It’s difficult to understand pain through numbers. A doctor may ask how bad something hurts on a scale of 1 to 10, which is almost impossible, agony is personal, and doesn’t lend itself to numeric definition. Imagine if you spread the misery over a town, or an area. How do you quantify the slow decline of an area with roots that run into the iron and steel furnaces of the industrial revolution?
That is all history, though.
Andover is a proud village, with a history of labor and toil. It has seen better days, though, many of the buildings in the town square are empty, some are falling apart. There are two thrift stores and they were filled with second hand clothes, used electronics, books, DVDs, kitchenware, books, anything people want to get rid of. Both of them took up two store fronts. Most of the restaurants had limited services and hours, waiting for tourist season. Many of the other businesses seemed to be in a suspended animation, a sort of hopeful hibernation. The biggest business in town might be the grocery store.
We stopped into a little bar and grill, not far from the lake, for dinner on Tuesday night. Cars filled the lot, there were some parked behind others stacked up, blocking them in, it was more pronounced closer to the entrance. There was a sign on the door with specific instructions “Do not let the cat inside.” The main room was filled with local people, drinking, eating, talking and studiously not noticing us.
Everybody seemed to know each other. There was a man setting at the bar with a small dog in his lap. We were obviously outsiders during the off season. It was bingo night, and there was an electric buzz in the air. A couple of people were walking around with fishbowls of seashells and handfuls of bingo cards, and they asked, politely, if we wanted to play. They seemed disappointed when we declined. We finished our pizza and left. The next night, when we drove by, the parking lot was almost empty. Bingo had been the draw. It had brought them together, a celebration, a party.
It was cold, in the low thirties, there was still snow on the ground and puddles in the roadside ditches had ice on them, everything that wasn’t frozen was sodden and swampy. We managed a quick trip to the spillway, but a pair of nesting geese kept us from getting too close, one setting a few feet off the path, the other standing right in the middle of the asphalt sidewalk, watching us with aggressive contempt. Seeing the spillway wasn’t worth irritating them.
A cold wind blew across the lake from north to south, stirring up mean looking waves. There were two or three small boats carrying well insulated fishermen, bobbing up and down, determined, in the face of bitter cold and a constant rocking, rolling, bouncing motion to catch some fish. Somehow, it seemed a perfect picture for the entire area.
We decided a trip to Ashtabula was a good idea, it was too cold and wet to hike, too cold and windy to kayak, we can always hike the urban trails of downtown sidewalks.
Ashtabula is a shadow of its past. After walking the length and width of the downtown area we only found a place to eat. It was an Irish Pub. It wouldn’t have been our first choice, but it was our only choice. It was a long, narrow place, green bunting hung from the low ceiling, tattered and fading, maybe a dying memory of Saint Patrick’s Day. Everywhere you looked there were Guinness beer signs. Everything, they said, was better with Guinness. We sat down in a small booth next to a big table with three older women and one young man.
The older women were part of a civic group, and they were planning an Easter celebration in the city. I had the distinct impression the mantle of leadership was being passed from one generation to another. It was a delightful conversation. The women seemed to have been a moving force in the city for years, planning parades, egg hunts, visits from Santa, all the important functions of polite society.
The young man listened patiently, took a few notes. He offered suggestions, he had a friend that owned a winery, a staple of a modern town of any size, and he wanted to include that business in the coming Easter festival, but the older women were hesitant. Sensing hostility he changed course, he seemed to understand he would have his day. It was reassuring to think the town was in good hands. Maybe there are better days ahead.
On our way back to our cabin we passed a huge building. A handmade furniture and bulk food store. It was in a huge, new, thoroughly modern, if slightly austere building. I’m not sure, but from the look of the giant battery next to a glowing, beeping panel it was probably solar powered. There was a sparkling clean glow on everything. In the front the store sold bulk food, in the back was a huge showroom, easily 100 yards square. It was filled with sturdy, beautiful, wood furniture. Women in Amish prayer caps worked their way through the store, cleaning, dusting, offering assistance or advice. Men with Shenandoah beards walked with serious purpose to and from the shop entrance. It was a bustling, busy place.
Customer service was more than words, we bought a loaf of bread, and told the cashier how beautiful the furniture was. She thanked us, and explained how if we found something we liked they would make it any of the wood variations, scale the size up or down, make it the piece we wanted. Custom furniture with a smile.
As we drove home, past the farms and small dying towns, it was obvious; the people who profited least from the boon of oil, iron and coal were enjoying the greatest success. They have managed, through good times and bad, to stay the course, a course they have been following for hundreds of years. They have a natural affinity for the land, and perhaps are the original Green Peace. Austerity and dedication kept them steady, and keeps them still. Prosperity is whimsical and the harder it’s pursued, the faster it runs. Some people know this, and some people don’t.
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