Yankee Magazine November/December 2017

The Promise

A Most Unusual Gift of Love

A Most Unusual Gift of Love

THEPOEMREADS:

A Most Unusual Gift of Love

THEPOEMREADS:

Dear Reader,

The drawing you see above is called The Promise. 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 my youngest brother and his wife.

Dear Reader,

The drawing you see above is called “The Promise.” 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 my youngest brother and his wife.

Now, I have decided to offer The Promise to those who share and value its sentiment. Each litho is numbered and signed by hand and precisely captures the detail of the drawing. As a wedding, anniversary or Valentine’s gift or simply as a standard for your own home, I believe you will find it most appropriate.

Now, I have decided to offer “The Promise” to those who share and value its sentiment. Each litho is numbered and signed by hand and precisely captures the detail of the drawing. As a wedding, anniversary or Valentine’s gift or simply as a standard for your own home, I believe you will find it most appropriate.

Dear Reader,

Measuring 14" by 16", it is available either fully-framed in a subtle copper tone with hand-cut double mats of pewter and rust at $145*, or in the mats alone at $105*. Please add $16.95 for insured shipping and packaging. Your satisfaction is completely guaranteed.

My best wishes are with you.

Measuring 14" by 16", it is available either fully framed in a subtle copper tone with hand-cut mats of pewter and rust at $110, or in the mats alone at $95. Please add $14.50 for insured shipping and packaging. Your satisfaction is completely guaranteed.

My best wishes are with you.

The Art of Robert Sexton • P.O. Box 581 • Rutherford, CA 94573

The drawing you see above is called “The Promise.” 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 my youngest brother and his wife.

All major credit cards are welcomed. Please send card name, card number, address and expiration date, or phone (415) 989-1630 between 10 a.m.-6 P M PST, Monday through Saturday. Checks are also accepted.

Please allow up to 5 to 10 business days for delivery. *California residents- please include 8.0% tax

Now, I have decided to offer “The Promise” to those who share and value its sentiment. Each litho is numbered and signed by hand and precisely captures the detail of the drawing. As a wedding, anniversary or Valentine’s gift or simply as a standard for your own home, I believe you will find it most appropriate.

MASTERCARD and VISA orders welcome. Please send card name, card number, address and expiration date, or phone (415) 989-1630 between noon-8 P M.EST. Checks are also accepted. Please allow 3 weeks for delivery.

Please visit my Web site at www.robertsexton.com

Measuring 14" by 16", it is available either fully framed in a subtle copper tone with hand-cut mats of pewter and rust at $110, or in the mats alone at $95. Please add $14.50 for insured shipping

“Across the years I will walk with you— in deep, green forests; on shores of sand: and when our time on earth is through, in heaven, too, you will have my hand.”

“Across the years I will walk with you— in deep, green forests; on shores of sand: and when our time on earth is through, in heaven, too, you will have my hand.”

108 /// A Movable Forest

For a hard-luck Vermont farm family, taking a crop of Christmas trees to the big city requires grit, perseverance, and just a touch of “secret sauce.”

By Julia Shipley and Joe Keohane

122 /// Christmas Tree 101

A beginner’s guide to popular tree types, and tips on bringing home the best one for your family. Plus: A grab bag of New England tannenbaum trivia.

124 ///

How Boston Got Its Christmas Tree

The people of Halifax, Nova Scotia, have never forgotten who came to their aid when tragedy rocked the city a century ago. By Bill Scheller

132 /// Baby on Board

A story about spending months planning for the birth of your first child— and then, late one frosty autumn night, seeing it all go out the window.

By Grace Aldrich

136

The Only Game That Matters

When you live on an island that sometimes feels as if it belongs more to outsiders, you hold on tight to traditions that define local pride. By Ian Aldrich

Photograph by Mark Fleming; styling by Korey Seney. Model: Scarlett Winifred Seney. Shot on location at Allen Hill Farm in Brooklyn, Connecticut.

ON THE COVER

Christmas tree farmer Melody Houle amid her Vermont-grown firs in Brooklyn, New York.

home

36 /// When Food Is Your Life

Having built a mini restaurant empire in Portland, what do two culinary stars demand for their own kitchen? By Peggy

Grodinsky

42 /// House for Sale

On offer: 18th-century charm with a dash of historical intrigue in Stow, Massachusetts.

travel

84 /// Could You Live Here?

Maritime heritage and coastal beauty run deep in Mystic, Connecticut. By

Annie Graves

90 /// The Best 5

Eat, sleep, and be merry! These New England inns are guaranteed to help stoke your seasonal spirit.

By Kim Knox Beckius

94 /// Local Treasure

How a long-neglected Newport mansion became a showcase for masterworks of illustration art.

By Joe Bills

98 /// Out & About

From tours of decked-out historic houses to the best holiday parades and bazaars, we round up regional events that are worth the drive.

HOLIDAY FOOD SPECIAL

departments

10

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

12

INSIDE YANKEE

14

MARY’S FARM

Unearthing the spirit of the season. By Edie Clark

16

LIFE IN THE KINGDOM

As fall gives way to winter, a farmer grows mindful of fleeting gifts. By Ben Hewitt

20

FIRST LIGHT

Celebrating ordinary people with extraordinary hearts.

By Ian Aldrich

26

KNOWLEDGE & WISDOM

A scholarly take on flying reindeer, big-league insight from Carlton Fisk, and a closer look at the world’s most famous singing family.

28

ASK THE EXPERT

When it comes to channeling Santa Claus, the beard is just the beginning.

32 UP CLOSE

Chester Greenwood’s marvelous Maine-made earmuffs.

152

TIMELESS NEW ENGLAND

A tribute to Car Talk ’s rollicking 40-year run.

64 Baking with the Brass Sisters: Festive sweets and treasured memories from the most endearing home cooks you’ll ever meet. By Amy Traverso

70 Editors’ Choice Food Awards: Celebrating New England’s best meats, cheeses, jams, and other gift-worthy treats. By Amy Traverso

54 Thanksgiving on the Farm: Taking a break from the hectic restaurant world, Justin and Danielle Walker create a family feast amid the rolling fields of their Maine farm. By Amy Traverso

1121 Main St., P.O. Box 520, Dublin, NH 03444. 603-563-8111; editor@yankeemagazine.com

EDITORIAL

EDITOR Mel Allen

ART DIRECTOR Lori Pedrick

DEPUTY EDITOR Ian Aldrich

MANAGING EDITOR Jenn Johnson

SENIOR EDITOR/FOOD Amy Traverso

HOME & GARDEN EDITOR Annie Graves

PHOTO EDITOR Heather Marcus

SENIOR PHOTOGRAPHER Mark Fleming

DIGITAL EDITOR Aimee Tucker

DIGITAL ASSISTANT EDITOR Cathryn McCann

ASSOCIATE EDITOR Joe Bills

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Kim Knox Beckius, Edie Clark, Ben Hewitt, Julia Shipley

CONTRIBUTING

PHOTOGRAPHERS Julie Bidwell, Kindra Clineff, Sara Gray, Corey Hendrickson, Joe Keller, Joel Laino, Jarrod McCabe, Michael Piazza, Heath Robbins, Carl Tremblay

PRODUCTION

PRODUCTION DIRECTORS David Ziarnowski, Susan Gross

SENIOR PRODUCTION ARTISTS Jennifer Freeman, Rachel Kipka

DIGITAL

VP NEW MEDIA & PRODUCTION Paul Belliveau Jr.

DIGITAL MARKETING MANAGER Amy O’Brien

YANKEE PUBLISHING INC.

established 1935

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Judson D. Hale Sr.

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Food: Classic Christmas Cookie Recipes

Sweeten your holiday season with these favorites from the Yankee archives.

NEWENGLAND.COM/ CHRISTMAS-COOKIES

Events: Best Yuletide Celebrations

A guide to the merriest Christmas-themed events in New England.

NEWENGLAND.COM/ CHRISTMAS-CELEBRATIONS

Holidays: Turkey Cheat Sheet

Our expert advice on everything turkey, from choosing the right one to knowing when it’s done.

NEWENGLAND.COM/ THANKSGIVING-CHEAT-SHEET

Travel: Where to Ring In the New Year

We round up the can’t-miss New Year’s Eve bashes for bidding 2017 farewell.

NEWENGLAND.COM/ NEW-YEARS-EVE

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BILL SCHELLER

A longtime Vermonter who’s written more than two dozen books and 300-plus articles, Scheller says his interest in the 1917 Halifax explosion [“How Boston Got Its Christmas Tree,” p. 124] stemmed in part from reading Barometer Rising, a 1941 novel centering on the disaster. “I’ve never taken the ferry between Halifax and Dartmouth without trying to visualize the devastation the city suffered that day,” he says.

AMY TRAVERSO

Scouting for the Editors’ Choice Food Awards [p. 70] is “my favorite kind of shopping,” reports Traverso, senior food editor. “I’ll come across some farm stand or market and discover a really good new cheese or chocolate—and I feel like a baseball scout who found the next great pitcher!” Besides overseeing Yankee ’s food coverage, she is the cohost of Weekends with Yankee and author of The Apple Lover’s Cookbook.

COREY HENDRICKSON

After spending a day on Melody and Patrick Houle’s tree farm [“A Movable Forest,” p. 108], photographer Hendrickson says one moment really stands out: After hours in the bitter cold trying to repair a client’s broken-down delivery truck, Patrick put together a hot meal of soup and cocoa and brought it out to the crew. “It wasn’t a question for Pat or Melody—they would do anything to help somebody in need.”

JOE KEOHANE

A native Bostonian transplanted to New York, Keohane was on the scene as Melody and Patrick Houle set up their Christmas tree lot in Brooklyn [“A Movable Forest,” p. 108]. Given that New York can be “a pretty brusque town,” says Keohane, who’s written for the likes of Esquire and The New Yorker, “seeing the repeat customers light up on seeing those two was fascinating and inspiring.”

GRACE ALDRICH

Originally hailing from Dorchester, Massachusetts, Aldrich is a storyteller and musician in Dublin, New Hampshire. Her saga of giving birth to son Calvin in a car [“Baby on Board,” p. 132] has a funny epilogue: The automobile in question was sold when Calvin was a toddler, and for a few years afterward he’d exclaim, “Hey! She has my car!” whenever the new owner passed him and his parents on the road.

HEATH ROBBINS

“I always love combining lifestyle and food and creating the feeling of a family/community meal,” Robbins says of photographing Justin and Danielle Walker’s big holiday get-together in Maine [“Thanksgiving on the Farm,” p. 54]. Plus, this Massachusetts resident is used to having delicious things in front of his lens, having shot for Food & Wine, Bon Appétit, and Panera Bread, among others.

A New Chapter

When our feature about the forthcoming sale of E.B. White’s former home [“The House at Allen Cove,” September/October] appeared in a special preview on NewEngland.com, the news was picked up by dozens of national and even international outlets. The story created a swell of interest in the historic Maine salt water farm where White wrote Charlotte’s Web, and which owners Robert and Mary Gallant had reluctantly decided to sell after 31 happy years there. “All these messages [from readers] are so emotional and touching,” Mary Gallant told us. “I didn’t realize others knew how much we cared.” She kept us updated through the selling process, recounting both the excitement of the intense interest and the bittersweet knowledge that their house would soon have a new owner. Shortly before this issue went to press, she wrote to say that a large family had signed an agreement for the farm—meaning that, with luck, there will continue to be young people laughing at play, boats being launched, and grounds lovingly tended there.

What I would give to just spend a day on this farm! I’m a retired third-grade teacher, and I read Charlotte’s Web over and over again to each classroom filled with my students, and each year I still got choked up when Charlotte died…. In my home now I am creating a Charlotte’s Web bedroom for my grandchildren, complete with two vintage barn doors and a piece of barn wood that says “Salutations.”

Leslie Ann Plucknette Spencerport, New York

I am the middle daughter of Henry Allen [the farm’s longtime caretaker]. I was so blessed to have had a dad who provided me the opportunity to spend my growing-up years with E.B. and Mrs. White. Among my fondest memories are the times when Mr. White and I would play piano duets on the grand piano in his study, and his dachshund would sit by our feet and chime in.

MEGHAN TANSEY WHITTON (SCHELLER); MARK FLEMING (TRAVERSO); ALLANA TARANTO (ALDRICH); MATTHEW BURDICK (ROBBINS); INDIAN HILL PRESS (“DECKING THE HALLS”)

DECKING THE HALLS

Lights and garlands by the mile

Are hung with an ecstatic smile...

The mirror image of the frown

With which we’ll later take them down.

—D.A.W.

I’m very grateful to the Gallants for allowing me and my husband, daughter, and granddaughter to visit and to walk through the barn, swing through the barn doors, and ride down to the boathouse. It looked the same as it did in years past: a beautiful home with beautiful surroundings.

Cheryl Allen Ginn Pell City, Alabama

Fair Point

I always love being kept up to date on what’s going on in New England, but again our city gets no credit for having, as you describe it, “the largest fair in the Northeast.” Your magazine’s event calendar [“Out & About,” September/October] states that it is in Springfield. It is not!

Since all of us who live in WEST SPRINGFIELD put up with all the crowds and traffic that come to our city, the least you could do is give us credit for having the largest fair!

Linda Brainerd West Springfield, Massachusetts

Homes for the Holidays

hen we were putting together this issue, I could see that the meaning of home—something that is never more present in our lives than at this time of year—seemed to be expressed on nearly every page. In our home and food features, two sets of New England culinary stars open their homes so that readers can do a bit of armchair peeking at how they cook for the holidays. We meet the warm and welcoming Brass sisters and can almost feel we’ve been invited to stay awhile and have a slice of coffee cake. We follow hundreds of Christmas trees from their home soil in northern Vermont to a Brooklyn neighborhood and thence to hundreds of new homes, and it’s as though we’re seeing anew a tradition many of us take for granted but which only happens after many weeks, even years, of arduous work. And we bring you a story that you may have forgotten, about how a long-ago tragedy in Nova Scotia was met with an outpouring of compassion and generosity by Bostonians, and how every December a Canadian tree finds a new home in Boston.

Only a few weeks ago, I was certain I would fill this space by showing how the meaning of home was reflected in these stories—but that all changed when Yankee ’s beloved columnist, Edie Clark, who has written so many stories and so many columns about her rural life in New England, took a fall. Turns out Edie had been falling frequently, without warning, but always refused to go to the hospital. This last time she acquiesced, and the doctors told her she had suffered a series of small but significant strokes. She spent a month in the hospital and now is having rehab therapy at a nearby facility. Her spirits are good. She laughs. Friends come by daily. She is still Edie.

Edie may not write again. That is a simple fact, and it is difficult for me to admit. But I knew I needed to let her loyal readers, the thousands who say they turn first to her “Mary’s Farm” whenever Yankee comes into their home, know why this issue features one of Edie’s favorite columns from the past.

I will write more about Edie and her hillside farm in the January/February 2018 issue. It is unlikely she will be able to return to the homestead that she nurtured and that in turn nurtured the words that touched so many. The family is putting its efforts toward finding a good, caring place for Edie to put down new roots—and she is someone who does this. Even if it’s in a setting where most of the residents have come because they no longer could maneuver in their previous homes, she will discover new stories and observations. What will change is that she may not be able to set them down in the words she wants to find.

We will run some of our favorite Edie Clark columns through 2018, and many more can be found between the covers of her books. Writers achieve a measure of immortality with words, and Edie has used hers to describe things that seem small—a storm, a handyman, the scent of beans baking in a wood-fired oven—yet are rooted so deep in place that time is all but suspended.

To send Edie cards, write here, to Yankee : 1121 Main Street, Dublin, New Hampshire 03444. We will visit Edie frequently, and it will be a fine pick-me-up for us to bring her a box of cards and read them aloud.

Mel Allen

PS: To order any of Edie Clark’s books, including her newest, As Simple as That: Collected Essays , you can go to her website, edieclark.com.

Half Buried

A long-forgotten ornament hints at the holidays’ timeless joys.

ast fall, I was pruning the lilacs that grow on the east side of my barn. Since they are easily 15 feet tall, this is not a simple task, and it requires the use of a ladder. I was making good progress, taking away the old growth to let the new shoots come in more strongly and snipping off the withered blossoms to encourage better flowers next spring. I worked on one section for as far as I could reach and then moved the ladder over. When I set the legs into the grass, burned down then by frost, I spotted something in the earth, something a bit shiny. It is not unusual to find pieces of old bottles and rusted pieces of farm equipment, even occasionally shards of pottery, in our grasses, in our fields, where our forerunners, in their innocence, disposed of their trash. But this was not the usual find. It was thin, delicate.

With one finger, I pushed aside the dried stems. It looked like a Christmas ornament, half buried in the ground. I carefully worked it free, assuming the underside would be broken. With gentle persuasion, the little ball came loose from the earth’s grip. To my surprise, it was whole. Not even a crack. I turned it in my hand. The green color had faded, leaving a mirrorlike finish on one side and clear glass on the other. Bits of grass and earth clung to the sides; it was like an egg just out of its nest.

I took it inside and held it to the light. Where had it come from? How long had it been under the earth beside the barn like that? How had it survived the storms and the cold, the heat, and the rains? Did my predecessors decorate this old hay barn at Christmastime? It seemed so unlikely. But then, so are most Christmas decorations here, where the midwinter is bleak. We are noted for keeping our holiday lights up longer than we need to. It isn’t unusual, in mid-July, to find a wreath or two, needles red-brown, as dry as tinder, still adorning the front door. I know of at least one family in town who continue to light their Christmas lights long after the day has passed, long after the cold is gone.

Why do we do it? Maybe we just like to keep feeling that warm, excited anticipation that Christmas brings us. Maybe we find it an effective way to fight off the darkness of winter. Maybe it’s an answer to the craving for color that sets in around January, when our world here is so black and white. Probably all of those things contribute, but I tend to think it’s a family thing. Those of us who live alone don’t usually go in for the decorations in the ways that families do. I pass a house, all lit up, and I think somehow that inside there lives a big family, an excitement building, tantalized by the strobes of the season.

I suppose it can’t be analyzed, only acknowledged. I put the ornament on my shelf, without even wiping off the flecks of earth. As the winter closed in, I kept my eye on that little ball. It seemed to have something to say. When Christmas came, I bought myself a string of lights and went out into the woods and cut a small fir tree. I brought it inside and dug out the box of ornaments my husband and I had collected. The last time they’d seen the light was the year before he died. Each one I unwrapped reminded me of another time, another place. After I’d hung them all, I put a wire loop inside the tiny gazing ball, its mysteries intact, stories untold, and hung it on the highest branch.

This classic essay was first published in the December 1997 issue of Yankee as one of Edie Clark’s “The Garden at Chesham Depot” columns.

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Transitions

The changing seasons offer a reminder to treasure every gift while it lasts.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY PENNY HEWITT

n Election Day I tow our tractor a dozen miles to the north, to help move material for a foundation job my friend Michael is working on. I drive slowly, as I always do when I’m towing, and as I mostly do even when I’m not towing. On a little-traveled gravel road I pass a herd of black Angus walking single file along a well-worn path across a stubbled field, the sun already high and hot on their dark flanks. It is warmer than it should be for November, or at least it seems so to me; earlier in the morning, I’d done chores in a T-shirt, the crop of goose bumps on my arms receding as sunlight filtered through the copse of spruce that defines the eastern boundary of our land.

I drive with the window down, my left arm hanging lazily out. From time to time, I rest my hand on the side-view mirror, then let it fall again to bounce my fingers against the door in time to the music on the radio. It’s George Thorogood and the Destroyers singing “I Drink Alone,” one of those songs that live forever in the recesses of my memory, and I find myself mindlessly mouthing the lyrics as I watch the Angus amble toward fence-line shade and my hand thumps to the beat.

The fine weather won’t last, of course, and this is precisely what makes it so delicious. Were I a more grateful person, I’d probably be able to see that every day is a gift. Yet while I certainly aspire to such a view, I can’t with any honesty lay claim to it. My life is full of goodness and beauty, to be sure, but like most people I endure days that seem to take more than they give, though I strive always for awareness of my privilege: I am male, white, and English-speaking in a country that favors such things, and beyond that I am hearty and hale, and I can reasonably expect to still live for as many years as I have so far lived. My family is also healthy, my children belligerent only on occasion. All of which is to say: My bad days are better than many people’s good ones.

But a T-shirt morning in November? A truck window open to that particular scent of autumnal heat, defined by the earthen notes of desiccated maple leaves and picked-over pastures, the grass down to nub ends, losing color by the day? It’s so different from the lush odor of spring, when everything is verdant and wet and bursting with emerging life. That odor lives in the chest. This one is more nasal; it resides in the head, not the body, and I breathe it deeply as I drive. It’s barely past 8 in the morning, and already I can see this day for the gift that it is. It’s not one to erase from the calendar, or even to add to the tally without remark. It’s too fine and too rare for that, and I know it will lodge in my memory to be recalled at will, almost like the lyrics to an old rock ’n’ roll song I didn’t even know I knew.

Late that afternoon, after Michael and I have finished our work together and I’ve loaded the tractor and headed for home, I pass the herd of Angus again. They’re walking the same path they’d walked that morning, but this time in the opposite direction. I feel a sudden, almost irrational sense of gratitude at the alignment of our schedules, all of us bound for the familiar comfort of nighttime shelter. It’s still warm, verging on hot, and I’m dirty from the day’s work, which involved a

Everything seems heightened during these ephemeral periods: The smells are sharper and fuller, the colors deeper.

As snow sifts down in late autumn, Ben Hewitt tends to his cows Apple, right, a Jersey-Devon cross, and Bilbo and Frodo, who are part British White and part Milking Shorthorn.

fair bit of skin-to-soil contact. When I glance at my arm resting on the truck’s windowsill, I see that the crease of my elbow is filled with a puttylike mixture of sweat and dirt, and suddenly I can think of nothing but the pond and how good it will feel to immerse myself in it. The pond is spring-fed and cold even in the middle of summer; now, with many hard frosts behind us, the water will be almost painful to the touch, and for a moment I allow myself to believe I’ll walk right past it. But as soon as I park the truck, even before I unload the tractor or climb the small rise to the house to greet my family, I shuck off my clothes and jump in.

As expected, the warm weather does not last. Only a couple of weeks after my final swim of the year, a snow

squall deposits a fast handful of inches. A few days after that, the temperature drops to 12 below, and we are thrust into winter proper. Outside, the cows take refuge under the tin roof of the run-in shed, and the hens hide away in their winter coop. Egg production drops from a solid dozen per day to barely half that—just enough to maintain our breakfast habit.

Inside, we tend the wood stove, slowly diminishing the stacks the boys spent so many hours assembling only a few months before. Don’t worry, fellas, I say. There’ll be plenty more wood to stack come spring. For some reason, the humor is lost on them.

Penny begins her annual tradition of folding strips of birch bark into graceful star ornaments. She makes

some to sell and many more to give away; by now, most relatives and many friends have received a star, but still every year it seems there are more to give, the circle of recipients expanding as people come into our lives or the mood strikes. She does this mostly in the evenings, while the boys and I read or play card games, betting away nickels and dimes as if they grew on trees. We retire to bed early, leaving the fire to burn down to ashes; in the morning, I’ll lay a new fire and enjoy a quiet hour to myself, sitting by the wood stove as I am right now, drinking coffee with the cats milling about, rubbing against my shin as they pass.

It is the transitions I love the most. The transitions of the seasons—fall to winter, to spring, then summer and fall again. Everything seems heightened during these ephemeral periods: The smells are sharper and fuller, the colors deeper. There’s an emotional quality to transition, too, composed in part of the urgency in preparing for the coming season but also, I think, of the reminder that all is impermanent. Nothing lasts forever. Not a halcyon November day, not a woodpile, not a snowstorm. Not a life.

And I love the transitions at the shoulders of each day, like the one happening around me right now, as early light comes into the sky. Soon I’ll rise from my chair, don rubber boots and wool jacket, and step out into a cleansing blanket of new-fallen snow. The boughs of the conifers hang heavy, and I regard them as I walk toward the barn, wondering if the trees hold awareness of this strange new weight. Already I know that later in the afternoon Penny and I will step into cross-country skis. We’ll pass directly through town on our way to a hilltop sugarbush just to the north of our land. The bush is untapped, and the owner has cut narrow, winding trails through the stately maples. We’ll ski until the light has dimmed, then turn back, past the old town church, over the small bridge, and up the short hill to home.

Birches on the Hewitts’ land yield the bark—carefully harvested to avoid harming the trees—that Penny uses to craft Christmas ornaments each fall.

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First LIGHT

Angels Among Us

Our annual appreciation of ordinary people with extraordinary hearts.

BY IAN ALDRICH

INTO THE WILD

s Annemarie Albiston steps into the great room of the Adaptive Outdoor Education Center in Carrabassett Valley, Maine, she spreads her arms wide to introduce the light-drenched space. Before her is a couch, a pair of large comfortable chairs, and a tall fieldstone fireplace. “I came in here one afternoon last winter and I saw just the most amazing thing,” she says. “The fire was going, and all around this room were guests— with prosthetic legs lying everywhere and people in wheelchairs buzzing about.” She shakes her head and rubs her arm. “I still get goose bumps thinking about it.”

A sign hanging over a nearby window reads: “If you can dream it, you can build it.” It’s an appropriate motto for Annemarie and her husband, Bruce, who two years ago built this center, which sits at the foot of the Sugarloaf ski resort and serves as a gateway to the outdoors for people with physical and mental disabilities. Since it opened, there have been a lot of first-time moments for its guests: a first spin on a bike, a first winter glide on skis, a first hike, a first kayak ride. In other words, Annemarie has gotten a lot of goose bumps.

The Albistons, both retired, are native Mainers who’ve spent nearly two decades bringing a slice of their home state—its skiing and sailing, snowshoeing, and hiking—to people of all ages who rarely, if ever, get a chance to experience it. They’ve worked with groups that serve the disability community, such as Maine Adaptive and Pine Tree Camps, and since 2012 they have organized an annual weekend retreat for individuals with aphasia, a condition, usually resulting from a stroke, that leaves them without the ability to communicate.

But in these efforts there were limits to the kind of assistance the Albistons could offer. The outdoor experiences weren’t always as immersive as they liked; program costs priced some people out of enjoying them. So, five years ago the Albistons set out to create their own facility, and in December 2015 they welcomed their first guests to the Adaptive Outdoor Education Center.

On a two-acre lot there’s a spacious lodge that sleeps 25; two large yurts for entertainment, meals, and crafts; an adaptive challenge course; and a recently built handicap-accessible treehouse. Hiking trails snake through the

Annemarie and Bruce Albiston are on a mission to put the great outdoors within everyone’s reach. Here, they encourage angling enthusiast Donald Freeman of Bath, Maine, a return visitor to their Adaptive Outdoor Education Center. MARK FLEMING

ture she could find and connected with experts, and over a long weekend she volunteered with Bruce at an aphasia center in New Jersey. On their way back to Maine, the couple vowed to create a support network like it closer to home. “I kept saying, ‘We have to do this, we have to do this,’” says Annemarie.

At their first weekend retreat for aphasia victims and their families, held in Rome, Maine, in 2012, guests ate good food, made crafts, and received free manicures and pedicures. “We had 11 people come, and it felt like this huge success,” says Annemarie. “With aphasia, people live in a kind of isolation, and when it was over it was like we were all old friends.”

Among those who attended in 2012 were Beverly Glaude and her husband,

was judging him,” Beverly says of the retreat. “On the day we all left, everybody was crying.”

The retreat went on to become an annual event, growing steadily, and the Glaudes returned for every one until this year, when Leo passed away. His paintings now hang on the walls of the Adaptive Outdoor Education Center, which he and Beverly visited in the summer of 2016. “Bruce and Annemarie spend the money to make things right,” says Beverly. “What they’ve created has meant everything to us.”

