Two Years Gone By

Since we didn’t send Christmas cards last year, this year we plan to bore you silly with a summary of activities for not one but two years at French Manor. Those of you with a strong constitution may continue reading at your own peril, or skip right to the pretty pictures and spare yourselves the agony of yet another silly Christmas newsletter.

Sunroom with Colorado and Manx flags

The Home Front. Our lives have been a flurry of home improvement projects over the past two years. We added a second shed in the back yard, remodeled the hallway bathroom, replaced an old wooden patio fence with a pretty white trellis, painted the sunroom and installed new carpet, replaced the wrought iron front gate with a wooden gate, created a memorial rose garden (which includes Raven’s ashes), installed a new garage door with windows, painted all three bedrooms (colors: Melted Butter, Outback, Toffee Crunch), and removed a dying elm tree from the back yard. To clarify, we did not do all this work ourselves.

Ships That Pass in the Night. Dave worked the swing shift through all of 2014, which we both hated but the dogs loved. They were never alone for long, since Dave left for work at 2:30 and I returned home at 4:30. Dave started to look for a new job with better hours, and finally was offered a good job in early 2015. His new company is stable, secure, and includes great benefits. The best part, Day Shift! In early March, they sent him to Atlanta for a week to learn a new digital press the company purchased. He likes the company and the hours, and hopes to stay there for the long term.

Reclamation Day. I languished in my accounting clerk position at a local non-profit, where I planned to continue working until age 60. But after much soul-searching and number-crunching and encouragement from friends, I decided to bid farewell to the daily grind earlier than planned. Since the end of October, I have been enjoying my early retirement with plenty of quiet time at home, basically doing whatever I want whenever I want. The dogs love having consistent human companionship and more frequent walks. A dear friend suggested using the term “reclamation” instead of “retirement” since I am now reclaiming my life after 40 years in the workaday world.

The Calf of Man

Ellan Vannin. “And there rises like a vision, sparkling bright in nature’s glee, my own dear Ellan Vannin with its green hills by the sea.” So goes the poem Ellan Vannin, which is the Manx-language name of the Isle of Man. Situated halfway between England and Northern Ireland in the Irish Sea, the Isle of Man is my mother’s ancestral homeland.

When I was little, mom told me tales of this magical, mystical faraway place called the Isle of Man, where her grandfather was born. I remember hearing about Viking raids on the island, at which point I declared “I’m a Viking!” to no one in particular. It seemed unlikely that I would ever visit until I met my second cousin from Connecticut, Faith, via genealogical research. Faith suggested we explore our roots in person.

Houses of Parliament

Dave had never been overseas and wanted to come along, so we added a few extra days to visit London. In late June 2014, we flew from Denver to Reykjavik, Iceland. The airport layover lasted long enough for us to buy Icelandic souvenirs before continuing to London. We bunked at an old hotel in London’s Bayswater neighborhood, near Paddington Station. Our first tourist trip was to Buckingham Palace, where we arrived just in time for the changing of the guard. Dave mastered the Underground quickly and we were off here and there, strolling through Hyde Park near Kensington Palace, staring with wonder at Parliament and Big Ben and the London Eye, then touring Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Captain Dave aboard the ferry, Ben-My-Chree

After a whirlwind tour lasting three days, we met Faith at Victoria Station and boarded a train to Heysham Port, north of Liverpool, for a ferry ride to Douglas, capital of the Isle of Man. It’s about a three hour journey across the Irish Sea, which on that particular day was smooth as glass and so lovely. Faith said she wanted her first glimpse of the island to be as our ancestors would have seen it, from the sea.

Peel Castle ruins

What a beautiful place! After settling into the Cubbon Guest House on Douglas Promenade, where Dave and I had a room on the top floor with a view of Douglas Bay, we began a week-long tour. Relying on foot power and public transportation (horse tram on the promenade, electric tram along the east coast of the island, the old Victorian steam train to parts south and west, and buses everywhere else) we explored the most amazing sights: Mt. Snaefell, the highest point on the island; Cregneash, an old working village that doubles as a living history museum;  the Calf of Man, a small island and bird sanctuary just off the southwestern tip; Port Erin with its magnificent beach and western views; Castle Rushen, a well-preserved medieval castle on the southeast coast; and the ruins of Peel Castle, built in the 11^th century by the Vikings. We climbed Peel Hill above the castle where far off in the distance we could see the Mountains of Mourne, Northern Ireland.

