We left Smugglers Notch on the morning of September 11 for a four-hour drive to Saratoga Springs, New York. Our first stop was at Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory. I’ve said before that Weight Watchers and B & J’s do not go well together. But I wanted to see the factory, if only because I know the company is socially conscious and progressive. Our long-distance phone bill each month comes to us from a company called Working Assets. The bill is on recycled paper and includes opportunities to participate in various progressive causes. And there is a coupon for a free pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. I like the idea that my $45 long distance bill is being paid to a company that supports ecological sensibility and issues affecting the underserved world citizens. Art likes the coupons.
The plant tour was very well organized, with attendees waiting for 15 minutes or so. An ice cream window in the waiting area was conveniently tempting. We decided to wait our turn.
Here Art and I had a spat. The admission tickets were stamped on the back with the time our tour would start – 11:40 am. As we turned from the ticket counter, the 11:25 tour was gathering. Art moved to join the tour. I said, “Our tour doesn’t start until 11:40.” I can’t recall exactly what he said, but it was something about my being too much of a stick in the mud.
Being a stick in the mud can be a disadvantage. For example, in 1999 we took a walking vacation in Ireland. On our second walking day, as we were approaching the down of Anascaul, we came upon a barbed wire fence within which was an ancient stone monolith. A sign said, “Do not enter under penalty of the law.” Art lifted a strand of wire and slid under it. I stayed outside the fence. Art examined the monolith from all sides and took some excellent photographs. Two days later, we reached the ruins of Menard Castle. Again, a fence surrounded the fortification and a sign warned us to stay out. In 1650, Oliver Cromwell’s army had laid explosives in the four corners, so the structure had been unstable for the last 350 years. This time, I trespassed with Art. Even then, though, our approach differed. I tromped around the outside of the castle while Art went inside.
In my mind, though, those cases were different from this one at the Ben & Jerry’s factory. If we were injured or caught while trespassing, only we would be affected. But here, if we cut in line, we were putting ourselves ahead of other people. To me, that didn’t seem right.
So, I had the choice of waiting until our designated tour time, perhaps unnecessarily, or “cutting in line” and going with Art.
I joined Art.
At the top of the stairs leading to the tour, our tickets were checked. “I’m sorry,” the checker said to me, “Your tour doesn’t start until 11:40. You’ll need to wait outside.”
I’m sure my face was red as I descended the stairs. I tried not to look into the eyes of the people behind us on the tour. They knew what we had done. But my embarrassment was replaced by anger at Art.
I know it’s my issue. If I decide not to go along with Art when he wants to stretch the rules, he sometimes gets annoyed. If I go with him and the effort is not successful, I get embarrassed. I think the solution is to follow my own conscience. If Art does his thing and then gets annoyed at me, I need to have that be okay. So far, I haven’t found a way to make peace with this issue. So my solution is to be angry at Art when I go along with him and get caught.
I stayed angry during the whole tour. I sat in a different section of the bleachers during the short historical film. I watched the factory floor from a different second-story window. By the time we arrived at the sampling room, I had cooled off somewhat. The rich, thick samples of Cherry Garcia and Chocolate for a Change brought me back to myself. I decided to leave the incident behind.
The exit hall was lined with posters, contest results and press releases. The company has a refreshing mission statement:
Ben & Jerry’s is founded on and dedicated to a sustainable corporate concept of linked prosperity. Our mission consists of 3 interrelated parts:
I like how the company acknowledges the balance among quality, profits and people.
Product Mission: To make, distribute & sell the finest quality all natural ice cream & euphoric concoctions with a continued commitment to incorporating wholesome, natural ingredients and promoting business practices that respect the Earth and the Environment.
Central To The Mission Of Ben & Jerry’s is the belief that all three parts must thrive equally in a manner that commands deep respect for individuals in and outside the company and supports the communities of which they are a part.
Economic Mission: To operate the Company on a sustainable financial basis of profitable growth, increasing value for our stakeholders & expanding opportunities for development and career growth for our employees.
Social Mission: To operate the company in a way that actively recognizes the central role that business plays in society by initiating innovative ways to improve the quality of life locally, nationally & internationally.
I spent 15 minutes in the gift shop, choosing souvenir T-shirts. When I’d made my purchase, I looked around for Art but didn’t see him. I waited for a few minutes in case he was in the restroom. I walked around the outside waiting area. No one. So I walked down the walkway to the parking lot. I could see him waiting in the car. I decided not to engage in a conversation about staying together. One spat today was enough.
