Falling

No deadlines have become part of our lifestyle. If Carrie Rose sits for a month without us while we wait for better weather and attend to family matters that is okay. With this in mind, it was decided to travel back to Chicago and to see a few sights on the way.

The first objective was to visit friends who sold everything and moved aboard their boat. Ideally, we would have met boat to boat but alas, Carrie Rose had generator problems. When it became apparent that Carrie Rose needed fixing, we were in Crisfield, MD. Crisfield is a place that brings meaning to the phrase, The End of the Road.

Island View Marina, where we have a slip for the summer, has become the go to place for all thing boat related. This year it has mainly been electrical issues. I called the owner to confirm if he could handle the generator glitch and when he answered in the affirmative, we started to head north.

Distances on the Chesapeake are deceptive. On the upper portion of the bay, it was mainly twenty miles between stops. Once in the middle this was whittled down to half but further south, the figure became close to fifty. Though I had studied the charts all winter, it surprised me. So, after two long hot days crisscrossing the bay we entered Eastern Bay and backed into our slip at the marina on Kent Island.

I had been informed that the generators problem would not be addressed for at least a week. I bided my time and finally brought the schedule up with the marina’s owner. He did not look happy: there were other pressing problems in the marina he had to deal with, it was too hot to crawl around in my tiny engine room, and then he said, “Can’t you take the alternator off.” A bit flummoxed,I walked back to the boat and did just that.

He was surprised when I walked into his office holding it. It certainly piqued his interest. Next, I was instructed to find the voltage regulator. I did but at the expense of Charlotte’s makeup mirror. It was the only way to see the far side of the engine. I found it mounted upside down under an inaccessible cowling. Before I could explain that I found it, he informed me the Kohler generator dealer said to simply disconnect it as it served no useful purpose.

I did as instructed and since everything was apart, replaced the original belt (1990) and the air filter, bolted the disconnected alternator back on, attached a multimeter to the battery to check the voltage, ran the generator, and the problem was fixed. It was time to head home.

With Carrie Rose intact and secure in her slip, we packed the car and went south to Solomons Island, MD to visit with our friends. On the way, we took a 60 mile detour to see Mt. Vernon. The founding fathers lived well: large picturesque estates with splendid views and plenty of help, even if it was enslaved. Both Mt. Vernon and Monticello are like small towns.

It was quite a feat to divide their energy between founding a nation and managing the plantations. Of the two, Jefferson’s was the more interesting if not quirky. The two seem to compliment each other. Washington, a successful farmer, general, and political leader was the pragmatist. Jefferson, an intellectual, connoisseur, and world traveller was the dreamer, seeing possibilities that did not exist.

Once we found our friends, we fell right in discussing the benefits of marinas and anchorages, anchoring and docking strategies, propane vs. electrons for cooking, storage and sleeping arrangements, etc., etc. An unspoken bond exists between cruisers, especially the ones we have traveled with. At dinner, plans were discussed and then it was time to move on.

That night Charlotte and I made plans to see Fallingwater, Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterpiece in the forest of Pennsylvania. The only tickets available were for Sunday, so there was a day to kill. Charlotte found a beautiful B&B nestled into Pennsylvania’s farm country on a wooded plot with meticulous corn and clover fields for a backdrop.

The next morning we left Solomons for what should have been a four hour drive but that would have been on the Great Plains. The closer we got to our destination the more the road undulated like a camel’s back. Caution signs took on a menacing tone, large and yellow with black capital letter as big as the road warned of treacherous declines, of hidden driveways, of ice and snow making the road impassable. I already had 6 hours of driving behind me when we reach this last segment of the road.

The Honda and I needed fluids. At a gas station on Route 40 I fueled up with regular gas and coffee. Charlotte, copilot and chief weather officer, had spent the last 50 miles reporting on the progress of the blackening chaotic clouds forming outside the windshield that she monitored on her smart phone. Unknowingly we had driven into the Laurel Highlands and climbed into the clouds.

The summits topped at 2800 feet and then abruptly fell. It was like being on a roller coaster with black SUVs and tractor trailers in pursuit. Route 40 is a narrow road with many distractions. There are state and national parks, Civil War battlefields, scenic outlooks, old timey resorts and motels, and even a tavern that George Washington frequented. These, and the off and on torrential rain made the drive to the inn taxing.

The inn was on the outskirts of Uniontown, another of an endless stream of rust belt cities struggling to reinvent. The GPS guided us down a tiny semi rural road that did not look promising. Then at the intersection a beautifully landscaped wooded scene appeared, The Inne at Watson’s Choice. Its only downside was the windows did not open — burglar alarms — so we spent time in a comfortable outside screened in lounge for lack of a better word. The innkeeper was a soft spoken former French teacher who noticed I was reading one of her old books I found in the inn’s library; “The Foods of France”; and engaged us in conversation.

After another night in air conditioning — I am not sure when the world decided to ban opening windows — we backtracked 29 miles on increasingly smaller roads to Fallingwater. Though it is hard to tell now, this was a spot for Pittsburgh’s wealthy to escape the summer heat and frolic in the woods and play in the numerous streams, creeks, and rivers.

Fallingwater is an interesting tale of wealth and privilege, of WASPs and Jews, of art over practicality, and in the end the construction of the most important private residence on earth.

At first glance, well let me say it is hard to get the first glance. Walking down the path to the house, it reluctantly reveals itself. It is almost disappointing nestled in its rocky folds. It looks small. Its colors are drab. It is unembellished rocks, concrete, steel, and glass. The overwhelming feel is one of moisture. A mist hangs in the air. Standing off from it on a bridge constructed over Bear Creek I am having second thoughts but dismiss the feeling and start to look.

As I do, the building begins to soar out over the creek. Vertical and horizontal lines seamlessly interact with the natural environment. The building is tacked onto massive boulders without disrupting the natural proportions of what is in itself a magnificent location. Of course, this is Wright’s oeuvre, using megalomania to create selflessness.

Fallingwater does not in any way detract from the enjoyment of the natural space. It must have been wonderful to spend time there. Once inside the enormity of the structure becomes apparent. From dangling toes in the creek to viewing the distant forest from the top floor balcony, we are transported to room after room delineated by staircases, narrow dark hallways, low ceilings opening into unobstructed panoramic woodland views.

Along the way various areas are pointed out where the family revolted from Wright’s vision: a couple of chairs in the main saloon, an elongated desk, gray window screens, and four carports to house the family’s Duesenbergs. These additions do not amount to much but I am sure they created much tension between the client and the architect who appears to have never really left the building.

Then after an hour of touring inside, we are left to wander the perimeter. Now the minimalistic supporting structure comes into view. The backside of the building is not as satisfying as the front. It makes me nervous. I start to think of Pisa and its unstable structure that has been (or so they tell us) stabilized. Well, Fallingwater is just that, falling. The verticals are vertical but the horizontals are succumbing to gravity. It is a work in progress.

There are two other Wright homes close by. We decide to leave them for another time. After all we have no deadlines, we can divert back to these highlands that have much of West Virginia’s terrain in them. Charlotte’s phone jingles and we find ourselves hightailing it back to Chicago to attend her aunt’s burial, falling from the Allegany Mountains to the flat wetlands of the shores of Lake Michigan.