot a small balloon across Long Island Sound, and later he notched a similar achievement with a trek over the Alps, from Gstaad, Switzerland, to Forno Canvavese, Italy. In 1981 Boland and Kathy were commissioned by a wealthy Venezuelan businessman to head up a series of ballooning adventures to promote the scenic beauty of his home country. There were additional trips in Central America, across more of Europe, and in parts of Asia. It was rare for Boland to travel to any place where he couldn’t go ballooning.

“I’d long ago resigned myself to the fact that he would never just come down for a visit,” says Boland’s sister, Sue, who lives in North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. “We had to be on his way to someplace where he planned to fly.”

Constantly sketching out new ideas, Boland had an obsession with efficiency, one that led him to design a groundbreaking series of compact collapsible baskets. And he prioritized thrift, too: For one ballooning excursion, he cut his propane tank in half so that he could use it as a luggage carrier for the plane ride over.

But he was also a showman. After all, why use a basket when you could f ly in a car, a picnic table, or a replica double-decker bus? Once Boland went ballooning in England while strapped to a wheelchair, and landed in a park in front of unsuspecting picnickers. As he careened in his wheelchair toward a lake, bystanders grabbed him just before he hit the water. After wheeling him to higher ground, Boland’s rescuers had a surprise.

NEWENGLAND.COM

11/8/21 12:03 PM

COREY HENDRICKSON

At a mist-shrouded Post Mills Airport last September, balloonists inflate a collection of Boland’s custom-built creations—including one paying homage to his obsession with Spam— during the Experimental Hot-Air Balloon Festival.

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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| 111

11/8/21 12:01 PM

In the Thick of It (Continued from p. 50)

NEW ENGLAND CLAM AND SEAFOOD CHOWDER

This chowder combines lessons that I learned from Marjorie Druker, owner of the Massachusetts-based New England Soup Factory, and Arturo Camacho, executive chef of Shell & Bones in New Haven, Connecticut. Camacho garnishes his bowls with kettle-style potato chips; Druker, meanwhile, gravitates toward tried-and-true oyster crackers. Whatever the garnish, I love the creamy lightness of this broth. ½ cup plus ¼ cup dry white wine 50 littleneck clams(1 bag), sorted and cleaned (see Note on p. 113) 2 slices bacon, for garnish 2 tablespoons salted butter 1½ large onions, diced 2 celery stalks, diced 3 cloves garlic, minced 2 bay leaves 2 sprigs thyme 1 tablespoon Old Bay seasoning 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste 2 cups fish stock 2 large russet potatoes, peeled and diced 1 pound white fish (such as halibut or cod) 1½ cups heavy cream Clams in shell, oyster crackers, and minced parsley, for garnish

To cook the clams, pour 1½ cups water and ½ cup wine into a large pot over high heat. Bring to a boil, then add the clams.

Cover and cook until they open, 5 to 7 minutes. Discard any that don’t open.

Use a slotted spoon to transfer clams to a bowl. Strain the cooking liquid through a fine sieve or cheesecloth and reserve 2 cups clam broth. When the clams are cool enough to handle, set aside 6 in the shell for garnish, then remove the meat from the rest and chop into small pieces.

In a large Dutch oven over mediumhigh heat, cook the bacon until browned and crisp. Remove bacon (leaving fat in 112 |

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the pot), drain on paper towels, crumble, and set aside.

Add butter, onion, celery, garlic, bay leaves, and thyme to the Dutch oven.

Cook over medium heat, stirring often, until translucent, about 6 minutes. Add Old Bay seasoning and 1 teaspoon pepper; cook, stirring, for 30 seconds. Add ¼ cup wine and cook for 1 minute. Add the reserved clam broth and fish stock and bring to a simmer, stirring, then reduce heat to medium-low and cook for 5 more minutes. Add potatoes and simmer, covered, until just tender, 7 to 10 minutes. Add fish and cook, stirring gently, until opaque and f laky. Add cream and chopped clams and cook until warmed through. Remove from heat and season with salt and pepper to taste. Ladle into bowls and garnish each with one clam in shell, oyster crackers, crumbled bacon, and minced parsley. Yields 6 servings.

In a large soup pot, warm the sesame oil over medium heat. Add the onion and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 6 minutes. Stir in the f lour.

Add cabbage, carrot, and mushrooms; stir for 1 minute, then add vegetable stock and clam juice and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook until the vegetables are almost tender, around 5 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium-low, add miso paste, and stir to dissolve. Add the milk and the mussels, then cover and gently simmer (do not boil) until all the mussels open, 5 to 7 minutes. Discard any that don’t open. Serve chowder hot, garnished with sliced scallions and chopped almonds. Yields 6 to 8 servings.

