Historic Squirrelfield

Fuck off, Creep

I am thinking of papering my apartment with this

Unfortunately, because it gets dark at noon now (well, 4:30, but still) we only had the chance to hit up one more house before everything shut down (we are planning to come back in the summer, so wait for a part II!)  We decided on the Asa Stebbins house, the only all-brick home built in Deerfield.  Asa Stebbins, who was super handsome (which is probably why he had 13 kids) was a rich dude who wanted to let everyone know he was rich.  He did this by papering his giant house in seriously ugly French wall-paper by Joseph Dufour (depicting the voyages of Captain Cook, per the picture) and by having rooms not papered hand-painted with tacky designs instead.  Well, tacky to us, but super chic and modern in 1799.  He wanted his house to be worldly, like those in Boston, so he could further his stature by hobnobbing with the elite who'd come up from Hartford.  The house was referred to as "the mansion" and I'm sure the folks who were living in shacks were a little miffed, but if they'd invested in cattle breeding like the attractive Mr. Stebbins, maybe they could've had their own ugly wall paper.

We stopped quickly at the museum and bookstore, which smelled like ass (not figuratively), just to see what it had to offer.  Turns out what it had to offer was hilariously pretentious conversation!  Lizzie and I were cutting through one room, where this dude was regaling some lady with tales of his conversations with the ambassador to India, and she rejoined with stories of transcendentalism, and it's magical impact on her.  I meant to let out a soft chuckle to respond to Lizzie's eyeroll, but instead I guffawed like a creep at them.  Luckily, our friends were too self-involved to notice us mocking them.  I am a nerd who likes culture, but this bunch of people were just trying to one up each other with their cultural capital, and it was silly.  We breezed by them again for another quick giggle, until the smell of ass drove us out, and back to the car.

I am sort of like a GPS, only better

Contrary to popular belief (and facts), I am actually really good at navigating.  When I have a map.  And the houses are marked.  And in a straight line.  On one street.  And ending at a tavern.  Unfortunately the tavern was closed.

18th Century arts and crafts

 When we entered the Apprentice's Workshop next to the museum, we had no idea that it would feature hands-on fun.  We were greeted by a lovely woman we called Gladys, who is obviously a retired academic, well-versed in the study of everything.  (She mentioned how we'd just been at the museum.  Did the guard call her to tell her about our walking on the grass?)  We started off in the loom-room, where Gladys showed us the original off-sheep wool, and it's various in-process states, with the final product of the yarn being set up on this loom, at which Lizzie is seated.  I cannot imagine the pain-in-the-assness which setting up a loom would involve, but it turns out Lizzie is pretty good at working it.  There were four pedals, and you'd alternate pedals to create your pattern, passing the shuttle through each time (as you see Lizzie doing, above.)  Gladys told us that the wool being carded and spun in Deerfield was "not what you would wear to the Governor's ball," but rather the rougher stuff you'd use for carpets and blankets.  After Lizzie finished making the carpet, we moved onto the ceramics room, American ceramics also not being what was in demand.  (We were producing mostly stoneware made with salt, which was great for storing things, but not for elegant tableware, etc.)

Gladys asked if I wanted to make my own ceramic piece, and of course I did.  She gave me a little ball of clay, which was NOT THE CONSISTENCY I WAS EXPECTING.  It was super slimy and wet, so when I went to smooth it into a ball it squashed all up over my hands, horrifying Lizzie into not making her own ceramic token.  You could choose from several presses, and I, of course, chose a sexy 1797 Ben Franklin mould.  With my now-greasy hands, I had trouble peeling the clay off the mould, so Gladys helped out, creating my little buddy here on the left, who is hoping I'll go back and make a nice pressing of some French whores.  I used some wet wipes to clean off most of the clay, but it is still stuck in the grooves of my knuckles as I write this out hours later.  Such are the costs of superb artistry.

