Stockbridge and Great Barrington

Readers, I proudly present to you a first in Catherine the Greatest history-- a guest blog post! Many loyal readers have sent me subtle inquiries about a mysterious Josh figure who has been mentioned in several recent posts. He is a leading expert in small-town America, and exhibits a passion like none I have ever seen for the charming and quaint. What better way to debut him to my public than with a mandatory writing assignment! Without further ado, I bring you...

 Wandering the West
by Josh
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For most of us living in the Metrowest area, western Mass is anything past Worcester, but did you ever wonder what neat places exist in the great West of the Bay State?  For Catherine’s birthday, we took a trip to the southern Berkshires.  We were excited to celebrate and learn more about our great state.

Our trip started by visiting historic downtown Stockbridge which is famed for being the quintessential New England town.  I am undoubtedly a huge fan of small towns, and Stockbridge was no exception.  It has a wonderful blend of small stores to browse, bakeries, eateries, and cafes.  What delighted me the most was the balance between upscale atmosphere and classic New England charm.  Also, this town was also home to Alice’s Restaurant, the basis of the famed Arlo Guthrie song.  The restaurant is now named The Stockbridge Cafe.

After exploring downtown, we headed to a historic home and garden called Naumkeag, a property owned and managed by  The Trustees of Reservations for the enjoyment of the public.  The house served as a country “cottage” for the prominent Choate family.  This cottage is truly an impressive mansion.  The most dazzling part of the property is the gardens.  Much of the garden was designed as outdoor rooms by renowned landscape architect Fletcher Steele.  Miss Mabel Choate, who inherited the property from her family, took a strong personal interest in Naumkeag’s landscape and Fletcher Steele's expertise, working on a multitude of projects for 30 years.  The must-see garden element is the Blue Steps, which consists of a series of fountains flanked by stairs beneath a White Birch grove.

                                                      (the author, posing in front of the famed steps)


After our step back in time to the Gilded Age, we headed to the Norman Rockwell Museum.  I have always been a big fan of Norman’s Rockwell’s art.  I am constantly inspired by his ability to portray everyday life in a way that people of any age and background can relate to. So many of his works bring a smile.  They also bring home the idea of everyday heroes and a sense of community.  Although I had seen many of his paintings in books or online, I was excited to see some originals. I was amazed with how large and detailed most of his paintings were, which afforded me even more respect for my favorite artist.  I have to admit, I was holding back some tears when we viewed the Four Freedoms- this is worth the visit.


For Catherine’s birthday dinner, we visited Great Barrington.  After taking a driving tour we stopped at The Point Restaurant at Thornewood Inn.  One thing we learned about the southern Berkshires was that large hotel and restaurant chains do not exist; instead there are many Inns and unique local eateries. The Point was no exception.  After admiring the beautiful Inn, we sat down for an unbelievable meal.  During a heartwarming conversation with the owner, he talked us into a homemade chocolate ganache cake, that I am tempted to say might be worth the two-hour trip from Walpole to have again.  

I apologize for what you might be subjected to

After my colleague posted a record six blog posts in one day, undoubtedly a result of her pre-election frenzy, I am feeling inspired. You may remember I set a goal to reach 20 blog posts in 30 days. I am three days from my deadline and have fallen sorely behind. But my competitive spirit almost always gets the best of me, and I'm determined to hit the big 2-0. As a result, I apologize for the quality of what might come out of my mouth (fingers) in the next six posts. But let's be honest, it's not as if you came here for insight or good writing. TISH TOSH. 

Anyway, the esteemed Connie has a sidebar in her blog about the ways she knows election day is approaching. This list essentially serves as a way to  enumerate her various psychotic behaviors that nearly always center on politics, government, and the media's coverage of both. While compared to her, I am positively casual observer of politics, I still consider myself more involved than the average American. When Bush was re-elected in 2004, I was so destroyed and disappointed, I stayed home from school the next day in a vegetative state. An emotional coma, we'll call it. So, I suffer too at the hands of our electorate. So Connie (hat tip), I blatantly plagiarize your idea below, thus reducing my editorial standards to zero. 

Here's my list of Top 10 Election Season Impulsions

10. Hours have past and I am still on Pollster.com. Sometimes, if I'm really in the zone, I'll even make my own Excel graphs. 

9. I find myself longing to live in swing state so my monologues don't fall entirely on deaf ears in America's bluest state. 

8. I refer to newspaper columnists by first name in conversation as if they are my friends, much to the confusion of everyone who wonders whether there are any 20-somethings named Maureen anymore. 

7. I plan my wardrobe around having something blue to wear every day leading up to Election Day, and wear my gap "Vote" t-shirt long after it's developed that unique ripe smell. 

