Croatia

Why Croatia? Why not? A whim, with a nod to Nero Wolfe, the fictional detective. His mysterious roots were from Montenegro. It sounded sounded like a romantic medieval throwback. An offer for A Women's Travel club trip to Croatia and Montenegro was just irresistible. While the majority of the time would be spent cruising between ancient seaports along the Croatian Dalmatian coast islands, there would be a day in Montenegro and another to Islamic Herzegovina.

Croatia had been under the influence of the Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman, Venetian and French empires and in the modern day the Soviet empire. Croatia, Montenegro, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Slovenia, Serbia and Macedonia had formed the Socialist Federation of Yugoslavia. Governed under Tito, Yugoslavia had been part of the communist bloc but had maintained independence from the Kremlin. With the collapse of the soviet empire, Croatia had desired an independent democratic government, the rest of the Yugoslav states did not concur. In 1990 – 1992 a civil war erupted between Croatia and the remaining counties, followed by internal fighting and religious “cleansing” between Bosnian and Serbian forces. Eventually NATO stepped in but not before historic Dubrovnik and many smaller cities were destroyed by bombing. UNESCO provided funds for the rebuilding of the historically significant sites but many towns were left in ruins. Influences of both ancient past and recent events are discernible in the current day.

The first impression of Croatia was “am I back in Sicily?” Steep rocky hillsides terraced down to the sea, the Adriatic instead of the Mediterranean in this case. Fig trees grew wild alongside the narrow hairpin highways. It seemed every house had a grape arbor and a fruit garden. The houses were constructed of white karst limestone blocks instead of golden tuffa limestone, but covered with similar red tiled roofs. Both island chains had been formed by the movement of techtonic plates pushing up the ancient seabed. That was eons ago and now the former seabed was building materials and the rugged mountain backdrop.

Fallen rocks & quarries

Down by the water's edge I could see a proliferation of masts. With a 1000 small islands nestled along the Dalmatian coastline providing snug coves and safe harbors, sailing would be a popular avocation. There were also larger motor vessels, some of the pleasure craft cruisers were larger than the smaller commercial cruise ships. Among the more conventional boats were a few historic replicas, masted pirate ships and multi-level corsairs. It was a beautiful setting.

The trip began in Dubrovnik, a historic walled town and an UNESCO world heritage site. Entering the walled city proper through the historic Pile gate, there is a view to the sea between the soaring city walls and an adjacent citadel. A party of kayakers could be seen paddling out for a patrol around the promontory. In land, just below the steps and stepped causeway to the Pile gate, was what had once been a moat. It was now a garden with blooming trees and a small flea market spread out in the shade beneath.

The entire city had been built of local limestone in the 14^th through 17^th centuries. The once rough blocks, now polished and smoothed by centuries of passing feet and stoking hands. The streets were so white and sleek that you might think the city was built of Carrera marble. The structures were a lovely mix of medieval and renaissance architecture housing both historic sites as well as modern businesses.

The main promenade and side squares were filled with throngs of tourists. With so many fascinating historic buildings it was no wonder. Just inside the main gate was a enormous circular fountain, adjacent to it a medieval monastery and one of the entrances to walk the ancient walls, ahead at the opposite end of the promenade was a luminous clock tower. The were of course a myriad of cathedrals and churches, most open to the public with small museums of reliquaries. Galleries, shops and cafes were tucked in between the major constructions.

While many buildings now were tourist oriented, judging by the backyard gardens and hanging laundry people clearly lived in the old city. In one of the plazas was a local farmer's market selling honey, fruits and vegetables. There were herbs, tomatoes, squash and greens, freshly baked breads and cookies, citrus, berries and unfamiliar fruits, which I discovered were medlars. While there were fig trees along every road, it was sadly too early in the season for their fruit.

It was a blazing hot day but I opted to “walk the walls”. After having my Dubrovnik in a day pass card punched, I climbed the first of the 1,080 stair steps which top the wall. Smooth, slippery, uneven and steep, it became quickly apparent that this was not going to be stroll but a clamber. Never the less the extraordinary view both out to sea and into the domestic yards made the effort worthwhile. The shimmering sun was reflected back over the turquoise Adriatic. What appeared to be commercial fishing boats were near the horizon, while closer to shore but so far beneath the cliff like walls were a few pleasure craft, primarily kayaks and canoes but someone was out in a skiff with a fishing pole. The were even a few hardy swimmers paddling along the rock face. In the distance was the citadel rotunda, grey and dramatic, as tall as the city walls themselves.

