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Two Sinks, Two Toilets, Two Showers, and Too Much History

By Amy Laprade.

“Wow, Mom. Cool. I can definitely see its potential,” I exclaimed as she led me up the stone steps to an enormous colonial house, in the shape of a bracket. It was a faded, brown-grey, suggesting the first hints of dry rot on the outside, with splashes of white paint here and there that resembled scabs.

Mom brushed the newly fallen snow from her stone steps and let me in through the side door, on the south side. We stepped into a brightly lit kitchen with a high-peaked ceiling and a pot belly stove. In the corner, to my left, was a pantry with an electric oven tucked deep in its corner. According to Mom, the pantry had once been a walk-in freezer when the house had been the original Academy at Charlemont, a privately funded, college preparatory school. Though while the Academy thrives to this day, its original location, this house, was abandoned for a modern building along Route 2, back in 1981.

The house was originally built in 1880 by the Duprey family of Charlemont Massachusetts. It’d been a two-family house until around1981, when it was sold by Burt and Evelyn Duprey to David and Patricia McKay, two of several founding members of the Academy who took six boys and six girls as their boarding students.

The kitchen floor, warped with age and sloping heavily along the western wall, was accented by a large window to the north, consisting of many sections of old, rippled glass. Outside, beyond the snow bank, cardinals lighted on a bird feeder, which dangled from an ancient crab apple tree. Beyond, muted forrest surrounded the property of 8.8 acres on all sides, except the north, which boasted a view of a meandering pot-holed road, which ran parallel to a rolling horse pasture, before vanishing into the hills of Jacksonville Vermont.

“I love it.” I held my gaze out the window a moment longer, watching snow flurries whisper from out of the December sky.

Mom shrugs. “Your sister was like, oh, Mother! What a dump! She was right. It needed a lot of work. The ceiling was full of holes from all the broken water pipes. Before we got the new panelling for the living room ceiling, I feared something would fall from among the pipes and land on my head. It was really creepy in here, especially after having been empty for nine years. The previous owners, the McKays, moved out of state, after the Academy relocated. They couldn’t handle the expense of keeping the house heated. It got so cold in the house that the pipes burst. Still, Marty and I got a really good deal on the house, and it’s in the country, which is all I wanted.”

I scoped out the place while Mom hung her new curtains. I was home from San Francisco for the holidays, and not only was excited to see snow again, but couldn’t wait to see ‘the house.’ For my mother, who, having lived in a trailer for ten years, this was like owning a mansion, even if the linoleum in the kitchen was warped in some areas and peeled, thus exposing plywood, in others. It was an estate even if it did have faded, sooty wall paper from many years of smoke from the wood stoves.

I entered the dining room, and then the living room where I was greeted with cheap, brown, industrial carpeting and Gilbert, Marty’s brown and black-spotted beagle, who bounded off the sofa, wagging his tail and howling as though I were his long lost pal. His clammy nose brushed my hand as if he were signaling for me to follow him deeper into the old house.

We passed a small bathroom with antique-looking rose patterned wall paper and a glass doorknob and through the living room where we entered another large room, which looked like a parlor with long, rectangular windows. There was yet another pot-bellied, wood stove. Through the archway and to the left was a hall that led to a small bath with a claw tub and pedestal sink. The large staircase at the start of the corridor dominated what used to be the house’s main entrance.

I pondered which way to go next, and decided to go straight ahead, through a heavy, modern-looking door that was missing its knob. It swung shut behind Gilbert and I, leaving a chilly breeze. The narrow hall was devoid of light and clammy, and its carpeting smelled vaguely of wet sock. A tiny ray of sunlight escaped through the crack of the first door to my right. I entered another bathroom, only this one had two sinks, two toilets, two shower stalls, and looked modern compared to the rest of the house. On my right, a small bedroom with a window facing north, toward the horse pasture, would later become my room, for indefinite stays, and would later have lavender walls and a silver-framed mirror over a small, vintage dresser. Across the hall was the door to the basement. Ahead was another door which opened onto another hallway with three more rooms off the side, thus comprising the north end.

I heard thumping and banging sounds under the floor. Gilbert began to whine. Perhaps Marty is in one of these rooms, I thought. I stepped into the room on the left. No one was there. It was cluttered with plastic lawn furniture, a roll away wardrobe,  and an unprecedented amount of odds and ends stuffed into cardboard boxes. Of all twenty-four rooms I’d either just explored and had yet to explore, this one made me feel uneasy. I wasn’t scared, per say. Just a little uneasy. It felt as though it had a presence. There wasn’t anything exceptionally eerie about the room, except that it felt colder than the other rooms and had one window, placed at an odd angle–as though it were slumping toward the corner of the room, toward the closet, rather than standing erect and centered, the way windows are in newer houses. Nevertheless, it faced West and had a view of the crabapple tree and of the woods beyond.

It had a decent-sized closet. The door squealed when I tugged at the glass door knob. The smell of old plaster tickled my nose as a slit of darkness met my eye. I stared dumbly at the gaggle of wire hangers. Yep. Just a closet. But then my eyes adjusted to the dark and I noticed a small door. It didn’t have a knob and was more like a panel in the right side of the wall. I pulled it out and discovered a narrow staircase that, to my amazement and disappointment, vanished into the ceiling.

“The Academy closed it off so the girls wouldn’t sneak down to visit the boys at night,” Mom later explained.

A loud crash, omitting from the floor below, sent Gilbert bolting to the basement door. Marty was fiddling away with the water heater, but invited us to come down to have a look. The ceiling was so low, coming down the steep wooden steps, I had to duck or I’d have hit my head.

The floor was made of hard-packed clay and was damp. Hand made beams, cut from old growth trees, fused together with hand cut iron nails, supported the house, and ran parallel to the frenetic artery of heating ducts and sewer pipes. Cobwebs dripped from the single, naked bulb, hanging from the pull chain–the only light the basement provided, as there were no windows. It stunk down there, too. Like something died.

“That’s our next project. Sealing up all the holes. A skunk found its way into a crack in the wall, of the basement cellar, never found his way out, and died.” Marty explained as he pushed a step ladder against the stone wall. Above the top of the ladder was a dark, rectangular hole. I watched with curiosity as Marty scrambled up the ladder and shined his flashlight in. I wondered if he was checking for skunks, then wondered warily if anything else, besides skunks had ever found their way in.

“What’s that?” I pointed to the rectangular hole.

“You know, Amy. I don’t really know. It’s a crawl space. It starts here, runs underneath the wall of the dining room and along the length of the kitchen, where it comes out in front of the door. I crawled through it once, trying to instal lights there, in case the pipes should burst again.”

Mom would later tell me that there was a longer, larger trap door, under the floor in the southwest corner of the dining room. Gilbert refused to go anywhere near that corner of the room. Mom thinks that it may have been used as part of the underground railroad and that the house is haunted.

Leaving Gilbert with Marty, I went to scope out the upstairs. To the top of the landing was a wrap around hall way, corralling the stairwell. I followed it and came out into a room filled with taxidermy deer and fox, gazing at me from their blank, glassy eyes.

A door, on the other side of the room, opened on another hallway. To my left was another bathroom, identical to the one downstairs, with: two showers, two sinks, and two toilets. To my right was a narrow door that led to an enormous attic filled with bat droppings. From the landing, another door opened onto this northern side of the upstairs and onto a row of dormer rooms which were to the left and the closets to the right. This section is where the Academy’s girls were housed.

I retraced my steps, following a different hallway, just outside the attic staircase. I came upon two more doors, opened one and ended up in another room. There was yet another hidden door in the back of its closet. A stench of must and mothballs wafted out upon opening the panel. In the pale lighting, coming from the west window was a hidden staircase, and the back way to the attic.

A hunger pain stabbed my stomach and I could hear Mom calling “Amy?” from somewhere in the house, but when I stepped out of the room I became confused when I ended up in a whole other hallway, I hadn’t yet seen. Across the hall was another bedroom that overlooked the road and faced east. To my right, through the archway, was another whole apartment with a living room and kitchen on the south facing side.

I began to wonder how many more rooms there were in this house as I made my way back down the hall. On my way, I noticed yet another bathroom on the left. It wasn’t one of those funky double-of-everything bathrooms, but just a bathroom with an antique, pedestal sink, with a faucet with knobs made of porcelain and had rust-streaks around the drain. The walls were a delicate shade of periwinkle.

I wanted to check my hair, but the mirror was missing. It looked as though there’d been one there at one time, because I could see the silhouette of a rectangle among the tobacco-stained wall. And there were holes and cracks in the plaster where screws had been. It looked as though the previous owner had carelessly yanked it out of the wall.

“Amy?” I heard Mom call again, and Gilbert’s muffled barks.

I returned the way I came and ended up in the hallway by the attic door again. Then I went back through the side room again which led me to that hallway and back to the apartment. It was then that I noticed another staircase to the left of the bathroom that I hadn’t noticed before, because it was dark and narrow. I made my descent, and came out into the downstairs living room where I’d started out. Gilbert was waiting at the landing with my favorite socks in his maw.

“Coffee’s ready, Ame.” Mom sat a steaming mug for me on the stand.

“I almost got lost up there.”

Mom laughed. “I almost did too, my first day here.”

“There’s a whole other living quarters above us,” I said in amazement, taking a seat on the ottoman.

“That was where the staff lived. The Academy added on the extra kitchen, extra living room, the two double-showered bathrooms, and the dormer rooms.”

“So then. What happened that they stopped using the house?”

“The Academy thought that the boarding house would turn a big profit. The opposite happened. It became too costly to house kids. And they grew tired of babysitting the students, who really trashed the place. Ripping the wall paper off of the walls….plus the insurance and the food the Academy had to provide, just proved too much. So, the Academy closed the house.”

