Keuka Lake, Penn Yan, New York. Photo by Doni Chamberlain.
I didn’t broadcast it, so don’t feel bad if you didn’t know, but I ran away in late October. More precisely, I flew away, far away, to Upstate New York, via Redding, San Francisco, Chicago, and finally, to Rochester, New York, where I rented a car and drove to my final destination, Penn Yan, in Yates County, New York.
Downtown Penn Yan, New York.
This trip was spontaneous, to the point where it almost felt like an emergency, as if I must go. Now! I did not consult a single living soul in advance of my travel plans, unless you consider a glass of Chardonnay a living soul. I didn’t want to risk anyone attempting to talk me out of it. A few things I knew for sure: First, it had to be a solo trip. Second, I must leave asap. Third, I would book this trip, despite the fact that I had to put the entire thing on my credit card (which I recently paid off in full).
I was struggling with some profound losses and a deep, growing existential crisis that left me feeling raw, rudderless and fragile, nearly to the breaking point, professionally, personally, emotionally, and spiritually. I felt a sudden unrelenting sense of urgency to get as far away from Shasta County as possible.
I knew as I booked the trip that I was embarking upon one of the most financially irresponsible decisions I’d ever made. The moment I decided to proceed with the trip, time was of the essence because I had some specific calendar parameters. I wanted to be away from Shasta County on Election Day and Halloween. I wanted to arrive in Upstate New York in time to still catch some fall colors. I wanted to depart from from Upstate New York before the arrival of East Coast winter weather. I’m a California girl. I don’t drive in snow or ice.
My trip checked all those boxes, even with the fall colors, which hung around a bit later than usual (thank you, Mother Nature!).
Why Penn Yan?
Most Californians have never heard of Yates County, New York, let alone Penn Yan, a village of about 5,000 that got its name because it was originally settled in 1799 by people from Pennsylvania and “Yankees” from the New England area.
“Penn Yan, NY” greeting card from original painting by Helga Poreda, Sighel@verizon,net
It lies at the north end of the east branch of Keuka Lake, one of the Finger Lakes, which is what the region is known for, along with many wineries, many of which are situated next door to old cemeteries. Cemeteries are everywhere in Yates County. And churches. And so many grand old houses. And gorgeous historic buildings. Many times I had to remind myself that I was still in the United States. I fell head over heels in love with Penn Yan. The streets were clean. The people were friendly. The village felt safe and peaceful.
To my surprise, Yates County also has a rich Mennonite population, whose followers get around from farm to farm via bicycles (no helmets) and horse-drawn buggies, a sight that never ceased to amaze me.
I first learned of Yates County many decades ago on my ancestral quest about a singular event that involved my mother’s father. My mother was born in Manhattan, which is where her father’s family lived. But Yates County featured prominently in my genealogy research because of a tragic event that involved my grandfather as a teenager in Middlesex, New York, not far from Penn Yan, which was also a key location in the story. I’m our family’s self-appointed genealogist, and I’ve been collecting information about that event my entire adult life.
Over the years I’ve often said (to myself) that I wished I could visit that part of Upstate New York one day to conduct research in person. It was one of those wishes I knew would probably never come true. Too expensive. Too frivolous. Too pie-in-the-sky. Too crazy.
But most of all, a trip to Yates County was too uncertain. What if I went out on a limb, paid for a plane ticket to Rochester, booked an Airbnb for eight days, and rented a car? What if after all that, my research hit a brick wall? What if there were no records? What if people looked at me as an outsider, and wouldn’t speak with me? What if that event involving my grandfather was something about which nobody knew anything, or recalled and judged harshly?
I was so wrong on all counts. I don’t know how to say this without sounding insane, but from the moment I picked up my rental car at the Rochester airport until the day I returned home to California, I felt as if my grandfather — someone I’d never met, who died when my mother was 7 – was with me the whole way.
As I drove into Penn Yan that first day, I wept with joy and shock as I saw that I was passing the library, museums, courthouse, and the historical society.
Two volunteers at the Oliver Museum were instrumental in locating and sharing crucial records.
All those places I passed were already on my must-visit-for-research list; all within walking distance of my adorable Airbnb, situated above the Amity Coffee Company, roaster and bakery that began baking in the wee hours each day, which caused the aromas to rise up through the vents and into my dreams. Luckily, my Airbnb was accessible via a long, steep staircase.
It was my own Penn Yan stair master exercise plan as I climbed the stairs multiple times each day to and from my research travels, which included meeting people at the coffee shop, or writing there where I could people watch.
