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.