THE LION’S TALES

A S TO RY C O L L E C T I O N

for bedtime

S P R I N G 2 0 1 9

THE MAGIC ELEVATOR by Holly Huzar

Elizabeth always knew she had been born too late. At least a century too late. Even though she was just 10, Beth had a passion for the “old fashioned world” (as she put it) that was quite powerful. She adored author Louisa May Alcott, whose books transported Beth back to the simpler times of New England in the 1800s. That, and the Little House on the Prairie series, with its charming adventures of the Ingalls family, pioneers of the West. Rather than pop or rap, Elizabeth enjoyed classical music and old Americana folk tunes. She had little interest in TV or computers. Her parents had to beg her to carry a cell phone. And clothing? No tight ripped jeans or t-shirts for Beth. She liked longish dresses and putting her hair up in braids. “And please,” she’d say, “don’t call me Liz. I’m Beth. Just like the girl in my favorite book, Little Women.” As her 11th birthday approached, her family wondered: what can we get Beth? Gramma Rose had one answer. “I am taking Beth for a weekend at a real antique New England Inn. If she’s so in love with the past, she will find plenty to enjoy at The Red Lion Inn in Stockbridge.” And so they arrived, Beth and Gram Rose, on a sunny summer day. The Inn had everything Beth could wish for – floor after floor of antique furniture, faded carpets, delightful chipped china teapots, vintage paintings and crooked staircases. It smelled of lemon wood polish and old books. The beds had real canopies and the quaint garden had a swimming pool. So much to explore!

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Most curious in the Inn was an ancient metal filigree elevator, like a big ornamental birdcage. Beth was curious about it, but also a little afraid. Every time she came close to the elevator, her head spun and she felt breathless. So she went out of her way to avoid it. This was no problem, as there was plenty to do. Beth and Gram Rose explored the antique shops on Main Street, swam in the pool, and went to a real Victorian Tea at a nearby manor house, where the staff was dressed in the formalwear of 1890. In the evening, after a candle-lit dinner at The Red Lion Inn, they sat in cushy rocking chairs in the lobby, reading their books, listening to piano music and petting the resident hotel cat.The next morning, Beth and her Gram took a class on making colorful woven baskets. Midday, there was a tour through one of rumored haunted mansions in town, then a picnic lunch in a park. Sitting on a plaid blanket next to a bubbling brook, sipping homemade lemonade from a glass mason jar, Beth felt as if she’d entered another time, an era before the busy technology and rapid pace of the modern day. In the afternoon, Gram Rose decided to take a nap. Beth wandered idly through the Red Lion hallways, looking at the old paintings. Weirdly, she felt drawn to that ornate elevator. She waited until no one was near, then boldly stepped right up to the shiny curlicued door, as if to stare it down. Amazingly, the door opened! Before she could think, Beth stepped inside and the silver-gold door slid shut behind her. With a queasy feeling, Beth felt the elevator go higher and higher, floor after

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floor, until finally it stopped. The door glided open.Beth stepped out into the golden glow of a hallway lit with oil lamps on the walls. The carpet in the hallway was not faded but bright, with a red and gold flowered pattern. She took a step and turned, and suddenly Beth was face to face with a girl about her own age. The girl wore a long plain dress overlaid with a calico pinafore apron. On her feet were laced black boots, and her long braids were neatly wrapped into a bun covered with a lace snood. “Why, hello!” said the girl. “I am so happy to have a visitor! Few guests come to the top floor. My name is Abigail, and I am the housekeeper’s daughter. I’m learning the trade myself ! Who are you?”Beth looked at the girl and her surroundings with a critical eye. Hmm… was this a costume re-enactment of the past? Perhaps a theatrical gift from Gram Rose to simulate the olden days? Beth decided to play along. “I’m Beth from Albany, New York, here for a weekend with my Gramma.”“Beth?!” Abigail exclaimed, “That’s my favorite character from my favorite book! Have you read Little Women? My grandmother gave me the new edition for my 11th birthday just last week. I was reading it when the elevator came up.” From a deep pocket in her pinafore, Abigail pulled out a thick book with a green fabric cover and handed it to Beth.Nice touch, Gramma Rose, Beth thought to herself, it looks just like the classic 1880 edition. An excellent re-creation.