There is more to come. On a late spring day, the Albistons were mapping out a new interactive hiking trail, which would feature signs that visually impaired guests could scan with a smartphone to learn about their imme-

the coming week the couple would travel south to look at an old farm in Cumberland to purchase. Their plan: to build a satellite version of the Adaptive Outdoor Education Center that could also host cooking and gardening classes. There would be more space, more of a population to draw from, and more of an impact to make.

“There’s just so much to do,” Bruce says. (adaptiveoutdooreducationcenter.org)

A MOTHER’S CALLING

In late 2012, Blyth Lord was flying back from Orlando trying to figure out the rest of her life. For the previous decade, the 45-year-old television producer and Newton, Massachusetts, resident had volunteered her time as an

educator on issues surrounding the care of a child with a life-threatening illness. She had produced videos on the topic, given parent group talks, and delivered high-profile presentations at physicians’ conferences up and down the East Coast. It was important work, necessary work—but it wasn’t enough, she felt.

“The sense of urgency was profound,” she says. “I was starting to have this calling, and I was horribly afraid that I was not going to heed it. That I would die with regret that I missed something that I was supposed to do.”

Lord’s passion was born out of loss. In 2001, her 2-year-old daughter, Cameron, died of Tay-Sachs disease, a rare and incurable genetic illness that results in early childhood death. But the overwhelming grief she and her husband, Charlie, shared was softened by the medical care they had given to their daughter. “What resonated was that for something that was incredibly sad, it was as good as it could possibly be,” says Lord. “We made the best decisions we could, and we had no regrets.”

Lord, the mother of two other young daughters, says this peace of mind stemmed from the high-level palliative care that accompanied Cameron’s illness. Through it, they navigated thorny issues of pain management and whether a feeding tube should be used to extend their daughter’s life (they decided it shouldn’t). But the Lords’ experience was the exception, not the rule. At the time, palliative care in children’s medicine was still in its infancy, leaving parents with little guidance when it came to making gut-wrenching decisions. Lord wanted to change that.

Working closely with Cameron’s pediatrician, she brought her message of the benefits of creating more complete end-of-life care to groups and medical schools throughout New England. But its reach felt limited, and

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First LIGHT | ANGELS AMONG US

on that plane ride back from Orlando, Lord began to sketch out on a legal pad the beginnings of a new project: a Web-based multimedia platform to connect the parents of seriously ill children with information, expertise, and, most important, other people who wrestled with the same issues.

“I wanted families to see they’re not alone,” says Lord. “Parents trust [other parents] and learn from them. But parents like this, in this situation, are very hard to find.”

In spring 2013, Lord left her job at WGBH in Boston. Less than a year later, she launched the Courageous Parents Network (CPN). The website offers original videos, blog posts, and podcasts that cover the scope of issues that come with caring for a seriously ill child, from bereavement to marriage health. New content goes up every month, much of it featuring families

who’ve used the site’s resources. CPN is free to use and totally anonymous. Many of CPN’s referrals come from the medical community. Sarah and Steve Shaw, for instance, were pointed to it by a palliative care social worker at Boston Children’s Hospital. Residents of Burlington, Vermont, the Shaws learned in early 2016 that their 7-month-old daughter, Emerson, had Gaucher disease type 2, a fatal neurological illness. Over the next several months, the family’s life became a stream of doctor’s visits and grieving. The couple felt as if they were on an island, and a virtual community hardly seemed a way to alleviate that. But late one night, Sarah went on CPN—and what she discovered surprised her.

“It was really helpful to hear other parents articulate things we didn’t have the words for yet,” Sarah recalls. “‘Anticipatory grief’—I’d never heard

of it. But that’s what I was feeling. You’re looking at your happy baby, but you’re grieving her death. It gave me context for those feelings.”

Connections like that are the very building blocks of CPN. The network can’t save a child’s life, but it can honor it by helping parents feel more empowered in the decisions they make and more comfortable with the emotions they must navigate.

“This is something that started out very personal for me,” says Lord, who uses a mix of donations and grants to fund the site’s services. “But now it’s about all the other families we’re talking with and inviting to tell their story. These people I have met and heard from are dealing with sacred, beautiful, and profound issues that are really grounding. It’s life and death, and finding meaning in the face of it.” (courageousparentsnetwork.org)

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Flight of Fancy

Expert observations on Santa’s reindeer reveal a uniquely gifted animal.

n Yankee’s excerpt from Robert Sullivan’s 1996 book Flight of the Reindeer: The True Story of Santa Claus and His Christmas Mission, wildlife experts revealed some little-known facts about the Peary caribou (Rangifer tarandus pearyi) , aka Santa’s reindeer.

■ Like all caribou, the Peary has a cloven hoof, which creates a large surface area useful for all kinds of walking, running, and thrusting. Furthermore, the Peary living at the North Pole have developed hooves as big as those of a caribou four times their size. Flat on the bottom but streamlined from toe to heel, it acts as a kind of snowshoe on the ground, and in the air it acts as a small, solid wing.

■ Among Peary caribou, only certain individuals can take off and fly for any length of time. Why?

“Apparently, only one pattern of antler allows for extended flight,” says one naturalist. “This one complex configuration creates a vortex of wind at high speeds. The perfect rack acts as a big mainsail, lifting the beast heavenward.”

■ While many kinds of caribou can sort of fly—for instance, a 600-pound woodland caribou can clear a river with a jump and glide—it’s only the Peary that “mounts to the sky.” Credit this partly to its physical traits, says one scholar, but also to willpower: “The truly successful flying deer, certainly including the ones used by Santa Claus, must have tremendous intestinal fortitude.”

—Adapted from “Do They Really Fly? Really?” by Robert Sullivan, December 1996. Sullivan is now finishing up his sequel, Flight of the Reindeer II: Santa’s Eternal Mission in a Smaller World.

WE WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG

—Carlton Fisk (born December 26, 1947, in Bellows Falls, Vermont). A paragon of durability, this Red Sox Hall of Famer played 24 years as a catcher, baseball’s most physically demanding position. Though told he would never play again after suffering a serious knee injury in 1974, Fisk came back just a year later to star in a historic World Series moment: frantically waving the ball fair after hitting what would be the winning home run in game 6 against the Cincinnati Reds.

“If the human body recognized agony and frustration, people would never run marathons, have babies, or play baseball.”

1949

Year that Maria Augusta von Trapp’s memoir, The Story of the Trapp Family Singers, is published

99

Age of Maria Franziska von Trapp, the last of the original seven siblings, when she died in 2014

Number of von Trapp children (three from Baron von Trapp’s marriage to former governess Maria Augusta, seven from his first marriage)

11/6/1959

Date of the Broadway debut of The Sound of Music, the musical based on the von Trapps’ story

600,000 Estimated number of people who see The Sound of Music performed each year around the world

1942

Year the von Trapps buy the Stowe, Vermont, farm that would become the Trapp Family Lodge

The Retirement of a Lifetime

Number of guest rooms in the original lodge

2,500

Size in acres of the Trapp Family Lodge property

3,889 Approximate distance in miles between Stowe and the family’s previous home in Salzburg, Austria

96 Number of guest rooms in today’s Trapp Family Lodge

THIRD

Generation of von Trapps now managing the lodge

Compiled by Julia Shipley

Jonathan Meath has spent most of his career delighting kids, both as a children’s TV producer ( Zoom, Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? ) and, here, as the man in the big red suit.

How to Really Be Santa Claus

BY JOE BILLS

onathan Meath has been making personal appearances on behalf of Santa Claus for more than a decade. Last year, the 62-year-old New Hampshire native landed one of the highest-profile Santa gigs in the world when Coca-Cola selected him for its international ad campaign. Though Meath now lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, he recently stopped by Yankee ’s offices, just before filming began for this season’s Coke ads, to talk about how to channel the famous jolly old elf.

It Doesn’t Matter How It Starts

Nobody volunteers to play Santa, Meath jokes. “People get drafted. Nine times out of 10, they are dragged, kicking and screaming. But once they do it, they have that transformational moment.” For Meath, a heavyset guy whose hair and beard turned prematurely white, portraying Santa seemed almost inevitable. Early on, he even had a vision of himself

in full Santa suit, leading a big band. “I thought it might be a hook that people would respond to,” he says. “Turns out there wasn’t a lot of call for Santa singing songs, but it led me in.” (He did record a CD of holiday tunes, however, called Santa JG Swings! )

Don’t Skimp on the Details

“My advice to anyone who wants to be a Santa is simple: Get a gig, buy a suit, and make it yours,” Meath says. “There are plenty of good-quality suits available. But if you’re going to do it, put your heart into it. Get real boots and a real belt. Without those, you’ll feel like you are faking it. It’s a uniform, not a costume. It’s a business suit.”

Be Prepared to Feel the Love

At first, Meath says, it was the message that grabbed him. Santa is a male role model who is about peace and love,

Your shape and your laugh may be important, but your heart is what makes you Saint Nick.

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and expressing love and affection is uncomfortable for many men at first. “Until you do it, you don’t know what it’s like,” he says. “Once you do it, you want more. When you see it reflected in the eyes of children, you never want to give it up.”

Work on Your Laugh(s)

It’s important to get the “HO-HOHO!” right. It should be hearty and deep. But Meath acknowledges that Santa’s famous big laugh can be offputting to some children. “Some kids are too shy or nervous for that. But a restrained little chuckle brings them right in.”

It’s Never About the Photo Op

“As Santa, you are there to bring joy to the children,” Meath says. “You aren’t there for the picture. The picture is a document. The experience is what it’s about.”

There Are No Bad Kids

It’s common for kids to be scared of Santa—after all, he knows if you’ve been naughty. “Santa is a giver, not a denier,” Meath maintains. “All children are good. All are worthy of joy and love.” When a child suggests that Santa isn’t real, Meath laughs it off with a “that’s so silly, of course I’m real” chuckle. (Kids, by the way, aren’t the beard pullers. “It’s the grown women who think that’s funny,” Meath says. “And you know what? The beard is real. It hurts.”)

Embrace the Responsibility

As Santa, Meath says, you are the protector of a legacy. Once you accept that, “it doesn’t weigh on you, it flows. Santa, if you allow him, embodies you. You don’t become Santa; he becomes you. When you embrace that inclusive, humanistic, giving spirit of an elf who loves mankind, especially children, in all colors, shapes, and forms, it just flows. We all know, in our hearts, how to be a great Santa.”

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Chester Greenwood’s marvelous Maine-made earmuffs.

n the first Saturday in December in Farmington, Maine, no matter the weather, you’ll see earmuffs everywhere, snugged over the heads of residents young and old in this town of about 7,700. Forbearing pets will be wearing them, too—as will just about anything that can be fitted with a U-shaped band and two fluffy pads. Police cruisers and fire engines. The lawn sign for the senior citizens home. The high school football team’s state championship trophy.

All this, to honor a 15-year-old Farmington boy named Chester Greenwood who had very large, very sensitive ears, and—after a particularly painful afternoon spent skating on a local pond in 1873—decided to apply some Yankee ingenuity to the problem. A few twists of baling wire, some fabric pads sewn by his grandmother, and voilà: He had the prototype for what he would patent four years later as “ear-mufflers” and ultimately brand as “Greenwood’s Champion Ear Protectors.”

Though others had patented ear warmers of varying practicality, young Chester’s design—with a spring steel headband holding the pads firmly against the ears— was the one that caught on. By 1883, his Farmington factory was making 50,000 pairs a year. He would eventually supply them to World War I soldiers; in 1936, the factory, now employing nearly 100 residents, turned out some 400,000 earmuffs.

His empire did not long outlast him, after his death in 1937 at age 78. But in 1977 the state officially designated a day to commemorate his “inventive genius and native ability, which contributed much to the enjoyment of Maine’s winter season,” and which now, 40 years later, Farmingtonians celebrate to show that they will always have a warm spot for Chester Greenwood, forever their man of the ear.

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WHEN FOOD IS YOUR LIFE

What do two Portland restaurant stars demand for their own kitchen?

BY PEGGY GRODINSKY

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK FLEMING STYLING BY JANICE DUNWOODY

Maine’s biggest salt marsh provides the scenic backdrop for Steve and Michelle Corry’s wide-open kitchen at their Scarborough home.

hen Steve and Michelle Corry opened the restaurant Five Fifty-Five in downtown Portland, Maine, 14 years ago, they spent a year and a half living in an apartment above it. They were working so many long hours and seven-day weeks, they barely registered that their “kitchen” had just a single appliance. There was no stove, no refrigerator, no oven—only a coffee maker.

Their next home was a tiny bungalow in Cape Elizabeth that they still speak of fondly. They had a real kitchen (and real appliances), but, like the house itself, it was diminutive. While they could comfortably turn out meals for themselves, once they started a family, space was tight. And forget about entertaining.

Today, the couple have two boys, Seamus, 10, and Finnigan, 8; two restaurants, the elegant Five Fifty-Five and the French bistro and pâtisserie Petite Jacqueline, also in Portland; serious culinary cred, including a 2007 Best New Chef nod from Food & Wine for Steve; and a big, beautiful, sunny open kitchen with an even bigger view.

That open kitchen and, more broadly, the easy flow throughout the first floor weren’t mere selling points when the Corrys began searching for a new home eight years ago; they were prerequisites. And the full-on, sensational view of Scarborough Marsh through a bank of windows and the dining room glass doors—the kind of fish-jumping, bird-swooping, coyotehowling view that gives Maine its “Vacationland” tag—certainly didn’t hurt, either.

“I don’t take that for granted at all,” Steve says. “Occasionally, it will catch you off guard, when the light is just right, usually at dusk or dawn. ‘Wow! Would you look at this!’ For the most part, it’s why we bought the house. The kitchen is situated, indoors and out, on that.” He pauses from searing a peppercorn-and-fennel-seed-crusted pork loin to gesture toward Maine’s largest salt marsh.

“I love cooking here,” he continues. “I really do. It’s a hobby again, and not a profession. Cooking at home is where it all started.”

The Corrys’ kitchen has the usual accoutrements of a showstopper: Viking appliances, ample granite countertops, rustic farmhouse sink,

walk-in pantry, generously sized workhorse island, outsize refrigerator and wine refrigerators, and dishdrawer dishwashers. (About those last appliances—Michelle loves them. Steve, accustomed to restaurant dishwashers, finds them agonizingly slow.)

But, like the rest of the house, the big, luxe kitchen also manages to be warm. It’s filled with personal touches. There’s a cutting board with “Steve Corry’s Kitchen” etched into its well-worn surface. Two refurbished red tractor seats sit under the counter. Framed antique corkscrews hang below wood cabinets and trace the history of the tool (Michelle oversees the wine programs at the restaurants, along with handling reservations, management, payroll, and marketing). More practically, an elaborate, grape-bedecked counter-mounted corkscrew stands at the ready, while a poster in the dining room suggests: “Save water, drink champagne.” The refrigerator is papered in family photos and children’s artwork, and a National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds is tucked in among the cookbooks.

Although the Corrys have done work in other parts of the house— remodeling a bedroom here, a bathroom there—they have no plans to change the kitchen, which came pretty much as is. But three years ago, they did build a deck—a splendid deck that runs the length of the house, complete with a firepit where they hold the occasional lobster bake, plus an outdoor dining table and comfy wicker chairs.

Steve’s pride and joy stands in the corner of the deck nearest to the kitchen: an imposing masonry oven. Stoneworkers meticulously cut and placed the stones by hand; one afternoon during construction, 17 stoneworkers toiled on it, Steve recalled. The oven walls are 10 inches thick, and the temperature inside can reach a scorching 800 degrees. A turn of an exterior wheel cranks the oven shelves up and down. Altogether, it’s a thing of beauty.

The Corrys at Christmas: Michelle and Finnigan read about the origins of Santa Claus as Steve and Seamus play with Einstein (a puppy when this picture was taken, “he’s now almost 100 pounds!” Michelle reports).

Built to Steve’s specifications by Nate Libby’s Masonry, this oven can be used as anything from a smoker to a natural convection oven to an impressive outdoor fireplace.

“Half the battle—in the restaurant, too—is the atmosphere and the presentation,” Steve says. “You just look at the fire, and you start to salivate.”

The oven allows the Corrys to extend Maine’s all-too-fleeting season for outdoor cooking; in fact, they use it year-round. On this pleasant October evening, Steve has a good fire going. He places the pork loin and potatoes in the oven to roast, along with a gratin of cauliflower and Brussels sprouts. The couple have used it to grill fish and roast oysters, bake wood-fired pizza, cold-smoke salmon, and roast goat and pork for a staff taco party. Christmas dinner at the Corry household has come to mean a jumbo wood-fired roast: a whole suckling pig, a leg of lamb, maybe a turkey.

It might seem obvious why the Corrys are their family’s designated Christmas dinner hosts: If you were

related to award-winning restaurateurs, wouldn’t they get your vote? They’ve got the best food, and even their boys know how to be gracious hosts, greeting a stranger with handshakes, taking an interest in the olives and the cheese, asking if they may be excused from the table.

But that’s not how the Corrys earned their Christmas assignment. The holiday season is frenzied for restaurateurs, and Five Fifty-Five and Petite Jacqueline, though closed on Christmas Day, are packed on Christmas Eve. Since the Corrys can’t get away, their family comes to them: Michelle’s mom and stepfather on Christmas Eve, Steve’s extended family on Christmas Day.

The couple bought their house with exactly this in mind. There’s enough room to seat, and sleep, everybody. Steve does much of the cooking. Michelle usually handles the

C AMARA S LATE P

hors d’oeuvres (some combination of cheese, oysters, and charcuterie), the stylish table setting, and the extensive holiday decorations. But the division of labor isn’t hard and fast. Partners at home and at work, the Corrys make entertaining look serene, seamless, and instinctive. Guests in their home feel well cared for and, it goes without saying, well fed.

“It’s fun for us, to be honest, to entertain at home,” Michelle says. “Entertaining for 20 when you usually entertain for 200 is not difficult. It’s a fun group. There is no stress. If dinner doesn’t come out in time, nobody really cares. And you know, if you have a couple glasses of wine, cleanup is not so bad, either.”

Do you know a house with an irresistible story? Contact Yankee home and garden editor Annie Graves, with photos, at annieg5355@yahoo.com.

• Fieldstone stone

Yankee likes to mosey around and see, out of editorial curiosity, what you can turn up when you go house hunting. We have no stake in the sale whatsoever and would decline it if offered.

The 18th-Century House That Children Love

here are the railroad tracks?” is a question Jody Newman often hears during the tours she gives local third-graders of her classic 1760 center-chimney colonial in Stow, Massachusetts. (She explains to them, you see, that the home supposedly was part of the Underground Railroad.) Jody told us this as we were relaxing with her in a room next to a huge brick fireplace, one of seven in the house, enjoying her just-out-of-theoven cranberry bread muffins, the best we’ve ever eaten.

Jody and her late husband, Edward, who passed away eight years ago, purchased the Gates/ Whitney Homestead, as it’s known, in 1976 (“I knew this was ‘it’ the minute I walked in the door!”). They did a great deal of renovation over the years, raised their four children here—a boy and three girls, now adults—and conducted tours for the town’s youngsters. The part of the tour the children particularly liked, she said, was the hidden area in the cellar that’s thought to have served as part of the Underground Railroad, the famous route along which escaped slaves were temporarily hidden on their way to freedom in Canada.

Jody took us down there as part of our subsequent tour: It’s a dark, spooky, closed-in space, once a huge pit that’s recently been filled in, with gigantic stones overhead. No wonder the children are intrigued—even without the railroad tracks!

“I could tell your house is old,” one little boy wrote Jody after the tour, “because there are lots of cobwebs and cracks.” “You sure have a lot of fireplaces,” wrote another (many children notice that the chimney flues are plenty big enough to accommodate Santa Claus on Christmas Eve).

A dash of historical intrigue marks this Stow, Massachusetts, classic.

Jody Newman in full tour-guide mode, standing at the cellar nook that may have been a stop on the Underground Railroad. PAMELA AND ERIC WALTHER (EXTERIOR, DINING ROOM)

The Gates/Whitney Homestead sits on three-plus acres and includes a pond that’s ideal for swimming and skating.

BELOW : Among the home’s historic details is original wide-board pine flooring.

Jody said that after her husband passed away, she tried for a time to maintain this lovely but large (3,900 square feet) house by herself; when that got to be a bit much, she had a smaller, one-story home built on her land next door. She moved into the second house late last year, and now she has put her beloved colonial on the market, asking $699,000, including three-plus acres and a two-anda-half-car detached garage in front of the pond where her children and their friends enjoyed swimming in the summer and skating in the winter.

Besides inspecting the Underground Railroad area, we admired the beautiful pine flooring throughout the house; the original raised paneling in many of the rooms, some of it obviously hand-hewn; and the colorful, historically accurate stenciling in several of the six bedrooms. There are four and a half bathrooms, and a

spacious screened-in porch overlooks the pond. We particularly loved the country kitchen and eating area, also overlooking the pond and open lawn. We must mention, too, the “mourn-

feel with its numerous apple orchards and farms, a pretty town beach on a lake, an active historical society, and lots of conservation land. Plus it has a shopping area, five golf courses (four public, one private), and an easy commute to Boston via train.

“And you gotta have a meal at the restaurant out at the airport,” at Nancy’s Airfield Café, Jody told us. “One of our daughters even got married there.”

ing and borning room” on the cooler, north side of the house, where many were born and no doubt many died and awaited burial.

As to Stow (population about 7,000), we’d say that it’s one of New England’s secret gems. Only 21 miles west of Boston, it retains its country

At one point in our tour, we noticed stairs to the second floor so narrow and steep they’re no longer much used. But Jody told us the children invariably commented on this, having never seen such a cramped set of stairs. “And it squeaks,” one little boy said recently after trying it out.

Who says history can’t be fun?

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Many children notice that the chimney flues here are plenty big enough for Santa on Christmas Eve.

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GIVING FARM

Amid rolling fields and roaming goats, two of New England’s hardest-working culinary pros create a family feast to remember.

BY AMY TRAVERSO

PHOTOGRAPHS BY HEATH ROBBINS

STYLING BY BETH WICKWIRE/ ENNIS INC.

Flowers by Minka Fine Flowers

In southern Maine, November is the month that can’t quite commit. It might be chilly, it should be chilly—but just when you’ve pulled out the winter coats and resolved to embrace cozy pleasures, a sudden warm front can burn off the frost, inviting you to remember how good the undiminished sun feels on your face ... and then wonder how you’ll live without it for the next four months. Ever more each year, as Thanksgiving looms, so does the question: Will it be football on the lawn, or 10 inches of snow?

If you’re like most people, you greet an unseasonably warm holiday by laying a cloth on the dining room table and cracking a window. If you’re Justin and Danielle Walker, you reroute the meal to the pasture behind the barn, repurpose a few hay bales, and plan for dessert around a firepit you build from field stones while the turkey roasts.

They have pulled off far more challenging meals than this over 17 years together in the restaurant business, first at Arrows in Ogunquit—where Justin rose through the ranks as a chef and Danielle trained as a sommelier and manager—and then at Earth at Hidden Pond in Kennebunkport, where he was chef and she the GM. They have hosted more weddings, more charity fund-raisers, more Friday-night-in-July dinner rushes than most industry veterans their age. And now a new venture: a restaurant in their hometown of Cape Neddick. Earlier this year, they purchased the 1926 Cape Neddick Inn restaurant (to be renamed Walkers), bringing the dream of their own place to fruition. “Finally, finally, the right fit,” Danielle says.

That restaurant is just four miles from the farm where the couple now live with their son, Jackson, and a rotating cast of animals that, at recent count, included two horses, 24 goats, seven chickens, two barn cats, and a smattering of ducks. Danielle’s family has lived in the 1760 Cape-style farmhouse since the 19th century—her great-grandfather, grandfather, and father were born here—and since the couple took over the house in 2001, after Danielle’s grandmother passed away, Jackson has become the sixth generation to call it home. It’s an ongoing project, a family legacy they patiently renovate when they find a break from the restaurant, the garden, and the animals.

Today’s project: Thanksgiving dinner. Despite the fact that their jobs are to host and cook and create moments for paying strangers—or perhaps because of it—Danielle and Justin find themselves hosting more and more of the family holidays. Almost everyone lives nearby, and Danielle’s sister and mom are even on the same street. Three years ago, when a surprise storm knocked out their power, Justin cooked the entire Thanksgiving feast outside using a Caja China roaster, a metal-lined wooden box native to Cuba that’s large enough to cook an entire pig or goat (the name, roughly translated, is slang for “magic box”). “I could cook Thanksgiving dinner for 100 with this thing,” Justin says.

As he sets two large turkeys in the roaster, he tosses in a bit more fuel to maintain a gentle heat. With turkey, he says, “slow cooking is key. Be patient. The longer it takes,

the better it’s going to be. And don’t be afraid to pull the thighs off and let them cook back in the oven if it keeps the breast meat from drying out.” Helping him out are friends and colleagues from southern Maine, including Matt Jauck, a pastry chef who has joined him at Walkers and who made the bourbon walnut pecan pies for today’s feast.

While Justin handles the cooking, Danielle checks in on some Nigerian dwarf goats that were born earlier in the week. The demands of a farm are relentless even now, when the tomatoes and shell beans and kale have given way to frost and the few wild cranberry bushes in the back field are yielding the last of their fruit. But compared with the busiest summer months, this feels like a vacation. “This is our nesting time,” Danielle says. She makes soap from the goats’ milk, as well as feta, chèvre, and ricotta. Sometimes the whey from the cheese making goes into homemade bread (Justin calls it a “cheater sourdough”). They partially heat the house with her grandmother’s cast-iron stove.

Today, however, the guys at the grill are in T-shirts, the morning’s sweaters tossed aside. By the time dinner is ready, the sun is getting lower, lighting up the rust-colored oaks that line the pastures. The goats are calling for dinner, but humans get to eat first today.

As everyone reaches the table, there’s a moment of hesitation: Who should sit at the head? Danielle’s mom, Denise, suggests it should be Justin and Danielle—and thus the torch is passed.

When it’s time for cocktails and dessert, the chill has settled in, so everyone heads to the firepit for pie and caramel-pumpkin sundaes. Now the goats can eat, too. Danielle pops up to fetch them, and their hooves thump the ground as they make their way from the pasture to the barn. “It’s the running of the goats,” Denise quips. Once inside, they gather around their feed tubs, their bodies arranged like spokes on a wheel.

Later, Denise gets up and pays a visit to Danielle’s horse, Twice the Take, who’s standing in the dusky light behind the barn. She whistles and takes an apple out of her pocket as he lopes over, then offers it across the fence. He turns his head. “That’s a first,” she muses. She looks up. “Around here, we’re so plugged into all this,” she says, gesturing at the barn, the fields, the trees. “A hawk just flew overhead. Did you see? I didn’t miss it. And it’s good to notice these things.”

The following recipes were served at Justin and Danielle’s Thanksgiving meal. To see additional recipes, go to newengland.com/walker-thanksgiving.

TOP LEFT : Justin Walker, front, and colleague Darren Veilleux, hauling hay bales for extra seating; the main attraction, a 28-pound naturally raised turkey from Vermont’s Misty Knoll Farms; Danielle Walker trailed by some hungry Nigerian dwarf goats, a breed she chose to raise partly for their extra-sweet milk; a savory mountain of homemade stuffing.

SAUTÉED KALE WITH BACON AND ONIONS

TO TAL T IME : 35 MINU T ES

H ANDS- ON T IME : 35 MINU T ES

Easy to make and rich in vitamins, this is a modern Mainer’s take on the classic Southern combo of greens and bacon, only made with frost-tolerant kale.

