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Welcome to North Woodstock
9:01:38 p.m.
Nov. 25
Rain is lashing at the windows and drumming on the roof, washing away the Thanksgiving holiday. Seems to me that it should be snowing, but then again, we don’t have to shovel raindrops.
The holiday was a whirl - some work, some fun, some turkey - the latter thanks to my neighbors Alice and Aaron, who invited me over tonight to attack a bird, a couple of pies and all the fixings.
We will turn the calendar on December this week, but some of our fine folks here in North Woodstock already got a jump. Every year, as a gift to the town, Charlie (the barber) and Pauline Harrington decorate the lamp posts of the stone bridge coming into town with evergreen garland, topped by big red bows and we saw Charlie putting the finishing touches on this year’s effort last Wednesday, making a nice and festive return for anyone coming home for the holidays. In the next few weeks, Aaron will string the lights on the big pine at Soldiers Park on the common. Someone will string lights on the bandstand and when it snows, there can’t be a prettier spot on earth.
In Lower Woodstock this weekend, the Holzmans hosted their ninth annual wreath-making party for everyone they know. There are no strangers to the family; only friends they haven’t met. It’s a tradition for co-workers, family and friends to spend part of the Thanksgiving weekend in their wonderful barn, making pretty wreaths and other decorations to bring home. It is festive and bright and cheerful ... and nobody goes home hungry.
I’m delighted this week to unveil the Herbs portion of verbsandherbs.com. A few years ago, I began making these little aromatic gifts for my friends, who encouraged me to introduce the world to these little pillows of lavender and balsam and other herbs. It’s a nice antidote to my day job. Martha Stewart isn’t running scared ... yet ...
I would also like to direct your attention to the lower part of the page and two links you might enjoy wandering through. My friend, Jim, is launching a newspaper in Littleton in two weeks, with much of the flavor of his late, great Magnetic North magazine from some years ago. Ace photographer Alan MacRae has posted his wonderful and historic picture of the Old Man of the Mountain, taken during the two days the Old Man saluted Old Glory, in the aftermath of Sept. 11.
A special welcome to those friends visiting A Season in North Woodstock after stopping by my booth at the Evergreen Fair at the University of New Hampshire.
9:02:29 p.m.
Nov. 19, 2001
Fire came to town early this morning, leaving a big hole on Main Street. Flames destroyed the Chalet Restaurant, which has stood on the corner of Main Street and Lost River Road for decades.
Fire departments from a half dozen towns came to help put out the blaze. It raged throughout the night, but because it was old and made of lots of wood, there was little the firefighters could do to save it, but, bless `em, no other building on the little Main Street was damaged.
It’s been the Chalet Restaurant for over 30 years, but for years and years before that, it was the Comet. Before Interstate 93 was constructed, all travelers came through North Woodstock and generations of them stopped for a bite to eat at the Comet, before continuing on their journeys through the White Mountains.
‘’Fires change things for good,’’ said one of our volunteer firefighters this morning.
And so it has on Main Street today, which is now changed for good. Throughout the morning, people came by to see the damage and to reminisce. The Chalet was a good place to eat and a good place to work and at the height of the fire, its employees rushed down to the scene, to comfort and be comforted.
The Clermont family, who owns the restaurant, vow to rebuild and offer their lobster and prime rib dinners and make-your-own Sundae bar next summer. They are good people and will build a building that lends itself well to a quaint Main Street.
But from this day forth ... Main Street is not the same as it was for so many years.
On a note of better cheer, we here in North Woodstock, as most every place else, were treated to the splendid celestial display early Sunday. I sat on the back steps of my house at 4 a.m. and watched meteors streak by.
And all I could think of in the frosty darkness was that it’s not such a bad world when there are more falling stars than there are wishes to wish upon them.
Happy Thanksgiving, gentle reader.
8:07:31 p.m.
Nov, 12, 2001
As November rolls along, seemingly at warp speed, we all continue to burrow in and wait for winter. Jack Frost has been teasing us with his blasts of snow and cold, an incentive, I suppose, to finish doing what has to be done - putting up storm windows, getting our vehicles prepped for cold, finishing raking up those leaves that just don’t want to blow away.
