A Memorable Weekend
June 15 – 17, 1984
This
is the story of an unplanned weekend that ended up full of serendipity, memories,
and interesting people. Though written 37
years later in 2021, it is based on notes made within days of the weekend. While it should be accurate, factual errors
could be the result of conversational misunderstandings or mistakes in the
notes.
Friday Night
Friday afternoon capped off
a bad week at work. After getting home, I sat down on my front porch with
two things: a cold beer and a map of Ohio. My goal was to put
distance between me and the office, ideally using quiet backcountry roads. By
the time the beer was finished, my destination was clear. A small city in
southeastern Ohio was appealing for two reasons: During my six years in Ohio,
I had never been there, and it had a strange name. I threw a few things
into my beat up 1966 Mustang convertible, and by 8:10 I was off to find
Chillicothe.
About an hour later I
stopped in Hillsboro, Ohio, hoping to find a terrific restaurant for
dinner. No luck with that, so I drove on
to Chillicothe. Most restaurants were closed when I arrived, and the
streets were quiet. Dining advice from a Holiday Inn pointed me to Arby’s
or Friendly’s. I opted for a chef salad at Friendly’s.
While checking into the
L&P Motel, I was warned the only room left was next to a party. I
asked if it was a good party, meaning fun. The clerk replied, “Oh, they
won’t be too loud,” meaning that it was good in that the partiers were well behaved. The “party” turned out to be a group of high school kids watching MTV with the
door open.
As I went to bed in an
uninspiring room, I reflected on the start of the weekend and thought “I’m not
sure this is what I had in mind.”
Saturday
Seeking a great breakfast
to restart my weekend escape, I parked on Paint Street and spent 90 minutes
walking around Chillicothe. I discovered interesting old buildings,
including the county courthouse and an enormous Mead Corporation paper plant. Its strong smell reminded me of pulp mills in Oregon.
Near the Mead plant was
Carl’s Townhouse. Sleek and metallic, it looked like an old diner.
I took a counter seat, ordered bacon and eggs with pancakes, and turned to the
local paper. There was a story about a guy who abducted his wife and
child in front of the police. He was later captured. The police had
no comment as to why the man was not followed while he was abducting his
wife. There was also an article about a local boy who was playing
football at Stanford. Breakfast was just okay, though the stack of
pancakes was impressive for $1.25. I ate half the meal, finished the
paper, and left.
About 20 miles to the
northeast was a group of state parks, the largest of which was Hocking
Hills. With a lodge, camping, cabins, and hiking trails, it sounded
attractive and so I went there. The lodge was a modern, wooden building
with a high sloping roof and a nice pool in the back. For some reason, I opted
not to explore the natural features of this park – an oversight I hope to
correct someday.
My next stop was nearby
Conkles Hollow. The hollow was spectacular – a deep gorge carved in
sandstone by a small stream. In some places it appeared to be 200 feet
deep and only 100 feet wide. One trail went up the middle of the hollow,
while another circled the rim. I hiked the rim trail first, accessing the
top of the east side via steps cut into the stone. At several places the
views were beautiful – somewhat like a miniature Grand Canyon, but with trees
all around. The eastern wall of the gorge was often a sheer cliff with a
long drop to the floor. In other places
the rim protruded out over canyon walls that had been carved by the flowing
water. I hiked to the head of the hollow, where there was a small
waterfall – just a trickle at the time – and sat against a tree, enjoying the
setting while reading for 45 minutes. During that time no more than five
people walked by, even though it was late afternoon on a gorgeous day and this
was the prettiest spot I had ever seen in Ohio.
The west rim differed from
the east. It was less rocky and had more trees. In several places
the cliff stepped down to the gorge, resulting in a series of grass and tree
covered terraces. I discovered two large columns of stone that were
separated from the rest of the canyon wall by just one or two feet. I
could step across the gaps to the top of the columns, feeling like I was on a
small island 75 to 100 feet up in the air.
At the end of the west side,
the trail followed steep steps back to the bottom of the hollow. From
there I followed the trail up the floor of the gorge to the waterfall at the
head. The view from underneath was equally interesting, with unusual rock
formations. At one point there was a football field-sized area in which
almost every tree had been pushed over. A sign explained that on July 4,
1981 hurricane force winds suddenly shot up the gorge and knocked down all the
trees in this one spot. Thankfully, this unusual phenomenon did not
repeat while I was there.
Returning to my car, I felt
good about the day. It was already after 5:00 pm, so perhaps it was time
to drive home. But the map showed a nearby state park with a lake and
beach. Having just finished a hike on a warm day, a swim sounded good.