¼ cup olive oil

1½ large yellow or white onions, sliced crosswise about 1/8 -inch thick

4 slices thick-cut bacon, sliced crosswise ¼-inch thick

3 tablespoons sliced garlic

3 bunches (approximately 3 pounds) fresh kale, stems removed, roughly chopped

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

In a very large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the sliced onions, bacon, and garlic. Cook, stirring often, until all are very tender with no color, about 10 minutes. Add the kale (if you’re using a smaller skillet, you’ll need to do this in batches) and increase heat to medium. Cook, periodically turning the leaves over with tongs, until tender, about 10 minutes more. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve warm. Yields 8 servings.

LOBSTER MASHED POTATOES

With a pound of lobster (and, yes, all that butter), this is admittedly a specialoccasion dish. But the Walkers wouldn’t have Thanksgiving without it. And if you skip the lobster entirely, you’ll still end up with some very tasty mashed potatoes.

3 pounds medium Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and quartered

2 sticks unsalted butter, divided

1 pound cooked and picked lobster meat, claws reserved, with the rest cut into bite-sized chunks

1 cup milk

1 cup sour cream

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Put potatoes in a 4- or 5-quart pot and add water to cover by about 1½ inches. Set pot on high heat and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook until potatoes are tender when poked with a thin knife, 15 to 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a medium skillet, melt 1 stick of butter over medium-low heat. Add the lobster meat and cook, stirring, until just heated through.

When the potatoes are cooked, drain them, reserving the cooking water in a bowl, and return them to the

pot. Set over medium heat and cook, stirring, until they turn floury and begin to coat the bottom of the pot, 5 to 10 minutes. Use a potato masher or ricer to mash the potatoes until smooth.

Set a small saucepan over low heat and add the remaining butter, along with the milk. Heat until butter is melted. Using a wooden spoon, add the milk mixture to the potatoes, ¼ cup at a time, beating to combine. Add the sour cream. Stir lobster and butter into the potatoes, reserving the claws for a garnish. If the potatoes still seem dry after adding all the milk mixture, add a bit of the cooking liquid. Add salt and pepper to taste. Garnish with lobster claws and serve warm. Yields 8 servings.

SOURDOUGH DRESSING WITH ROASTED SQUASH AND SAUSAGE

TO TAL T IME : 3 HOURS

H ANDS- ON T IME : 40 MINU T ES

No stodgy stuffing here: This is a lively blend of sweet squash, salty sausage, and tart sourdough.

2 loaves (about 1 pound each) sourdough bread, cut into ½-inch cubes

3 cups butternut squash, cut into ½-inch cubes

3 tablespoons olive oil

2 teaspoons kosher salt, plus more to taste teaspoon freshly ground black pepper sticks unsalted butter, plus more for baking dish pound sweet Italian sausage, removed from its casing medium leeks, white parts only, cleaned and thinly sliced crosswise

stalks celery, diced tablespoons minced fresh thyme 1½–2 cups turkey or chicken stock

Preheat oven to 250° and set racks to the upper middle and lower middle positions. Line two rimmed baking sheets with foil. Grease a 9-by-13-inch baking pan with butter and set aside.

Arrange bread cubes on the sheets and bake until lightly toasted but not

SAUTÉED KALE WITH BACON AND ONIONS

JUSTIN WALKER’S BRINED AND ROASTED TURKEY WITH MAKE-AHEAD TURKEY GRAVY

completely dry, 45 to 60 minutes. Increase oven temperature to 375°.

In a large bowl, toss squash with the olive oil, salt, and pepper. Spread it out on the baking sheets and roast until just tender, about 30 minutes.

Set a 3- or 4-quart pot over medium heat and melt the butter. Add the sausage, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, and cook until no longer pink. Add the leeks, celery, and thyme and cook until very tender, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Put the bread cubes into a large bowl and pour the sausage mixture and 1½ cups stock over all. Gently toss the mixture together, making sure the cubes are all moistened. Taste and add stock, salt, and pepper as needed.

Pour dressing into the prepared baking dish and cover tightly with foil. Bake on the lower middle rack (at 375°) for 15 minutes, then remove foil and bake until golden brown on top, 15 to 20 minutes more. Let stand 10 minutes before serving. Yields 8 servings.

JUSTIN WALKER’S BRINED AND ROASTED TURKEY

For a well-seasoned, succulent bird, an overnight soak in a simple brine works wonders. Justin takes advantage of the chilly Maine nights by brining his larger turkeys in a well-secured cooler in the barn, freeing up valuable refrigerator space. And unlike some cooks, he doesn’t rub the skin with butter or oil before roasting. “You don’t want the skin to start crisping early on,” he says. “You want it to slowly render.” Though he cooks his turkeys in a Caja China roaster, we adapted the recipe for a standard oven. Pair it with Justin’s make-ahead gravy for the ultimate Thanksgiving dish.

2 gallons cold water

1¼ cups plus 1½ tablespoons

kosher salt

¼ cup granulated sugar

6 dried bay leaves

¼ cup whole black peppercorns

1 turkey (12–16 pounds, preferably organic)

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

4 cups chicken or turkey stock

Twelve hours before you roast the turkey, make the brine: In a lobster pot or brining bag, stir together the water, 1¼ cups salt, sugar, bay leaves, and peppercorns until the sugar and salt dissolve. Remove the offal, wings, and neck from the turkey, reserving the neck and wings for gravy. Place the turkey, breast side down, in the brine solution, and move it around a bit to expel air from the cavity. Place the container in the refrigerator (or outside, remembering to add ice and secure the lid), then allow the turkey to stand in the brine for 12 hours.

Preheat oven to 425° and set a rack to the lower third position. Season the turkey with the remaining 1½

Justin and Danielle gather with family and friends at the firepit. At far right is pastry chef Matt Jauck, who contributed the bourbon walnut pecan pie.

tablespoons salt and ground pepper and place on a roasting pan, breast up. Transfer to the oven and pour the stock into the pan.

After 10 minutes, reduce oven temperature to 325°. Continue cooking the turkey, basting with the stock every 30 minutes, until a thermometer stuck into the thigh of the bird reads 160°, about 12 to 15 minutes per pound total (2¼ to 4 hours, depending on the size of the bird). Yields 10 to 15 servings.

MAKE-AHEAD TURKEY GRAVY

TO TAL T IME : 1 HOUR , 40 MINU T ES

H ANDS- ON T IME : 40 MINU T ES

3 tablespoons olive oil

2 turkey wings

1 turkey neck

1 large carrot, chopped

1 large celery stalk, chopped

1 medium onion, chopped

1½ tablespoons kosher salt, plus more to taste

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

3 quarts water

1 stick unsalted butter

½ cup all-purpose flour

In a large stock pot, warm the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the turkey wings and neck and cook, stirring occasionally, until browned all

over, about 10 minutes. Reduce heat to medium and add the chopped carrot, celery, onion, salt, and pepper. Sauté until the onions are translucent, about 6 minutes. Pour the water into the pot, bring to a simmer, then reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered, for 1 hour. When the stock is almost done cooking, melt the butter in a 6- or 7-quart pot over medium heat. When the butter begins to foam, whisk in the flour to form a roux. Cook, stirring constantly, for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and slowly whisk in the turkey stock until it’s fully incorporated. Set the gravy on medium-low heat and slowly bring to a simmer, stirring occasionally, until the gravy thickens, about 10 minutes. Use a sieve to strain out the turkey pieces and vegetables, then taste and add salt and pepper as needed. Serve hot. Yields about 1½ quarts.

BOURBON WALNUT PECAN PIE

TO TAL T IME : ABOU T 2 HOURS

H ANDS- ON T IME : 35 MINU T ES

FOR THE CRUST

1½ cups all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon table salt

9 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small cubes and chilled

3 tablespoons ice water

2 tablespoons vodka

FOR THE FILLING

3 large eggs

1 stick unsalted butter, melted

½ cup dark corn syrup

½ cup light corn syrup

¼ cup granulated sugar

3 tablespoons bourbon

½ teaspoon table salt

1 cup chopped pecans

½ cup chopped walnuts

First, make the crust: In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour and salt. Sprinkle the butter over the flour mixture. Use a pastry cutter to break the butter into smaller pieces, then use your fingers to smear the butter into the flour. Stop when the mixture looks like cornmeal, with pea-size bits of butter remaining.

Sprinkle the ice water and vodka over the mixture and stir with a fork until the dough comes together. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured counter, knead once or twice to form a ball, then press the ball into a disk, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate at least 30 minutes and up to two days.

Preheat oven to 400° and set a rack to the lower position. Unwrap the dough and place it in the center of a large sheet of parchment paper. Cover with a second piece of parchment. Roll out, working from the center, to a 12-inch circle. Peel off the top sheet of parchment paper and transfer dough, peeled side down, into a 9-inch pie plate, pressing it into the sides. Peel off the remaining parchment and fold under and crimp the edges. Line dough with a piece of parchment paper or large coffee filter and fill with beans. Set the pie plate on a baking sheet and transfer to the oven. Bake for 10 minutes, then take the crust from the oven, remove the beans and liner, and reduce oven temperature to 325°. Set crust aside.

Then make the filling: In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, butter, corn syrups, sugar, bourbon, and salt until smooth. Spread the nuts in an even layer in the bottom of the prepared crust, then pour the egg mixture over the top. Set the pie on the baking sheet and bake until set, 30 to 40 minutes. Yields 8 servings.

BOURBON WALNUT PECAN PIE

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Among the culinary artifacts that fill the Brass sisters’ Cambridge, Massachusetts, home: assorted vintage metalware and an early 20thcentury French specialty-foods sign.

OPPOSITE : The Brass sisters, from left, Sheila and Marilynn.

BAKING WITH THE

Brass Sisters

By Amy Traverso

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK FLEMING • STYLING BY CATRINE KELTY

There’s a hidden trove of culinary treasures in the Brass sisters’ modest, ranch-style house near Boston: a glass case filled with antique copper molds, a signed diploma from Fannie Farmer’s cooking school, a mantel lined with original editions of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. Downstairs, a maze of shelves and cabinets contains multitudes of old tins, antique yellow ware, pale green Depression glass.

And then there are the less obvious gems: the sisters who reside here. “We are two roundish women in their seventies,” Marilynn and Sheila often say. They are passionate home cooks, collectors of family lore (theirs and yours), and late-in-life TV personalities (Sheila turned 80 this year). Self-described “unclaimed treasures,” neither chose to marry, opting to savor the independence that girls like them weren’t expected to have. And together, they have written three cookbooks (they wrote the first, Heirloom Baking with the Brass Sisters , in their sixties), as well as one compendium, From Grandma’s Kitchen.

This year they launched a new PBS series, Food Flirts , in which they charm secrets from a bevy of chefs— mostly handsome young men (“We’re harmless,” Marilynn insists)—on the way to tackling their culinary bucket list (curing pastrami, cooking Indian

food, mastering the art of the perfect burger). Every episode concludes with the sisters back in their own kitchen, where they translate these lessons into a home-cooked meal for their new friends. Usually, someone ends up dancing.

Marilynn, who with her perky nose and bow-shaped mouth suggests Cindy Lou Who in her golden years, is younger, but she is the alpha sister who speaks first, handles the email, and leads the TV segments. Sheila, five years her senior, prefers to step back and pepper their patter with one-liners. They are an ecosystem unto themselves, two perfectly attuned comedic foils. When they sit together on the couch in the living room, Sheila leans in to her sister and twines their fingers, a tender habit that evokes their years growing up on Sea Foam Avenue in Winthrop, where their mother, Dorothy, taught

FESTIVE SWEETS AND FAMILY MEMORIES FROM NEW ENGLAND’S MOST ENDEARING HOME COOKS.

them to make cakes and cookies and challah for Shabbat dinner. Perhaps it was Dorothy’s early death, when the sisters were just in their twenties, that kept them so connected to the kitchen even as they made their way in the working world, through secretarial and editorial jobs, stints as fashion designers and antiques dealers (hence all those copper molds), and long tenures at WGBH—a connection that came in handy when they wrote their first cookbook. “We’ve always wanted to work together,” Marilynn says. “We may snip at each other sometimes, but we’ve been orphans most of our lives, and we really brought each other up.”

Along the way, they began collecting manuscript cookbooks, informal collections pulled together by church and synagogue groups, Junior Leagues, women’s clubs. But they especially loved stumbling across family recipe collections— unbound, pasted into notebooks, or tied together. Every recipe has a story,

they say, and they have made it their mission to be the keepers of those stories. When you talk with the sisters, there’s the sense of time as something layered, the past always present, even as they move toward the next adventure. “We keep reminding people,” Marilynn says, “it’s so important to do a gentle interrogation of the elders to get the stories and the recipes.” Even from your grumpy Aunt Linda? “Families are like fudge,” Marilynn says. “Sweet, but with a few nuts.”

The following recipes showcase a few of the Brass sisters’ favorite holiday treats, made sweeter for the memories they evoke. For additional recipes, go to newengland.com/brass-sisters.

SPECULATIUS COOKIES

TO TAL T IME : 55 MINU T ES

H ANDS- ON T IME : 55 MINU T ES

We’ve always been partial to a Christmas cookie with a history, such as this one from our friend Alison Kennedy. Alison’s late mother, Joan, passed this family recipe on to all of her daughters. We love that it is related to the German spekulatius and the old Dutch speculoos . The dough was sometimes stamped with images in years past, but this version is cut into shapes. —Marilynn and Sheila

Brass

2¼ cups all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon baking soda

1/8 teaspoon table salt

Cranberry-Raisin Pie

Speculatius Cookies

“It’s so important to do a gentle interrogation of [older family members] to get the stories and the recipes.”

1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground nutmeg

¼ teaspoon ground cloves

½ cup almonds, toasted and finely chopped in a food processor

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar

¼ cup sour cream, at room temperature

Put the flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, ground cloves, and almonds into a bowl, and whisk to combine. Set aside. Add the butter and brown sugar to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, and cream until smooth. Add the sour cream. Add the dry ingredients in two additions and mix until the dough comes together.

Remove the dough and place it onto a lightly floured sheet of wax paper. Lightly dust the dough with flour and form it into a large ball. With a sharp knife, cut the dough in half. Form into two balls. Place each ball into a plastic

bag and store in the refrigerator until you’re ready to roll out the dough.

When ready to bake, set the oven rack to the middle position. Preheat the oven to 350°. Line two baking sheets with silicone liners or lightly greased aluminum foil, shiny side up.

Place one ball of dough onto lightly floured wax paper. Sprinkle with flour, cover with another sheet of wax paper, and roll out into a rectangle, ¼ -inch thick. Cut the dough into shapes of your choosing, dipping the cookie cutter into flour each time. Arrange cookies about an inch apart on the baking sheets. Put any leftover scraps of dough into the refrigerator. Using a pastry brush, remove any excess flour from the cookies. Bake for 12 minutes, rotating the sheets halfway through. Repeat the process with the remaining dough, then combine the scraps and roll out again.

Slide the foil or silicone liner with the baked cookies onto a wire rack to cool. Decorate as desired, and then store cookies between sheets of waxed

paper in a covered tin. Yields about 3½ dozen cookies.

CRANBERRY-RAISIN PIE (MOCK CHERRY PIE)

TO TAL T IME : 2 HOURS , 30 MINU T ES

H ANDS- ON T IME : 1 HOUR , 15 MINU T ES

We received this recipe from Kristina Bracciale, a friend from WGBH. She’s from an old New England family, and this was the variation on cherry pie that they would serve out of season, substituting the more plentiful cranberries found in Massachusetts for the pricier summer cherries. Interestingly, Kristina said the pie was always served with a block of cream cheese on the table. You’d shave off what you wanted and eat a little bit of cream cheese with each bite of pie. —M.B. and S.B.

FOR THE CRUST

2½ cups all-purpose flour

3 tablespoons granulated sugar

¼ teaspoon table salt

1 cup (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into 16 slices

Grandma Goldberg’s Honey Cake

Big Mama’s Lemon-Lime Tassies

¼ cup ice water

1 egg, beaten with 1 tablespoon water to make an egg wash

FOR THE FILLING

2 cups plus 2 tablespoons water, at room temperature

1½ cups sugar

½ teaspoon table salt

3 cups fresh cranberries, rinsed, drained, and cut in half

2 cups raisins (preferably jumbo)

4 tablespoons lemon juice

2 tablespoons grated lemon zest

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

3 tablespoons minus 1 teaspoon cornstarch

To make the crust: Put the flour, sugar, and salt into the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade, and pulse three times. Add the butter and pulse until crumbly. Add the ice water and pulse until mixture comes together. Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured counter, divide in half, and shape each half into a disk.

Roll out each disk of dough between two sheets of floured wax paper or parchment paper until you have a circle that measures 11 inches in diameter. Peel off the paper from one piece of dough, then transfer the latter to a 9-inch pie plate. Trim the edges so that the dough hangs over the rim by ¼ inch, then cover with plastic wrap. Fold up the other piece of dough, still in its paper, and chill both in the refrigerator.

Next, make the filling: In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium-high heat, stir together 2 cups water with the sugar, salt, cranberries, raisins, lemon juice, lemon zest, and vanilla. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook, stirring, for 5 minutes. Remove from heat. Combine the cornstarch and remaining 2 tablespoons water in a small bowl until smooth. Stir this into the cranberry mixture. When the filling has thickened slightly, transfer it to a bowl and cool to room temperature.

Set the oven rack to the middle position. Preheat the oven to 450°. Cover a 14-by-16-inch baking sheet with aluminum foil and set aside.

Pour the cooled filling into the chilled bottom crust. Brush the edge of the crust with the egg wash. Remove the top crust from the refrigerator and peel off the paper. Use the cookie cutter of your choice to cut out a design in the center, then transfer the top crust to the filled pie. Press together the edges of the crusts to seal. Using kitchen scissors, trim excess crust from the edges so they fit the pie plate. Make a decorative edge with fork tines (or your fingers). Brush more egg wash over the top and edges of the pie.

Place the pie onto the baking sheet and transfer to the oven; bake 10 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 350° and bake until the crust is golden brown and the filling is bubbling in the cutout, 30 to 35 minutes more. Check the pie halfway through baking to be sure the crust is not browning too quickly; place a foil tent over the pie for the rest of the baking time if necessary. Transfer to a wire rack to cool. (The pie will slice more evenly if it’s completely cool.) Store at room temperature. Yields a 9-inch pie; 8 to 10 slices.

GRANDMA GOLDBERG’S HONEY CAKE

Our mother, Dorothy Katziff Brass, taught us how to cook as soon as we could reach the table. She had a wonderful recipe for honey cake, but for some reason we lost it. Honey cake is traditionally served at the Jewish New Year, when you’re supposed to eat something sweet to welcome in a sweet new year. But you can really eat it anytime.

We were talking about our missing recipe with a friend of ours, Hilary Finkel Buxton, and she told us about her Grandma Goldberg’s honey cake. The recipe is so typically like our mother’s. It has just a little bit of coffee, and as it bakes, this wonderful aroma comes from the oven. It makes two loaves—“One to eat and one to give away,” as Grandma Goldberg said. We learned that she lived to be 101, and she spoke to her sister, Yetta, who lived to be 102, every day.

It’s such a wonderful story, how the two sisters kept in touch. —M.B. and S.B.

1 teaspoon instant coffee or instant espresso

1 cup hot water

2 cups all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon table salt

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground ginger

3 large eggs, separated

1 cup granulated sugar

½ cup vegetable oil

1 cup honey, plus more for drizzling

1 teaspoon baking soda

3 tablespoons warm water

Fresh kumquats, halved, for garnish (sliced almonds also work)

Set the oven rack to the middle position. Preheat the oven to 350° and coat two 9-by-5-by-3-inch loaf pans with vegetable oil spray. Line the bottom and ends of each pan with a strip of wax paper and coat it with spray. Dust pans with flour and tap to remove excess.

Add the instant coffee to the hot water and let cool.

Whisk together the flour, salt, cinnamon, and ginger in a bowl. Set aside.

Put the egg whites into the bowl of a stand mixer with a whisk attachment and beat until the whites form medium-firm peaks. Set aside (if you don’t have a second mixer bowl, transfer the egg whites to another bowl).

In the mixer bowl, beat the sugar and egg yolks together on medium speed. Using a rubber spatula, scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl. Turn the mixer back on and beat until the mixture is pale yellow. Set aside.

Whisk together the oil, honey, and coffee in a bowl. Stir the baking soda into the warm water and add it, too.

Add the dry ingredients to the eggsugar mixture in three batches, alternating with the oil-honey mixture. Using a spatula, gently fold in the beaten egg whites in three additions. Pour the batter into the prepared pans. Bake for 30 minutes. Tent each cake with aluminum foil and bake until a metal tester inserted into the center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes more. Transfer the cakes to a wire rack and cool for at least 20 minutes.

Go around the edges of each cake with a butter knife. Turn the cakes out of the pans and return to the rack to cool completely.

Before serving, drizzle with additional honey and garnish with halved kumquats. Serve warm or at room temperature. Store at room temperature, wrapped in wax paper. Yields 2 loaves; 9 slices per loaf.

BIG MAMA’S LEMON-LIME TASSIES

TO TAL T IME : 1 HOUR , 30 MINU T ES

H ANDS- ON T IME : 1 HOUR

We received this very old Southern recipe in an email from a reader named Amy Geer. “Big Mama” was Ethel Johnson Geer, who was married to Amy’s grandfather, Judge William I. Geer, and lived in Colquitt, Georgia. Most recipes for lemon tassies use a dough made with cream cheese, but we decided to use Sheila’s piecrust instead. These dear little “tarts” filled with citrus curd are made in tiny muffin pans and are a delicious mouthful. —M.B. and S.B.

FOR THE FILLING

1 large egg

4 large egg yolks

¾ cup granulated sugar

Pinch of table salt

1 teaspoon grated lemon zest

1 teaspoon grated lime zest

¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

¼ cup freshly squeezed lime juice

¼ cup (½ stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes

Citrus peel garnish (see note)

Whipped cream (optional)

FOR THE PASTRY SHELLS

1¼ cups all-purpose flour

1½ tablespoons granulated sugar

1/8 teaspoon table salt

½ cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes

2 tablespoons ice water

First, make the filling: Whisk the egg and egg yolks in a 2- or 3-quart heavy-bottomed saucepan. Add the sugar, salt, and lemon and lime zests, and whisk to combine. Whisk in the lemon and lime juices. Add the butter

and whisk over medium heat until it has melted. Switch to a wooden spoon and continue to cook, stirring, until the curd thickens, about 5 minutes. (If you prefer a smooth curd, strain it to remove the zests.) Press plastic wrap directly onto the surface of the curd to prevent a skin from forming. Let the curd cool completely and keep it refrigerated.

Next, make the pastry shells: Put the flour, sugar, and salt into the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade, and pulse three times to mix. Add the butter and pulse until crumbly. Add the ice water and pulse until mixture comes together. Remove the dough and shape it into a disk.

Set an oven rack to the middle position. Have a 24-cup miniature muffin pan at the ready (you can also use two 12-cup pans).

Roll out the dough between two sheets of lightly floured wax paper to a thickness of 1⁄8 inch (you can also simply roll out the dough on a floured counter). Using a 2½-inch round or scalloped cookie cutter dipped in

flour, cut out rounds of dough, gathering the scraps together and rerolling as needed. Place the rounds into the muffin cups and gently press into the wells. Refrigerate for 30 minutes while you preheat the oven to 400°. Bake the tassie shells until golden brown, 10 to 12 minutes, turning the pan midway through cooking. Remove from oven and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

Place the cooled shells on a platter and fill with lemon-lime curd. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Garnish with citrus “dots” and serve with whipped cream, if desired. Refrigerate leftover tassies and use any additional filling to spoon over yogurt, serve on pancakes, or stir into whipped cream. Yields about 2 dozen tassies (plus 1½ cups lemon-lime curd).

Note: To make the festive garnish pictured on page 67, Sheila first used a vegetable peeler to remove strips of zest from lemons and limes, then ran them through a hole punch to turn out perfect citrus “dots.”

THE FIFTH ANNUAL YANKEE MAGAZINE EDITORS’ CHOICE

Food Awards

CELEBRATING

By Amy Traverso

Mountain Ash cheese from Sweet Rowen Farmstead, left, and Europa cheese from Arethusa Farm

IN THE FIVE YEARS

since we launched our annual Editors’ Choice Food Awards, so many new and delicious local foods have come to market it’s become a year-round job to keep up with them all. Our perpetual search leads us to farmers’ markets, gourmet shops, festivals, supermarkets, and farm stands across New England, and we delight in finding these gems, from explosively flavorful chocolate crafted in New Hampshire from raw cacao beans to a winning Connecticut cheese made on one of the most beautiful farms we’ve ever seen. It makes us happy to shine a spotlight on these producers and bring their bounty to you—to serve at a holiday party, to give as gifts, or simply to enjoy yourself.

Early on, we decided that instead of organizing the awards around a single best-in-category approach, we would highlight foods that meet a standard of quality and deliciousness that makes them truly exceptional. Think of these as “awards of excellence,” rather than an either/or competition.

In that spirit, we hope you’ll enjoy these New England treats. Most products are available by mail, but we’ve also included a few foods from smaller producers that sell only on-site or in local markets. We like to support the little guys, too, and we promise they’re worth seeking out. Happy holidays!

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK FLEMING•STYLING BY KRISSY O’SHEA

ALL HANDCRAFTED TABLEWARE, GLASSWARE, AND CUTTING/SERVING BOARDS ON THESE PAGES ARE FROM SIMON PEARCE, PRESENTING SPONSOR OF THE 2017 FOOD AWARDS. SHOT ON LOCATION AT THE SIMON PEARCE FLAGSHIP IN QUECHEE, VT.

Cheeses

MOUNTAIN ASH

Sweet Rowen Farmstead, West Glover, Vermont

When Paul Lisai describes his dairy farm in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom as “pasture-based,” he’s not waxing poetic—he’s getting to the heart of what makes his cheeses so good. “It all starts with the grass,” he says ( rowen is the Scottish word for the second cut of hay used to feed the cattle in winter). That quality feed, combined with the carefully chosen genetics of his herd of 30 Vermont Heritage Lineback cattle, yields the nutrient-dense milk that Lisai hands over to cheese maker Blair Johnson. He, in turn, transforms it into semiaged Camembert-style beauties such as Mountain Ash, which is coated in a thin layer of food-grade ash, giving the cheese a subtle smokiness to play off its buttery-nutty notes.

Making Mountain Ash is a laborintensive process, requiring 14 hours to culture, then a day of hand-ladling the curd, six ounces at a time, into molds. “It gives it that nice, fluffy, really creamy texture,” Lisai says. After draining and hand-salting, the cheese is dried and ashed; two weeks later it’s sent to market.

Though Lisai is a first-generation farmer, he’s a seventh-generation Vermonter. “I have really strong ties to the culture and place,” he says. “I’ve worked for a lot of farmers in the 14 years I’ve been here, and I still call my neighbor when we’re going to hay, to discuss the weather and our strategy for the day. That kind of community is pretty important.”

Suggested retail $9 per 8 oz. round. Available at several Vermont farmers’ markets, including Burlington, Montpelier, and Stowe; and at a number of retailers in Vermont and New Hampshire, including City Market in Burlington, Hunger Mountain Co-op in Montpelier, and the Brattleboro Food Co-op. sweetrowen.com

Cranberry-horseradish sauce from Stonewall Kitchen; chèvre rolled in herbes de Provence from Kennebec Cheesery; Europa cheese from Arethusa Farm

CHÈ VRE ROLLED IN HERBES de PROVENCE

Kennebec Cheesery, Sidney, Maine

The best chèvres strike a balance of ultracreamy and tangy that’s worlds apart from the bland, chalky (or worse, funky) paste that can turn people off goat cheese for good. From her herd of 62 goats at Kennebec Cheesery, Jean Koons produces milk and cheeses whose vivid richness is worth seeking out whenever you travel through Maine. We’re especially fond of the chèvre that comes cloaked in savory herbs and lavender (all locally sourced), which is delicious on toast, in salads, and on pizza.

