Pennsylvania

           I’ve been lazy this week, but I hadn’t realized how much until I looked at the date and saw that I hadn’t updated my blog in over a week.

           I’m still at Valerie’s, but getting ready to leave for North Carolina tomorrow.  It’s an 8-hour drive, so after trying unsuccessfully to find a driving companion on Couchsurfing, I decided I’d just head out after church and drive half way, stopping at a motel to rest my ankle before I drive the rest of the way on Monday.  Countdown:  Monday marks the half-way point in my forced crutch use.  Well, almost.  If I look at a full 30 days, it’s actually not half way.  That would be reserved for Tuesday.  Close enough, though!

            I’ve been taking short drives for the past 3 or 4 days to get used to the idea of driving with a broken ankle and hobbling around on my crutches.  I’ve seen a little of Pennsylvania that way, though admittedly limited.  One of my favorite places is Green Lane Park, quiet, rural, and lovely.

           

Pennsylvania is a odd mix of freedom and oppressive laws.  No helmets required for motorcyclists, raw milk is easily obtainable, but it takes 6 months to get a handicapped sticker and the threat of a $200 fine—even if you can prove you were handicapped when you pulled into that spot.  And then there’s the requirement to pass a background investigation before you can even go into a school.  Really? Guilty until proven innocent?  Val and Jack opted to have an escort when attending parent-teacher meetings.  They’re pretty hardcore freedom lovers. I like that in a person.

 

The Gadsden Flag

           Jack and I have had some spirited conversations about government policy, the Administrative State, and the continual chipping away at the Federal Constitution. I was delighted to find a kindred soul, but he surprised me by telling me that it was I who had first introduced him to libertarian thought many years ago.  You just never know the profound influence you might have on someone.

           Pennsylvania looks much like Maine in many ways: narrow roads,  a profusion of forest and fields, and good farmland, to name a few.  

No shoulders on this narrow road.

Hay field after harvest

There are differences, though.  Lancaster County, with its myriad of farms, beautifully maintained, with silos rising above the barns, looks nothing like small farms dotting the land in Maine.  I’m sure there must be a silo or two in Maine, but they’re not common.  One disturbing trend is obvious.  Every large field was bordered by houses.  Residential developments are encroaching on the farmland, eating away at the tillable land.

Residential development is nipping at the heals of existing farms.

            How short sighted people are!  What will they do when all the farmland is gone? I’ve come to appreciate even more the small farms of Maine, especially the small organic farms that bring fresh produce to our farmers markets.  With all the farms in the area surrounding my current resting place, I haven’t found one farmers market.  I’ve had to drive 35-40 minutes to find a store that sells organic and bulk foods. 

           The architecture is beautiful.  Stone masons must have been plentiful, as stone houses can be seen everywhere.  Stucco and brick are also common, and can be seen in newer houses as well as those from colonial and post-revolutionary times, quite a difference from the wood frame houses of New England.

            Each building has a tale to tell, but Val told me the story behind one particularly beautiful. It was originally the Perkiomenville Inn, a turn of the (20th) century hotel for vacationers, who would come up from Philadelphia on a train.  The building was vacant when Val and Jack moved to the area in the early 1990’s.  Around 2005, a woman bought it, gutted it and put in a restaurant downstairs, a commercial kitchen for the restaurant, and refurbished the upstairs as turn of the century rooms with antique, Victorian-era beds and furniture.  She was in business for about 3-4 years and then building went up for sale.  When it sold (for over a $million), the downstairs was reopened as a bar, but the upstairs was never reopened as a bed and breakfast.  However, the bar was not successful, lasting only a few months.  According to Jack, "They didn't know one end of a wine bottle from the other." That would explain it!  

 

            Since then the Inn has been vacant, for whatever reason.  Even so, the architecture is sensational.  The facade of the building can be seen on postcards and old historical books, and with all the change of owners, has not been changed.  

 

           I tried several times to get a picture of that inn. It took me four times to be free of trucks, sun in my camera lens, and cars on my bumper to be finally able to pull over and get a photo.

Perkiomanville Inn

            The newer buildings—well, let’s just say that they remind me of the Pete Seeger song, “Little Boxes”, only instead of “there’s a green one, and a pink one, and a blue one, and a yellow one…”  it’s “there’s a brick one, and a stone one, and a stucco, and a combo one, and they’re all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.”