Faith, Debbie, and Dave at Niarbyl

The three of us were joined midway through our stay by our Manx third-cousin, John Creer. John has done extensive studies of our family history and gave us a personal tour of the island, focusing on places that were personally relevant to our family such as where our ancestors lived, worked, and worshipped. Thanks to John’s knowledge, we visited the mine where our shared great-great-grandfather worked, the grave where he is buried with his wife and two of their thirteen children, and the church where long ago the Creer family had a pew in their name.

We had to return to London for our flight home, so Dave and I stopped in a city north of London to spend the last few days with a long-time friend of mine from Boulder. Robbin has lived in England for nearly 30 years. It’s a rare treat to see her and I truly enjoyed our lively conversations. Dave had a great time and we plan to return, next time touring Scotland and the Home of Golf, St. Andrews.

Along the Mill Creek Trail

Back Home Again. While we were overseas, the dogs were comfy cozy at home with their favorite live in pet sitter, Auntie Barbara. They were so happy to see us again that we took them on a family trip to Salida in September. Staying at our new favorite rental cabin near Monarch Pass, we made a side trip to an area north of Gunnison, the Mill Creek Trail on the way to Storm Pass. We had been there years before with Raven, in the summer, and Dave always wanted to return in autumn to see the aspen groves ablaze along the way. Those autumn colors were breathtaking, as was the hike.

Kindergarten buddies

In 2015, I celebrated my 40^th high school reunion (gasp!). An informal potluck lunch was planned in late July at the home and property of a classmate. The day was hot, the food was good, the beer was flowing, and the reminiscing went on and on. The best part for me was sharing the day with my lifelong friend, Peggy. We met in kindergarten and have known each other forever.

Chimney Rock National Monument

Instead of our annual autumn trip to Salida, this year Dave wanted to head down to Pagosa Springs in southwestern Colorado, not far from the New Mexico border. Other than a bad experience at a so-called “pet friendly” motel, we sure had fun. The dogs cavorted in the Piedra River, we visited the ghost town of Pagosa Junction, were treated to a personal tour of an old church on Southern Ute tribal lands (St. John the Baptist Catholic Church) and climbed to the top of Chimney Rock National Monument. The area surrounding the monument is beautiful and the guided tour was so interesting. We both returned with some tourist paraphernalia and a card proclaiming “I Made It to the Top!” (not really too difficult as Colorado hikes go). You can safely say that a good time was had by all.

So, if you haven’t dozed off by now, we wish you

Debbie and Dave at the Calf of Man, July 2014

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Peace on Earth

Debbie and Dave  *  Tonka and Daisy

(from our Christmas newsletter)

Daisy

Tonka

New Horizons

What is your perspective on the rising sun each morning? For years we have viewed a beautiful sunrise brightening the world as seen from between two houses across the street. The sunrise may have changed each morning, but the perspective did not. That is, until this year.

Our biggest news of the year happened at the tail end. Almost on a lark, in mid-November we asked to tour a house for sale several miles to the west. That place was dreadful, but as a result of our visit we found another that looked promising. A mere six weeks later, we were living in our new home. Now our view of the rising sun is still between two houses across the street. Yet the perspective is completely different, at least to us.

You might recall that Dave was laid off in 2010. Since then, he worked part-time in the printing industry and later worked full-time as a househusband/personal doggy daycare provider to Tonka and Daisy.

In 2012 he took on a temporary assignment during spring and summer as a general laborer at my office. The summer was brutally hot, his supervisor was a pain and the grounds had been neglected, but Dave did a great job cleaning up. He also discovered a new passion: riding mowers. Hmm, maybe someday he can get a job mowing lawns at a golf course?

Before my back surgery in 2011, we had curtailed our day hikes as I was unable to walk or stand for long periods of time. Then in June, we decided to take my new bionic back out for a spin. We settled on a day hike in the Lost Creek Wilderness south of Bailey.

It was hot that day (well, it was hot pretty much every day this summer) and we weren’t sure how far we’d get. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I could hike just like in years past. Except for my feet being tired and sore on the return trip, it was a a fun, almost leisurely hike of about five miles. Plus, the dogs found some water to cool their fevered paws along the way. Turns out that Creek wasn’t really Lost after all.