A native New Zealander, Koons has been farming all her life, but she began making cheese only in 2001— taking classes from local cheese makers, choosing the best breeds and feeds, and fiddling with her recipes until she settled on just the right blend. As she sees it, there’s one critical ingredient not listed on her labels: “very happy goats.”

Suggested retail $5.50 per roll (4-6 oz.). Available at several Maine stores, such as Portland Food Co-op, Blue Hill Co-op, and Uncle Dean’s Good Groceries in Waterville, as well as at the Portland, Belgrade Lakes, and Waterville farmers’ markets. kennebeccheesery.com

EUROPA

Arethusa Farm, Litchfield, Connecticut

George Malkemus and Anthony Yurgaitis did not set out to become dairy farmers or cheese makers. As senior executives at Manolo Blahnik, they had been dividing their lives among New York, Europe, South America, and their weekend house in Connecticut. But when the 350-acre horse farm across the street from their house came up for sale in 1999, they bought it to prevent developers from reshaping the landscape. After that, it seemed only natural to gradually return the place to its roots as a dairy farm.

Today Arethusa Farm is home to nearly 400 cows, several barns (a sign

in one reads: “Every cow in this barn is a lady, please treat her as such”), a restaurant, a retail shop, and a café. In a converted fire station down the road, Chris Casiello oversees the creamery, where milk from the Holstein, Jersey, and Brown Swiss cows is made into fresh and aged cheeses by head cheese maker Matt Benham. For their Europa, which is based on a classic Gouda, “we’ve used different cultures to make a richer flavor profile than a standard Gouda,” Casiello says. There’s a hint of sweetness but also flavors of edamame and savory broth. A great melter, Europa can be used in grilled cheese, fondue, and mac and cheese.

Suggested retail $8 per 8 oz. Available at Arethusa Farm’s retail stores in Bantam and New Haven, CT, and at several Whole Foods stores and gourmet shops around New England. arethusafarm.com

Sweets BOLIVIA BAR

Vicuña Chocolate, Peterborough, New Hampshire

When we first heard about Neely Cohen, the young pastry chef who took her earnings from winning the Food Network’s Sweet Genius competition and opened a bean-to-bar

chocolate shop in her New Hampshire hometown in 2014, we were intrigued. Beginning with organic cacao beans sourced from farms in Central and South America, she tackled the process of sorting, cracking, winnowing, and stone-grinding the beans, then tempering the chocolate, blending it with sugar, and molding it into bars. It’s a tremendous amount of extra effort, which is why most chocolatiers opt to work with premade chocolate as their base. One bite of her Bolivia bar—which melts into a silky spectrum of coffee, nut, and subtle berry flavors—and we were hooked.

But the story doesn’t end there. Just last summer, feeling the pull to return to her “other hometown” of Tel Aviv, Cohen sold the business to two ambitious entrepreneurs who also happened to be 17-year-old high school grads. Nate Morrison and Casey Goodrich, friends since fifth grade, are passionate about making great chocolate, so they studied Cohen’s methods and, with help from their families, started planning to expand Vicuña’s retail and wholesale markets while continuing to operate the chocolate café in downtown Peterborough.

For her part, Cohen couldn’t be prouder. “It’s bittersweet to say goodbye,” she says, “but Nate and Casey have what it takes to build on the foundation of quality and integrity that is Vicuña. I’ll be cheering them on from the sidelines.”

Suggested retail $10 per 2.9 oz. bar. Available at Vicuña’s website and its Peterborough store, as well as at Monadnock Food Co-op in Keene, Profile Coffee Bar in Portsmouth, and Darwin’s Ltd. in Cambridge, MA. vicunachocolate.com

GLUTEN-FREE ALMOND CAKE

Mayfair Farm, Harrisville, New Hampshire

When Sarah Heffron and her husband, Craig Thompson, purchased Mayfair Farm in 2011, her mother’s advice was simple: “Do anything, but don’t go into the food business.” As a

Bolivia bar from Vicuña Chocolate

chef and caterer, Mom was speaking from experience, but Heffron didn’t listen. Growing up on eastern Long Island among potato farms and vineyards had already left its mark—food was her passion. So, after leaving their successful livestock business in South Carolina to buy Mayfair Farm in New Hampshire’s Monadnock region, she and Thompson saw the potential to create a diversified enterprise that included livestock, orchards, an events and catering operation, and a bakery that produces their superlative almond cake, as richly flavored as marzipan but tender and buttery and not too sweet.

Heffron and Thompson tap their network of farmers and makers to secure the best pasture-raised eggs, butter, and other ingredients for the bakery. “We obviously can’t get local almonds, but we support other farms as much as we can,” Heffron says. The cake is gluten-free, but she insists this is coincidence, not culinary trend-

watching. It’s a recipe she has perfected over the past 10 years, and she remembers the exact moment she knew it was going to be a hit: when her Austrian grandmother, Stella, an experienced baker, gave it the thumbsup. Heffron recalls thinking that if Stella liked it, “we’re going to be OK.” Suggested retail $20 per 8-inch cake. Available at Mayfair Farm’s website and its Harrisville store, as well as at retail stores throughout the Monadnock Region and select Whole Foods locations. mayfairfarmnh.com

CRÉME BRÛLÉE Sama Confections, Johnston, Rhode Island

Most of the stories we tell about producers have a similar arc: A passionate cook begins making a product (say, jam) as a hobby. She gives it out to friends, who exclaim, “You should sell this!” After a trial run at a farmers’ market, a business is born.

This is not that kind of story. Sama was launched by four sweet-toothed friends in their late twenties. Applying their backgrounds in sales and marketing, they came up with a concept first—restaurant-quality desserts in jars to serve at home or give as gifts—then they began working on the recipes. After several months of testing, they had a line of five puddings that ranged from a fantastically creamy French-style crème brûlée (really more of a crème caramel, as the sugar sauce is on the bottom) to a Japanese-inspired matcha mousse to a Chinese milk pudding topped with sweet red beans.

We love them all, but the French custard—cooked in a gentle sous vide water bath to reach peak richness—is remarkable. CEO Rongchen Li recently quit his real estate job to focus on Sama full-time, and demand is growing (they also sell wholesale to restaurants). Up next: a line of vegan products and a retail shop in Boston. “At the beginning, we thought wholesale would be much easier, but I think you don’t have a chance to meet with your customers,” he says. “Now it’s time to try retail and really let people know what we do.”

Suggested retail $5.50 per 5 oz. jar. Available at Sama’s website and its Johnston retail location, as well as at Russo’s Market in Watertown, MA; Kung Fu Tea stores in Greater Boston; and others. samaconfections.com

Preserves + Sauces

PEACH-GINGER JAM

Bonnie’s Jams, Cambridge, Massachusetts

As a child in Southern California, Bonnie Shershow would often step outside and take her pick from her family’s apricot and lemon trees and berry bushes, as well as the nearby orange grove. When she moved to the

Créme brûlée from Sama Confections (the top version has a broiled sugar crust, easily added at home)

East Coast, she says, “I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal to pick up an apricot and have it taste like an apricot!” Her solution? Turn quality fruit into jam, thereby concentrating and preserving the flavors. In 1999, she took a batch to a local restaurant and asked the chef if she could use his kitchen. He obliged, and every Sunday she would craft jams and jellies there to sell to the restaurant and a few other businesses.

These days, Shershow has her own space and a small staff to help her make her jams, which are now sold on shelves across the country. Her mother’s original recipe hasn’t changed. “I had always made jams in small batches with no pectin, a little bit of sugar, and some lemon juice,” she says, and she remains true to her original intent: to let the flavor of the fruit shine through. Despite supplying several nationwide chains and international distributors, she says it’s “really exciting to get requests from small, locally owned shops.”

Shershow recommends spreading her peach-ginger jam on chicken, fish, or pork, or pairing it with a Tommestyle cheese or fresh chèvre.

Suggested retail $10 per 8.75 oz. jar. Available at Bonnie’s Jams’ website, as well as 40 Green Street Lunch in Northampton, MA; Nina June in Rockport, ME; Whole Foods; Williams Sonoma; and other local and national retailers. bonniesjams.com

CRANBERRYHORSERADISH SAUCE

Stonewall Kitchen, York, Maine

Lovers of horseradish will immediately recognize the beauty of pairing this spicy root with a sweet-tart cranberry sauce. The two bright flavors perform a kind of tango on the tongue, smoothing out each other’s rough edges while giving a spunky kick to classic holiday foods (think turkey, smoked meats, shrimp, creamy cheeses, and cheddar). Even if you don’t typically like horseradish, give this one a try. The product has been a fan favorite since Stonewall first introduced it in 1993, earning it a “Company Classic” designation

alongside the blueberry jam and the red pepper jelly.

Suggested retail $7 per 12 oz. jar. Available at Stonewall Kitchen’s website and retail shops, as well as at many supermarkets and specialty food stores around New England and across the country. stonewallkitchen.com

Meats

APPLEWOODSMOKED BACON

North Country Smokehouse, Claremont, New Hampshire

There are so many good things to mention about North Country Smokehouse: its 105-year history, its sustainable sourcing from certified humane farms, its revitalization of downtown Claremont. But we’re talking about bacon here. And we could write sonnets to the smoky goodness of North Country’s thick-cut slabs. Starting with lean belly meat, the bacon is marinated in a maple syrup–based

Peach-ginger jam from Bonnie’s Jams

brine for several days, then doublesmoked over local applewood at low temperatures. “This is a traditional northern New England–style recipe,” says Mike Satzow, executive vice president and grandson of company founder Abraham Satzow. “[It’s] the maple brine, and the fact that we smoke it so much longer—up to 12 hours. We take things slow up here.”

Suggested retail $18.75 per pound. Available at North Country Smokehouse’s website, as well as at Hannaford stores and many specialty food stores

Drinks

PUTNEY BUBBLY SPARKLING CIDER

Putney Mountain Winery, Putney, Vermont

The apple wine business is a second career for Kate Dodge, a lawyer by training, and her husband, Charles, a former Dartmouth professor. As with many of the makers featured here, it began for them as a hobby. In the late 1990s, inspired by some graduate students who had brewed their own beer, Charles decided to try it himself. Driving past an apple orchard every day on his way to and from work, he was struck by a thought: Why

make beer from ingredients that need to be imported to Vermont when we’ve got plenty of apples right here? Shortly afterward, Putney Mountain Winery was born.

After a decade of trial and error, the hobby became a full-fledged business, and the Dodges quit their day jobs to pursue wine making. Today they produce nine wines, two liqueurs, and three juices, including their non alcoholic sparkling cider, whose ingredients are simply fresh apples and bubbles. No sugar, water, or preservatives are added during the carbonation process, allowing the rich, crisp flavor of the heirloom apples to take center stage. This isn’t merely some syrupy alternative for the kids—it’s a genuine sipper, even without the alcohol.

The company’s Putney facility is a certified “Vermont Green Business” and fully solar-powered, and the apples it uses are sourced from a variety of farms in the area. “We believe the best-tasting products are local and don’t have to travel to get here,” Kate says.

Suggested retail $7.99 per 750 ml. bottle. Available at the winery’s tasting rooms in Putney, Windsor, and Quechee Gorge Village, as well as at the Brattleboro Farmers’ Market and many local food stores and co-ops in Vermont. putneywine.com

TO PURCHASE OR LEARN MORE ABOUT THE SIMON PEARCE PRODUCTS FEATURED IN THESE PAGES, PLEASE VISIT SIMONPEARCE.COM.

Putney Bubbly sparkling cider from Putney Mountain Winery

Applewood-smoked bacon from North Country Smokehouse

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The Racing Star

My redheaded grandmother would get up early to walk the beach every morning. When I stayed with her we walked together. She often picked up starfish and brought them back to the cottage. In back of the garage was a long white-washed table. She would arrange the starfish there to dry. There were many positions for arms and legs. Her favorite though was what she called the racing star, a position that looked like a starfish racing across a beach. She saved them to give out to children when they visited. –Cross Jewelers, R.H.P. This is my grandmother’s racing star. The Racing Star Collection sterling silver Pendant, Large ............X2932......$165.00 Pendant, Medium ........X2996......$135.00

Fun Stuff

A Mother and Son

Gulf of Maine Whales

Whales made in sterling silver Pin..............X2940......$125.00

Pendantwith 18" chain X2941......$175.00

High Tide, Low Tide Cuff Bracelet

“Life’s a Beach”, the bumper sticker says. And if you live at the beach, high and low tide create the rhythm of the day. What you do is different depending on whether the tide is in or out. Silver waves rise and fall against a dark sky. One size fits most. Sterling Silver. Bracelet ..............X3294............$185.00

Cape Cod Sea Glass Bracelet

Even today, people paddle kayaks up into the salt marsh of Sandwich, Massachusettes and find brilliant colors of sea glass dumped there in the 1800s by the Sandwich Glass Factory.

From a collection of sea glass found in the salt marshes and held for over three-quarters of a century; we have made this sea glass bracelet from the sea glass recovered in the 1940s and ‘50s.

These authentic sea glass colors that simply do not exist from any other earthly location than Sandwich, Massachusetts. This is a happy colors bracelet, colors as the symbol of happy days at a summer beach.

Cape Cod Sea Glass Bracelet .....X3928.................$285.00

Mystic, Connecticut

The waters run deep in this lively seaport that celebrates maritime history and ocean beauty.

BY ANNIE GRAVES

FLEMING

y night, the river glides through the heart of Mystic in silence. It’s dark and mysterious, with a moody quietude that makes it easy to imagine tall ships sailing the narrow waterway out to the harbor and beyond. But tonight is different. On this late November evening, the river blazes with boats, tall and small, roped with brilliance, and fireworks flare overhead. Mystic’s Holiday Lighted Boat Parade bedazzles the darkness. The riverbank is thronged, the community streaming together from all directions, parents hoisting children onto shoulders, to gape at the luminous beauty.

A half mile up the street at Mystic Seaport, the largest maritime museum in the U.S.—and the town’s very own mini hamlet—actors are prepping for the annual Lantern Light Tours. For the next month, visitors will be squired through the museum’s re-created 19th-century village as the performance unfolds by lantern light, carrying on a nearly 40-year tradition. Shadows of ships’ masts sway along the waterfront, ghostly reminders of a seafaring tradition that drifts back to the 1700s, scant decades after Mystic was founded in 1654.

But Mystic’s deeply felt connection with the sea lies above and below the surface. Just a mile and a half inland, two beluga whales sleep in their element at Mystic Aquarium. Thirty-two charming little penguins from South Africa are, we assume, tucked in for the night. Neon-pink jellyfish drift in solitude, oblivious to the fact that each year more than 100,000 schoolchildren are learning secrets of the sea here.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK

CLOCKWISE FROM FAR LEFT : The 176-year-old Charles W. Morgan, the last wooden whaling ship in existence, at Mystic Seaport (with the Joseph Conrad in the background); a preserved 19th-century sail loft in the Seaport Village; Mystic Knotwork owner Matt Beaudoin, whose craft has been handed down through his family; a plate of briny beauties from Oyster Club, a Mystic hot spot for seafood.

FOOD STYLING BY JENNIFER DOAK (OYSTERS)

By day, it’s clear to see how this pretty, bustling seaport (population 4,205) offers up everything else you could wish for: restaurants with fresh seafood in abundance, walking streets full of shops and cafés, bookstores with boatloads of theme-appropriate books, movie tie-ins ( Amistad and Mystic Pizza ), even a few surprises. And that old Mystic River running through it all.

The Setting

Located halfway between Boston and New York City, Mystic has a mild city

vibe wrapped in the mantle of a small town. Stand on the massive Mystic River Bascule Bridge, a drawbridge dating back to 1920, and you’re planted between two realities: Upriver, there’s a full view of Mystic Seaport, with its 19th-century shipyard; downriver, the water spills into Fishers Island Sound, then Long Island Sound. Each hour the bridge rises up, like some steampunk leviathan, to let boats pass through, while road traffic backs up. Nobody honks. Mystic dwellers ignore the phenomenon. The rest of us stop in our tracks to marvel.

The Social Scene

Who wouldn’t want to time-travel to the 19th century, volunteering at Mystic Seaport in the boathouse, gardens, or children’s museum? “Do you really want to know what brought me to the Seaport?” asks Nancy Hughes, a 16-year veteran of the Lantern Light Tours. “It was 9/11. I was living here, but before that I’d lived on the Upper West Side for years. It really affected me. I saw a casting call for Lantern Light and auditioned, and then I fell in love with the waterfront.” She pulls a fresh-cooked pie from the ashes of the fireplace at Buckingham-Hall House. “It’s really peaceful here,” she says. “Like stepping into another time.”

Outside the Seaport, those more inclined to literally get their feet wet might choose to volunteer at the aquarium to work with the public, with penguins, or even alongside belugas Kela and Juno.

Eating Out

“Mystic has certainly become a destination for foodies, and families looking for New England dishes,” observes Sandra Chapman, innkeeper at the Steamboat Inn. Raw-oyster aficionados toggle between the celebrated Oyster Club, wrapped in barn-board chic, and S&P Oyster Co. on the river. Buttery cod is doubly warming in the brick-cozy pub at the 1754 Captain Daniel Packer Inne. Seafood goes Italian at Bravo Bravo—linguine and clams in garlic or champagne risotto with lobster. On the lighter side, Rise serves breakfast and brunch in a café setting that’s as cheery as a bluebird, and French bakery Sift offers temptations such as fresh croissants, tuna Nicoise baguettes, and hazelnut latte éclairs. Cinnamon hot apple cider at Bartleby’s might be the most perfect companion to the Sunday Times.

Shopping

The outstanding two-story gift shop at Mystic Seaport sells all things

Actor Bill Steinmeyer portrays the toy maker Drosselmeyer in last year’s Nutcracker –inspired Lantern Light Tours, a performance staged in scenes throughout Mystic Seaport.

OPPOSITE : Mystic Aquarium senior beluga whale trainer Carey Richard communes with one of her charges.

This inviting little refueling stop takes its name from the 1920 landmark on its doorstep, the Mystic River Bascule Bridge.

OPPOSITE : A nearly 30-year veteran of the state DOT, Rod Coleman is one of the select few trained to operate the drawbridge.

maritime, from a plush toy squid to model ships, and books on topics from rigging to scrimshaw (but don’t skip independent Bank Square Books on Main Street). Near the bridge, the Spice & Tea Exchange is a fragrant den of spice, salt, and tea leaves. A few blocks away, the Army Navy Store brings you back to earth. But among the myriad wonderful little shops, Mystic Knotwork stands out for being rooted in tradition. Owner Matt Beaudoin’s grandfather, Alton, got young Matt started making the kinds of rope bracelets long associated with summer by the sea. “I have no idea when I tied my first knot,” Beaudoin says. “But my grandfather paid me a dime apiece, and when I was 8 years old, I paid for my first bike.” He and his wife, Jill, and their staff work to send rope bracelets, doormats, trivets, key chains, Christmas ornaments, and coasters all over the country. Happily, he observes, “Mystic still has the ribbons of its roots. It’s still a local destination for us, not just tourists.”

If you’re still gift hunting at the end of the day, the colonial-style compound Olde Mistick Village, near the aquarium, presents more than 50 additional shops; you can even find a yellow slicker for your pet here, at Raining Cats and Dogs.

Real Estate

At the time of this writing, we found a three-bedroom, two-bath turnkey 1890 Victorian with loads of extras in the heart of Mystic for $439,900. Water birds could park themselves on Steamboat Wharf in a mint twobed, four-bath condo that included 40 feet of dock, steps from their home, with “spectacular water views,” for $599,000. And a two-bed, two-bath 1940s farmhouse two blocks from downtown listed at $350,000.

Uniquely Mystic

Mystic Seaport’s 17 acres provides one of New England’s great backyards for locals to enjoy. The village includes

a schoolhouse, a church, a cooperage, and a working shipyard. But the boats are the real stunners: the Charles W. Morgan (1841), the last existing whaling vessel; the full-rigged, ironhulled Joseph Conrad (1882); and the beauteous Amistad , with its sky-high masts, built in 2000 at the shipyard. Members enjoy unlimited general admission for about $70 a year—it’s hard to imagine a nicer picnic spot. Even apart from the museum, walking Mystic’s side streets is like strolling through history. It’s rare to pass a house without a sign detailing who built it and when—a beautiful melding of the town’s present and past.

Getting Your Bearings

The elegant Whaler’s Inn overlooks the water (Room 61 affords a perfect view of the boat parade), with on-site dining at Bravo Bravo. On the waterfront, the sleek Steamboat Inn offers 11 rooms with water views, decks, and woodburning fireplaces. And, after years of renovation, the Spicer Mansion, built in 1853 for sea captain Elihu Spicer, opened in 2016 as a Relais & Châteaux luxury inn with eight guest rooms and an impeccable Victorian pedigree.

For more photos of our visit to Mystic, go to newengland.com/mystic-2017.

B&Bs for the Holidays

Eat, sleep, and be merry! These festive New England inns will stoke your seasonal spirit.

BY KIM KNOX BECKIUS

ou could hire a chef, an interior designer, and a squad of elves and still not create a holiday haven that compares to these decked-out B&Bs. Their owners’ passion for Yuletide celebrating borders on obsession. And each inn welcomes you into a community where the spirit of the season shines bright.

The Captain’s House Inn

Santa hats on chairbacks, a twinkly tree, fluffy wreaths in greenhouse-style windows—Saint Nick’s personal designer could not fashion a lovelier setting for a holiday high tea. Make reservations to savor this seasonal treat, whether you’re overnighting in a fireplace-equipped guest room at this 1839 clipper ship captain’s home or day-tripping to hunt for gifts in Chatham’s singular shops. Owners Jill and James Meyer close their inn briefly at Christmas to celebrate family traditions as dear to them as the town’s annual Christmas by the Sea Stroll (December 8–9) is to residents. Then it reopens to delight food-loving revelers who arrive for First Night, when fireworks and midnight’s Countdown Cod drop welcome a new year. Chatham, MA. 508-945-0127; captainshouseinn.com

Fun Stuff

Cross’s WATERMELON

PATCH

Maine Tourmaline

A heart of pink, a rind of green, Held securely by curling tendrils of precious gold.

Visit our website, choose your favorites

14K yellow gold with 18" chain $485.00 - $985.00

Now available in sterling silver starting at $285.00 Also available as earrings

Lobsterman’s Wife’s Maine Sea Glass Bracelet

We saw an ad in Uncle Henry’s: “100 Pounds of Sea Glass For Sale” that’s all it said We called Then we visited She was delightful She said she and her daughters, and then grandchildren, had been picking up sea glass on the beaches around her home forever.

The walls in her basement were lined with two types of coffee cans and glass jars Some with mixed colors, some filled with solid colors It was beautiful This was the definitive collection of Maine sea glass We met her asking price and bought it all.

The bracelet is real silver The sea glass is securely set in handmade frames Toggle clasp with adjustable length, fits everyone A really pleasant mix of colors

Every bracelet is different Each bracelet is guaranteed a nice bright blue (Blue is rare and we have it because it’s from a lifetime collection )

Sea Glass Bracelet X2593 $285.00

See the complete collection on-line.

Watermelon Patch Bracelet

Authentic Maine tourmaline Natural colors, free-form shapes polished smooth in delicious pinks and greens all the colors of watermelon, set in sterling silver Each bracelet is unique All are beautiful.

Check them out on-line Pick your favorite, then give us a call Lots to choose from. We’ll help you select or stop in to choose your favorite Watermelon Patch Bracelet X2499......$395.00

Earrings $375 00

Pendant $235.00

Lighthouse Sea Glass Pendant and Earrings

The light

Pure silver Sweeping Reaching into the night

These are real Maine sea glass collected by a mom and her two young sons. Cut, polished, and assembled by the dad right here in Maine Sky-blue top, medium-blue sea, living green and rich earth below

Pendant X3093 $235.00

Earrings X3094 $375 00

Every piece is a one-of-a-kind …unqiue.

The Inn on Newfound Lake

Christmas begins in early October for innkeepers Larry DeLangis and Phelps Boyce, two Beverly Hills escapees who go Tinseltown when the holiday season rolls around. It takes weeks to deck the mantels, trees, and chandeliers; to set the holiday carnival train scene in motion; to transform this Victorian inn and restaurant into Christmas-cheer central. When the most believable Santa that kids will ever see pops up for breakfast (December 17), it’s magic. But the ultimate sorcery happens at dusk from Thanksgiving through early January, when the 40,000-plus lights wrapped around this lakeside landmark burst into life. The exact bulb count is top secret; donate $1 to help feed local families, and you can guess for a chance to win dining prizes. Bridgewater, NH. 603744-9111; newfoundlake.com

LimeRock Inn

When Frank Isganitis and PJ Walter bought this turreted Victorian in 2004, they owned one nutcracker. Now, about 180 of these decorative figures march out to greet their guests each holiday season. From German Steinbach treasures to drugstore after-Christmas-sale steals, they’re organized by theme on mantels, coffee tables, door frames, and more. Stay during the Festival of Lights weekend (November 24–25), and you can help hang dozens of nutcracker ornaments on the fresh-cut tree—just in time for Saturday’s tour of historic inns. Book a getaway package, and you’ll feel part of this giving-spirited community from the moment you check in: The inn provides you with canned goods to use in voting for favorite floats in Saturday night’s illuminated parade. Rockland, ME. 207-594-2257; limerockinn.com

Scranton Seahorse Inn

It’s not the promise of presents under the tree that gets grown-ups out of bed and bounding downstairs. It’s the aroma of Connecticut-smoked

Nodine’s bacon and the turnovers and yeasted coffee cakes crafted by pastry chef and innkeeper Michael Hafford, all served fireside in this 19th-century home’s dining room. You’re steps from downtown Madison’s evergreendressed shops and two miles from a restorative walk on the beach. Then it’s back to the cozy company of vintage Santas and your room’s holiday touches and pinecone door wreath. Can’t stay over? On December 3, an open house featuring horse-drawn carriage rides and fresh-baked goodies is the inn’s gift

OPPOSITE

to the public during Madison’s annual Christmas celebration. Madison, CT. 203-245-0550; scrantonseahorseinn.com

West Hill House B&B

Join the lively conversation around the Thanksgiving dinner table; tuck your presents under the tree beside the wood-burning stone fireplace. This is your holiday home away from home. Although Santa might not make a stop here, as the inn has a no-kidsunder-12 policy, there are already plenty of toys: snowshoes, a pool table, puzzles, games, even Mad River Rocket sleds (a local invention). Plus, a white Christmas is practically guaranteed here in Mad River Valley ski country, where holiday greenery keeps Peter and Susan MacLaren’s farmhouse B&B looking like a Christmas card for as long as Mother Nature can provide the sparkle of snow—usually deep into March. Warren, VT. 802496-7162; westhillbb.com

FROM TOP : At Rockland, Maine’s LimeRock Inn, the halls are decked; a vast nutcracker collection fills every nook and cranny.

: New Hampshire’s Inn on Newfound Lake blends 19th-century charm with serious 21st-century wattage.

Out of the Shadows

How a long-neglected Newport mansion became a dazzling showcase for American masterworks of illustration art.

BY JOE BILLS

y first thought, as I stood across the street from the National Museum of American Illustration, is that these parts don’t seem to fit together. Isn’t illustration the blue-collar worker of American art? The building before me, a 19th-century Beaux arts mansion on what has been called the most elegant street in America, is most spectacularly not blue-collar. For nearly 20 years, this has been one of New England’s best underthe-radar museums. Housed in Vernon Court, a rejuvenated Gilded Age gem on Newport, Rhode Island’s Bellevue Avenue, and offering perhaps the world’s premier collection of illustration art, it deserves considerably more fanfare.