Highway 100 runs north and south in central Vermont. We traveled this road for three hours, enjoying its rolling hills and valleys and gentle curves, its small towns and farms. The leaves were just beginning to turn in Smugglers Notch, where we’d been staying, and the further south we went, the less color we saw. My attention was not on the trees, though, but on the cornfields. I remember, on a trip through the Midwest many years before, passing miles and miles of cornfields. But I’d expected to see those. These, in Vermont, were a surprise. They lined the road for a quarter of a mile, then stopped, then picked up again at the next farm. The corn produced on these farms was for silage for the animals kept on the same farms. I doubted this corn would be shipped anywhere. For some reason, in my mind, Vermont was too far north and east to grow corn. I was wrong. The corn was tall in the fields, tasseled and ready to reap. I could visualize the occupants of various farmhouses heading outdoors in a week or two and getting together to operate their communal machinery to bring in the fodder for the winter.
It was at about that time that I got the idea to (once we retire) trade houses with a family in Vermont for a year. I’d love to spend the full cycle of seasons in this part of the country, experiencing the differences of life where the winters are very cold, the homes are 100 years old and heated with wood, where people in small communities know each other. It would be comfortable to step into a small store, stomping the snow off my boots, and greet the proprietor. I’d love to watch the lambing and the calving, the preparation of the small fields for the crop. Besides, it would be good exercise.
I suggested this trade to Art. He said, “We’ll see.” I was just a little surprised. I’d suggested something similar last April when I spent several days in Wisconsin. When I’d arrived on Tuesday it had been 61 degrees and sunny. When I left on Friday it was 18 degrees with snow falling and roads iced over. I liked the variable weather and told Art I’d like to spend a winter in Wisconsin or somewhere similar where there is serious cold and snow. He said, ”Fine. I’ll pick you up in the spring.” Apparently Vermont is more tempting to Art than Wisconsin.
When we turned west onto Highway 4, the scenery changed. The highway widened, and the familiar signs of Holiday Inn, McDonalds and Denny’s appeared. A ski resort advertised condos. I was faintly disappointed to be back in a generic world.
Once in New York, the countryside changed again, to rolling hills and cleared farmland with intermittent clumps of trees. We watched the map more carefully now, as side roads were common and we were nearing our turnoff. Not all the roads had clear markers, so we took several wrong turns.
Finally, the King’s Ransom B&B. A square two-story farmhouse set near the intersection of two roads. Across a large yard, a barn and multiple dairy buildings. The driveway was empty as we pulled in. I got out of the car and the smell of cows was strong. To be expected. The owner had made sure I knew the B&B was part of a working dairy.
I went up the porch steps and knocked. No answer. I peered through the window, saw no sign of anyone approaching. I figured the innkeeper would be back soon. I crossed the back yard to a fenced-in area. Through the cracks in the fence I saw a covered swimming pool. It wasn’t quite warm enough for a swim today, so that was fine. From the pool area I walked toward the nearest farm building, a longish, low metal structure. As I rounded the corner of the building, the animal smell became much stronger. I saw a dozen stalls, separated by metal fence bars. In each stall were two calves. I judged them all to be less than three or four months old. I wondered why they were separated here rather than with their mothers. Maybe they were sick or being vaccinated.
Across a muddy yard, a much larger barn – this one with no walls, but just partitions – housed innumerable black and white cows. Some of them had put their heads through the partition bars. Others were lying down. They looked very crowded.
A woman called to me from the driveway. As I returned to our car, she introduced herself as Carolyn, the innkeeper. We followed her into the house as we chatted. The house had been in her husband Jim’s family for 60 years. When they were first married, Carolyn and Jim had lived with his parents. Later, as the parents aged, they’d been cared for by family members as Carolyn and Jim had raised their four boys. Now the boys were grown. Three of them worked for the family business and the other was out on his own.
Our room was the largest we’ve ever had in a B&B, furnished with sturdy family furniture. The bed was covered with a quilt and oversized pillows. Two wide windows opened onto the front and side yards. I was immediately inclined to raise the window sashes. From this side of the house, the animal smell was faint. Each of the window views was across wide green fields and featured one state road. To my suburban eyes, traffic was light. I loved this room! Places like King’s Ransom confirm my opinion that B&Bs are absolutely the way to go when we’re on vacation and wanting a relaxing place to stay.
We were scheduled to meet Art’s daughter Laura for dinner, so we changed clothes quickly and asked Carolyn for driving instructions into town. Laura had said she lived near the racetrack, so that was a good landmark for us. And the restaurant, an Italian place, was within a mile or two of her house.
We found Laura’s apartment complex - multiple two-story brown brick buildings - with no difficulty. I’d left her apartment number at the B&B, but I remembered clearly which door we were to enter, and that she lived upstairs. I knocked on the door bearing the number I thought I remembered. Fortunately for me, I was right. I knew Art would give me a hard time about my middle-aged memory.