ROASTED WINTER VEGETABLE AND WHITE BEAN CHOWDER

MUSSEL AND MISO CHOWDER

With four distinct seasons, northern Japan’s weather is like that of the East Coast, and hearty, warming soups are also part of the cuisine there. Meanwhile, in Western Massachusetts, a company called South River Miso ferments delicious miso pastes from soybeans, cultured grains, and sea salt. Inspired by its products, I developed this variation on classic Japanese miso-based stews, adding mussels and winter vegetables.

2 tablespoons sesame oil 1 medium onion, diced ½ teaspoon kosher salt 1 tablespoon flour (all-purpose or gluten-free) 3 cups finely shredded cabbage 1 medium carrot, diced 1 cup sliced shiitake mushrooms 3 cups vegetable stock 3 cups bottled clam juice ¼ cup miso paste ½ cup unsweetened almond or whole milk 1 bag (2 pounds) fresh mussels, cleaned, beards removed (see Note on p. 113) Sliced scallions and chopped salted almonds (preferably Marcona), for garnish

Linda Jeffers Coombs is an author and historian from the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah) on Martha’s Vineyard.

“A staple of our dishes was corn and beans,” she says, “and you could make a soup or a stew with that, and add meat or any kind of shellfish, such as quahogs and clams.”

This vegetarian variation on chowder pays homage to the indigenous peoples of New England. In the summer and early fall, I make it with corn so that it contains the “three sisters” ingredients: beans, corn, and squash.

2½ cups diced butternut squash 2½ cups sliced carrots 2 cups diced russet potatoes 1 cup sliced parsnips 1 fennel bulb, diced 2 tablespoons plus 3 tablespoons olive oil 2 teaspoons kosher salt, divided 3 cups diced onion 1 cup diced celery 5 fresh thyme sprigs 1 fresh rosemary sprig 1 bay leaf 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 tablespoons flour (all-purpose or gluten-free) 8 cups vegetable stock 2 (14-ounce) cans cooked white beans, drained

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11/10/21 1:57 PM

2 cup sliced mushrooms, any kind 2 cups milk of your choice (whole milk, unsweetened almond milk, and unsweetened soy milk are all good) Fresh thyme springs and ground paprika or smoked paprika, for garnish

Heat your oven to 425°. In a large bowl, toss the butternut squash, carrots, potatoes, parsnips, and fennel with 2 tablespoons olive oil and 1 teaspoon kosher salt. Divide these vegetables between two large rimmed baking sheets and roast until tender and browned, about 40 minutes, turning them a few times while roasting.

While the vegetables are roasting, prepare the soup base. Heat 3 tablespoons olive oil in a large pot over medium-high heat, then add the onion, celery, thyme, rosemary, bay leaf, black pepper, and remaining 1 teaspoon salt, then cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 6 minutes. Stir in the f lour and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 minute. Add the stock and beans. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes. Add the mushrooms and milk, bring to a simmer, and stir in the roasted vegetables.

Taste and add additional salt and pepper if desired. Ser ve hot, garnished with fresh thyme sprigs and a sprinkle of paprika. Yields 8 to 10 servings.

2 tablespoons olive oil 1 medium onion, diced 1 medium red pepper, diced 2 carrots, diced 1 stalk celery, diced 2 large cloves garlic, minced 2 teaspoons kosher salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 pound thinly sliced cured linguiça, chouriço, or chorizo sausage, or 1 pound fresh chorizo 6 cups chicken stock 1 can (14 ounces) diced fire-roasted tomatoes 2 russet potatoes, peeled and diced 1 bunch (6 ounces) kale (stems removed), washed and roughly chopped 2 cups chopped clam meat (thawed, if frozen) 1 teaspoon dried basil or 3 tablespoons minced fresh basil

Heat olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add onion, red pepper, carrots, celery, garlic, salt, and black pepper and sauté for five minutes, stirring frequently. Increase heat to medium-high, and add sausage and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes. (If using fresh chorizo, add the loose sausage to the pan and use a wooden spoon to break it up into small pieces, then cook until lightly browned, 8 to 10 minutes.) Add chicken stock, tomatoes, and potatoes. The vegetables should be covered by the liquid; if not, add a bit of water. Simmer for 15 minutes, then add kale and simmer for another 15 minutes. Stir in clams and basil and simmer 5 more minutes. Serve hot. Yields 6 to 8 servings.

PORTUGUESE CLAM AND KALE SOUP

Portuguese fishermen have been working in the waters off North America since the 16th century, but it wasn’t until the late 1800s that Portuguese immigrants arrived en masse to Massachusetts and Rhode Island, with many f inding jobs in the fishing industries there. The newcomers brought with them culinary staples such as tomatoes, onions, garlic, peppers, paprika, and cumin, which they combined with local seafood in soups and stews. While this type of tomato-based soup is thought to be the predecessor of Manhattan clam chowder, I especially love the hearty nature of clam and kale soup with spicy sausage.

JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2022

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PERUVIAN-STYLE SHRIMP CHOWDER

Chupe is a common term in South America for a variety of stews generally made with fish, shellfish, and vegetables including potatoes and yuca. Like chowder, chupe has evolved over the centuries. Chef Jose Duarte, owner of Tambo 22 in Chelsea, Massachusetts, shared his family’s recipe with me, explaining that shelf-stable evaporated milk is the dairy ingredient of choice

NOTE Before cooking clams or mussels, confirm that they are still alive. Tap any open ones to make sure they close; if they don’t, discard.

Alternatively, you can try these substitutions: • For the New England Clam and Seafood Chowder, substitute 1 pound store-bought chopped clam meat (preferably local) and 2 cups of bottled clam juice for the littleneck clams and broth. Just simmer the clams for an additional 5 minutes.

• For the Mussel and Miso Chowder, substitute 1 pound frozen mussels for fresh ones, and add to the chowder with the milk.

in many parts of South America, and aji amarillo paste adds the essential warmth of Peru’s signature chili pepper.

3 tablespoons olive oil 1¾ cups diced onion 2 teaspoons kosher salt, plus more to taste 1 tablespoon aji amarillo paste 1 teaspoon paprika 1 teaspoon ground cumin ¼ teaspoon ground cayenne pepper 3 cups diced butternut squash 4 cups seafood stock 1 cup dry white wine 1 cup water 3 cups diced russet potatoes 1½ cups fresh or frozen corn kernels 1 can (12 ounces) evaporated milk 1 cup frozen peas 1 pound medium shrimp (thawed, if frozen) Minced cilantro and thinly sliced scallions, for garnish

In a large soup pot, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and 2 teaspoons salt. Cook, stirring, until the onions are just translucent, 5 minutes. Add the aji amarillo paste, paprika, cumin, and cayenne pepper and stir to combine. Add the squash and cook, stirring occasionally, for 3 minutes. Add the stock, white wine, water, and potatoes; stir well. Cover the pot and let it come to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer, uncovered, until the potatoes are barely tender, 6 to 8 minutes. Add the corn and simmer for another 5 minutes. Stir in the evaporated milk and frozen peas. Taste and add salt, if needed, then simmer for a few minutes. Finally, add the shrimp and gently simmer until shrimp are cooked through, about 2 minutes. Serve hot, garnished with cilantro and scallions.

Yields 8 servings. | 113

11/10/21 1:57 PM

Conversations (Continued from p. 93) going to be one of the most beautiful experiences you will ever have in your life.

Just embrace it. Absorb it all.

Since then, we’ve been in touch now and then, following all the amazing things that are happening for her. I’m so happy that she’s getting that attention, not just for her, but for poetry. But I want to be the big brother whenever she may need to talk. I worry a little bit for her because she is so young, just 22. I nearly lost my mind because of all the attention, and I was 44! As for advice, I would say, “Just pace yourself.

Remember, you’re going to be this person for the rest of your life.” You are never the “former” presidential inaugural poet. I’ll always be the fifth inaugural poet of the U.S. Amanda will always be the sixth inaugural poet. I try to discreetly check in with her every once in a while, to see how she’s doing emotionally. I’ll text her: Hey, how are you doing?

Everything cool? I’m here if you need to talk.

M.B.: The attention that

intensified for you after the Obama inauguration has opened so many doors to keep exploring ways to bring poetry to this country and also to New England.

You’ve been commissioned to write poems for historic occasions including the Boston Marathon bombing, the reopening of the U.S. Embassy in

COOKING WITH MAMÁ IN MAINE From Looking for the Gulf Motel by Richard Blanco (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012) Two years since trading mangos for these maples, the white dunes of the beach for the White Mountains etched in my living room window, I ask my mother to teach me how to make my favorite Cuban dish.

She arrives from Miami in May with a parka and plantains packed in her suitcase, chorizos, vino seco, but also onions, garlic, olive oil as if we couldn’t pick these up at Hannaford’s in Oxford County.

She brings with her all the spices of my childhood: laurel, pimentón, dashes of memories she sprinkles into a black pot of black beans starting to simmer when I wake up and meet her busy in the kitchen.

With my pad and pencil eager to take notes, I ask her how many teaspoons of cumin, of oregano, cups of oil, vinegar, she’s adding, but I can’t get a straight answer: I don’t know, she says, I just know.

Afraid to stay in the guest cottage, by herself, but not of the blood

Cuba, the Freedom to Marry movement, and the Parkland shooting. Now that life is beginning to return to some semblance of normalcy, what’s on the horizon?

