Where I grew up there is a unique right of passage. When you find yourself tall enough. To be handed an implement of winter survival. The ice scraper for the car windows. Without the scraper, vehicular travel in the northernmost climes comes to a halt. Thus the exalted significance of the position of window-scraper.
Once you get older and move away from Deep Snow Country, you lose contact with some of the essentials. Some good things. Some not so good. Suffice to say, I did not mourn the loss of the ice scraper. Many years ago. Luckily some skills become part of your survival kit early on and do not simply vanish because you change where you live. You never know when you may need them again.
As was the case this past weekend when I visited Philadelphia. I stayed in Plymouth Meeting, to the West of town. Where I was reintroduced to one of my least favorite aspects of the winter season. The ice storm. Or more appropriately, "storms", as more than one occurred during the trip. Which lead to rumination on how best to deal with the bone deep chill that an ice storm [or two] can induce even when you are dressed in your winter best cashmere blend topcoat and cap.
The first thing is not to feel sorry for yourself. Ice storms are actually productive of a beautiful tableau. When viewed from your hotel window. The tableau assumes limited significance as you are trying to keep from freezing while scraping your car windows with the key fob because your rental company failed to put a scraper in the car. As they did last year. When it wasn't needed.
The best way to not feel sorry for oneself is to go where winter ice had true historical significance. And real personal impact. Valley Forge for example. The entry to the visitor's center is very impressive, particularly dusted with snow...
And the place is vast. Washington's lines of defense were stretched thin in all directions. This photo is from the beginning of the park looking out over only one of the fields but it gives one a sense for the expanse...
...and for how exposed the troops were. In their ragged uniforms. To the wind. Rain. Snow. Ice. Eventually the soldiers were able to shelter themselves in cabins they constructed themselves...
I'll bet they were damn glad to get inside one of these [surprisingly wind-proof] little cabins. I know I was, when I probably violated about a dozen Federal laws by diving into one to hide from the horizontal ice and build up my stamina. Not for walking a perimeter post. For attempting the fifty yard traverse back to my CAR. Thank goodness I had a flask. And that its contents were made in Scotland. And not easily freezable. Sitting in this hut in my expensive top coat with my flask thinking of the troops who suffered out there with so little in the way of clothing or food was humbling to say the least. Especially when they were there for me. With no inkling that so many generations later there would be "Citizens" thanking them for the nation they created.
Suitably humbled, I staggered back through the blowing crystals and circled the Memorial Arch. Staying in the car. It is an impressive monument, even with inclement weather...
Then I had to leave the park. My first award for irony this year is based on the fact that Valley Forge was two-thirds closed that morning. Due to the weather.
In any event, I felt that further and immediate restorative efforts were in order. As I was in a Revolutionary mood, I decided to seek out a little place I know not far from Valley Forge. A place the soldiers wished had been there in 1777. Perhaps the best bar anywhere. The Whitemarsh Valley Inn.
I discovered this gem on an earlier trip. Regina the bartender is a classic. Attractive. Knowing. Attentive. In command of her bar. One of the best ever. Like Duck Warner who channels Nat King Cole in a little bar in Kansas City, Regina practices her art at the highest level in relative obscurity. She remembered me from last year. Of course that may not be that surprising. This is not a "young" or "trendy" bar. It has dim lighting. Low-ish ceiling. Great bar food. Perfect glassware. VERY fair prices. Horse races on the television. As it should be. But...not a young guy bar. Not even when you are soon fifty. Which is a great thing in my book. Just a place to hide away. Rejuvenate. Thaw out. Imbibe. You can always tell a great joint when there are a lot of entertainment glossies in the entry foyer...
And when they have the extra large "sabre" swizzle sticks...
When I went to WVI for the first time last year, there were about a dozen older gentlemen sitting at the bar. No beer drinkers here. Cocktail men. At noon. Being the new person at a small bar is not a role I shy away from. You see, I'm not exactly a shrinking violet when it comes to new bars. Or anything else for that matter. But another sign of a great bar is the way in which you are enveloped in the security of the place immediately upon sitting down. No entrance exam required. Immediate acceptance into the society of swizzlers. I placed this bar on my top five list that many minutes into my first visit. What awarded the joint Epic status was this year when I returned. At about the same time. And discovered the same guys at the same seats at the bar. My bar stool sitting there open. As last year. It is a great comfort to know that there are positive constants in the universe. Like the crowd at the Whitemarsh Valley Inn. Watching the horses on television. Ragging on Regina as she fires right back at them in a sisterly fashion. A really cool sister who happens to give you cocktails whenever you want them.
About two, an older couple came in from the sleet and were warmly greeted by Regina. They sat down at the bar and immediately ordered martinis. Up. The proper way. A hefty and admirable start for an afternoon. Albeit I was slightly ahead of them. The best moment of all was when Regina slipped away to the kitchen and came back carrying a birthday cake for a fellow who was having his 80th birthday. I think she paid for it herself. The gent looked so pleased and happy. There on his birthday. At his bar. With his chums. Regina cut big squares of cake and gave us all a piece. We regulars. Of the Whitemarsh Valley Inn.
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8 comments:
What a lovely post. I can't get over the fact that most of those soldiers at Valley Forge DID NOT HAVE SHOES. Closed for weather, indeed.
Thanks so much! I thought about the shoes too as I was freezing up there on that ridge. I don't think I would have had the authentic VF experience in July.
ML
One of those indelible images from childhood comes from my 5th grade history teacher's description of Prussian mercenaries whipping Colonials into a fighting force, by first teaching them to tie rags around their feet ... at Valley Forge.
Never been. Must go.
PS. July is when you go to Gettysburg. Don't eat the berries.
The bar...by God the bar.
What a great story. Your only mistake may have been in not keeping that place a secret.
Ben, and this was apparently a standard uniform technique for Prussians ...
Giuseppe, thanks for the visit and the comment! I was torn writing this but the joint is so great I want everyone to know about it. Lord knows, this year we will need every great bar we can find...
ML
A post with everything.
Closed because of inclement weather! That had me laughing out loud. They should be running in buses of people to experience it as it was.
Sounds like a perfect little bar. It's good to know that they still exist.
Having worked as a Park Ranger at Valley Forge just a couple observations to your delightful post.
1. You probably noticed it was very hilly. When the roads in VF are covered in ice and someone slams the brakes on...Uh, it's very bad. A bus would be tragic. The Feds are always on the look out for your safety.
2. Those cabins were built by the state of PA when it was a state park. They look nothing like the cabins in the 18th C which were built with young green saplings and dug into the ground...sometimes as much as 6 feet deep - - the cabins filled with smoke from green wood (trees tend to disappear when armies are around for more than a week) and the floors filled with water and human waste.
3. The undisciplined Continental soldiers urinated in their own cabins late at night rather than venture outside to a latrine. This caused dysentery which killed a lot more men than the cold did. Morristown was the brutal cold winter encampment of the Rev war not Valley Forge. Men died at VF from the runs.
Sometimes the truth of history is a lot more interesting than what we've been taught. Next time you're there (it's lovely in the summer with the smell of honeysuckle heavy in the air)visit Phoenixville and the Canal Street Station once known as the Fitz...a Ranger hangout from what I understand. Give me a heads up and I'll meet you there and give you a tour.
Easy, thanks for the comment and I agree we need all the great bars we can find.
Tintin, its a deal. And I'll give you a tour of the Whitemarsh Valley Inn bar. Its a short tour but a worthy one...
ML
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