This was the first time I’d ever been to a place Laura lived other than our house, where she spent her teen years. Though, of course, I knew she was grown up – she is 24 and has been in the Navy for the last five years – the sight of a woman’s apartment was a little – well, not startling, exactly – but it said, for sure, “I am a grownup now.” This person had her own life, tastes, and friends on the other side of the country. The idea traveled from my head, where it had resided for the last five years, into my gut, where it now lives. I suspect that’s not uncommon for parents visiting the homes of grown children for the first time.
Inside her roomy one-bedroom apartment, Laura stored three bicycles on a floor-to-ceiling rack in her living room. She’d taken up mountain biking since she left home. The first one she’d bought was in the price range Art and I had when we’d bought our bicycles last year – about $300. Laura’s most recently purchased bicycle had been designed especially for her, and she reddened slightly when she told us how much she’d paid for it. I know Laura has good financial judgment and that she is well in control of her bills, so I figured that a person with a military rank of E-5 with a $2000 bicycle is a serious rider. Laura had told us about some of her biking, but this look at her gear, again, settled that idea in me.
Laura had chosen Paradiso, an Italian restaurant. We entered through a brick archway sheltering a wide flagstone courtyard. At 6:00 pm, we were the only diners in a room with perhaps 30 table setups. The place reminded me of a military officers’ club in its capacity. The menu was extensive, with a la carte selection. We ordered a family-style dinner of appetizer, soup, two entrees, a vegetable and dessert. The food arrived one course at a time over about an hour, in serving platters that held way too much food for the three of us. Family-style, in my mind, means enough for six. And that is what we got. Further, the dishes were rich with cream-based sauces. Laura ate prudently, Art with his usual gusto, and I with some dismay, as I eyed each offering with my Weight Watchers eyes and realized that this meal was going to go way, way over my daily allocation of points (“your weekly allocation,” Art commented). Fortunately, as the meal went on, I grew uncomfortably full, so I just sampled the later courses.
As we plowed through this succession of wonderfully prepared and seasoned artery cloggers, the conversation ranged from family updates to life in the military (during Art’s stint in the 1960s and during Laura’s current one) to politics. I was impressed by Laura’s well thought out views, and I was especially gratified to see that she was willing to take on her dad’s forcefully expressed opinions on the state of the country and the world. I have heard Art’s opinions so often that I usually just listen without responding. Not Laura. She went head to head with her dad where they disagreed. To his credit, Art was respectful of her views and didn’t attempt to change her opinion.
We talked about places we have traveled. In her five years of military service since 1998, Laura has visited a number of ports in Europe and the Middle East. During that same time period Art and I have been to Ireland and the United Kingdom and China. Since the time we all lived together, all of our world views have broadened. My impression of Laura as a grownup was strengthened.
We discussed future plans. Laura will be going back to college in January, while she is still in the Navy. When she is discharged in three years, she’ll have degrees in Nuclear Engineering and Engineering Physics from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. Art and I are still working, taking time off when we can to travel as we save the rest of our money so that we can stay alive and thrive after we retire in seven years or so. I told Laura about my idea of trading houses with a family in Vermont for a year. I wondered whether I’d be bored after a while. Laura said she didn’t think so. “All you really need, Linda, is a computer, lots of books, a place to walk, and friendly people to talk to.”
Her right-on comment was surprising, for a couple of reasons. When offspring are living at home in late adolescence, they’re self-absorbed, and parents are a necessary annoyance. At least, that’s been my observation from the numerous experiences I’ve had with our children. I had no idea that Laura had paid attention to my interests. She must have been, though. I rarely talk about my work at home, so it makes sense that she wouldn’t say, “and business systems to analyze, troubleshoot, document and test all day long.”
Also, her comments were fairly accurate as to what I see myself as wanting to do when I retire, and, even now, in my leisure time. I am vain enough to see myself as a complex person, with numerous diverse interests. Of course, many of those interests can be accessed, at least initially, by computer, as Laura indicated. But Laura had me described in just one sentence. Maybe I’ve given myself more credit than I should! At its simplest, all I need to do is computer, read, walk, and talk.
We drove Laura back to her apartment and said goodbye. Usually our visits with her are short. She has a busy life, and we’re comfortable with an evening together. I’m glad she doesn’t feel obligated to clear her calendar when we come to town, and we have plenty to do.
Back at the B&B, the windows in our room were still open, and the cool evening air was refreshing. A cricket convention had convened outside. The night sky was full of stars. As we snuggled into our comforter, I told Art that I’d like to stay here longer than just the one night. “Next time,” he responded. I can remember feeling the same way one night at a rural B&B in in southern England. B&Bs in the country are almost a destination, rather than a place to sleep while exploring an area. I need to remember that for future trips.