R.B.: One thing that has been going on for a while is that I’m serving as education ambassador for the Academy of American Poets. My role is to serve in empowering teachers with approaches to teaching poetry so that they can

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on her hands, she stabs holes in the raw meat, stuffs in garlic: Six or seven mas ó menos, maybe seven cloves, she says, it all depends.

She dices about one bell pepper, tells me how much my father loved her cooking too, as she cries over about two onions she chops, tosses into a pan sizzling with olive oil making sofrito to brown the roast.

She insists I just watch her hands stirring, folding, whisking me back to the kitchen I grew up in, dinner for six of us on the table, six sharp every day of her life for thirty years until she had no one left to cook for.

I don’t ask how she survived her exilio: ten years without her mother, twenty as a widow. Did she grow to love snow those years in New York before Miami, and how will I survive winters here with out her cooking? Will I ever learn?

But she answers every question when she raises the spoon to my mouth saying, Taste it, mi’ jo, there’s no recipe, just taste.

turn their students on to poetry, make poetry more accessible to them.

“Village Voice” on WGBH Boston Public Radio has been a wonderful project for maybe three or four years now that gives me the chance to feature poems and poets that help us to make sense of current events.

M.B.: Are you working on other new projects?

R.B.: I don’t know what it’s

going to be quite yet, but I’m working on the next collection. I’m thinking about place or belonging in a more detached way.

The idea of just being. I feel like I’ve become, but what does it mean to just be? I’m thinking about home in different ways: my poetry itself, my body, nature, chipmunks... I’m just waiting for the next iteration of home.

Also, my memoir about growing up in Miami got NEWENGLAND.COM

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As a poet, it’s my job to see.

To see beyond just the expected, the surface of things. To see what we really could be.

optioned, and it’s under development for a TV series with Michael Eisner’s company, Tornante. It’s a dream come true because I’m a TV-holic—I call myself a TV-ologist. I have always appreciated television in the ways that it unites us through storytelling. TV has played a big role in how I conceptualized America.

I hope that the TV show will broaden the narrative of what it means to be an American today.

But the thing that’s really bringing me back into Bethel—and maybe back to where we began this conversation—is a play I’m writing, commissioned

by Anita Stewart, the artistic director for Portland Stage in Portland, Maine. I collaborated with Vanessa Garcia, a very talented journalist and playwright from Miami.

We just finished the first draft about two or three weeks ago. Tentatively it’s called Sweet Goats and Blueberry Señoritas.

M.B.: That’s a title! What’s it about?

R.B.: Of course it’s about food. But it was really inspired by my yearning to explore the intersections of different people and cultures in Maine, and represent that in a new light, think about who we are and what we’re going through now. And to challenge some of those stereotypes that people, including me, have about small towns in New England.

When I first moved here, I was looking for Pilgrims and sleigh rides. I thought it was just going to be this white, monolithic world. I’d tell people, “I’m from Cuba and I’m gay,” and they’d just look at me and respond, “So what?”

Nobody was making a fuss.

The people in Bethel were actually more surprised to find out that I am a poet and an engineer. I had never eaten Korean food until I came to Bethel. We have a Korean restaurant here, of all places! What I discovered is that people with all sorts of personalities and different backgrounds can come together and get along.

So the play is an ensemble piece of multidimensional characters including two guys who come up here to become country gays— based, obviously, on Mark and me, but also very different than us. Another character is a Cuban woman who ends up in this small town because she marries a Mainer who she meets in Miami.

We’re staging the play with frames—a nod to the pandemic and to Zoom.

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THICKER THAN COUNTRY From Looking for the Gulf Motel

by Richard Blanco (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012) A Cuban like me living in Maine? Well, what the hell, Mark loves his native snow and I don’t mind it, really. I love icicles, even though I still decorate the house with seashells and starfish. Sometimes I want to raise chickens and pigs, wonder if I could grow even a small mango tree in my three-season porch. But mostly, I’m happy with hemlocks and birches towering over the house, their shadows like sundials, the cool breeze blowing even in the summer. Sometimes I miss the melody of Spanish, a little, and I play Celia Cruz, dance alone in the basement.

Sometimes I miss the taste of white rice with picadillo—so I cook, but it’s never as good as my mother’s. I don’t miss her or the smell of her Cuban bread as much as I should. Most days I wonder why, but when Mark comes home like an astronaut dressed in his ski clothes, or I spy him planting petunias in the spring, his face smudged with this earth, or barbequing in the summer when he asks me if I want a hamberg or a cheezberg as he calls them— still making me laugh after twelve years— I understand why the mountains here are enough, white with snow or green with palms, mountains are mountains, but love is thicker than any country.