No year would be complete without a trip to our home-away-from-home: Salida. This year we headed out to our favorite little mountain town in mid-July. It was hot, naturally. But at least the evenings were cool and we had easy access to the Arkansas River, to dip our toes and let the dogs swim a bit.

We ventured forth on yet another hike, this time to Agnes Vaille Falls. It was billed as an “easy” hike (obviously that recommendation was given by people in much better shape than me and Dave). We made it to the falls, enjoyed the view along the way, and managed to get back to the car just before the heavens turned loose a wicked rainstorm. Ahhhh…

Over the past year or so, I reconnected via Facebook with several high school classmates. One of them helped me get in touch with a fellow I had long admired, and even had a bit of a crush on, during our school years.

After exchanging emails with Stewart (the tall guy on the left, now living with his family overseas), I learned he would be in Colorado during the summer of 2012. So I made plans with some classmates and hosted a mini-reunion in early August. We all had a great time and enjoyed a hot but otherwise lovely day reminiscing and catching up on each other’s lives. In a couple of years, it will be time for our 40th high school reunion. Oh my.

Discussions began early in the year about how to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary, due in September. Originally the plan was to visit Hawaii, but circumstances dictated that we scale it back. So, what’s just like a visit to Hawaii without spending a small fortune, you might ask? Why, South Dakota, of course!

We drove to Rapid City, created a home base in a lovely old downtown hotel, then spent the week exploring Mount Rushmore, Custer State Park, Crazy Horse Memorial, Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, and even indulged in cheesy Americana at Wall Drug before finishing up our whirlwind all-American tour at the Badlands (phew, talk about hot!). Our favorite place was Devil’s Tower. If you haven’t been, you really should go.

So consider this our post-Christmas newsletter. Because we were too busy packing and moving, we skipped out on our usual holiday traditions. Still, we wanted to let everyone know that, almost out of the blue, we packed up and moved across town... to the place we intend to stay for the long haul.

Best wishes for the New Year ahead,

Debbie and Dave

Tonka and Daisy

Where the Buffalo Roam

Click on the pictures for a better view

Last month we headed out on the Labor Day holiday for a road trip. Not counting long weekends here and there, it was the first real vacation we have enjoyed for nearly three years. Even though South Dakota is relatively close to Colorado, at least by western traveling standards, neither of us had visited the state and its many attractions.

Monday: We reached the town of Torrington, Wyoming in time for lunch and found a small park with picnic tables. No sooner had we started to eat when an old gentleman shuffled over to join us. He asked us a few polite questions, then launched into a rather detailed, lengthy recap of his life as a young boy during the Dust Bowl in Abilene, Kansas. What a character.

Much of eastern Wyoming is remote, desolate. We filled the time by counting state troopers and out-of-state license plates, and speculated whether this part of Wyoming may have even had water during a previous epoch (say, the 1950s). We did pass an area with unusual rock formations, including one I dubbed "penis rock" (which is probably not its proper name).

I enjoy taking photos of state welcome signs, but this one provided by South Dakota on Highway 16 was so tiny we nearly missed it. Dave made a U-turn so that I could capture this image, if for nothing else than to prove we were indeed making progress on what was beginning to feel like an endless journey through space and time.

The day ended at our hotel, the Alex Johnson, by celebrating happy hour at the Vertex Skybar... where the Mojito was delicious, the Devil's Tower lager was chilled just right, the service was spotty, and apparently it takes two hours to prepare bruschetta.

Our room in this historic hotel had a lovely view of the HVAC units in the rear of the building, a favorite roost of the resident pigeon loft. Our bed was ever-so-comfy, and the shower came complete with a helpful warning sign: "Note: It can take several minutes for hot water." They were not kidding.

Tuesday: Our first glimpse of Mount Rushmore brought the same response from both of us: That's it? Kind of dinky, don't you think? Well, actually it's not, as we soon discovered when we found ourselves peering straight up George Washington's granite schnozzola.

We hiked all around the site and shot a dizzying array of monument pictures from every conceivable angle (including a reflection in the cafeteria windows), then spent some time comparing the fifty state flags to each other. Our determination? Colorado's flag is the finest. Naturally.