I’m met in the grand foyer by founders Judy Goffman Cutler and Laurence Cutler. Judy was one of the first to recognize that illustrators both reflected and, over time, molded American society with their images, which were everywhere during the first half of the 20th century. “The fact that the illustrations in magazines or calendars originated as fully realized paintings by exceptionally talented artists wasn’t something people thought about,” Judy says.

Every artwork in the museum has a story, as do the Cutlers, who were childhood sweethearts in Woodbridge, Connecticut, and at the University of Pennsylvania. In college, Laurence gave Judy a book called Mainstreams of Modern Art. “He just said he thought I would like it,” she says. “He was right. I decided to minor in art history. That book changed my life.”

When Laurence left for graduate school at Harvard, however, they went their separate ways, eventually marrying other people. By the late 1960s, Judy was a Philadelphia schoolteacher and mother of two. She started

Only the Norman Rockwell Museum itself has more of the artist’s work than the National Museum of American Illustration, which counts Miss Liberty, 1943, among its highlights.

collecting a few pieces of original illustration art, which she unearthed by placing classified ads, and found she had the field mostly to herself. “Not only was there no market,” she recalls, “but in many cases the original paintings had just been abandoned.”

Judy quickly became not just a collector but also a dealer, and in 1968 she opened the American Illustrators Gallery in New York. Laurence, meanwhile, had become a successful architect and urban designer. As fate would have it, they were both divorced when their paths crossed again in the 1980s. They reconnected, and they finally married in 1995, on the 40th anniversary of their first date.

This family-owned, 93-room luxury inn features two great restaurants, 23 replaces, an indoor heated pool and is fully handicapped accessible. Select pet-friendly rooms available. Walk to the best shopping on the Maine coast and the Amtrak Downeaster train station. Ask about our Yankee Getaway Package. Book direct for complimentary breakfast and afternoon tea.

Visitors to Judy’s gallery had long told her that her collection should be in a museum. The Cutlers agreed, but they struggled for years to find the right venue—until they heard that Vernon Court was for sale. “As soon as we walked in, we knew this was it,” Laurence says.

The 52-room, 13-fireplace “cottage” was built in 1898 as a summer home for Anna van Nest Gambrill, daughter of a railroad tycoon. Designer Jules Allard modeled several rooms after Marie Antoinette’s private suites at the Palace of Versailles. Two loggias were decorated with murals inspired by Pope Julius III’s home in Rome. The gardens were patterned after the ones King Henry VIII had built at Hampton Court for Anne Boleyn.

Though once called “one of the truly greatest estates in America,”

“These aren’t just paintings to look at. Real American history is portrayed in these works.”

VINTAGE CHRISTMAS IN PORTSMOUTH

For details and a complete itinerary of events, go to VintageChristmasNH.org.

Vernon Court had fallen into a state of disrepair by the time the Cutlers bought it in 1998. It had been a private home, a private school, and later part of a junior college, with bedrooms converted into classrooms and the carriage house becoming a biology lab. “There were wires dangling from the ceilings, and no heat or air conditioning,” Laurence says. “The roof leaked. Many of the doors and windows were broken.” It took two long years of restoration and renovation, but the Cutlers finally opened their museum to the public in 2000.

Among the signature pieces in the collection is A Florentine Fete , a series of 10-foot-high panels by Maxfield Parrish that once adorned the girls’ dining room at Curtis Publishing Company in Philadelphia. In addition to Parrish and Norman Rockwell, the museum includes lesser-known luminaries like Howard Pyle, who in the 1890s founded the first dedicated school of illustration, at what would become Drexel University. Virtually everyone who followed—from J.C. Leyendecker, the most prolific Saturday Evening Post cover artist before Rockwell, to Jessie Wilcox Smith, who created more than 200 covers for Good Housekeeping, to Anna and Ethel Betts, Harvey Dunn, Elizabeth Shippen Green, Frank Schoonover, N.C. Wyeth, and Charles Dana Gibson—were all Pyle disciples to some degree. And they’re all here now, on Bellevue Avenue.

“These aren’t just paintings to look at,” Laurence says. “Real American history is portrayed in these works.”

“I consider myself lucky to have done what I did when I did it,” Judy says. “I was blessed to be the only one paying attention for a while. Now I’m thankful to see illustration artists getting recognition.” She adds with a laugh, “But I’ve literally priced myself out of the market.”

PRESENTED BY THE MUSIC HALL & STRAWBERY BANKE MUSEUM

New England’s most authentic holiday tradition returns to Portsmouth.

IN PARTNERSHIP WITH:

e Chamber Collaborative of Greater Portsmouth; City of Portsmouth; Discover Portsmouth Center; Portsmouth Pro Musica; Portsmouth Symphony Orchestra, Yankee Magazine; Z107

Photo credit: David J. Murray/ClearEyePhoto.com

492 Bellevue Ave., Newport, RI. 401851-8949; americanillustration.org

Book your reservations early to make merry December 8-10 at Wassail Weekend—an utterly delightful ushering in of the Christmas season. The scene is beautifully set: an iconic village green, twinkling lights, shops brimming with decorations, and an array of festive events. Enjoy concerts, a historic homes tour, Billings Farm & Museum decked out for a 19th-century holiday, and more—but come 2:00 pm on Saturday, be present for the much-anticipated Equestrian Parade. Sleigh bells jingle as more than 50 horses and riders, decked out in period holiday attire, clip-clop their way through town. WoodstockVT.com

Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Hisis 550 acres of local treasure, ideal for hiking, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and quiet contemplation.

Among the oldest professionally managed woodlands in the country, the look of the forest owes much to Frederick Billings. Inspired by the writings of ahead-of-his-time conservationist, George Perkins Marsh, Billings used progressive forestry methods to establish the thriving landscape you’ll discover today. Enjoy exploring miles of scenic carriage roads and trails that lead you through centuries-old stands of woodlands to stunning vistas and open pastures. 802-457-3368 • NPS.gov/mabi

Family-friendly alpine ski resort, 30 km of groomed Nordic trails, fat biking and on-site rentals. The Woodstock Inn & Resort is a true outdoor winter wonderland. Once you’ve enjoyed a day outside with all of our winter sports options, come inside for some farm-fresh cuisine at one of the Inn’s restaurants.

Or, delight your senses at The Spa featuring a eucalyptus steam room, sauna & hot tub. If that is not enough check out their Falconry Center, where professional falconers provide a hands-on encounter with these magnificent birds of prey.

844-571-9968

• WoodstockInn.com

In a village rich with visual appeal, the Romanesque-style Norman Williams Public Library fits right in. Centrally located on the town green, it was constructed by Dr. Edward Williams in 1883 as a tribute to his parents. Step inside for a peek at the stunning mezzanine level, replete with handsome woodwork—the benefit of a multimillion renovation in recent years. An architectural treat, the library also offers modern day technology. (Visit during the traditional Wassail Weekend reading of A Child’s Christmas in Wales.)

802-457-2295

• NormanWilliams.lib.vt.us

WHEN YOU GO: A storybook-style New England town must have a covered bridge photo op, right? Stroll beyond the village green toward Mountain Avenue, crossing the Ottauquechee River by way Middle Bridge. Originally built in 1969, the bridge was set in place by a team of oxen.

Out About

MAINE

CHRISTMAS AT VICTORIA MANSION

NOVEMBER 24–JANUARY 7

The display at Victoria Mansion, built c. 1860 as a summer house for hotel magnate Ruggles Sylvester Morse, is always a highlight of Portland’s seasonal happenings. Some of the area’s best designers deck the halls of the stately historic landmark, while the exterior is ornamented with lighting by Scarborough’s Event Light Pros. Step back into the Gilded Age and enjoy the lavish decorations and guided tour. Portland, ME. 207-772-4841; victoriamansion.org

Yankee ’s favorite events this season

CONNECTICUT WINTERFEST AND THE TUNNEL OF LIGHTS

NOVEMBER 24–26,

DECEMBER 1–3, 8–10, 15–17, 22–23, 26–30

Ride the rails at the Connecticut Trolley Museum—in either a closed car or, for those hardy enough to brave the cold, an open “electric sleigh”—and join the motormen in singing traditional carols as the trolley travels through the “Tunnel of Lights” display. Afterward, warm up with a steaming cup of cocoa in the visitor center, where you can admire the model trains and displays and take advantage of a photo op with Santa. East Windsor, CT. 860-6276540; ceraonline.org

MASSACHUSETTS

AMERICA’S HOMETOWN THANKSGIVING CELEBRATION

NOVEMBER 17–19

See the story of Thanksgiving brought to life as Pilgrims, Native Americans, soldiers, patriots, and pioneers climb out of the history books and stride onto the streets of Plymouth. Events include a “chronological parade” representing the march of time from the 17th through 21st centuries, a harvest farmers’ market, a historical village, a food festival, concerts, and more. Plymouth, MA. 508-746-1818; usathanksgiving.com

NEW HAMPSHIRE

IRVING BERLIN’S WHITE CHRISTMAS

NOVEMBER 29–DECEMBER 17

The Music Hall presents the Ogunquit Playhouse production of this musical based on the 1954 classic film of the same name. White Christmas tells the story of WWII veterans Bob Wallace and Phil Davis, who have a successful

song-and-dance act. Chasing romance, they follow a pair of singing sisters to their Christmas show at a Vermont lodge—crooning Irving Berlin hits such as “Count Your Blessings (Instead of Sheep)” and “White Christmas” along the way. Portsmouth, NH. 603436-2400; themusichall.org

RHODE ISLAND

OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS AT HEARTHSIDE

DECEMBER 3, 9, 10, 28, 30

Venture back in time at Hearthside, where volunteers in Victorian attire will guide you through rooms elaborately decorated with ornaments of lace and gold, festive garlands, and poinsettias. Look for live music and caroling, homemade cookies and hot cider, and a gift shop stocked with holiday goodies. On December 28 and 30, the “Home for the Holidays” candlelight tours are not to be missed. Lincoln, RI. 401-7260597; hearthsidehouse.org

VERMONT

CHRISTMAS IN WESTON

DECEMBER 2

A day of fun for all ages is in store during this townwide annual event. Visit with Santa at the Vermont Country Store before climbing aboard a horse-drawn wagon for a ride. Stop by the Weston Playhouse for puppet and magic shows or visit Old Parish Church for a reading of A Christmas Carol , then spend the day reveling in food tastings, greenhouse tours, and craft demonstrations, accompanied by music and caroling throughout downtown. Stick around for the lighting of the town tree at dusk. Weston, VT. westonvt.com

—Compiled by Joe Bills

CONNECTICUT

NOV. 4–5: WESTPORT, CraftWestport. Get your holiday shopping started right at this longrunning annual juried fair, featuring 175 talented artists and crafters from across the country and a pop-up marketplace devoted to Connecticut artisans. artrider.com

NOV. 19: STAMFORD, Giant Helium Balloon Parade Spectacular. One of the largest helium balloon parades in the country, this yearly tradition features giant inflatable versions of favorite characters, awardwinning marching bands, and fabulous floats. stamford-downtown.com

NOV. 24–26, DEC. 2–3: TOLLAND AND WINDHAM COUNTIES, Artists’ Open Studios SelfGuided Tour. Move along at your own pace as you embark on this free art adventure through northeast Connecticut, encompassing more than 80 artists working in a wide variety of media. aosct.org

DEC. 1–2: BETHLEHEM, Christmas Town Festival. O little town of Bethlehem … where thousands make an annual pilgrimage to secure the perfect Christmas card postmark. See the town green transformed with 70-plus vendors offering crafts and food, musical entertainment, kids’ activities, hayrides, photos with Santa, and more. 203266-7510; christmastownfestival.com

DEC. 2: WOODBURY, Glebe House Christmas Festival. Tour the charming c. 1740 Glebe House while it’s beautifully decorated for the holidays with wreaths, holiday lighting, and garlands—all for sale. A shopping bazaar offers many original gift ideas, too. 203263-2855; glebehousemuseum.org

DEC. 3: HARTFORD, Holiday Home Tour. Tour several gorgeous homes, including the historic Isham-Terry House and the 19-room Mark Twain House, all gussied up for the season. 860-280-3130; marktwainhouse.org

DEC. 8: MYSTIC, Festival of Lights. Olde Mistick Village and Mystic Aquarium team up for a winter walk lighted by some 4,000 luminaries. There’s a full lineup of events and activities around the village and at the aquarium, and live music throughout. oldemistickvillage.com; mysticaquarium.org

DEC. 9–JAN. 7: WETHERSFIELD, Three Centuries of Christmas Tours. Visitors stroll among the historic homes of the Webb-DeaneStevens Museum, enjoying tasty foods, good cheer, festive decor, and live music ranging from 18th-century tunes to holiday jazz. 860-529-0612; webb-deane-stevens.org

DEC. 16–17, 21: NEW HAVEN, “Holiday Extravaganza: A Classical Christmas.” Join the New Haven Symphony for a celebration sure to lift the spirits as it performs seasonal favorites, leads a carol sing-along, and more. 203865-0831; newhavensymphony.org

DEC. 31: HARTFORD, First Night. The fireworks at Bushnell Park are the culmination of this multicultural, alcohol-free New Year’s experience, with musical, artistic, and other performances and exhibits at venues across the city. firstnighthartford.org

Tarcoles

Costa Rica Natural Paradise 9-Day Tour $1295

Volcanoes, Beaches & Rainforests—w/ All Hotels, Meals, Activities

Your Costa Rica tour is fully guided from start to finish—and all-inclusive—with all hotels, all meals, and all activities.

Join the smart shoppers and experienced travelers who rely on Caravan.

Caravan Tour Itinerary

Day 1. Your tour starts in San José, Costa Rica.

Day 2. Explore the Poás Volcano and view active crater from an overlook.

Day 3. Visit to a wildlife rescue center.

Day 4. Cruise on the Rio Frio river into Caño Negro, and enjoy a relaxing soak in the volcanic hot springs.

Day 5. Hike on the Hanging Bridges. Continue to the beautiful Pacific Coast.

Day 6. Free time at your beach resort.

Day 7. Cruise on the Tarcoles River, and enjoy bird watching & crocodile spotting. Continue to your Manuel Antonio hotel, located at the national park entrance.

Day 8. Explore Manuel Antonio National Park. Hike through the rainforest and along spectacular beach coves. Enjoy a thrilling aerial tram adventure.

Day 9. Return with wonderful memories. ¡Hasta la vista!—Caravan

Detailed Itinerary at Caravan ∙com

Choose An Affordable Tour tax,fees extra Guatemala with Tikal 10 days $1295

Costa Rica 9 days $1295

Panama Canal Tour 8 days $1195

Nova Scotia, P.E.I. 10 days $1395

Canadian Rockies, Glacier 9 days $1695

Grand Canyon, Bryce, Zion 8 days $1495

California Coast, Yosemite 8 days $1595

Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone 8 days $1395

New England, Fall Colors 8 days $1395

“ All hotels were excellent! There is no way I would’ve stayed in such superior and sophisticated hotels for the price I paid” —Client, Salinas, CA

“ Brilliant, Affordable Pricing”

—Arthur Frommer, Travel Editor

Hike

Manuel Antonio National Park

Three-toed Sloth

Capuchin Monkey Morpho Butter y

Scarlet Macaw

San Bada Hotel

Manuel Antonio National Park

Bring your family!

MAINE

NOV. 11–12: BANGOR, Maine Harvest Festival. At the Cross Insurance Center, celebrate all that is local and farm fresh with tastings and cooking demonstrations with Maine chefs and cookbook authors, live music, wine and beer samples, and a two-crusted apple pie competition. 207-561-8300; maineharvestfestival.com

NOV. 17–DEC. 31: BOOTHBAY, Gardens Aglow! Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens presents the largest light display in Maine, with 360,000 LEDs, a s’mores pit, food trucks, and special art exhibits. 207-633-8000; mainegardens.org

NOV. 24–26: ROCKLAND, Festival of Lights. Santa arrives by boat to kick off festivities highlighted by the illumination of the lobster-trap Christmas tree. Among the other enticements are horse-drawn wagon rides, a parade, a bonfire, and caroling. 207593-6093; rocklandmainstreet.com

NOV. 25: YORK, Lighting of the Nubble. Visit Sohier Park to see the iconic lighthouse illuminated for the holidays. There will be music, cocoa, and cookies, and word has it that Santa himself will make an appearance. 207-363-1040; business.gatewaytomaine.org

DEC. 1–3: FREEPORT, Sparkle Weekend. From the Parade of Lights on Main Street to the L.L. Bean Northern Lights Celebration, this has become one of the most popular seasonal events around. Free activities abound, including visits with Santa, horse-drawn carriage rides, holiday movies, rides aboard the Amtrak Downeaster, and a tuba Christmas concert. sparklecelebration.com

DEC. 2: NEW GLOUCESTER, Shaker Christmas Fair. Experience nostalgic holiday traditions at Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village, the country’s only active Shaker community. You can get some shopping done, too, since gift items such as baked goods, knit items, ornaments, balsam wreaths, woodenware, candy, and jams are available for purchase. 207-926-4597; maineshakers.com

DEC. 7–30: BANGOR, Beauty and the Beast. The Penobscot Theatre presents a classic tale of love and self-discovery. A cold-hearted prince has been magically made hideous as punishment for his selfish ways. To regain his human form, he must earn the love of a clever, beautiful young woman whom he has imprisoned in his enchanted castle. 207942-3333; penobscottheatre.org

DEC. 8–10, 15–17: PORTLAND, “Magic of Christmas” Concert. The Portland Symphony Orchestra returns to Merrill Auditorium for conductor Robert Moody’s final presentation of the musical traditions of the season. 207-842-0800; portlandsymphony.org

DEC. 8–10: OGUNQUIT, Christmas by the Sea Celebration. The seaside village of Ogunquit provides an idyllic background for an annual celebration that includes a parade, storytellers, a craft fair, and visits to Santa’s village, as well as the lighting of the town Christmas tree. 207-646-2939; visitogunquit.org

DEC. 16–17: BOOTHBAY HARBOR, Gingerbread Spectacular. The deliciously competitive gingerbread contest returns to the Opera House, where a confectioner’s dream lineup of castles, cabins, and other creations will be on display. The holiday bake sale will make sure that your newly inspired sweet tooth goes home happy. boothbayoperahouse.com

DEC. 31: EASTPORT, The Great Sardine and Maple Leaf Drop. The Tides Institute and Museum of Art celebrates the New Year twice. The festivities start when the first bands take the stage at 10 p.m. At 11 (midnight Atlantic time), the New Year’s Eve Brass Band will play “O Canada” to accompany the Maple Leaf Drop. An hour later, they’ll fire up “Auld Lang Syne” during the Great Sardine Drop to officially ring in 2018. 207-853-4047; tidesinstitute.org

MASSACHUSETTS

THROUGH JAN. 21: CONCORD, “This Ever New Self: Thoreau and His Journal.” The Concord Museum presents one of the most comprehensive exhibits devoted to Henry David Thoreau, featuring journals, manuscripts, letters, books, and field notes from the Morgan Library and Museum and unique personal items from the Concord Museum. 978-369-9763; concordmuseum.org

NOV. 3–5: BOSTON, Christmas Festival. Come for the shopping opportunities presented by the 300 crafters gathered at Seaport World Trade Center, but stick around to see gingerbread masterpieces created by top chefs to be judged by a celebrity panel and sold for charity. 617-742-3967; bostonchristmasfestival.com

NOV. 3–5: FRANKLIN COUNTY, CiderDays. Celebrate all things apple with two days of orchard tours, cider-making demonstrations and tastings, workshops, and more. See website for participating orchards. 413-773-5463; ciderdays.org

NOV. 10–12: BOSTON, Amadeus Live. Join the Handel and Haydn Society at Symphony Hall for a screening of the Academy Award–winning movie Amadeus with the soundtrack performed live by the H+H orchestra and chorus. 617-266-3605; handelandhaydn.org

NOV. 11–12: COLRAIN, Crafts of Colrain: An Open Studio Art Tour. Begin at Pine Hill Orchards and continue on through this picturesque area, whose artists and artisans open their studios to visitors. Celebrate the diversity of their work, see demonstrations of what they do, and perhaps get in a bit of early holiday shopping, as well. craftsofcolrain.com

NOV. 17–19: MARLBOROUGH, Paradise City Arts Festival. Browse the distinctive works of 175 of the country’s most notable craft designers and artisans at Royal Plaza Trade Center,

where the parking is free, the jazz is live, and the dining options are delightful. 800-5119725; paradisecityarts.com

NOV. 18–19: WEST SPRINGFIELD, Old Deerfield Holiday Sampler Craft Fair. This annual tradition brings some 200 artisans to the Eastern State Expo’s Better Living Center, where a wide range of crafts, collectibles, clothing, decorations, and jewelry will be on display. 413-774-7476; deerfield-craft.org

NOV. 22–JAN. 1: SPRINGFIELD, Bright Nights at Forest Park. Experience one of the region’s largest show of lights (more than 600,000 bulbs illuminate the three-mile route). To get the full effect, tune your radio to the musical simulcast as you drive past the beautiful holiday scenes. brightnights.org

NOV. 23: PLYMOUTH, “The Story of Thanksgiving” Dinner. Make plans early if you want to participate in this popular feast at Plimoth Plantation, where Pilgrim role-players and native interpreters will greet you and your family. Other dining options, including a buffet-style Thanksgiving meal, are also offered. 508-746-1622; plimoth.org

NOV. 25: PROVINCETOWN, Lighting of the Lobster-Pot Tree. The tradition of lighting of a two-story “tree” built from more than 100 lobster traps borrowed from local fishermen was started in 2004 and has become an annual highlight in Lopes Square. capecodchamber.org

NOV. 29–DEC. 24: LOWELL, A Christmas Carol. The holiday classic returns to the stage at the Merrimack Repertory Theatre for the first time in more than two decades, in a oneman performance by Joel Colodner that was inspired by the storytelling performances of Dickens himself. 978-654-4678; mrt.org

DEC. 1–3: STOCKBRIDGE, Main Street at Christmas. The town made famous by a Norman Rockwell holiday painting hosts a weekend of festivities, including holiday readings, house tours, caroling, and concerts starting on Friday evening and leading up to Sunday’s recreation of the downtown scene as captured by the artist in the painting Main Street at Christmas, which he started in 1956 and finished in 1967. stockbridgechamber.org

DEC. 2–3, 8–10, 15-17, 22–23: STURBRIDGE, Christmas by Candlelight. Experience the magic of a candlelit New England township while learning about the real history behind today’s Christmas traditions at historic Old Sturbridge Village. Take a horse-drawn sleigh ride and indulge in warm gingerbread, hot cider, and roasted chestnuts while listening to villagers’ stories, carols, and holiday music. 800-733-1830; osv.org

DEC. 7–10: EDGARTOWN, Christmas in Edgartown. Enjoy the charms of Martha’s Vineyard in the winter with activities including the annual Great Chowder Contest, the Harbor View Hotel lighthouse lighting, the Christmas parade, and visits with Santa, and other holiday events. edgartownboardoftrade.com

DEC. 31: CHATHAM, First Night Celebration. The town’s annual New Year’s celebration features more than 70 performances and events, including kids’ activities and community suppers, and culminates in a fireworks display over Oyster Pond. firstnightchatham.com

NEW HAMPSHIRE

NOV. 10: TROY, Fall Family Farm Day. Savor the season with a hands-on experience at scenic East Hill Farm. Milk a cow, groom a pony, collect eggs, then settle in for some artsy activities and s’mores. Reservations required. 800-242-6495; east-hill-farm.com

NOV. 19: GREENLAND, Craft Fair and Pie Festival. This annual Women’s Club fund-raiser has grown into a pastry spectacular, now serving up some 550 delicious pies at the Greenland School. Enjoy the luncheon café, arts and crafts from more than 100 artisans, music, and a raffle. greenlandwomensclub.org

NOV. 22–26: BRETTON WOODS, Omni Mount Washington Thanksgiving Celebration. Create holiday memories with traditional family activities such as the turkey trot, flag football, and crafts, while you bide your time until the buffet Thanksgiving feast. Before the weekend is through, you’ll witness the annual Christmas tree lighting and Santa’s first visit, too. 603-278-1000; omnihotels.com/hotels/ bretton-woods-mount-washington

NOV. 25–26, DEC. 2–3, 9–10, 16–17: JACKSON, Jingle Bell Chocolate Tour. This simple idea has grown into a much-anticipated annual event,

but otherwise it hasn’t changed a bit. Participants are delivered by sleigh to a succession of inns, sampling chocolate treats at each stop— simple and delicious. jacksonnh.com

DEC. 2: EXETER, Holiday Parade. For more than 50 years, this parade has been bringing the magic of the season to downtown Exeter, with illuminated floats, horse-drawn wagons, marching bands, and a visit from ol’ Saint Nick. This year’s theme is “Six Decades of Holiday Hometowns.” exeterholidayparade.org

DEC. 8–9: WHITE MOUNTAIN REGION, Inn-toInn Cookie Tour. Enjoy a self-guided tour of area inns, decorated for the season and offering their signature cookies and sweet treats. countryinnsinthewhitemountains.com

DEC. 9, 16: CANTERBURY, Christmas at Canterbury Shaker Village. Celebrate the holiday’s simpler delights by taking a candlelit stroll through the village or riding in a horse-drawn wagon or sleigh. Other happenings include a 19th-century magic show, opportunities to make Christmas cards and ornaments, and the village tree lighting. 603-783-9511; shakers.org

DEC. 22: CONCORD, Oak Ridge Boys. One of the most heralded country music groups of all time, the Oak Ridge Boys come to the Capitol Center for the Arts for an evening of fan favorites and holiday classics. 603-225-1111; ccanh.com

DEC. 26–31: PORTSMOUTH, Holiday House Tours. Take a 90-minute guided tour of five historic homes at Strawbery Banke Museum, each decorated to highlight the evolution of New England holiday celebrations. 603-4331100; strawberybanke.org

DEC. 31: PORTSMOUTH, First Night Celebration. Continuing a tradition that began in 1986, Portsmouth hosts a full slate of familyfriendly activities, culminating in a big fireworks show. See website for full schedule. proportsmouth.org

RHODE ISLAND

NOV. 3–5: PAWTUCKET, Fine Furnishings Show. More than 50 exhibitors and some 80 artists and crafters gather at the Pawtucket Armory Arts Center to show works ranging from traditional to modern. There will also be demonstrations, live music, and food and drink. 401-816-0963; finefurnishingsshows.com

NOV. 4: PROVIDENCE, Waterfire Salute to Veterans. This community celebration features the signature fire-on-the-water display as well as a host of activities that pay tribute to Rhode Island veterans and current members of the armed forces. waterfiresalutetoveterans.org

NOV. 9–DEC. 31: PROVIDENCE, A Christmas Carol. Rhode Island’s family holiday tradition returns to the Chace Theater stage. Grumpy, greedy Ebenezer Scrooge is inspired to change his ways when visited by three Christmas ghosts. 401-351-4242; trinityrep.com

NOV. 17: PROVIDENCE, Garrison Keillor: Just Passing Through. The voice of A Prairie Home Companion and The Writer’s Almanac returns to the Providence Performing Arts

Center with a one-man show highlighting his signature humor and homespun wisdom. 401-421-2787; ppacri.org

NOV. 17–19, 24–26, DEC. 1–3, 8–10, 15–17, 22–23: WOONSOCKET, The Polar Express. ’Tis the season for a magical adventure aboard this 90-minute train ride inspired by Chris Van Allsburg’s Christmas classic. Departs from Depot Square. 401-495-1213; blackstonevalleypolarexpress.com

NOV. 18–JAN. 1: NEWPORT, Christmas at the Mansions. Three magnificent mansions—the Breakers, the Elms, and Marble House—are filled with thousands of poinsettias, evergreens, and wreaths. The trees are decorated, the tables are elegantly set, and the white candles flicker in the windows, all to create a magical holiday setting. Make a day of it, and tour all three. 401-8471000; newportmansions.org

NOV. 24–JAN. 1: BRISTOL, Christmas at Blithewold. Every corner of historic Blithewold Mansion, Gardens, and Arboretum is sparkling for the season. Depending on the day, you’ll find tours, music, afternoon teas, storytelling, and perhaps even a visit from Santa. See website for full schedule. 401253-2707; blithewold.org

NOV. 30–DEC. 3: WICKFORD VILLAGE, Festival of Lights. Stroll the historic village amid holiday light displays as the shops stay open late. See Santa arrive at the town dock by way of the Sea Princess, then move on to the tree lighting, caroling, and hayrides. 877295-7200; wickfordvillage.org

DEC. 1–3, 8–10: PAWTUCKET, Holiday Show. A cooperative of more than 60 artists comes together to present the Foundry Artists Association’s holiday show at the Pawtucket Armory Arts Center. The wide range of items available includes ceramics, handmade books, fiber artwork, hats, handbags, food, and jewelry. foundryshow.com

DEC. 2–3: NORTH KINGSTOWN, Christmas at the Castle. Stroll through Smith’s Castle while it’s decked in period fashion for a celebration of Christmas past. Enjoy live music reminiscent of a bygone era, snap a photo with Father Christmas and Santa Bob, and fortify yourself with cookies and hot mulled cider. 401-294-3521; smithscastle.org

DEC. 16–17: WESTERLY, Christmas Pops. The 200-member Chorus of Westerly joins the Pops Orchestra for its annual salute to the season with two scheduled performances at George Kent Hall, featuring traditional favorites such as “Sleigh Ride” and “White Christmas.” chorusofwesterly.org

VERMONT

THROUGH JAN. 21: SHELBURNE, “Hooked on Patty Yoder.” The Shelburne Museum presents a retrospective of the 13-year career of American hooked rug artisan Patty Yoder, who set a new standard in the field of American textile arts with her “paintings with wool to be hung and enjoyed as art.” 802-9853346; shelburnemuseum.org

A

Four-Season Destination!

