The Coolest Small Town in America

Mark and I grew up in Lititz, PA, and lived there the first year of our marriage. After twenty years and two more addresses in other Lancaster County burgs, we returned to Lititz for a two-month stint before we moved to Arden, DE. We were between houses, and Mark's parents put a roof over our heads for that period of time. During those months, Lititz was celebrating being voted the Coolest Small Town in America (2013) by Budget Travel Magazine. It was a great time to set up camp. Second Fridays (of the month) were hopping in a pure party of the arts and small businesses that lined Main Street. Our kids went in search of the free sunglasses that were the souvenir of the newly crowned "cool" kids. Mark and I availed ourselves of strong IPAs at Bull's Head, a brewpub that overflowed onto a sidewalk near the town square--and around the corner from our first address as a married couple. We clinked glasses and commented that, had Lititz been this cool at the time, we would have never left our little second-story apartment that overlooked the back stoop and garbage bins of the aforementioned brew pub.  And the town is cool--in more than just "coffee houses and brew pubs" kind of way. At the north end of town, Rock Lititz --the brainchild of existing entertainment industry giants Clair Bros Audio, Tait Towers, and Atomic Designs--has launched a venue for top musical artists from around the globe to practice and technically perfect their arena shows. Rock star sightings are a normal occurrence in Lititz and have been since we were kids. Lititz was a great place to grow up, and now its coolness factor is undisputed. Had Mark's job been closer to our native town, we would have gladly settled there instead of Arden for our next act.

My nieces and nephew at Julius Sturgis Pretzel Bakery in Lititz, PA

Lititz is more than a gimmick contest in a magazine to me: it is my heritage. If you trace my dad's family back through his mother's mother's mother's (10 mothers total) you will find the first European settler to Lititz Springs area. Of course, it was her husband's name-- Christian Bomberger-- that we memorized in fourth grade at Lititz Elementary School. But Christian wasn't alone in the dugout home he carved out of the land in 1722. His wife, Maria, was doing the laundry in the springs. Imagine the amount of dirt that accumulated in your clothes and linens when you lived in a dugout? A few decades later, in 1756, the Moravian Church came along and claimed the Lititz area for its own purposes. This is where my mother's family came into play. Originally Quakers who came to Pennsylvania with William Penn, they had a son who married into a Moravian family and he had a son who lived in Bethlehem (another Moravian settlement) for a while until an Indian raid sent that son (my gr-gr-gr-gr-grandfather) leaping off the roof of the up-in-flames Brother's house (where the unmarried men lived) to dodge bullets in a forest and eventually escape to Bethlehem's sister town of Lititz where he started a family. He was a potter, and his grandson (my gr-gr-grandfather) Julius Sturgis became the founder of the first commercial hard pretzel bakery in 1861. You can still tour this pretzel bakery today. (One more "cool point" for Lititz!) In the beginning of Lititz history, the Moravian Church owned all the land parcels in town and leased them only to members of its congregation until 1855 when it sold off its parcels and opened the town to outsiders.

**Are you paying attention, Arden? I started life in an intentional community in which residents had to lease the land on which they lived. 

 Lititz was the first community in Pennsylvania to establish a historic district, which is why its older buildings survive in such pristine condition. In the 1970's the downtown merchants got together and formed an association that bought up properties and bolstered business in the town for decades to come. As a result, Lititz has a thriving downtown and economy where many other towns are now shuttered, abandoned or have some sort of token commerce. Lititz boasts both the oldest girls' school and the longest running Fourth of July celebration in this country.  The latter has one of the best fireworks displays around, and you can bet that the soundtrack that accompanies the show is top notch--as it is provided by the same folks who are "rocking" Lititz at the north end of town.

In this blog, I've detailed a lot of what the experience of living in Arden has brought to us. Maybe we sought Arden out because community is so important to us. I came preloaded with expectation, having cut my teeth in a place that values neighbors, honors its history, and moved into this century with such forward thinking it is astonishing. Arden has a great history, too. I have read much about it in the short time I have been here. My friends joke about my geeky spouting of Arden trivia. My knowledge is not complete, but certainly well-informed. I do honor my new town's 115-year history with the same reverence I give to Lititz, though Lititz history is over twice as long. Sometimes, I run into Ardenites who are stubborn about change in the community. I can't blame them. They don't want  the Arden of their collective childhood to fade away. Their memories can account for half the history of the place, so of course their experience has weight. I can respect that. But I am glad to see forward momentum here as well. As an example, The Arden Concert Gild has grown over the last decade to the point where our Gild Hall is a true venue, competing for artists with other great hotspots in Wilmington and Philadelphia. How interesting that music plays such a central and progressive role in both my beloved towns?

