Un-Be-Lied: My Trip to Hyde Park (or How to Tell the Truth)

MY STORY

I have a very difficult time telling lies. While I do believe that the occasional white lie can serve a positive purpose, I prefer to stick with the truth. On occasion, I have gone to some length to avoid telling a bold-faced lie.

One year at Thanksgiving, a friend invited me to her house for dinner. Not wanting to eat at her house for a number of reasons, I told her I was spending Thanksgiving out of town with a different friend. Knowing that Friend 1 would ask me about my holiday after the fact, I knew I really had to go out of town so that my lie became a more manageable white lie as opposed to an outright lie. Not wanting to impose upon Friend 2, I decided to take a solo trip to Hyde Park to cover my butt. I had been to the area previously but had not visited the Eleanor and FDR sites, so I decided to go to Hyde Park for Thanksgiving.

I arrived in Hyde Park on Thanksgiving afternoon. After checking in to the Quality Inn, I caught a movie at the Cineplex. As most restaurants were closed for Thanksgiving, I had supper at the Eveready Diner. The next day, I visited the tourist sites and headed back to Albany in the late afternoon. I had a grand time on this solo trip. Friend 1 did ask me later about my “trip.” I was able to tell her honestly that I had a good trip. I just did not tell her that I took a different trip than I initially claimed.

When the Yahoo Contributors Network gave me the assignment of writing about an itinerary for a solo trip in an area of my choosing, my Hyde Park trip sprang to mind. I added the Hudson part to flesh out the trip a bit. Below, I have republished an edited version of the original.

SOLO TRIP TO HUDSON AND HYDE PARK

Where does the solo traveler go that is not overrun with other travelers? Hudson, New York, and Hyde Park, New York, provide the perfect itinerary of history and low-key culture for the solo traveler.

DAY 1 HUDSON: THINGS TO DO

Start your day on Route 9 north of Hudson at the thrift shops. Hudson offers a selection of Goodwill and Salvation Army shops to delight any bargain hunter. Then, head to the heart of Hudson and Warren Street. Since it is lunch time, grab a sandwich or pizza and picnic at the waterfront park. Then, saunter up Warren Street and browse the quirky shops. I left Hudson recently with a Lancelot marionette and a second hand book about the last meals of famous people, including recipes. Mexican Radio is the dinner destination, with its marvelous margaritas and homemade sangria--and good food, too. After dinner, catch a performance at Helsinki Hudson or maybe a play at Hudson Stageworks.

HUDSON: LODGING

Downtown Hudson offers a number of inns and bed and breakfast establishments suitable for the solo traveler.

DAY 2 HYDE PARK: THINGS TO DO

Head south on Route 9 toward Hyde Park and spend the morning exploring Olana, the home of Hudson River School painter Frederic Edwin Church. The next stop on the itinerary involves a gastronomic delight at the Culinary Institute of America with its three restaurants to choose from. Plan ahead, as reservations are required. Once your appetite for food is sated, next on the itinerary is the Vanderbilt Mansion National Historic Site to feed your appetite for historic society. The solo traveler can simply meander around the exquisite gardens or tour the house, as well. Once your appetite here is sated, continue south to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum. One admission price will also admit you to the Home of Franklin D. Roosevelt National Historic Site, run by the National Park Service. In addition to reveling in the United States history surrounding Franklin and Eleanor, enjoy the grounds, especially the flower gardens. For dinner in Hyde Park, stop in at the Eveready Diner and then catch a movie at the Hyde Park Roosevelt Cinemas.

HYDE PARK: LODGING

When I took my solo trip to Hyde Park, I stayed at the Quality Inn. It is convenient to the sites and safe.

HEADING HOME

In the morning, visit Val-Kill, Eleanor’s personal retreat. Spend some time appreciating her contribution to U. S. history and her humanism. Return home with a full head and heart as you look forward to planning another solo trip.

Out of Nowhere

We were on the edge of nowhere, headed toward the middle. The drive had been about as exciting as watching a yogi demonstrate deep breathing techniques for relaxation. Initially, our idea of taking a “blue highways” trip seemed fun. After driving through the umpteenth dreary, dying little town, I missed the predictability of the interstate, the mile markers and services signs. As dusk fell, I began to wonder if we would have to spend the night in the car in the middle of nowhere.

We heard it before we saw it. The sound of music blared, a beacon of hope. Then, we rounded a curve and the little inn lit up the darkness as if an alien spaceship had deposited it there, in the middle of nowhere. Of course, we stopped.  As it turns out, that night was the weekly karaoke night at the inn and the joyful noise a random collection of amplified voices singing Elvis tunes.

