Along Interstate 80 stood Bambi,
Concentration–at best–namby pamby.
At the wake later, Crow
Paid respects to his bro:
Said, “At least you taste better than spam, B!”
As a little girl, I loved the fable of the town mouse and the country mouse. I was, and remain, a country mouse from rural Pennsylvania, but I loved to visit all those town mice living in distant cities. What excitement there was to be had: museums, stores, restaurants, attractions, music, variety! How curious it was to me that, every summer, families from my little town hosted New York City children through a program that provided those town mice with what was intended to be an unforgettable week in the country, complete with fresh air, county fairs, picnics, sandlot baseball games, hiking, and wildlife fun. Human nature being what it is, I longed for what country life seemed to lack, while those kids looked forward to seeing sights the city could not provide.
In adulthood, I realized that happiness is not tied to geography, and that living in a small town doesn’t make one a small person. Admittedly, we country mice might not find a bistro or boutique on every corner–if that’s what one desires–but there are little treasures in unexpected places. Yesterday, I had lunch at Six Yellow Chairs, a cafe and gift shop located in the unlikely town of Lanse, Pennsylvania. The owners and operators are local young people with the desire to do something special right here at home–and what they’ve done is special indeed!
In Pennsylvania, the first day of spring might be sunshiny bright or gray as granite. And since the weather served up a colorless March 20, we decided a treat was in order. Six Yellow Chairs is situated in a renovated home/ business front; the look is quaint, and the parking is convenient.
Once inside, the inspiration for such a unique name becomes apparent. The focal point of the main dining area, which seats up to 30, is a large, vintage table flanked by six ornate, bright yellow chairs.
Surrounding this table are several smaller tables, each with its own set of chairs, and draped with crisp, white linens. The decor is friendly, artsy, and interesting, with colorful pieces that pop against white walls. Six Yellow Chairs is clearly a labor of love, and there are surprising touches to be seen everywhere.
There is no printed menu at Six Yellow Chairs; diners will find the day’s selections written on the chalkboard. Chef offers two soups, two salads, two entrees, and two desserts at a time, and changes the menu regularly. I’d suggest calling ahead to hear what’s being served up on a particular day unless, of course, you’d rather be surprised when you get there–which would be fun, too!
With St. Patrick’s Day so recently passed, Chef was preparing corned beef with buttered cabbage on garlic mashed potatoes–yummy! But I chose the second entree: sweet potato ravioli with roasted mushrooms and bacon. The meal was generously portioned, served quickly, and beautifully
presented in substantial white dinnerware with utensils that felt heavy–not flimsy or cheap. It’s amazing how having the food plated this way adds value and atmosphere–not to mention a perfect display for the for the chef’s fine and colorful meals.
Although the portions were satisfying, my friend and I saved room for dessert. On the menu was a blueberry tart and fresh apple pie with homemade maple ice cream. It was the tart that
called out to me, a treat which tasted every bit as good as it looked. The tart shell was tender, the blueberries vibrant, and the dollop of whipped cream with mint leaves made a perfect garnish.
After lunch, we climbed the staircase (delightfully papered with vintage sheet music) to visit the gift room, filled with an ever-changing collection of unique items provided by local artisans. The gifts are cleverly displayed, and needless to say, different from what might be expected in more traditional small town shops.
Six Yellow Chairs also offers custom floral arrangements, designed and made on the premises by the owners. Yes, the establishment truly is a labor of love—a business, to be sure, but more: Six Yellow Chairs is a place for those who love creativity, craftwork, aesthetics, little surprises, and a town mouse experience in a country mouse setting.
Six Yellow Chairs Cafe/Florist/Gift Room is located at 30 Knox Run Road, Lanse, Pennsylvania. It is currently open most days from 7:00 am to 3:00 pm, with plans to expand the menu to include dinners. Special occasions at Six Yellow Chairs can be arranged with help from the owners. Note: Six Yellow Chairs depends upon word-of-mouth advertising, so visit the Facebook page and spread the good news!
The best testimony I can give is this: I only visited Six Yellow Chairs two days ago, and I’m already planning a return trip.
We Pennsylvanians have a rather tenuous grasp on weather, that is to say we’re not exactly meteorologically savvy. At daybreak every February 2nd, we gather by the thousands at a knoll in Punxsutawney–warmed by nothing more than beer and stupidity—and wait for a groundhog (also known as a woodchuck, a whistle-pig, or a land beaver) to announce that winter is over. We pass the next six weeks nursing our hangovers, lopping off frostbitten fingers, and cursing the animal for misleading us.
So deeply committed are we to our belief in animals as harbingers of weather events, we continue to do so straight through March. You know that saying if March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb? In Pennsylvania, that’s science we can get behind!
This year March came to Pennsylvania roaring like a lion—snow, freezing rain, blustering winds, the whole deal. But even if it had come in mild as a lamb, March can hold its head up high. PR-wise, March is covered. Option one: lion– fierce, courageous, dignified, regal, lethal. Option two: lamb–peaceful, pastoral, gentle, and when simmered among root vegetables and served with a Guinness, mighty tasty.