A Four-Season Destination!

A Four-Season Destination!

Year-Round Shopping, Dining & Lodging.

Year-Round Shopping, Dining & Lodging.

Year-Round Shopping, Dining & Lodging.

Year-Round Shopping, Dining & Lodging.

A Four-Season Destination!

Downhill and Cross-Country Skiing. Visits to Santa’s Hut. Snowmobiling. Ice-Fishing events at Fisherville on Wolfeboro Bay. Art Galleries. Cozy Fireplaces. Skating. Festival of Trees. Snow-shoeing. Holiday Parade and New Year’s Eve Fireworks. Concerts. Ask for a FRee Brochure! at wolfeborochamber.com

Year-Round Shopping, Dining & Lodging.

Downhill and Cross-Country Skiing. Visits to Santa’s Hut. Snowmobiling. Ice-Fishing events at Fisherville on Wolfeboro Bay. Art Galleries. Cozy Fireplaces. Skating. Festival of Trees. Snow-shoeing. Holiday Parade and New Year’s Eve Fireworks. Concerts. Ask for a FRee Brochure! at wolfeborochamber.com

Downhill and Cross-Country Skiing. Visits to Santa’s Hut. Snowmobiling. Ice-Fishing events at Fisherville on Wolfeboro Bay. Art Galleries. Cozy Fireplaces. Skating. Festival of Trees. Snow-shoeing. Holiday Parade and New Year’s Eve Fireworks. Concerts. Ask for a FRee Brochure! at wolfeborochamber.com

Downhill and Cross-Country Skiing. Visits to Santa’s Hut. Snowmobiling. Ice-Fishing events at Fisherville on Wolfeboro Bay. Art Galleries. Cozy Fireplaces. Skating. Festival of Trees. Snow-shoeing. Holiday Parade and New Year’s Eve Fireworks. Concerts. Ask for a FRee Brochure! at wolfeborochamber.com

603-569-2200 • 800-516-5324

“Work and Live Where You Love to Play” wolfeboronh.us

603-569-2200 • 800-516-5324

603-569-2200 • 800-516-5324

“Work and Live Where You Love to Play” wolfeboronh.us

Downhill and Cross-Country Skiing. Visits to Santa’s Hut. Snowmobiling. Ice-Fishing events at Fisherville on Wolfeboro Bay. Art Galleries. Cozy Fireplaces. Skating. Festival of Trees. Snow-shoeing. Holiday Parade and New Year’s Eve Fireworks. Concerts. Ask for a FRee Brochure! at wolfeborochamber.com

“Work and Live Where You Love to Play” wolfeboronh.us

603-569-2200 • 800-516-5324

“Work and Live Where You Love to Play” wolfeboronh.us

603-569-2200 • 800-516-5324

“Work and Live Where You Love to Play” wolfeboronh.us

Friday, October 27 5PM-9PM

Saturday, October 28 10AM-5PM

Sunday, October 29 10AM-4PM

STURBRIDGE MASSACHUSETTS

The Sturbridge Host Inn

Sturbridge, MASS. PH: 1-717-677-0706

NOV. 14: BURLINGTON, An Evening with Vermont Abenaki Artists. At the Flynn Center for the Performing Arts, the Vermont Abenaki Artists Association shares a performance of traditional and contemporary Abenaki music, storytelling, and drumming, featuring Don Stevens, chief of the Nulhegan band of the Coosuk Abenaki, and Bryan Blanchette, a Berklee alumnus who writes and performs new Abenaki-language songs. 802-863-5966; flynntix.org

NOV. 17–19: BURLINGTON, Craft Vermont. The premier juried show of fine Vermont crafts returns to the Sheraton Conference Center with one-of-a-kind pieces representing basketry, ceramics, woodworking, paintings, digital art, fine art, furniture, glass, jewelry, and more. vermonthandcrafters.com

NOV. 24–26: PUTNEY, Craft Tour. Make your way to the studios of two dozen of the area’s most talented artists, and you’ll see firsthand where their creations are forged—and at some you’ll even witness demonstrations of how the work is done. putneycrafts.com

NOV. 25–26: BARRE, Winter Festival of Vermont Crafters. Some 120 artisans gather at Barre Municipal Auditorium to offer quality items and creative crafts just in time for gift-giving season. A visit from Santa is expected, too. greaterbarrecraftguild.com

DEC. 1–3: ESSEX JUNCTION, Vermont International Festival. Join the fun at this annual celebration of cultures from around the world, which brings crafts, foods, music, and dance to the Champlain Valley Expo. 802863-6713; vermontinternationalfestival.com

DEC. 2: PLYMOUTH NOTCH, Coolidge Holiday Open House. Historic Plymouth Notch is the backdrop for this Christmas tradition, featuring the bedecked birthplace of President Calvin Coolidge, old-time music, sleigh rides, craft demonstrations, and kids’ activities. 802-672-3773; historicsites.vermont.gov

DEC. 8–10: WOODSTOCK, Winter Wassail Weekend. There could be no more perfect holiday locale than the lovely village of Woodstock. Enjoy music, home tours, dramatic readings, and the Wassail Parade, featuring dozens of horses and riders decked out in holiday costumes and period dress. woodstockvt.com

DEC. 16: MONTPELIER, Touch of Vermont Holiday Gift Market. You’ll find the perfect gift for everyone on your list this season as more than 45 Vermont makers and artisans present their wares at City Hall. touchofvt.org

DEC. 27: RUTLAND, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Live on Stage. The Emmy and Peabody award winner by Charles M. Schulz has warmed the hearts of millions of fans since it first aired on TV in 1965. This live stage adaptation brings Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Lucy, Linus, and the rest of the gang to life, set to Vince Guaraldi’s classic musical score. 802-775-0903; paramountvt.org

DEC. 31: BURLINGTON, First Night Celebration. Dust off your dancing shoes for a day of music and merriment spanning the waterfront to Buell Street, capped off by a spectacular fireworks display. 802-863-6005; firstnightburlington.com

Fun Stuff

Baby Lobster Bracelet

Few have ever seen a baby lobster Even some Mainers doubt the existence of perfectly formed miniature lobsters: one, two, and three inches long As children we found them at full moon’s lowest tides in shallow pools hiding beneath rocks in their kelp and seaweed nurseries.

The baby lobster is honored in our handmade bracelet of a dozen little lobster links Subtle, smooth, clean classic lines, understated…elegant. Secured, of course, by a handsome lobster claw clasp Also available in a necklace

All 14K yellow gold

Small X1890 $1,650 00

Medium (shown above) X1891 ..........$2,250.00

Large X1892 $2,750.00

Baby Lobster Bracelet also available in sterling silver Medium X2707 $475.00

Down East BuoyBracelet

Depart any harbor, sail along our rocky coast, lobster buoys dot the sea with the colors of Easter eggs and Christmas ornaments an ocean of bobbing color Natural and composite stone colors Sterling silver bracelet,toggle clasp closure. Silver buoys swing freely. Bell-clapper handle Everything’s in motion It’s totally kinetic Really fun to wear More buoy options on-line

Down East Buoy Bracelet shown 14 buoy......X3095......$1,250.00

Down East Buoy Bracelet not shown 7 buoy......X3096......$775.00

Lobster Claw Necklace

A lobster freshly pulled out of the ocean off the Maine coast is green in color Steam a Maine coast lobster for 12 minutes, it turns pink-red Our sterling silver lobster claw comes with a green or pink Maine tourmaline; lobster and Maine tourmaline, two powerful symbols of Maine.

Large or small

Small pink X3206 $165 00

Small green X3207 $165.00

Large green X3209 $265 00

Large pink X3208 $265.00

MOVABLE

For a hard-luck Vermont farm couple, bringing Christmas trees to the big city takes grit, perseverance, and just a touch of “secret sauce.”

FOREST

by JULIA SHIPLEY AND

photographs by COREY HENDRICKSON

JOE KEOHANE

CANAAN, VERMONT

It’s 12:30 a.m. on Tuesday, 33 days before Christmas, and fresh snow covers the remote hilltop where Melody Houle is limping back to her cabin. While fetching wood to feed the stove—the sole source of heat in the home and headquarters of her family’s organic Christmas tree business—she fell through a broken slat in a pallet lining the shed. Pain spears through her ankle and shin. Later today she and her husband, Patrick, will load up the last of this year’s balsam harvest, including a select group bound for Cortelyou Road in Brooklyn, New York. It’s the culmination of almost a decade of pruning and shearing, and many weeks of cutting and baling.

Melody’s leg is swelling fast and throbbing, and she’s concerned it could be sprained or, worse, broken— in which case, how will she stand on

it day after day for a month in a small street lot in Brooklyn? The 18-wheel tractor-trailer slated to transport their trees to Manhattan will be grinding up the Houles’ long, steep, snow-choked driveway just six and a half hours from now. Furthermore, Melody hasn’t even begun packing for their extended city sojourn. She has yet to haul down the blue tub marked “NY” from the loft and double-check the essentials it contains: Christmas tree lights, black markers, a tie cutter, a tape measure, string to retie the trees, two floodlights, a safe box, power cords, a tent and rain gear, an “Open” sign, big fat chalk for writing arrows on the sidewalk, a Santa cap, a cookie tin filled with red Christmas balls (to hang on the curbside trees), a canister of free gifts for kids (Santa stickers and Star of David coins), and the little translucent sachet bags that Melody will fill

with fragrant needles that fall off the trees, a gift for grown-ups.

Monday did not go as planned. Instead of putting away laundry and loading supplies into their white Lincoln Town Car, Melody, 58, and Patrick, 54, spent most of the day helping a wholesale customer whose axle broke immediately after they’d finished loading his trees. The busted rig blocked the only way into the Houles’ farm, up a sinuous two-mile dirt road. As Melody tried to track down a welder, Patrick used rope and plywood to jerry-rig the axle. Meanwhile, the season’s first snowstorm began spitting icy flakes. It was night before the trailer was finally dragged clear of the road and a welder was found to come and mend it. And the Houles still hadn’t gone to bed when Melody went out for that armload of wood and fell. Now, as she sits in a

Melody Houle keeps an eye on a truck being loaded with her family’s Christmas trees; later, she’ll take a moment to pray for all the drivers’ safety.

PREVIOUS SPREAD : Crane operator Ivan Belville maneuvers a bundle of evergreens to a waiting flatbed at the Houles’ farm.

chair at the small table in the center of their shoebox-shaped cabin, Patrick kneels and places his hands gently on her ankle. Together they close their eyes and ask their heavenly father for protection and healing.

Selling these trees is what pays the mortgage in this sparsely populated region of the state’s northeast corner, where the Houles’ closest neighbors are more than a mile away. The Houles live frugally—off the grid, with a generator, wind turbine, and solar panels for power—and, lately, without running water. Since the spring went dry three months ago, they’ve been taking showers and washing clothes with rain water, and more recently with giant kegs of water that Patrick fills in town and hauls back to their home on Todd Hill.

The hand-painted sign on their cabin door reads, “Welcome God, Sunshine, and Friends”—and by Melody and Patrick’s estimation, these things are what deliver them from tribulations and are undoubtedly part of the miracle that landed them their coveted showcase in Brooklyn. It’s almost impossible to score sales territory in New York City, where veteran tree vendors fiercely guard their corners and curbs, but the Houles happened to spot and respond to a rare call for new vendors the instant it was posted on an online message board. This season marks their fifth year selling trees on their serendipitous lot in Brooklyn’s Ditmas Park, and the seventh year of their serendipitous business. As Lorrainy Marchessault, a Canadian-born Vermont dairy farmer and reputed father of the modern Christmas tree industry, once said, “A Christmas tree is money, but it is also something religious”—and the Houles, who more or less stumbled into tree farming, are proof of this.

Sixty-five years ago, Christmas tree growers weren’t vying for tiny slices of Manhattan real estate—back then, most city dwellers set up fake trees. In fact, the whole industry of Christmas tree farming was still in its infancy. In the 1950s the U.S. government began paying farmers to take land out of production; simultaneously, it

subsidized the planting of Christmas trees. By 1959, Marchessault had sold his herd to plant 72,000 balsam fir seedlings. By 1969, he was cutting and loading 10,000 of “the trees you like to smell,” dispatching them to living rooms throughout the Northeast and all the way down the coast to Florida. By 1978, he’d doubled his harvest on his now-1,800-acre spread, grossing more than $100,000 a year in the business he shared with his 10 sons and daughters. By 1993, with 3,000 acres in cultivation, he’d become the largest Christmas tree grower in Vermont.

At that point, Patrick Houle was already 15 years into his tenure at the Ethan Allen plant in Beecher Falls. His mother worked there, his brothers worked there, and on Patrick’s 16th birthday he went into the factory office and applied for a job as a stock boy. Every weekday there after he reported for work at the plant, eventually becoming an official supervisor and unofficial “MacGyver”—meaning that whenever the company needed someone to invent something to solve a manufacturing problem, he was the one they turned to.

Melody, too, signed on with Ethan Allen, joining the plant’s repair department in the late 1990s. But the Great Recession would come all too soon. In January 2009, Melody says, you could feel it; in February, they tapped her on the shoulder, led her to a room, and informed her she was being laid off. Two months later her son Michael was laid off the same way. “Now everyone in the house was in a panic,” she says. The family shut off everything but the essentials—they unplugged electronics, quit their cable service.

Today the factory sits empty, with “a lotta writing on the walls,” Melody says. She means this literally: Workers

wrote snowfall amounts, birthdays, the final scores of the factory hockey team games. By the elevator, a 16-year-old Patrick had written his start date. And on August 29, 2009, a 47-year-old Patrick penciled his finish date, as the plant shut down production and laid off the remaining crew.

What were the Houles going to do? They owned a parcel, 62 acres, where they had planned to build a small house and grow food after retirement, but with no employment this dream seemed impossible. So they prayed. Patrick heard God tell him to go walk the fields of their land, and he obeyed and stared at the grasses with exasperation until he noticed little balsams poking up, looking almost as if they were in rows. Christmas trees? Patrick wondered. Was this what God had in mind?

He began adding seedling stock to what was already coming up. One day while he was out digging, along came Roland Dupont, the real estate agent who’d sold them this land years ago.

“What are you doing?” Dupont asked.

“I am planting our future,” Patrick replied.

Dupont laughed. “That’s crazy! It’s going to take 10 years to grow that future—you won’t see a nickel before then! Tell you what, let me show you a piece of land where you can sell the trees starting this year.”

Dupont didn’t say where they were going. He just drove Melody and Patrick up a steep, winding road into a bank of hills that ran north-south, like a headboard, due west of the Connecticut River. Everywhere they looked were Christmas trees—little ones, giant ones, skinny ones, fluffy ones— hundreds of thousands of trees, as far as the eye could see.

“A Christmas tree is money,” said Lorrainy Marchessault, “but it is also something religious”—and the Houles, who more or less stumbled into tree farming, are proof of this.

Patrick Houle clears snow from his plow truck, an old Ford F-250 he got from his brother, as he begins what will be a very long day of loading some 3,000 Christmas trees for transport.

“Which one do you want?” Dupont asked.

“Which what ?” Melody replied, confused.

“Parcel. Which parcel do you want? This one’s 210 acres, this one’s 112, this one’s 350,” he said, pointing.

Turns out, not long after Marchessault had died at age 82, in 2001, his children declared bankruptcy. Dupont purchased the enormous property and was in the process of selling it off. “You could harvest Christmas trees starting this year,” he told the Houles. “You could use your other parcel as a down payment.”

Five hours after Melody’s mishap, she is standing carefully at the sink, wearing her gray bathrobe, listening to the coffee machine gurgle. The prayers worked. Her ankle is pink but the swelling’s subsided. She places the coffee can back into the hutch—an Ethan Allen hutch—as Patrick pulls on his coat and heads out to plow the driveway so the work crew and the crane operator and the first of the day’s four 18-wheel flatbed trucks can reach the landing where the trees are heaped. “Hold on,” Melody says to Patrick as she ducks under the shirts drying by the woodstove. She grabs an ice scraper off the shelf and hands it to her husband. A look of solidarity passes between them.

Later, Patrick is downhill at the landing, where the flatbed destined for Brooklyn is backed in alongside the chest-high windrows composed of thousands of Christmas trees. Melody has counted all of these trees three times, confirmed by the orange spraypainted dot each bears on the cut face of its trunk. They lie in a pile, baled— they’re like shut umbrellas, not to be opened again till Brooklyn, where they’ll be individually shouldered into hundreds of separate apartments and hung with ornaments and garlands. Each one is the sum of a decade of the Northeast Kingdom’s sun and wind and rain, and of Lorrainy Marchessault’s legacy.

The loading crew is ready to go. They’re locals, all in their twenties

except Ed, who’s in his forties. They’ve been smoking in their pickups, waiting for crane operator Ivan Belville to show. Ivan, who hails from Quebec, is in high demand right now, going from farm to farm all over northern Vermont and Canada, grabbing trees with his crane, hoisting them like a clutch of straws, and depositing them onto flatbeds. When he finally chugs up the hill around 8 a.m., the crew jumps into action. Approaching the windrow in teams, Brandon and Lance and the two Danielles take turns rolling bunches of five to eight trees off the pile. They carry them like patients on stretchers and place them into Ivan’s “basket” on the ground. Then Ivan, seated on a balled-up wool shirt in his open-air cab, works his levers. His crane arm bends and clamps the trees out of the basket, then lifts them skyward and swings over to deliver them onto the flatbed, again and again.

Meanwhile, Ed and Tyler cling to the flatbed’s side stakes as they stand on the newly loaded trees, tamping them down, rising higher and higher on the payload of balsams. The air is cold but pungent, spiced with the trees’ fragrance as the flatbed fills to capacity. Throughout their hour of work, a brisk, wet wind blows and the snow flies sideways. Now the semi driver, Mike Marchand, mounts the flatbed to strap down his load for transport. The crew members retreat to their trucks to warm up.

Throughout, Patrick has been half supervising and half fielding calls on his cellphone. The news is not promising: The next semi is stuck halfway up the Houles’ driveway. It doesn’t have chains on its tires, which means it will be difficult to extract and pull farther up the hill. Furthermore, the flatbed has no side stakes, so Patrick will have to scrounge his farm for every two-byfour he’s got—or anything that can be cut into a two-by-four.

Patrick gives Ivan instructions in French about how to use his crane to extricate the stuck semi. Next he tells the loaded-to-go, Brooklyn-bound driver, Mike, to stay put. Then he calls Melody, who is in town fetching lastminute items for their trip. He asks her to swing by the lumberyard and “just grab whatever they have.” When she wonders aloud how to fit all the twoby-fours into the Town Car, he realizes he’ll have to go off-road with his plow truck to squinch around the stuck semi and swap vehicles with her so she can fetch the lumber. First, though, he needs to see if he has enough chainsaw fuel. Then he’s up raiding his scrap wood stash when his phone rings again. It’s his contact in Brooklyn, calling with regrets that the Houles have access to only one-third of their regular lot this year. “Well, we’ll make do,” he tells her as he inspects a potential stake and pitches it aside (rotten).

It’s still Tuesday, 33 days before Christmas, and it’s only 10:30 a.m. when Mike Marchand’s tractor-trailer eases down off Todd Hill and cruises into the river valley flats. His is the first load of some 3,000 trees that will have coursed out of these hills by dusk—a transient forest. He stops short at the intersection with Route 102. He gets out of the cab and tugs one last time on his straps; he unhitches his tire chains and stashes them; he makes a final survey of his load, eyeing the orangespotted butts jutting from the back. Then he climbs back into the truck. Later today, Melody and Patrick will gas up the Lincoln and follow their trees to the city. Right now, Mike’s tractor-trailer faces due east, where the Connecticut River forms the watery border. Beyond it basks New Hampshire. Canada looms off to the left. Mike taps the accelerator. He and every tree bound for Cortelyou Road turn right.

Julia Shipley

Patrick is told they’ll have access to only one-third of their Brooklyn lot this year. “Well,” he says, “we’ll make do.”

As members of the Houles’ loading crew, Lance Moody, top, and Brandon Taylor muscle a snow-laden tree toward a pile to be craned onto a tractor-trailer.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

They are moving.”

Melody Houle takes a drag of her cigarette, which she’s lit off a Bic that hangs upside down from a string around her neck. She’s standing in one of those neglected lots you find all over the outer boroughs of New York City, muddy and uneven, strung with random wires of obscure purpose and littered with rusted detritus. And the fact that these unlovely things have been made visible is a source of triumph for the Houles. It means the trees that hid them even a week ago are selling. By Saturday, December 10, there are only 70 left, down from 300. They are moving

A father walks into the lot with a boy slumped on his shoulders. He looks around and zeroes in on a tree. A fat seven-footer.

“What do you think?” he says.

The kid slumps further.

“You’re indifferent,” the father says. They keep looking.

The lot is behind a craft shop on Cortelyou Road in Ditmas Park in Brooklyn. It’s a neighborhood best known for its stock of what locals call “detached houses”—recognized outside New York City as simply “houses”—but there are attached apartment buildings and attached townhouses and attached everything elses, too. Ditmas Park is gentrifying, as the wave of money surges ever eastward across the Borough of Churches, but it remains a diverse place. The Houles’ stand is a stone’s throw from a guitar shop, a check-cashing operation, a hip restaurant, an Islamic school, a Pilates studio, a Mexican diner, a Dominican hair salon, and Shabuj Grocery, which advertises itself as “Bangladeshi, Indian, Pakistani & American,” and under whose awning passes a family of Hasidic Jews out for a Saturday stroll.

This is a perfect lot, Melody says. The stone walls on two sides keep the trees cool, and the moist dirt keeps

Melody Houle on the Brooklyn lot that’s been hosting her farm’s trees since 2012: “It’s just right. It’s off the street, and the stone on the buildings keeps the trees cold. Keeps them hibernating.”

them hydrated. And the gate locks, which means she and Patrick can go back to their Airbnb at the end of every night and not have to worry about whether any stock will go missing. Despite the native condition of the lot, it’s festive, heavy with pine scent.

A couple step in and look around. Cassidy and Adam. They’ve just moved in together. Last year it was only Adam, his cat, and a small Christmas tree. “Every time I came home, the tree was on the floor,” he says. This year, with Cassidy’s two cats in the mix, the threat is multiplied. “I saw a YouTube video of cats fighting Christmas trees,” Adam says. “So I’m pretty excited. It’s a new adventure for them.”

“I’m so excited,” says Cassidy.

Ditmas Park has a robust Jewish population, and Melody reports that she’s been seeing more mixed couples coming in since last year. Adam and Cassidy are one of those.

“He’s pretty new to Christmas,” she says.

“I’m Jewish,” he says. “I was raised Orthodox.”

“So we’ve been doing Christmas stuff,” she says. Getting a tree, watching Christmas movies, getting tickets to Handel’s Messiah at Carnegie Hall.

“It’s pretty immersive,” he says. “All the Looney Tunes parodies make sense now.”

They buy a six-footer for $60.

Not everything is for sale back here. Melody maintains a small tin of coins and stickers (Christian- and Jewishthemed) for the kids. “Something for everybody,” she says. There is also a tree decked with little silver sachets full of pine needles. “Sometimes you can tell that somebody needs their day brightened,” Melody explains. “You hand them one of those, and they get teary-eyed. That’s what it’s all about.”

There are also three gnarled, patchy little trees—“Charlie Brown trees,” Patrick says—propped up by the entryway in a couple of cinder blocks. One sold yesterday to a young woman. She didn’t have room for a proper tree. “She wanted a bit of the Christmas spirit, and that was the one for her,” he says.

Another father stands before a seven-footer on the corner.

“How much is this?”

“Seventy,” Melody says.

“Well … I only have 60.”

“We take cards.”

The man deflates slightly, his hopes of bringing home both a tree and a tale of successful bartering dashed, and slinks off to the six-footers. He finds a suitable specimen and turns to his daughter, who is wearing a long red knit cap.

“What do you think, June?” he says.

“I like this tree,” she replies. Then she peers curiously at Patrick. “Who is this one?”

“That’s Patrick,” says Melody, offering June a treat from her tin box. “My husband.”

Off they go. Patrick grabs a tree and lays it on the table. “Let’s give this one a haircut,” he says and grabs the chainsaw. Melody is chatting with a customer, and her hand rests a few inches from where Patrick is going to cut. He takes it and gently places it safely away from the blade.

“They’re selling fast,” Melody is saying. She thinks people are getting them earlier this year because they know these trees will last. “They know the secret sauce works.”

The secret sauce, by the way, is Sprite and bottled water. Not city water, which contains chloride. One customer after another attests to its potency. One woman, Hyacinth, says her tree lived well into the spring last year, remaining fully decorated. Finally a friend told her, “Get rid of the Christmas tree! I can’t stand it! It’s March !” She consented, she says, but not without some regret.

In roister two boys, clad in parkas, caps, and scarves, singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” With them is their mother and a small girl in a white cat hat with a fresh tear on her cheek. They get a six-footer. The boys are determined to carry it home. The mother is skeptical but willing to give them a shot (if only, she confides, because it might be hilarious). Patrick ties it up, and the boys grab it roughly and set to dragging it out. Their sister, meanwhile, is nowhere to be seen.

A faint voice sounds from the other side of the gate.

“Mama, I don’t want to get hurt,” the voice says.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, either,” says her mother.

“I don’t want to get hurt by a Christmas tree,” the girl says.

“Then stay out of the way!”

More customers, more trees. Men, women, straight, gay, black, white, young, middle-aged. People who went too big last year and touched the ceiling, people harboring regrets at not getting close enough to the ceiling. Most are repeat customers, because of the trees and the Houles. “They’re very natural and authentic,” one says. “It’s not about business. It’s about making sure you have the cheeriest Christmas.” Another tells the Houles, “I always get them from here, and I love you guys, and they’re perfect.”