As the walls wrapped, new scenes came into view: The little island of Lokrum, less than a half mile off the coast, and the ancient harbor, now full of sailboats and cafes. Each steep flight of stairs led to a small open plaza, the top of the guard towers. Once they would have had a contingent of armed men on watch, now each housed it's own cafe or refreshment kiosk. With the exposed walls and beating sun, the sales of beverages and ice cream were brisk.

The enclosed yards below the walls were primarily residential with few cafe kitchens thrown in alongside them, judging by the occasional clattering of pans and shouted voices. Clothes lines with drying laundry waved above pocket gardens planted with fruit trees and short rows of vegetables. Recorded music wafted from an open window. Tables and chairs underneath a canopy made an attractive rooftop plaza on an adjacent house. In one small yard was a magnificent multi-story citrus tree, glowing orange orbs of grapefruits sprinkled amid the stiff verdant foliage. A wisteria vine climbed alongside the tree, lavender flowers contrasting with the green and orange like examples on a color wheel.

Traversing the majority of the walls, I came upon the last entrance/exit staircase and realized that the last leg was a 45 degree climb. Hiking around I had been constantly in fear of being jostled by the passing crowds and slipping on the polished steps. Would I be better off to tumble into some unsuspecting person's backyard, crashing through a vine-covered lanai, leaving a dreadful mess or fall over the ramparts and eventually drift out into the Adriatic? Other aspects of Dubrovnik history beckoned, down I climbed.

Wandering through the side streets towards the Pile gate, I tried to avoid the crowds. Sneaking along the smaller alleyway I came across several buildings which posted pictures of their appearance before and after the 1994 bombings and after the UNESCO rebuild. Looking at the buildings before, now and their unbombed adjacent counterparts, the repairs were indiscernible. Where did they find the craftsman to work such magic? 

Later in on the island, I would find part of the answer.

Montenegro, Kotor the bay and beach

Before embarking for the Dalmatian Islands there was a day trip and ferry ride to the walled city of Kotor in Montenegro. The Bay of Kotor has an unusual shape, like a butterfly with long hind wings or a bow with the ends trailing into the Adriatic. It seemed to be three or four smaller bays joined together. For a different scenic view and to avoid the long drive around, we embarked on a ferry. From the water the unique points of land were apparent. One maritime vista after another came into view as we passed the mouths of each section of the bay. The narrow openings between the “wings” had led medieval residents to string chains across the bay to prevent incursions in wartime.

Like Dubrovnik, Kotor was under the rule of every empire and kingdom in the region but is now most noted for the town built during the 400 years as a part of the Venetian Republic. The city walls, domestic and church architecture and plazas all reflect the Venetian influence. The walls themselves face the harbor, run along a a river front canal moat then climb up 3 miles the mountain cliff face, around the Fortress of St. John (1200 steps!) and return to enclose the city. The dramatic Harbor Gate, features an adjacent large plaque of the Venetian Lion holding a book. An open book means the walls were built during a period of peace, the city welcoming commerce, a closed book indicating a period of warfare when security issues would dominate. A smaller South gate further along the harbor has a whimsical doll seated alongside.

Kotor does seems to have a sense of humor, judging by the giant doll, the popular cat gallery and the proliferation of the errant animals, lounging around town. Being a much smaller and compact city with less modern tourists than Dubrovnik, it is easy to imagine a step back in time to the 15^th century. Constrained by the fortified walls the paved streets lead from one of four main plazas to another, interconnected by narrow alleyways. While the plaza by the main gateway was dominated by trinket shops and cafes, the back streets housed shoemakers, opticians and artisans. The sort of thing you would expect in anytown. Perhaps because of less crowds of sightseers, Kotor seemed more picturesque and less frantic than Dubrovnik. Each avenue lined by architecturally interesting houses and each open plaza fronting a church or cathedral. All in all, it was place was would like to linger. 

On the way back to Dubrovnik, a lunch stop in the beach town of Budya was more interesting for the un-repaired examples of wartime strife on the modern buildings than for the small and comparatively unremarkable walled old town. A small church with beautiful frescoes was the highpoint.

