Keeping to the back roads, by choice
For years, the word Chautauqua was tucked into one of those seldom opened drawers in memory. I think it came through learning about Leacock, or maybe it had to do with one of the plays at the Confed Centre. No matter. Today, I sat down to supper in a small restaurant on the shore of Lake Chautauqua, and I have a better idea; it has to do with the world of summer, and boats, and band concerts in gazebos. At least, I think so. No matter.
We had left our campsite in PA, after a single hilly night. The onset of rain, and no real interest in visiting the city centre meant that we had to drive, away. We did, by a devised path that stuck to back roads, among the trees and the villages and the wild deer playing in a field nearby. It also saw us taking a chance reference from a billboard and turning it into an educational activity.
Franklin, PA has a “hidden gem”. Their museum (three floors full) of player pianos and Hammond organs and radios from the day when you tuned three knobs into a chord to hear local AM, kept me busy for the afternoon. The genial guide took the time to show us the innards of mechanical wonders. Boxes that found their roots in Swiss music boxes and evolved into full-din steam driven calliopes that provided the sound system for the roller rinks of yesteryear.
We even received advice on changing the main spring of a Victrola: “Don’t. It is dangerous and could maim you!” The spring, in passing, resembles a tightly coiled six foot hacksaw blade, and even when broken contains far too much kinetic energy for someone equipped with a couple of screw drivers and half a brain.
Tonight, we are camped on (almost) the shore of Lake Erie, with an old stone lighthouse close by.
