In the Shadow of Monadnock

In the Shadow of Monadnock

There were other areas of New Hampshire, outside of the White Mountains, that I came to know and love as well. The most cherished of those was certainly the Monadnock Region, that area in the Southwestern portion of the state dominated by Mt Monadnock, or Grand Monadnock as it is sometimes called. The mountain is a prominent feature in the southern part of the state and, at 3165’ of elevation, its barren granite summit affords fine views in all directions. It is also accessible year round, some would say too accessible. Many consider Monadnock to be the second most climbed mountain in the world after Mt Fuji in Japan. After several climbs to the summit on fine summer days, there was nothing I would say to challenge that assertion. Mt Monadnock is the first ‘big hike’ for many youths in New England; it is a tradition for families to take a young hiker up the exposed rock to the summit of Mt Monadnock before allowing them to venture up into the White Mountains. By the time the decade of the 1980’s was over, I had hiked every trail to the summit, and had climbed the mountain in every month of the year. I came to know the mountain and its environs well, and enjoyed many adventures there over the course of that decade.
 
Over the years, I made many trips to the region. As I began visiting that part of the state, I came to know and appreciate the surrounding towns. I also made friends in the Monadnock area. To the north lay Dublin, ironically one of the highest towns in the state. To the southwest was Fitzwilliam and, to the east, was Peterborough, the town made famous by Thornton Wilder and his play, ‘Our Town’. It was a pleasant burgh in the 1980’s, and home to one of the best diners that I ever visited, a great breakfast served in a great atmosphere. There was the blue-collar town of Jaffrey, and a little farther to the west, the more affluent and socially desirable area called Jaffrey Center, just southeast of the iconic shape of Mt Monadnock.
 
In pursuit of adventure on the mountain, I came to know and enjoy the company of others in the area, and I cherish those experiences shared with people I had come to call my friends. Here are two stories from those years, two stories of moments spent with friends in the shadow of Monadnock.
 
1.  The Inn
 
One of the friends I made during that period was Sam Greene. I met Sam through my old friend Bob Herman. Bob had lived in the Jaffrey Center area for several years, and I would come by to visit both him and the mountain. Sam and I would go on to become close friends in our own right, and we were destined to share many great adventures through the years. Sam called Jaffrey Center home, and he lived in the old family house directly across from the Monadnock Inn. The Monadnock Inn was built in the 1830’s as a residence, and had been used as an inn for more than 100 years. Now owned by Sally Roberts, it was a large white affair with a wrap around porch; it was a destination for city folks seeking to explore the region, and for locals who were looking for a fine dinner and pleasant night out. You entered the Inn through the front door on the porch to find a small bar to the left, a function room to the right, and a kitchen with dining area straight ahead. A staircase rose up to the eleven guest rooms on the second and third floors.
 
In those years, we ended many an adventure by walking across the street to the Inn where we would settle into the bar and tell tales over a few libations. The bartender, who also managed the guest registration, was a local young woman named Ruth. We were good tippers and good company, so we were usually welcome. And of course, everyone in the area knew Sam and his family. But there were times when our group might arrive after a hike or other local adventure, and turn the quiet bar ablaze with laughter and buffoonery. If it was a slow time at the Inn and most of the rooms stood empty, you and your money were welcomed with open arms. If it was a full house, Ruth was much less tolerant of miscreants and ne’er-do-wells. Ruth had her moods, and what she said was the law of the land (well, at least of the Inn). She was happy and adept at segueing between the neurotic and the erotic, and you had to pay attention or you were left behind.
 
One time we had a group join Bob and I for an autumn climb of the mountain, and we enjoyed a long lunch at the summit. We came down at dusk and, after a stop to clean up, soon made our way to the Inn, where we repaired to the bar to recall and embellish the events of the day. Other friends were there, and we soon had tables pulled together to form a long rectangle surrounded by our jovial group. As the hour grew later, we grew louder. We started singing, and we did several fine versions of the old Fats Domino song, ‘Blueberry Hill’, with everyone loudly singing the opening lines of, “I found my thrill, on Blueberry Hill.” After four or five renditions, each one louder than the one before, Ruth’s eyes were beginning to glaze and cross, and she announced to the group that she had had enough; if she heard that song one more time we were gone. We sat there for a moment like admonished children, embarrassed and furtive. Sam came in from the dining room where he was entertaining cousins from Massachusetts. At that moment, the front door opened and in walked Dave Latrico with an attractive blond-haired female at his side. Dave was from Connecticut, knew many of us, and had relatives in the area. From the group came a chorus of “hellos” and “how are you”. We introduced Sam to Dave, and there followed a quick round of pleasantries from those assembled. Someone heard Sam mention the fact that, he too, was from Connecticut.
 
“Where abouts?” someone asked.
 
“I grew up in Avon,” Sam said. “On Cider Brook Road, off of Bayberry Hill.”
 
The group at the tables looked around at each other for a brief second, and then launched into a loud and drunken rendition of, “I found my thrill on Bayberry Hill.” Dave and the girl stood there nervously watching, unsure of what was happening. We were all laughing uproariously. A guest came down the stairs and asked Ruth angrily how long this was going to go on.
 
“Bar’s closed,” Ruth said.
 