The centrally located landmark layout was in my favor, but credit for the majority of the trip’s research success goes to Yates County history buffs. In New York, it’s a law that every municipality must have its own village historian. These historians take their jobs very seriously, and were exceedingly generous in sharing historical knowledge and information, as well as personal connections with others who might know more. These are the kinds of wonderfully driven people who get their jollies searching obituaries, census records, old newspapers and maps. God bless them all!
Over the week, the same people’s names resurfaced, to the point where I’d eventually contacted them all. Serendipity played a major part in this research expedition. For example, on my second day in Penn Yan I walked into the Oliver House Museum where I found the door unlocked, but no lights on inside. Apparently, the museum was closed that day. Even so, it was in that closed museum where I encountered two retired men — Andy Baus and Bill Murray – each of whom were diehard volunteers who just happened to both stop by the closed museum to each check on something unrelated to one another.
I explained my quest, and within a few minutes the lights were on and the men were peppering me with questions. Within a few more minutes Murray found a thick file — a paper file folder!– loaded with information. Baus got on the computer and said he’d located many newspaper stories, and he’d go home that night and make pdfs for me. When we met the following day over coffee, I was overcome with emotion as I thanked Baus for finding a virtual treasure trove of records and newspaper stories that had escaped a lifetime of my exhaustive searches.
“You know, I wasn’t even supposed to be in the museum yesterday,” he said. “Neither was Bill. If you’d arrived a little earlier or a little later we would have missed you.”
The entire trip was like that, which left me often shaking my head, or laughing out loud, or wiping tears from my eyes as I sometimes even addressed my grandfather as I drove on long country roads shared with Mennonite buggies, flanked by massive round hay bales.
“Going to a Gathering” greeting card from original oil painting by Sandy Cook
So many sights were literally foreign to me, like roadside farm stands with signs posted that advertised things like fire wood, eggs, or grape pie, all unattended. Being the cynical Californian I am, I marveled how, not only were those items not stolen, but there was a container inside the stands that held money — “make your own change” — that also remained safe and sound. And when I found one woman who appeared to be homeless, and I asked about her inside a store, a clerk said the woman wasn’t homeless, that she lived in an apartment in one of the non-profit shelters located in an old renovated church. Inside grocery stores, during the federal shutdown, stores had fliers directing people to multiple places to get free food, just in case their SNAP benefits had run out. On Election Day, the Methodist church was hosting a community dinner open to everyone.
“Can you believe this, Grandfather!?” I’d ask the empty passenger seat beside me.
Apparently, my grandfather was the quiet type, because he never answered.
Even so, one of the things I learned on this trip — instinctively, eventually by accident — was the best way for me to recenter myself was to do something just crazy enough to shake things up, much like rebooting a computer. Shut everything down. Turn it back on.
I’m not suggesting total abandon and abject irresponsibility, or going into debt for something about which you have just a fleeting mild interest, like, sure, maybe I’d like to visit Ireland and Montreal one day. For me, Penn Yan was far, far, far higher on my travel wish list than either of those places. What I am suggesting is, when possible, grant ourselves permission to take a daring leap to do something or try something we’ve always wanted to do, or see, or experience. It makes sense that the stronger that desire, the more important it is to make it happen sooner than later. We have all seen first hand that life is sometimes too damn short or too uncertain to wait for the perfect time to do anything.
In my case, the worst thing that could have happened, had the Penn Yan trip been a complete research bust, was that I’d have a long flight to vacation in a new place where I could rest and recover, and then face the credit card bill when I returned. Even if that had happened, if I died tomorrow, I’d do so knowing that my dream of visiting Penn Yan was crossed off my bucket list. Mission accomplished.
Downtown Penn Yan, where shopkeepers can leave out potted plants overnight and they’re still there in the morning.
Anyway, that’s the story of when I ran away in October. When I returned, I felt more centered and clear-headed. It was after that trip when I wrote the November column that announced my significant new pivot here on A News Cafe. Sure, we’ve lost some subscribers as I continue to regain my footing and direction, but c’est la vie. Their departure makes me exponentially more appreciative for those of you’ve remained, and for that, I am grateful beyond words. Thank you!
You may have correctly guessed that my Penn Yan research is for a book I’m writing about my grandfather and his involvement in an incident in Yates County many, many years ago. When I’m finished, you’ll be among the first to know.
In the meantime, special sincere thanks to the Yates County History Center, the Middlesex Heritage Group, the Oliver House Museum, the Yates County Office of Public History, the Penn Yan Library, Amity Coffee, Andrew Baus, Alex Andrasik, Bill Murray, Elaine Hilton, Jim Hilton, Len Kataskas, Ron Spike, Jim Conley and Carol Conley for all the help, encouragement, time, information and kindness. Membership checks are in the mail for the Middlesex Heritage Group and the Yates County History Center. It’s the least I can do to show my appreciation, as their only Shasta County member.
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