Me and My Shadow

Me and My Shadow

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

5/10/10

Fairfield, CT – Mother to three children. Girl Scout leader for 10 years. Girls soccer coach for 2 years. Constant chauffeur. Home camp supervisor. Always unselfishly doing for others. Now it’s her turn and her time and the road is her escape.

When Kathleen Silva Tempini, or simply “Kate”, which is what she prefers to be called, rode up and parked her Honda Shadow across from my lawn-based tag sale on a recent spring day, she turned heads and immediately attracted a gathering. Not only was her gleaming cruiser-style motorcycle a beauty, she was a beauty. At 55, slim and clad in stone-washed jeans, suede Mephisto boots and a fur-collared brown leather jacket, her red-highlighted mane of brown hair tumbled down to her shoulders when she removed her pink helmet and sea green eyes sparkled like the sun glinting off the surface of a Caribbean sea. This wasn’t a casual jaunt on a bike but a “look at me, I’m free” statement, though she would tell you that that was not intentional.

I had to know more about this unique individual as I knew there’d be a story to tell here. She agreed to divulge the details, meeting up with me several days later at a tranquil, marina-adjacent park spot on Fairfield’s oceanfront.

Earliest Inspiration

As we sat at a picnic table under a shady tree, Kate offered that she was born and raised in Monroe, CT, one of four girls in her family, a middle child with an identical twin. Her dad was a professional truck driver, mom was a homemaker.

“I always had the feeling that I could try anything at least once and cross gender boundaries. To that regard, Dad took us all fishing on Sunday mornings and clamming… he had us paint the house, help move furniture, gut and clean fish, take wiggly eels off a hook, horseback ride. So why not try a cheaper version of the horse?”

She started humbly at first. Dad had a “sit-down” lawnmower and Kate “ran it so much that it ran out of oil and cracked the block.” As punishment, her dad made her mow the yard with a push mower the rest of that summer. She had a go-kart, too, with a little motor. Monroe was very rural back in the 50s and 60s when she was growing up there, so there was a lot of room for riding around.

First Bike

Kate’s first bike was a 1972 Honda CT90, purchased used from a woman in 1978, when Kate was 23. This model was a tough, inexpensive and reliable single-cylinder Trail cycle that, notably, the Hondells immortalized in a 1964 song called “Little Honda”, written by Beach Boys leader Brian Wilson. The song referred to the cycle as “a groovy little motorbike.” As Kate explains, “It was popular, and marketed to attract couples… all-purpose.” Indeed, tens of millions were sold since they were introduced in 1959.

She fondly remembers, in particular, the summer of 1980 when, as a student on break from Johnson and Wales University, she took the bike out to Block Island. Its 2-speed torque, small size and easy handling allowed her to ride on the sand and go watercress picking, fishing and beaching… or just cruise in the dunes.

Kate held on to the bike, shipping it from place to place, through married life and children, and still has it in her garage. She had a mechanic service it, got it running again and taught both of her daughters – Laura, 18, a senior at Roger Ludlowe High School, and Holly, 16, a sophomore at the same school – to ride as well as one of her daughter’s boyfriends. “C’mon, Joe. Don’t be a p---sy!”, she said to the lad when he expressed that he was a little afraid of trying it. He overcame his fear and now he’s welcome to just come over and take the bike out at will.

A Re-Awakening

“When my son [Bryan, now 19 and an extreme snowboarder living out in Lake Tahoe, CA], who at the time was a junior in high school, said, ‘You care too much about the family and not about yourself,’ I reinvented myself.” Within a few months, she redid her resume and landed a job as an ultrasound technician with a local fertility practice. The latter related to a degree she had earned as a Registered Diagnostic Medical Sonographer. Kate loves the position – “The first heartbeat… unbelievable… I can’t imagine being any happier or more fulfilled… except when I’m riding.”

After raising three kids over the past 20 years (the last 16 of which have been spent in the Fairfield Beach Area), juggling a full daily schedule as a result of having an absentee husband busy with work commitments, running a day camp (“Camp Tempini”) out of her home, serving as a Girl Scout leader, coaching girls soccer and shuttling her son to paintball competitions and BMX biking facilities, she realized her own sense of self had gotten lost in the mix.

“When Bryan left for college two years ago, I felt somewhat abandoned. I never thought about who I was or what I liked. I unselfishly thought about the kids. I got the old bike running and started riding everywhere, doing errands, etc.” But this was not enough.

“I decided I needed to get a bigger bike… like I wanted to go further, not just around town, and needed something more reliable,” she concluded. “My little bike would crap out when I put the headlight on. I started looking for a small cruiser-style bike.”

Bike II

 “I looked on eBay and found a 250cc Honda Rebel that belonged to a little old man in Pennsylvania. It was pearl white. I’ve always been loyal to brands and wanted another Honda… and I knew local instruction classes were conducted on Honda Rebels, so I figured it would be reliable,” reasoned Kate.

“I rented a truck from Enterprise, motored to this little trailer park in Altoona, PA and paid $3,000 cash to the seller,” she said. And though it was apparent that the man’s health was in decline, “he rode that bike right up the wooden ramp into the truck with a last hurrah!” remembered Kate, an amused grin spreading across her face.

The upgrade meant she would need to get a license, which she described as a “hard” process. “Practicing maneuvers, panic stops and serpentines down at the marina in Fairfield proved to be a great training ground. I obtained my permit and prepared for the test. On test day, I steeled myself and rode rather shakily on 95 down to Norwalk. Believing body language accounts for a lot, I tried to look tough but was terrified. All the riders gathered. Talk about intimidating… I was one woman amongst 21 men. Somewhere in the middle of the group, I was called. My raw fear took over, I stalled the bike, could not repeat any of my previously mastered skills on the course and subsequently failed.”

That could have been the end of it, but Kate returned to the DMV. “One of the nicest employees there returned my paperwork and gave me a huge dose of empathy. She said, ‘Honey, those boys just ate you up alive. You come back in two weeks and try again.’ So, through tears and thoughts of resignation, I rescheduled a repeat test… and passed! The rest is history. Now I feel like Pippi Longstocking flying in the breeze and nearly always sing to myself while riding.” Smiling, she adds, “My daughter did not always like me showing up at Field Hockey practice on my bike, so I keep it low key when I need to. But inside I am on Broadway singing my heart out, riding and steering the bike like a good cutting horse.”

Kate held onto the bike for about a year and a half then sold it to a 19-year-old woman, last fall. “I felt I’d outgrown it, and had begun to entertain the thought of joining a motorcycle group. I knew I would need more than 250cc’s to keep up.”

