A Tribute to Excellence...

Tomorrow morning not too long after sunrise, at seven o’clock to be precise, the members of my morning class in United States History, and I will leave the High School on the first of what we hope will be an annual affairs.

Riding in the town—owned school bus with Eddie Nichols at the wheel, we are going for a visit to Old Sturbridge Village in the western part of the state. Old Sturbridge, as far as I have been able to learn, is to the north what Williamsburg in Virginia is to the south. Although the latter is, of course, a more historic site than Old Sturbridge they both have one thing in common, namely they are sort of “living museums” of an important period in America’s past, presenting a living and vivid reproduction of what life was like in the villages and towns of the eighteenth century.

So, instead of merely reading about life in those faraway times, instead of just looking at pictures, we can actually see the buildings, the printing shop, the weavers loom, the grist mill, the blacksmith’s forge and the other examples of a way of life that seems to have passed a very long time…(copy cut off)….. …..quite certain it will not be a dull day.

Ever ride almost four hundred miles with a busload of teenagers? Some fun! It is!

Last, Sunday morning, aided and abetted by the ladder, the nimbleness and the conversation of the poor man’s Raphael, I finally brought to a successful conclusion a home-improvement project which was started last fall, the painting and hanging of the blinds (or shutters as we used to call them in Pennsylvania) on our house.

In October Raphael and Carlton Long took down the upstairs blinds and painted the window frames and sashes. I did the same for the downstairs. Ever since I almost fell off the Washington Monument as a boy I have suffered from acrophobia and a four—foot step ladder is my limit in climbing skywards.

During the winter the thirty blinds were slowly, gradually and intermittently daubed with shiny black paint to replace the faded green. So last Sunday was the day of the hanging.

Raphael showing a complete distain for height and the force of gravity, did a fine job in short order, the only mishap was a slight entanglement with the telephone wire which for a moment threatened strangulation and cessation of phone service at our house.

We like the “new look” but not so young Miss Betsy. On her return from Sunday School she gave the house a quick appraisal, remarked, “I don’t like it. It makes the house look too ghosty.” And she went inside. Had I the soul of an artist I suppose my spirit would have been crushed.

Do you recall my account in this column two or three weeks ago of Norman White’s tale of the Florida woman who scalloped the edges of her pie-crust with her lower plate? There a rather interesting sequel to it may or may not prove that this culinary tour de force had its origin right here in Orleans whence it spread to Florida and heaven knows how many other places.

Some years ago On a rainy Spring morning Dave Delano was working on his boat in the old shed down by the River when Norman White dropped in. As always happened when those two got together (and here speak from long personal experience) one yarn led to another.

In the midst of their tale-telling, attracted by Dave's laughter, which could be heard two hundred yards away, a third figure quietly entered the shed. Because of his innate modesty he has requested anonymity in this account. However, it should be noted he is well-known as an authority on the propagation and conservation of shellfish in this vicinity. He listened for some time as Dave and Norman tried to outdo each other in yarn—spinning. Finally, he felt that things had gone far enough and he told about the little old lady from East Orleans who always used her lower plate to press down the edges of tier pie-crust. Dave and Norman surrendered, for that day at least.

And now this quaint Cape Cod culinary custom has spread to distant Florida. It’s really not surprising, though, for you know how women like to share their cooking knowledge.

The vacant lot, that lies between our house and Carlton Smith’s has at last been sold. To the great relief of the whole neighborhood there will be no neon-lighted dispensary of edibles, no noisy and noisome filling station built there. Instead the new owners, who come from near Hartford, plan to build their home there, a style of architecture very much in keeping with surrounding homes. They will be welcome additions to our neighborhood.