day:8 youngstown, oh to cranberry, pa

for the first time on our vacation we hit the road earlier than we had planned. we left ohio and headed into Pennsylvania, greeted by yet another turnpike. the people of greater Pittsburgh love their sports, and even the road construction workers got in on the pride, rigging the orange electronic warning signs to flash ‘go pens go’ (should we be concerned for public safety?).

we had purchased tickets for the 2 pm tour at fallingwater, the famed frank lloyd wright house. realizing we were a bit early, we decided to stop off at a starbucks, and it seems we chose one of the largest ever built. it featured (ooohh, aaahh) multi-person bathrooms and a café large enough to support at least four dozen groggy pens fans, and r was quite impressed with their expeditious and kindly service. hopping back on the turnpike – another exit meant another visit to the toll booth – we relied on the gps to lead us to tiny mill run, pa, home of wright’s masterpiece. in the first episode of misinformation from our knowledgeable pink dashboard friend, we exited the turnpike too early. this caused r much consternation, and it was decided we backtrack a bit and follow the directions on the fallingwater website. we were soon back on course and driving along the rolling hills roads of southwestern pennsylvania to our much anticipated destination.

after a short wait in the visitor center at the base of fallingwater, we were invited by the tour coordinator to ‘follow the footpath to the house and meet our guard [i mean guide] there.’ our first view of the exterior of the house was astonishing. how reticent it was! how diminutive! it seemed to duck behind the landscape at every moment. cantilevered over the falls, the house lends itself to a feeling a motion, a sense of precariousness. all through the house the sound of the water accompanies you, gets into you. the massy boulders into which the house is anchored lap into the house on their own flow, spilling beneath the fireplace as the hearthstone, pouring into a hallway corner where they weep on into the stream below through delicate gaps in the stone-tiled floor. soon enough, wright has troubled all our elemental conceptions, stone swims, water becomes structure, air and light run in current and eddy. the whole building urges itself into the falls as though irresistible. walking through the rooms, wright’s ‘human scale’ (the notion that a human being ought to occupy the primary relation to a space) makes one intimate with the falls, intimate with the tyranny of wright’s idea (nearly all the furniture was made to his specifications, much practicality sacrificed to the daemon of his design). turning away from the main house to walk to the guest house, m was startled again and again to see how the house sought to disappear with each step.

within the house were more secular treasures: two picassos, one klee, many hokusai prints, two diego riveras and various statuary both contemporary and ancient. when our tour was finished we ambled down the path to a much-photographed viewpoint. we sat there awhile on a bench donated by mr. and mrs. something-or-other, taking in the quiet and the fall of the lines of the house.

after leaving the grounds inspired and amazed, we followed the same route we came in on, this time stopping at an old time general store and bakery. the preserve selection was unparalleled, and m chose a pumpkin butter and an elderberry jam to take with us. r popped into the adjacent bakery to purchase a pie and some treats. he figured the dutch apple looked good enough for him (he’s really not a pie guy, but knows that his uncle bob might be persuaded to perform illegal acts for even the smallest bite). r thought we might be spending some time with his cousins and their kids and looked in the treats case. r spotted some very large rolly-pollys, a snack his grandma used to make with the leftover pie crust, brushed with butter and dusted with cinnamon sugar. these, however, were about four times the size and covered in a sort of syrup. ‘i’ll take some of these rolly-pollys,” he said to the baker. ‘you mean the snells?’ ‘snells…is that what you call them?’ ‘snells, yes. how many?’

it wasn’t until we got back into the car that m reminded r where we were, and enlightened r as to what the baker was actually saying. ‘snails. you do realize she was calling them snails, right?’ ‘oh, said r. i’d forgotten my pittsburghese.’

it had been over a week since our last home cooked meal, and the forty minute drive to r’s aunt la mira and uncle bob’s home in the suburb of cranberry seemed torturous. once there, we were warmly greeted by our hospitable recipients, and were soon enjoying a delicious meal of meatloaf, roasted seasoned potatoes and corn on the cob. m helped herself to two, maybe more, helpings, despite the fact that she isn’t a big fan of meatloaf. it was just too good to pass up. after dinner, as is custom in r’s family, we played a game around the dinner table. the game was new to us: blokus, a tetris-based strategy game. it seems our insatiable appetite for mutual attack spoiled the game for all four of us, but we enjoyed the conversation nonetheless. soon after it was off to bed, where r conked out shortly after putting his head to pillow, and m was forced to finish the blog on her own.