6. I base my faith in the future of journalism and youth political activism solely on the sky-high spirits of the team over at Politico.com

5. I actually raised my voice and pointed a finger at a stranger in a supermarket who said she was voting for Palin because she couldn't have Hillary. 

4. I fantasize about being a part of conversations between Michelle Obama and Jill Biden. 

3. In the break room, people know the channel has to be CNN or MSNBC when I'm around. Similarly, an idle moment spent at my internship is dedicated to reading wistful election-season roundups. 

2. I have stopped reading Gawker, Dooce, and other sites with the fierce regularity I used to in order to sharpen my election acumen. If you know me, you understand the depths of this personal sacrifice. 

1. Despite spending three days a week as an editorial intern at a magazine, my life plan (full disclosure: it changes every 3-4 days) no longer includes publishing of any kind, but rather a life of public service. 

Showering, manners, and other advice for commuters

Yesterday, The Boston Globe ran a story about the the MBTA announcing a courtesy campaign for riders of the trains and subways in and around Boston. They hope that posting signs with cheery slogans like "Don't be a lout, let them out," or "Don't Drone on the Phone" will keep people from being assholes on public transit.

I spent much of the afternoon yesterday reading the comments that Bostonians left on the article-- ranging from uplifting stories about people offering seats to those who needed them more, to incredible ones about someone's dog defecating in a subway car, the owner refusing to pick it up. I should say that I find most commuters to be quite reasonable, but the trains have become more crowded lately, and some problems have arisen. Last night, on the train home, there were two passengers sitting in a three-person seat. A third guy came along and asked to sit down, and the guy in the middle, stood up, huffed and puffed, gathered his things and muttered "asshole," loud enough for everyone to hear. I said to the guy who wanted a seat, "How dare you, thinking you could fit three people into a three-seater?" He smiled, but I could tell he was shaken. In an effort to improve relations for everyone involved, here's a top 10.

Top 10 Tips for T Transit- Put a Little Love In Your Heart

10. Everyone take a shower. I've spent more than one nasty subway trip with my nose stuffed into some guy's rancorous armpit. Do us a favor and work up a good lather before you think about subjecting me to your natural musk.
9. Babies have every right to ride the subway! But parents, if your precious cherub has a stroller in which I could comfortably recline my 5'8" frame, please collapse it before you board.
8. Please move aside so I can grab onto the poll (insert crass joke here). The T drivers are notorious for slamming on their breaks and sending passengers flying, and I am notorious for having less balance than Janet Jackson. Unless you want me to end up on top of your baby, or sending one of my bony elbows into your jaw, please don't wrap yourself around the pole like you're jonesing for a dollar bill.
7. If someone is old, pregant, disabled, or just looks like they need the seat more than you, get up. On more than one occasion I have seen a pregnant woman almost topple over while the subway sways, and old people stand politely for 7-8 stops while an entitled BU student sits and blares his iPod loud enough for everyone to hear.
6. If you cough, sneeze, or hack on me, I reserve the right to do the same to you, or at least punch you in the kidneys.
5. Move into the damn car. Lately people have been standing immediately inside the doors and refusing to move further into the train. You are not going to miss your stop if you stand more than six inches away from the door. On more than one occasion, I've stepped off the train to let people off, only to be cut off by those people getting on, and left on the platform waiting for the next train.
4. Note to the T drivers, it is not appropriate for you to say you "don't know," when a tourist asks you how to get some place. You should know. Or at the very least, go to the subway map and help them find out. You are paid to know. It is really your only function.
3. Take your backpack off. If you slam me in the abdomen one more time with your text-book laden parcel, I'll be forced to do the same to you. But with a knife.
2. Perfume. This is a big issue for me. I am allergic to probably 80 percent of women's perfumes. If they don't succeed in making my face blotchy, nose runny and eyes coke-addict red, they at least make me sniffly and uncomfortable. I know I can't tell you not to wear any perfume but maybe, given the fact we're going to be together in a small train car for a 50-minute commute, you could limit yourself to three spritzes or fewer, and bring some along in your tote for later.
1. Put your cell phone away. Last week on the train home, I heard a man on the phone with his bank or credit card company, who charged him after he had canceled an account. I was privy to his 30-minute rantings to a poor associate, as well as when he threatened a lawsuit and demanded all of the tapes of his conversations and copies of his records from a manager. I must admit I was interested by the conversation, but I think the napping people around me were not impressed. Save financial issues, messy breakups, and everything else for later when you can rant and rave in private. Or else I might blog about the gritty details.

Sacrificing my integrity so you don't have to be bothered.

