I’m totally exposing my Black WASP roots. Greg and I take two annual trips: Mid October biking in Brattleboro, VT and Valentine's Day in Gorham, ME. Book promo crap hindered our trip to Maine this year however we’re determined to make our biking/foliage pilgrimage to VT.


Downtown Brattleboro. The bike shops is right under the third flag

Every year we stay at the same B&B, Hickory Ridge House in Putney, and every year we rent bikes from the same bike shop, Brattleboro Bicycle Shop.

Here’s where the WASP bit comes in…

No matter where we are in the world, this is where we go and what we do…Period! Greg HATED the B&B because there was only one centrally located television in the house so you can imagine the male guests ‘politely’ fighting over the remote. Another draw back was the squeaky wrought-iron beds appointed with full size mattresses.

Wait! There’s more…

Breakfast was only served in the formal dining room with same guests who’d engaged in remote control battle the night before. Yeah, talk about tension! The singular pro of staying in this particular B&B was the innkeeper’s expert cyclist advice. He and Greg got on well until the remote was up for grabs.


No kidding, this is our favorite eat-out. Huge salad bar.

Every year, Greg complained. But, every year, we faithfully returned: Eating at the same restaurants, shopping at the same stores, riding the same trails, cursing the same damnable things.

“So why do you continue to go?” a girlfriend asked.

The short answer is tradition. WASPy atonement, I suppose. It’s why Christmas dinner isn’t the same without the green ambrosia salad no one eats and the reason WASP have children: its bloody tradition. This penance isn’t exclusive to WASP but one certainly feels the invisible pinching hand of our ancestors telling us to shut up and get on with it.

Both sides of my family, paternal and maternal, are extreme traditionalist. To this day my siblings and I do illogical shit for no apparent reason other than ‘this is what we’ve always done’. It’s madness, really. So marrying into a family shackled with tradition was par for the course—it simply added more grot to my pile of inherited grot.
 

Creamery Bridge

Our trip is quickly approaches so I call the B&B to reserve our room. I was pleasantly surprised to find the inn had been sold and all the grinding irritations sorted out by the new owners. I’m pumped…Greg, not so much. For him, moaning and complaining was part of the experience—he didn’t want it fixed.

Tradition, good or bad, shouldn’t be mucked with lest we cease to exist.

If you just said “What the hell!?” raise your hand! *Raises Hand*



Montgomery Crystal Falls up from Creamery Bridge