Bosnia-Herzegevenia

A long bus ride to Mostar in Herzegovenia was marked by two trips through serious border patrols and a drive through the “no-man's land” which remains as post war-buffer. The peculiar interlaced coastal borders of Croatia and Bosnia make the most direct route from Dubrovnik to Mostar, out of Croatia into Bosnia back into Croatia and back into Bosnia,with border patrols at every interval. At least they don't have some joint task force at no man's land as well. For the past ten years plans have been underway to build a bridge from the end of a Croatian peninsula to the mainland circumventing the Bosnian pass-through. The progress on this project, so far, being a single tall crane setting abandoned at the proposed site. 

Hustling out of Dubrovnik early to avoid long lines at the border, we drove through the neat limestone houses and snug gardens of the coastal Croatian suburbs to more rural inland areas. Small farms clung to the sides of mountains, with the rows of vineyards and the occasional cow or sheep grazing on narrow terraces. The checkpoints were uneventful, albeit a bit nerve wracking, handing over our stack of passports to the grim faced armed guards.

Back on the road without substantial delays, the traverse through the depressing post-apocalyptic scene of no-man's lands was a contrast to the Croatian progress. Nature was well on its way to reclaiming the landscape but the actions of men both during the war and more currently were less uplifting. Abandoned roadside towns and farms, pockmarked by bombing and decorated by faded graffiti, now had trees growing through the roofs. All along the road was trash, piles of trash, not just the occasional wrapper or bottle strewn out a car window but bags of garbage. No man's land was a dump. Our Croatian guide blamed the Russians, at least she didn't point a finger at the Bosnians. She had a point, while the highway was less maintained after the next checkpoint, it was clear of trash. Russian tourists, eh?

After a pleasant drive along the Neretva river we arrived in Mostar. The town is divided by the river into Christian and Moslem cliques. Our goal was the ancient Moslem section but we parked in the modern facilities of the Christian side. The name Mostar derived from “bridge keepers”. The dominant feature of the town is the Stari Most arched bridge across the Neretva. Originally built in the 16^th century it was rebuilt to historic accuracy by UNESCO after the 1990s war. One of the intentions of the designer, Sinan, must have been to slow invaders. The bridge is steeply inclined, paved with irregular limestone cobbles and consequently perilous for the less than sure footed. In fact all of the streets in the historic turkish style old-city had the same smooth but uneven cobbles. In the rain, a tour across the Stari Most and through town would be a double adventure.

The crowds and steep slope did not deter a spirited tourist oriented business. For a fee young men would leap from the the bridge into the rushing Neretva. Several handsome young men stood partially stripped, while an older fellow tried to drum up business. Judging from the gestural conversation, this was a standard but off the cuff event. Additional young men stopped by to see if they could join the jump; they appeared to be discussing the potential revenue with the older fellow. This afternoon they were few takers interested in paying to video jumpers. The older man waved his hands in disgust and told all the boys to get dressed. Not a lucrative day in the Stari Most high-jinks business. A few onlookers seemed more disappointed when the young fellows covered themselves up, than to have missed the immersion into the Neretva.

While the Christian side of town has rebuilt in a very modern style, the Moslem side looks untouched from the late middle ages. The narrow winding main thoroughfare is lined with small shops hawking souvenirs. The effect made me think of an open air version of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. The cobbled streets were laid in geometric and even floral motifs. Would the designs have helped travelers making their way in the dark? The decorative patterns continued into the historic recreation of a typical house in the Ottoman style.

The compound's high walls enclosed a small cobbled courtyard with lined with benches, centered around a small fountain and pool. The potted plants and fountain were familiar features seen in any traditional Turkish residence. The overhanging porch, shaded lower level lounge and airy upstairs men's room were also in evidence. Females had to make do with smaller enclosed quarters, their only respite from Summer heat would be to sit by the fountain in the walled courtyard. All the rooms featured minimal furniture. Hard benches, which like the floor, were covered in rugs and a number of small movable tables. The tables were more large ornamental brass trays setting upon intricately carved wooden folding bases. The essence of the nomadic tent recreated in the fixed structure.

A small mosque bombed during the war and now recreated for tourism concluded our tour. The small mosque had been built by the local leather workers. They had been unwelcome in the main mosque due to the lingering aroma of their leather tanning supplies. Given that traditional leather tanning is most often effected using urine and brain matter, the craftsman could have been quite malodorous. This historic factor was the most interesting feature of the site. As it had been built by and for poor workmen, it lacked the beautiful fretwork, tiles or decorative painting typical of major mosques.