One of my favorite things about the never-ending sketchfest called Craigslist is its "missed connections" section. This is where dozens of people, who are likely emotionally imblanced or sex starved, post notes to strangers they saw on the street, train, or anywhere else. In a pleasing display of romanticism, they leave these notes on the board and hope the missed connection will read the message. Then, the two will live happily ever after. Or at least go on a really creepy date. I bring you, the best of the Boston area's "missed connections" from this week, written by men to women.

I saw you today (about 4pm or so) browsing in China Fair on Mass Ave.
I tried to make eye contact and smile, but I don't think it worked :(

Okay, this person clearly doesn't understand missed connections. If she never even saw you, how would she know this message is about her? Dumbass.

I admire this second man's attention to wardrobe:

The second I got on the train at Copley and noticed your warm smile, I was smitten. I sorta smiled when I saw that you were enjoying music on your ipod touch so much you were "boppin" your head to it. Seemed like you were enjoying yourself. I was dying to ask you what you were listening to. And I saw the chance to, when that seat opened up right next to you. Instead I froze up, and watched another guy ( the one with the mowhawk )sit in that seat. The seat I should have grabbed.
You got off at Bu east. Thought I'd look out the window to wave if I saw you. But that would not be my luck. Taking your heart-warming beauty with you. Yet leaving some of your positive vibes with me. Thank you , you made my night :)
You wore your blonde hair in pigtails. Had a pair of smooth ocean/sky-blue droplet earrings. A light-cream almost sleeveless top. The shoulders were flared. Flared ,light blue jeans. With a pair of white flip flops.

I was the guy with dreadlocks who was being foolishly shy :)

At least this guy was made a better citizen by his missed connection:

To the girl who talked me into voting again I would love to sit down and chat sometime. I know a great place for fruit drinks

Fruit drinks? Okay, well if I am going to sit through a date with a guy who didn't have the balls to ask me out in real life, I am going to need something a little punchier. And finally, someone who hates Boston (there are people like that?!).

I think Boston is filled with these species and I find it hard to understand them! I just moved here and surprised at their snobbish behavior.

I bet you all wish to kick us all out of here! Right?

And this is happening to me who is no wanker! God knows how the common man is surviving here:).

Maybe next week I'll set up a sting operation to catch one of the hookers from the erotic section. There is really nothing I won't do for this blog.

Something I don't remember from AP history

I just finished reading The Heretic's Daughter, a first effort by Kathleen Kent. It turned out to be, by far, the best historical novel I've read since Sarah Plain and Tall. And I hold that book in HIGH ESTEEM, people. Kent's book takes place during The Salem Witch Trials, a subject many of us are familiar with, and one which has the potential to grow stale quickly when revisited in fiction. But Kent makes the trails an entirely personal affair, telling the story through the imagined words of Sarah Carrier, daughter of Martha Carrier, who was hanged for being a witch. It's a searingly intimate portrayal of one of the most incredibly times in U.S. history.

But this is not a book review. Instead! I have to pass onto you a piece of information I gleaned during a tour of the Witch History Museum in Salem this weekend, which was only enriched by reading Kent's book and having all of that witchy scandal still saturating my brain.

Cotton Mather, famed Puritan minister, was partly responsible for starting and perpetuating the mass hysteria and utter craziness that culminated in the deaths of nineteen innocent people. He was, by all accounts, a full-time, first-class freak show. In fact, he routinely dug up the bodies of dead, deformed babies, convinced they were the work of Satan, and displayed them in his lab as proof of such. (If you think I'm being unfair, you can read some of Mather's side, here).

Anyway, interestingly enough, Cotton Mather's pappy, Increase Mather (Increase? Not a typo!), was the first American-born President of Harvard University! His tenure was somewhat marred by controversy, but Cotton enrolled without issue when he was 12, and graduated with an M.A. at 18. He eventually become a fellow at Harvard, and according to tour guides at the Witch History Museum, despite his greatest wishes, was never considered for President because of his loathsome reputation once the Trials were deemed ridiculous and unfair.

Bitter and scorned, Mather's next actions bring a whole new aspect of delight to the greatest Ivy League rivalry in the U.S.

Mather saw potential in a school in Connecticut, one which he hoped, unlike the increasingly liberal lost cause Harvard (*cough*theydidn'twantyou*cough*), could become a haven for the Puritan religion. He contacted wealthy businessman Elihu Yale, and convinced him to make a substantial donation, and to change an existing college's name to Yale University (it had previously been known as the College at Saybrook and various other names, until it moved to New Haven).

So. There you have it. Harvard wouldn't take crazy Cotton Mather, so he went and essentially founded Yale as we know it today. Next time you get stuck in a conversation about The Ivy League, and don't want to bring up grade inflation again, whip out these tidbits. You are welcome.

This would have been a great story for Wishbone.