October 1, 2006--Sussex, NJ to Lowbanks, ONT (382 mi)
Up at 8:30am today. I got hung-up watching a Goldie Hawn Biography on TV and didn't get out the door from my little backwoods Sussex, NJ motel until 10:15am or so. I should know by now that it's a bad idea to have the TV on in the morning while I'm getting ready--precious morning hours can get wasted, and today they did.
The landscape was wet this Sunday morning and the air smelled clean from last night's rain. I found a diner in town called the Sussex Queen where I stopped for breakfast: poached eggs, hashbrowns, the usual fare. When I returned to my car after breakfast, and as I was just about to turn the ignition, I noticed a man in his late 60's motioning to me through my windshield. With his wife at his side, he gave me an expression of disapproval while pointing to the front of my car. I got out to see what was up. Wearing a scowl the man said: "Hey...you're in an OHIO parking space and you've got COLORADO plates!" I didn't know how to respond for the first 2 seconds after this accusation was issued, but then the man smiled and told me he was just kidding.
The jokester was a Mr. Gallagher from Sussex, NJ. He and his wife had, like myself, just finished breakfast at the very crowded diner and he figured he'd have some fun with a tourist. I wound up chatting with the Gallaghers for a full half hour in the parking lot and enjoyed every minute. They were locals that had enjoyed plenty of travels of their own. They were really interested in my cross country roadtrip and had a lot of information about surrounding regions. They were approximately my parents' same age and I found myself forming a bit of a brief surrogate bond. If my parents were still around I would have probably spoken with them everyday on my trip to let them know the interesting things I was experiencing. Speaking with the Gallaghers gave me an outlet for my need to connect with my parents. My own father could have easily pulled the same parking space accusation stunt as Mr. Gallagher did--I found them to be similar personalities in a way.
When I was back on the road I found myself thinking about my parents and missing them. I was on this roadtrip partly to help process my thoughts and feelings about losing my folks, and today as I neared my family's ancestral home town of Niagara Falls, Ontario. I couldn't help have them both clearly on my mind.
From Sussex I took Route 565 southwest to Hwy 206 and then westward on Route 560 toward the Delaware River. I had been on this route once before on September 11, 2002, the day I attended the first annual commemoration of 911 in Manhattan. This time through I stopped at the little corner general store/restaurant (photo below) at the Route 640/560 junction in Layton, NJ to see what it was like inside. The restaurant looked like a great little breakfast stop so I tucked away in my mind the idea to stop here for breakfast on some future roadtrip outing.
I was amazed at how busy these country backroads were. I was less concerned about safely crossing the Avenue of Americas in Manhattan than I was with crossing Route 640 in front of the Layton Country Store (above)--it took some effort for me to snap a photo without a speeding motorcade in the frame.
This particular highway junction is fun for me because as you can see from the photo (below) of the road signage this is how a traveler gets to historic Dingman's Bridge from the New Jersey side of the Delaware River.
My Pennsylvanian Dutch ancestor and namesake, Andrew Dingman (photo above), started his own little Pennsylvania village in the mid 1700's after he built a ferryboat to service travelers across the Delaware River. For approximately 150 years the Dingman's operated the ferry across the Delaware until 1900 when the existing bridge was erected. I find it interesting that my ancestors built a bridge that still stands today--I had spent the first 4 years of my career building big steel bridges that will no doubt remain standing well long after I am gone from this world.
I hung out around the bridge for a little while taking photos and chatting with the guys taking the tolls (above). They were interested that my name is, in fact, Andrew Mark Dingman. They gave me some contact info so that I could get in touch with the historical society to see how the geneology works exactly. Years ago my dad's brother, my Uncle Gary, told me that the Dingmans were of Pennsylvanian Dutch ancestry and THAT little revelation led me to travel to this location for the first time 4 years ago.
Just down the road from the bridge, about a quarter mile or so, there exists the Delaware Cemetery which was established sometime prior to 1820 according to it's sign (below). A brief tour of this spot reveals that many Dingmans of old must have lived and died in this area. 
Of note I located a marker (below) for an Andrew Dingman (1804-1889) who I'm guessing is the great grandson of the Andrew Dingman who came over from the Netherlands in the early 1700s and established this area; he is also likely the son of Judge Daniel Dingman who built the stone house next to Dingman's Bridge in 1803.