Vanessa and I started thinking about ways in which we’re framed not only through devices, but more so through the figurative frames of cultural norms and stereotypes of ourselves and others. So everybody speaks through frames to each other. But the frames slowly start falling apart and at the end there is no frame around anyone.

They are all in the same

space. It’s kind of a happy ending of how people come to understand each other.

M.B.: It sounds like a story that speaks directly to your overall artistic vision and hope.

R.B.: Indeed. As a poet, it’s my job to see. To see beyond just the expected, the surface of things. To see what we really could be. E pluribus unum. Out of many, one.

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The Balloonist (Continued from p. 110) They hit in a sloping field on the outskirts of Fairlee, the basket bouncing off the ground at a slight angle. Ellen’s feet left the floor and her face nearly hit the edge of the burner before her husband grabbed her and pulled her back.

The basket rose slightly, then slammed back to earth. This time Ellen shot forward out of the basket with such force that her feet came out of her shoes. She was on the ground when Boland also fell out, landing on top of her, his cap tumbling off his head.

Then, just as quickly, the balloon rose—tak ing Boland, whose foot was hooked into one of the basket handles, along with it. In that single moment, the entire situation f lipped: The Blakes were now the balloon’s pilots, and Boland was a helpless passenger. Roger leaned over the edge of the basket and saw his wife sit up; she was OK. Then he locked his eyes on Boland, who had started to wrench himself up to free his foot. The balloon was climbing rapidly.

“Stay in the basket!” Boland shouted.

wasn’t just a guide to his ballooning career—it was a tribute to his ability to see the possibility for art in almost any object. Nicknamed the “Scrap Palace” by its founder, it’s there that crutches became a sculpture that snaked along the ceiling; skis transformed into an outlandish tree. There were collections of dentist chairs, vintage cameras, Spam cans, creepy dolls. The museum housed a 1903 Model T and a tire from the space shuttle. Behind a wickerencased bar stood a giant shelf lined with hundreds of old beer bottles.

“He had an art instructor at Pratt who told him that you could do cool things with something if you have lots of that thing,” says Foster, his longtime

Below the Blakes, still clinging to the balloon’s basket, Boland was weakening fast.

IN PART BECAUSE OF BRIAN BOLAND’S

successes there, Farmington became an epicenter of ballooning. For him, that meant increased competition for business and stature, so he went looking for a fresh start—and found it in Vermont. In 1988 Boland bought the Post Mills Airport and moved there with Ruth Ludwig, a journalist and well-known balloonist who was his girlfriend at the time.

“It gave us the chance to do a lot of f lying,” says Ludwig (now Lind).

“He always wanted to be the best, the most well-known, to have that kind of respect. He thrived on it…. [But] the beauty up there was another big thing for him. Even on the gray, yucky November days, he could find joy in the landscape. A lot of nights we spent sleeping outside, looking at the stars.”

Over the next three decades, the airport came to ref lect the whims, obsessions, and ethos of its owner.

The museum that Boland created 118 |

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partner. “So he never threw anything away. That’s why we have hundreds of light bulbs, because he figured he might do something with them at some point.”

In 1993 Boland’s son, Jeff, an avid cyclist, died unexpectedly of a heart attack while riding with friends. For Boland, the loss made him realize that “life was not forever,” as he told the Burlington Free Press in 2008. That it was important to “go for it, whatever it might be, a relationship or going somewhere or building something.”

But Boland’s drive to be perpetually making and doing things had its consequences. By his own admission, Boland, who married and divorced three times, was “a hard guy to live with.” And his strong opinions about how ballooning should be done could alienate fellow pilots.

“Everyone who had a relationship with Brian experienced both sides of

the coin,” says Paul Stumpf, who followed his former high school teacher into ballooning. “He could be wonderful but then … he could be extremely critical. It was his way or the highway, and sometimes he could just drop the hammer on you. Brian might come up and say, ‘I think you should think about using a different (whatever),’ but you would never ever dare to constructively criticize him. If you did, it was like talking to a wall. There was just no negotiating with him.”

For Boland, real ballooning was an artistic endeavor, and the process of building and making something you could fly was almost sacred. He drove this home at his annual festival, giving out membership cards to his Experimental Balloon and Airship Association, an informal club of balloon makers like himself. “All balloons are beautiful,” the card read. “To create one’s own is to construct a huge, magical, educational work of art.”

Stumpf, who made his f irst balloon in the mid-1970s, became one of Boland’s most accomplished protégés.

He would go on to build a successful ballooning business of his own, but at the cost of his personal balloon making. Meanwhile, his relationship with Boland grew strained. The two hadn’t spoken for several years by the time they ran into each other at a hot-air balloon festival in Stowe in the early 1990s.