“There’s something up there. A vibe, Ame. I don’t know. But the first night I spent here, I was sound asleep on the living room floor, in my sleeping bag, when I heard a really loud crash from upstairs. It sounded like glass shattering. At first I thought it was a break in. Then I thought it was maybe one of the animals, but then thought, ‘that’s not possible,’ because Gilbert was still at the trailer with Marty and the two cats were sleeping in the living room with me.

“When I went upstairs, I found glass all over the floor in that bathroom,” Mom points at the ceiling, indicating the one I’d just been in with the porcelain faucet handles and periwinkle walls. “The mirror had fallen off the wall and shattered. But you know the strange thing is that there weren’t any shards in the sink. They’d all landed two feet away from the sink, in the middle of the floor. And one, very large shard of glass, triangular in shape, stood poking out of the linoleum in a perfect upright position. I mean, it wasn’t as though the mirror simply fell from the hook in the wall. If that were the case, don’t you think that there’d be glass in the sink?”

“Well, I mean, it could be that….” My voice faltered as I began to think about the barren space on the wall, framed in tobacco smoke. “I don’t know.”

Work Cited

Judith O’kulsky, personal communication, 1995, 2012.

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Abigail Adams House: First Women’s Dormitory

By Ashleigh West.

The opportunity to attend college has never been easy, and women especially, are all too familiar with that long hard road.  The University of Massachusetts Amherst was founded in 1863, originally under the name the Massachusetts Agriculture College, and did not begin admitting women until 1903, forty years after its initiation.  With the number of women enrolled at MAC steadily increasing, there was still another matter to be tackled—where would they house all the women?  And thus the Abigail Adams House was born in 1920, a fitting time in women’s achievements, with the addition of the Nineteenth Amendment to the Constitution ratified that very year.

The Abigail Adams House, which housed around 100 female students, was located on North Pleasant Street, now home to the John W. Lederle Graduate Research Center, for after a devastating fire on Saturday October 28th 1962 and several attempts to restore the forty-year-old building; the House was demolished in 1967, to make way for the future GRC.   Originally, the Abigail Adams House was to be erected atop Orchard Hill, as was the hopes of MAC President Kenyon L. Butterfield, who looked further into the future and dreamed of a whole women’s agriculture college up on the Hill.  Unfortunately, for reasons unexplained, this was not the case and the building of Massachusetts Agriculture Culture’s first women’s dormitory began in 1919.

While not much is known about the Abigail Adams House in its actual existence, the dedication and naming process of the building was quite a lengthy and publicized process.  In the Spring of 1920 a contest was open to all Massachusetts high school and Home Economic club girls for the submission of their choice of name for the new women’s building.  There were many regulations, such as: the name could not be from any living person at the time, the name had to be of a Massachusetts woman, and she must have pertained to agriculture in some way.  A reward of twenty-five dollars was offered, which is roughly $280 today, as well as recognition at the dedication ceremony to be held on October 8th 1920.  All submissions were directed to Miss Edna L. Skinner, the namesake of the future Skinner Hall and the Advisor of Women at MAC, but the Board of Trustees would make the final decision.  The contest closed on July 20th after receiving over forty entries, four of which all named Abigail Adams as the most desirable choice, among them Katherine B. Ehnes, the fourteen year old from Medfield, who ultimately won the contest for her eloquent explanation after much debate from the Trustees.  Ehnes wrote Skinner on May 14th stating that Abigail Adams was an exemplary choice because she was “the first farmerette of Braintree”.  She quoted James Morgan, a reporter for the Morgan County Weber River Independent Newspaper, when describing Adams as the “mother of the republic [who] had to stay home to rock the cradle, cook…and tend to the farm, milking and churning, knitting and darning, teaching and praying, toiling and saving, she supported the family, [and] helped her husband’s progress”.  Ehnes stressed, “To Abigail Adams alone belongs the glory of being one of the most interesting women in ‘Farming’ or ‘Country Life’”.

Abigail Adams was the first choice for the name of the new dormitory, but was shot down by the Trustees in August.  With the dedication ceremony only two months away, the Committee On The Women’s Dormitory submitted two additional names from the contest entries—their second choice being Wolcott House, the third Mary Mattoon House—to be considered by the Trustees.  The deadline was looming—just over a week away—when in a rather audacious letter, especially given the time, Edna Skinner urged President Butterfield on September 29th to “encourage the Trustees to decide upon the dormitory name before the dedication exercises” on October 8th.  She wittily remarked that there “will be absolutely no other fitting occasion for the announcement of the name” and that it would “be most unfortunate if the building is left nameless at the close of the dedication exercises”.

In an October 11th article for New Salem’s “The Transcript”, E. O. Marshall reported on the Abigail Adams House dedication, for which the need for more farm homes and farm service were themes of the sixteen speakers’ addresses.  Marshall wrote, “Appropriately, this home for 100 girls is provided just as women are entering new political duties and will need every facility for improvement”.  As if the newly built dormitory alone will better the women as citizens, and with their newly appointed right to vote, they so desperately need “improvement” now that they are actually allowed to utilize their freedoms.  The article itself quickly departed from coverage of the new dormitory—with no mention on the thoughts of the women about the House, the process of its existence, or its future—preaching instead of the advantages to agricultural life over those of the weak and ignored city dwellers, which have “no room to store half a loaf of bread” (Marshall).  Little praise or recognition was given to the women for their long awaited achievement.

The Abigail Adams House, more affectionately referred to by its residents as “The Abbey”, was designed in the Georgian-revival style; a three-story brick building equipped with a reception hall, living room, two parlors, a fireplace, a housemother’s sitting room, an office, a laundry room located in the basement, and kitchenettes.  The room costs were priced at $75 each in 1920, which is roughly $862 today, and it is not known whether the rooms were always shared, though in a 1948 scrapbooked article by Sandra Feingold, she noted that the Abbey has more single rooms than any other dorm on campus.  She also describes the Abbey as a “friendly close-knit dormitory”, especially due to its “comforts”, such as dark wood paneling, a spacious lounge, bay windows, the fireplace, a garden, and a grand piano.  The Abbey boasted numerous artworks, including a portrait of its namesake, which hung in the lobby.  The Abbey was also used as a barracks during World War II, the girls being temporarily displaced from their happy home.  Besides the ruling housemother—who enforced the 7:30pm curfew, among other regulations such as the girls must be at least clothed in a robe if outside their rooms, popular music is considered “undesirable” on Sundays, beds must be made by 9:00am, and bathrooms should not be used after 10:00pm—the Abbey also included a House Chairman, who was in fact a woman, Counselors, a Dorm Senator, and a Social Chair, all of whom were female students elected by their fellow housemates.

Sadly, on Saturday October 28th 1962, a fire that “spread rapidly through combustible acoustic ceiling tiles” (YouMass) destroyed the Abigail Adams House and all its glory and comfort.  An article from “The Bridgeport Telegram” reported on Tuesday October 30th 2012, that faulty wiring could also be related to the $300,00 damages the Abbey suffered, which would be roughly $3.5 million by today’s standards.  The fire damage was devastating and the Abbey was almost completely burnt down.  The female students were displaced for good, with the campus not becoming co-ed in the dormitories until 1970; many of them completely lost all of their belongings in the destruction.  Besides the damage the University suffered to its bank accounts, little was reported about the fire that destroyed the first women’s dormitory.  There were no repots of whether anyone was injured, nothing was stated on the students’ reactions to the fire, let alone the loss of their home, or where the girls would be relocated, and there was utter silence on the fact that this significant piece in the history of the University was destroyed.  Several attempts were made to restore the Abigail Adams House, but it was never again a dormitory.  Until 1967, the Abbey was used as offices for faulty—a shell of its former glory—but it was demolished that year to make way for the John W. Lederle Graduate Research Center, to support the ever-growing research in the sciences, which at the time was majoritarily a boys-only club.  The first women’s dormitory was destroyed for a second time—this one was for good.

Unless one goes digging deep within the decades of the University’s history, sifting through the numerous folders, documents, journals, biographies, articles, photographs, books, the history of the Abigail Adams House remains hidden, a secret stuck in the shadows.  The Abigail Adams House was and still is an important achievement and a significant aspect to the history of the University of Massachusetts Amherst and the women themselves on this campus, past and present, yet its existence remains largely unknown to the majority, if not all, of the campus community.  The Class of 2013, myself included, marks the 100th class of women graduates from UMass Amherst, yet even a decade into the new millennium, women everywhere are still fighting for equality.  With every step we get a little closer, and there are more opportunities for women than ever before imagined, but how many classes of women must graduate, must prove themselves “worthy”, before we are all truly equal?

Works Cited

“Abigail Adams House.” YouMass: UMass Amherst As A Wiki. Special Collections & University Archives, UMass Amherst Libraries, 18 2012. Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://www.library.umass.edu/spcoll/youmass/doku.php?id=buildings:a:adams.

“Abigail Adams House: House Regulations.” Dean of the College William L. Machmer- Box 15: Folder 1: Skinner, Edna L. Five College Archives Digital Access Project: University of Massachusetts , n.d. Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/umass/6-1dean-of-college/b15f1skinner/19260900/01.htm.

“Contest Open To All Massachusetts Girls.” President Kenyon L. Butterfield – Selected Records Related to Women’s Education: Folder 56: Abigail Adams House. Five College Archives Digital Access Project: University of Massachusetts , n.d.  Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/umass/3-1president/abigail-adams/1920contest/.

Ehnes, Katherine B.. “Contest Submission.” President Kenyon L. Butterfield – Selected Records Related to Women. Five College Archives Digital Access Project:             University of Massachusetts , 14 1920. Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/umass/3-1president/abigail-adams/19200514/index.shtml?page=1.