While driving toward the
lake on a narrow road, I came upon a large stone structure. An historical
marker said this was one of 69 charcoal-fired iron furnaces in northeastern
Kentucky and southeastern Ohio that produced high grade iron between about 1840
and 1880. Built out of stone blocks four or five feet across, it was
shaped like a truncated pyramid. Perhaps 80 feet tall originally, it had
partially caved in on itself.
There were several side
roads going into the woods and the map suggested these would lead to the
lake. So, I made a turn and for the next 30 minutes drove down a
single-lane, gravel road through the forest. Under a blue sky, with the
top down, and surrounded by green trees that were luminescent under the bright
sun it was beautiful and peaceful. It didn’t bother me that there was no
place to turn the car around if the road ended or I happened upon an oncoming
car. I felt remarkably free.
Eventually I arrived at the
lake and found many people enjoying the water and the sand. But by then
the beach in the shade, so I skipped the swim.
I left the beach with the
intention of declaring it a great weekend and going home. But another
look at the map showed that Athens, Ohio – the home of Ohio University (OU) –
was only about 15 miles away. I had stopped in Athens once on a drive
back from West Virginia and recalled it as a pleasant college town. It
was 7:00pm and having not eaten since breakfast at Carl’s, I was getting
hungry. So, I decided to stop in Athens for dinner – a random decision
that led would lead to a lifetime of memories.
Saturday Night
A walk confirmed my recollections
of Athens as a place with a pretty campus and active downtown. Though the
college was out of session, people of all ages were wandering the streets,
running into friends, and talking.
At a tavern called The C.I.,
I ordered a beer. The couple sitting next to me were friendly, and we
started talking. Chris would be an OU
senior in the fall and was working in the school library that summer. Tim,
a tall guy with a beard, had graduated from OU several years earlier, and was a
manager at The C.I., though he was off that night.
Chris, Tim, and I talked
for a long time. They delighted in telling me all about Athens and
OU. I learned Athens had a terrific Halloween party. Six blocks of
the main street were closed each year, and the party went on all night. The best costume they had ever seen was worn by 13 guys from a fraternity who
came as “The Last Supper,” complete with a table suspended in front of them
with goblets and food. I also learned that the largest cash crop in that
part of Ohio was marijuana grown up in the hills. Tim said that was the
primary means of support for many folks in the area.
Eventually I got hungry,
but The C.I. didn’t serve food. Chris and Tim told me where I could get a
sandwich to go, which I should bring back to eat at The C.I. I did, and
while I ate, we talked some more. It turned out that Chris and Tim did
not really know each other very well and were on their first date. At 10
pm they invited me to join them down the street for music and dancing. I didn’t
want to further interrupt their first date, but they insisted. So, the
three of us walked half a block to The Grotto.
The Grotto was an Italian
restaurant with reportedly terrible food but great music. One level below
the street, it had a large dining room (in which no one was eating), with room
for a band at one end. We sat at a table and ordered drinks. Soon
the band started up, playing entertaining Blues Brothers-style music. We
listened, did some dancing, and watched as a group of women danced with each
other.
About midnight it was my
turn to buy a round of drinks. While I was at the bar, a woman named
Jessica came up to order drinks. I learned later she had grown up in
Athens and was in town for just a few days on a visit. We started chatting. Somehow, within minutes we were talking about
studying wildlife in Africa, something Jessica had done for six weeks following
high school. I had college friends who had studied with Jane Goodall in
Tanzania. Jessica also knew someone who had done that and had just missed
being part of a kidnapping episode – an event I was aware of, because three of
the four kidnapping victims were students from my university.
We stood at the bar,
talking about animal studies and other things. After quite a bit of time,
Chris and Tim came up to say they were going back to The C.I. and that I could
come along or meet them there later. After they had gone, Jessica asked
who they were. I explained meeting Chris and Tim at The C.I. and how
hospitable they had been, adding that Tim had offered me a room for the night,
with the qualifier that if things worked out with Chris, I would have to find
another place to sleep. Jessica said that with that uncertainty, I was
welcome to stay at a house she was watching on a nearby farm. The owners would
not be back until the next day, but she was confident they would not object. The house was large, with couches and a hide-a-bed. It seemed like a good
option in case I did not meet up with Tim again.
