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Paleo flint sources, New York State
Dane:
Call this a penny-dreadful serial, Wayne. It will take months to complete.
Just kidding - I'll get the last part up tomorrow at the latest. Honey-doos for me today.
Dane
stickbender:
What?! AWWwwwwww!......ok.......I guess...... Just dreadful, just dreadful......This would 've never happened with the Indian story tellers !
"Foul Buffalo Wind! Me thought you said you going to clean out hide scrapings today? Hhmmph!" " Y e s s s, she who has many moccasins. Even as me speak, me go in general direction of scrapings." So anyway, as me saying before, there me was, me thinking soapstone be verrrwee cwose......hahahahahaha......( All rights reserved by Elmer Fudd inc. )
Wayne
Dane:
Wayne, very funny :)
Okay, the rest, as promised.
So, here I am, tamping along this rutted, winding, steep old wagon road, marveling that horsedrawn wagons would pull tons and tons of stone up and then back down into Grafton. Thick forest came right to the edge of the road, and I could see the old farm walls snaking up and down the steep sides of Bare Hill. I stopped at one point and tried to imagine a team of mules or horses pulling a plow with a cursing old farmer spitting and muttering as he unearthed yet another rock. They say, in fact, that in New England, they farm rocks, not crops.
About this time, about 45 minutes into the walk, and being careful not to “fall into” the quarries, I began to suspect that I had missed them. The Google Earth image I had printed and taken with me showed that there was no disernable industry that can be seen from space.
Where I went wrong was missing a fork in the road. If I had taken it to the right, I would have found the quarries. Instead, I took the left fork and ended up going down a road called Ledge Road. Ledge Road would have taken me to Route 121, the road that travels from Cambridgeport to Gratton, so I would have ended up on Route 121 and walked about 20 minutes back into Cambridgeport.
And that is the story. Having failed to find the quarries, I still had a great time. the solitude was nice, too, something you dont get a lot of in New Engalnd, as it is so densly populated. It was about 3:30 about this point, and starting to get dim, so I decided to get back to my car and not try to find that fork and find the quarries on this day. After all, they have been there for many years, and were first worked by pioneers in the late 1700s who used soapstone even for tombstones.
Walking out, of course, was a bit tougher than heading in, but I made good time and got to my car about 4:30. I stopped back in the little museum and kept my promise to tell the woman there if I had found them, and then stopped in the one store in town for some water and snacks. Coming out, I cross the street and saw what goes for excitement in this tiny village; an old farmer who looked like the archetype of all New England farmers was hauling a trailer full of cordwood behind an ancient tractor at about 5 miles per hour. I nodded and smiled at him, and he nodded back. Another old man wearing those 50s style black framed glasses was following him in an old Buick. I nodded and smiled at him, but he frowned at me and looked away. A Flatlander, I guess.
And that is the story. I stopped at Curtis and got some ribs and chicken, and then drove the 45 minutes home. Before winter sets in, I’m going to give it one last shot, and think I will be successful, if the Bennington Triangle monster or a moose doesn’t get me first.
stickbender:
Well couldn't you have at least thrown in a mishapen dwarf that kept following you at a distance, or some mysterious sound in the woods, just out of sight......or a glowing orb in the sky that kept following you, and when you made the wrong turn it kept bobbing towards the right......or an old farmer that looked up at you from his field, where he was wrestling with a large stone, and as he slowly stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow, he slowly faded away into a light mist......or a mysterious shimmering area, just ahead......something like that......Well be sure to let us know when you find the quarry, and if you can get some of the soapstone. I would love to get some of that stuff. There are some carvings I want to do. Let us know, and take lots of pictures. Now clean out that garage, and for the last time, take out that garbage! Oh, and take the dog for a walk, and the cat's litter box needs to be emptied. Do that before you take the garbage out. Wayne......
Dane:
The garbage is out, and I ate the cat. Okay, I don't have a cat. Davenport the Pug, however, I took out.
So you want a real ghost story? I worked at Cambridgeport for a year, back in 2000 - 2001. The route I took to work took me from Putney, through Westminster, and then into Saxtons River and then down Route 121 to Cambridgeport.
This happened about five times. As I approached Saxtons River, the road passed a couple of farm houses on my left, before making a sharp turn to the right, then a sharp turn and over the river and onto Main Street. The first farmhouse that I would pass had a long, overgrown hedgerow that paralled Westminster West Road, and ended at the edge of the house's yard. Behind the hedgerow was a tillered field. As I slowed down to 25 mph (you don't speed around there, the cops are bored and hide), I would see a woman standing on the edge of the road. As I got about 50 yards from her, she would turn and walk back toward the field, and disapppear from sight behind the edge of the hedgerow. About 10 seconds later, I'd pass that spot, and the woman was gone.
As I said, this happened at least five times. She wasnt wearing classic ghost white, but a light colored dress, and long dark hair. I am kicking myself for not stopping and asking the owners of the house if someone died there on the road, or in the field. This always happened about 7:45 AM, as I was always punctual and passed the spot at the same time each morning. It wasn't a threatening ghost, just strange to see, as if I was seeing something I perhaps shouldnt have been seeing, or a replay of some event from the past.
I guess it is true that there are a lot of ghosts in this part of the coutry. The suicide vicitim I encountered at another old job was also not threatening, but seeing it at dusk alone in an old restored mansion was not exactly fun, either. It was about three feet from me the time I saw it, turning around suddently and there it was. The only ghost I have encountered that I felt in danger from was in the attic of the house I grew up in, which I am pretty sure was once lived in by Amelia Erhart. Whatever was up there was evil. And it, like all the other ecounters I have had, always happened during daylight hours.
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