We paid our tabs and gathered up our coats as Ruth officiously busied herself with picking up glasses and wiping down tables. We shuffled out the front door, meeting a few more friends who were just arriving. We told them about the bar being closed, and they joined us as we walked across the street to Sam’s house, where the group continued to talk and share a laugh. In the early morning hours, six or seven of us went into town and parked in front of the house where Ruth and her husband had a small apartment upstairs. We piled out onto the front yard and sang “Blueberry Hill” one more time, taking no small amount of pleasure in seeing the lights come on in Ruth’s apartment, and seeing her incredulous open-mouthed face pressed against the glass. Then we high-tailed it back to Sam’s, laughing all the way.
 
2. New Years
 
In 1987, Peter Murphy was living with Sam in the house across from the Inn. Peter was a guitar player and singer; he would give his one-man show at local café’s and bistros or at the college bars over in the town of Keene. Sometime that fall, Peter agreed with Sally to perform at the Inn during her annual Christmas Holiday party. Peter would provide the entertainment, Sally would provide food and the function room, and just the fact that Peter would perform was enough to guarantee that it would be a profitable night for Sally and the house. I told Sam that I would make the fifty mile drive from my apartment up in Hooksett if he could reserve me a room at the Inn with a private bath. Sam informed me that he had indeed reserved a room, so the arrangements were now all set.
 
December 31 arrived, and I made the drive to Jaffrey Center from my apartment in the east. It was late afternoon when I pulled up to the Inn and parked my truck in the rear. I grabbed my small night bag and walked in the front door to register. One of the other girls was working the bar, and she came over with the registration book; I gave her my name. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, scanning the book with great attention. “I have no room reserved for anyone under that name.”
 
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll wait for Sam or Ruth.” It was not a major problem, I knew I could sleep across the street at Sam’s; I just wanted a private bed and bath. I sat down at the bar and ordered an Irish coffee. As I sat there, Ruth came into the bar for the night shift, and warmly said hello to me.
 
“Is your room alright?” she asked.
 
“Not really. They said there was no reservation,” I answered.
 
“That’s not right,” she said. “I made it myself as soon as Sam asked.” She opened the registration book and, after a moment, laughed and pointed to an entry that had one word written on it: ‘Sammio’. “Yes, that is a little cryptic for a reservation,” she said with a laugh and a smirk. I paid her for the night’s lodging and went up the stairs to find my small room with private bath on the third floor. Perfect.
 
I took a nap, washed my face, and went downstairs refreshed. People were now starting to arrive, and the bar quickly filled with people looking forward to dinner and the show. We were ushered into the function room where tables with place settings had been arranged for dinner. At one end of the room, on a metal stand next to an empty chair, stood a lone acoustic guitar. The evening was a fine affair, spent in the company of friends. Peter played an opening set, and then dinner was served, followed by coffee and brandy. Peter followed dinner by performing a long set that ended before midnight. He was in fine form and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Champagne and sparkling cider was brought out, as well as trays of champagne glasses. We made our final holiday toasts with hugs and kisses all around. Soon after, we left the Inn and walked across to Sam’s house where the celebration of the season continued.
 
About 1:30, I made my way back across the street, and went upstairs to my room. Sleep was brief; my room was soon bright with the light of day. There was no clock and no radio; I had no watch and did not know what time it was. The room was in a strange corner of the building and faced the northwest, and I could not determine a relative time from the sun. I tossed around the bed for a while, then finally arose and took a shower.
 
I went downstairs and dropped the key on the desk. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a coffee and a pastry. To my chagrin, It was only a little after 7:00am. I left the Inn and walked across the street and into Sam’s house; it was biting cold and clear. The plan was for everyone to have breakfast together. I saw a few bodies in sleeping bags on the floor, and a few more on couches. There was not a sound to be heard from the upstairs bedrooms. The kitchen was still and cold. I knew that it would be a while before this group got going. I decided to change my plans; I would go to Peterborough and have breakfast at the Peterborough Diner. After that, I would head home and relax and watch football.
 
I got into my truck and started it up, letting the engine warm enough to defrost the windows. I headed back to Jaffrey and then onto Peterborough. I parked at the diner and walked next door to the little sundry shop where I bought the Boston Herald, a tabloid paper in the style of the New York Post. I went inside the busy diner and sat down at the far left end of the counter at the only vacant stool. The server brought me coffee and water, and I ordered a large breakfast. I turned my attention to the paper.
 
The man next to me turned from his breakfast and asked, “Can I have your paper?”  
 
“Pardon?” I asked slowly, not sure that I was hearing him correctly.
 
“Can I have your paper?” he asked, again.
 
“No,” I answered with an irritated huff. “What nerve this guy has,” I thought to myself.
 
“No, please, I’m serious,” he said.
 
I turned to face him and, looking directly into his eyes, slowly and with an attitude said, “Read my lips, no.” I turned away from him indignantly and returned my attention to reading the news, a little upset and ill at ease over what was happening down here at this end of the counter.
 
He leaned over close to me and I felt my body stiffen, then he stretched his left hand across in front of me and grabbed the pepper from where it stood at the end of the counter.
 
I was mortified. “Oh no,” I cried in embarrassment, “I am so sorry.” I turned to look at him again, and this time, contritely, I said, “Please forgive me, that was so rude.” I explained what had happened, how I misunderstood him, how I had heard the word ‘paper’ and not the word ‘pepper’. In a moment, he saw the humor in it as well, and the tension was defused; we both shared a laugh.

I cannot remember exactly what it was that I had for breakfast that New Years Day in Peterborough, but I think it was humble pie with a side of country gravy.

Laudizen King
11/07