The arrival of spring suggests it’s time to get out, to see, and to do new things. This was especially true when we lived in New England. This conclusion was even more evident when we lived in Ohio and upstate New York, where the sky was overcast, beginning in November, and remained cloud-covered throughout the winter months. The ground was even more depressing than the sky, since the snow turned to slush and frozen ice shortly after every weekly deposit. I did not realize there was truly a winter-sun until we moved to New Hampshire and later, to Massachusetts.
Houston, on the other hand, may have bright sunshine from December through February. Nevertheless, when the temperature remains above the mid-seventies and the bright blue sky may be devoid of puffy, white clouds, there is a human desire to take to the roads. Unfortunately, most Texans have been unable, during the past two years, to travel. Now that Covid is on the wane, everyone hopes we will be able to return to the open road, providing we can afford to buy any gasoline.
However, when we lived in Massachusetts, four decades ago, the cost was reasonable for a daytrip to many nearby towns or villages, where we could experience something new. On the other hand, what we saw was, often, something quite old. New England likes to preserve its heritage, especially in quaint, colonial buildings. When we lived in Amherst, and, later, when we made special visits to New England, we saw picturesque sites, both in spring and in fall, in such places as Old Deerfield Village (near Amherst), as well as “Strawbury Banke” (sic) in Portsmith, New Hampshire; Mystic Seaport in Connecticut; Gloucester, Salem and Stockbridge in Massachusetts; and Stowe and Middlebury in Vermont. In Stowe we bought a twelve-foot farm-sled that cost us more to ship to Houston than it did to buy it in Vermont. Many companies do not like to transport antiques in a “distressed” condition, since some buyers claim the shipper has damaged them and want to collect insurance money for events that had occurred decades before the move.
Among the places we visited over the years, one of my favorite destinations was Old Sturbridge, a restoration of village life from the late 1700s through the early 1800s. Unlike those who lived in Colonial Williamsburg, another favorite restoration, the residents of Sturbridge were modest farmers and tradesmen, rather than wealthy plantation owners and merchants engaged in the early political life of Virginia.
Karen and I enjoyed the spring sunshine as we wandered around the Old Sturbridge Village Commons, surrounded by white-sideboard homes and stone-construction shops in which we observed pottery being shaped, leather shoes for people being constructed by a shoemaker, and iron shoes for horses being forged by the blacksmith. We spent time watching the formation of freshly cut, wooden planks in the sawmill, powered by a waterwheel, and the efforts of women farmers in their sunbonnets digging and planting vegetables and flowers or spinning woolen thread for use in nearby looms. Our favorite spot for relaxing was sitting on a bench overlooking a weathered, covered bridge above a creek flowing into a nearby pond. The best place for lunch was at one of the dining rooms in the Publick House, a whitewashed building with rambling wings added over a two-century lifetime.
One year we booked a room in this Inn for an extended stay in Sturbridge. It was a unique visit in which we had the entire village practically to ourselves. We had planned to spend a long Washington’s Birthday weekend there. This was in a time when there were separate celebrations for Washington and Lincoln and not a consolidated Presidents’ Day. It was also the year when there was an early, false spring. The weather had been warm, the trees might even have had plans for pushing out a few buds. We arrived at the Publick House in time for dinner on February 21. The evening was completed in the pub-room before we retired to a feather bed with a mountain of quilts covering it.
The next morning, we were greeted with more than twelve inches of freshly fallen snow! Sturbridge Village was officially closed. Nevertheless, those employed by the Village were true New Englanders and came to work, anyway. Although the Village was closed for new arrivals, we were allowed to enter most of the buildings. But first, I had to fill up on Froggers. They are a Sturbridge institution, cookies made from a recipe attributed to Joe Frogger, a free African American, who, following service in the Revolutionary Army, opened a tavern that served these oversized, molasses-and-spice treats.
That evening, we, and a few other trapped visitors, were invited to attend the town’s weekly party. It was pleasant tramping through the deep, crystal snow from the Publick House Inn to the Town Hall for an evening of square dancing. Fortunately, we were members of the College Town Twirlers in Amherst and had learned the basic calls to a degree that we did not break down any of the sets, a major achievement for visitors. The next morning, the snow-covered highways prevented our leaving Sturbridge, but we did return home as soon as the plows allowed travel back to Amherst. Spring which has not yet fully sprung can also yield very pleasant memories.