And so Arden, I offer you my past, as you have offered me yours. When I step forward at village meetings or offer suggestions in various committees, know that any challenges I make to the status quo are informed and respectful of the past. Just because I seek changes doesn't mean that I don't honor the story. I haven't been here very long, but I have great joy and enthusiasm for our village life, and I come to you with a storied history of my own.

Jetsons meets Little House on the Prairie

When I was little, I was immersed in the Little House on the Prairie books and TV show. Living in Arden, I sometimes imagine I am living in Walnut Grove--but with electricity. Like Laura, I live in a rustic house that looks like it was cobbled together by elves or someone's Pa. We are nestled outside a forest with other houses that look like they came into existence in a similar magic fashion--and are held together in a ways that have baffled home inspectors. We have a creek or two, neither of which is quite a fishing hole material, but one is playing host to a family of beaver this summer.  And when the winter was really bad two years ago, we all banded together until the train came through with supplies and food.  Okay, the thing about the train didn't happen, but we did act pretty neighborly toward one another.

I would say that the way that my life most resembles the Little House books has to do with the community spirit. We don't have sing-alongs, spelling bees or church picnics. Instead we have the Arden Concert Gild, Saturday dinners, and the talent showcase of ACRA summer camp. People walk the narrow streets to get to the events. We chat and catch up. Gossip a little. Ask after the health of a neighbor. Report on a tree down on one of the paths. And yes, we have our very own mean-spirited Nelly Olson who sometimes makes life miserable for those who cross her path. I don't have to name names. Nelly is an archetype who makes her own presence known.

It would be the quaintest of lifestyles except for all the technology. My husband is an IT guy. While I was reading LHOTP books, he was hacking the very early video games so that he could trounce every high score his brother obtained rightfully. Mark's predilection for programming means that above our rough hewn fireplace mantle we have Hue lighting which he can control by his iPhone. I can control them, too, but I haven't found the practice as convenient or user friendly as Mark has. What was wrong with our dimmer switches? In addition we have home security, house cameras, dead bolt we can activate with our touch if our iPhone is on our person. We drive electric or hybrid automobiles. From under our carport, built in the peg fashion, the blue light of our chargers glow against the backdrop of the dark forest.  Computers. Tablets. We have all the gadgets, sans the new iWatch. I am not entirely comfortable with the new technology. It isn't that I am a technophobe. It is just that I don't like the fact that my life changes so quickly before I get used to it all. For example, last week, I  rented a DVD from a grocery store kiosk only to come home and find out that we don't have a DVD drive anywhere anymore. My computer doesn't even have a drive. Mark said he would come home and hook one up, but I had rented the DVD to watch in his absence, knowing he had an after-work engagement. I was so mad that I paid to stream it, cursing that I just paid twice to rent the same mediocre movie.

When I feel that technology is closing in, I sometimes do something that takes me away from it. I read a book, the kind with actual pages made from the pulp of a tree. Or I can some homemade salsa. I sew a skirt. Or I poke a stick at my garden (I am not a great gardener, but I make stabs.) Mark, too, seeks refuge in the natural world after his day working as the head of an IT Department. His latest battle, one that Pa would approve of, entails wrestling our modest leasehold away from the grips of invasive plant life. He is working to eradicate the bamboo, ivy, and lesser celandine which is the bane of village gardeners and the Arden Forest Committee. And jointly, we go for our hikes. The back and forth from nature to technology creates a balance--mostly. 

I am typing this blog post on my MacBook Pro while wearing socks I knit for myself. The windows are open, the breeze is blowing in. It is getting dark in my living room, but not quite knowing the best way to turn on the lights, I will sit in the dark until it is time to walk to the ACRA Summer Program Open House. 

Arden...red, WHITE, and blue

Arden Dinner in White Sparkler Sendoff, photo by Joe del Tufo

I have been lax in my blogging. I have sent my novel off to my agent for review, and as a result I have no novel writing to procrastinate. Hence, no blogging. The effect is multiplied because it is summer, and I am busy, running around Arden in the beautiful weather--summer camp songs of my youth, popping into my head. Something about all the deep green foliage and the twisty roads and trails that conjure my first forays into selfhood. Ah, summer camp.