Out of the Shadows  

“This spring, the weather has been so nice. I got the little Honda out, but just had a yearning for a bigger bike. I knew I wanted another cruiser, another Honda. I went on eBay again and found a Honda Shadow at a Honda dealer in Hicksville, Long Island,” Kate related. Specifically, the bike is a 2007 Honda Shadow VTX Deluxe 600cc, “a stepping stone” Kate says from her last bike and a good fit for her 5’7” build.

About retrieving the bike, she explained, “I drove in my husband’s truck to the dealer, brought the bike back to J and R’s (an auto repair shop on the Post Road in Fairfield) and backed up to the lift.” John and Ronnie (the proprietors) wheeled the bike out (the bike weighs 600 pounds) and supported it as the lift lowered.

“I left my husband’s truck right there, got on the bike and rode it home… no plate, no nothing, I was so excited. I was hooting and hollering (inside) like I was in my own parade!” she gushed, then added, “It’s got a fat-ass back tire, that makes me feel good.”

New Beginnings

A friend recognized the purchase by gifting her a silver “Guardian Bell”, with the engraving “Lady Rider” on it, which now hangs from the front area of her bike. Legend has it that Evil Road Spirits have been latching themselves on to motorcycles for as long as there have been bikes on the road, and are thought to be responsible for mechanical problems and bad luck on a journey. The theory is that, by attaching a small bell onto your bike, the spirits will become trapped inside the bell. There, the constant ringing drives them insane, making them lose their grip and fall to the ground. Apparently the bell is twice as powerful when given by a friend or loved one to the rider, as in Kate’s case.

Kate has also purchased a pink helmet. “I wanted to look like a woman. Once, at Okemo Mountain when I was on a chair lift with a helmet and goggles on, I was mistaken for a man by a ski patrolman who was speaking in a gruff, inappropriate way for mixed company. As I got off the lift, he nudged me and said, ‘Have a good day buddy.’ When I said thanks in my obviously female voice, he became embarrassed and apologized.”

She also plans to buy a windshield and might ride with an iPod. As to clothing, she is “horrified by Harley gear,” favoring equestrian-style riding chaps, her leather jacket and boots with “no square tip”. In cooler weather, she sports a “neck gator”, a fitted neck cuff made of polar fleece patterned with musical notes that relate to her interest in singing Broadway show tunes. “I grew up playing guitar with my sisters and singing whatever my father called upon us to perform… usually ‘The Sound of Music’.”

A Woman in the Wind 

“I was pumping gas recently and someone told me about a women’s motorcycle club that meets in Bethel,” Kate noted. The person was referring to the Nutmeg Chapter of a national organization called “Women in the Wind”. “I looked them up and felt I’d find fellowship, with nobody rushing you. I would like to stop at garage sales and antique shops. Each chapter has its own flavor. I just joined. There are seven or eight women in the group. They are very open, affirming to new members, and accept any age, background and riding ability.” She laughs then, thinking about one fellow member, “She’s a hairstylist and has a purple bike. She’s ultra-feminine.”

“I can call one of them up when I get out of work at noon and say, ‘let’s go riding’. I like the solitude, the smell of the lilacs, that briny smell by the sea.”

This is a woman set loose. “I’m planning my first long-distance ride, to Poughkeepsie (NY), with the group. In mid-July, we’ll go up for the Summer Nationals (a “Women in the Wind” meet to which all U.S. chapters are invited). Then, who knows from there!”

Like a line from the Al Jolson tune “Me and My Shadow”, for Kate, life going forward “is gonna be we-wow-whee for my shadow and me!”

     

Bin There, Done That

Bin There, Done That

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

5/9/10 

Milford, CT – Lilting lounge music. Late day sun streaking through stylishly patterned floor-to-ceiling shades. Star- and diamond-shaped fabric light covers. Asian-influenced architectural splashes. Tastefully integrated earth tones – browns, beiges and burnt reds. It seemed like just the right setting for sampling tapas and wine… and that’s what I was here to do.

The week before, an email promoting the activity, from Fairfield-based Harry’s Wine & Liquor Market, dropped into my inbox. They were providing wines for the event. Serving as the host site was Bin 100 Restaurant in Milford. And benefiting from it all, the local Boys & Girls Village, which would receive 5% on all wine purchases.

I sat in a chair next to a few other folks in a “staging” area provided before the event’s official start. When I asked a local couple what had spurred them to attend, the male half of the duo replied, “My mom. She comes in here a lot… and it was something to do. We usually go out Thursday nights.” Another local strolled up and asked, “Are we sitting?” Someone replied, “I think we’re waiting for the starting gun.” Added another, “Or the first pop of a cork!”

The sommeliers busily assembled their wares on long tables draped with white cloths. There were four stations in all – two on each side of a partition in one large free-flowing space. The wine representatives included Corvo Wines, Winebow, New England Wine & Spirits and Maja Imports. Discussion between them was amusing and thick-accented, and touched on international subjects like World Cup Soccer.

Each of us participants was ultimately outfitted with a wine glass. The couple beside me was joined by an elegant-looking woman (presumably the gentleman’s mom) and her friend… and moments later we were off and sipping.

I figured I would follow the table number order, so began with Table #1, Corvo. The station was manned by Walter Sullivan, a northern Fairfield resident and Market Manager for CT, RI and Massachusetts. He was a nattily dressed old fox with a blue blazer, khakis, a pastel pink dress shirt and tie.

Meaning “crow” in Italian, Corvo is based in Sicily, which Sullivan described as “what the boot is kicking” in terms of how the country lays out next to Italy’s long “boot” shape. The grapes used in their products are all indigenous to Sicily, meaning they cannot be found anywhere else. He suggested we begin with a white, as the whites are lighter in flavor, then proceed to the reds, due to the tannins in the latter. Tannins, by definition, are astringent, bitter plant polyphenols that cause the dry and puckery feeling in the mouth following the consumption of red wine.

A 2008 Corvo Bianco, made with the Insolia grape varietal, passed across my tongue nice, dry and crisp, with a hint of citrus, very balanced. Next up, a 2008 Corvo Terrae Dei (translating as “God’s Land”), comprised of Grillo grapes. It was creamy and fuller and high rated by Wine Spectator magazine. As we sampled, Sullivan explained that white wines should be consumed “within 2-3 years after bottling as a rule of thumb.” He also pointed out that Corvo is the largest producer of wines in Sicily and its parent company is Il Va Di Saronno, which makes the popular liquore Amaretto di Saronno.

