10.14.2008

Pennsylvania...

Trips to Pennsylvania to see the family farm are always a mixed bag - with the exception of the actual farm and a few "Sheetz" convenience stores, I hate every inch of the entire state. I'm a little bummed every time I cross the NY/PA border and find out that the Centralia mine fire hasn't stepped up and swallowed the surrounding, say, 300 mile radius. I spent two years of my undergrad career in Pennsylvania, and I believe this little nugget from the wikipedia article on the mine fire creates a nice mental picture for those of you who haven't been -


"Centralia's cemeteries now have a far greater population than the town, including one on the hilltop that has smoke rising around and out of it."


I'm pretty sure the whole state feels like that. Anyways, after the journey of 450 miles nears an end and I see the farm on the horizon, I'm able to relax and forget that I'm surrounded by, well, Pennsylvania. After the meet and greet with everyone and the mandatory post-drive nap, it's time to venture out and look for barn cats. This always makes me glad to be on the farm, and, in the absence of scotch, usually takes the edge off after nine hours in the car.


Kittens aside, the real reason we bother driving all the way out to the farm is to hang out with Sarah's family. The Frantz Whitehall Farm has been around in some form or another for the last 350 years, functioning as a tavern, a hotel, a hideout for Civil War soldiers, and of course, a real live dairy farm. Sarah's grandparents have been around for a good chunk of that history, and they always have some pretty interesting stories to tell. Sarah's grandmother, Alma, runs a vegetable stand out in front of the farm, and it's pretty impressive in that it accomplishes two things very well -


1. Selling vegetables.


2. Bringing the entire population of Waynesboro, PA by the farm every few days, ensuring you're always getting brought out and introduced to someone's uncle who bought a horse from the man who worked with your father in law when he was at the plant and needed a ride to Harrisburg but that was the year that the nice Mennonite man from the farm where we get the lettuce and say Matt can you bring this zucchini to the cooler and tell Katie I'm gonna put a roast in?


I should probably point out that Katie is Sarah - when Sarah, er Katie, was little, her family called her Katie after her middle name, Kathryn. Her mom, Kathy, noticed that when Katie went to the dentist or doctor, Katie would often get Kathy's medical records or Kathy would get Katie's "My little pony" novelty toothbrush, this upsetting both Kathy and Katie greatly and potentially setting up a long painful future of awkward first dates, ill-fitting clothes, and general malaise. Kathy made the bold decision to break with tradition and call Katie "Sarah", a moniker derived from her first name, "Sarah". Everyone on the farm, however, had developed a tendency to associate Sarah with "Katie", and thus, whenever on the farm Sarah assumes her alter ego, Hazel. Confused? You won't be after this episode of "Soap!".


After a few hours of playing with barn kittens and remembering to call Katie, "Katie", I was longing for some other source of entertainment. It was found in the form of an old BB gun sitting in a pile of hay. I quickly fetched Katie from the cooler (like in "The Great Escape", but not), and told her I needed her to join me in the barn to help in fulfilling a childhood fantasy. After an uncomfortable pause until the realization that I had said "Childhood", she agreed to help. We quickly rounded up a few old cans and improvised a shooting gallery. My last experience with a firearm was peppering paper targets with a .22 rifle in boy scouts, Katie's was shooting floating oil barrels with an anti-aircraft gun from a carrier in Navy ROTC. Despite my obvious natural advantage, Katie and I for the most part managed a tie. From 10 feet we were both lethal, hitting the cans almost every time. Once the range increased, however, the poor quality of the gun limited our ability to do much more than hit the broad side of a barn (of which two were fortunately present.) Our inner rednecks satisfied, we stashed the BB gun and went back to the normal farm business of wandering around and finding forlorn kittens.


My only complaint about spending time on the farm lately is that by the time you get the hang of doing nothing at all and enjoying it, it's already time to get back in the car. The calming effects of fresh air and good company are replaced with the depressing realization you'll soon be driving through places with names like "Scranton", "Dunmore", and "Throop". I'm pretty sure at least one of those was mentioned in my high school fitness classes as a consequence of failing to "play it safe". Before we leave we always make sure to stock up on plenty of corn, the varieties grown on the Frantz farm being the best I've ever encountered. My personal best in one sitting is seven ears, while Katie's grandfather Herb managed a frightening 22 in one ferocious contest many years ago. I can only hope to attain such greatness one day. As the farm shrinks in the rearview mirror I'm always sad to leave but already excited to make my next visit. In 350 years, this may be the greatest achievement of the Frantz Whitehall Farm - giving me a reason to be excited to visit Pennsylvania.

1 comment:

Unknown said...

You are awful critical of Pennsylvania there friend. If it wasn't for Pennsylvania, you never would have known me.