As we wandered back through the bazaar-like main street, I was looking for a few small commemorative items. There were cast models of the Stari Most, spun Aluminum miniature Turkish coffee sets, even tall metal-encased coffee, spice or pepper grinders. Many textiles from paisley Pashmina knockoffs to “Mostar” on woolly caps and scarves were on display, all made of acrylic. All the souvenirs were marked made in China! Finally off to the side, I found a little shop selling tinned brass items. The elderly shop owner was engraving a small pot as I entered. While a samovar might not be either useful or portable, miniature Turkish coffee pots could be used to serve any fluid. This was more what I had in mind, clearly handmade and marked from Bosnia.

We wandered back over the perilous bridge to the Christian side of town, found a restaurant and lunched on a porch overlooking the Neretva, with the vista of the bridge and old town as a backdrop. Lovely and the food was excellent. From this perspective we could really appreciate the river. It curved and flowed rapidly with enough boulders to create attractive ripples and a bit of white water. Aside from the flashes of white, the river was a brilliant emerald green, gorgeous and distinctive. The return bus ride to Croatia was uneventful aside from a bit of anxiety at border control. The next day we would make a final walk through Dubrovnik, then board our boat for the islands.

Traditional Arts and Other Crafts

Are they Art or Craft?

On the appointed Saturday, we planned our pilgrimage to the Nakashima workshop. It is located on the outskirts of New Hope. We had never been to New Hope, which was billed as a picturesque historic town. On the following Sunday, in Allentown was to be an “Outsider Art” festival. The festival was to be held at Cedar Creek Park the same location as the Science Center we had previously visited. We decided to stay over in the centrally located Tohickton Campground again. The wooden covered bridge welcomed us.

New Hope is as discreetly upscale as Beverly Hills is ostentatious. As we passed the new state of the art Firehall, I was impressed by the excellent architecture. How to make a utilitarian public building blend into a colonial background without sacrificing any of the practical aspects. The actual downtown was as picturesque as it had been billed. Small brick buildings lined the winding street leading over a footbridge. There were more

“modern american / asian fusion” cafes and craft art galleries than I could count. The crafts were definitely a cut above T-shirt shop souvenir level but never the less resembled many other crafty collections. Interspersed with the eateries were more shopperies, every better brand seemed to be represented. Attractive or not, not really my kinda place. My preference tends towards funky family-run hole in the walls and crowded charity-run thrift shops. Francis was thoroughly unimpressed; he was dreaming of Nakashima Saturday.

The Nakashima Studio Workshop is technically in New Hope but out of town in a forest setting. Access even with directions written and digital led down one rural lane into another. The farms and woodland estates were wide spread, so the house numbers were hard to follow. Did we miss that turn? Yes, we did. Did we pass the house number? Yes, we did. By the time we arrived, we had made as many U turns as conventional ones. We would have passed the studio a second time but for sighting a glimpse of sukiya style walls though the foliage. We were a bit early and the parking lot was largely empty. No one seemed apparent and we wandered around unescorted. 

While I am careful not to touch or meddle with anything, I have tend to ignore “do not enter” signs. I call out for advice and if no one responds I discreetly peer in and explore. This I must admit to doing in the actual wood working area. There was table being clamped on a worksurface. It was fascinating to me to observe the position and type of clamps used to construct the furniture. Which tools were actually used? A combination of japanese chisels and hand tools, supplemented by normal home power hand tools and a few top of the line floor units.

Slipping back on the approved tour, there was an smaller workshop open to the public. It was used for chair construction, no power tools here, and the parts ready for assemble were as shapely as any craft sold in the stores downtown. For a wood worker it was very informative to see the kinds of adhesives and finishing materials used. Next we proceeded to the sales room. A Nakashima niece welcomed us, distributing maps of the complex and provided a bit of family history. While an actual furniture item would be out of my price range, a catalog of current work was a good souvenir and funded the Nakashima Peace Project. It had been formed by George Nakashima as a non-profit dedicated to supporting world peace initiatives.

The sales room was a beautiful structure in its own right, as well as display room of phenomenal samples. Built in a traditional style of natural wood, the walls, floors and doors had achieved the deep glow of antique furniture. Delicate handmade paper set in hardwood frames screened the area while a wall of windows brought the forest outside into the space. It was a glorious fusion of traditional Japanese technique and sensibilities with modern American lifestyle. This was just the showroom. The refined beauty awaited us in the studio office. George Nakashima had taken the craft of woodworking and turned it into an artform glorifying the souls of trees.