Reds were up next, beginning with a Corvo Nero D’Avola. It had a fruity nose and peppery dry taste. Finally, a 2007 Corvo Terrae Dei Rosso boldly marched out, with a full body suited to steak and “American palettes.”

Speaking of palettes, I felt the need to cleanse mine, so b-lined for an adjacent food station, of which there were four. The offerings here were an assortment of tapas, and were delectable, including fine cheese, fruit, nuts, mussels, gourmet crackers, hummus and goat cheese.

Sated for the moment, I returned to battle, reporting for duty at the Winebow wine station. There, Wallingford, CT-based Wine Consultant Carl Vitale, a young guy dressed in gray slacks and a pastel purple dress shirt, greeted me. He explained that Winebow is an importer/distributor of top, family-owned estate wines and that their selections are marked with a Leonardo Locascio stamp. Thirty years ago, Locascio left his job as a Citibank VP and started the import business out of his house in New Jersey. Now the business imports a wide range of brands, from Chile, Italy, Argentina and California predominantly.

Vitale had me try a 2008 Sauvignon Gris, a Chilean white from the Cousino Macul winery, a family owned business for over 150 years. It was round and rich with hints of pink grapefruit and mango. We then grabbed some surf wax to ride Point Break, a California north coast red from Longboard Vineyards that exploded with cherry notes. Next, we scaled the Argentinian mountains to reach a 2007 Catena Malbec, a fantastic red from a “perfect little micro climate” well irrigated by melting snow that collects in the Mendosa area, the “hub of winemaking.” I needed to get an extra pour of the latter, winking to a trio of tasters beside me, “I can be greedy, right?” The reply: “Sure, as long as he lets you.” Vitale nodded yes and poured. “Gol!”

Winebow’s final offering was a 2006 Palazzo della Torre, made and bottled by the Allegrini family in the Venetto region of northeast Italy. The brand is comprised of three grapes, which are actually frozen in the winemaking process.

About 60 tasting participants had gathered at this point, all neatly dressed, ranging in age from late 20s to seniors, with an average age hovering in the late 40s I guessed. As I darted to a second food station for my now ritual palette cleansing, I encountered two women on the younger end of the scale, Maja and Crysta, both 24, and Maja’s boss, Jim, owner of the Orange Ale House, a neighborhood-style bar and grill in the next town east. Jim was a guest of the Boys and Girls Village, to which his business had given $85,000 in the last year alone.

I asked the girls what brands they’d enjoyed thus far and Maja said, “The brut champagne at the Maja [Imports] table. It was very delish.” About the coincidence in names between her own and the name of that importer, she laughed, “They knew I was coming!” I had to ask how she’d acquired her name and she said it was after Maja the Bee, a noted cartoon in Eastern Europe that was a favorite of her older sister’s. She pulled up a photo of the icon on her iPhone, saying, “I’ve told that story to like three people in my life.” I was honored to have gained the confidence of this blonde Croatian sun goddess.

Another eastern European, short-haired blonde Elena from Belarus, was manning the New England Wine & Spirits station. This group is a West Haven, CT-headquartered distributor/importer. She got me out of bed for a Wente Vineyards brand called “Morning Fog.” This California white had a nice oaky taste, well balanced. “Very popular, a beautiful summer wine, very potent nose… an exclusive brand,” Elena summed up. Feeling somewhat naughty now, I supposed that it would be appropriate for me to experience 7 Deadly Sins, so to speak. This 100% Zinfandel is vinted and bottled by Michael and David Phillips out of Graton, CA. “Beautiful fruit, for Zinfandel lovers,” Elena said as it tiptoed across my tongue.

I would have one more small sample at Elena’s table and, appropriately, a 2007 Petite Petit was waiting in the chute to ski into my gullet. Another Phillips brand, made from Petit Sirah and Petit Verdot grapes, the brand is aged 14 months in French oak to produce a nice, dry, very fruity taste.

A quick word from Stephen Joffe, president/ceo of Boys and Girls Village about the organization’s program offerings in the areas of behavioral/mental health, child welfare and special education, and it was on to the last wine station, Maja Imports. Pony-tailed Miguel and owner Inaki Markina were there to greet me. Surprisingly, Markina and Miguel had come to the country from Spain to play Jai Alai in Bridgeport and Milford. Markina ultimately retired and desired to return to his native country, but did not want to leave his college-aged daughters here on their own. So he stayed and opened the import business.

The first brand Markina had me try was the Canals Cava Brut. Canals is the family bottler and “cava” is essentially the term used for champagne in Spain. This $10 bottle contained three grape varietals including Xarello (picked at sea level), Perelada (from the base of the mountains) and Macabeo (from 150-200 meters). Canals is just one of the small wineries that the importer represents and all grow their own grapes.

Next up was a white called Eidosela Albarino. Markina explained that “Eido” means special place, Sela is the town and Albarino is the grape variety.

I blushed red when he introduced me to a 2006 Ostatu Crianza Rioja. Ostatu in this case is the wine name, Rioja the region and Temperanillo the grape. This nectar spends 13 months in French oak then another 10-12 months in bottles before it is released to market, to perfect its oaky, fruity balanced bouquet.

Last but not least, he shared a sun goddess in a bottle called Solorca Crianza, a wonderful red aged 13-14 months in French/American oak to produce a velvety, soft taste, “perfect with steak, oxtail, lamb.” Here again, he broke down the wine name noting that Sol=sun and Lorca is the name of a poet killed during Spain’s rule by General Francisco Franco.

This had been a fantastic experience I remarked to a quad of women as I stepped away from


the last wine station. “You can’t go wrong with tapas and wine. We didn’t have a wine we 


didn’t care for,” they concluded. I couldn’t have agreed more. 

Reggae Meets Funk

Reggae Meets Funk

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

5/9/10

Stamford, CT -- One part reggae. One part funk. Mix together in a phat joint. Add a generous dash of music lovers. Stir vigorously. Serves many.

These were the ingredients of a hot steaming stew called “Reggae Meets Funk”, a groove-inducing musical buffet spooned out last month at the Route 22 Restaurant and Bar in Stamford, CT by Messrs. Mystic Bowie and Jen Durkin.

Bowie, a veteran professional born Fitzroy Alexander Campbell in St. Elizabeth, Jamaica, ladled the reggae. Durkin, with a 15-year career as a lead vocalist in groups like The Bomb Squad and Deep Banana Blackout, brought the funk. It was a badass combo and the two alternated their beats and unique styles, more than satisfying the hunger of the enthusiastic crowd that had come to see them.