Jessica wanted to go to a
dance before the night was over and I agreed to join her. As we walked to
the dance, she explained that she and her family had moved to Athens years
earlier from Colorado. Her parents wanted to live in a place where they
could own more land, and they now had a 1,900-acre farm near Athens. That
was inconceivably large to me. Jessica’s
father Pete was a veterinarian, and she was a veterinary student at OSU. Her motivation for being a vet was that she really enjoyed working with
animals; her father’s motivation was that he felt it was his best way to serve
God. She said that her father was a hard person to work for. At the
veterinary clinic he needed one or two assistants. During his first year
in town, Jessica said he “went through about 30.”
While Jessica was in high
school the family had actively worked the farm. They had 1,100 sheep,
over 100 cows, horses, eight oxen and various other animals. Among other
things, the oxen were used to pull down trees in the forest and haul them back
for firewood. Doing this was Jessica’s job throughout much of high
school.
Jessica went to a rural
high school. Her graduating class had 60 girls, 20 of whom were pregnant
by their senior year. Only two kids in her class went on to finish
college, Jessica being one of them. It turned out, however, that she did
not finish high school. She started taking courses at OU as a high school
extension student. She did not tell the folks at OU that she had
essentially dropped out of high school. After a couple years at OU, she
finished her undergraduate coursework at Ohio State. Pete endorsed
dropping out of high school while taking college courses, but her mother Jody was
opposed. After some conflict over this, Jessica ended up moving out of
the house and into a dorm at school when she was 16 years old.
Jessica did not go straight
through college, but instead spent time doing a variety of other things. These included her time in Africa studying animals; working for a year on Long
Island as a landscaper; and spending time in Maine. We were discussing
New England when Jessica said she was leaving for Massachusetts the following
Thursday to work as a summer teaching assistant in animal behavior and
photography at Phillips Andover Academy. Assisting with a photography
class would be a bit of a joke she said, having not taken any photos in perhaps
five years. Later, however, she showed me some enlargements she had
printed that day; obviously, she was a capable photographer.
As we were walking around
Athens late at night, it became apparent that Jessica knew almost everyone in
town. Every few minutes we would stop and talk to someone she had not
seen for a while. Despite these many conversations, we eventually
got to our destination. The dance was in an old building with a large
hall on the third floor. Jessica explained Athens often had benefit
dances to raise money for people in need. The people who organized these
dances could not find anyone who needed help at that time, so this was billed
simply as “A Benefit for You” – meaning if you wanted to dance, this would
benefit you. We got there at about 1:00. We heard the band play one
number and then things started to break up. By then, only about a dozen
people were there, but that did not bother Jessica as she knew at least ten of
them. She had not seen them in a long time and engaged in quite a bit of catch-up
talk.
I took Jessica up on her
offer to sleep on a couch on the farm where she was staying. But first,
we looked for an open ice cream parlor downtown. Being unsuccessful, we
set out for the farm: Jessica in a big Buick with her dog Manzo, followed
by me in the Mustang. Along the way we stopped at a small
restaurant. Jessica had ice cream and I had a salad. Then back to
the road for a few more miles until we turned onto a driveway. Signs indicated directions to a studio and an
office – things I found confusing, as this was supposed to be a farm. I
followed Jessica to a large house.
In front of the house was a
car with one of its doors open. We
parked, and Jessica said that the owners had apparently returned early. We wandered inside, and found a woman with her head down, thumbing through a
pile of mail, and mumbling to herself about a bill she should not have
received. Jessica said, “Hi Ann. You’re back.”
“Yes, we just got in about
ten minutes ago.”
“Ann, this is Jon.
Can he sleep here tonight?”
Ann responded as one might
expect: Looking at me, then at Jessica, then back at me – probably asking
herself, “Who is this guy and what is he doing here?” Jessica explained
that I was passing through town, and she had offered me a place to stay; after
all, there was a lot of room and I could stay on the couch, or the hide-a-bed
in the front room. After a pause, Ann said, “Yes, he could do that.”
The three of us went
outside to find Ann’s husband, Gerry, to make sure it would be okay with
him. We found him, and Ann said, “This is a friend of Jessica’s, who she
invited to stay the night. Where would be the best place to put
him?” “Please don’t hesitate to say, ‘a motel,’” I said quickly. But Gerry and Ann said I could sleep on the hide-a-bed. They went
off to find sheets and Ann proceeded to make the bed for me (even though I
insisted that I could do that myself) and then spent additional time finding suitable
pillows. My embarrassment about imposing on them in the middle of the
night would be expressed subconsciously before morning.