Along the way, the previously empty workroom was now staffed. Photos in “The soul of a tree” showed a much younger man working with George Nakashima, this was one of his old hands. The gentleman at work was muttering about his glue not setting the way he wanted and reclamping his project. It was reassuring to think that even someone with decades of experience ran into problems. I shyly called out to him, could there possibly be a little scrap of wood, of which he would be disposing? A chunk of wood from Nakashima's workshop would be for me a perfect souvenir. He laughed and came over with a handful of beautifully grained mahogany cutoffs. Lovely samples of the grace in wood.

George Nakashima had begun as an architect. While now best known for his furniture, he had continued to experiment with building techniques. At his New Hope home he developed several cutting edge concrete roof systems, which one could see on his workshop buildings. The buildings each had unique contours, again combining Japanese tradition and .Mid-century Modern aesthetics. In the studio office we discovered extraordinary pieces on display, the interior itself was a gem and a six foot tall and wide burl screen was truly one of a kind.

Seated in a chair, greeting the gawkers was a fellow, who I thought bore a resemblance to some photos I had seen of the Nakashima family. He had a devilish sense of humor, aligned with Francis' and they were soon teasing each other about work in general and woodworking in particular. Indeed he was George's son, Kevin. I was entralled to meet the son of a personal hero. It was also a treat for me to see further echoes of my personal taste repeated; Kevin was wearing a large Navaho Belt buckle. Navaho sandcast work is a penchant of mine. When I admired his belt, he wanted to talk about silver and collecting. Kevin was happy to chat about any topic, lumber or jewelry! He had to turn his attentions to other visitors and we went downstairs to tour the stored lumber. Stacks of matched flitches, interesting odd shaped random slabs, perfect for chairs or small benches. The entire basement was full of drying hard wood boards, all emitting a smoky incense-like aroma. A feast for our eyes and a rich perfume to our noses.

As we wandered back up stairs, a petite older woman was entering the studio, in her hand she carried a Martin guitar case. Mira Nakashima! Since her Fathers death in 1990 she had not only filled the orders, recreating some of her Father's classic designs, but also created new Mira classics. She used the same method and techniques which she had learned in childhood, analyzing each tree trunk for the best cuttings, each piece of lumber for it's best use and hand marking each section for the best application. 

Pointing out the guitar case to Francis with a whispered “Mira”, he immediately began discussing wood and music. Indeed in the guitar case, was the Nakashima number one Dreadnought. She said, she now mostly played at church. Truly I felt it was an honor to meet his descendants, practical and familial, carrying on his aesthetic vision and, through the Peace Foundation, his ethical vision.

Having truly had an multifaceted experience we drove back to our campsite for a quiet evening. One does meet interesting people in a campground. Setting in front of a small camper next to us was large English Bulldog. While I made friends with the beast, Francis chatted with the owner. She was a mobile on-line programmer, living and working out of her RV. As long as she had internet she could work, supporting herself and the beast in comfort. They traveled throughout the country together living on their own terms on their own schedule. She was just one of many modern nomads we met on our short trips. 

Once my mental image had been folks living hermit-like off the grid, staying on undeveloped abandoned property or Bureau of Land Management vacant areas. Certainly, those folks have been and still are out there. This is a new movement, in part created by the internet. Community minded travelers, gainfully employed tax-payers creating a new mobile economy. The younger generation tends to have well paid on-line tech jobs, while their elders, often having reared a family conventionally or recently retired, move from temporary job to another. Nearby large seasonal sorting and packing houses (think Walmart or Amazon at Xmas) free campsites are provided to encourage these migrant workers to congregate. There are online communities to keep them digitally connected and mailing services to keep them physically connected. Artisans also found this nomadic life appealing. Character actors would appear in Renaissance Festivals during the season, take the roles of clerks, cooks and bottle washers off-season. Craft fairs we discovered also attracted their followers.

As the modern nomads were creating a outsider social community. In Allentown, they were encouraging an outsider art community, with it turned out an overlap of the two. On Sunday, we returned to Cedar Creek Park for the Outsider Arts Festival. Arrayed along one side of the Creek were booths and pavilions. An interesting variety of musical performances were in process. Emo local composers alternated with spoken word poetry, sonic jazz or Asian throat singing. There was something for every outre taste. In the various booths were examples of varied crafts, t-shirts with comic logos, painted plaques with motivational sayings, beaded jewelry. It was thematically a bit different from the usual craft fair but really just the same stuff.