Feingold, Sandra. “Abigail Adams Dorm Shorn Of Stand-Offish Air.” Dean of Women: Helen Curtis- Folder 23: Women’s Residence Halls. Five College Archives Digital Access Project: University of Massachusetts , n.d. Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/umass/30-3dean-of-women/23residence/index.shtml?page=2.

Jefferson, Lorina P.. “Supplementary Report of Committee on the Women’s Dormitory.”President Kenyon L. Butterfield – Selected Records Related to Women. Five College Archives Digital Access Project: University of Massachusetts , n.d. Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/umass/3-1president/abigail-adams/19200800supprpt/.

Marshall, E. O.. “The Transcript: “Dormitory for Women”.” President Kenyon L. Butterfield – Selected Records Related to Women’s Education: Folder 56: Abigail Adams House. Five College Archives Digital Access Project: University of Massachusetts , 11 1920. Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/umass/3-1president/abigail-adams/19201011/.

Rand, Frank Prentice. Yesterdays at Massachusetts State College,1863-1933. Amherst: The Associate Alumni Massachusetts State College, 1933. 148. eBook.

Skinner, Edna L.. “Letter: To Kenyon L. Butterfield .”President Kenyon L. Butterfield – Selected Records Related to Women. Five College Archives Digital Access Project: University of Massachusetts , 29 1920. Web. 1 Nov 2012. http://clio.fivecolleges.edu/umass/3-1president/abigail-adams/19200929skin/.

“$300,000 Fire Probed.” Bridgeport Telegram[Bridgeport, CT] 30 Oct 1962, Page 24. Web. 1 Nov. 2012.   http://newspaperarchive.com/flashviewer/seofullviewer?img=83012900.

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The Remnants of Whalom Park

By Emily Mitchell.

The land is desolate. Gone is the Flyer Comet, gone are the bumpers cars, gone are the circus animals that came to life on the platform of the ancient carousel. People no longer comb the area, children tugging at the arms of parents, mesmerized by all of the excitement. Teenagers no longer man the tilt-a-whirl or sell popcorn with practiced boredom on their faces. For awhile, before everything had been completely destroyed, high school kids had broken in at night spreading graffiti over the rusted skeletons of the park. Eventually even these remnants were gathered up and thrown away. And with these relics, over a hundred years of American history have been condemned to stay in the past.

Photo Courtesy of Retrojunk.com

Whalom Park was not just an amusement park. It was an institution of tradition in Central and Western Massachusetts. While other kids bragged about getting Mickey Mouse’s autograph at Disney World or touring Universal studios, the children I grew up with treasured the dilapidated park and everything it had to offer. The wood chips that would threaten to blind you in the old roller coaster’s tunnel, the sticky steering wheels on the bumper cars that had more than once flown off their track, everything was familiar and because of this, also cherished.

Photo Courtesy of ultimaterollercoaster.com

My most distinct memory of the Park is connected to the most prominent structure on its old landscape. The Flyer Comet, a rickety old thing that had been constructed in the 1970’s, when theme parks took on a new attraction that was a bit more thrilling than the tilt-a-whirl. Many birthdays had been spent at Whalom and on one of these particular birthdays we had all grown tall enough to be let on the Flyer Comet. I had reveled in my shortness as I was only just under the height requirement. My relief had not even sunk in before the attendant ushered me through saying that if I sat with an adult it would be all right.  As I sat down next to my friend’s mother in the back of the cart all of the other kids excitedly picked seats in the front, fighting over the first two seats. I was stunned to observe that anyone would think it an honor.

As the car made its ascent I nervously held on to the adult’s hand. She attempted to comfort me lightheartedly as I squeezed her hand tighter and tighter. I shut my eyes the entire time after the first descent, when I opened my eyes I was surprised that I was still breathing and relieved that it was over. I was never one for roller coasters and still avoid them but I was proud of myself as a little kid, that although I hadn’t exactly enjoyed the ride I’d gone through with it.

Photo Courtesy of Whalom.com

After my experience with the roller coaster I usually stuck to the old classics, tilt-a-whirl, bumper cars, and the most prized possession on the whole Park’s grounds: the carousel. A true blast from the past, the carousel was one of the Park’s first attractions. Before becoming an amusement park Whalom was a marketing ploy used by the owners of the Fitchburg and Leominster railroad line (Roger). The Park lay at the end of the Fitchburg line and encouraged passengers to pay a full priced fair in order to experience the scenic beauty of the garden and lake that awaited them (Roger). The park opened in 1893, but the carousel wasn’t purchased by the Park’s owners until 1914. It was the most extravagant piece of equipment yet bought by the Park.

The carousel was handcrafted by Charles Looff during the golden age of carousels in America (Malia). Looff set up shop in 1875 building his first carousels from discarded furniture and before long he opened his own company in Coney Island, New York (Fraley).

The carousel’s popularity in American culture peaked in 1915 and Whalom was right with the rest of the country (Fraley).

Photo Courtesy of Whalompark.com

The carousel was beautiful, featuring exotic animals and carefully constructed details. Even after over a hundred years it outshined the rest of the park with its turn of the century gilt and glitter. Generation after generation rode the carousel and never tired of its idyllic beauty.  Of seven thousand carousels built during the golden age, only two hundred are still functional today, and sadly the Whalom Park carousel is no longer apart of that two hundred (Whalomparkcarousel.org).

When the Park was finally dismantled a group of past park employees attempted to set up a fund and buy the pieces as they were sold at auction (Whalomparkcarousel.org). They managed to acquire most of the original work of Looff but the carousel no longer has a home where the community can use it. Today the artwork of Looff is sitting in boxes waiting for someone to take interest in it.

Photo Courtesy of Whalomparkcarousel.com

There is one way I can still get a glimpse of Whalom’s carousel: in the video for the Cars song “Touch and Go.” While the lanky lead singer explains that “all he needs is what you got,” the carousel spins in obscurity behind him while music video girls ride the alligators, ostriches, greyhounds, and seahorses. This is how America documents its history. Not in museums or textbooks but in cheesy eighties music videos.

Photo Courtesy of Retrojunk.com

Whalom and the carousel and the Flyer Comet were not forgotten by everyone. Although the city, the development company, and the owners did not do enough to cherish the memory of Whalom Park the people of the community that were raised on it won’t forget.  Websites pepper the Internet with black and white photographs depicting the old days of the park and stories of the Park.

Photo Courtesy of Hometownarchive.com

The Worcester Telegram has an entire webpage dedicated to the memories of people from the area. To this day letters are still sent in where people lament the closing of the park and lovingly share their memories with the rest of the community. Lori Cowee wrote, “Cannot tell you how many times we rode the coaster (always trying to nab the very first car or the very last car in the back). You would hear the click-click-click as the ride began and then we were off for an amzing ride that included heart in your throat plunges and turns – as soon as the ride was over my sister and I were clamoring to ride again. I am so glad I had the opportunity to experience the park at its height of popularity – it truly was a magical experience for a little girl.”

Mark Watson of Sturbridge wrote, “My father went down the slide in the fun house and didn’t protect his shoes with the burlap sack and it burned a big hole in his shoe – he was quite upset. My Aunt got in the rotating barrel and fell down we watched as all the contents of her pocketbook went all over the place. Great memories and nothing like it now.”

George of Leominster wrote, “when my Dad smoked cigarettes, there was some free passes that used to be on the cigarette packs and he would save them so we could go more than he could afford by using simply his money. Funny to think now, we would root for Dad to smoke so he could get more free passes to Whalom Park.”

And lastly, Stacy from Dudley wrote, “Whalom Park, we miss you like the dickens!!!!!!”

Simply through these testimonials it’s easy to see that Whalom Park was not a place that went unnoticed. It struck a chord with every kid and every family that stepped foot in it. You could go to Whalom and see familiar faces. The world of the old-fashioned amusement park is gone now. Whalom evolved and moved forward with the American people for over a hundred years. The Whalom I knew was not the Whalom my grandparents knew, but its history was still and always will be relevant. Instead of being immortalized its replaced with nameless and cold experiences at million dollar theme parks where you wait an hour and a half to have your brain scrambled around in your skull.

Despite its absence from my future I’m still grateful for its presence in my past. I can cherish the stories my grandmother told me of her and my grandfather going to Whalom Park on Saturday nights and dancing until she had to go home for curfew and my own memories as a child. The layers of concrete which will now be raised in its place won’t make me forget.

Works Cited

Fraley, Tobin. Carousel Animals: Artistry in Motion. San Francisco: Chronicle, 2002. Print.

“Gone But Not Forgotten.” Gone But Not Forgotten. N.p., n.d. Web. 06 Nov. 2012. http://cf.telegram.com/submissions/gonebutnotforgotten.cfm?CATEGORY=WHALOMPARK

Leo, Roger. “Whalom Park Gave Us “a Whale of a Time”” Telegram and Gazette [Fitchburg] n.d.: n. pag. Print.

Malia, Peter.”Flying Horses: The Golden Age Of American Carousel Art, 1870-1930.” Publishers Weekly 258.42 (2011): 44. Academic Search Premier. Web. 5 Nov. 2012.

“Whalom Park Carousel Association.” Whalom Park Carousel Association. N.p., 2000. Web. 06 Nov. 2012.  http://www.whalomparkcarousel.org/

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The Great Outdoors

By Ashleigh West.

I decided to pack for the elements—this was New England after all—and out here in Western Mass the weather can be especially unpredictable.  It was Friday, sunny, and obnoxiously hot—the air in the sweaty and almost uncomfortable 80s—for the first week of October, the first day it hadn’t rain all week.  Dressed in shorts and sandals, I packed my purse with a light sweater and scarf, carrying my thrift store boots in case of any impromptu hiking.  After checking for the sixth time that I had remembered my keys, camera, and wallet, I set off on my solo adventure to the Quabbin Reservoir.