Sunday Morning
The sun had risen. But having left my watch in the car, I didn’t know what time it was. Everything
was quiet, so I went back to sleep. I woke up a second time and did the
same thing. The third time I heard voices outside. While getting dressed, I replayed a vivid
dream I had just had: In it I was sitting at a large table with Gerry,
Ann and their children eating breakfast; Jessica was not there. Ann and
Gerry were glancing at me and then at each other sideways, wondering what I was
doing there. Various friends of mine started showing up, sitting down for
breakfast, demanding more food, spilling milk, breaking dishes, and laughing
obnoxiously. Ann and Gerry were looking more and more distressed. “How did these terrible people get into our house?”
Back in the real world, I
went outside and found Gerry inspecting some work that had been done while they
were gone. We discussed that for a while. The night before Jessica
mentioned that Gerry was a designer, so I asked him about that. He said
he designed museum interiors and exhibits. My unspoken reaction was, “How
many museums could there be in Athens, Ohio?” To my surprise, Gerry’s
firm (Hilferty & Associates), located in a remodeled barn near the house,
had 12 designers and projects across the U.S. How did such a business end
up in Athens? Gerry’s first job out of college was designing Kodak’s
exhibit at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York City. Then he was at IBM for
three years, designing office interiors and exhibits. He moved to Athens
in the mid-1970s to be an architecture professor at OU. Despite being a
popular major, the architecture program was dropped soon after Gerry
arrived. Jerry fell back on his exhibit design skills and struck out on
his own for the first time. There were three tight years. But soon
his reputation developed, and the practice gained momentum.
Gerry had created a
wonderful balance. He had projects all over the country, but a quiet,
peaceful life on a farm in the foothills of Appalachia. The previous
night he and Ann had returned from a national meeting of museum directors in
Washington D.C. This was an important meeting for him each year. A
fun highlight of this year’s trip was that when he checked into Washington Marriott,
the hotel had given him and Ann its last available accommodation: an
eight-room suite with a dining room, two sitting rooms, a piano, a bar, and
servant quarters – all for the price of the standard room he had reserved.
Ann joined us, and soon we were
talking about color options (three grey and three yellow) for repainting the
house. Jessica came out and invited me
to join her and her parents for Sunday brunch. I was concerned that
perhaps her parents would not appreciate their daughter showing up with a
strange guy. But Jessica said she and her brother took people all the
time. Sold on the idea, I went inside to shower and get dressed.
It was another beautiful
day, warm but not yet hot. We drove to a small hotel with a dining
room. There were perhaps 15 or 20 tables, but only four were
occupied. Nonetheless, a large buffet was laid out, with all the food you
would expect for a country Sunday brunch: ham, fried chicken, mashed
potatoes, potato salad, and a large assortment of desserts. This brunch
was a standard feature of her parents’ week. Jessica, her brother, and
assorted friends and relatives showed up more or less at random. This
Sunday it was just Pete, Jody, Jessica, and me.
Pete appeared to be in his
mid-forties. He had a beard, but no mustache; his hair was short.
He wore a short sleeve white shirt and beige pants. A bible or prayer
book was in his hand as we met. Jessica’s mother, Jody, had medium length
black/grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, and was wearing a full-length,
tie-dyed, embroidered dress. Over brunch we talked mostly about
trees, flowers, and animals. The restaurant hostess stood by our table
for half the meal, gossiping about local animals with Pete. She also speculated
on the true cause of Swale’s heart attack the day before, commenting that a
horse that had won two legs of the Triple Crown could not have had a heart
attack unless it had been given drugs. I tried to pay for my portion of
the brunch, but the bill was already settled via a long-term barter arrangement
that provided Pete, Jody and their guests with brunch in exchange for
veterinary care of the owner’s animals.
Sunday Afternoon
Pete and Jody suggested
joining them to visit a quilt show. But instead, Jessica directed us
through the countryside on the other side of town to a small gravel
driveway. As the scene unfolded, I felt that I had been transported back
to a 1970s hippie commune in Marin County. Up the driveway we came to
what appeared at first to be a rundown old house. As we parked, a guy
Jessica introduced as Don came around the house. Don was a tall, lean guy
in his late twenties; his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore a
baseball cap, gym shorts and sneakers. As we were getting acquainted,
Don’s girlfriend Becky came out of the house, dressed similarly to Don, but
with a shirt.
Don and Becky were old
friends of Jessica’s. We had stopped by
to learn if they were going to have a barbeque that afternoon. We learned
that they wouldn’t, because Don was stopped the day before by a policeman for
having an expired license plate. The difficulty this posed was compounded
by the fact that Don’s driver’s license was also expired. The policeman
wrote him up and encouraged him not to drive until he had taken care of
everything the following Monday. At one point the policeman paused,
looked at Don and said, “You look kind of familiar. Have we met?” Don honestly replied, “Yes, you wrote me up for the same offenses about 12
months ago.” We laughed about that for a while, had some beers, and
talked about their garden.
