The Waterloo poetry festival ended on a Sunday afternoon. After the patrons left, I walked down to the river to the canal diverted under a stone grist mill. Empty of people, Canada geese and black-headed swans swam closer to the banks. Red-headed ducks and black and white coots bobbed to the surface from dives for fish. Maple trees colored to the red hue of autumn reflected in the still water.

By one canal channel, controlled by a lock, an orange sign warned in ominous black letters, "SNAKES AND POISON IVY." I asked a employee if I was in danger on the trail. He laughed and said, "No, Mister, no danger at all. The sign is the only way we can keep people off the lock over a 20-foot deep channel." (Afterwards I recalled a roadside park joining a ranch in the South Texas cow jungle that discovered posting a four-feet square sign depicting a coiled rattlesnake stopped trespassers better than building a six-foot chain link fence.)

The next morning I headed west to turn south into a less settled area of Pennsylvania, trying to find more open country. Once off the Interstate, forested mountains of northeastern size arose, rough and isolated from the mass of humanity covering that part of the nation. Seemed the scattering of farms sold their crops in stands. However, such small plats of tilled land lacked the capacity to feed the huge urban population for one week even if the farmers ground up the roadside stands as filler to increase the volume of food.

But at no time on the trip did I suffer for good food. Every stop on the way supported at least one special restaurant run by an owner determined to defeat the franchise madness. All along, small markets and Italian places struggled against the onslaught of what one of my sons calls "the whatever burger charge." Without any difficulty I stayed in training on fresh baked breads and slices of provolone cheeses on kosher salami.

By early afternoon, I reached the Brandywine River Valley to see the home place of the famous Wyeth family's art collection. The museum's architect designed the building to bend in the same half circle as the Brandywine River. The pictures of N.C., the grandfather, Andrew, the son, and Jaime, the grandson, hang facing the very river the artists roamed, or used as a background.

Each generation perfected a specialty. N.C. Wyeth illustrated such classics as "Treasure Island" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Andrew painted forest scenes highlighting a lovely model to create his Helga series that stunned the public's imagination. And Jaime perhaps is best known for his painting of a glistening Chester White or Yorkshire hog. He spent four months toning his subject by feeding her sweet feed and playing classical music. I doubt if the model ever recovered her true presence. The letdown for the sow must have been dreadful to be shuttled back to the farrowing pens where the best of music barely reached the level of "Turkey in the Straw."

Also on exhibit was a room filled with political quilts dating from the 19th century up to President Carter, a time in our history when women had the right to quilt but not to vote. Quilts were backed with intricate piece-work. The likeness of the presidential candidates on a bandanna was sewed on the top, making a campaign novelty for Mr. Lincoln or General Grant. (I hope I am making it clear that bandanna handkerchiefs were used like campaign buttons.)

Without a magnifying glass, analyzing whether the stitching was done from loyalty to the cause or concession to the cause was impossible. Up to the quilt supporting President Carter( and there was a big gap in the exhibit after women won the right to vote under President Wilson in 1918), the stitches to the naked eye seemed to be pulled tight and determined as if under protest. But the one dedicated to Mr. Carter flashed in a gay green and yellow scene, looped in bright loose patches, showing old Jim's profile in the shape of a peanut.

This proves ladies prior to 1918 expressed the responsibilities of citizenship through needles and thread never to be recaptured by going to the voting booth. By the time a lady quilted six months, sewing on picture after picture of Grover Cleveland or Teddy Roosevelt, she must have felt devotion to the campaign even to the point of giving her blood from the needle pricks.

The Brandywine Museum closed at 5 p.m. The lady at the desk cautioned to be careful entering the five lanes of traffic leading back to Philadelphia. The guard at the door repeated the directions and exit number twice. I suppose I looked so much out of place, those kind souls felt responsible. A time or two in the late evening traffic rush, I shared their concern ...

November 16, 2000