I hopped in my teal 2000 Camry and immediately turned on the car, rolling down every window and the sunroof to let the less scorching air pour in.  I began the tedious process of programming my destination into my GPS, my temperamental lifesaver.  When “Quabbin Reservoir” returned no results, I glanced at my dashboard and noted my intense need for gas, since wandering the roads of Western Mass seemed to be in my future.  I searched again for a more general location and upon finding a “Quabbin Park” about 30 minutes away, decided it was my best bet and said a silent prayer for lots of signs.

As I pulled out of Lot 44 of North Apartments, beginning my quest for cheap gas, priority number one was finding a suitable soundtrack for this epic adventure.  With the radio stations of Western Mass pumping out 60% static, 40% music, this was no easy task.  My seek button became my best friend, as I surfed through the chart toppers and teenyboppers in search of some good ole classic rock, throwbacks, and indie tunes.  With the likes of Aerosmith, Guns N’ Roses, and AD/DC focusing in and out of my speakers, I cruised on to the cheapest gas I could find: Stop & Shop at $3.86 a gallon.  I use my Stop & Shop rewards card every time, hoping I spontaneously acquired points to lower the gas price, even though I always shop at Big Y for its better deals.  With my tank half filled, I pulled out onto Route 9 and began religiously following GPS’s dictations.

GPS lead me through the winding roads of Amherst, Belchertown, and Palmer, where the speed limits jumped from 30 to 55 within seconds of one another.  Driving through the streets with the windows down, the air, smelling both fresh and woodsy, was cooler and felt wonderfully crisp on my skin.  The trees flamed red and orange as I cruised past, and after four years of calling this area home, I still marvel at its beauty when dressed in autumn.  The drive was freeing, relaxing even, melting away the stress of the workweek and I tried not to worry that the route was almost identical to the way I go to get to the Mass Pike to head home.  I comforted myself with the cliché, but usually true, notion that it’s not about the destination it’s the journey.  Even if I didn’t make it to the Reservoir, I would have an interesting tale of how I got lost with a GPS.

As I rapidly approached what was suppose to turn into the Quabbin Reservoir in approximately two minutes, but remained yet another winding road littered with orange and red, “A-Punk” by Vampire Weekend leaked through the speakers and I was surprised that an alternative radio station had actually found me through the immense static.  Bopping along, I whizzed pass a sign for the Reservoir entrance.  GPS tells me that I still have another minute to go until I approach my destination.  Foolish GPS.  I wanted to turn around and head back to the sign, but I kept passing all the potential areas to pull into.  GPS alerted me that I have now reached my destination and what do you know, another entrance!

The road was strange; somehow it was both paved and dirt and there were no signs to welcome me.   I began to panic, wondering if I’ve entered in the out way.  A couple cars passed by and I frantically searched their faces for signs of outrage or puzzling confusion for this obnoxious Camry that was plowing through the exit.  They didn’t seem to notice.  So, I continued on my way, slowly and eyes peeled for signs of parking.  After a few minutes on the partly paved, partly dirt road, I spied off to my right a small parking area with a few spaces left open.  I quickly pulled in and got my bearings.  I decided to ditch my boots, as the way looked flat and I preferred not to all Jane of the Jungle alone.  Grabbing my purse and readying my camera, I set off to explore.

The air was warm but not as smothering as it was on campus, for a canopy of trees provided some shade.  The sky burned a clear blue up ahead and the whole place seems to scream Fall, but in a rather peaceful manner.  There were some patches of flies, but I figured once I had made it to the open road that surrounded the Reservoir it would not be as buggy.

I was wrong.  Since it had rained every day the past week and it was freakishly hot, the bugs had a field day.  They were everywhere.  Swarms.  Herds.  Packs of bugs.  Everywhere.  And not just flies.  There were bees, hornets, yellow-jackets, what have you, but they were buzzing about all over the place.  Giant insects the size of my pointer finger, and which I can only describe as a sort of flying cricket, ruled the air.  They leaped and jumped and seemed to be after me—as if they could smell my fear.  The Quabbin Reservoir was in desperate need of some air traffic control.  The ironic part was that I—with an intense, boarding on insane phobia of bugs—seemed to be the only person who even noticed their existence.

Swatting, I ventured out of the trees and into the clearing, where the sky seemed to stretch on forever, all blue and cloudless melding with the water.  The bright sun streaming down made even the air sparkle and the whole Reservoir smelled of what Yankee Candle tries to bottle with labels like “Perfection” or “Tranquility”.  I wanted to be brave and not let my out of control fear ruin my trip, so I attempted to make my way past a concrete barrier and towards a better view of the sprawling valley.  I noticed an elderly couple was just on the other side enjoying the scenery, and they seemed perfectly content and bugless.  As I neared the barrier, it became apparent to me that a colony of bees had marked their territory, calling this place home.  I scooted as quickly as I could, and as far up on the grassy bank as I could, to get around the bees, but it was no use.  They were everywhere.  The couple seemed not to notice them, and thankfully paid no attention to my fitful panic attack, as I swatted and ran, silently screaming, for my life.  Safely—or rather simply amid a smaller swarm of bugs and bees—on my original side, I stretched my five foot three inch self as tall as I could, and with the camera over my head, snapped a picture of the breathtaking—no pun intended—valley.

This was my experience of the Quabbin Reservoir: a continuous and tiresome series of shrieks, shrills, swatting, sprints, and snapping of pictures, until having made it about half way down the paved path opposite the barrier, I could fair no more near death encounters and retreated half-jogging and sweaty to the safety of my Camry.  I checked myself as best I could for extra passengers clinging to my clothes and hair and very literary, jumped into my car locking the doors, as if the bugs might attempt a break-in.  My breathing finally began to calm, and just as I was about to start my car for a little air, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a cell phone sized insect attached to my passenger side window!  I screamed for about three minutes, alarming the man climbing into his car beside me, and decided that being a little warm wasn’t the end of the world.  I was disappointed that I never made it far enough to actually see the Reservoir, but I knew there was absolutely no chance of me leaving the vehicle until I was back at my apartment.  Then it hit me: I would drive through.  All the other cars that did not stop at the tiny parking lot were continuing onto somewhere; I might as well join them.  It was truly the best of both worlds: I was safe from the bloodthirsty insects in my rather warm tank, all the while snapping pictures of the fiery foliage as I slowly crawled along, keeping tabs on the whereabouts of my unwelcomed guest, should the bug attempt to MacGyver his way into my car.

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An Afternoon at Hamilton Orchard

By Melissa Mahoney.

The signs began about a mile away in each direction, squatting along the side of Daniel Shay’s Highway on spindly wire legs. They were a few shades lighter than a Red Delicious, with rounded white lettering that read something friendly on each one. In the summer, the signs offered Fresh bluberries!; in the fall, Pick your own apples! Cortland and MacIntosh!; in the winter, Homemade pies!; and all year round, Breakfast with a view!.

My twin sister Hillary and I had passed these little red outbursts for three years on our regular drive from home in Wilmington, MA to school in Amherst, MA, never bothering to stop. We were too tired, or late setting out, or late getting back. We were busy getting degrees so we could drive past those signs one last time without ever even really seeing them. We had too much to do, and no time for apple trees and local charm.

The road rose up to meet the Hamilton Orchard sign on the shoulder and then rapidly declined after. It hoisted us up to the place, encouraging us to stop at this one human gathering among the autumn stands of trees and the silent spread-out houses, as if knowing we might never come back.

“Hey Hill,” I said after we passed Cider donuts!. It was a Sunday, and for once we had set out early. “Want to stop in there?”

“What, the orchard?” she said. “Sure, we always pass it.”

I slowed the car as we climbed the rise, and took a right at the blinking yellow light across the street that had tried to flag us down so many times. The road dipped beneath us as we left the Massachusetts highway system’s care, and Hillary yelped and grabbed the fishbowl off the floor of the car. Prospero, her beta fish, had come home with us for the weekend, and was prone to spilling on the back roads.

The road continued to climb past secluded split-level homes on the left, and an aging cement-post fence on the right. Huge maples hung branches dripping topaz and rubies overhead, while dust rising off the road gave a golden sparkle to the afternoon air—an intimacy of color unimaginable from the highway. Solemn pines and hemlocks gathered behind the vibrant groves, as if knowing the deciduous were the autumn’s stars, and that their time would come come winter. With our windows up, the only sound was the slow grind of asphalt to gravel, and the quiet slosh of Prospero’s bowl.

At the top of the rise, I turned left into the orchard’s unpaved parking lot. The wheels heaved down with a sigh, happy to be touching earth after the burn of the pavement.

A dog about the size of a large pumpkin stood in the middle of the lane. He didn’t budge as we approached. He stared from beneath a mop of shaggy black and white fur.

“Dog, move!” I yelled into the windshield. Two motorcyclists grinned into their leather gloves as I inched the car around the dog and into a parking spot.

“Whaddare you doing, puppy?” Hill asked the air in a baby voice. The dog couldn’t hear us, but Hill tried anyway. She has always been obsessed with dogs, but since our family is mostly allergic, she’d had to make due with fish.

Hillary put Prospero back on the floor of the passenger seat and we stepped out into the crisp autumn air. The parking lot and the Apple Shack, the orchard’s shop, were perched on a ridge that allowed for incredible views: the orchard fell away in rows before our feet and tumbled into the round, autumn-hued heaps of the Berkshires in the distance. The clouds had gathered quickly, chilling the air so rapidly that an apple-scented mist played around the ankles of those among the trees. Visitors lounged on picnic tables outside the Shack, sipping hot cider while their bushel bags slouched on the benches next to them.