The conversation turned to
their house, which turned out to be a log cabin that likely dated from before
the Civil War. Over the years it had been added onto in haphazard ways,
often causing damage. Don and Becky were in the process of undoing the
damage and restoring the cabin. On one side they had stripped off two
layers of siding to expose the original logs. The kitchen was a lean-to
add on. The side of the kitchen that was an original wall had also been
exposed, and I could see how the logs had been stacked and chinked. One
area of damage was due to a porch that had been added without proper drainage,
causing some of the logs to rot – logs that had been in place 100 years when
the damage was done.
When Don and I finished our
tour of the house, we joined Jessica and Becky in the living room, which was
the interior of the original log cabin. Don was a cabinet maker who got
great pleasure from woodworking. In the living room was a large table he
had made for a customer. The workmanship and design were both quite nice.
Becky asked what I did for
a living. I said I worked at P&G and was involved with
advertising. Becky said that was the kind of job she needed. This
surprised me, but her explanation was clear. She needed a job that
required her to get up in the morning and go to work. She was supposed to
start her job at a deli at 9:00, but she usually showed up around 10:00 or
10:15 and nobody seemed to care. Because of that, she felt she lacked
discipline. A job with an enforced start time was what she needed.
As we were walking back to
the car, I glanced up the hill and saw a long wall of glass behind some trees. Don said it was an old barn that had been rebuilt into a large house and studio
by a New York City painter who spent a few months each year in the woods. Here was yet another surprise in a weekend full of them: discovering the
rural studio of a painter who perhaps spent most of his time in SoHo or the
East Village, while meeting a cabinet maker and deli worker who live in a 100
plus year-old log cabin.
Driving away from Don and
Becky’s, I thought of a Joan Baez song (Outside the Nashville City Limits)
that contributed to my decision to move to the Midwest six years earlier. It describes a beautiful rural landscape with
“gentle country folk who would wish nobody harm.” I felt I was meeting those people on this
Sunday.
Jessica had promised Ann
that we would pick up milk on the way back from town, so we did. Along
the way Jessica explained options for the rest of the day. We could cool
off in a local swimming hole; go horseback riding; hike in the woods; or hang
out with Gerry and Ann. She did not mention going in search of Rita’s
Place – a legendary, backcountry spot which Don said offered all manner of
illicit pleasures.
The question of what to do next
was still unresolved when we got back to Gerry and Ann’s. We put away the
milk, and went out to the back porch, where Ann was sitting while watching
Gerry and their two kids. Their teenage daughter was lying on the diving
board. Near the pool Gerry was playing with Jason, a boy about three
years old, who was sitting in a rubber dinghy and playing with the garden
hose. Gerry was buzzing him with model airplanes, which Jason would shoot
out of the air with the hose.
I sat down with Ann on the
picnic table while Jessica went inside. Jessica told me Ann had been in
the Peace Corps, so I asked about that. She had been in Columbia for two
years. During the first year she attempted to implement a television-based
educational program. Her job was to develop the curriculum, arrange to
have it broadcast and then sell it to the schools. But, regardless of how
successful she was at developing and selling the program, when the schools
tried to tune in, it was never there. This was because of a shortage of
gasoline needed to fuel the generators that powered the broadcast. In her
second year she taught rural villagers how to advocate for themselves. She
helped them elect representatives, and then trained the representatives to deal
effectively with the government. In one village, her efforts successfully
led to the construction of a new latrine.
Ann was wearing shorts and
a swimsuit top, and a large, irregular scar was visible on her abdomen. She told me that while in rural Columbia she had developed an infection
(perhaps appendicitis), which required emergency surgery. She had been extremely
ill for a while, and then was sent back to the states early to recover.
After returning from
Columbia, Ann went to graduate school and got a degree in clinical
psychology. Although originally from the east coast, she moved to Athens
and set up her practice, which – like Gerry’s design studio – was based on the
farm. Most of her patients were individuals, though she did do some
marriage counseling and group sessions. I asked whether she felt
psychological problems in rural areas were different than those in urban
settings. Upon reflection, she said they probably were not. For the
most part people went to her because they were unhappy, and they were unable to
deal with that themselves, having transferred the reason for being unhappy to
some other person, situation, or thing. For example, “I’m not happy
because my husband/wife/child/boss doesn’t like me.” Did Ann think that
this was a growing trend? Again, she considered her answer and said that yes,
she thought it was increasingly common. Perhaps she felt this could be
traced to society as a whole, a society in which people believed if they are bored,
they could turn on the TV and have instant excitement; if they didn’t feel well,
they could take a drug and have instant relief; and if they were unhappy, it
must be somebody else’s fault and there must be some form of instant
relief. I said I noticed the same trend, and that frankly if only society
would stop promoting these attitudes, I would be a much happier person. (A little clinical psychology joke, just to let Ann know I was paying
attention.)