The third room in this building housed a wood working shop, which was, unfortunately, not guided by the lovely Gladys.  Instead there was a clean cut man who looked like a priest named Brent, who illustrated the use of various planers you'd use to smooth out wood.  I was exhausted just hearing him explain it, and thought of all the tetnus you'd get from the endeavor.  The process was extensive, and you'd need to repeat it for every exposed wood piece in your home, include the entire floor.  Here, the activity was trying out various 18th century tools, the auger being the most popular.  People like boring holes in shit. 

Please do not powder your nose

Powder horns!  These babies, usually made from cow or buffalo horns, were used to carry gunpowder for your 18th century muskets.  The horns were naturally waterproof, and the metal tips were iron-free, meaning no accidental explosions.  People would decorate the horns, leaving an interesting record of the person who used it.  I like this one because it says "EDWARD SHERBURNE" with "his horn" under it, just so we knew it was indeed Edward Sherburne's horn, and not a horn named Edward Sherburne.  It's weird that they included that clarification, because if the horn's name was engraved on it, it would've obviously been "EDWARD SHERHORN."  

The dude on the ceramic bowl has had enough liberty, and by liberty I mean booze, because he is seriously cross eyed.  Below him is a super scary set of door knockers, which will haunt your dreams.

Nice Ash!

 This building right here is the Flynt Center of Early New England Life.  Its special exhibitions include the Helen Geier Flynt Textile Gallery, a wood and furniture gallery, an "attic" with all sorts of artifacts from 18th and 19th century Deerfield life, and a powder horn collection.  First things first.

So as you can see in the lower right hand corner of the first picture, there is a big lawn in front of the museum.  Instead of walking along the path, which would've taken twice as long, I goaded Lizzie into following me and cutting across the lawn.  I jokingly talked about how Danielle, whom you'll recall from real life or from the Vegas post, never walks over grass--she always uses the walking paths.  Anyway, we went into the museum, first into the wood and furniture gallery, which is set off from the main lobby.  We were admiring the tea tables, and this fabulous tapestry of a sawmill that looks like it's vomiting up planks (BLLEEAAURRGGHHHH) when a museum supervisor came into the room, and started trailing us.  Is it because we walked on the grass?  Did he know we were ruffians?  We milled about (HA HA) commenting, maturely, as we do on things like "crotch grain wood" (crotch wood is the wood below the "y" of the trunk, which is supposed to have a lot of figured grain.  Thanks, internet!) and how unattractive the portraits of the early settlers were, etc, etc., mostly for the benefit of our shadow.  Having had our fill of wood (!) we went over to the textiles gallery, which is also in a separate space.  We waited patiently for the museum employee to follow us, and he did, about a minute later.  He was

 trying so hard to make it seem like he wasn't tailing us, and it was really sad/endearing.  I almost feel bad that we didn't give him any reason to yell at us, because I bet he loves doing that.  Despite my desire to put on this fabulous French-court dress, I refrained, fearing that the panniers (the big baskets on the hips) would catch on the door frame, hindering my escape.  The clothing, for the most part, was exceedingly tiny, which makes sense when you are literally working your ass off.

Lizzie and I then went up to the attic, and sadly, since everything upstairs was in glass cases, our friend stayed behind.  Please note that as we were leaving the building, a large group of older women went in the textile gallery and WERE NOT FOLLOWED by the guard.  Old ladies are forever stealing shit and putting it in their purses.  Those gals probably treated the gallery like the muffin bar at the Old Country buffet--grab those shoes, roll 'em up in a napkin and shove 'em in your pocket, Effie! It's part of the entrance fee!

A smurf in time saves nine

Lizzie is standing in front of the smurf-blue Wells-Thorn house, which is a interior furnishings time machine, illustrating changes from 1725ish to 1850ish, if you are into that sort of thing.  I, on the other hand, was obsessed with the disgusting, desiccating pumpkins in the second picture, illustrating changes in freshness from October 2012 to December 2012.  What?  Why?  How?  Seriously--get a wheelbarrow and dump those bastards in the woods and let the bunnies and squirrels get drunk of the fermented fruit.  Why is it rotting on your stairs and front lawn?  Why?  No, seriously--get rid of them, it's really bothering me. 