Among the dozen or so other markers bearing the Dingman name I noticed there was a Colonel Dingman from the American Revolution era, a Daniel Dingman (1835-1900) that was a soldier in the American Civil War (below)...
...and a Virginia Dingman (below), the 3-year old daughter of a clearly broken-hearted Dingman couple who had the following epitaph inscripted on little Virginia's marker: "VIRGINIA -- Daughter of D.W. & Priscilla Dingman -- Died June 19, 1862 aged 3 years 9 months & 7 days -- This lovely bird so young and fair Called hence by early doom Just came to show how swe't a flow'r In paradise would bloom".
Now, most people don't stop at old cemeteries to contemplate the deceased. But at this spot I did just that, and with great interest, because my mind had for some time been in the business of pondering life and death and the meaning thereof. I thought about the unavoidable nature of death and I wondered how long it would be before I too would be finding the next world beyond. I imagine that it will not be unlikely that I'll even have the opportunity to meet all of these supposed ancestors of mine mentioned above, including the little girl once known as Virginia Dingman.
I guess that in writing these thoughts I've probably taken a bit of a detour from my travel log. But then again, I believe that we are all just travelers in this life--that our real home and family exist in some other world beyond. In taking this hiatus from my former work schedule and exploring the backroads of America like this there have been many opportunities to ponder my life and to breathe in fresh air and just simply FEEL alive. I hope that when I finally do land back on my feet in the next "job & alarm clock" segment of my life here on earth that I do so with a good balance and a mind focused on the Big Picture. We're just not here for very long--we really DO need to stop and smell the flowers every so often.
I left the Dingman's Ferry region at around 2pm. I was done with backroads at this point--I just wanted to get to the Niagara Peninsula before too late tonight. I was done with memorials and with hanging out alone in the middle of nowhere--I was very ready to meet up with my aunt and uncle at their place on Lake Erie.
I took Pennsylvania Route 739 northwestward from Dingman's Ferry to I-84 through Scranton, PA and then I-81 due north to Binghamton, New York. I had stopped in Dalton, PA just north of Scranton to get fuel and oil for the Accord. Motor oil has DEFinitely been THE commodity on this roadtrip. The Accord was at a point in its' life that it needed 2 to 3 quarts of fresh motor oil each time I filled the fuel tank up--it was like the oil vaporized as soon as I started driving.
I took I-86 from Binghamton, NY westward to Bath, NY where the freeway becomes I-390 heading due north once again. I made the mistake of leaving I-390 near Mt. Morris, NY to avoid taking the I-90 toll highway further north. Instead I took Hwy 20 westward from Mt. Morris to Buffalo, NY (see Buffalo City Hall photo below). Hwy 20 turned out to be a sloooooow goooooo! I had in front of me, nearly the entire stretch of Hwy 20 (a distance of 50 miles), some jackass maverick that made it his goal to not let me pass: no matter WHAT! He drove well under the speed limit when there was no way I could pass oncoming traffic, and then sped up to well over the speed limit when the oncoming lanes were clear for me to pass. It was plainly this person's twisted little game with me. I hadn't encountered this kind of blatant unneighborliness on my entire cross-country trek, and now I was forced to endure it on my most "spiritual" day thus far.
Because of the delay across Hwy 20 I didn't cross over the Niagara River's Peace Bridge (photo above by others) at the U.S./Canadian border until nearly 8:30pm. I was hoping to cross over the bridge while there was yet some light left--I love the view of Lake Erie opening up to the south from the crest of the bridge deck. No dice. My first stop in Canada was at a Tim Horton's in Fort Erie, Ontario to pick up a few of my favorite treats, so illusive in the United States: the butter tart.
Once I was on the Niagara Peninsula I took Route 3 westward to Wainfleet, Ontario, past the Marshville Chocolate shop, down Feeder Rd SW to Boulton Ditch Rd south, Lakeshore Rd west and then onward another 2-1/2 miles until I finally, after 13 DAYS and 3501 MILES of meandering, reached the one place on this earth that I feel completely at "home": a little 50 year old cottage on the lowbank north shores of Lake Erie at the end of a road named after a farmer. And it was here at this cottage that I met up with my aunt & uncle at 9:15pm and started my 2 week stay on the Lake.
So, by way of proper illustration: 3501 miles is the distance to drive from San Diego, California to New York City, and then back to Chicago, Illinois. That's quite a roadtrip indeed. And I still had to drive back to Denver, Colorado--eventually.
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