The Apple Shack had a rustic exterior with two doors: one labeled “IN” and one labeled “OUT” in white-and-red above the door frames. Tiered rows of orange pumpkins sat stark against the dark-grain wood siding, as if apple-picking were a spectator sport, and they had come to cheer on the pickers from the bleachers.

We entered the Shack through the “IN”-door, its aged spring giggling as the door swung open and then shut behind us with a happy snap. Visitors meandered through the small shop, taking in the warmth and the smells. The air itself seemed to have been mulled from cider spices, as our noses filled with cinnamon, cloves, allspice, nutmeg, and brown sugar.

A vast collection of apple-themed oven mitts engulfed the right wall and the partition to the bakery. A young employee in the corner made apple cider donuts, sending the dough skittering into boiling oil and then coaxing the baked donut onto a conveyor belt that deposited it in a large bowl. Containers of finished donuts lined the back wall, sorted by how the donuts were garnished: cinnamon sugar, white sugar, or simply plain. Waist-high tables supported baskets of apple tarts, whoopie pies—chocolate, red velvet, and pumpkin—and mounds of fudge.

Further along the back wall, coolers chilled down fresh cider by the pint, quart, and gallon. Repurposed bookshelves held homemade candy, boxes of mulling spices, and local soaps along with a few children’s books scattered across the tops.

There was something invariably human here, something comforting in seeing my donut dusted with sugar before my eyes, or an apple tart sliding from oven, to box, to bakery counter. Except for the calorie count, there was nothing significant about that table full of deserts; yet as we gathered up donuts, whoopie pies, and mulling spices, time slowed to the leisurely shuffle of feet on worn floorboards and chilled fingers finding warmth in hot cider. I felt a kind of joy bubbling up from a place I’d forgotten about among life’s hustle, a place that loved autumn, and honest work, and small moments.

We meandered to the very back of the Shack, where an addition had been put on. One large step separated the two parts of the building, as the addition had been built at a slightly higher level. A wood-burning stove hummed merrily in the corner, giving heat to the elderly locals and families lining four picnic tables along the wall. The addition served as a kind of cafeteria, with a large window that displayed an expansive view of the orchard and the mountains beyond. To the left, griddles lined the walls behind a counter filled with sausages and pancakes, with a bored cook pacing in between.

“Breakfast served ‘til 3pm,” Hill said, holding up a menu full of eggs, meats, carbs, and 1970s fonts.

“‘Breakfast with a view!’ We found it,” I laughed. “Do you want to get something?”

“Nah,” she said, glancing at her watch over an armful of goods. “I’ve got donuts and a whoopie pie.”

We drifted back through the crowd to the shop’s “OUT”-door, the large letters loudly reminding us we had finished the loop and there was nothing left to explore. Pre-picked bushels of Cortlands and MacIntoshes sat expectantly on wooden crates near the register, which only accepted cash.

“Three and three and three and four, thats thirteen dollars please,” the woman at the register said, counting up our purchases. Hill and I fumbled through our wallets, divvying up the cost by who had the most small bills to contribute. We have a tendency to not carry cash, and it always makes us a little flustered when its required.

Together we exited through the “OUT”-door and took up a picnic table overlooking the orchard. Hillary peeled the Cellophane from her red velvet whoopie pie, and I went for a cinnamon sugar cider donut. The sugar gave a satisfying crunch with each bite before melting and mixing with the Cortland flavors on my tongue. I could taste the cider syrup that had been swirled in the yellow batter and fried to dense, cakey perfection.

The clouds had thickened during our time in the shop, muting the foliage that dotted the far hills and giving the air an extra crispness that nipped my fingers. As I cleared my throat, thoughts of the homework left undone, the emails left unsent began to seep into my mind, quieting the joy I had felt before.

The small scruffy dog from the parking lot wandered over, enticed by our purchases but ignoring our outstretched hands, our “Hi, puppy!” and “Who’s a good boy?”. It snuffled beneath our table, totally uninterested in our affection but avidly seeking our scraps. A slight breeze blew the aroma of baking apple tarts down the hill and into the trees, leaving behind the smell of wet leaves and the deepening chill.

“Want to get going?” I said at last, licking my fingers for sugary crumbs and warmth.

“Yeah,” Hill said. “I don’t want Prospy to get too cold.”

We got back in the car and drove out of the parking lot, following the crumbling road back to Route 202, Daniel Shay’s Highway. The thrum of the tires slowly but surely lulled whatever had awakened in my spirit back to that forgotten place, a place of time like molasses and pastries like piles of leaves, of simple pleasures and gravity that rounds mountains, a place with a sign like a Red Delicious and patient stand of pumpkins. As we pulled into the parking lot at UMass, the smell of cider lingered until we opened the doors. Cold air rushed in, and with it came the numbing chill of our regularly scheduled lives.

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Traveling North

By Annette Gildshtein.

It was irkingly quiet Friday evening at Zoomass. It seemed as though all the animals headed back to their origins to hibernate for the long weekend. Carrying what felt like half my belongings, I made my way down to yellow lot 11 from Washington Tower. Not even halfway down the hill, I already felt my body starting to perspire. Bags were hanging off me from every direction: a huge bag that was over-packed for a 3 day weekend swung across my body, a beige Liebskin purse crossed to the other side, and an overweight backpack just in case I ended up doing some homework. Though my shoulders were a bit sore, I toughened up and set forth to an unknown evening. All I knew was that I was headed to Franklin, CT, with the intent to go to UCONN. With gas prices too costly for my student wallet and still half a tank left, I went straight for the exit out of Amherst without any stops.

Heading North down 119, traffic started to pick up a bit towards Hadley, especially when the lanes merge into one. We crept down the whole way doing the annoying traffic dance, with one lane moving to a faster tempo than the other. In a way I didn’t really mind; I casually cruised with my windows down, steering with my knee and just observed my surroundings. Before I noticed the parking permit stickers, I could already tell which cars were students by how packed their trunks and back seats were. My favorite but brief section of the traffic was when we were crossing the bridge. Calm waters surrounded us from either side, scattered with small boats and canoes. Driving can sometimes really have a meditative effect on me. It was a relief to finally get on my way and escape into the open highway.  The sun was settling deeper into the horizon and fog lights were popping up on the surrounding cars. Since I’ve never driven to Connecticut from Amherst before, I was surprised to see a pocket of industrialized beauty in such a rural environment. The structures were lit up purposefully and tastefully, showing off the distinct architecture. It was mostly comprised of what seemed like major business corporations, but suddenly something to my right struck my interest. As I got closer, I could see a spherical building resembling Disney’s Epcot Center. As I made my way past it I noticed a sign that read “Basketball Hall of Fame.” I was not only in awe at the gorgeous purple and blue ambient lights but I also had no idea that one existed here.

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Music is what sets the tone for any trip. Whether you are driving down the street or going on a three hour car ride, music is an essential attribute to that experience. I am very indecisive about what to put on, so from the beginning I put on my favorite song from the LongSong Playlist, Luv Step 2.5. This is a fifty-minute compilation of at least fifteen different songs remixed into one, without injuring the originals (which isn’t easy, some people can really butcher a song).  It’s one of those songs that you want to hear in quality headphones or have the vibes surrounding you from good speakers. I love listening to it in the car. It just makes you apart of the song and driving solo I can dance as ridiculously as I want without judgment. After about thirty minutes my brain needed a break from the high frequency bass and it was time for a change of pace. Generally I like to put my iPod on shuffle and have it decide my musical fate. One of the songs that I bookmarked in my brain was Train Song by Feist and Ben Gibbard.

Feist

Traveling north, traveling north to find you
Train wheels beating, the wind in my eyes
Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you
Call out your name love, don’t be surprised

Feist & Ben

It’s so many miles and so long since I’ve left you
Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you
But suddenly now, I know where I belong
It’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long

In a way this song summed up the whole reason of this trip. I was visiting one of my closest friends from my previous school, Iona, whom I haven’t seen in months. Though this song is speaking of an intimate relationship, it is still applicable. Any type of relationship is intimate, the stories and emotions we share between each other are unspokenly locked between us and nobody else. Those are the comforting qualities you look for in a friend.

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When I arrived, plans to go to UConn had been canceled. Not having many other options, we decided to go to Mohegan Sun. When you first walk in, you walk through a seemingly never ending hallway. The wall decor resembled the tribes authentic art and gives you a brief history – a perfect preface to lure you into the actual casino.  Before you even reach the central area you are greeted with a set of escalators, that only overlook a small portion of the venue.  

The first time I was there, it was quite dead, but this time it was alive with quite a diverse crowed. As we ventured our way passed the exhausted slot machines and packed restaurants, you can tell the distinctions between who was here to party or to gamble. Girls would pass us struggling to walk in heels pulling down their tiny, skin-tight dresses, while males snickered behind them. There was a bar in the middle of the casino that was attempting to impersonate a club (which really wasn’t successful) and had the music blaring just as loud. It was funny to see all these adults standing around in their fancy clothes, holding drinks and just looking bored. We had better plans: Ben & Jerry’s.

My friend and I waited in line contemplating which flavors to choose from. Come our turn we each asked to sample a few different flavors and would switch in attempts to figure out what our taste buds were asking for. Since we couldn’t decide we just ordered for each other. I ended up with the Peanut Brittle and for her the Strawberry Cheesecake. Since I knew she was not a chocolate fan, I knew she was pleased with my decision. The peanut butter chunks and caramel swirls were a perfect choice for me. We each finished every drop.

