Corn Maze

The very last thing the hubs and I did before departing Lancaster County was stop at a corn maze. Is there anything more quintessentially autumn than a corn maze? Maybe a pumpkin patch/corn maze combo. Regardless, I was pumped to properly ring in the season with some corn maze action. Those cornfields hold some magic for me, and I was excited to wander through them for a while longer.

 

Since this was the only corn maze I've ever done, I don't know how it compares to others. In my opinion, it was amazingly fun. Do other mazes have people searching for clues throughout the maze? If not, then they totally should, because if there's anything better than a corn maze, it's a corn maze with a competitive edge-- bring it. 

I have a terrible sense of direction, so while the hubs expertly navigated us to our next clue, I skipped along, marveling at the corn and kicking at old animal bones that poked out of the mud. Slightly creepy, but I figure that in farmland like this, there's bound to be a bone or two buried under there. It made it, err, more authentic? Anyway, my jeans and Chucks ended up covered in mud, but it was deliciously fun.

An hour later, we exited the maze victorious, stopping only to pet the baby cow and to collect our prize: a corn pen. Yes, it is made of biodegradable corn-based plastic! Best. Pen. Ever.

Have you ever done a corn maze before? What was it like? This might be a contender for my favorite autumn activity!

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Autumn in the Countryside

The seasons come more alive in the country. In those sprawling hills of corn, the breeze whispers of secrets yet to come, and nature stands tall without the distractions of flashing lights and loud cars. In the country, autumn is alive.

Our weekend getaway in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania was one of those weekends where I honestly believe I could live the rest of my life tucked away in a red farmhouse and feel more connected with my environment with every step through the fields and every bitterly cold gust of wind. It's the type of place where you are thankful that such lands exist, Amish farmland that you pray will stay in the family for generations to come so that somebody will love it, work it, and save it.

Rickety, wooden covered bridges. Cornfields. Pumpkins. Bicycles. Amish farmers. Cornfields. Chickens and goats and horses. Did I mention the cornfields? Those huge swaths of land are truly awesome, in the proper sense of the word. I kept begging the hubs to pull over to the side of the winding country roads so I could marvel at the cornfields. It was so windy that weekend, and the rustle of the cornhusks in the wind almost sounded like the ocean. Their dry skins shook against each other, and I felt chills as I tried to decipher their song. I don't quite know what they were saying, but on some basic level I understood.

In those moments as I stood at the side of the road, I let my eyes close, as they often do when that familiar, thrilling rush of joy wells up in my chest, and I grinned, face turned upward to the cloud-covered sky and felt utterly connected to this land. This wonderful, sprawling, countryside land that is miles away from the pavement and the city, this marvelous land that makes me believe in peace and hope, this simple and muddy and beautiful land that will always hold a bit of magic for me. This, I know, I truly believe, is autumn in the countryside.

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Lancaster Central Market

Some of my favorite memories from my early teenage summers in Lancaster, PA revolve around Central Market, the downtown farmers market. Our camp RAs would round us up for a Saturday morning outing, and we would hop on down to the market, gazing with curiosity at the Amish farmers who had set up their booths and weaving through the aisles in search of the best cinnamon bread of all time. Fresh produce and baked goods wouldn't have typically awed my thirteen-year-old self, but there was something about Central Market that won me over.

I was nervous when I went back, fifteen years later. What if wasn't as I remembered? What if it was boring or terrible? What if it didn't have that cinnamon bread that I had once loved so much? My memories were surely romanticized, of that I have doubt, but I feared that maybe I had let myself get lost in my daydreams and would be sorely disappointed by reality.

I entered Central Market with hesitation, unsure of what would happen once I walked through the brick facade and entered the rows of vendors. My first impression was that it was so much smaller than I remembered, and my heart sank a little. But then I turned my head to the left, and I remembered walking down that same row fifteen years earlier, and my heart started to feel giddy. I knew this place. And I'm pretty sure it knew me.

There were new vendors, of course. I'm sure things have moved around a bit in fifteen years. Hipsters have since come into existence and found their footing right alongside the Amish, which was unexpected yet so right in that marketplace setting. We found Stoltzfus Bakery, which I'm pretty sure was there when I was a teenager, and spent a few minutes chatting with one of the owners, Daniel (so nice!).

 
It was nice to see the fresh produce displayed so beautifully, and the low prices amazed us so much that we ended up doing our veggie shopping for the week while we were there. Mmm, delicious green beans!
 

We made our way through the rows of stalls, drifting from booth to booth, and I knew that it was right to come back here. My memories might have been incomplete, and I couldn't have known how it would have changed since those teenage days, but being there with the hubs made everything click together. This market had everything it needed to have-- no more, no less. And while I'm not sure whether the cinnamon bread was the same kind I enjoyed way back when, it was still a treat to have.

That's the thing, I guess. It would fulfill my nostalgia to have things be just the same, but no matter how much we reach into the past, things can never truly be as they were. That's okay, though. Sometimes what you end up with is just as wonderful as what you had. Central Market will always have a place in my heart.

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The Comfort of Memories

Today is my 28th birthday (yay!), and this evening after work, the hubs and I will head up to Lancaster County for a quiet Pennsylvania weekend. I don't know what it is about growing older, but each year I have less desire for a raucous evening celebrating at bars. I would rather go out to dinner with friends or have a nice meal at home with the hubs, not because I want to hide from my birthday, but because when it comes down to it, I love the quiet.

I first went to Amish Country when I was about 12 for a summer program at Franklin & Marshall College. I spent three weeks there, making new friends, being a total nerd, and falling for the charm of Turkey Hill lemonade and the freshly-baked cinnamon bread found at Central Market. When my parents picked me up to bring me home, I cried and looked out the back window, wishing that I could stay there forever. 

For the next couple of summer, I returned to Lancaster for my three-week haven. It held a magical essence of independence and safety for me, a time when I could venture out on my own (as much as a young teenage girl can really do so at a summer camp) and have an experience that was all mine. I didn't have to share it with the girls at school, I didn't have to be whoever others thought I was-- I could just run free through the quad, giggle with my new friends as my dyed our hair blue in the dorm bathrooms, read good books, and frolic barefoot at the weekend starlight dances.

(via)

Things were simple then. Isn't that what we all say about our youth? It's true. We were unencumbered then. Maybe not entirely, but certainly more than we are now. When is it that we started to drag our feet a little more heavily and lose the sparkle of adventuresome whims? When did our imaginations start to fade and wither?

When I think of Lancaster, my eyes close involuntarily, and I smile as I feel the warm sun on my arms and sing along to the phantom songs of those summer nights. I hear the click-clack of the horse-drawn carriages on the street and inhale the scents of the downtown market. Comfort still lives there, bathing those memories with the happiest of sighs.

I know it won't be the same. It's been over a decade since I was last there, and nothing stays frozen in time. But I hope that as we embark on our quiet weekend, we will be able to savor the magic, even if it has different tastes and scents. I hope that we open ourselves to simple joys and pure moments, soaking in every step and sway, and tuck it safely in our memories for future days.

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