“We did the ‘How are you? Good to see you’ small-talk thing,” remembers Stumpf, who today lives and works in Andover, Vermont. “And then he starts hemming and hawing.

He finally says, ‘I just gotta get this out of me: You haven’t done anything creative since college.’ I let it glance off me but I was pissed. I later ranted to my wife, ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’ve built this business.

We renovated this beautiful home.

I built the world’s first glass-bottom basket. I’ve done all these things.’”

Stumpf later came to understand what his friend had meant. In 2010, having stepped away from his tour business and gained a little more free time, he returned to balloon making. “I realized how much I missed it,” Stumpf NEWENGLAND.COM

11/12/21 3:54 PM

says. “It really brought me back to the fun of the engineering and design. I think Brian was disappointed because I wasn’t building. Because, to Brian, that’s what defines who you are.”

THE BALLOON CONTINUED ITS RISE ,

pushing north toward Bradford, Vermont, and the Connecticut River. In the basket, Roger Blake felt helpless.

To him, the balloon was in control.

He kept his focus on two things: the pilot light and the increasingly distant land below. His granddaughter crouched silently near his feet, his daughter tenderly reminding her to take breaths.

Outside the basket, Boland had freed his foot and was now hanging on to the handle with both hands. There was nothing Roger could do. There was no line to throw him, and even if he could reach far enough to grab Boland, the pilot was too big for him to haul in.

Dow n on t he g round, A a ron Johnson, the chaser, was trying to make sense of what he’d just seen.

Driving Boland ’s battered Chev y Astrovan, he’d darted ahead of the group to get gas in Fairlee. As he got back onto Route 5 and headed north again, he watched the balloon make its descent, which seemed curious but, with Boland, who was known for impromptu stops, not surprising. The balloon disappeared behind a hillside, then quickly reemerged, ascending—and now someone appeared to be hanging from the basket. Johnson’s heart started to beat fast. Trying to stay calm, he told himself that maybe Boland had hung a shirt from the balloon as a practical joke.

Over the next several minutes, the balloon drifted north, with Roger occasionally f iring the burner in an attempt to maintain a steady altitude.

It became a careful dance: keeping the balloon high enough to clear any obstacles, but low enough to land if Roger found the right spot. Could he do it? Could he save his family? There was no other choice, he told himself.

At one point, an old Henry Ford quote came to him: Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t—you’re right.

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YK0122_FEA_BrianBoland.indd 119

Below the Blakes, still clinging to the balloon’s basket, Boland was weakening fast. It had been at least 10 minutes since the crash in Fairlee. “I can’t hang on much longer,” he yelled, as the balloon soared over Bradford a good 500 feet from the ground, with nowhere to land in sight.

A few minutes later, right at the edge of town, where Waits River Road curves toward the Connecticut, Boland spoke again. “I can’t hang on anymore,” he said.

Then he let go of the handle, crossed his arms across his chest, and plummeted toward the ground, looking up at his balloon as he fell.

“DID HE SURVIVE?” ROGER’S GRAND-

daughter asked him. He didn’t know how to answer, so he stayed silent and stared straight ahead. By this time, the balloon was crossing over the Connecticut River, into New Hampshire.

The girl spoke up again. “Papa,” she said, “if we fall into the river, will you save me?”

He turned to look at her. “Of course I will.”

Moments later, though, Roger was reminded of how little was in his control. Caught by a stray air current, the balloon spun a full 360 degrees before pushing north again.

The family was f loating over Piermont, New Hampshire, when Aaron Johnson, the chaser, called on the radio. “Do you want me in New Hampshire or Vermont?” he asked.

Roger’s daughter, Heather, picked up. That’s when Johnson learned that Heather and her father were now f lying the balloon, and that Boland and Ellen were not on board. Over the next several minutes Johnson did his best to guide the family. He sped into New Hampshire, keeping his eye on the balloon, instructing them when to fire the burner and asking what they were seeing from above. At one point, he pulled over to the side of the road, closed his eyes, and tried to visualize the landscape.

It was on the outskirts of Piermont, over a farm that hugs the Connecticut River, that the balloon began drifting downward. After crossing

over some power lines, it headed toward a stand of poplar trees on the bank of the river. Roger blasted the heat for a solid 10 seconds, hoping to gain enough lift to avoid a collision, but again the balloon seemed to have a mind of its own. Amid the poplars, in an opening of maybe 15 feet wide, the balloon’s basket settled between two tall trees, coming to rest on a pair of branches high above the ground. Heather immediately pulled the rip cord, dropping the envelope’s top f lap and releasing a rush of hot air.

“I don’t want to go back up,” she said to her father.

