NBNC>NY July 2015

Upstate FHRvers

As sometimes happens the stars align and we find ourselves in the same zip code as other Harborites; in this case we met up with Dave and Polly Brown and Art and Karen Pethybridge (listed in alphabetical order so as not to minimize each couple) although it was great to share hugs with Karen and Polly and Polly and Karen! The Brown’s trekked from their native region of Adams NY, where they parked their motor home and will be (have by this posting) returned to NBNC to get back to the boating life. Art and Karen followed the Seaway Trail to Oswego from their recent journey to Ottawa. 

olympian 10

We all met at Rudy’s Lakeside in Oswego, where the very best haddock and clams can be found. Rudy’s is a 60+ year old landmark on the shore of Lake Ontario, fondly remembered in my youth as “The Loop”.  After a wonderful afternoon of visiting, eating and continued visiting we parted company with Art and Karen knowing that we would be seeing them again this summer and joined Polly and Dave on an excursion to their neck of the woods in northern Jefferson County. 

We too traveled the Seaway Trail (rte 104) northbound and followed The Brown’s over the rivers and through the woods, stopping enroute to check out  a computerized dairy operation sitting on 1,500 acres with about 1,000+ holstein producers of top grade milk,  Hi Hope Farm, owned by Dave’s brother who recently passed away, is operated by Dave’s nieces and nephews.  

During our brief tour we were impressed with the machinations of the milking parlor. Once a chore that came at 4 am and 4 pm the dairy industry has joined the 21st century of technology where the bovine wears an ankle bracelet that reads her weight, vitals and amount of milk produced at any given time. Even her steps are recorded. It was an incredible operation to see. After ogling at mc-mansions along the Henderson Harbor coastline we bid adieu to Polly and Dave and will reunite with them during Octoberfest at the Harbor.

 

Good times continue with our fellow campers here at Mayfair. For July 4th we had an afternoon picnic sharing themed foods of red, white and blue. Imaginations took hold and the patriotic feast was thoroughly enjoyed.

Waiting for the din of the washing machine to complete its spin cycle and the endless tumbling of the dryer to suddenly stop to the silence of the room, I become swathed in warm towels as I fold clean, fresh laundry.  It doesn’t matter how far away from home you are there will always be dirty clothes to launder, floors to sweep, carpets to vacuum.  And so it is on this first day of July that a torrential storm hammered at the screen door and metal roof of the campground laundry room.  The skies darkened, the heavens grumbled and I became a prisoner of the laundry room. We have experienced consistent downpours, light, heavy, driving rains during these past four weeks.  I cast my eyes around the four-walled room to see if I might have the resources to begin building an ark. 

Could I put something together that would be seaworthy, I wondered. Two outdoor chairs, a floor stand fan, wood shelving, bedding sheets; if put together right I could float back to the campsite in style and keep my feet and laundry dry. And so I stared out the screen door while time lagged and puddles became lagoons. A slight break gave me hope as I began to gather baskets of folded clothes, now cold, to scuttle to the jeep a mere fifty feet away. Anyone who knows me knows that I am terrified of thunder and lightning. And so with trepidation I quietly opened the screen door with the hope the storm gods would not hear my apprehensive breathing or the squeak of the door hinge. I hesitated a few seconds too long because as I was two steps onto the yard a thunderous growl mushroomed across the dark clouds followed immediately with a clap of lightning. 

(not my photo)

(I wonder why they call it a clap of lightning. Who do you suppose would applaud a lightning storm, other than meteorologist Meredith.)  Back in the laundry room I peer out at the bleakness, my options are limited; Dave is off the reservation visiting with friends, I am a few feet from the jeep but my chickenish continues to hold me prisoner. The arc project is beginning to become a reality.  Ninety-four minutes later the layered clouds begin to lift, specks of sunshine touch the ground and I am getting up my nerve to combat my fears. Grabbing baskets, books, keys and phone I bravely crash out the screen door leaving its slamming echo in my wake, jumble key locks and clothes into the Jeep and courageously drive back to our campsite. Once inside and clothes put away and dry socks on my feet I am thankful 1. That clothes remained dry; 2. That it did not begin to rain again; and 3. That no one saw me as I talked myself into bravery.

not my photo

How long has it been since you have walked along a rural roadway?  Our campground is about five miles away from the maddening crowds of beachgoers and boaters in sylvan beach, so we can walk out of our campground and take pleasure in the panorama of a crayola box of greens as far as we can see. The heady scent of the countryside is a fusion of earthen loam with gentle winds weaving over cultivated rows of field corn not yet ready to silk, of a freshly oiled asphalt road, and the essence of summer heat pulling up from the earth remnants of dinosaur-like peat blended with wild foliage and flowers. 

not my photo

Take a second – go ahead, we’ll wait- can you see the fields swaying, and the butterflies winging lightly from flower to flower, can you smell the purity in the air, can you feel the sun’s warmth as you slowly close your eyes and stretch your face to the heat of sol and listen, ever so patiently, to the reverent sounds of summer in the country; birds chattering to one another, cows mooing, frogs ribbiting.  What could be more peace-filled. I wonder, could this be heaven.

Life is Short, Enjoy the Ride