The oil man came one day and not far behind him was the gas man, which, by my calculations, is about three and a half years early. My stove, that dust catcher in my kitchen, runs on propane and about a year and a half ago, the company sent a man out to exchange my tank, installing a huge 50-gallon one.
So imagine my dismay when I got the bill for that! John Lynch, who cheerfully kept my fuel oil topped off until his retirement last year, laughed and laughed as I contemplated the propane cylinder.
``The way you go through gas, we won’t have to come back for another five years,`` he chortled.
Sometimes I use my stove. How much do I use my stove? Well, the gas man topped off the tank with all of 8 gallons. Eight gallons in 18 months. You do the math.
The one thing that has cheered me receiving my gas and oil bills now is that finally, after 5 years of owning this house, the directions no longer use the previous owner’s name. You will find that, when you live in a small town and in an older house, it might have a quaint name, referring to some long-gone owner, or the year it was built. I’m thrilled that it has only taken half a decade for my house to indeed be my house.
A day or two after the gas man cometh, a bright orange Department of Transportation truck pulled up in my yard. Out jumped Alvin Lee and Ray Mulleavey, who grabbed a couple of 12-foot tall sticks and began planting them alongside my newspaper tube, my neighbors’ mailboxes and a line of fence posts.
For some reason, the DOT calls them whips and they have been planted every fall along the roadside, as a sort of guide for snowplow drivers who might otherwise not see newspaper tubes, mailboxes or fence posts come January. About 4,000 are placed across the North Country, but nowhere else in New Hampshire.
This piece of trivia will make you a hit at all your holiday parties ...
Thanks for dropping by for a weekly visit to North Woodstock. If this is your first visit, please sign my guest book or send an email (see links below) and I will place you on my mailing list. Feel free to pass this on to your friends and family, wherever they be.
Had you come by my house Sunday afternoon, you may have caught the aroma of pumpkin pie, which I may have made if my stove and I were on friendlier terms. But it’s so much easier to light a scented candle ...
Best dining value in town this month:
Turkey dinner with all the trimmings at the Woodstock Station - $3.99, Sunday through Thursday (except Thanksgiving)
Highly recommended by White Mountain Mikey
6:56:13 p.m.
Nov. 4, 2001
Let’s see. A week ago, we were shivering amid snow showers that dogged us right through Halloween, much to the distress of all the princesses, the Harry Potters and other assorted benign and malevolent tricksters, who had to pull on parkas and mittens over their costumes to make their appointed rounds.
In the true spirit of trick or treat, the snowplows were out Wednesday night, too, treating the messy roads.
The last half of the week was murky, but warm, making short work of about two inches of snow.
And then came Saturday ...
It dawned gloriously, warm and clear, one last gift of fall, we fear. Whatever that place is at the base of our brains, which makes us want to hibernate, relaxed that morning and many of us were out finishing the yard work we should have raked or mowed sooner than this.
So there I was, too, rake in hand, scouring my front yard and amassing a huge pile of soggy, rotting leaves that had once been the canopy of my ancient maple. There is a fragrance, if you can call it that, to this chore, neither pleasing nor offensive. Far back in the woods, a chainsaw buzzed and the smell and sound of both just mean autumn.
The chore was brainless, so much so that when I was done, I realized I had not thought about disposing them. For a minute or two, as I contemplated the huge pile, I was 6 and the urge to jump in was overwhelming. Considerably older now, I resisted, but dashed in to make a sign inviting anyone who wanted to, to do so.
There have been no takers and I am thinking that it is even more naive of me to hope someone will just come along and haul them away. The pile remains. I’ll get a tarp this week, rake them onto that, pull it across my yard and leave the leaves to decay and renew some life cycle.
This unseasonable interlude is coming to an end. The sky at 4:30 this afternoon was a burst of purple and pink, bordering on neon, and as the sun sank quickly in the west, it drew over the mountains a chilly gray mantle of clouds.
Thank you for stopping by North Woodstock and welcome to my readers, especially the new ones who came for their first visit this week. This page is updated every week or so and if you would like to subscribe, use the guestbook or email function below and I will put you on the mail list.
Outside my window tonight, my neighbor, Andy, lit a bonfire about an hour ago and the flames are dancing high in the darkness. Wonder if he has any marshmallows ...
Stoplights: 2 (but one of them might as well be in Lincoln)