“Mystic is always open to influences… pop, rock, funk,” Bowie’s new manager Maxine Stowe noted when asked how this sumptuous meal of music had been inspired. “And Jen has a huge base in CT. With the region’s rich music scene, this was the perfect setting for this mix.”  Route 22’s music booker, Jason Jones, was also instrumental in bringing the act here. He contacted Bowie and Bowie brought in Durkin, with whom he had tag-teamed in the past.

Bowie and Durkin, standing center stage amongst their six-piece band, certainly seemed to complement each other.  Bowie bopped and bounced in his tight yellow tee, braids and camo pants cinched at the waist while Jen effected a Janis Joplin-esque cool vibe in black shades, flowing cotton top and white pants, but also held a Jamaican-inspired percussion instrument. “This place is amazing. We can get some serious acrobatics going!” Durkin gushed.

The space was indeed made to accommodate their music – a little funky, a lot laid back. An industrial ceiling of sheet metal to reflect their beats. Air ducts like dutchie pipes. Brick walls with old gas station signs, license plates and even a working traffic light. Staff in black Route 22 t-shirts. Even a disco ball center ceiling shooting out little pinpoints all over the room.

Billed as “America’s Favorite Pit Stop”, Route 22 boasts two locations: the Stamford locale and Armonk, NY. The latter is the original location and began life as a gas station built back in the late 20s. Founder Lance Root, a restaurant/club veteran who ran Hard Rock Cafes and opened the Harley Davidson Café among other credits, developed the vision playing off the gas station theme and his surname. He credits his booker Jones with helping bring the concept to life with hot acts like Bowie and Durkin.

“We’re mixing it up, doing some old, some new,” Bowie informed the full house about the duo’s song set, as he and Durkin alternated between jams like “Nevah Kiss & Tell” and “Rasta Man Call” from Bowie’s latest CD “Nevah Kiss and Tell” (dedicated to his “mama” Beryl Smith Jones), rifts like “Take Me Back” and “Higher”, and classics such as “I Can See Clearly Now” and “The Tide is High”.

The crowd – black, white, male, female, baseball caps, beanies, even a cowboy hat in the pack – ate it all up, weaving, bending and swaying, bathed in gel lights. When Bowie started chanting, “Music is my drug of choice!”, a line from his new song “Drug of Choice”, the gathering exploded, singing along with him and fist pumping in the air. Bowie was their reggae god and they were his disciples, if only for the evening.

“Lord have mercy!” Durkin had to call out, marveling at the frenzy the duo had created, a frothy brew and “the best of both worlds” as she aptly put it describing the reggae/funk collaboration.

The most diminutive member of the congregation was a Bowie relation. “My biggest fan is here, my nephew Little Benny, “ the singer announced, bringing the lad up on stage and handing him a cowbell and drumstick to knock out an accompanying beat. The room devoured this and when he’d completed his gig, Benny received uproarious applause and Bowie’s praise, “More cowbell! You’re hired!”

Benny was not the only family member of Bowie’s in the house. Thirteen-year-old son Jason, from Bowie’s first marriage, was seated with Stowe at a dedicated booth adjacent to the dance floor. Jason mentioned a brother and sister, who live in Florida. Second wife Shannon was also on hand, busily conducting sales of Bowie’s CD, organizing literature and speaking with press.

Stowe, who actually co-manages Bowie along with Jay Stollman, hopes to take Bowie’s career “vertical”. A niece of Clement Dodd who founded Studio One (Jamaica Recording), one of Jamaica’s leading record labels, Stowe spoke of Bowie’s philanthropic efforts. These centered around the Mystic Bowie Cultural Center, a 5-acre facility established in Jamaica to offer free music, sports and drama lessons – educational resources in effect to help underprivileged youth. Bowie is constantly raising funds and shipping school supplies, clothing and musical instruments to the island-based facility Stowe informed.

As the group’s percussionist launched into a solo, saying, “I wait all day to break it down, to do this!”, the crowd went wild, pure joy broadcast on their faces, all funked up and feelin’ irie. The intensity built as heads were engaged and bobbed, arms waved and “the wall of sound” (the band’s guitarists) kicked in.

“Are you feeling good? Are you feeling good?” Bowie taunted. Then, “Are you ready to shake?” as he began crooning Calypso-style “Everybody Shake”.

It was a sweet helping of dessert rounding out this feast of funk and reggae roast. Appetites were sated, palates stimulated and revelers infused with tasty beats. A five-star rating had been well-earned.

About Mystic Bowie: http://www.mysticbowie.com/

About Jen Durkin: http://www.jendurkin.com/

Writer Mike Lauterborn: http://www.mikelauterborn.com/

"Fandance": A Legend's Tale and Tribute to Mothers

“Fandance”: A Legend’s Tale and Tribute to Mothers

By Mike Lauterborn

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

5/4/10

Bridgeport, CT -- At its core, the exotic new musical “Fandance: The Legend of Sally Rand”, which enjoyed its official debut run last month at Bridgeport’s Downtown Cabaret Theatre, is a tribute to mothers and illustrates timely Mother’s Day themes.

Written and directed by star of stage and screen Misty Rowe, the performance relates the life story of famed burlesque queen Sally Rand whose unique and sometimes notorious fan-dances engaged audiences near and far. There’s also a story within a story here as the tale is presented through the perspective of Rowe’s late mother, Rosie, who saw Rand at the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair. The performance made a huge impression on Rosie and she talked about it throughout her life.

The tale came full circle when years later, Rosie stopped at a garage sale in Southern California and ran into the former fan-dance queen, then 74. Rand signed a playbill addressed to Misty who, at the time, was taking dance lessons and beginning her own career. Misty would go on to be a regular cast member (and is most often remembered for her role) on the long running televised variety show “Hee Haw”, among other industry credits. The production was written as not only a tribute to Rand but to Rowe’s Alzheimer’s-stricken mother.

“Fandance” very ably takes viewers back to the world of vaudeville, of which burlesque was a risqué cousin. Tongue-in-cheek and all done in the name of entertainment, the striptease was not sexual, but rather seductive, and more about illusion and making an audience think they saw more than they actually did.

Amber Carpenter plays Sally age 14 to 35. Rowe handles the balance from about age 42 to the dancer’s mid-70s. Notably, Rowe’s daughter Dreama is also featured in the production, effectively capitalizing on the intertwined mother-daughter-dancer theme. Comedian Steve Rossi, a friend of Rowe’s and one half of the once headlining comedy-music team Allen & Rossi, contributes a bit role doing vaudevillian-style stand-up.