Not wanting to spend any more money and with the night still young we decided to meet up with a few of her friends at the local skate park. Across the street from the brightly lit Norwich Tech, ironically the darkness cloaked us from the main street. Since this was the go-to spot, not only were their beer cans scattered around, but also some abandoned liquor bottles from previous inhabitants. We just sat their looking at the sprinkle of stars, secluded from the world – except the occasional car passing by. Suddenly I noticed extra bright lights coming our way. As they approached us,  I could faintly  make out the word Police.  Once my brain processed the situation, I quickly started walking towards our vehicle while everyone was still hanging out. Of course I got the routine questioning: What are you guys doing out so late? What is your name? How old are you? Eventually everyone got the picture. Some of them scattered throughout the woods, but thankfully my friend joined to help me deal with the situation. She chimed in explaining to the officer about our whereabouts and pretending we didn’t realize you’re not allowed after dark. As we thought things were smoothed out, she realized her glasses were missing. Instead of leaving the scene, an officer went back to the park, flashlight in hand, to help her find them . Nervous that he’ll notice our illicit activities I waited very impatiently in the car. Upon their return, my friend gives me a glance and I think to myself, “Greaaat”. Thank goodness I was the designated driver and answered all the sobriety questions on point. Once the police officer was convinced I could safely get us home, we were let go. After much unwanted stress, we were relieved to have avoided any dire consequences. We collected the “run-away” group and decided to call it a night. . .

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Come morning, the sun exposes Norwich’s natural beauty. Since at night the brightest lights are the moon, stars, and the occasional straggling, dim street light, you get a very limited view of the town. Though it isn’t the most impressive town, during the day there are many serene parts that are aesthetically pleasing.  In many ways it’s comparable to Amherst, with its grassy patches and farmlands. At certain parts of the trip, I’d realize I’m driving in silence taking in the beauty of the scenery around me. The leaves were turning over new colors, some still attached gracefully to the branches and wiggling in the breeze. As the roads swerve between these forests, the massive trees on either side engulf you, making you apart of their world not vice versa. Sometimes a measureless, vibrantly green field comes up along the road allowing access for the suns rays to embrace you.  Before I left we made one last stop to my friends favorite field. We laid out in the sun a bit allowing it to hug our skin. Though we were saying our farewells, the warmth comforted us with a promise of a beautiful day ahead. As for me, a smooth ride ahead.

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A Frog on a Lily Pad

By Kelly Duhamel.

We ascend up a twisting dirt trail, darkened by the surrounding woods and simultaneously brightened from bits of grass and little green clovers sprouting along the edge. The only sounds we hear are the dirt crunching below our feet and our own breath, quickening with each step. A lone house peers out behind the scattered trees as if watching over the path and the visitors along it. It is a large white farm house with red shutters dulled from years of exposure to the New England seasons. The house is still and looks tranquil as the only movement comes from the white cotton clothing fluttering on clothes lines. Dispersed along the path are piles of stones, somehow balancing perfectly on top of one another. The piles lay on the ground, among the trees, and on a stone platform. As we begin to see light, we realize we are reaching the end of the path and our destination, the New England Peace Pagoda, also know as “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo,” in Leverett, Massachusetts.

I first heard about the New England Peace Pagoda from my friend, Alina, two years ago. As Alina showed me pictures of a beautiful monument and frog pond, she described feeling completely calm and peaceful during her trip. Since then, a journey to the New England Peace Pagoda has been on my list of things to do before I graduate college and leave Western Massachusetts. Both my sophomore and junior years came and went without an adventure to the Peace Pagoda, though, and I began to think I would never be able to check a visit off my list. However, a couple of weeks ago, I convinced my friends Emily and Vuk to join me on an exploration to the Peace Pagoda.  We set off on a warm fall afternoon.

Reaching the top of the path, we see a freshly manicured lawn, and just beyond that is a grand white monument, the Peace Pagoda. “Wait, so that’s the Peace Pagoda?” Vuk asks, a little taken back by the simplicity of the memorial. “I guess so. I mean it’s the only thing here. It has to be,” I reply, as we both stare at the memorial, suddenly wondering what all the fuss was about. Emily is already ten steps ahead of us and about to climb the white stone steps that lead to the Peace Pagoda. The first flight of stairs brings us to a small garden with purple, red, and yellow flowers. The colors pop out against the complete blankness of the monument. The stairs then split into two, reconnecting at a walkway that allows visitors to walk around and have a closer look at the monument. Directly at the top of the stairs, about five or six feet above our heads, is a cutout in the monument. A gold statue of Buddha with one arm raised stands tall within. The golden Buddha shimmers in the sun, and I have to shield my eyes to make out the delicate details and contours of his face and hands. Pink flowers surround the Buddha’s feet, and black Chinese symbols are painted on the golden wall behind him. The light glistens across golden Chinese writing carved on a grey stone plaque below the statue. I begin to wonder what the symbols mean.

Although we had started the adventure together, we begin to separate, exploring the Peace Pagoda at our own pace and getting wrapped up in our individual thoughts. A need for silence suddenly feels overwhelming as Emily and I start to walk clockwise around the monument and Vuk counterclockwise. I walk barefoot on the stone path, feeling the cool rocks below my feet, and letting my hand lightly glide over the bumpy white stone walls. We circle the monument, as if in a trance; only pausing at the five different golden statues above our heads. Each statue is Buddha in a different pose. In one, he is lying gracefully on a stone bed, while in another he is meditating, hands in a prayer pose.

Emily, Vuk, and I collide at the center of the monument and Vuk changes his direction to join our path. “I wish I could just get up there and see the Buddhas closer” I say, as I gaze amazed at the statues above. “I could climb up there easily,” Emily remarks daringly. I believe her; in addition to being completely fearless, she is incredibly strong for her tiny size. She has already set the task for herself and will not stop until she has accomplished it, so I just smile and wait for her to attempt the climb. She uses the tiny bumps on the walls as grips and pushes her feet against the engraved stone slate below. She hoists herself up and stands next to the statue. “Come on, Kel, your turn. This is sweet!” Fully aware of my own lack of athletic ability I laugh, “I’m good, dude. You can just tell me how it is.” Emily circles the statue, and then sits down next to the Buddha, making the same meditative pose. Vuk and I laugh at Emily’s boundless energy, and her eyes bounce open from our noise. She stands up and jumps down, rejoining us on the ground. The three of us finish our slow loop around the monument. “Look at that,” I say, as I point to a small pond. I recognize it from the pictures my friend had shown me years ago. “It’s so pretty,” Emily swoons. “Let’s check it out.”

A few feet beyond the Peace Pagoda is a pond, shaped in the infinity symbol. Long grass, high stemmed orange flowers, thick bushes, and trees surround the pond as if trying to hide its beauty from the outside world. Lily pads and lilies thickly cover the water, hiding the koi fish and frogs below the surface. I allow myself to become engulfed in the natural sounds of frogs croaking, water bubbling, small splashing from the frogs and koi fish movements, and the wind rustling through the trees and bushes. All thought seems to leave my head as if the wind has blown my thoughts away with the loose leaves. As we near the pond, we begin to follow a stone path that brings us through the grass and bushes to a stone bridge. The arch leads us to the other side of the figure eight. The sounds of crickets and frogs intensify and the beauty of the pond is breathtaking. The greens from the engulfing forest reflect in the water, and rays of sunlight dance across the pond. Religious green, yellow, and red Buddhist flags hang between the trees. Some are so old the color is almost gone, and the frayed edges flutter in the wind. Others are newer, the artificial colors contrasting with the vibrant natural colors.

Emily and Vuk climb onto a large rock that sits half on land and half in the water. I sit on the ground beside the rock with my toes inches from slipping into the pond. Emily and Vuk chat lightly while I sit quietly, intently watching a small frog bob up and down in the water. He eventually makes his way to a lilly pad by my feet and rests peacefully. I reach behind me as slowly and seamlessly as I can to grab my camera from my bag. The frog continues to lie still and I begin to wonder if it had suddenly died while I was watching him. I flick on my camera and snap a picture. The frog seems to barely notice my movements or the noise from the camera, as he continues to rest, only moving his legs slightly every once in a while to keep himself afloat. I feel completely calm and connected to the natural beauty around me. My thoughts are no more complex than the small frog’s thoughts at my feet. I sit back letting my eyes close and my head drop backward, soaking in the sun and the cool, fresh air. I snap back to reality when I hear a slight murmur and Emily and Vuk jump off the rock beside me. The frog startles too and jumps back into the water, lost in the pond below the thousands of lilies and lily pads. “You ready to hit the road?” Vuk asks. I nod and we begin to head back to the winding dirt path.

Below is the frog I took a picture of at the pond.

Below is the Peace Pagoda monument and the first golden Buddha statue I described.

 

 

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The Efforts of Elevation

By Emmy Carver.

Several times over, I have traveled up and down Route 116 to Mt. Holyoke College for classes, pleasure, and work. Whenever passing the parking lot for the Notch Visitor Center, I always wondered as to why I hadn’t yet taken the chance to hike the trails back there. The main problem I usually face is that many of my friends aren’t active enough to actually go and do something involving physical endurance. That, and none would last the distances I like to go, or would slow me down. These thoughts passed through my mind as I drove solo, giving myself excuses for why I hadn’t bothered to text or call anyone to go out with me. The biggest truth of the matter was I liked to walk and hike alone, especially in the woods. It’s something I’ve done for years as a child, growing up with the High Point State Park as my backyard in New Jersey. The only thing that set me on edge about being by myself was that I was unfamiliar with these crisscrossing trails and the terrain; if something should happen, such as my foot slipping on some wet leaves as I traveled down a slope possibly off the trail while exploring a better view, then no one would ever know. For some reason, despite my cautious tendencies when venturing alone, I hadn’t told anyone where I was going; I simply picked up my stuff and went.

