Breaking Bread on The Porch

There's that bewitching river view again, as seen from Sadie's porch one evening. I could spend hours on that porch. Come to think of it, I did. It was the perfect place to read a book, sip coffee, watch the ships & pleasure boats go by, and have conversations with my fellow vacationers. I hope you like the view, too, because there are more pictures to follow in later posts. One of the places we visited was an excellent antique boat museum, and I'll show you pictures from our tour of La Duchesse, a luxurious houseboat from 1903.

The St. Lawrence River separates the state of New York from the province of Ontario, Canada. In the photograph above, the distant shoreline is not Canada, but Wellesley Island. This 50-mile stretch of the river is called the Thousand Islands region, but there are actually close to 1800 islands, ranging in size from barely large enough to support a single tree to Wolfe Island (48 square miles). Wellesley Island is the second largest of the Thousand Islands, with three state parks and several residential communities.

One evening we drove over to Wellesley Island for dinner at an old resort hotel.

We had a leisurely meal on the spacious wraparound porch of the Wellesley Hotel, circa 1903. The hotel is across from a playground in the beguiling community of Thousand Islands Park. In the picture above, we have Sheldon, Sadie, and Robespierre being watched by two creepy antique dolls; they stared at every bite I took. The Wellesley Hotel has an indoor dining room, but the place to eat and be seen is on "the porch." You get a better look at the place below.

Thousand Island Park had a vaguely surreal feel, at least to me. It was mannered & manicured, impeccably clean, orderly and achingly charming. There was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor across from the front of the hotel, while from my chair on the side porch I watched two boys, one black & one white, play tether ball in the playground beside the village green. The green sloped down to a large pavilion on the riverbank. People strolled down the sidewalks, or drove past sedately in cars or golf carts. It was pleasant, so pleasant...


"Won't you have more bread, sir?"

Oh, yes, but I will, though I shouldn't; because this bread is so good; it's everything I have ever wanted, all any of us have always wanted. Everyone on the porch, all the diners at each table, tear their bread and lift it to their mouths and, nodding, slowly chew.

"More bread, sir, and butter. You must have more. We make it right here. And the butter comes from our own cows, and the only thing the cows eat is our bread from our very own ovens. Here is more bread for you. There is always more bread."

This waiter is so beautiful; he is a portrait of salubrity. His hair is the color of butter. The flawless skin of his arm is tanned but seems bloodless, like the golden crust of this delicious bread.

"Eat as much bread as you like. All of us here in the village eat it every day. In fact, it is the only thing we eat."

"Yes, more bread," my companions murmur, reaching, "More bread, please."

"Yes, more bread," the nodding waiter assures them, "There is always more bread. And do not forget the butter. The butter is for the bread. Be sure to butter your bread. Stay. We will make more bread forever."

His eyes are so...blue. How can they be so pale and blue? They are like a vast morning sky, and I can see something there, something small and faraway and terrible soaring in his eyes as he holds a bite of crust to my lips.

I hold my lips stiff, and tug my eyes away; like a piece of cheap paper ripping from top to bottom, my vision comes in a jagged race of other diners, children in the playground, a bicyclist, all slowly chewing mouthfuls of bread; my eyes slide to a rest on the dolls in the window. The taller one blinks at me. The other doll leans against her, staring at me, as a thick trickle of saliva runs from her mouth to her rotting linen collar.

A car horn toots, and a dog dashes across the street to the park. There seems to be a suction and my ears feel as though they've popped. The dolls pose in the window just as they have been since we were seated, with one staring into a tree and the other at the porch ceiling.

"More bread, sir?" the waiter inquires, blandly.

"Good heavens, no. What's for dessert?"

The village of Thousand Island Park is undeniably beautiful. It is pristine and serene, and slightly other-worldly compared to most resort towns. Founded as a Methodist religious resort in 1875, during the Third Great Awakening, today it is a private seasonal enclave with an astounding number of Carpenter Gothic and Victorian homes. With 1760 acres and 294 buildings, I could have spent an entire day here taking photographs. By the time we finished dinner, the lighting was not favorable, so I only have a few to share with you.

Row upon row of houses emphasize vernacular architecture with wide verandas, elaborate decorative woodwork, and upper sleeping porches. The village continues to be a thriving resort community; and, despite my insistence at seeing Stepford Wives & families everywhere I looked, it was a place I would consider for a rejuvenating vacation.

By peering around Robespierre, you can see that nothing is out of place or in need of weeding or cleaning at this village shop.

The town library (below) is located by the playground. Peyton Place is probably banned from the bookshelves.

Next we see a row of homes that are typical of Thousand Island Park. I hope I can return to get some close-up shots of the craftmanship of the trimwork on these houses. Although these homes face the village green, there are many narrower streets with cottages nestled beneath arching trees. Each home seems to have a unique bit of woodwork or detailing that speaks of a carpenter's love for his craft.

Whew! We got away from Thousand Island Park with our souls intact. Completing our photo-tour today, we have some oddball pictures that I'm throwing in as a sort of lagniappe. First, we have the ramshackle old boathouse at Geraldine Island. I like how its lines are no longer square. This island has a large old summer home that Sadie's parents used to rent before her father built her current place. A private island sounds good, until I remember that I'm the type that grumbles when I'm on the first floor and need something from upstairs. I'd probably amuse myself to no end if I had to crank up a boat motor and head to the mainland.

I think this quaint brick Victorian house with Carpenter Gothic trim was in the town of Depeauville, but it may have been Chaumont. Probably home to a business nowadays. I didn't notice the Canadian flag until I looked at the photograph.

I was a little surprised to learn that this area in upstate New York was settled (by white Europeans, that is) relatively late compared to my little neck of the woods. Jefferson County was founded in 1805, when the third president was in office. Other than the land that fronts Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence River, it is mostly a rural landscape. Lot's of cows; lots of dairy farms.

And when the farmers get tired of milk, they head into town for something stronger. This has to be the cutest liquor store I've ever laid eyes on. For some of us, cute but deadly. I'd better stick with the bread.