ACRA's summer program is in full swing now. This week they had an ice cream sundae party and played water "Hunger Games." The program is in its post-July 4th stride now and heading for the home stretch. Three weeks down and two weeks to go. I didn't blog about July 4th, busy as I was with our own doings. This year, Mark and I drove to Lewes where we hiked with our hiking group from Cape Henlopen to Rehoboth beach, ending our eight-mile trek in a glorious mess of marmalade-topped shredded Austrian pancakes at Kaisy on Rehobeth Avenue. Not very American, but a worthy celebration just the same.

Back home in Arden, our daughter Maren and her boyfriend participated in the Arden Games on the Green. With participants ages four to eighty-four, the games reflect friendly competition at its finest. How serious can you get over the sack race or three-legged race or slowest bicycle race? Plenty. The first year we came to the games (which was within five days after moving to Arden) we saw a youth painted to the likeness of Darth Maul from Star Wars I movie. He was killing it at every event. Who is this kid? Two years later, we know him as our daughter's boyfriend. He was nursing an injury this year, but still gave it everything he had. Other Arden teens painted themselves in a more event appropriate red, white, and blue. The games started with the ceremonial running of the torch around the Green.  Last year, our son got to carry it part of the way as part of his involvement as co-outdoor activities coordinator at ACRA's summer program. Arden doesn't have any officially sanctioned firework events in the evening, but those who are looking for a show know where to go unofficially. Invariably the whole town will hear about the debris on the Pettit Green the next day. We had to explain to our daughter that even though she didn't set off any fireworks, if she was part of the crowd who enjoyed them, she was also responsible for the mess and should go help clean it up. Who knows where traditions like these start or how long they have been around?

From longstanding rituals to the stand-alone pop-up event. A week after July 4th, Arden joined in the trend (started in France?) of the diner en blanc. Participants wear all white and gather in a predesignated spot. They decorate a table with white and bring out a prepared picnic. Of course, Arden put its spin on things. Arden Night in White was a fundraiser for the new kitchen being installed in the Gild Hall. Ninety people who bought tickets, including us, met in the Gild Hall parking lot to process to the secret location for the festivities. Here is where I admit that Mark and I knew of the secret location. It was the back yard of our friends Cynthia and David. It is the same back yard where we first got our introduction to Arden back in May of 2009. It is a magical spot indeed, and the weather could not have been more glorious--an unusual July evening in which heat and humidity took a breather. The soundtrack for our procession and dinner was a fitting and quite impressive playlist of artists who had performed in Arden Concert Gild's shows over the years. Everyone got to work, setting the stage. So many beautiful tables. So many artful menus. The costumes were thoughtful and outrageous and a delight. One woman, not from Arden but who somehow stumbled upon promotion of the event, showed up wearing her wedding dress. She and her groom, who was not quite as obvious, had gotten married earlier in the day. They won the prize for best-dressed. How could they not?

While nobody else wore a gown, everybody brought their A-games and ratcheted the celebration to a higher level. I saw trays of cheeses, homemade aioli, lobster salad, white gazpacho soup shots, creme brûlée, appetizers so decadent they need to be eaten in one-bite allotments only-- off of white ceramics soup spoons. Our table featured an Israeli menu we recreated using recipes from the famed Zahav restaurant in Philly, and we served the fare in white Chinese food boxes for added whimsy (and convenience). As for the tablescapes: white crudités platter, lush flower arrangements, bird cages, lanterns, feathers, architectural elements, fairy lights, and textiles. With all the creativity, the prize for best decorated table was not as easy a choice for judges, but they managed to declare a winner.  It was a good thing that Joe del Tufo was on hand to document the glory with his all-seeing camera lenses. That man is a ridiculous light-bender and storyteller in his own right. The event was an unqualified success. Before the sparkler sendoff, we managed to raise about $3,000 for the new kitchen.

I don't know if I witnessed the start of yet another Arden tradition or if, like Brigadoon, the tale of this event will fade into the mists, to be talked about in reverent whispers for the next decade. I'm not sure we could improve upon the perfection that was had. Another possibility that was kicked around was an Arden tie-dye dinner. Something different indeed that would defy comparison. And it was suggested that we should wear the same clothes we wore to Dinner in White, only tie-dyed for that event. That would be a heck of a thing to do to one's wedding gown.

Gallery of photos from the event.

Concerts at the Arden Gild Hall

Joseph Arthur, photo by Joe del Tufo

Last night, Mark and I attended a concert at the Gild Hall about which the headliner called "the best concert of my life." Joseph Arthur is a folk rock singer/songwriter/instrumentalist who is known for painting artwork on stage while he is simultaneously performing music. After playing to a receptive crowd for about an hour and a half (fifteen minutes longer than his usual set), he came back onstage for an encore that lasted an additional forty-five minutes. The encore seemed like more of a house concert the way Arthur engaged with the audience. He was in full-out banter mode, which those who have experienced his previous live performances say is rare. He hardly ever talks to the audience. 