“Fandance” producer and show biz veteran Barry Singer, 64, tags the show “a touching story about motherhood that hits you in the heart, is moving, full of razzle dazzle and a bevy of burlesque beauties.” This topline assessment aside, he adds, “It was a story that had to be told.”

Singer continues, “Motherhood is the art of being a mother and it doesn’t get the attention it deserves. Sally Rand became successful against all odds and adopted a child. It really makes you think about your own mother as Mother’s Day nears.”

The production opens with the figure of a woman silhouetted behind a screen, turning slowly on her toes, then transitions to the garage sale scene at which Misty Rowe’s mother again encountered the fan-dance legend that she worshipped. Therein begins a flashback to Sally’s humble – and even conservative -- childhood growing up in the care of a grandfather. When a circus comes to town, she becomes fascinated by gypsies and excited by their colorful, jangling costumes.

Rand joins a carnival, taking the stage name Billie and performing in “The Gaiety Burlesque.” A producer that taps her for a silent film drama changes her name to Sally Rand after the book upon which she is made to stand (to give her more height). Her film career is brief, ending when “talkies” arrive and by a lisp that restricts her star potential.

It’s the Depression Era at this point and Rand is lucky to find work as a club dancer. There she performs her first fan dance and it’s an instant hit – something unique and “classy” compared with typical vaudevillian fare at that time, e.g. one-man bands, dancers with balloons strapped to themselves. The World’s Fair appearance and an arrest (and subsequent trial) for alleged indecent exposure follow, forever marking her for fame and notoriety.

One of the most personal (and tragic) segments in the story is the period during which Rand suffers a miscarriage while dancing, is unable to again conceive and divorces. She wants to adopt but her profession and status as a divorced woman are obstacles. She ends up illegally adopting a baby when the infant’s young mother (a fellow dancer) is unable to care for it.

Female cast members strongly relate to the show’s mother-daughter themes. “My mom’s [Misty Rowe] in the show, “ said Dreama Rowe DePaiva. “We have a strong bond and wonderful relationship. It’s a wonderful story.” Dancer Melissa Lopez, who plays a showgirl, has her own take: “I’m an only child and my parents are divorced. So, I can relate in the show to the mother character and her wanting a child so badly. [Sally] finally got what she wanted.”

The two also admire and are keenly aware from their own experience of how women have advanced in show business over the years. Said Lopez, a fledgling actress chasing her own dream, “Women in general have come so far and have risen above the challenges.” An appropriate sentiment for a day of tribute to moms and, in a grander way, to strong women everywhere for whom their mothers made sacrifices to ensure their success and well-being.

The Berkshire Beat

The Berkshire Beat
By Mike Lauterborn
© 2010. All Rights Reserved.
4/26/10


A weekend in the Western Massachusetts wilds. A cheap hotel rate. Some freebies thrown in. The offer hit all my hot buttons. It was on.


FRIDAY, APRIL 23
I picked up my 10-year-old, Phillip, from his elementary school, we collected a few things from our Fairfield, CT beachside home and we pointed ourselves in the direction of the Pittsfield, MA Crowne Plaza.


Unfortunately, it being a Friday afternoon, we soon found ourselves in bumper-to-bumper traffic and so bailed to an American Steakhouse in West Haven to wait things out and have a quick, value-laden, buffet style meal.

Once we got in the groove, crossed the state line and connected with 90 West, the landscape really started to transform. Rest stops and strip malls gave way to lush woods, mountain scapes and a low setting sun blazing in front of us.

Exit 2 was our Pittsfield portal and opened up yet another new door to us, of quaint church steeples, neatly tapered properties and classic New England style scenes. An ice cream stand popped up on our radar and we steered in. Lucky’s Ice Cream & Grille connected us with some tasty soft serve that sweetened our arrival at the hotel. 


A new, mostly brick structure on West Street with 12 floors, the Crowne Plaza was inviting and front desk clerk Amy congenial. Our room was standard with two double beds and a sliver of a view of city and rolling hills beyond. It would definitely do. We watched the boob tube a while together and, though sleepy, I got the itch to see what P-town was all about.


The Underground Pub, which was featuring karaoke tonight, was a first visit. Flashing i.d. to a security person set up by the entrance, I ambled into the cozy quarters. Sure enough, there was a mic stand at the head of the room and DJ at the ready to spin tunes and operate the prompter.


I like to try the local suds when I can and ordered a BBC Porter (from South Deerfield, MA-based Berkshire Brewing Co.) from the bartenderette. It was brown and quickly went down, initiating my night in town. Coincidentally, I met at that moment a bubbly, denim-clad lass who was to become my tour guide for the evening.


Debbie, who later acquired the nickname “Debbie Doe”, tried some of the libation, noting its finish: “It tastes like honey, honey.” This sense of humor accented further conversation as I nestled into a table with her and her fellow compatriots Connie (“Den Mom”), smiley tolerant Christa, Connie’s adorable 26-year-old daughter Callie and Callie’s pal Robin. None of the group was performing but was more of a judging panel of The Free, The Brave, The Tipsy and The Off-Key who warbled and wiggled and maybe wished they hadn’t mounted the mic. It was American Idol Underground-style playing out in up-close Technicolor.


We watched “contestants” come and go with the most impressive of the batch being the bartender that had slid me my Porter. She had some pipes -- heads around us nodded in agreement. Even the blonde (with the concrete orbs for boobs) shooting pool with the fellahs at the back of the room couldn’t help but agree.


It was Moving Along Time and I became a recruit in the DD caravan, headed to Friends on Seymour in East Pittsfield. Connie’s silver minivan, with an orthopedic cushion (long story) and snowbrush (“the snow just melted last week!”) in the back, became our steed. 


The bar was aptly named given our fledgling union. Unfortunately, it was past midnight, “the bahs close early” and the place was already at capacity with more folks waiting to get in. We navigated out of the crater-pocked parking lot and motored to a nearby sports bar.


This cheery nightspot had lots of wall bric-a-brac at which to look, even though much of it was Boston team oriented (said this Yankees fan!”) – jerseys, photos, clippings, etc.


An elder man, apparently a former teacher, wandered over and introduced himself as “Jinks”. He was a real character, with a joke, line, reference or story on just about any topic. There was still ample spring in his step, he liked the nightlife and was an observer of the human condition like me. “My Lentian vow was to make it to Last Call forty nights in a row!” he exclaimed.