When we arrived at the Crazy Horse Memorial, we turned to each other and muttered a quiet, collective, "How much?!?" but dutifully paid the entrance fee and drove in. Compared to Mount Rushmore, the mountain looks so incomplete, almost unimpressive. That is until you are herded into the theater to watch a documentary and begin to understand the magnitude and meaning behind the project.

I loved the Native American museum and wandered from one display to another, snapping photos of inspirational sayings and paintings of handsome warriors. I even discovered a potential new best friend: The Spirit Helper.

Being a bit of an oddball, I also find myself drawn to the unusual, such as this sign proclaiming, "I am a Door, and I may Open when you least expect it!!"

Good to know.

Next we headed for Custer State Park, where we stopped at Sylvan Lake and decided to hike the easy shore path around the lake. About halfway into our hike, the path disappeared and we found ourselves scrambling over boulders, clinging to pine trees, and sliding down a steep slope before reconnecting with the "easy" shore path on the other side of the lake.

The park was crowded at the Needles area, and the day had grown hazy from the ever-present western wildfires. We drove, and talked, and listened to music, and drove some more. Then poof! we emerged from the winding mountain road and found ourselves in the midst of a lumbering bison herd. Such wondrous creatures! I snapped a mess of photos before Dave suggested a video:

Wednesday: We hit the road again, eager to experience Close Encounters of the American-Tourist Kind. Both of us expected to find Devil's Tower standing as a lone sentinel on the windy prairie. We were pleasantly surprised to discover the area consisted of rolling hills, sprinkled with picturesque farms and ranches tucked into pretty meadows.


Devil's Tower was crawling with people. Not just your everyday tourists wandering in and out of the visitor center in search of restrooms. No. The tower itself was crawling with people... more specifically, rock climbers. Since I suffer from acrophobia, I cannot understand what draws people to such folly, an activity in which a successful day would be one where you do not plummet to your death. As we watched the climbers from the safety of the walking trail, I noticed turkey buzzards, gliding and swirling around the summit of the tower, quite possibly waiting for lunch.

Further along the trail we stopped at a serene valley overlook. I pointed out a prayer cloth hanging on a tree, remembering the sign telling us not to disturb any Native American prayer cloths and bundles. Right then a pair of visitors wandered up behind us, one of them wondering aloud why some of these trees were marked with red flags. Was it to remember which trees need to be cut down? Or maybe the park service planned to use them for Christmas trees? Yes, that's it. Red flags = Christmas trees. Good grief.



Next we encountered an interpretive sign and a narrow makeshift telescope, aimed at an extreme angle toward a spot on the sunny side of the monument. The sign instructed us to look through the telescope to view the remnants of a wooden ladder constructed by the first crazy people explorers to climb the monument.

Unless you are very short, to look up through this telescope you must assume a pseudo-yoga position, bent at the waist with blood rushing to your head. Perhaps this was the reason neither Dave nor I could see the wooden ladder.

A group of four younger visitors came along; we waited to see if they could find the ladder. Nope. At this point I suggested that maybe the park service had a hidden webcam so they could laugh at everyone contorting themselves in hopes of spying an imaginary wooden ladder. One young woman teased her friend, the last to peer through the brass tube, that he now had a black circle around his eye.

Eventually that young woman found the ladder, with the naked eye, and directed the rest of us to its presence. One by one, the ladder came into focus for each of us. Afterwards we all remarked that once you had found it, that teeny-tiny object became the only thing you could see on the monument.

Thursday: If you find yourself yearning for a slice of cheesy Americana, Wall Drug is the place for you. There you will find an entire town designed to draw in unsuspecting highway travelers. On our way to the Badlands, eastward on I-90, every 100 yards or so we passed yet another roadside advertisement for this fine establishment. A sampling of signs included "Chuck wagon quartet," "Five cent hot coffee," "Shootin' gallery," "Something to crOw about," and my personal favorite, "Free coffee and donut for honeymooners." Who travels to Wall Drug for their honeymoon?

So of course with all this enticement, we had to stop. After indulging in what can only be described as complete sensory overload indoors, we strolled into the Wall Drug "backyard" where I coerced Dave into posing astride a huge jackalope. Yeah, it's silly. But it had to be done.

What can I say about the Badlands, except to assure you that the place comes by its name honestly. It's hot and dry--approaching zero humidity--desolate, eerie, and strikingly beautiful in a not-from-this-planet kind of way. There were signs along the pullouts warning of rattlesnakes. Somehow I found it difficult to believe there were living creatures of any sort in such a hostile environment.