I am still a music novice and am not comfortable giving my notes on musicians except in cases when the hairs raise on my arms. I have had a few of those experiences at Gild Hall. Gil Landry, the opener for Justin Townes Earle, is one such recent example. I could have flown away on his lyrics; they were so evocative. I know that those who were sitting around me had an almost equal experience listening to Joseph Arthur. As for me, his on-stage art-making took me out of the zone needed to make such a connection. I wasn't buying into his art cred, and it became a distraction to me. I am a musical novice, but I have been studying art all my life. It is just my opinion. Arthur has Peter Gabriel and Micheal Stipe singing his praises; he doesn't need my endorsement.

But even though I had a disconnect, I have to admit that something happened last night. Something that elevated the concert-going and concert-performing experience. The Gild Hall has that kind of energy. It is a 160-year-old converted barn with a storied past that includes livestock and Georgists, costume galas and Shakespeare. Besides the fact that the barn has been outfitted with dream sound and lighting equipment, it also boasts high ceilings and warm wood. After touring the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville this fall and seeing the all wood in that place, I believe in the material's power to hold music. Something about wood brings a honeyed richness to sounds.

The Gild Hall is also about the people. The shows draw enthusiastic crowds who are not here for the glitz of a venue, but for the music, plain and simple. Ardenites walk to hear musicians whether they know them or not, simply because the music is in their back yard. They sit interspersed with fans who drive far and park in a muddy field to belt out the lyrics they have memorized from the artists they love. The Hall can seat 250 or accommodate a standing crowd of 300. Sometimes the shows are a combination of seats and dance floor. Folding chairs allow for a certain flexibility.

If you are talking about the enthusiasm of the people at these shows, you cannot overlook the fact that the entire enterprise of a concert season (15-plus shows) is entirely run by volunteers. Ron Ozer is their king. He scours the east coast, going to venues and festivals, searching for acts to bring to Arden.   He has a love of world music which means exposing our little village to voices from across the globe.  If you find Ron out in the wild and he doesn't have a flier or a poster for the next concert on his person, he is probably on his way to the emergency room. Forget that. I am sure if ever Ron Ozer had to be transported to the hospital by way of ambulance, it would only be after he had given the EMTs and driver a handbill promoting the coming show. The enthusiasm of those on the concert gild and the volunteers who sell merch, run the bar, collect tickets, and feed the band is unbounded. If I had a criticism, it would only be that the Gild needs a little more estrogen in its ranks. Even in Arden, the music scene has a gender bias.

The Arden Concert Gild has three more shows in its season. I encourage you to check out the lineup. I know the boys have fought valiantly with music management and against other venues to bring it to us. I promise you will have an experience. Perhaps I will see you there.

Snowtopia

March, and we are due to get our biggest snowstorm of the winter season. We are all so weary of winter. Not Boston weary. (Those poor folks.) Arden weary. Arden is a place that makes you confront the outdoors. We walk to our many local events because parking can sometimes be limited. We hike our woods, play on the Arden Green with our dogs, argue about when and in what form the playground committee is going to replace the sliding board on said green. And argue. And argue. Because being outside is important to us. 

So snow? How does nine inches of stuff impact life in the village? Our streets are more like camp roads in the summer, no sidewalks. We have a single crew of native sons in a truck with a plow attachment taking care of all our tight, vegetation-and-rock-lined roads. If you can catch them on their rounds and throw them a little extra coin, they will take care of your driveway. Mark has been resistant to do so. He takes his shovel and gives our huge, looping driveway all he has in his tank, which is enough to move 3/4 of the snow which, in turn, is enough to get our cars in and out. While he is doing this, I making a huge pot of tomato soup using a recipe from our high school cafeteria. Believe it or not, school cafeterias made homemade soup back in the day. Kids loved it, and I have been asked time and time again for this recipe. (My Uncle Ken  got the recipe upon his retirement as a teacher.) Great for a winter’s day, but even a scaled-down, cafeteria-sized recipe is too much soup for Mark and me as new empty-nesters. No matter. That is what Arden is about.