I found the men’s room amusing, with cartoon clippings pinned up in a glass case. There were two big posters of provocatively posed blondes as well which I felt compelled to show to our table group, almost like I was leading a tour. The only thing the ladies had to look at in their restroom was George Castanza from “Seinfeld”. 


Jinks let us know he was heading to another joint. Christa was out at this point but Connie and D were still up to push on.  I have to say the place looked sketchy, with some old exterior shingling, and even dodgier inside. Sales were cash only and we managed to get one round of domestic beer before a big galoot began calling out, “Last call! Time to go!” He continued to hammer that one at us while the subtle-looking owner took a more amicable approach and made personal, individual pleas.


I was getting a diner food urge, and Connie and D thought they could help with that. We pulled up at a place on Wahconah Street called Adrien’s Diner, “Famous for breakfast” since 1957, in front of which were parked three police cars. In fact, a couple of foot patrolmen were positioned right outside as well, one of who was D’s cousin. I wondered what we were getting into but, as ever, went along for the ride, figuratively and literally.


We joined five people lined up in a narrow entryway, which afforded partial views inside. The rough-hewn eatery was mobbed, so we thought we would harass diners a little to motivate them to vacate. As such, we pressed our faces (and other body parts) against the window, which drove uproarious laughter from within. 


When we finally got our opening, we picked up a tablemate, Pam. Though a deep-voiced, big-boned blonde, she had a tender soul and sensitive side, sporting a tattoo of a butterfly on her chest dedicated to her recently deceased dad.


At a counter seat near us, a woman with multi-colored hair was noshing an omelet and a broccoli floret went AWOL, falling to the floor. Her meal was about a $20 value – a deluxe – and I joked to her boyfriend beside her, “She’s high maintenance. That lost broccoli was about $5!” He nodded in agreement.


That was the punctuation mark on this first night’s outing and I was duly deposited back at the hotel.


SATURDAY, APRIL 24
Phil wanted to hit the hotel breakfast joint, One West, so we dressed and dropped downstairs to the main level. A coupon that desk clerk Amy had provided covered Phil’s buffet fare – I made do with coffee and water. Then we stepped into the adjacent glass-domed pool area and dropped right into the water.


As we frolicked, other arisers trickled in – first Bill and Brooke, from eastern Long Island. I had seen Brooke singing karaoke and goofily shimmying in a long flowery dress at the Underground last night. Bill’s sister was marrying today, with the dinner and reception to be held here at the hotel. Behind them followed Bill’s Huntington Beach, CA-stationed brother Zach and Zach’s very pleasant girlfriend Emma.  Like shumai steaming in a pot, we all sat in the hot tub on the sun deck and spoke of the resilience, endurance and unity of Americans during times of national crisis. Such profundity at such an early hour!


We had a noon appointment to keep with the Oak ‘N Spruce Resort in S. Lee. Really, a scheduled tour and discussion about timeshare options was our true reason for being up in the region. Without further ado, we cleaned up and motored the 13 or so miles to the facility. We were not alone – literally about 100 people from points all over the tri-state region were gathered here and consulting with resort reps. The “bennie” for us was some gifts and, who knows, maybe we’d find we like these digs and would want to buy in.


Due to the abundance of people visiting, the tour schedule was jammed. We were pushed into hyper tour mode, expressed through the system and were soon receiving our very generous gift set -- $40 gas card, $25 Arizona Pizza certificate, $40 AMEX card, two round trip plane tix to Vegas plus two nights accommodations in the casino capital.


We decided to use the Arizona giftie tout suite and b-lined back into Lee. Our server, Nick, brought us a Sun City Classic White pizza that hit the spot and, for me at least, was chased with a BBC Steel Rail, golden as today’s sun which poured through slatted windows facing 20 East. 


With a to-go box in tow, we grabbed cash and moved along to stroll the lower half of Lee’s Main Street. The thoroughfare was anchored by a red brick municipal building and tall, white-steepled church and dotted with antique shops, a barbershop and a few eateries.


One very notable stop was Cakewalk Bakery where Phil and I turned in for coffee. Owned by husband/wife team Brian and Verena Smith, the place had an international flavor to it. This was in part due to Verena’s southwest Germany roots, light-eyed Ecuadorian counter help Maite (pron. My-Tay) and a Gypsy Kings CD playing on the PA system. The Smiths met 11 years ago after Verena emigrated to the U.S. and while they were both working at the Mayflower Inn in Washington, CT. They relocated to Santa Barbara, CA, and then u-turned back to Lee, opening Cakewalk five years ago. As a parting gesture, Verena handed me a brown paper bag saying, “I want to send you off with our most famous pastry.” The bag contained what looked like a muffin, but with a sugary exterior. It was light, flaky and heavenly.


From Lee, we started heading back north, seeing a line-up of cars and fishermen along the lip of shimmering Lake Laurel. We pulled up beside George, a jovial, beer-bellied soul held together with suspenders, and his shorthaired blonde wife. Both had dropped lines into this body of water and were monitoring them.


“What are you trying to catch?” I asked.


“Fish,” George joked.


I asked about the types of fish that called this water home. “Trout. Brown trout, some the length of my arm. Lake salmon, going on 15 pounds.”  He added, “We like it here. We can pull right up.” His wife chimed in, “Last time I was here, it was so cold I sat in the car the whole time, but we were still fishing.”


“Isn’t that cheating?” I asked, jokingly. 


George replied, “Well, I ice fish, too, so there’s a balance.”


As to the finer points of the fishing here, George uses Berkley PowerBait Trout Bait – like clay or putty and pink, which is molded to the hook and floats. While fishing licenses in the state are expensive, kids up to the age of 12 can fish free.


Looking for a landscape company on the far side of Pittsfield from which to purchase a trailer for hauling stuff, we stumbled across a few interesting sites: Dunking Doggies dog-washing service on 20E advertised “Dirty Dogs Done Dirt Cheap”, a point to rock band AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds…” song. V’s promoted another type of soap and wash, for autos, for the right price of $2.50. We conceded.


Creeping back into Pittsfield, I recognized some of last night’s “Crime” scenes but also noted others that hadn’t been as apparent: Historic Waconah Park “featuring organized baseball since 1892, Tahiti Take-Out, Pepe’s advertising “Mexican Tacos and Latin Dancing” and Paul’s Restaurant which I recall referring to as Raul’s during Friday night’s outing. There was a Polish tinge here, too, as the Polish Community Club and Oboyski’s (for real?) illustrated. 


