This afternoon, with no preparation (in my household, that means with no snacks), Elena and I drove to the Dover Firehouse and parked, then walked up the sidewalk to the official Stone Church trailhead nearby.
This was translated from the original Korean at a sign-making facility in Greece. The cavern was killed by Mohawks? Who really knows how a comma should be used?
We walked down the new stone stairs to the freshly-mown path, lined by deciduous trees planted in just the past couple of years. Tufts of milkweed seeds sat in bright white clusters atop the dead, waist-high flowers and grasses. I took only a few, stuffing them into the memory card pocket of my camera case, the only thing I carried. When we walked through the older trees—certainly there and huge when I was a kid, over 30 years ago—peepers called from somewhere in the canopy above us.
My little rubber boot sprite
Elena and I walked upstream, chatting about what this trail was like 30 years ago, muddy boots, and where Daddy and I got married (legally, right here, it turns out). She powered on, not once asking me to carry her. It’s a short hike, maybe a mile round-trip; and we took it slowly, looking around. She posed for photos, asked about the downed tree that had been cut into rounds, and said, “Ooh, that’s pretty” when the stream steepened and turned to whitewater. She was surprised when I told her that the Stone Church is a cave. When we got there, I pointed out some names etched into the stone, one from 1860. It turns out 151 years is a bit too much for a 3-year-old to grasp.
Stone Church October 2011
One of my favorite places, and so easily shareable. I tend to turn outings into BIG EVENTS. Sometimes, it’s good to remember that all you need to do is step out the door. Would it be nice to have some peanuts in your pocket to stave off the grumpies? Sure. But, really, it doesn’t take much. We were back in the car in an hour, and we certainly hadn’t hurried.