Late Sunday Afternoon
– Horseback Riding
About that time, Jessica
came out to say we were going horseback riding with her parents, and we had to
hurry as we were already late. I quickly changed into long pants and a
long sleeve shirt, and then we walked over to Pete and Jody’s Milliron Farm,
which was just across the road. Of course, just across the road meant
going down Gerry and Ann’s long driveway, crossing the road, and then walking
up a long driveway to her parents’ place. Along the way we stopped at
Pete’s Milliron Veterinary Clinic, which was near the road. It was a modern
brick building with pens for sick or injured cows and horses. The
operating table for horses was large and used hydraulic lifts to adjust
positions. We said “hi” to some horses, most of whom had bandages on
their legs. In a back room we picked up Jessica’s saddle, which she had
brought with her from Columbus in anticipation of a ride. I carried the
saddle up the hill to her parents’ house, feeling like the Marlboro Man coming
back from a round-up; Jessica humored me by saying I fit the mold.
Pete and Jody’s house was a
modest, one-story house. Inside there were piles of books and veterinary
journals everywhere, reflecting a family of readers. The barn was a short
distance beyond the house.
Some background on my riding
experience: I had seen horses before,
but mostly from a distance.
My expectations regarding
our ride: We would get on the horses and
ride for an hour or so, talk for a while, and I would be on the road home by
6:00 pm.
My experience was about to
change, and my expectations were completely wrong. First, it took quite a
bit of doing to get the horses ready to ride. Our first step was coaxing
the horses into the barn. Dried corn did the trick. But even this was
not simple, as the mules and goats in the barn would fight over the corn,
making it more difficult to get the horses close in and tied up. In
addition to the goats, mules and horses, the Smiths had about 100 sheep, 40
geese and assorted other critters. One obvious consequence of having so
many animals is an abundance of droppings all around the barn. Jody
looked down and commented that my Nike running shoes would never be the same,
which was true.
Once the horses were tied
up, we brushed them. After checking to make sure the blankets did not
have burrs on them, two were put on each horse. This was followed by the
saddles; then putting on the bridles; finally, adjusting lengths of my stirrups. Along the way I learned about girths, chaps, and other horse
stuff. I also learned to duck frequently when walking around the Smith’s
barn, as the beams were only about five and half feet off the ground. (This last item I learned the hard way.)
After 45 minutes of
preparation, it was time to ride. Jessica, Pete, and Jody patiently
explained the basics, and soon we were riding through a large pasture. As
we passed through a gate, Pete made a comment about this being like a Civil War
scene. I looked the way he nodded and saw what looked like a dead horse
off in the distance. It was laying on its back with one leg protruding
high into the air. I asked what it was, and Pete confirmed it was a horse
that had had to be destroyed not long before. “Doesn’t that bother the
other horses?” “They don’t pay much attention to it.”
Soon we were in the woods,
going up and down hills. I did not realize we were going slowly, but soon
Pete was bored by the pace and took off by himself, leaving Jessica, Jody and
me. Jessica explained Milliron Farm had over 40 miles of horse
trails. A rider could be out for days and still be covering new
ground. One could also go off the trails into the woods.
This ride quickly became
the highlight of my weekend. It was exhilarating riding through thickly
forested woods, across meadows and up and down steep hills. And it was
remarkably peaceful, hearing nothing but ourselves, our horses, and a few
birds.
At one point the sound of a
motorcycle reached us, and Jody rode off to learn who it was. It turned
out to be a distant cousin, and that was okay. Overall, however, Pete and
Jody tried to keep trail riders and hikers off the property. They had a
particular problem during hunting season, when many people came onto their land
to hunt. Some would come to the house and ask permission, which they had previously
denied. But many others would just come onto the property without asking
and hunt illegally. Finally, they decided that since people were hunting
anyway, they may as well give permission to those who were polite enough to
ask. At the same time, they continued trying to keep out those who did
not seek permission.