Out of out window,  we see our friends with their dog. They are out on walk, taking photos of the untouched beauty. I wrangle them inside in spite of protests that they are all snowy and that their dog is going though his rambunctious teen years. (Let our old man pug deal with him.) After we feed our friends unsolicited soup and grilled cheese and send them on their way, I deliver more soup to neighbors. We are waiting to hear if the evening’s concert at the Gild Hall will go off as planned. The Arden Concert Gild  and the musicians they attract there are subjects for a whole other blog entry. Suffice it to say, we have great and talented musicians from all over the world coming to entertain our village and that the whole enterprise is run by volunteers. Tonight’s offering is a sold out concert by Jay Farrar, a folk rock singer of the band Sun Volt. 

It’s on! The opening act has canceled due to weather and been replaced by a super secret act. Arden folks are encouraged to walk or carpool due to the snow. Being less than a half mile away, we walk and are surprised at just how light the world looks at 7:30 at night when it has snowed. We have to be careful. The roads are narrow, and when cars come, we don’t have much room. A friend of mine observed that you can differentiate Arden folks from out-of-towners at a concert by their footwear. Tonight I am wearing hiking boots with removable Yak Trax which accessorize beautifully with my all gray ensemble of knit dress, leggings, and chunky cowl.

photo by Joe del Tufo

I am music appreciation novice. I don’t listen to much radio, preferring audio books. But now that we are in Arden, I am being introduced to all kinds of live music. We go to more of the offerings than not. Why wouldn't we? When you can walk to and from the concerts? The hall is abuzz with the news of the opening act. Some people, those who volunteer, are in the know. They lord it over the rest of us while we get seats and go to the bar for Dogfish Head beers, sold for $3 because they are one of the concert gild’s sponsors. Our friend Larry has sneaked bourbon cherries inside sandwich baggies and offers us tiny cocktail forks to fish out the really super-soaked specimens at the bottom of the bag. The trick is not to stab the bag. 

The moment of truth arrives, and we are treated to the musical stylings and hip shakes of Rhett Miller. Those who are familiar with his work gasp and cheer at the “get”. His gig was cancelled at the Queen in downtown Wilmington tonight, so this worked out perfectly (for us). It turns out that our friend Cynthia was instrumental in this deal. She had already been making some secret deals of her own with Rhett, trying to get him to come to her barn, site of its own concert series, to riff with some local musicians in an after-party. 

photo by Joe del Tufo

The man starts playing, and I am an immediate fan. I can’t speak to Jay Farrar. After the energy and raw magnetism of Rhett, Jay’s voice and music puts me in a trance. It makes my mind wander. I cannot focus.  The number of encore songs he performs are lost on me. The buzz of bourbon-soaked maraschino cherries has long since worn off, and I’m ready for the after-party.

This is when we find out that Rhett has bailed on that front. He has an early morning flight to the west coast, but the local artists still want to hang and play. We walk another quarter mile to our friends Cynthia and David’s barn and help them set the stage with votive candle in assorted jelly jars, pillar candles in Ikea lanterns, and the essential plugging-in of the disco ball. They have never had a musical event in their barn in the winter. An exception was made for Rhett. Also for Rhett—a requisite bottle of Jameson, which we quickly avail ourselves of while waiting for the space heater to do its magic. 

Snow-covered creek in Arden Woods

What ensues is glowy and boozy and a little blurry around the edges. It involves lounging on pillowed sofas in the round, shaking percussion on dubious beats, and the ill-conceived passing out of harmonicas. A musical slurry with some good, honest, homegrown music at the center of it. It’s about 2:30 when Mark and I stumble out of the golden glow and into the silver glow to walk home. The moon is full and directly overhead, lighting all of the snow-covered branches and the still-white streets. It’s a school night, except that the local district has already cancelled school for the next day. Mark decides he will take a vacation day tomorrow which is today. We remind ourselves that the last time we were out and about this late at night, we were taking our daughter to the emergency room. (For that story, see the blog entry entitled Rebels and Ice Cream.)  When we arrive home, we discover that our driveway has been completely cleared. We find out later that Denis, one of our neighbors to whom I brought soup, finished our driveway and also helped open up who-knows-how-many other neighbors’ driveways with his snow blower. He has a new lease on life after finding out this week that his cancer is in remission.
After we wake mid-morning, have a big breakfast out, and take an achingly beautiful hike in the woods, another neighbor returns our soup container with homemade pecan layer bars inside. She is newly retired with time to bake. We are tired and sore from navigating the snowy terrain. A pecan bar never tasted so good.

Oh, yeah. I am so ready for spring I could cry, but if winter keeps giving us gifts like this, I can hold out for a little while longer.