Truthfully, March could do a lot worse than coming in like either a lion or a lamb. To prove the point, let’s take a look at five animals March is glad it will never have to come in as.
1. The blob fish
Holy mother, the blob fish is a mess. With a body made primarily of shapeless, gelatinous goo, it hovers slightly above the deep ocean floors off the coast of Australia. The pressure is so strong at blob fish levels that a gas bladder would be useless, and the environment is so dark it has no need for elaborate camouflage. So there you have the blob fish, ghostly pale and looking like a foot long lugie, just biding its time and waiting for edible substances to float past its apathetic, expressionless face–kind of like a Steelers fan by the end of Super Bowl 2013.
2. The angler fish
Like all men, the male angler fish lives only to find a woman and get lucky. But the manner in which angler fish reproduce gives whole new meaning to the term hook-up. While the female angler fish is a hideously scary looking deep sea creature whose cameo appearance in the movie Finding Nemo haunts children to this day, the male angler fish is tiny and rather benign. When he
finds a female, he swims right up and bites into her flesh—and that’s where the real magic begins! The female begins to absorb the male; her blood vessels fuse with his, and his body actually disintegrates—except for the testicles, which remain behind as small lumps on the surface of her skin, providing her a continuing source of sperm. And since a female angler fish can—ahem—host up to six males at a time, she might end up with quite a few semipermanent testi-lumps. Years later when their children look at family portraits, little angler fish will see Dad reduced to nothing but his balls, while Mom appears to be suffering from a severe case of sperm-filled cystic acne.
3. The blood squirting lizard
Lizards are amazing. They’re like little real-life dragons, right here for us to visit at Reptile Land or occasionally even bring home in a tiny
box marked Petco. But at least four species of lizards are such drama queens that, when confronted by a predator, they hold their breath so hard the pressure inside their skulls increases, tiny blood vessels in their faces rupture, and they shoot a stream of foul smelling, bad tasting blood RIGHT OUT OF THEIR FREAKING EYEBALLS, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY! I’m sure there are those who would find the whole blood-shooting eyeball thing to be incredibly cool, kind of like the way Spiderman shoots out webs. But the unfortunate coyote or cougar who receives a faceful of bloody lizard tears will have something to tell his therapist next session.
4. The hooded seal
Guys, imagine you’re spending a leisurely day by the ocean. An attractive woman walks by, and you feel a familiar swelling. In your face. Yes, imagine that whenever you see a beautiful woman, the skin from your eyebrows to your upper lip inflates to a pink, balloon-shaped
sack the size of your head, and that you’re overcome with the manly urge to honk and wave that big, pink, balloon around so that it flaps and attracts the attention of anyone within eye- or ear-shot. Horrified? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
5. Darwin’s frog
That Darwin—what a wacky guy. Not only did he give scientists and creationists a reason to draw swords for all time, but he loaned his name to a variety of frogs whose male holds the developing tadpoles in his vocal sac while they mature, and then brings them into the world by spitting them up. Human females will tell their own birthing room dramas as often and to as many people as will listen. But if women gave birth to their babies by vomiting them up… well, that’d be a deal-breaker.
So here in Pennsylvania, we wait and watch outside our windows to glimpse March’s mood. Will it roar like a lion, or will it be cuddly like a lamb? Whatever–as long as March doesn’t come shooting sloppily out of February’s eye or upchuck April like a bad Mexican dinner, it’s all good.
In the road ahead stood a small deer, looking dazed, confused, and more than a bit frightened. It was close to midnight, but I can’t really say the little doe was nervous about breaking
her curfew because here in Pennsylvania the white tailed deer do keep rather late hours. Still, I was only a few blocks from home, and it was surprising to see the animal in such a populated area.
I slowed down, expecting her to trot out of my path as I approached. With only a few yards between the doe and my car, I realized she was not going to move so I stopped and honked my horn. But the doe remained right there in the middle of the lane. Driving slowly now, I passed her on the berm. When even my car moving so close by didn’t startle her into running, I pulled off the road and observed her in my rearview mirror. That’s when I noticed her holding up one of her back legs.
The sight of one of God’s unique and wonderful creatures injured and stranded made my mother senses go all tingly. Had she been hit by a car and left behind by rest of the herd? I turned off the engine. My daughter, who’d been watching warily from the passenger side, sensed danger. “Uh, Mom, what are you doing?” she asked, almost as if she didn’t already know the answer.
“That little doe looks hurt and scared,” I said. “We have to help her.” Although several previous attempts at wildlife rescue had been disastrous (Rest In Peace, little birds.), I was determined to see this brown-eyed child of nature safely off the road and—hopefully—headed toward home. Putting on my flashers, I stepped out of the car. “Hey,” I said, by way of addressing the deer, then once more a bit louder: “Hey!”
Nothing. Seeing no oncoming traffic, I started toward the animal.
“Where you going now?” my daughter wanted to know.
“Well, if she doesn’t get off the road, a car is going to come along and hit her again. She’ll probably get killed, and someone’s car could get messed up. I’m gonna chase her away so that doesn’t happen.”