The neon sign for Lantern Bar & Grill on North Street was alluring. Inside, proprietor Mark was getting ready to serve up tasty burgers. Up the road, the West Side Clock Shop had to contain the greatest number of clocks I’ve ever seen in one place – none digital, all unique, many cuckoos, and even one that plays a Beatles tune. Phil was eyeing a Birdhouse Alarm Clock, which tweets like a bird in lieu of a buzzing or ringing alarm, and we decided to give it a good home.


Said shop owner Aldo Battaini, “There are people that have been living here for years that don’t know we’re here.” The TODAY Show helped correct that recently, doing a televised piece on the place.


At Phil’s pleading, we returned to the hotel and reported to the pool. The pool area was certainly toasty, and crowded with families. I decided to sit out on a patio and see the sun drop in the sky. There, I met a couple sitters of kids attending the aforementioned wedding, wedding guest themselves (including Bill, Zach, Emma and Brooke) and a lovely dark-haired Francophile named Louise.


The latter, I discovered, when she came to sit beside me wrapped in a towel, is an exchange student attending a high school in Boston. She pulled on a cigarette as I stumbled through some of my French vocabulary. In the process, I further learned her forte is “musique”, specifically piano and guitar.


Phil and I grew hungry again and the easiest thing to do seemed to be to hit the lounge adjacent to the pool. While enjoying very tasty dinner fare pegged at just $5, I got to gabbing with two ladies at the next table who had similar taste as me in beer and food. The topline was Nancy and Cheryl (Tripp-Cleveland) have been friends for 30+ years and were planning to attend a “Beatlemania Again” performance at the Colonial Theatre this very night on nearby South Street. The nitty gritty is that Nancy’s from Stockbridge and Cheryl’s from Pittsfield, and Cheryl conducts a show called “The Berkshire Connection” on WBRK Star 101.7 FM radio. She’s also the VP and Promotions Director of the station – and a huge Beatles fan. She related to us how on August 18, 1966, traveling from Lee in a new VW micro mini bus with family and friends, she attended a Beatles concert at what was then Suffolk Downs racetrack in Boston. Since then, she celebrates lead singer Paul McCartney’s birthday every year.


Coincidentally, a member of another musical group with storied roots, Quarry, strolled in and settled into a corner table with about eight other folks, a mix of older bikers and their children. Notably, on the back of one of their jackets was stitched the phrase, “LIVE TO RIDE, RIDE TO LIVE”. Mick Valenti was the band member, about who Cheryl said he had played as a side band at Woodstock. The story intrigued me, so, after the ladies departed for the show, I strolled over and introduced myself.


Mick, dressed in a black leather hat, black MC jacket, black pants, slip-on boots and black sunglasses, said it was their manager, Barry Hollister, that heard about Woodstock in the trades. At the time, Mick, born and bred in Pittsfield, was living in New Jersey and doing gigs in New York City. The band loaded up its equipment in their van and arrived three days before the actual concert start. Just the roadies were there setting up stages and what not, though concert attendees had started to arrive as well and wanted to hear some music. A makeshift “free side stage” with gas-operated generator was erected and Quarry “played the first notes at Woodstock.” As they played every day and every night, they also performed “the most music at Woodstock.” Following that appearance, the band was invited down to a concert series in Texas, then by Grateful Dead founder Jerry Garcia out to the “Deadquarters” in San Diego. Another band, New Riders of the Purple Sage, was also there and debuted locally. Mick attended the initial show and actually took over as drummer when the Sage’s own Mickey Hart passed out! 


It was a great tale and I thanked Mick as his friends started to file out. To one, he said, “Don’t do anything illegal.” The reply: “It’s only illegal if you get caught!”


Post-Mick, I deposited Phil in the room and beat it to the pavement, to pad east on North Street to see what I could see. 


Brew Works beckoned from a side street and in the Bier Hall deep in its bowels, a jangling band set a lively group toe-tapping, two-stepping, dart-lobbing and, of course, brew sampling. Coffee porters, seductive stouts, lovely lagers. They had them all, but sadly, according to a press release, good times would stop rolling here soon. The proprietors, the Heatons, had decided not to renew their lease and would be dealing direct to retail from here on in. Defiantly, a sign chalked behind the band informed: “Wine is wisdom. Beer is knowledge. Water contains bacteria. – Ben Franklin.”


On the beat again, I found the fancy Jae’s Spice holding rapt a small gaggle of goggle-eyed socialites reviewing issues over scotch. Oddly, the tastefully decorated place with its oversized, auction house-caliber posters flowed directly into The Press Box. There, DJ-directed house music beats thump thumped while empty heads wrestled with tangerine-colored cocktails and were courted by hoods with hats. I paused for a moment to survey the scene and remarked to the guy next to me that things seemed pretty sedate for a Saturday.


“People don’t go out until 11:30,” he said, to which I replied, “But don’t the bars close at 1?” He nodded yes. I guessed that you better hit the right place first or you’re done. “Usually I just stay home,” my seatmate confessed. The place was fouling my hopeful mood.


Flickering candles drew me into M: Mission, a tapas bar where none other than Jinks was roosting. I veered to a high wooden table occupied by a local group and mentioned that I had been touring Pittsfield. “Welcome to Hell,” said Stacy (spelled this way, she said, “NOT with an ‘ey’ or an ‘ie’ with a heart in place of the dot over the ‘y’), an attractive, quirky blonde. I also said I’d been to The Press Box, about which she said, “Playboy Bunny meets thug life.” As to Pittsfield’s overall composition, Ben, the guy beside her said, “Church. Church. Church. Bar. Bar. Bank.” I also remarked about sighting the blue-haired woman at Adrien’s Diner: “Die hair blue, leave a food trail down the front of your shirt – it’s how you find a husband around here.”


I said a quick hello to Jinks then hotfooted it back along North toward the hotel and Patrick’s Pub. Mostly an eatery at this point in the night versus a bar scene, Patrick’s was chock full of good folks with hearty appetites and Beatlemania attendees fresh from the show. I needed the timeout so stayed for a turkey club and visited with the green-shirted waitresses busy closing down and ringing out for the night.


SUNDAY, APRIL 25
“You were snoring loud as a cow last night,” my son informed me upon waking. “Sorry, bud,” I said, getting up to look out the hotel window and assess the day. Overcast… and it had rained.


One West restaurant in our hotel was calling us to its breakfast trough and we heeded the bugling. In the hallway entry, a series of photos caught our eye. These were snapped by Great Barrington freelance photographer Stephen Donaldson. They were beautiful shots of the region, depicting farms, mountains, churches. Some were so perfect, they looked surreal. Very bright and vibrant.