Is that a sugarloaf in your pocket, or...

 Hi!  Your friends here at States of Snark decided it was high time for another adventure, and so Lizzie and I took a trip to a place few folks from Eastern Mass dare to go--WEST OF WORCESTER!  Lizzie wisely chose Deerfield as our destination, and wouldn't you know it, we saw both deer, and fields!  It took us about two hours to get out to Deerfield, so our first stop was the restrooms.  YAY!

Deerfield is about 30 minutes north of Springfield, and was originally home to the Pocumtuck nation.  The English settlers came in 1673, forcibly expelling the native people who hadn't already been

killed by the Mohawk people.  The Pocumtuck sought help from the French up in Canada, and as you can imagine, things only got better for everyone involved.  During Queen Anne's war (1704), Deerfield was razed by a French/Native American contingent, with 56 people being killed, and 112 being (forcibly) marched up to Canada (in February).  The colonists who survived the march were eventually ransomed by the communities surrounding Deerfield, but not everyone bothered making the return trip home.  Eventually, the frontier was pushed north (though many Bostonians would still consider Deerfield the frontier) and the little town prospered, and in the late 19th century, the townspeople preserved the historic downtown, to attract annoying visitors such as Lizzie and myself. The downtown is about a mile stretch, with lots of 18th- and 19th century houses lining the way, many of which are, or house museums.

After availing ourselves of the restrooms, (politely, unlike the horses who just crapped in the road like animals or something) we went to the visitors' center, where a series of gingerbread houses led us to an old-school cooking demonstration, conducted by a lady who looked like she was from the late 19th century.  She was making cookies, and showed us her biscuit cooker, which was a little metal box you'd put in front of the fire to burn your hands bake said cookies, as well as her cooking supplies: a sugar loaf  after which the mountain is named (though the mountain is far less delicious) and the various spices she was using that had to be ground by hand with a deadly looking grater. My cookies would've been 100% knuckle skin.  She showed us a fruit cake she had made, which was missing some pieces, and said "this is for special occasions" before putting it back.  Apparently Lizzie and I are not a "special occasion," though I would beg to differ.  Having sat through the demonstration with no cookies to show for it, and unable to pocket a sugar loaf, Lizzie and I struck off to learn all of the things.

And It's Hard to Dance with the Devil on Your Back/ So Shake Him Off

 Our last stop on our NH trip was a Shaker Village in Canterbury.  The Shakers, or the United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing, are perhaps an offshoot of the Quakers, founded upon the teachings of Ann Lee.  According to the museum guide, there are only two living Shakers left in America (up in Maine) and that is not surprising seeing as how one of their foundational beliefs is celibacy.  They increased their numbers through conversion, and apparently people used to leave their kids with the Shakers if they couldn't afford to care for them.  Sort of like a commune-cum-orphanage.  The Shakers were not about the sexy-times, but they were about singing and dancing.  They were also pro-equality of the sexes, and were all about furniture making and broom making.  It seems like they were an interesting group of people, but the ghost town they left behind in Canterbury is CREEPY. 

We went in several of the buildings, and each time were greeted by a volunteer who would yell at us not to take pictures (NO PROBLEM) and then try to sell us something.  When we were in the broom-making shed, the broom-making demonstrator was finishing up his "BUY OUR BROOMS" pitch to two German ladies (Because that would be fun to take on the plane) so I turned to Lizzie and whispered "RUN" and luckily, though she wasn't quite sure what I had said, she instinctively followed my directions and we escaped before we had to hear a 35 minute lecture about how Shaker Brooms last forever, as they are made with the best Broom Corn there is. 