All except in one booth. There was one booth with something neither Francis nor I had ever seen before. Engraved and stained into a variety of wooden objects were fine scraffito lines resembling bonsai trees or lightening strikes. It appeared to be some kind of wood burning technique but how would one create those fine fractal patterns? There was an old wooden kitchen table ennobled with these elegant motifs, kitchen chairs with similar designs on the back supports, as well as smaller treen. I was excited, something new and different! Clearly I was not alone in my interest as virtually every item was marked sold. The charming young woman staffing the booth explained that her boyfriend was the artisan so she was not exactly sure how it was done. They were semi-nomadic often traveling from one town to another for their craft fairs. She did divulge that the decorative motifs were a burning technique and involved a microwave transformer. This would become the kernel of a research project. For reference, they are called Litchenberg Figures, named after a 18^th century German physicist. Ya' never know where you'll learn something new!

While Francis and I found the outsider art rather conventional, albeit with a new wave twist, across the Creek at Cedar Creek College there was an on going, very traditional but to us wholly weird display. We discovered a marching band, drum majorette, baton twirling competition! Hoards of college students bedecked in colorful regalia were practicing their tunes and moves. The bands and drummers were all in quasi-military uniforms while the baton twirlers and flag tossers looked more cheerleaders. There were surely cheerleaders in the crowd as well. There were capes flapping, brass buttons gleaming and ostrich feather plumes flying on tall crowned hats. The cacophony of brass and drums at a dozen different tempos blended into a cheerful assault combined with the instructional shouts from group leaders. There were dance moves, gymnastic flips and tricky step maneuvers. Was this sport or an art form?

 Off to the side, we encountered a drum team practicing. They discussed the beats using a symbolic language. It sounded like they were speaking in Morse code, dit dah dit. Francis went over to discuss the drumming system with them. He recognized their chat as being very similar to the konnakkol system used by Indian Drummers, a system which can be traced back to prehistoric times. The young collegians had never heard of Indian rhythmic mnemonics. They were interested to learn that they were echoing an ancient tradition, vocalizing as a technique to communicate beats. Drumming is considered high art in India, but to these young men it was just technique. 

It is all a matter of perspective, from ours the college kids on the Creek were far more creative and rather bizarre compared to the outsiders on the left bank. Similarly, we had found a number of unexpected locales in calm rural Pennsylvania. Along the way we had once again been confronted with the quandary: What is the division between art and  craft? When does technique turn beauty into emotion? 

Further Adventures in PA 

Pyramids, Roasting Corn and Solar Power

Between New Hope and Allentown, is Quakertown. While Quakertown has its suburban aspects, most of the area is extremely rural. Small farms, picturesque barns and old stone houses dominate the rolling hillsides. Tohickton Creek runs through the town. We found a wonderful campground right alongside the Creek. The entrance to the campground is through an old covered wooden bridge and the ruins of an old mill sits by the main gate. The campground office is housed in an ancient stone foundation barn. There was a new swimming pool, a large bath house and even a cafe on site. A perfect combination of bucolic splendor and modern conveniences.

While the camp ground was located just a short drive from our destinations, the area of Bucks County was so attractive we found ourselves driving around just to look at the structures. Francis would drive and I'd tell him slow down or stop, in order that I could photograph the beautifully maintained stone houses and the equally attractive run down wooden barns. Just along the lane from the campground was a perfectly picturesque rusted pickup truck next to a faded wood barn surrounded by old trees. It was a picture postcard.

While on one of these scenic drives we were astounded to see a field stone pyramid and a white pillared replica of a roman temple. What was lurking in Bucks County? We later returned so I could investigate. It is called Beverly Hall and has housed a Rosicrucian Order since 1899! 

In addition to the temple and three pyramids, one of which is a flowing fountain, there is a gazebo with a replica of the winged Venus of Somethrace, several traditional stone houses and two enormous solar collector arrays. As though the juxtaposition of Ancient Greece, Egypt and Rome with colonial architecture was not odd enough, the ultra-modern banks of solar collectors pushed the scene to bizarre.

Throughout the grounds were somewhat abandoned gardens. Two ponds filled out the bottom of the gentle hillside. The gazebo overlooked one, which was filled with lotus blossoms just beginning to go into seed pods. Nearby the stone houses lay a small lake of water lilies. 


