Dining at the Captain’s Table

Each summer of my childhood, my family made a pilgrimage to my mom’s hometown, Clearfield, PA, to visit her sister Dorothy and take in the county fair. And if that sounds like Mayberry in action, you’ve got it pegged. My dad, a master planner and a man who LOVED to drive, made ritual stops along the way.

First up, the Dairy Queen at the state line between Maryland and PA (my father’s road trip stops always involved food). We’d order “Twin-Kist” cones (a swirl of chocolate and vanilla soft-serve) and eat them at the parking lot’s shabby picnic benches, trying to get in the last lick before the ice cream dissolved. This activity was so absorbing, I routinely forgot about the cigar box of crayons on the backseat window ledge which were slowly becoming a colorful, homogeneous, unusable glob. Good thing I brought my Nancy Drew books and Barbie with a carefully chosen vacation wardrobe.

The next stop was the East Broad Top Railroad, a narrow-gauge steam engine with open passenger cars. What was the big excitement? Whipping along at a dizzying 20mph and watching the beautiful Pennsylvania forest go by. That’s right—we watched trees and rocks. After buying snacks and felt Alpine hats with East Broad Top RR embroidered on the brim, it was time to get going. Landmark #3 was an olfactory one–the horrible smell of Tyrone, a paper factory town near Altoona. We rolled up the windows, held our noses, and complained loudly. But it meant we were getting closer.

Sometime after noon, we’d arrive at Aunt Dorothy’s ramshackle house. This Edwardian wonderland perched on the apex of Cemetery Hill and featured narrow rooms and narrower beds, miniscule closets, and bookshelves crammed with musty novels. We’d unpack willy-nilly and bounce down to the linoleum-floored kitchen and partake of delightfully unfamiliar cookies (“only one–don’t spoil your dinner!”) to tide us over until we went to the Captain’s Table seafood restaurant for our first-night dinner.

This was a dress-up occasion–pretty sundresses for the ladies, nice slacks and button-down shirts for the gents. The main dining room of this local landmark was always a little gloomy, the waitresses had some age on them, and there were baskets of intriguing, irresistible cellophane-wrapped crackers we never ate at home. We nibbled enthusiastically on these while the adults debated the menu. No one was surprised when Mom ordered the junior “Neptune Platters” for us–as foregone a conclusion as clam rolls at Ho-Jos.

A 1960’s Clearfield vacation was as low-key as the trip there. I read Nancy Drews and the musty books, played with my Barbies, perched in the gnarly apple tree, invented mysteries in the cobwebby attic and fruit cellar (it had a DIRT FLOOR!), drew paper dolls. Occasionally, we kids would clamber down hundreds of tipsy concrete steps to visit the downtown Clearfield Dairy for Blue Moon ice cream, then labor up them again, sticky and satisfied.

Most of our time was bound up in the Clearfield County Fair, complete with Joie Chitwood’s daredevil stunt car show (breathtaking), tractor pulls (noisy), 4-H farm animals (smelly), and severely plain concrete buildings housing everything from community groups and gadget salesmen to pickle contests and prize vegetables (overwhelming).

At one unassuming booth, a smiling lady handed 13-year-old me a Gospel tract declaring that Jesus loved me so much He died for my sins so I could spend eternity with Him. An avid reader, I thanked her sincerely and scanned it as I walked to the next exhibit to watch a real artist make a square mirror into a landscape painting by just blobbing his brush around a few times.

The unassuming leaflet came home with me and after reading it thoroughly, I decided I’d be nuts not to take God up on such a generous offer. So I knelt and asked Jesus to be my Savior. That started me on another kind of journey, and, like my earthly Dad, my heavenly Father’s rest stops feature sweet refreshments, only His top a Twin-Kist on a hot day anytime.

You can keep your river cruises, island hopping, and jet-setting vacays–when someone asks about my dream vacation, give me a rusticating Pennsylvania coal town, some Blue Moon ice cream, and a chance to read uninterrupted in the fragrant shade of Aunt Dorothy’s phlox-hugged front porch.

“O taste and see that the Lord is good.” Psalm 34:8