 In the infirmary, the volunteer would not shut up about not taking pictures (OKAY, GOT IT) and then told us to not be scared of the coffin on the top floor.  We milled about, looking at the various displays of horrible old school medical and dental devices, and there was a serious "LOTS OF PEOPLE DIED IN HERE, Y'ALL" tinge to the building that was way scarier than the little wooden coffin.  We decided to GTFO (that's "Get the Fuck Out", for the less street-wise of our readers) because something was just wrong about the building.  We then went to an even more wrong building--the school house.  When we went in the school house, the ambient temperature INSIDE dropped about 20 degrees from the temperature outside.  Something horrible had obviously happened here, too, and we only got in far enough to see the little latrines made from holes cut into a long wooden bench (gross--so, like, you're just taking a Carolina Crapo while your schoolmate is just hanging out next to you?). We were
getting serious goose bumps, and we left faster than you could say "Elder Henry Blinn's Bee House," took our stern Shaker photos, and headed for the warm embrace of our Massachusetts home. 

On the drive back, Lizzie and I tried to reason out our creeptastic reaction to that place--it should have been friendly and innocuous, but there was just something inexplicably off about it.  We couldn't find any ghost stories about the place on the interwebs (though they're having a ghost tour next weekend) but the place was a bucket of sketch.  A Shaker-Made long-lasting Bucket of Sketch. 

Also, it should be noted, though many of our faithful readers won't believe this, that I was too busy talking to alert Lizzie to the proper exit to take to get to my home, and we ended up driving an extra half-hour through Boston until we could turn around.  Ah, home sweet home.

Live Free or Fry

 Still reeling from the excitement of Iron Furnace, we decided to go to Sugar Hill, and see if we couldn't find a bag of candy.  After all, the town is home to Polly's Pancake Parlor...

We stopped at a little country store (across from Carolina Crapo Memorial.  I bet Crapo wasn't always an embarrassing last name) and apparently this store was the place to be on a Sunday afternoon in Sugar Hill.  There were free cheese samples (and I'm talking your Cabot variety of cheese, which is fine, but not exactly hard to come by) and there was a huge line up of people waiting to get at the little salty cubes of goodness.  It was so crowded, that Lizzie and I slipped out as quickly as possible, sans cheese (which they ship from coast-to-coast by the way, in case your Market Basket is out of the Cabot Sharp Cheddar that day) but not before reading the back of a cd of songs about bears.

Just a note on local politics, apparently there is a HVDC power line being proposed to cut through NH, and everyone is (understandably) upset about it.  They have coined the moniker "Live Free or Fry" based, of course, on New Hampshire's famous motto "Live Free or Die" (GOD.  CALM DOWN NEW HAMPSHIRE) and Lizzie and I couldn't stop imagining the board meeting where this slogan was decided upon.  They must've been so pleased with themselves.  Also, Lizzie and I grew up next to high voltage power lines, and we're JUST FINE, as you can tell from this entire blog...

Good luck in your fight, New Hampshire peoples.

Because Stone Cold Iron Furnace Said So

 Leaving the Indian Head Resort, we went further north up into Franconia Notch. We saw a sign that said "Iron Furnace" with an arrow, and Lizzie and I were like "finally, after all of our searching during all of our trips, we have finally found Iron Furnace."  We followed the signs, read the informational plaques, did some Iron Furnace Interpretive Dances, crossed that bridge when we came to it, and hid behind trees.  Our stone-furnace bliss was ruined when a super creepy dude showed up with his bologna sandwich and asked if we wanted him to take a picture of us.  And by "Take a Picture" he meant "take a picture of you in my trunk after I've murdered you in preparation of turning you into bologna sandwiches." 

Climb Every Tower

 I climbed the rickety old fire tower (you can see it in one of the pictures in the first NH post), while Lizzie, the smarter of the two of us, decided to stay in the topple-free zone.  As children, my sisters and I used to climb up here with my Grandpa, while my Grandma remained (again, wisely) on solid ground.  I imagine they were both hanging out with me up there today, though. The view is pretty cool, very Bob Ross, and I got to hear two teenagers singing Lady Gaga (Edge of Glory, of course) and then argue about whether the land they were seeing in the distance with the view master was Italy or Mexico.  Der, it's the moon, smarties.  Everyone knows that.