There were a number of gardeners planting roses in structured beds around the pyramids. They told me that the site had been closed and gardens neglected for some time due to litigation between the Rosey leadership but now was going to reopen to the public. There had been over five hundred roses what had been a memorial garden and they intended to return it to its former glory. Instead of tombstones, cremation ashes were placed under a rose bush. This burial option is available to anyone, whether or not they were members of the sect. The memorial garden was not a somber spot. It had been a popular spot both for quiet contemplation and for events, such as weddings. When the roses bloom in the garden and the lotus and lilies open in the pond, it will be a glorious display!

The Clymer family had been involved from the beginning. Beverly Hall is on Clymer Road. Dr. Clymer had incorporated the Hall in 1909. The family was apparently still active in the area. Several signs had indicated the Clymer dairy farm; no notation whether they were affiliated with the Rosey Church but it seemed likely. In any case, the campground cafe served Clymer Dairy ice cream and it was the best creamiest, most delicious ice cream I have every tasted. When I brought Francis, who rarely finishes a portion, a scoop: he sent me back to get him another serving! If you see Clymer Dairy ice cream, try it.

Tohickton Campground was 20 minutes from Allentown. While one thinks of Allentown as gritty industrial; there are more rural areas of the City. One such is the location of the Museum of Indian Culture, on bucolic Fish Hatchery Road. Across nearby a riding stables and a fishing supply shop, you would think you were back in Bucks County. The Roasting Ears of Corn Festival brought together a wide array of tribes. 

The Lenni Lenape also called the Delaware were the indigenous people of Eastern Pennsylvania. The tribe settled from the Chesapeake to the Great Lakes. Local legend had it that Walker Lake had been owned by a Lenape tribal chief. He had operated as a rum runner during prohibition, trading ownership of the land to avoid prosecution for his illegal bootlegging. The chanting, dancing and regalia at a Pow Wow is always fascinating. This one would provide the opportunity to discover our local history, as well.

The Lenni Lenape were peaceful farmers, without dramatic performance art or regalia. Never the less, the recreation of a Lenape home and hearth and the explanations of their farming cooking and lifestyle were fascinating to me. Francis was more intent or capturing the varied rhythms of the chants and processions. There were fire dancers from South America, Women's dance groups from the far West, children's dances in which the elders threw candy on the ground for the “little chicks to peck at”. All day long the drums and flutes played and the dancers went round and around. The tempo was hypnotic and I found myself irresistibly swaying to it as I wandered around. In booths off to the sides of the central dance space were the vendors. These were fine craft not made-in-china replicas, all impressive hand work. 

The vendor which most attracted my attention was a musician who blended the traditional with modern. Arvel Bird had written a symphony retelling the story of Paiute / Irish youth coming to terms with his mixed heritage through music. The artist explained to me that the 18th century story was also his own personal tale as a native american / anglo musician. Whether playing an Indian flute or a European violin, the rhythms of that drumming still rang clearly through throughout the composition. The event was not all educational, high art and splendid regalia, there was also food. A variety of Native American inspired recipes were available. We tried the venison chili/stew and squash and corn chowder with the ubiquitous fry bread, all very tasty!

Staff from the nearby Da Vinci Science Center were at the Pow Wow, promoting Science Education and distributing information about the Solar Eclipse the following day. The Da Vinci Science Center is next to Cedar Creek Park, alongside Cedar Crest College. The Creek runs between the the Science Center and the College with a long linear green park continuing along both sides. It is an unexpected scene compared to the gray main drag of Allentown.

The Science Center housed a number of interesting exhibits about our minds and bodies and the world around us. The exhibits were scaled to a young audience but were never the less of interest to adults. Most of the exhibits had a hands-on interactive aspect. The area on brain function had puzzles. A series on energy sources had a number of interactive displays with different types of solar and water power generation.

Today the Center was crowded with eclipse watchers. Eclipse day had attracted both families with children, students from the College and older duffers like ourselves. Viewing glasses were available and people were passing them around sharing the limited supply. Others had brought cereal boxes to make pin hole cameras. It was a festive atmosphere; the science carnival was underway. We toured the exhibits inside, then borrowed a pair of glasses at the peak of the eclipse. In Allentown, the sun was almost 75% occluded but the day seemed as bright as any other. The power of the sun is so immense that even 25% is blinding. The experience outside put the solar energy exhibits inside the center into perspective.