We ordered a big plate of barbecued spare ribs with cole slaw and cornbread and joined in the karaoke impromptu Elvis celebration. Of course, I howled “Hound Dog.” After the Elvis karaoke left the building, the owner found room for us at the inn. We did not have to sleep in the car. 

We woke up early the next morning, ready to continue our journey. Much to my surprise, someone had put out a selection of Krispy Kreme donuts alongside the coffee in the lobby. I can’t imagine where that far north of the Mason-Dixon Line those donuts came from!

We continued our drive, a peaceful feeling pervading me, the dreariness of the previous day gone. All I can say is it came out of nowhere.

NOTE: Usually on "Be-Lied," I start with a non-fiction piece and attach "My Story" to it, still hoping that one day someone will take up the storytelling challenge that begins "Be-Lied."  For this entry, I simply offer a story. Hwaet!

"Men We Reaped" (Jesmyn Ward); Baton Rouge, 1968

NOTE: I began “Be-Lied” as a medium for me to publish fiction and non-fiction pieces after the loss of another publishing platform. As it happens, I opened “Be-Lied” with a story-telling challenge. To date, no one has taken up that challenge. Therefore, I have decided to attach a story to each informational piece I publish on “Be-Lied.” Not all of those stories are “true.” The one attached to this review of "Men We Reaped" is true. I originally published this review on the Yahoo Contributors Network.

Men We Reaped: A Memoir

Jesmyn Ward

Bloomsbury 2013

I was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and had relatives on the Mississippi Gulf Coast.  I came of age in the 1960’s when the Civil Rights Movement was pushing the South, kicking and screaming, toward integration.  “Men We Reaped” is an emotionally difficult, insightful read.  It illuminates a world parallel to the one I grew up in, a world that was separate but NOT equal.

While this work is a memoir, it is not about Ward. It is about Black men in the South and various factors which shaped their lives, including endemic racism, economic hardship, and drug activity.  Specifically, Ward narrates the lives of five young Black men in her community who died within a five-year window between 2000 and 2004.  These five young Black men fell for various reasons, ranging from gun violence to drug activity to automobile accidents.

In narrating the lives of the five young Black men, of necessity she narrates the story of the larger community and of the women in that community.  Ward writes, “To tell [this story], I must tell the story of my town, and the history of my community.”  To this end, Ward employs a unique narrative structure, narrating the stories of the five young Black men in reverse chronological order.  She interweaves the story of her family in chronological order, alternating those chapters with chapters about the five young Black men.

In this unflinching account of a Black community on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, Ward describes the life they led, but she never judges or editorializes.  She relates stories of Black men dealing drugs because they cannot get jobs with decent wages, so they deal to augment meager incomes.  She relates her father’s infidelities and multiple children out of wedlock.  She relates her mother’s struggle to save her marriage and later her struggle as a single mother to keep her family together.  Ward relates her own mixed feelings about her mother working as a housekeeper for wealthy White families on the Gulf Coast in order to insure that her children are fed and educated.  She relates times when extended families lived in cramped quarters, pooling resources of money, food, and child care.

I grew up in a working class White family.  While separate water fountains and laundromats were largely things of the past in my childhood, I still remember seeing the “White” and “Colored” signs.  Ward’s memoir is a somber testament to those she loved and to a time that is still too much with us.

My Story—The 1967-68 School Year, Baton Rouge
 

In the 1967-68 school year, I was in 6^th grade, my sister in 4^th grade, my brother in 2^nd grade, at Howell Park Elementary School in Baton Rouge. In an attempt to comply with Brown vs. Board of Education, Louisiana sprinkled African-American students among the various classes. In retrospect, I wonder how these students were chosen to be sprinkled, and how were they transported to and from our school. One lone student, “Peter,” joined my class.

In the 1967-68 school year, my maternal grandmother was in the final months of her lengthy battle with breast cancer. During one of her hospitalizations, my mother took us to visit. She pulled us aside in the corridor and admonished: “Do not tell your grandmother that you have black children in your classes. It would kill her.” The 11-year-old me could not quite figure out how this news would do in my grandmother; nonetheless, I took it to heart.

In the 1967-68 school year, “Ralphie” rocked the 6^th grade classes by uttering “shit” at the water fountain at the end of recess one day. “Mindy” became the first 6^th grade girl to really need a bra. At the end of March, 1968, my grandmother finally succumbed to her cancer. And “Peter” spent a year of his education in a big, white bubble.