Providing as warm a greeting was bubbly Polish-bred Jola. “Are you our waitress?” I inquired. “I’m your waitress, your hostess, your busser… everything,” she quipped. 


We collected our breakfast – eggs, spicy sausage, sautéed potatoes, etc. – and, in the process, noticed televised news about tornadoes that had whipped through Alabama and Mississippi, taking 10 lives. We saw ripped-open roofs and twisted wreckage, in sharp contrast to Donaldson’s serene photos.


Usual suspects started to roll in, led by Bill and Brooke. They looked surprisingly well rested despite yesterday’s wedding activities, but only because they began celebrating earlier and knocked off earlier.


A middle-aged foursome of other wedding-ites showed. They were from Long Island and Jersey and Manhattan. I learned that Bill’s mom lives in South Dakota, an often God-forsaken place I thought judging from its history of misfortune. But there was a connection to the state in that the family is descended from the Fords of automaking legend and also from General Custer.


One of the foursome piped up with his own reference to SD saying that he’d been to “Hot Springs or Big Springs” to a “pit in which all these wooly mammoths had fallen and died… I was a volunteer on an archaeological dig. It was really cool.”


More crew members rolled in, one wearing a STAY THIRSTY t-shirt. The Sedona, AZ resident explained it’s the slogan of a friend’s org set up to raise funds for children with bipolar disorders and refers to keeping after and chasing your dreams… always a good message and my new mantra for the day!


I asked B & B if I would see them at the pool but they said they were checking out. More so, they were flying to Mexico for a mini-honeymoon in the Playa del Carmen area. On their agenda was a scuba excursion to see underground caves and stalagmites.


I asked Jola for more sugar and she brought seven packets. “Seven’s a lucky number,” I remarked. “Yes,” she agreed, “there are sevens in my birthday – 7/17/72.” Pegging her at 37, I said, “Oh, you’re a youngster.” “I wish!” came the reply.


Phil and I moved to the pool area, now part of our a.m. routine, and dropped right in the hot tub. I noticed the water level rise as our bodies displaced it and remembered what Zach had said about same yesterday a.m. when I was in the hot tub with his group: “The water’s ‘Above Nips.’” We decided there should be other level settings then, including “At Nips”, “Under Nips”, “Nips Full Out” and “Headlights.” It was amusing banter, in contrast to more profound topics that followed. 


When I went to grab a copy of the Sunday Berkshire Eagle, I saw a waitress setting out vases of tulips on the tables in the lounge. “Pretty,” I commented. “Thanks,” she said smiling. I wasn’t sure she thought I was referring to her or the flowers, but imagined either was ok.


It was Going Time, we pulled out of our room, settled up and set out on North Street one last time. It was nearing midday at this point and Angelina’s Subs featured a deal too hard to pass up: Meatball Sub $3.99. Through louver blinds, we could see Harry’s Super Market (since 1914), with its spray-painted murals on its side of notable “North End” moments. 


Pink-haired, pony tailed fry cook Peggy tended to us. She’s been working the spatula here for 11 years and figures she should have been an owner by now.  As I stood at the high counter and she flipped some potatoes for a drive-thru order, I noticed a tattoo of the Pokemon anime character Pikachu on her left ankle. “I love Pikachu. When Pokemon came out, I went to get the tattoo. My kids were like, “Ma, what are you doin’? I took a pair of my nephew’s underwear [with Pikachu on them] to the tattoo parlor. The tattooist must’ve thought I was crazy.”


We took Phil’s BLT sub to go and I think we passed Peggy’s car on the way to ours. Hers was a Dodge Dakota pickup, the body of which had been sprayed flat black and the rims bright blue. As an added accent, there was a SUNOCO Official Fuel of NASCAR bumper sticker on the rear end. 


It was going time for good now and we skedaddled out of the area on 20W/7S, leaving fun, kooky times behind us. Still, though, adjacent areas had a bit more for us to see. That became apparent at Stockbridge. We moored briefly to poke around in the Arts Gift Store full of nostalgic bric-a-brac, then scored a big cookie at Stockbridge General Store. The cookie was personally provided by Chef Crane, who had a tattoo on the underside of her left wrist: “NO REGRETS”, framed with mad flames.


We went looking for a Norman Rockwell Museum, wrong turned and ended up in a hilly area that had some amazing homes fastened to the mountainside – big estates, including one like a French chateau.


We pushed south past mist-shrouded Agawam Lake, woodsy Monument Mountain and on into Great Barrington, pulling hard into the parking lot at Barrington Brewery and Restaurant. Entering the establishment past a “Beer Crossing” sign, I asked about a tour and got a snicker. “That’d be about a dime.” I realized what they meant when I was shown their brewing set-up. It was all – the grain loft, mash tun (where malt is mixed with hot water), brew kettle, fermentation cellar and serving tanks – contained to one tight area. So, really, all that was left to do was taste it.


We climbed up on stools and put ourselves in the capable hands of Bethany the Bartender, “named after my grandmother without being named Bertha, an 800-pound elephant.” We figured the best way to sample would be to try a 3-ounce “shot” of each of nine currently available sensations, placed in “wells” on a wooden serving paddle. Quite coincidentally, the woman we perched beside is the assistant editor of lifestyle-oriented Berkshire Living magazine and maintainer of a beer blog www.fromthispinton.com. 


The tasting began anon supplemented by a Ploughman’s Lunch of bread, Brie, chutney, salami slices and apple slivers. While enjoying the fare, I prowled around a bit, spying a great quote: “In my opinion, most of the great men of the past were only there for the beer.” – AJP Taylor, British Historian. This was among displays of beer trays, old antique bottles, b&w photos of folks enjoying brews, and coasters of all make and variety. There were also mugs hanging above us that were part of a Mug Club wherein a patron pays $45 to purchase and custom label a mug. This becomes their own personal mug going forward. 


Mementos were necessary and these included my own Beer Crossing sign, stickers, a growler of “Hopland” Pale Ale and four 22-ounce bottles of other tasty libations: a Raspberry Pale Ale, an E.S.B. English Style Ale, “Barrington” Brown Ale and “Black Bear” Stout. 


We made our final escape on 23 East, past Butternut Ski Area, a llama farm, Beartown State Forest, the wee town of Monterey, the Farmington River and assorted cows, horses and farms to Route 8, our mainline back home. We had reached the bottom of the bottle of grog that had been our 3-day visit to the Berkshires.