I approached the doe slowly, stopping in the gravel directly behind her. A dog in a nearby yard began to bark. “Hey!” I repeated sharply, “Hey! Get off the road!” To emphasize the urgency of the situation, I clapped my hands in the deer’s direction and stamped my foot several times.
The dog went into full red alert mode, yapping the alarm. The deer stood statue still.
“Hey!” I called out, once more clapping and stamping, “Go! Get off the road!” Still there was no movement from the doe.
By now, my daughter had left the car and stood a few feet away. “What’s going on?” she wanted to know.
“She won’t move,” I explained. “I’m thinking she’s in shock.” Examining the deer from my position, I saw no blood, no bones sticking out, no urine, no feces.
“You stay here,” I told my daughter. Walking right up to the doe, I reached out with one index finger and poked her in the butt. There was no response. I poked her again, this time repeating my instructions in a loud, clear voice: “Hey! Get off the road!” She put her back foot down, but took not one step toward safety. Joining my daughter alongside the road, I studied things for a moment. “You know, she’s not a very big deer. . .”
“So?” my daughter asked, again as if she didn’t already know the answer.
“So I could probably pick her up and carry her off the road.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” My daughter clearly was doubtful, and suddenly my mind filled with the vision of flailing hooves breaking my ribs and knocking out my teeth. Now I’m no beauty, but I do need my ribs and my teeth.
“I guess not. . .” I answered.
Approaching the deer again, I placed both palms on her rump and pushed. She flicked a brown ear toward me but stood firm. I pushed again— harder this time— and managed to make her lean comically in the direction of my push, but nothing more. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I thought. It was time to make this doe see reason.
“Listen, Bambi,” I told her, hands on my hips, “You’ve got to get off the road. If you don’t, a car will come along and hit you and you’ll be dead and maybe someone’s car will get messed up.” For emphasis I used my sternest mom voice. She looked vaguely in my direction and flicked an ear again, but steadfastly refused to move.
As I was using my vast powers of reasoning on the little doe, a big, red, pickup truck pulled off the road. This is Pennsylvania, after all. The window rolled down, and the driver called out, “Hey, did you hit that deer?”
“Nah,” I explained, “She was standing here when I came along. I think maybe she’s already been hit and she’s shocky. She won’t move.”
A big, baseball cap-wearing man climbed out of the truck, hiked up his jeans, and said, “Well, we’d better get her off the road before someone hits her and kills her and messes up his car.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I agreed. “Duh,” I thought.
Mr. Baseball Cap came our way, clapping his hands and stamping his feet. Obviously, he didn’t know I’d already tried that method of persuasion. “Hey you!” he hollered at the deer, “Get off the road!” When she didn’t move, he gave her rump a shove. Tired of being pushed, the doe folded her long legs and lay down right at our feet. Apparently, we’d been transported to cartoon land.
“What the hell. . .?” mumbled Mr. Baseball Cap. He stuck out one cowboy-booted foot, and gave her a gentle nudge. Once again, the doe flicked her ears but stayed put. The dog continued sounding the alarm.
Behind us a screen door opened, and the dog’s owner—an old man who appeared to have just crawled from bed— came out, anxious to know what was upsetting his dog so late at night. “Hey,” the geezer asked us, “Did you hit that deer?”
“No,” I explained once more, “She was standing in the road when I got here. I think she was already hit and is in shock, because she won’t move.”
“Well, geez,” said Mr. Geezer, “We ought to get her off the road before someone kills her and messes up his car.”
Mr. Baseball Cap and I raised our palms in the universally accepted gesture meaning do ya think? Ignoring our sarcasm, Geezer tried a tactic he felt was sure to get the job done: He clapped his hands and stamped his feet in the doe’s direction, yelling, “Hey you! Git offa the road!” The doe, of course, remained where she was. Now I could imagine the rest of the doe’s wayward herd standing in the woods just off the road, muffling laughter and exchanging whatever forms of currency is presently used by four-legged creatures.
The three of us— Mr. Geezer, Mr. Baseball Cap and I— proceeded to stomp, nudge, and cajole the deer while the dog barked and my daughter watched from roadside. Finally, Mr. Geezer said, “Well, if she’s really hurt and won’t move, I suppose we could call the police have someone come get her.” At just that point, a police cruiser pulled up with its cherry top spinning.
“What’s the matter, did you hit that deer?” the officer wanted to know.
“No, she was already standing in the middle of the road when I got here.” I was quite familiar with the story by this time. “I think she’s already been hit and maybe she’s in shock. She won’t move.”
“Someone’s going to hit her and kill her,” said the officer, joining us. “We’d better try and get her off the road.” Mr. Baseball Cap, Mr. Geezer, the dog, and I all assured him we’d been trying to do just that.
“Hmm,” the officer shrugged. “Well, if she’s hurt and won’t move, I guess I’ll have to shoot her and drag her out of the road.” And he put one hand on his pistol.
No longer amused, the deer hopped to her feet and trotted off into a nearby patch of trees. We just stood and watched her go.
You know, I kind of hope that little doe collected on her bet and got to hang out with the biggest, baddest buck in the bunch. She earned it.