My ties to Chichester go back to the last time the hapless New York Mets, a team I have long suffered with, won the baseball championship, back to the year 1986. That summer we took possession of this little house in the Catskills, a house I call Casa Norteña, Northern House. As the popular expression has it, Chichester has become part of our DNA.
It is a modest house, and not a fancy neighborhood — though the nearby hamlet where we go to the hardware store and the library, the art gallery and the theater, has become increasingly popular in recent years, not just because Woodstock is a neighbor, but on its own terms. A few celebrities make the surrounding area their summer home (no name-dropping, please; we are modest, though we do like having Philippe Petit as a charter supporter of our local library in Phoenicia; okay, one name dropped).
Up here, distances are regarded differently than in the city. People think little of driving to Kingston to shop, thirty miles away. Many also drive fifteen, twenty miles for breakfast at a renown eatery which serves the best pancakes, hands down; Sweet Sue's is a constant. We've been going for breakfast at Sue's for probably thirty years, and its pancakes remain fabulous, as does its coffee. Drop one more name? Years ago, as we were having breakfast, I overheard a conversation, or, better said, a voice, and I recognized it instantly. Slowly turning to look, I realized it was indeed Cousin Brucie.
The drive was long, longer than usual. I took it nice and slow and careful. I left Flushing at eleven this morning. The Whitestone Bridge (BWB in traffic report parlance) was moving fairly well. Traffic on the Bruckner Expressway was very light (how I wish I could make that happen at will). The Bronx River Parkway wasn't well plowed, and traffic moved at 35 mph, an advisable rate. The Sprain Brook Parkway was much the same: not well plowed, moving slowly. It took me an hour to get to the Graham Hills Park, which has become a stopping point for us over recent years. Usually it takes me maybe 45 minutes to get here, but today was not a normal day (and an hour ain't bad, considering). Those fifteen minutes felt longer than that.
The Taconic Parkway is a marvelous road. I've heard it compared to highways in France; my own experience on French highways is far too limited to offer any opinion on that, but I have driven the Taconic across the years, and can confidently say it is a beautiful road. It can also be a dangerous road for the uninitiated; there are a few tricky spots. Alas, over the years I have seen accidents, some of only one car, clearly the result of too much speed in an unfamiliar turn. Today, we were all lucky (though some of us drove far too fast, and passed on the right; tsk, tsk).
My car thermometer stayed at 22º forever, dipping to 19º as I climbed what I call the Taconic Heights; as Putnam County ends and Dutchess County begins, there is a magnificent natural area, Fahnestock State Park. I went there for years with our dogs, Magnus and Maxwell. We enjoyed stopping at a lake, and going to a point, where I would throw sticks for them to retrieve. It was good fun.
The original land, a donation of about 2,400 acres (9.7 km2), was donated in 1929 by Dr. Ernest Fahnestock as a memorial to his brother Clarence, who died in the post-World War I influenza epidemic treating patients with the disease.
There is so much history in that sentence that I will leave treatment of it for another post. Suffice it for me to say that Fahnestock Park is wonderful.
As I descended from the 1,133 foot peak into Dutchess County, I and several other drivers followed a plow thankfully cleaning the road. By then I had decided I would get off the Taconic, take 84, and go to the Thruway.
I-84 was clean and devoid of traffic. There weren't a car or truck in sight. I took my Impreza to 55mph and put on cruise control. I felt as if I were flying. I crossed the Hamilton Fish Bridge (there is a name, and its role in American history is complex), carefully; either the highway hadn't been plowed recently, or the snow was falling faster (and it weren't falling fast).
I junctioned with I-87, the Thomas Dewey New York State Thruway (almost everyone at one point knew the picture of President Harry S. Truman, having just beaten the odds and all the polls and been reelected, holding a newspaper with the blaring headline Dewey defeats Truman. Blaringly wrong.
(UPI Image)
I went a few miles, and stopped at the Plattekill Rest Area. I craved a serving of Nathan's fries, how I craved them. The parking lot was nearly empty. Weirdly, an NYPD vehicle sat in the middle of the lot, not in a spot (not that that mattered just then, though it looked weird), with a jack under its driver's front side. Looked as if the cop had a flat tire. Looked as if he didn't intend to fix it. A dozen punchlines ran through my mind (need a hand, officer?), but I said none. I went inside. The place looked deserted. Nathan's was closed. (boo! hiss!) But I was hungry. So I went to the open concession and looked at the menu: burger? no. chicken sandwich? no. fish sandwich? okay. Wasn't very good. But I was hungry.
I recall Roy Rogers restaurants from years back. But the business of fast food (currently referred to as the space) is very competitive. I do not believe I have seen the name in many years.
I also haven't stopped in that rest area on the Thruway for quite a few years. In fact, I haven't driven on the Governor Thomas E. Dewey New York State Thruway much for the last many years. Too many trucks, too many drivers in a hurry (not that I'm a slowpoke), and a boring road.
I decided I would rather drive on the Taconic Parkway than on the Thruway; my favorite route from Flushing to Chichester became to take the Taconic up to route 199, drive through Red Hook and over the Kingstgon-Rhinecliff Bridge. I have since modified it, but I don't see Thomas Dewey much.