Sudden ly, one of the suppor t branches gave way, quickly followed by the other. For the next few seconds, the basket and its passengers rode a series of breaking branches toward the ground. When it f inally stopped just a few feet above the g rou nd , Roger ’s g ra ndd aughter leaped out and ducked behind a tree to throw up. Roger and Heather jumped out after her.

None of them spoke. Roger simply pointed and they started to run— across the f ield, toward the road— desperate to get as far away from the balloon as possible.

Johnson, who could still see the balloon, turned off the road and blazed a path into the f ield. The Blakes sprinted into view. When the family reached Johnson’s van, Heather and Roger were talking so frantically that he struggled to understand what they were saying. What had happened to Brian? he wondered. Was he with Ellen? Then Roger said something that stopped him.

“I don’t think Brian—or anyone— could have survived that fall,” he said.

SHOR TLY BEFORE 9 THAT NIGHT, THE

Vermont State Police issued a report that a balloon pilot from the Thetford area had died in a flying accident.

There was no name given, but “we all knew,” says Stumpf, who called Johnson immediately.

“He told me what had happened,” Stumpf says. His voice grows quieter.

“That was a long night.” | 119

11/9/21 9:29 AM

After a pause, Stumpf continues.

“It was just shock and disbelief. How can this guy who survived all these crazy ballooning adventures die in a ballooning accident?”

As the world would soon learn, Boland ’s body had been found in Bradford, Vermont, in the yard of a house on the Connecticut River; oddly enough, he had landed his balloon there a few years earlier. Trying to piece together Boland’s f inal moments, St umpf found himself thinking a lot about the man he knew.

About their early times together, certainly, and some of the bumpy stretches, but also the recent years in which they’d grown close once more.

In the older Boland, Stumpf says, he found a version of the person he’d first encountered all those years before in Farmington. He seemed softer, less protective of his status in the balloon world, and more enthusiastic about the projects others were doing. At one point, Boland had even pulled Stumpf aside and told him he was proud of his work as a balloon maker.

Last January, the two men had gotten together at the airport. Stumpf brought his recorder, and for 45 minutes he inter viewed Boland about his life and his adventures. The visit included a morning flight in one of his old friend’s balloons, with Boland taking the role of chaser—something that had never happened during their nearly 50 years of friendship.

“These were things that just showed a real cultural shift in Brian. He realized that it didn’t just have to be about him anymore,” he says. “We spent the most time together that day than we had since high school. Looking back on it now, I’m grateful, but it’s also kind of hard because right at the end, when it felt like we were really connecting again, we lost him.”

I T I S S AT U R D AY, M I D - S E P T E M B E R ,

and the Post Mills Airport bustles with life. The Experimental Hot-Air Balloon Festival, which Boland had postponed in May because of Covid, is in full swing. To Paul Stumpf, Tina Foster, and others who were close to

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Boland, canceling the event seemed like the absolute last thing he would have wanted—which means now the weekend has been transformed into a different kind of celebration.

Ba l loonists have arrived from around the country to f ly, to barbecue, to visit the museum, to reminisce about their late friend. In the morning, a crowd gathers to inf late 35 of Boland’s prized creations. Kathy Delano is here to showcase Peaches, the balloon Boland f lew during his record journey across the Alps. Here, too, is Aaron Johnson, who is scheduled to earn his f lying certif ication later this day, just as he and Boland had planned. Stumpf, who helped organize the event, can’t stop smiling as he walks around the property. “It’s the only festival in the world where all the balloons come from one balloonist,” he keeps telling people.

That evening, as a big moon climbs the sky, local residents, maybe a few thousand in all, fill in the scene. They picnic, throw frisbees, and play volleyball as they wait for the wind to die down so the balloons can take off. It never does, however, and there is some disappointment about this.

And then one pilot unfurls his envelope, a red and yellow striped creation, and begins f illing it with air. The burner comes on and soon the balloon rises, still tethered to the ground as it dances in the breeze. A crowd of children sprint in its direction. They come in close, and their parents do, too—all to get a better look.

Other pilots follow suit. The sounds of fans and burners pierce the evening.

Soon the f ield is alight with glowing balloons in different colors, sizes, shapes. Children let out squeals, a few shy ones running up to touch a favorite before scampering back to their parents. One little girl holds out her arms to “hug” a giant blue balloon; a boy playfully shadow-boxes another. Moms and dads move about in a happy daze, craning their necks and pointing. For a brief moment, real life has dropped away, and in its place is a meadow of color and wonder and curiosity.

Just as Brian Boland imagined there should be.