Larceny, Indecent Exposure and Related Physical Training

 Remember when I said not much had changed here since I was a kid?  I meant our maturity levels, too.  It won't be your bench for long, Sharon...

Fun with Gazebos

 States of Snark Wedding Photos Edition

Also, you can take paddle boats around Shadow Lake, and when we were kids, Danielle fell in because she was trying to look at the fish.  THAT'S HOW THE FISH GET YOU, DANIELLE.  EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.  (Where do you think Mermaids come from?)  Luckily we were able to rescue her before she went all Ariel on us.

Fine Dining, New Hampshire Style

We ate in the "Thunderbird Lounge" in the Indian Head resort.  It was lunch time, and we were starving (no candy bag?  Seriously?  What were we thinking?)  There was a tour group in one part of the dining room, but the lady you see behind Lizzie and the fabulous Kinko's-made menu, and her friend did not want to sit with the rest of the group.  They were deeply unpleasant, and very rude to our waitress, Bambi.  Yes, like the deer.  At one point, one of the women went to the bathroom, and her friend took her lunch plate and clutched it next to her as if someone (say, Lizzie or I) would run over and eat the unguarded meal.  (GAME ON.)  Our delicious diet cokes were served in the finest plastic cups available, and the food, well, Lizzie and I made rookie mistakes. 

A few years ago, my friends Lisa, Lauren and I went to Friday's, because Lisa had a gift certificate, and we decided it was time to eat three courses of Friday's food, because we are chain-restaurant dare devils.  Lisa got the Chicken Bruschetta, and it was absolutely foul fowl.  She reported this back to her husband (who had given her the gift certificate) who said, sternly, "What business do you have getting Chicken Bruschetta at Fridays!!  You get chicken fingers, or something that comes out of the Fry-o-later!"  Well, dear readers, we should've followed this advice at the Thunderbird Lounge, but instead, I got the vegetable hummus wrap, and Lizzie the veggie burger.  As you can see from the photo, the veggies in the wrap were not at their, er, freshest, and the stems were still in the tomatoes.  There was also an eyelash on one of my cucumbers.  For some reason that is grosser than from-the-head hair. (But not grosser than chest hair, like the one the cook I worked with at Friendly's dropped into my customer's tartar sauce one time.  He had a hole in his shirt.)  Let's not play like you were closely inspecting those avacados, Chef Merle Richards, because they were rotten.  Lizzie's veggie burger was a sad little hockey puck.  So everything had to be drowned in ketchup.

Thus sated, we went to take photos out back at scenic Shadow lake.

Granite State of Mind

 Hello my lovelies!  It has been far too long.  So unfortunately, this summer's grand States of Snark adventure had to be cancelled, because my amazingly wonderful best-Grandpa-ever Grandpa (see this post) was sick, and passed away in late August.  Lizzie and I decided that we should do a States of Snark mini edition, so we went up to northern New Hampshire, starting at the Indian Head Resort, where my Grandpa and Grandma used to take my sisters (and family) and I back in the day. 

Lizzie and I left at 10am, and the ride up to Lincoln goes much faster when you are not crammed in with 7 or so other people and their respective luggage in your Grandpa's Plymouth Voyager mini-van, but this ride was lacking my Grandma's magical bottomless bag of candy, and both of my sainted Grandparents' limitless patience for my endless singing.  (NOTE:  I WON MY FIRST KARAOKE CONTEST AT THIS RESORT WHEN I WAS TWELVE.  I sang "The Greatest Love of All", and brought down the house.  By "the house" I mean the five or so other families that were in the audience.)  On the drive up, we peeped at the leaves (which peeped back) and discussed the proper pronunciation of Kancamagus (kanc-a-MAH-gus, not Kangamangus which is wrong but more fun to say.  RHYMING.)  I saw a sign for the Robert Frost museum, and wrote an awesome tribute poem, which went something like this:  Robert Frost is very nice/ He wrote poetry about snow and ice/ I've read them all once or thrice/ and now his home is full of lice.

Not much has changed at the Indian Head Resort since I came here as a kid.  Allow me to illustrate.