In the beginning, and I’m not sure when exactly that was, there
was a President’s Day Weekend trip to the Hill Farm Inn in Arlington, Vermont. Each year, my aunt and uncle and their
friends would head up to Vermont for the weekend, and occupy most, if not all,
of the rooms in the inn. This was a
special group of people, not only colorful interesting characters but also, on
average, brilliant. Most were also
gamers; the kind of people who did the Sunday London Times Crossword
puzzle. And finished it. Many had met playing bridge, or at Harvard.
Oh. And also, there
were no kids.
During the days, people may go out cross-country skiing or snowshoeing,
lounge about by the fireplace playing games, and a handful may have gone
downhill skiing at Bromley. One of the
popular daytime activities was to take a group walk from Arlington into
Manchester, walking sticks in hand, along the country back-road, slowly,
talking, enjoying the air. There was a
School of Falconry. There was a terrific
roadside sign that read “Slow. Dog
crossing. Geese crossing. And One Old Man.” And Manchester, both then and now, has the
distinction of being home to the most fabulous bookstore in the entire world,
NorthShire Bookstore. (It’s only gotten
better with time.)
On Saturday night, everyone participated in the epic “Pub
Quiz” trivia contest, which put together each year by my uncle. It was extremely difficult and competitive,
covering literature, history, science, geography, math, pop culture, music,
film, and many other categories.
There was also music: piano and guitar, sometimes a fiddle,
and one year a dulcimer. There was
raucous singing. Tom Lehrer songs, like The Elements and Poisoning Pigeons in the Park were all the rage. As was Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant. In later
years there were beautifully haunting waltz trios on the piano, fiddle, and flute.
By dint of family and perhaps our supposed maturity, myself
and my brother and sister became the first “kids” to be allowed on the
trip. My first trip had to be around 1989
or 1990; I was in high school and remember working on a term paper on Brown vs. the Board of Education. I also remember learning about single malt
scotch, the thrill of playing poker for the first time, and the group
sing-alongs. We were allowed to
participate in the pub quiz, and eventually I became my uncle’s apprentice,
helping him to put the quiz together.
I also have distinct memories of my first times
cross-country skiing. Trying to make up
in youth what I lacked in ability to actually cross-country ski, I was
continually falling behind the group.
Each time, they would wait for me, all resting up. As soon as I arrived (exhausted), they would say
“OK!” and push off again. No rest for
the weary. Though to be fair, at my favorite
place, Wild Wings, there was an excellent “warming hut” where you could recharge with
home-made brownies. Afterwards, we would
go out for glog or gimlets in Manchester.
We were welcomed into the mix. I
loved it.
The group had specific requirements for inns. Our inn had to be big enough to accommodate
the group, it had to have great common spaces for the pub quiz, it had to serve
not only breakfast but also dinner, and it had to have inn-keepers who were hearty
and patient enough to deal with our group.
Over the many years, for one reason or another, we have moved from The
Hill Farm Inn in Arlington to the nearby Green River Inn, to the Silas GriffithInn in Danby, to one ill-fated year at the Salt Ash Inn near Okemo, to the
Vermont Inn, and now to the Mountain Meadows Lodge, near Killington and Pico.
With the exception of the year we got married and the years
we lived in Japan, I have been going on this weekend trip to Vermont every year
for almost twenty-five years.
The trip has transitioned over time. We still fill all the rooms in the inn. But none of the original group still comes. Now, the Vermont weekend is made up of our generation,
mostly friends from college and town. One
significant difference is that there are now many many many (did I say many?)
kids. Almost as many small people as big
people. There is still gaming, and
lounging by the fireplace. Most of the
group now skis downhill, though many also go tubing, sledding, snowshoeing, or
cross-country skiing. There is also
still music. And this year a karaoke
machine was added to the mix. The jury is still out on that one. (Actually, I have to say that, but who are we
kidding? It was awesome.)
My uncle used to serve as both “Tripmeister” (AKA organizer
of the trip) and “Quizmeister” (AKA organizer and administrator of the Saturday
night Pub Quiz). Now Ilena has taken
over as “Tripmeistress,” while I have taken over as “Quizmeister.” Lauren is my
apprentice.
This year, I memorialized “The PQ Rules” for the first time,
as follows:
- Four
teams. Team with most points: wins.
- Have
fun.
- But
winning is the most important. (Duh).
- No
“devices” please.
- Obey
the time-limits and pencils down requests, the first time. (Or we’ll never get through it to play
cards, drink, or sleep.)
- None
of my answers is “wrong.”
(Also, two wrongs don’t make a right.) There are no “challenges.” I will serve as judge, jury, and - if
necessary - executioner.
- Ties
will be broken this year with a physical challenge.
Below is a picture of this year's winners, the aptly named #Winners (AKA The Hashtag Winners, which Jacob referred to all night as The Hashbrown Winners.). They beat out The Hedgerow Bustlers by a point, narrowly avoiding the need for a physical challenge tie-breaker.
So. I’ve been doing
this trip for a long long time now. When
it comes time to welcome everyone back for another year at dinner on Friday
Night, I get sentimental. And I probably
give the same speech every year. It’s
about friendship and togetherness. It’s
about taking the time to get away. It’s
about our tradition. About it’s about
building a tradition for our children that includes the same types of
experiences and fond memories that inspired me to write this in the first
place.
That’s what its all about.