Jessica and Jody pointed
out interesting things as we passed them. Not far from the house was a
collapsed cave in the woods, which prior to the Civil War was part of the
Underground Railroad. Jody and Pete’s house was also part of the
Underground Railroad, and still had hidden compartments where escaped slaves
sheltered. A few miles later we passed an Indian mound. Jody said
the mound was on archaeological maps, which was problematic. A few years
earlier it had been violated by souvenir hunters. We rode past deserted
buildings, small turtles, thousands of wildflowers, and raspberries. The thorny
raspberry bushes showed me why chaps are popular among horseback riders, and
why leather jackets are a good idea as well. My horse had a remarkable
ability while on a wide trail to always stay right against the bushes.
We rode up hills and down hills,
away from the sun and into the sun. We forded a stream. During much
of the ride I kept hearing Marlboro music, daydreaming of Butch Cassidy, cattle
roundups, and other totally juvenile things. It was immature and it was great
fun.
Jody told Jessica that a
neighbor had just had a baby, which we could go see. So, we set our
sights that way, rode down the hills into a pasture, through the front yards of
a couple farmhouses, towards the road. At the second house a large German
shepherd came racing towards us, growling at us and the horses. Sitting atop
a horse was the first time I felt relaxed watching a menacing dog charge me
with its fangs hanging out. We crossed the highway and went up yet
another long driveway past two more houses and a wide assortment of animals,
including some miniature donkeys from Italy – donkeys that when full grown were
no larger than a St. Bernard.
We sat on our horses in
front of a partially built house at the end of the drive until the young father
came out. Both mother and child were asleep, so we stayed outside and
talked with him about how the home construction was going; about other construction
projects he had in town; and his dog’s recent haircut – the quality of the cut,
how the dog felt about it, and the potential impact on its health. Then
we went around back to look at a reservoir he was building. Much time was
spent discussing drainage on the property. As we left, I asked Jessica
how she and Jody knew so much about drainage on this property. It was
because until recently it had been part of Pete and Jody’s farm.
From there we rode through
more fields, along the road, through yet more forest, and then into a large
pasture. By then the sun was just a few degrees above the horizon, and we
were headed straight into it. I was literally riding off into the sunset,
just as the hero did at the clichéd endings of so many western movies. I
urged the horse on, and the two of us went bounding across the field at a mild
gallop (perhaps it was only a cantor or even a fast walk; I would not have known
the difference) for a few hundred exhilarating yards. Then we got to an
area where we had to slow down because of holes in the ground; Jody was worried
a horse could break a leg.
We returned to the barn
four hours after we left. The after-ride routine was also longer than I
would have guessed. First the saddles and blankets come off. The
blankets needed to be hung in a certain way to ensure they dried completely; my
horse’s bottom blanket was soaking wet. Then we led the horses to the
water and let them drink. Buckets of water were poured over the horses to
rinse off the sweat, and then we brushed them. By the time we were done I
was at least as sweaty as the horse.
Back at the house, the
family plan was to go into town for a pizza and then see a movie. Jody
invited me to join them. I did not know what time it was or how long it
would take me to get home. Jody said it was 8:30 and Cincinnati was three
hours away. Regretfully, I said that I really had to get back so I could
be ready for work in the morning. They said I was welcome to share the
pizza and movie, stay overnight, and then drive back in the morning. This
offer was both generous and tempting, but I declined, knowing I would not be
worth much the next day if I got up at 4:00 am and drove for three hours before
going to the office.
I carried Jessica’s saddle
back down the hill to its place in the clinic. Along the way Jessica
called over the oxen so I could get a close look at these massive
creatures. We walked back to Gerry and Ann’s house to my car. We
were in the house saying goodbye to Gerry and Ann when Pete came to the door
saying they were leaving for the pizza parlor and Jessica had to hurry.
Jessica asked me to drive her into town.
Jessica and I said goodbye at the restaurant. Then I turned west and followed the highway home.
Postscript
It is now the summer of
2021, a full 37 years since the events just described. Over time my
memories of much of the weekend have faded. However, in the days
following my return from Athens I told many people – seemingly, everyone who
would listen – about it. Several people told me I should write down the
details while they were still fresh. Following this advice, I recorded a
narrative of the story and then had it transcribed into 15 single-spaced typed
pages. These sat in a folder, never read
until last month.
Having chosen to attend to
an August wedding in western Pennsylvania, my wife and I decided to fly into
Cincinnati a few days early, hike Hocking Hills, and then drive to the wedding
from there. Knowing this would take us through southeastern Ohio, I
became curious about the weekend in 1984. I pulled out the pages and
started reading. The notes were messy,
so I decided to edit them into something more readable. But why? Perhaps to learn more about the nature of memories, and perhaps because it
was a weekend worth remembering all over again.