Throughout the trip, one goal was to take a photo of ourselves in every location that we could entitle, "Self Portrait with iPhone at _____." Most smart phone users seem to come by this skill naturally. Not us. Dave claims my arms are too short. I blame his inability to do anything but grimace as soon as the button is pushed.

After watching us create multiple versions of the same sorry-looking photo, a helpful lady at the Badlands offered to take our picture. I told her thanks, but no thanks. We were determined to capture the essence of our journey, all by ourselves.

So, what do you think?

See the (serious) pictures here

Walking in Their Footsteps

We just returned from a wonderful vacation to Washington, DC, Virginia and West Virginia. Now, I’m not a fan of big cities. A dream holiday for me would be an escape to where there are less people, not more. DC was different. To be sure, it was noisy and hectic, sirens day and night, people scurrying about in jumbled streams of humanity, car horns blaring if someone dared react to a green traffic light a smidgen too slowly. Yet all this was tempered by the fact that the people we encountered were helpful and courteous. Surrounded by a constant throng of tourists, I expected the locals to be annoyed by our presence. Instead, most seemed genuinely concerned if it looked like you were lost or appeared unsure how to navigate the subway system. They were proud of their city, our city, and happy to help.

The first few days were spent making the customary rounds:

• Arlington National Cemetery, where we arrived in time for the changing of the guard and a wreath-laying ceremony;
• the Lincoln Memorial, outside crawling with people like so many ants on an anthill, inside a hushed silence except for the flashes and whirring noises of cameras;
• the War memorials, each with a handful of surviving veterans immersed in memories of glory and misery;
• the Washington Monument, its impressive height serving as a central beacon for the city;
• the Jefferson Memorial, etched with words that stir emotions and invite quiet reflection;
• the Capitol Building, oozing with power, symbolism, pomp and circumstance;
• the Supreme Court Building, an elegant, stately, silent sentinel perpetually eyeing the Capitol;
• the White House, more magnificent and grand than its condensed presence on news programs.

Everywhere we found ourselves in the company of others just like us, standing with cricked necks, mouths agape, eyes full of wonder.

On the second leg of our tour we rented a car and left the city, enjoying a peaceful ride along Skyline Drive, the northernmost portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We chased fleeting glimpses of sunlight as the weather began to turn against us, trying in vain to capture the majesty of the Shenandoah Valley below as well as the serene beauty we experienced traveling underneath a thick canopy of trees. The journey was taking us toward southwestern Virginia, where we hoped to learn more about Dave’s colonial ancestors. Their story will be told in a separate journal, but we later discovered they followed a similar route when, in the mid-1700s, the family moved from northern Virginia and settled near the New River in Giles County, Virginia. There we spent a rain-soaked day searching library collections and photographing family gravestones before heading toward our next destination.

We woke again to a persistent rain but were determined to make the most of it. Arriving first thing in the morning at Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson, we found his beautiful neoclassical mansion shrouded in fog. Our tour guide was so animated and passionate about her work, it was a delight to listen to her tales of the man who was not only our third president but also a paleontologist, an architect, and an inventor. After the home tour we wandered the grounds including Mulberry Row, where the slave dwellings were located, then through the plantation’s gardens and on to the family cemetery. The thick fog lent an eerie, ghostly quality to the morning. I half expected to see a lone rider on horseback, dressed in colonial garb, emerge from the shadows.

During our trip to New England three years ago, we stumbled upon a picturesque old cemetery in Chelsea, Vermont. For some reason, I was intrigued by the Civil War grave of Captain Orville Bixby of the Second Vermont Volunteer Infantry, who was killed at age 29 in the Battle of the Wilderness, Virginia. Located not far from Monticello, the Wilderness Battlefield is now preserved as a National Military Park. Still drenched by rain, we took a driving tour through the Chancellorsville and Wilderness battlefields. Research tells me that Captain Bixby was shot in the head on the second day of battle. His troops moved him to the rear of the regiment, where he lingered and died later that evening. I have no connection to this man other than curiosity. Yet it meant so much to be able to trace his footsteps all the way from Vermont to Virginia. Peering into the dense woods, I couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors he must have witnessed that day.