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Life in the Kingdom (Continued from p. 128) $30,000 for 40 acres. At the time, it felt almost unreal—it was so much money to us, more than I’d ever imagined myself spending on anything—and in the days leading up to our closing, I remember being terribly afraid that we’d made a mistake from which we’d never recover. Surely the real estate market couldn’t sustain such astronomical prices; surely it would crash soon after (most likely, the day after) we closed, and the folly of our decision would haunt us forever.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how we managed to buy that land, and how I don’t think we’d be able to do it again—at least not in the same way, which involved saving what we could until we’d amassed the 50 percent down payment that the bank required from young borrowers looking to purchase undeveloped land. We were each making approximately $10 per hour at

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In just the past year, Vermont has seen real estate prices rise by doubledigit percentages, a trend that’s largely been driven by out-of-state buyers (in October 2020, a whopping 60 percent of Vermont real estate was purchased by people living elsewhere). Truth is, if

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I were in their shoes, I’d probably be looking for my little slice of the Green Mountain State too. And it’s equally likely that I wouldn’t be thinking too hard about what that means for young families like Kyle’s.

There’s no easy fix for any of this.

Two years ago, the hand-wringing was over the population decline in Vermont (and by extension, the Northeast Kingdom). Now, it’s over the dearth of housing and the skyrocketing price of real estate as more and more people move in. As the pandemic has reminded us in so many ways, what you expect and what you get are often very different things, and lamenting the chasm between the two does about as much good as it’s always done.

Lately I have the sense that the Kingdom is at a juncture. I see new people moving in, many of them astonished to find that for the same price as a down payment on a house back home, they can procure the winning bid here. I see the push for universal broadband, the rise in remote working. I’ve even seen a few Teslas.

But mostly, I see families like Kyle’s scrambling to figure out how they fit into this emerging economy, which seems to mirror more and more closely the deep-seated inequities that have long existed elsewhere.

And I hope that amid all this change, the Kingdom does not lose what makes it so special to me and to so many others. There’s no easy or right way to describe exactly what that is, maybe because although many of us feel it, it’s also a little different to each. But my version goes something like this: The Northeast Kingdom is a place where humankind’s dependence on the land remains transparently evident, and where one cannot fall victim to the delusion that such dependence does not exist.

After shooting the bull for a while longer, I bid Kyle farewell. It was getting on toward dinnertime, the sun low in the sky, a chill moving in.

“Well,” I said, “good luck with the house hunt.” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Oh, I suspect we’ll figure it out eventually,” he replied. I was pretty sure he was right. | 127

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Life in the Kingdom

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BEN HEWIT T

Mixed Blessings When rural land is worth more than ever, what of those who value it most?

ILLUSTR ATION BY TOM H AUGOM AT

ow n at Kyle’s place, we leaned against the bed of my truck and engaged in the time-honored tradition of shooting the bull. I’d stopped by to drop off an old motorcycle that a friend had given me the year before. “It was running three years ago” is what my friend had told me, before adding, “Well, it was sort of running.” But I’d heard only the first part, because that was the part I wanted to hear, and so I’d brought the bike home, where I proceeded to get it about halfway disassembled before realizing I was in over my head. Way over my head. And so there it sat in the shed, with various bits of it strewn about, until I got tired of moving the darn thing every time I needed something that was stored deeper in the shed. That’s when it occurred to me that perhaps Kyle would take it.

“My friend told me it was running four years ago,” I told him (by 128 |

YK0122_BOB_Kingdom.indd 128

that time, I’d clung to the possibility for nearly a year that I’d actually get it back together). Then, in a voice that was maybe just a tiny bit quieter: “Well, he said it was sort of running.”

But Kyle, bless him, had heard only the first part, and the bike was his.

So there we were, having unloaded the motorcycle, along with the oilstained cardboard box of parts that was most of what he needed to put it back together. It was a beautiful evening, sun-streaked and soft, the late daylight hitting us at just the right angle. A fellow could lean against the bed of a truck shooting the bull for a very long while on an evening like this, and indeed, there are times when I believe there might not be any higher purpose to life than doing just such a thing.

Kyle got to telling me how he and his fiancée had tried to buy a house recently, a modest place not far from

the modest home they were renting, a place with enough space for a garden and a yard for their kids to play in. Just the sort of place that, in my humble opinion, every young couple deserves to raise their family, if indeed that’s what they want and they’re willing to put in the work to make it happen.

Which I knew Kyle and his f iancée were, and then some. But they’d been outbid at the last minute by a cash buyer who’d offered the seller more money, and the deal had gone south.

Kyle shook his head. I shook mine.

“Doesn’t seem right” is what I said, or something like that, and what I meant wasn’t so much that the particular circumstances didn’t seem right, but that the whole set of circumstances didn’t seem right.

When Penny and I bought our f irst piece of land in 1997, we paid (Continued on p. 127) NEWENGLAND.COM

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