One thing that is striking
is the contrast between the first and second days. From leaving my house
on Friday night until arriving at The C.I. 24 hours later, I had only a few
transactional exchanges with other people, e.g., “A single room for one night”
or “Bacon and eggs with pancakes please.” The rest of the time I
spoke to no one. It was a perfect 24 hours for an introvert who had had
too much of other people through a challenging week at work. But as soon
as I sat down for a beer in Athens, it was like a switch being flipped. Virtually every waking moment for the next 26 hours I was meeting new people
and having substantive conversations. Of note, I was not the one who
flipped the switch. Initially it was Chris and Tim, who shared much of
their first date with me, and then it was Jessica, who shared an entire day
with me and introduced me to everyone else I met. While the entire
weekend was terrific, virtually all the stories I have told over the years have
been based on the people and events of the second day.
I am fortunate to have
traveled a fair amount, to have met some noteworthy people, and to have had some
fascinating conversations. Yet the weekend of June 15-17, 1984, is the
only experience I have ever recorded in detail. Why? Perhaps
because it was so unexpected and in a way exhilarating. We all have
expectations about what our day-to-day lives are likely to be. The first day of the weekend was terrific,
but it was also within the bounds of my expectations. But the second day constantly exceeded my
expectations. Throughout the day I met new people, had engaging
conversations, made discoveries, and did novel, new things. It was the
continuously high level of new, different, and surprising that made that day so
exceptional.
My favorite childhood book
is The Phantom Tollbooth. Milo,
the protagonist and eventual hero, starts the book hopelessly bored and
detached. But over the course of the story
he meets intriguing characters, has many thought-provoking conversations, and
completes a series of challenging adventures. By the end, these characters, conversations, and adventures have transformed
Milo into someone who is excited and believes anything is possible. Driving home to Cincinnati that Sunday night
in 1984, I felt like Milo at the end of the book.
Thinking about the weekend
in detail made me realize something that at first was a bit distressing: The significance of events and the resulting memories are certain to be
different for the various people involved. A lack of symmetry in memories
is readily accepted in most cases. If I see a play and love it, I may
remember the actors, but they will of course have no memory of me. Most
of the people I met on my weekend (Chris and Tim; Gerry and Ann; Pete and Jody;
Don and Becky) would almost certainly not remember me, because I was just someone
with whom they spent a bit of time talking during a typical summer day. On the other hand, having spent so many hours talking and doing things with
Jessica, I had always felt she and I would have similar memories of the
day. However, this does not hold up to scrutiny. Whereas everything
that happened that day was new, different, and stimulating to me, for Jessica
it was a day of normal activities: seeing friends; having brunch with her
parents; spending time with neighbors; horseback riding. Her day with me
was unlikely to result in great stories, new insights, or lasting memories.
While writing this
narrative, I turned to the internet to answer many questions. Some of the information gained is
inconsequential: “CI’s” (as my notes labelled it) is actually called “The C.I.”
and is still in business, while The Grotto is not. Of more interest was finding the locations of
Gerry and Ann’s “historic Windy Hills Farm” and Pete’s “Milliron Veterinary
Clinic;” discovering that under Gerry guidance his firm, Hilferty &
Associates, continues to be a thriving museum design firm with a national reputation;
and learning that Pete (Abbott Pliny “Pete” Smith III) was a legendary vet, who
has been the subject of multiple books, and of whom Jessica is immensely
proud. Sadly, the internet also revealed Dr. Ann Howland died in 1991
“after a long illness;” Pete died in 2010 following “a logging accident in his
beloved Milliron Farm woods;” and Jody died just three months ago.
Thirty-seven years after my
memorable weekend I find myself thinking about appreciation. I’m sure I thanked Gerry and Ann for generously
allowing me to be a surprise guest at their house. Likewise, I would have thanked Pete and Jody
for brunch and again for the opportunity to go riding through their beautiful
land with Jody as one of my guides. And I
must have told Jessica that it was a special day and thanked her for making it
all possible. But having relived the weekend while writing this
narrative, I now feel I should have done more to express thanks to those who
made it possible. I’ve partially
addressed this by letting Gerry know of my renewed sense of appreciation. It is too late to thank Ann, Pete or Jody more fully, but it is not too late to
thank Jessica. Whether she remembers me or not, I feel a debt of
gratitude to her (to you Jessica, if you are reading this) for all she (you)
did to make that long ago weekend worthy of being happily remembered after all
these years. Thank you.
Jon Windham
July 2021
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