On the way, listening to the radio, excitement bubbled within me until I parked my car and started my exploration. Among other tools, I had a camera in my pocket; I wanted to actually record some of the things I saw. I had no idea where I was going to go, except that I knew I didn’t want it to be some thirty-minute walk through the woods that left me wishing I had gone further. After picking up a map from the visitor’s center, I set out to follow the trail that led up to the peak of Mt. Norwottuck.

Starting out, I felt like a fool walking by myself, stopping at every cross section to make sure that I was going in the right direction. No one else I passed had a map in hand; I was the only virgin climber of the mountain that I could see. The trails were a little confusing, especially at the beginning. My first stop brought me to an area that warned me of falling rocks and debris. Signs reading “Danger” and “No Trespassing” lined the road the closer you got to yellow, barren hills that were designated as restricted areas. Despite my curiosity and tendency to ignore such signs, as I do many times in the backwoods of my hometown, I carried on in the opposite direction. The terrain seemed doable, but I was especially glad that I had worn my boots. The protestation I’d encountered when putting them on that afternoon had been cumbersome as the leather fit tight and cold around my feet, but I had managed to coax them on and lace up so I could prepare for my unknown journey. The paths were rocky, full of slate and chipped flakes that clicked against one another with every step I took. It was so unlike the soft, grassy, or moss-covered dirt that I was used to, and I immediately knew I was in for it.

“Taking great care, I walked over a mass mixture that took form in shades of gray; bulky and flaky bits of rock shifted under me…”

My legs pumped as the slope immediately shot upwards into a forest that smelled of autumn decay as it hovered in a state between life and death. Nothing could be seen through the dense walls on either side of the path. Even as I paused to look out into the valley, the trees blocked my view of what lay below. With the climb and change in elevation, my breath came hard as my heart began to pound against my chest. I wasn’t tired, but I was definitely getting a workout. The brisk, fall air was no match for my body’s ability to burn and sweat as I ascended up steep, dangerous slopes. Taking great care, I walked over a mass mixture that took form in shades of gray; bulky and flaky bits of rock shifted under me, and I was sure I could seriously injure myself should my boot slip in the slightest.

On the way I passed various people, but also noticed that it wasn’t a journey for the light of heart. A mother carrying a toddler on her back smiled as I commented on her companion’s assistance in her endurance. Her chuckle and response, “It’s harder on the way down,” made me smile, but I wondered how it could possibly be harder to carry someone down a mountain than up. I would later retract that disbelieving thought. After passing her, though, I was climbing with my hands and feet, leaning forward as much as possible and keeping my head low as I made my way up the steep and narrow rock path. Roots jutted out into it. The path, a small canyon carved into the hill from years of rainfall and erosion, twisted and turned its way up till you reached more level ground. Time seemed to pass by so quickly, but it had taken me under an hour to reach the top of Mt. Norwottuck. After all of the stops I had made to check out the scenery and check the map, I felt like I had made pretty good time going at my leisurely pace.

Accomplishment filled me as I stood on top of a mountain I had never conquered before. After wondering the whole way when each slope would be the last, I had finally made it. As I took in several deep breaths and wiped sweat from my face, I was able to finally see the result of my efforts and glimpse a tiny world below my newfound kingdom.

“The view was gorgeous and made for a grand picture.”

The view was gorgeous and made for a grand picture. Even though the day was bleak and cloudy, the fall colors of crimson, sienna, ochre, and umber all blended to make a palette with the hues of green across a sea of trees and farmland. The mountain range spanned the horizon, and in the valley’s wake I was pleased to see more vegetation than human occupation. However, I was slightly disappointed. Despite how much less challenging the terrain and climb is on the Cliff Park Trails in Pennsylvania, the view of the Delaware River and my town on the other side of the banks is much more breathtaking than what I saw at the top of Norwottuck.

“Despite how much less challenging the terrain and climb is on the Cliff Park Trails in Pennsylvania, the view of the Delaware River and my town on the other side of the banks is much more breathtaking…” (Picture taken from discoverpikepa.com)

I’ve seen landscapes before, but without the view of glimmering water reflecting back the sunlight, the sky, and the mountains just above it, the view of the Holyoke Mountain Range fell short for me. The disappointment, though, was what egged me on to take my journey further. Surely, after barely being out for an hour, that wasn’t it. I looked at my map again and a spot not too far ahead caught my eye for its name alone. I set my new destination: the Horse Caves.

Trekking down another steep, unfamiliar, rocky path made my legs shaky. It was prior knee problems acting up, and I found myself having to catch every other step as my supporting leg would give out with the resistance my body exerted to keep from tumbling down the hill.

“I set my new destination: the Horse Caves.” (Image edited from mass.gov/dcr/)

But I was excited and determined; the path I was taking was even more challenging, and I found myself hopping over rocks and using my hands more to help guide me down drops and over obstacles. As I finally came to a leveled area in the path, I looked down a slope into the woodland abyss, seeing nothing. Down the steep embankment, all I saw were trees blocking even more trees and autumn vegetation. I had already come a distance, but hadn’t found the caves.

Looking at my watch, I reluctantly began to turn back when I heard voices; echoing voices. They would have to be bouncing off of some sort of surface, such as large rocks. After a moment’s hesitation, I began to run down the slippery pathway, keeping myself from going down into the mucky leaves as I propelled down the path, knowing my final destination was ahead. When I came to stand at the top of the caves, I was sure I had reached them, but couldn’t figure out which path to take. After making a wrong turn, I doubled back and looked down a narrow crevice that led off the trail, contemplating it as I had when I first noticed it.

It’s all a part of the adventure, I thought to myself as I squeezed in between the rocks and started to, literally, climb down them. It was a short descent, and I was merely slipping through a small crack between large boulders before dropping down to a few lower rocks.

“It was similar to the light rock hopping and bouldering that I had done over the summer at Devil’s Den in Gettysburg, where the rocks had towered over a friend and me.”

It was similar to the light rock hopping and bouldering that I had done over the summer at Devil’s Den in Gettysburg, where the formations had towered over a friend and me. We slipped, slid, and jumped from one rock to another, darting into creepy crannies and daring the spirits to show themselves in the ever growing darkness.

As I descended down the crevice, my way had been off the beaten path just enough that nearby hikers didn’t even notice as I pushed myself off of a rock and landed on soft, dusty earth where I was dwarfed by the massive rocks that towered over me. There were no coves or openings within the formations that I could see, and I later discovered that the “caves” were not really caves.

“…I pushed myself off a rock and landed on soft, dusty earth where I was dwarfed by the massive rocks that towered over me.”

I overheard the hikers talking about how there were no openings to venture into, and I realized that they were merely these overhanging rocks that loomed overhead. Later, I learned that they were believed to have provided refuge to rebels during Shay’s Rebellion. It was most likely the shelter the rocks provided that brought the caves their namesake. After staring up at these enormous wonders for a bit, I looked behind me and saw the path I needed to get back up. However, it was out of the way and much less fun than how I had gotten down. So, I grasped some holds on the rocks and climbed back up to the crevice again.

The hike back up to the peak was difficult to keep track of; the path was so covered with leaves that I even lost my way at one point. Reaching the top again was almost as fulfilling as the first because I was so tired. However, there was no time for rest. I had already exhausted those spare, precious minutes, and my trek was coming upon the two-hour mark. I was far from finishing my hike, and it was then that the mother’s words came back to haunt me. The descent down the other side was the hardest part of the journey as I resisted gravity and tried to keep my feet from slipping on the unstable terrain. My body felt the wear and tear as it was jostled over every stumble and heavy step. But there was more opportunity for me to realize what was around me. I wasn’t focusing so hard on making my way up the right path, but merely following the way I had already taken. In the woods, I stopped at one point and realized that it was actually peaceful. The silence of the place was overwhelmingly delightful, and I realized that I hadn’t heard such a thing in so long. There’s always noise everywhere I live. The silence also extended to something I hadn’t realized before as I huffed and puffed up the mountain; there were no birds.

Have they already migrated? I wondered to myself. After listening carefully, I finally heard perhaps one or two lonely songs call out into the wild, but aside from that, there was nothing. The peacefulness brought me back in time to days when I hiked often, and I enjoyed the solitary time I had to myself to actually think and breathe without the suffocation of everyday life pressing in on me. It was a time to be myself, and to enjoy the journey. But more than that, there was something about it that was like a state of meditation, and the realization of that silence was as if I had been lifted into nirvana.

That feeling of escape overtook me for what felt like a blissful eternity before reality grasped me once again and yanked me back down to earth with the sound of swift footfall on the leaves heading towards me on the path ahead. I then knew that I would have to return, not only for further exploration of the rocky slopes, but so I could attempt to recreate that venture into another existence.

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A Day in Camden Town

By Mia Dilluvio.

Endless shops and vendors, every color hair imaginable, tattoos that seem to cover every inch of the visible body is what I witnessed walking through Camden Town every day for fourteen weeks. On my last day living in London I walked up and down Camden High Street and nothing has changed. I observed the people pouring out of the tube station and heading for the Barclay’s ATM across the street, while preteens tried on different pairs of neon sunglasses and homeless men sat against the buildings, Styrofoam cups in front of them for spare change. This is Camden Town, a borough in the north of London. What once was unfamiliar and frightening about this place became my home when I studied abroad.

Construction outside of Hawley Crescent.

Camden Town is different from your typical idea of “jolly old England”. Instead of posh white narrow buildings with large pillars on the front of the house, there is a grungier feel to this borough of London. This first turned me off as I had pictured myself living in a flat with a view of Parliament from my window. My view instead was a Sainsbury’s Super Market. Little did I know how convenient it was living across from Sainsbury’s. Later I found out that it was opened until midnight Monday through Saturday, which was perfect, especially if I was craving a late night snack. Some buildings are made of aging brick or wood, split from the weathering it has endured over time and others, like the building my flat is in, looks misplaced as they portray modernity with their geometric shapes, wide windows, and containing the most uncomfortable furniture that IKEA ever made.