“It’s the secret sauce,” Melody tells him.

They are moving. At this rate, they’ll sell out by the 11th or 12th, a week and a half earlier than usual. “Maybe we’ll have time to actually see the sights,” Melody says. “We’ve never done it. Patrick wants to see the Statue of Liberty and Ground Zero.”

“We don’t get to see it unless it’s on TV, and it’s never the same,” he says. He also wants a dirty-water hot dog.

A severe and studious-looking middle-aged man enters, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a black coat, and an air of purpose. “I’m looking for a nine and a half,” he says, “and the girth can’t be—”

“Not too big?” says Patrick. He shows him a tree.

“Do you have anything just like it, but a foot taller? Sorry: difficult customer.”

Patrick pulls out a bigger one.

“I like this one,” the man says. “Unless you have one taller.”

Patrick produces one taller.

“That’s too tall,” the man says. He returns to the previous one and starts nodding. “I love this one,” he says, finally. “That’s the one. That’s the one.” It’s a $90 tree, but he has only $70. He gives them what he has as a down payment, and says his partner will come with the rest.

“Pardon me,” he says. “I need to call for help.”

He rushes out, and the Houles laugh and kiss in the lot. Five minutes later a head peeks through the gate: “Hello? There’s a crazy man here who just bought a tree?”

Another sale, another young couple. Melody asks the buyers if they remember about the watering.

“Oh, we need Sprite, don’t we?” the young woman says. As Patrick ties up the tree, she says, “We didn’t think you’d be back this year.”

“We’re tryin’,” says Melody.

A tree is selected by Ken, a painter. A repeat customer. But when Patrick gets the tree on the table, he notices the trunk is crooked and suggests Ken pick another one. While he does, Patrick discards the crooked one in the corner. Ken settles on a non-crooked tree—to be picked up Sunday—and says, “See you tomorrow, my friends!” Then he turns to a stranger and indicates the dwindling stock on the lot: “I hope it brings them…” and he makes a

ABOVE , FROM LEFT : Patrick and Melody tie up a Christmas tree for transport; Brooklyn residents Carina and Richard Bierschbach and their kids head for home with their tree in tow, one of many they’ve bought from Houles over the years (they like that the trees are organically grown, they say). OPPOSITE : The Houles at work in their little lot off Cortelyou Road, tucked behind storefronts and a block of apartments.

concerned gesture that can only be read as overdue good fortune. “They’re sweet,” Ken explains.

They are moving.

“This is our best year yet,” Melody says. “I hope we’re on a roll.”

A French florist comes in. She complains that all her customers in town are incredibly demanding, and all the trees her firm bought to sell them this year are thin. It’s been a nightmare. “I’m a little less difficult on my own tree,” she explains. “I just want to throw some lights on and call it a day. It’s the spirit of the season, not whether it’s perfect.”

“It’s Mother Nature,” Patrick says. “It’s not a perfect world.”

Of course, now someone else wants the crooked tree. A pretty 20something with bangs and an olive parka has found it. Melanie. Her boyfriend, Ron, in a leather jacket, hoodie, and sunglasses, is less enthusiastic. “You’re stuck on this one,” he tells her.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just like him. He’s special because he’s crooked.” She thinks about it. “And probably because they’re telling me we shouldn’t have him.”

They buy him.

“You remember how to water?”

Melody says.

Off they go.

“Not many Mohicans left, huh?” Patrick says.

Who knows, Melody says. They might even sell out tomorrow.

“It’s a big blessing,” says Patrick.

“We get to enjoy New York.”

“It’ll be different,” Melody says.

Later, as Patrick is away feeding the meter, she takes a smoke break. “It might be a honeymoon,” she says. “We never had a chance to do that, either.”

The next young family, repeat customers, have brought their own dolly with them. The mother’s name is Kelly. Her father bought the dolly for them, she says. Kelly asks Melody where their Airbnb is, and they get into Airbnb war stories, as people do. Kelly tells her that her father got an Airbnb last time he was in town, but the ceiling was so low he kept hitting his head on the pipes. “So he went out and bought a bike helmet,” she says. “He’s a little kooky.”

It has started to snow. The December chill sinks in as dusk approaches. Kelly and her family load the tree onto the dolly and turn to go. Before they do, Melody gives Kelly a big hug. “Byebye, dear,” she says. “Have a merry Christmas.” They go.

A minute later, one of the kids returns and gives Melody a five.

“Thank you so much,” he says.

On a damp, cool Monday afternoon, there’s only one tree left, and it’s been leaning against the dirty white wall for hours. Even the last crabbed little Charlie Brown tree is gone, claimed by “a little boy so happy to have his own tree it wasn’t funny,”

Patrick says. The hours crawl by. It closes in on 3 o’clock. “It’s time for you to take it out to the street and dance with it,” Patrick suggests.

“I suppose you could put it out front with a sign that says ‘Last Tree,’” says Melody.

They carry it out to the sidewalk and lean it against a bike rack. Patrick waits in the car. His hip is bothering him. At about 4 p.m., a friendly couple come by. Alec Betterley, a music therapist, and Nicole Lenzen, a nurse. They are newlyweds—this is their first married Christmas—and they just returned this afternoon from Texas, where they visited his mother. They’re tired, they’re busy—this is their only day off, which means it’s the only chance they’ll have to buy a tree—and buying a tree, for these two, is usually fraught. “It’s actually one of our most argument-prone days,” says Alec.

“We have a hard time picking a Christmas tree,” says Nicole.

Not this year. This year, peace will reign. There are no choices. There’s just the one. A lovely seven-footer. They pay out on the sidewalk and chat with the Houles. But it’s getting cold, and it’s getting toward night. Patrick and Melody congratulate the couple and wish them a merry Christmas. As they all prepare to part ways, only one

ABOVE , FROM LEFT : Patrick gives one of his Christmas trees a fresh cut before sending it home with a customer; a pair of young Brooklynites lean in for a closer look at Melody’s photograph of a black bear that had wandered onto the tree farm. OPPOSITE : Andre and Lela Madoo, who pride themselves on shopping at independent businesses, show off their tree of choice. This was their third year of buying from the Houles.

CHRISTMAS TREE 101

Did You Know?

Loading up a freshly cut tree at Allen Hill Farm in Brooklyn, Connecticut, a family-run operation now in its sixth generation. For a state-by-state roundup of other great places to cut your own tree, go to newengland.com/tree-farms.

A NEW ENGLAND–CENTRIC COMPENDIUM OF TREE TRIVIA

n The first indoor Christmas tree in America is thought to have been put up in 1777 in Windsor Locks, CT, by a German POW captured at the Battle of Bennington.

n Harvard professor Charles Follen of Lexington, MA, is credited with popularizing the spread of decorated Christmas trees in the U.S. after a description of his tree in 1832 was published by a visiting journalist.

n Another Harvard professor, Hermann Bokum, further boosted the Christmas tree’s profile with his 1836 holiday book, A Stranger’s Gift, which included the first Christmas tree image published in the U.S.

n New Hampshire’s Franklin Pierce reputedly was the U.S. president responsible for introducing the Christmas tree to the White House, back in 1853.

n In 1923, Calvin Coolidge held the first National Christmas Tree lighting ceremony on the White House lawn. Back then, the tree was a 48-foot cut balsam from Coolidge’s home state, Vermont; today it’s a living blue spruce from Pennsylvania.

Fun facts and timely tips that celebrate this yuletide star.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK FLEMING • STYLING BY KOREY SENEY

LEADERS FIELD

A LOOK AT SOME POPULAR TANNENBAUM TYPES in the

FRASER FIR (Abies fraseri)

Quick take: Touted as the most popular tree in the U.S., the Fraser has strong branches, excellent needle retention, and a sweet-spicy scent. Needles: Dark blue-green with silvery undersides; ½ to 1 inch long; blunted and pliable. Fun fact: Frasers have been used for the official White House Christmas tree more than any other species.

BALSAM FIR (Abies balsamea)

Quick take: The balsam is very similar to the Fraser, but its branches tend to be more pliable, making it a solid choice for wreaths, too. Needles: Dark green with lighter underside; ¾ to 1½ inches long; blunted and pliable. Fun fact: Its resin has been put to a variety of uses, including gluing cover slips to microscope slides, treating combat wounds during the Civil War, and as a cough medicine ingredient.

DOUGLAS-FIR (Pseudotsuga menziesii)

Quick take: A popular alternative to Frasers and balsams (though not a fir at all—hence the hyphenated name), it has a more subtle pine fragrance and bendy branches that are best for lightweight ornaments. Needles: Dark yellow-green to dark bluish green; 1 to 1½ inches long; soft and feathery. Fun fact: Douglas-fir was used to replace the masts of the U.S.S. Constitution in 1925, when no sufficiently large white pines could be found.

EASTERN WHITE PINE (Pinus strobus)

Quick take: Hardy and fast-growing, the white pine is usually among the more affordable tree options. It has little or no odor and is a good choice for garlands, wreaths, and centerpieces, too, thanks to its long, feathery needles and very pliable branches. Needles: Dark green-bluish green; 2½ to 5 inches long, soft and slender, arranged in small bundles. Fun fact: The Eastern white is the largest pine in the U.S. and the state tree of Maine and Michigan (and a favorite of Henry David Thoreau, who used white pine for his cabin in the woods).

BLUE SPRUCE (Picea pungens)

Quick take: Its silvery color makes this one of the showiest Christmas trees. It has the best needle retention among spruces and strong, rigid branches; on the other hand, it’s quite prickly and its odor can be on the musky side. Needles: Silvery/bluish/greenish; 1 to 1½ inches; very stiff. Fun fact: Its Latin name was inspired by its needles pungens means “sharp-pointed”—as in puncture).

n O ver the past 50-odd years, only three trees from New England have served as the official White House Christmas tree: one from Massachusetts, one from Vermont, and one “anonymously donated from New England.”

EVERGREEN ADVICE

BE ST PRACTICES FOR CHOOSING AND CARING FOR YOUR TREE

n L ook for a tree that’s not only the right height but also the right width for your space. Know that pre-baled trees will likely open up to 80 percent of their height.

n B e sure to measure the maximum diameter that your tree stand can hold, since cutting away bark from a too-fat trunk will shorten a tree’s life dramatically.

n On pre-cut trees, the needles tell the tale. If you grasp a branch between thumb and forefinger and pull, very few should come off. Bounce the tree on its stump— if it rains needles, move on.

n Discolored foliage, wrinkled bark, or a musty odor may also signal that a tree is past its prime.

n W hen a Christmas tree is cut, more than half its weight is water. Use a stand with at least a one-gallon reservoir, and make sure to keep it topped off.

n S ap forms a seal over a stump in just four to six hours, so get your tree into water as soon as possible after it’s cut.

n To keep your tree from drying out, position it out of the sun and away from heat, and use the coolest lighting—like mini lights and/or LEDs—you can find.

n T he tallest tree ever to grace New York’s Rockefeller Center during the holidays was a 100-foot spruce cut in Killingworth, CT, in 1999.

n In terms of towering trees, you can’t beat the evergreens that perch atop the masts of some of New England’s most iconic tall ships each December, including the Charles W. Morgan in Mystic, CT, and the Friendship in Salem, MA.

n In 2012, New England Christmas tree farms reaped more than $17 million in sales, according to the most recent USDA census. The state with the most farms: Connecticut (490). The state with the fewest: Rhode Island (48).

n To see the shapeliest, most Christmas-y trees in New England, head to the Big E fair in Massachusetts, where growers from all six states compete. As of press time, the reigning grand champion (2015, 2016) was FinestKind Tree Farm of Maine.

HOW BOSTON GOT ITS CHRISTMAS TREE

The people of Halifax, Nova Scotia, have never forgotten who came to their aid when tragedy rocked the city a century ago.

BY BILL SCHELLER

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK FLEMING AND RILEY SMITH

y the time I saw the Tree again, two weeks and more than 700 miles distant from where I first made its acquaintance, I felt as though I knew it better than almost anyone else in the crowd gathered here on Boston Common to greet it.

On a mid-November day last year, I had driven along a two-lane blacktop in the heavily wooded town of Ainslie Glen, on Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton, following a local’s tip that I should stop “where you see some cars parked.” I saw some cars, all right— I parked on the shoulder, the last in a string of a good mile of them, and walked to where the road was blocked off by men in orange safety vests. There was a truck with a crane, and a big flatbed semi. In a roadside clearing stood a crowd of schoolchildren, all wearing toques in the blue and white of Nova Scotia and waving little provincial flags. Hundreds of their elders milled around with an air of cheerful anticipation.

Strung with 6,800 bulbs and topped with a four-foot star, the white spruce donated by Nova Scotia to the city of Boston sparkles during the 2016 lighting celebration on the Common.

And there, down a short slope from the roadside, stood the Tree.

It was a white spruce, 66 years old and 47 feet tall, grown straight as a schooner mast. Its branches were tied tight against its trunk, and not a needle was out of place. It was an especially significant tree this year, as it was the first in its long ceremonial line to come from Cape Breton, and unusual for its having grown on public land. Private landowners clamor each year for their trees to reach this pinnacle of honor, and scouts from the provincial Ministry of Natural Resources fan out to see whose spruce might measure up.

There were speeches, one in a lilting Scottish Gaelic appropriate to a district where the road signs are bilingual; Ainslie Glen, I’d noticed, is Gleann nam Màgan . A kilted bagpiper played. And since this was the territory of the Waycobah Mi’kmaq First Nation, there was drumming by the group We’koqma’gewiska, a speech by Mi’kmaq Chief Rod Googoo, and a traditional ceremony in which Mi’kmaq representative Kalolin Googoo held a smoking dish of

tobacco while John Cremo, a member of the nation’s grand council, circled the tree, reverently laying his hands upon its trunk.

Then a Cape Breton fiddler struck up “Here Comes Santa Claus” as the jolly old elf himself strode through the crowd. Santa had a job to do. A crane carried him and an assistant to the top of the tree, where they tethered the big spruce to the crane so that it wouldn’t slam to the ground when the time came.

And the time came next. Firing up a big Husqvarna chainsaw, a forester surgically cut the tree a yard or so above the ground. It swung loose for a moment, then it was gently lowered onto the flatbed trailer.

Moments before, the Nova Scotia minister of natural resources, Lloyd Hines, had said, “We will never forget the kindness bestowed by Bostonians—they were there for us when we needed them.” And the flatbed carried a big blue sign: “The Nova Scotia Tree for Boston.”

Acentury ago, it was another Nova Scotia morning on the cusp of winter. The port of Halifax bustled with the maritime business of the Great War. Ship after ship steamed into one of the world’s greatest natural harbors, where convoys assembled to carry men, munitions, and matériel to the insatiable Western Front.

The French ship Mont Blanc had left New York on December 1, 1917, laden with nearly half a million pounds of TNT and 2,300 tons of picric acid, the explosive used in artillery shells. Lashed to the deck were steel barrels containing benzole, a highly flammable cocktail of benzene and toluene. The Mont Blanc approached Halifax Harbor on the evening of December 5, too late to steam beyond the antisubmarine

nets that were lowered across the harbor entrance each evening. It would have to wait until morning to pass into the Narrows, the slim channel lined with the city’s dockyards, and head into broad, protected Bedford Basin, where transatlantic convoys were assembled. As the Mont Blanc ’s pilot gingerly navigated the Narrows on the morning of December 6, another ship, the Imo , was steaming out of Bedford Basin with a cargo of civilian-relief supplies for war-ravaged Belgium. Port side to port side—that was and is the rule for vessels passing each other. But this morning the rule was not followed (courts of inquiry first assigned blame to the Mont Blanc , then to both ships), and the two vessels began a slow dance similar to what happens when two people feint and dodge in a hallway to avoid collision.

WITHIN A 50TH OF A SECOND, THE MONT BLANC DISAPPEARED IN THE WORLD’S MOST POWERFUL MAN-MADE EXPLOSION BEFORE THE 1945 BOMBING OF HIROSHIMA.

ABOVE : The Toronto Globe ’s December 7, 1917, front page, filled with reports of the disaster that had struck Halifax “like a bolt from the blue.”

LEFT : A blast cloud rising almost two miles above Halifax marks the site of the explosion.

The feints and dodges didn’t work, and the dance became one of death. At 8:40 a.m., the Imo ’s prow sliced into the starboard bow of the Mont Blanc, rupturing barrels of benzole and showering them with sparks.

The crew of the Mont Blanc knew the nature of their cargo, and as flames and smoke billowed higher they abandoned ship, rowed madly to shore at Dartmouth, the town opposite Halifax, and took cover in a grove of trees. But almost no one in Halifax knew what the burning ship carried, and there was little cover to be taken even if they had. Most vulnerable, as the fire ate deeper into the Mont Blanc ’s hold, was the working-class Richmond neighborhood in the city’s North End. Here, as Hugh MacLennan wrote in Barometer Rising, a novel set amid the events of that terrible day, “the wooden houses crowded each

other like packing-boxes left out in the weather for years.”

At 9:06 a.m., the heat of the benzole fire ignited the Mont Blanc ’s hellish cargo. Within a 50th of a second, the vessel disappeared in a cataclysm ranked as the world’s most powerful man-made explosion until the bombing of Hiroshima almost 30 years later. The granite floor of the Narrows cracked open. Windows shattered 60 miles away. A tidal wave billowed outward with such force that a ship’s captain far out at sea thought he had struck a mine. A 1,140-pound piece of the Mont Blanc ’s anchor landed two miles away. And most of the Richmond neighborhood, along with much of the rest of Halifax east of its massive hilltop Citadel, simply ceased to exist.

A square mile of the city was totally destroyed. Some 1,650 people died instantly; 9,000 were injured, many

A search

combs through the wreckage. Nearly 2,000 lives were lost in the Halifax blast and subsequent fires; the bodies of more than 400 were never found.

blinded by flying shards of window glass. Nearly 1,750 buildings were flattened, including three schools, and overturned coal stoves quickly spread conflagration through the wreckage. Twelve thousand other buildings were damaged. In a city with a population of fewer than 60,000, the eventual death toll reached at least 2,000.

That night the temperature plunged to near zero, and a daylong blizzard began to drop 16 inches of snow on the smoldering ruins of Halifax.

Halifax resident Eugenie “Genie” Fox heard firsthand about that terrible

party

day from her grandmother, Catherine McNeil. “She was home on Barrington Street with her four children, doing housework, getting the two older kids ready for school. Her husband was at sea, serving with the Canadian navy,” Fox recounts. “Her neighborhood, pretty much the whole North End, was flattened.”

Yet the McNeil house remained standing. “It was just a fluke that my grandmother’s house survived when others around it were leveled,” says Fox. “Many of her friends and neighbors were killed.” Among those who survived was 2-year-old Anne Welsh, who was thrown into a pan of warm ashes beneath a kitchen stove. Rescuers found her there, insulated from the cold by the ashes, more than a day later. “For the rest of her life,” Fox recalls,

“she was known as Ashpan Annie.” Like Catherine McNeil, Anne Welsh lived into her nineties—but her mother and brother died on that December 6.

Like many women in the aftermath of the explosion, McNeil took in sailors as boarders, as protection from looters. “The sailors needed housing, too,” says Fox, “since many of their barracks had been destroyed.”

The telegraph lines serving Halifax were severed in the blast. So it was that the most important message of the day, addressed to the city’s mayor, sputtered into oblivion and went unanswered:

Understand your city in danger from explosion and conflagration. Reports only fragmentary. Massachusetts ready to go the limit in rendering every assistance you may be in need of. Wire me immediately.

The sender was Samuel McCall, the governor of Massachusetts. Receiving no reply, he sent a follow-up wireless message, concluding with an offer “to send forward immediately a special train with surgeons, nurses, and other medical assistance.”

Still no response. McCall then sent a second wireless message:

Realizing that time is of the utmost importance we have not waited for your answer but have dispatched the train.

The train left Boston that night. On board were 13 doctors from the Massachusetts State Guard, including several surgeons; 10 nurses; and six Red Cross representatives. The cars were packed with supplies: pillows, gauze compresses, bandages, slings, ether. And four pints of brandy.

As it headed north and then swung to the southeast, through New Brunswick, the train picked up workers to help repair as many damaged Halifax homes as possible in the face of the winter weather. At each stop, additional details were patched into what was still a hearsay narrative. “When the train got to Saint John, New Brunswick,” says interpreter Jeanne Church of Halifax’s Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, “they learned that there was hardly a window left in the city, so they sent for glaziers and glass.”

But a more immediate task loomed: The blizzard that shrouded the ruins of Halifax stalled the relief train between Amherst and Truro, Nova Scotia, forcing men to dig through the enormous drifts that blocked the rails. In the words of A.C. Ratshesky, the Massachusetts Public Safety Commission officer who led the mission, they “worked like Trojans” to free the locomotive and cars.

The train reached Halifax around 3 a.m. on December 8, less than 48 hours after the explosion. That evening, the first patients were received at an officers club that had been requisitioned and outfitted as a hospital.

The next day, a second train left Boston with more doctors, nurses, and equipment for a 500-bed hospital. Also on their way were the Calvin

FACING THE CITY’S OVERWHELMING NEED FOR TEMPORARY HOUSING, RELIEF ORGANIZERS VOWED TO BUILD “ONE APARTMENT AN HOUR.”

CONSTRUCTION WAS WELL UNDER WAY BY NEW YEAR’S.

Eugenie Fox grew up hearing her grandmother’s stories of the explosion and its aftermath. “All her windows were blown out,” Fox recalls. “She covered them with linoleum pulled up from the floors to keep out the weather.”

donation of nearly 2.5 million square feet of glass and 7.5 million board feet of lumber.

A Massachusetts-Halifax relief commission was organized with the goal of raising money not only for constructing new housing for Haligonians left homeless, but also for furnishing temporary apartments and, eventually, creating a new neighborhood of permanent residences to replace the vanished “packing-box” houses of the old North End. Even the Boston Symphony Orchestra joined the effort, giving a December 16 fund-raising concert featuring legendary violinist Fritz Kreisler.

Organizers of the Massachusettsfunded campaign boasted they would

for two. Another group of temporary structures, christened the Governor McCall Apartments by grateful residents, rented four rooms for $12.

But “temporary” meant just that. In September 1918, work began on permanent housing in what became known as the Hydrostone neighborhood, after the newly developed compressed-cement building blocks used in construction. More than 300 homes were built, all facing tree-lined boulevards. “People originally rented there,” Genie Fox remembers. “They paid rent to the Halifax Relief Commission, but they were later given the opportunity to buy. My grandmother lived in the Hydrostone for 68 years.” Today designated a Cana-

than 2,000 people, it was erected on Halifax’s exhibition grounds in 320 working hours.

dian National Historic Site, the nowupscale neighborhood was originally furnished with contributions from the people of Massachusetts. Those pieces that survive are now treasured heirlooms.

And in December of 1918, as the Hydrostone homes were still rising, the province of Nova Scotia sent the city of Boston a thank-you gift of a Christmas tree.

RILEY SMITH (FOX); STATE LIBRARY OF MASSACHUSETTS (HOUSING COMPLEX)

On a brisk, sunny morning the day after the 2016 tree-cutting, a crowd gathered at the Grand Parade in the heart of Halifax. The onetime military parade ground faces St. Paul’s Anglican Church, built in 1750. It is the oldest structure in the city and a survivor of the explo sion—but not without scars. High on a vestibule wall, an iron bar impaling the plaster is one of the last few relics of the Mont Blanc ’s violent end.

The crowd had come to see off the Tree. The big white spruce from Ainslie Glen had just arrived from Cape Breton, and its proud driver, Dave MacFarlane, was set to take it on a much longer trip as the annual Christmas gift from the people of Nova Scotia to the people of Boston— the 46th such gift since the annual tradition began in 1971.

An honor guard of police and firefighters, as well as red-jacketed members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, stood by as Nova Scotia Premier Stephen McNeil spoke of “the

powerful moment when you stand on Boston Common and see the Nova Scotia tree,” and Halifax Mayor Mike Savage vowed to “remember the friendship that came out of that terrible day.” For his part, Boston Parks Commissioner Chris Cook brought a

colloquial touch of the Hub to the proceedings, telling the crowd they had “a wicked good mayor.”

As this was the first Boston tree to have been cut on Cape Breton, a rock band from that remote and beautiful region played a set. To mark Ainslie Glen’s place in the territory of the Waycobah Mi’kmaq—and in remembrance of those lost when the force of the 1917 explosion struck a Mi’kmaq encampment on the Dartmouth side of the Narrows—the native drummers gave a reprise of their performance at the cutting. And all the while, a line of Haligonians snaked through the little park, waiting to sign a “book of thanks” to be presented to

ABOVE : Kalolin Googoo, left, and John Cremo of the Waycobah Mi’kmaq First Nation at the cutting ceremony in Ainslie Glen.

LEFT : Town crier Jim Stewart at the tree’s Halifax send-off.

Boston along with the tree. Finally, Jim Stewart, president of the Nova Scotia Guild of Town Criers, wearing 18th-century regalia, proclaimed in a booming voice the reason for the departure of the Tree.

Two weeks later, Premier McNeil’s “powerful moment” arrived, as he and thousands of Bostonians awaited the lighting of the Tree on Boston Common. The Cape Breton rockers played again, introduced by the hosts of the live TV special that centers on the event each year. Amid the dignitaries and entertainers was driver Dave MacFarlane, who told the crowd that “from the day I get here, I look forward to next year.” And Ainslie Glen had its mention, no doubt for the first time ever on Bos -

ton television. Mayor Marty Walsh pressed a button, and the big white spruce suddenly sparkled.

I stood at that festive corner of the Common, the Park Street Church on my left and the now-familiar Tree just before me. At my back stood the Massachusetts State House, from which Governor McCall sent his first urgent offers of help to a deafened and isolated Halifax.

A day earlier, I’d ventured deep beneath that golden-domed building, to a room housing special collections of the Commonwealth’s archives. Here I was shown yellowing typescripts documenting the work done to relieve the suffering of Halifax. Among the papers are transcriptions of hundreds of letters of gratitude sent by explosion victims. There are poignant apologies for a lack of eloquence (“I much regret not having words to express”); thanks for the plainly practical (“for the beautiful and splendid piano … my only means of livelihood”); and, from the superintendent of an infants home, for simple things that made an unexpected difference (“such comfortable tables and chairs … [that] have in some cases changed bad tempers into good ones”). But perhaps the most touching and succinct thank-you was penned by a Mrs. Joseph Richardson, who wrote, “I hope the good people of Massachusetts will be rewarded for all their kindness to the many who suffered in the terrible disaster of December 6.”

Each year a handsome Christmas tree arrives, and, a century on, becomes a part of that reward.

A LINE OF HALIGONIANS SNAKED THROUGH THE LITTLE PARK, WAITING TO SIGN A “BOOK OF THANKS” TO BE PRESENTED TO BOSTON ALONG WITH THE TREE.

RIGHT : In Halifax, Sarah Coombs of Ainslie Glen receives a ceremonial sculpture as thanks for hosting the tree-cutting ceremony, which took place next to her property.

BELOW : The Nova Scotia tree and its honor guard.

RILEY SMITH

Baby on Board

SOMETIMES WE ENTER THE WORLD

by Grace Aldrich

n reflection, I should have been concerned when I saw the blue lights flashing, followed by a young police officer steadily walking to our car. You see, I was in the back seat. It was 4 a.m. And I wasn’t wearing any pants. While a few hours earlier this would have been an important consideration, now it just wasn’t a priority.

It was mid-fall in New Hampshire—October 25, 2010, to be exact. A thick frost coated the pumpkins, still waiting to be carved, on our front stoop as we rushed past, out of our little barn home and into the dark morning. The screen door clapped loudly behind us as we hurried to the car. My breath came out in steamy plumes, and my backside was as bare as most of the trees. However, a wardrobe malfunction was the least of my concerns.