We returned to the city, completing our stay in Old Town Alexandria. The last day we planned an outing to Mount Vernon, home of George and Martha Washington. The rain was relentless. It was cold and clammy and our resolve was weakening. During the home tour we heard the story of Washington’s death. After returning from a day spent inspecting his farm in snow and freezing rain, he sat down for dinner without changing his wet clothes. Two days later he succumbed to an illness that had turned from a bad cold into a serious infection. So despite the nasty weather, we continued touring the grounds, examining the outbuildings, wandering through the orchard, walking in the footsteps of the father of our country.

Walking in their footsteps from Deborah French on Vimeo.

Autumn in New England

This past week I have been reminiscing about our last weeklong vacation in October 2006. Autumn in New England ranked high on our wish list. Our timing was not so good. While some trees held onto leaves painted in deep shades of red, gold and orange, many had dropped and were already underfoot. A local resident explained that a few days before our arrival, a severe windstorm had blown through the area. Aside from missing some of the peak autumn colors, the rest of the trip was a success. With the exception of one blustery day on the road from Maine to New Hampshire and Vermont, we were blessed with wonderful autumn weather.

We flew from Denver to New York City where we hopped a small plane to Manchester, New Hampshire, rented a car and drove up the coast. Along the way we stopped in the picturesque city of Portsmouth, then continued on to the town of Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, where we planned to spend most of our time.

Acadia National Park is home to beautiful, rugged coastlines, the kind synonymous with Maine. We loved exploring the area, touring fishing villages, climbing out onto the granite rocks, and dipping our toes tentatively into the chilly waters along Sand Beach. Within the park is Cadillac Mountain, at 1,530 feet above sea level the tallest mountain on the Atlantic Seaboard. At certain times of the year it is the first place to view sunrise in the United States.

The park has more than 40 miles of carriage roads, built in the early twentieth century for the enjoyment of carriage and horseback riders, hikers, and bicyclists. No motor vehicles are allowed. Roaming through the woods along the carriage roads, we found ourselves alone most of the time. A trail shortcut we discovered took us straight up to the summit of Day Mountain. Although the mountain is less than 600 feet in elevation, the views out to the Cranberry Isles were breathtaking.

Next we packed up and drove across Maine to New Hampshire. We avoided interstates and highways, instead choosing rural, two-lane roads that would take us through small towns where we could see more of New England up close. We lost our way a time or two on the winding roads, some of which did not seem to match the map in my hands. Before long my internal navigation system kicked in and we were on our way.

In New Hampshire we took an exhilarating ride up Mount Washington, the highest peak in the northeast at 6,288 feet. A steep road takes you to the summit. The mountain is covered in clouds more than half the time, including the day we visited. By the time we reached the summit, you could see no more than 100 feet in front of you. The clouds were saturated with water and although it wasn't raining, our hair and clothes were soaked just walking to the summit house. It was about 40 degrees with wind gusts of 45 mph. Needless to say we did not get any photos from the top. Observers on this mountain boast that it is “Home of the World’s Worst Weather,” including the highest wind speed ever recorded: 231 mph.

After spending the night near the state capitol building in Montpelier, Vermont, we drove south through more rural roads, enjoying the quaint little towns and covered bridges. Along the way we stopped in Chelsea, where we found a lovely cemetery situated on a hill above town. We were intrigued by one Civil War grave, that of Captain Orville Bixby of the Second Vermont Volunteer Infantry. He fought in many battles including Bull Run, Williamsburg, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, and was killed at age 29 in the Battle of the Wilderness.

Those rural roads took us to Woodstock, a quaint and historic colonial town in Vermont. We spent most of our time strolling up and down the streets, taking photos of the buildings and homes that were so lovingly preserved. One business owner in town even displayed a colonial flag with thirteen stars at the front entrance.

After Woodstock, we jumped on the interstate and zoomed into Massachusetts for the final leg of the trip. One goal we both have is to set foot in each of the 50 states during our lifetime. I had been to Massachusetts; Dave had not. We crossed the Connecticut River at the French King Bridge and returned to Manchester. Our flight home followed the same route in reverse, so again we were able to savor the sight of New York City from the air.

In two weeks we are venturing to the East Coast again, this time to our nation’s capital then on to southwestern Virginia and Appalachia. This next vacation has been a long time coming and I can’t wait!

Autumn in New England from Deborah French on Vimeo.