As I made my way down Camden High Street, I crossed the bridge over Regent’s Canal. After familiarizing myself with the area, I did not hesitate to wake up early on weekend mornings, lace up my sneakers and run along the canal that cuts underneath Kentish Town Road and Camden High Street. Its waters travel through London and empties out into the River Thames. As I traveled down the walking path I would always pass the same gondola like boats that were docked along the side.  Each one colorful, sporting a name such as Perseus or The Water Quell, giving each its own personality. Not only were these used for transportation, but they were eccentric homes for some of the Camden Town residents as well. If I thought my room in my flat was cramped with a bunk bed, a closet and just enough room for a person to stand comfortably in between them, I would have never survived living on one of those boats.

I finally reached the top of Camden High Street, home to Camden Market. You know you’re there when you see a structure that resembles an overpass that says “CAMDEN LOCK” in a bright shade of yellow. Shopping in Camden Market is an overwhelming experience. At first, the pushy sales people overwhelmed me. If I even looked at an item they would say, “Very pretty! We are having a special today. Two for 30 pounds! If your friend buys one I’ll give it to you for 25 pounds instead. It’s a very good deal.” After a few weeks, I didn’t think anything of it. They are only trying to make a living. From experience, I learned that it is better to go to the market during the weekday, as Saturdays and Sundays are filled with tourists making it impossible to navigate around the people, kiosks and displays. However if you are willing to be adventurous, you can find something unique for a bargain. After a lot of pushing and shoving, I was able to reach a particular store where they sold large Union Jack flags for one pound. I knew that I wanted one for my apartment when I got back to school and there it prominently hangs today. In one section of the markets, there is an area designated for food stands. It is here that you can get food from a vast majority of countries: Greece, Italy, Germany, Japan, and Jamaica, just to name a few. The aromas of each of the dishes indigenous to those countries made me feel bombarded during my first visit to the markets.

A view of the markets from an accessible rooftop

I stood in line for a gyro, but upon smelling the spicy and bold Jamaican jerk chicken, I immediately moved to the Jamaica stand. Unfortunately, it was neighbors to the Belgium waffles stand where the vendor was pouring Nutella all over a waffle hot off the iron. It was in that moment when I made one of the hardest choices while studying abroad. All of these aromas symbolized the city of London on a much smaller scale: the diversity of a great city that contains major influences from all over the world.

On my way back from the markets I passed one of my favorite nightclubs, The Electric Ball Room. In addition to Camden Market, Camden Town is renown for its nightlife. The Electric Ball Room where there was a special ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s night. The highlight of that evening was singing and dancing to  “Wannabe” by The Spice Girls, something that was as familiar to me as it was British. The Camden Eye, The Oxford Arms and the Elephant Head are just a few of the pubs that are popular, although one can get a excellent pint anywhere in London.  At these pubs, I acquired the taste of beer that my father promised I would develop someday. There is also a pub called The Hobgoblin, which is located next to my building, Hawley Crescent, but I never ventured there, mostly because the dress code posted outside of the door said that only people that were wearing black were allowed to enter, the sign forgot to mention that an exuberant number or tattoos and piercings as well as a pair of combat boots were also required. At the end of a night of debauchery, it is common to get fried chicken, a strange British obsession, or, my personal favorite, a huge cone filled with chips for a pound thirty from a kebab shop on Kentish Town Road. It is a short walk or thirty second sprint, depending on how hungry you are, from Hawley Crescent.

Paint, Tifa. Camden Punk. 2006. Photograph. n.p. Web. 1 Oct 2012. <http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Europe/United_Kingdom/England/London/Camden/photo409484.htm>.

As I walked down Camden High Street once more, I took notice of the variety of natives: students, families, senior citizens and homeless people. Every individual has their own sense of themselves and their own panache, however, Camden Town mostly known for their punk rock style: Men and women sporting leather jackets, leather pants, piercings and tattoos are not out of the ordinary for this area of London. Leading up to Camden Markets are several tattoo and piercing parlors, which I managed to steer clear of to the relief of my parents. Although my style opposes the guidelines of punk rock etiquette, I began to embrace it the longer I lived there. At first when I explained how I lived in Camden Town to a Brit, they would comment on what an interesting area it is and how the pubs really rock, I would respond by saying “Yeah, it’s really cool, but I don’t exactly fit in there.” Finally realizing what a snob I was, I began to welcome the pierced faces and electric blue mohawks. My answer changed to: “Yeah, it’s an awesome area and I love living there.”

Benjamin Disraeli, a past British Prime minister, once said, “London is a roost for every bird.”  It is in Camden Town where I found my place to roost, regardless that I felt like didn’t fit in or felt that I couldn’t keep up with the city life at first. Camden Town is a place for every one, and you find your niche somewhere. It is nothing like the London everyone else knows or would ever expect, and that is what makes it extraordinary.

Fowler, Christopher. More Camden Horses. 2009. Photograph. n.p. Web. 1 Oct 2012. <http://www.christopherfowler.co.uk/blog/2009/12/18/more-camden-horses/>.
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Clark’s Circles of Influence

By Kerry McDonough.

At first glance, the spot seems mysterious – a fortress at the top of the hill, intimidating to approach.  Located on the top of Central Residential Area’s highest hill, the layers of thin black walls reach up to the shoulders of most adults, making it difficult to see over the various cut-outs until the adventurer climbs up the final incline and is squeezing themselves through the few small breaks in the wall or navigating their way through the mini-maze that are the layers of concentric circles.  These walls represent different locations important to the third president of Massachusetts Agricultural College and first president of the University of Massachusetts Amherst, William Smith Clark, for whom this memorial was created.

Smith’s presence is clear to all from the center of the circles, as a giant granite rock with a plaque commemorating him, surrounded by other plaques describing his contributions to Amherst and abroad located on vectors from the granite focal point.  Sections of the wall also reflect Clark’s life, from a section of the wall that is a silhouette of Clark’s family home to a silhouette of the present campus of UMass with an outline of the mountains in Sapporo Japan just behind it, uniting the Amherst landscape with a landscape that actually exists on the Eastern Hemisphere.   There, Clark helped establish the Sapporo Agricultural College and served as an American representative who is still commemorated by the Japanese people as an unofficial ambassador, Christian missionary, agricultural educator, and professional academic leader today.

The memorial is located on top of what is now Clark Hill Road, just past Butterfield and Van Meter Halls, located where Clark’s home was formerly situated before it was gutted in a fire in 1890.  It was funded by a combination of donors from the University of Massachusetts as well as Hokkaido University, formerly Sapporo Agricultural College, and individuals.  Its creation in 1991 was the result of years of discussions in both Amherst and Japan faculty in the 1950s and 1960s and by undergraduate students in the 1970s and 1980s.  Submissions for the memorial were advised to reflect Hokkaido University as well as Amherst landscapes or gardens that “symbolized Clark and his contributions to both universities,” according to the memorial brochure.  After reviewing twenty finalists, UMass alumni Todd A. Richardson’s design was chosen for its elegant combination of landscape and cultural importance, and the half acre sculpture and garden was dedicated on October 17, 1991.  The memorial is surrounded by the UMass Amherst campus and residence halls on the hill side and across the street are residential homes and an elementary school, a symbol of the continuing education around Clark’s old home.

With as much history as the memorial holds, most who frequent the area don’t know about its importance.  A popular myth the past few years by freshmen who visited the area was that Japanese schoolchildren had an identical memorial on the exact other side of the earth, regardless that geography would place the other side of the world just off the southern coast of Australia.  Each year the students who live closest to the memorial refer to it by a different name – in 2009-2010, it was lovingly referred to as the “Cult Stone” for the way it created a cult of visitors, many who used the memorial as an escape to smoke or gossip where they could spot potential “intruders” from a distance.  Those same students utilized the terrain for an unofficial “Van Meter Butterfield Meet and Greet” that garnered over a hundred students mingling through the memorial’s walls and reclining on its bench in a smoky, energetic, and music-filled gathering.  During 2010-2011, the students closest to the memorial established it as a place to read and write new poetry and essays, owing to the proximity of the memorial to the living and learning communities focused on humanities and the fine arts nearby.  The 2011-2012 troupe relied on the memorial as a place to stage plays and quick improvised swordfights, adding a hint of danger and intrigue to a place focused on positive and friendly interactions.

Regardless of what small adventures the Clark memorial is used for by each year’s student visitors, it can always be relied on for a few things.  The view from the memorial of different residence halls in the Central area, as well as the lower UMass campus, is stunning, particularly when the sun is setting across campus, lighting up the sky with layers of clouds and color that thrill the viewer.  The circular benches are the perfect place to dance and jump from bench to bench while belting the “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” song from “The Sound of Music,” or to lie down and stare at the night stars while covered in blankets on a chilly November evening.  The area is perfect for reflection or reading, a bit of solitude and defined space to admire on a bustling and vivacious campus.

Clark’s attempts at connecting the soon-to-be University of Massachusetts Amherst campus to other locations across the world, particularly concerning Japan in the late nineteenth century, showcase his drive to improve both the standing of his own University as well as improve the opportunities available to others.  By creating a space where families, students, and wandering visitors can interact and appreciate the work Clark has done and the beauty of the University today, the supporters of the memorial from across the world have shown that Clark’s work lives on.

All photos courtesy of Kerry McDonough. Memorial map courtesy of The William Smith Clark Memorial brochure, 1992, original text by Marjorie Tuttle, additional text by Laurel E. Foster-Moore, Japanese translation by Chisato Kitagawa. Brochure can be found at http://media.umassp.edu/massedu/international/WSClark.pdf.