Normally, I’m someone who cares deeply about first impressions. I pay attention to details. Planning and logistics are my thing. Gathering facts. Making lists. Accumulated information lets you command knowledge. Knowledge is power. Power is control. I’m not likely to be caught, well, with my pants down.

When I was pregnant, this Girl Scout tendency led me to choose a birth education course called the Bradley Method, which provides training for pregnant women and their coaches. My husband, Ian, and I participated in a small class for three hours every Wednesday for 12 weeks. By the end, we had three nuanced, bulletpointed birth plans indicating

illustration by JON KRAUSE

our preferences, depending on various contingencies. I knew the name and purpose of dozens of commonly used drugs and procedures, their statistical effectiveness, and their long-term outcomes. We studied anatomy and physiology. We had a flow chart of the emotional stages women typically go through during labor:

1. Excitement: That giddy feeling when a pregnant woman realizes, “This is it ! The wait is over! I will soon experience the miracle of birth and meet this magical new being whom I will love and cherish for the rest of my life!” At this stage, women often exhibit “nesting” behaviors: cleaning, cooking, etc.

2. Serious Focus: The beginning of the main part of labor, when women dig in and concentrate on the task at hand.

3. Creeping Self-Doubt: “Um, no thank you. I didn’t sign up for this.”

4. Holy Terror: “Get this demon out of me now or I will kill everyone within reach with my bare hands.”

5. Baby.

It was four days after the last class. I woke at a little after 1 a.m. with tightening cramps in my belly. From the intensity and duration, I knew this could be either the beginning of labor or a false alarm. I guessed that the contractions were about 20 minutes apart. So I waited an hour and a half before I woke my husband and asked him to start timing.

They were closer together than I thought, about six or seven minutes. But I didn’t panic. After all, we’d been reminded again and again in class that giving birth is a marathon. I had a long road ahead of me. I took out the index card on which I’d neatly hand-printed important phone numbers, and I gave it to Ian. As he made phone calls to our doula, my mom, and the hospital, I strolled, alone, composed, into the living room and dimmed the lights, thinking, So it begins.…

I knew I needed to feel grounded and confident, because statistics showed that the average first birth lasts about 15 hours. Coolly, I took out my phone and pressed play on the 16 hours

of music I’d diligently collected for the occasion. My playlist was epic: It covered all genres and included selections that spanned hundreds of years. There were different moods and tempos that Ian could play at my request, depending on which emotional stage I’d hit. He didn’t know it at the time, but I really thought of him as more of a DJ than a coach. I trusted myself. I trusted my body. Ultimately, my genes carried the wisdom of all the wombs that had birthed my ancestors. I breathed deeply and swayed, settling into the soothing bass and lilting, jazzy lullaby of my first track, a beautiful song by Betty Carter, for about ... 45 seconds.

Somehow, in that short amount of time I seemed to have bypassed stages one through three and had unceremoniously arrived at Holy Terror.

“IAAAAANNNN, start the shower!” I shouted. I’d read that the

bed and assumed a prayerlike position. “Ian! You’re going to have to get me dressed—fast!”

My coach wanted to call a timeout. “OK. Yes. Wait. What? How are you feeling? We need to go? Should I get the flow chart?” Then he held up my nursing bra in one hand and the flow chart of emotional milestones in the other, a look of complete bewilderment on his face.

Then another wave hit me.

“IAAAAANNNN! I think the baby is coming! I think it’s here. You need to check.”

“What?”

“Now. Check and see if the baby is here.”

He moved behind me and bent down.

“OK. Yes. Let me check.” There was a two-second pause, and then he stood straight back up. “Nope, we’re good. Let’s go.”

I learned later that, in fact, he had not looked.

heat of the water could help relax muscles and perhaps slow down labor. Stumbling my way back through the dimmed room, I made it to the shower. The steamy comfort poured over me. A moment later, I had to go to the bathroom.

When I made it, soaking wet, to the toilet, I recalled another factoid from class. Since the baby comes out of the same general area where certain other bodily functions occur, the sensation of birth is sometimes akin to that of the elimination process. Having a baby, in other words, feels like pooping. But more like pooping out the Rockettes as they work their way through the middle of their Christmas Spectacular kick-line routine. With a rush of panic, I realized I was pushing. And when I say “I” was pushing, I don’t mean “Grace Aldrich” was doing it. There was no Grace. My identity had been usurped by a verb. I was the Big Bang in reverse. I. WAS. PUSHING.

Still dripping and naked, I lurched out of the bathroom to the edge of the

Ian managed to get my bra, shirt, and pants on me. Well, sort of. You see, I was wearing maternity pants, a brilliant invention. Mine were a cropped cargo style with a matching khaki elastic tube that could be pulled over a growing belly to the top of the rib cage in lieu of the normal zippered fly and waistband. However, at that moment the idea of pulling up a constricting elasticized sleeve over my middle was unthinkable. Ian hiked the pants up only until the top of the tube hit the top of my knees. I tried to make my way downstairs to the car, halting and groaning at each step.

Now the contractions were coming so hard that even my voice had changed. It, too, seemed to be contracting, deepening and hardening into something unrecognizable and primal. Think Karl Childers from Sling Blade

“Mmmhmm, get my purse. Yupmmmmm.…”

“Can I help you down the stairs?”

“Mmmhmm, don’t touch me. Uhnuhnmmmm.…”

By the time I made it to the front door, I was struggling and exhausted.

My steady, nurturing husband looked me straight in the face with an aching tenderness and said, “Get. In. The. Car!”

I had no idea how close the contractions were. The prospect of going out into the cold night, getting into the car, and bumping down winding country roads to the Cheshire Medical Center 20 minutes away in Keene seemed impossible. Criminal, even. I shook my head defiantly and said, in my new creepy voice, “Mmmmnnnh, I’m staying here.” That’s when my steady, nurturing husband looked me straight in the face with an aching tenderness and said, “Get. In. The. Car!”

And I did. I crawled into the back seat on my hands and knees. I heard the door shut behind me, and the car peeled out of the driveway at breakneck speed. My pants slipped off my hips, but I kept my head down, my eyes closed, and focused on breathing as best I could.

The trip was an excruciating blur, but before I knew it we were there. I felt the car pull over and stop. I almost wept with relief. It was then that I looked up to see blue lights flashing through the back window.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this story. Two miles from the hospital, pulled over for speeding.

Ian tells me that the officer looked really young. I couldn’t see, because I was in the back seat on my hands and knees, facing in the opposite direction. We definitely hadn’t covered any such scenario in class. And all I wanted to do was finish track one.

As I lamented what remained of my birth vision, Ian yelled out the window in a way that simultaneously conveyed the urgency of the situation and still seemed rational and law-abiding. The officer continued his leisurely approach. Feeling desperate, I called out the only thing I could think of at that time. “MMMMNNMNNN, please, sir, I’m pushing! NNMHMHMHMHMNNNHH.…”

He never made it to the front of the car. I don’t know what he saw through the back window or what unearthly sounds he heard, but whatever it was made him freeze, jump back, and wave us on like a third-base coach. Two minutes later, we pulled up in front of the emergency room. We had beaten both our midwife and the doula. An ER doctor rushed out, came around

the back of the car, and opened the back door. For a second I had the urge to pull up my pants and turn around so that I could properly introduce myself, but all I could do was awkwardly wave at him over one shoulder. “She’s crowning!” he exclaimed.

Then I heard shuffling papers behind me. My husband wanted to be sure the doctor understood all the work we’d done to prepare. “Um, this is our birth plan,” he said.

“What?”

“These are our preferences if poss—”

“Ah, this is happening now!”

“OK, oh, OK. Yes.”

And then the doctor said the magic words: “Grace, push.”

Two, maybe three, pushes later, at 4:33 a.m., right there in the hospital parking lot, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy 8.9-pound baby boy.

I was still in the back seat, smiling to myself at the thought of holding my son in my arms, when I looked up through the back passenger window and saw a woman walking quickly away from the car and into the hospital, carrying a bundle. My son. “Why are they taking him?!” I was gripped with panic, not realizing that a nurse had taken the baby away into the safety and warmth of the hospital only as a precaution.

I backed out of the car. I saw at least seven people ready to assist me. I looked at Ian, who was clearly torn as to whether he should stay to see if I was all right or follow our son into the hospital.

“Go with the baby!” I urged. And Ian rushed inside ahead of me. Minutes later, as I was reclining comfortably in the maternity ward, Ian, beaming with pride, came in carrying our son and bent down to hand him to me. “He’s perfect,” Ian said. I held my son, and my husband put his arms around both of us. I breathed deeply and relaxed. Everything I needed or wanted was right there with me.

Members of the ER staff popped their heads in to congratulate us. Some of them were in tears. Many had never experienced a birth, and emergency rooms don’t always see such happy endings. The next morning Ian found the abandoned five-page birth plan, flapping gently in the breeze, on the roof of the car.

One thing I had underestimated during this experience was the silent protagonist of the day. The life force who had his own agenda, who had his own timing and his own story to tell. The only story that really mattered. My X factor, the child we named Calvin. Nothing had gone according to my plan. I wasn’t prepared. And it was the perfect primer for parenting.

Grace and Ian Aldrich with their son in 2012. “Calvin’s birth is the story we get asked to tell all the time—Grace especially, because her memory of the events is so clear,” says Ian, who also happens to be Yankee ’s deputy editor. “I was largely a shell-shocked prop.”

WHEN YOU LIVE ON AN ISLAND THAT SOMETIMES FEELS AS IF IT BELONGS MORE TO OUTSIDERS, YOU HOLD ON TIGHT TO TRADITIONS THAT DEFINE LOCAL PRIDE.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK FLEMING

BY IAN ALDRICH

Junior running back Alex Small, far left, and junior guard and defensive end Jared Funderburg troop off the field with their team at halftime during the 2016 Island Cup clash with Martha’s Vineyard.

n late November, on high school football fields across New England, a unique kind of community gathering takes place as traditional rivals face off in the most recent chapter of a long-running story. These are battles of will and strength, of course, but deeper forces also collide. For those two hours it can seem as though a community’s identity hangs in the balance. Nostalgia sweeps through the stands like a comforting summer breeze, and around the scrum of tackles missed and tackles made, talk rises of what was, what is, and what should be. These games are an expression of continuity. Boys don the uniform colors their fathers and grandfathers once did. Stories are handed down, too. At dinners, holidays, and birthdays, old plays are described as though they’re happening in real time. That fumble. That touchdown. That game-saving interception. An extension of this continuum also plays out on the field. Seniors take their final snaps, while freshmen are baptized in a ritual that their own replacements will one day inherit.

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, one such game is played between the Massachusetts islands of Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. Theirs is a rivalry that goes back more than 60 years, and since 1978 this game has been known officially as the Island Cup. The contest has a practical importance— playoff seeding, league titles, state championship berths—but even when there isn’t as much on the line, its significance isn’t lessened.

“I think it goes without saying that most kids would rather win this than the [state] Super Bowl,” says one former Nantucket player. “This is our Super Bowl.”

For most of the 2016 season, a state championship title seemed to be in the cards for the Nantucket Whalers. As the island’s best team in more than a decade, they rolled through the year without a loss to earn the No. 1 seed in the Mayflower League. But a second-round upset loss to Seekonk in overtime crushed their state title hopes.

So it is that on a rainy Friday the Nantucket team takes to the home field for one final practice. The next morning they’ll board a chartered ferry for a two-and-a-half-hour ride to Martha’s Vineyard to play the Vineyarders to close out the season. Now the game means nothing—and, still, everything. As Led Zeppelin and AC/DC crackle from the stadium speakers, the offense runs timing patterns while the defense attacks its own drills with the intensity of a midseason practice.

At the center of the field stands head coach Brian Ryder, a Nantucket native who anchored several Island Cup–winning teams in the 1980s before playing for Tulane University and earning a short preseason stint with the New England Patriots. He wears a white sweatshirt emblazoned with “Beat MV” across the front and “It’s Called Pride, Where’s Yours?” on the back. Ryder, who still looks as if he could out-bench-press every one of his kids, eventually circles his squad at the 50-yard line.

It may be the year’s last practice, but Ryder has no interest in keeping the session light. After all, there’s history to atone for. During the first quarter century of the Island Cup’s existence, the Whalers dominated, winning 17 times. Now, the Vineyarders held a 12-game winning streak, and it had been 21 years since Martha’s Vineyard had lost on its home field to Nantucket. But 2016 had been a disappointing season for the Vineyarders. They’d had just one victory, and Ryder knew this should be Nantucket’s time.

THE KIDS PLAYING THESE GAMES, THE FANS WHO COME OUT FOR THEM—THESE AREN’T THE POLITICIANS AND CELEBRITIES WHO ARE INCREASINGLY ASSOCIATED WITH THESE ISLANDS.

“We’re going to break their will, aren’t we, boys?” Ryder yells, his gravelly voice echoing through the stadium.

“Yes, Coach!”

“We’re good to go, aren’t we, boys?”

“Yes, Coach!”

The field is a portrait of island continuity. There is Ryder, class of 1987, who captained his senior-year team and still speaks in reverent tones about his final Island Cup game. “On the second-to-last touchdown of the game, I spiked the ball in the end zone and got a penalty,” Ryder says, and laughs. “It was 31–0. It didn’t matter.”

His brothers played here, as did their father, an offensive lineman who went up against the Vineyard in the 1950s. In uniform today is Ryder’s son, Cory, a 6-foot-4, 300-pound senior left tackle and team captain who’s committed to play for William & Mary next season. Coaching alongside Ryder is Beau Almodobar, the junior high school’s physical education teacher and a former running back who, it rightfully could be argued, was the greatest football player the island ever produced. Next to him is Vaughan Machado, the offensive line coach who played quarter back for Nantucket in the early 1960s. In the player circle there is sophomore Cameron Bartlett, whose dad played with Ryder. Next to him is Darian Duarte, whose father, both grandfathers, and an uncle all suited up, and Burke Hughes, whose father, Jimmy, also played. On and on it goes. A generation of boys who’d heard stories about beating the Vineyard.

“My dad always said one of the best moments in his football career was holding up the Cup,” Cory says. “So it’s always been a big thing, and I don’t

OPPOSITE : Head coach Brian Ryder, center, leads the way as the Nantucket football contingent walks down to the ferry for the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Martha’s Vineyard.

RIGHT : The Vineyard players get their game faces on.

want to graduate without holding it up myself. That goes for the whole team, especially the other seniors. We’ve been playing together since the second grade. It would be such an awesome thing to do—to win the Cup and bring it back home. It puts you in a special class of people.”

Asteel-gray sky is growing lighter the next morning as the team gathers near the ferry ramp at Nantucket Harbor. Players cluster in familiar social circles while special teams coach Mark Willett offers Dramamine to anyone who needs it for the ride.

“You guys sleep OK?” he asks a pair of sophomores.

“I don’t know,” says one. “I went to bed at, like, a decent hour. Probably 10:30 or so, but I was tossing and turning like it was the night before Christmas.”

The nervousness is also evident among the parents, high school classmates, and other fans who gather around the players as the boat readies to depart, a steady stream of cars lining up to board. In all, some 500 people signed on to take the ferry, which the booster club had chartered for $10,000. Across the island, the local airport prepares for those who prefer the 15-minute flight to the Vineyard.

One of those set to fly is Vito Capizzo.

To talk about Nantucket high school football and not bring Vito Capizzo into the story is like discussing early American history and omitting George Washington. Over the course of his 45-year career as coach, the Sicilian-born Capizzo, who played on Bear Bryant’s practice squad at the University of Alabama, won 293 games and guided the team to three state championships.

He arrived on Nantucket in the fall of 1964 and turned a dying football program into one of the state’s finest. As victories and league titles mounted, Capizzo ingrained football culture into the yearround life of the island. When mothers gave birth to

baby boys at the local hospital, he gave the family a small blue football for their new son.

“You play Nantucket and you’re not just playing 11 guys on the field,” an opposing coach told Sports Illustrated in its 1996 story about the rivalry. “You’re up against mystique and tradition. You’re battling a town, a community, a whole island.”

Players and fans on either side of the rivalry fed off Capizzo’s intensity. On the eve of one game, Vineyard supporters staged a rally and bonfire for their home team; as part of the festivities they threw a casket into the flames and joked that Capizzo’s body was inside it. Later, at a game hosted by Nantucket, locals came to the hotel where Vineyard players were staying and kept the club up all night by rattling the building and whooping it up outside.

In the early 1980s, the pregame handshake had

to be abandoned after the captains of the two clubs started swinging at each other. “Both teams were lined up at the 45-yard line,” recalls Machado. “And you start seeing these guys start jawing at each other. The next thing you know, they’re going at it, then both teams get into it. They stopped that tradition the next year.”

On the boat, the Nantucket players take their seats in a separate section of the lounge area. It’s Ryder’s attempt to keep his players away from the pregame hoopla. But it’s an impossible task. Tucked to one side is Cory Ryder and fellow senior JT Gamberoni, a short, athletic safety and running back who hopes to become a Navy SEAL. As the two sit together, talking and checking their phones, classmates and parents file past them. “You guys got ’em!” and “This is the year!” tumble at the two players, who acknowledge the support with nods and smiles.

On the other side of the lounge, not far from where the cheerleading team is going through some lastminute hair touch-ups, Jean Duarte, Jane Hardy, and Hardy’s sister, Jeanne Dooley, three of the team’s most tenured fans, sit around a table. They’re part of the multigenerational experience, too: All three were cheerleaders, and their husbands played football. Later, their sons and grandsons earned spots on the roster.

“I CAN’T STAND TO SEE THE VINEYARD PRANCING AROUND WITH THAT CUP,” SAYS ONE NANTUCKET FAN. “I TAKE IT PERSONALLY.”

LEFT : Even with a 28–0 lead at the half, the intensity still shows in the faces of Nantucket players, from left, Bodie Sargent, team captain Cory Ryder, and Ampherny Garcia. OPPOSITE : The teams square off in front of the Vineyard stands.

“I just want one more Cup win while I’m above the ground,” jokes Dooley, who graduated in 1949. “If we win, I’ll stay until the very end—but if we lose, I’m out of there immediately. I can’t stand to see the Vineyard prancing around with that Cup. I take it personally.

“But I’m not as bad this one,” she says, pointing across the table to her sister, a 1957 graduate, who starts laughing. “I’m serious. At a game a few years ago, we weren’t very good and the crowd is just dead. Jane gets down in front of everybody and starts yelling at them, ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Make some noise!’ They were looking at her like she was crazy. I had to tell her to calm down.”

By late morning, the Nantucket team is off the ferry and on a bus to Edgartown for a pregame brunch at the Harbor View Hotel. Coach Ryder takes a seat in front and surveys the scene around Vineyard Haven. “Damn,” he says. “I hate this place.” He looks up and sees the bus driver staring at him in the mirror.

“Well, not really,” he says. “Just in terms of football.”

The driver nods to indicate she grudgingly accepts the apology. “It’s a lot easier to get to the mainland from here than it is from your rock,” she says with a smile, then hits the accelerator. Along the road are homemade signs reminding the visitors they’re no longer on friendly turf.

“MV Will Beat Nantucket Again!” says one. “Harpoon Whalers!” reads another.

At a little before noon, fans for both clubs have begun to fill in the stands around the football field at Martha’s Vineyard Regional High School in Oak Bluffs. High school kids line up in a long row behind a chain-link fence. Two girls sit on their boyfriends’ shoulders. Fire engines park behind one of the end zones, the drivers ready to blast the sirens whenever the home team scores.

One of those to walk through the entrance near the fire engines is Don Herman. A Georgia boy who married into a New England family, Herman arrived on Martha’s Vineyard in 1988, and over the next 28 years he did for local football what Capizzo had done on Nantucket. He won often and, to the great dismay of his rivals, piled up Island Cup wins. During the first decade of the 2000s, the Vineyard lost just once to Nantucket. Herman retired after the 2015 season.

The memories of Herman’s recent dominance ripple through the Vineyard side of the stands as the visiting team runs through its warm-ups. Two middle-aged women quietly assess Nantucket’s obvious size advantage.

“They look so much bigger,” says one, clutching a program.

Her friend shrugs. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

The two teams keep to their own side of the field, but they steal looks at each other. There’s a brief burst of emotion when Nantucket leaves the grounds to gather one last time before kickoff by running down the Vineyard sideline. An assistant coach for the home team takes notice, and when the visitors are out of earshot he yells at his players, “Yo, what’s up with them coming down our sideline?!”

Another coach nods in agreement. “They disrespected us already!” he yells. “It’s personal now.”

By kickoff, several thousand people have arrived. A police officer looks on near the field entrance. Asked if he’s worried about any problems, he lets out a gentle laugh. “Come on,” he says. “It’s the Vineyard and Nantucket. These are two of the richest places on earth.”

Astrong rivalry, the kind that raises the blood pressure of all those involved, is born not out of differences but similarities. What a place is, what it represents, perhaps even the very things its residents value, are the relationship’s underpinnings and its tension points. You are like us, but there is only one of us.

So it is with Nantucket and the Vineyard. Both are islands. Both share a psychological indifference to the mainland. And, most noticeably, both are summer playgrounds for wealthy outsiders. But for the next two hours, island life is defined exclusively by those who live here year-round. The kids playing these games, the fans who come out for them, the former players who continue to show their support—these aren’t the hedge fund managers, politicians, and celebrities who are increasingly associated with these islands. This is a local event, and when you live in a place that feels as if it’s increasingly being snatched up by outsiders, you hold on tight to the things that can’t be relinquished. Like a football game.

As for the game itself? It isn’t much of one this year. After stopping the Vineyard on downs on its opening drive, Nantucket puts together a quick score built around a series of runs by featured tailback Travis Demby. At halftime, the visitors are up 28–0.

By the middle of the third quarter, many of the Vineyard high school kids who’ve come to heckle and cheer have packed up and headed home. In the Vineyard bleachers, the feeling is somber. “They’re just a lot bigger than us,” complains an older fan. Next to him, a woman wearing a 1990 Vineyard jacket nods in agreement. “We’ve also had a lot of injuries,” she says. “A lot more injuries than them.”

“Oh God, this is painful,” says another as Nantucket pushes the ball across the goal line again, to go up 35–0.

Across the field, Nantucket fans are chanting, “We want the Cup! We want the Cup!” Bells clang and a sprinkling of students hold up cardboard face shots of the team’s junior quarterback, Jack Holdgate. Nearby, sisters Jane Hardy and Jeanne Dooley share a look of

relief. “I’ve been texting updates to my grandson in North Carolina,” Hardy says. “He never won the Cup. He’s so excited.”

Just then, their friend Jean Duarte shows up with a container of popcorn. “I was almost knocked over because I was screaming so hard in the line,” she says, then proceeds to ring her cowbell. “Come on, Whalers!”

When the final whistle blows, the score reads 42–0, Nantucket. Jhevonne Daniels, a junior defensive tackle, takes off his helmet and runs his hands through his hair. “Man, this is the best moment of my life,” he says to nobody in particular. “I’ll never forget this.”

The game over, any lingering animosity between the teams dissipates. The two sides shake hands, and all the Nantucket players give a pat on the back to Elijah Matthews, a senior receiver for the Vineyard, who sits in a golf cart nursing a severely sprained ankle.

One of the last off the field is Demby. He makes the slow walk back to the locker room. Just outside the school building, he spots Vineyard tight end Lucas

LEFT : A despondent Lucas Debettencourt, senior tight end for Martha’s Vineyard, takes a knee after his team’s loss. OPPOSITE : Scenes of celebration on the field, top, and back home for the Nantucket players as they end the Vineyard’s 12-year dominance of the Island Cup.

AFTER THE FINAL WHISTLE BLOWS, JHEVONNE DANIELS TAKES OFF HIS HELMET. “MAN, THIS IS THE BEST MOMENT OF MY LIFE,” HE SAYS. “I’LL NEVER FORGET THIS.”

Debettencourt, who is banging the dirt off his cleats. Demby sticks out a hand.

“You lookin’ at schools?” Demby asks.

“Yeah, Holy Cross and Bentley.”

“Hey, I’m looking at Bentley, too.”

“Well, all right, man,” says Debettencourt. “Good luck.”

The ferry ride back to Nantucket is an extended tailgating scene. While coaches and players circulate in the lounge, down in the car hold parents and fans relive the game. Food is passed around, including several multi-foot-long subs that get carved up into more manageable pieces.

As the boat begins to dock, the players position themselves on one side of the big car entrance door, while the cheerleaders stake out their ground on the opposite side and proceed to lead everybody in rounds of cheers.

“Just wait until that door opens—this place is going to go crazy,” one parent says.

And he’s right. Waiting on the other side, the island greets the victors loudly. A fire engine sounds its siren as the players disembark, and everyone follows the truck through downtown.

“How does that feel?” Coach Ryder yells. “Let’s do it again next year!”

Players take turns holding the trophy as they make their euphoric march. At one point Demby holds the Cup in one hand and hops onto a teammate’s shoulders for the ride up Main Street. Restaurant workers and patrons pour out onto the street; some even join the parade.

It’s dark and it’s November, but today the island basks in light. The victory belongs to everyone. Nothing can take it away from them.

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(Required under Act of August 12, 1970, Sect 3685, Title 39, United States Code.)

September 22, 2017: Yankee-Bi-monthly, published at Dublin, Cheshire County, New Hampshire 03444. Published by Yankee Publishing Incorporated. Publisher: Brook E. Holmberg., Dublin, NH. Editor: Mel Allen, Dublin, NH. Owners: Christina G. Bell, Dublin, NH: H. Hansell Germond, Dublin, NH: Melanie G. Germond, Dublin NH: Rachel T. Germond, Dublin, NH: Judson D. Hale Sr., Dublin, NH: Beatrix T. Sanders, Dublin, NH: Cornelia T. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH: James R. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH; Philip R. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH.

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‘Just a Couple of Jamokes’

une in to any NPR pledge drive and you’re bound to hear some mention of “family”—as in, “our listening family,” “the public radio family.” But truth is, no on-air personalities could ever seem more like actual family than longtime Car Talk hosts Tom and Ray Magliozzi. They were the garrulous uncles at the dinner table: teasing their wives, trading stories, telling jokes that would make a fifth-grader groan—and, most of all, arguing about cars.

Born into a tight-knit Italian clan in East Cambridge, Massachusetts, the brothers were running a local auto repair shop in 1977 when an invitation from radio station WBUR to join a car advice panel led to their getting a weekly call-in show of their own. While Tom and Ray did give serious advice, it usually took a back seat to their quips (“If it falls off, it doesn’t matter,” “Life is too short to own a German car”) and frequent outbreaks of guffawing. Good-natured at heart, their humor had a distinctly Boston bite: Any caller could be razzed as a cheapskate or a knucklehead; any theory could be dismissed as bo-o-o-o-o-gus!

Car Talk became one of public radio’s most popular programs, drawing more than four million listeners at its peak; it also spawned books, audio compilations, a syndicated newspaper column, and even a PBS cartoon. The success may have surprised no one more than Tom and Ray themselves: In 1996 they accepted broadcasting’s prestigious Peabody Award with the disclaimer, from Tom, that “we’re just a couple of jamokes.”

The brothers retired in 2012 and, sadly, Tom passed away two years later, at age 77. Though the show still lives on via podcast, this September NPR ended production on its weekly Best of Car Talk broadcasts—leaving millions of radio listeners to find a new way to, as Tom and Ray would put it, “squander another perfectly good hour.” —Jenn

Johnson

An appreciation of Car Talk ’s four decades of good advice, bad jokes, and living by the motto non impediti ratione cogitationis

Car Talk hosts Ray, left, and Tom Magliozzi in 1989, two years after the WBUR-produced show went national. “Stations turned to us in droves—much in the same way that lemmings flock to the sea,” the brothers once joked.