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But when Beth opened the obviously new book, instead of seeing a blurb about a re-printing, the date “1880” was printed inside. There was a handwritten inscription on the title page,To my darling Abigail on your 11th birthday. FromGrandmotherFlora,August1880Beth suddenly felt unsteady on her feet, and it seemed like the floor was rocking like a boat on the water. A buzz grew loud in her ears and she dropped the book. The last thing Beth remembered was stepping backward, back into the elevator, sinking down to the floor, and seeing the girl Abigail grow smaller and smaller, until she disappeared completely. With a soft Ping! the elevator door opened. Beth opened her eyes, sat up from the floor and shook her head. She took a moment to take a deep breath, stood and stepped out into the hallway. Had she dreamt the encounter? She was back where she had started, on the ground floor hallway with the old faded carpet. Hotel guests were walking by, chatting, gathering for the evening meal. At that moment, Gram Rose came around the corner, saying, “Oh Beth, there you are. Let’s head into the dining room. I’ve reserved a special table for your birthday dinner!”Beth pulled herself together, shook off her haziness and walked with Gram into Widow Bingham’s Tavern. They did indeed have a unique table; a pretty banquette in a private booth, shrouded by elegant red velvet curtains. There with a pitcher of white and yellow daisies on the table. Candles gave the

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booth a soft glow. After a fine dinner of all Beth’s favorite dishes, her Gram Rose put a square present wrapped with a silk white bow on the table. “Here’s my gift to you, sweetie. A real family heirloom, passed down through the generations. This present was given to me on my 11th birthday, from my own Grandmother, right here in the Red Lion Inn. Some of our family actually worked here in the olden days. Happy happy birthday!”And Beth, with a wide excited smile, knew before she untied the ribbon exactly what she would find. An antique book, with a green fabric cover, now worn and faded. She gently opened Little Women to read the inscriptions, all three of them, on the inside title page: To my darling Abigail, a gift for your 11th birthday. FromGrandmotherFlora,August1880

ToRose,Happy11thbirthday!Ilovedthisbookandhopeyouwill,too. FromyourGrandmotherAbigail,August1950

TosweetBeth,foryour11thbirthday.Mayyoualwaystreasurethepast! LovefromGrammaRose

THE ABC’S OF THE RED LION INN by Casey Lavarge

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My family and I have been visiting The Red Lion Inn for about 10 years now. We visit every December to celebrate both Christmas and our wedding anniversary. Our excitement for our visit starts to build the second we book our trip and our anticipation builds as Christmas gets closer and closer. We always joke that if the gift shop took all the wonderful combined smells of the inn that hit us as soon as we enter the Inn, and make it into a candle, we would buy hundreds of them! To our family, The Red Lion Inn is truly as if we have stepped back in time. It gives us a chance to step back and take a break from not only the business of the season, but the business of our work and life in modern time. My husband is a police officer and I teach high school history so the chance to sit back and relax is genuinely appreciated and enjoyed. Throughout the years we have stayed in various rooms and have loved every single one of them. Every room has had their own unique features and we are always very impressed with the details of both our rooms and the Inn. From the hat collections on the second floor, to the teapots on the shelves to the ever so slight gap at the top of the door to our room, there is something to love in every nook and cranny. Our family has had so many wonderful times at the Inn, from grabbing spiced gum drops in the lobby, to deciding on whether to order roast turkey or prime rib for dinner, that it would be near impossible to pick just one to describe as being the most memorable. We have posed for pictures with George

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Washington portraits, we’ve dabbled with the chess board and when our boys were younger, had them pose for pictures on the rocking horse. Throughout the years as my family and I have sat in the lobby, visited the stores of Stockbridge, enjoyed delicious meals, I have often envisioned the following ABC’s as a children’s book. I suppose that it has to do with being a school teacher. Each year I have discovered something new and visualize it as one of the letters in my children’s ABC story book about The Red Lion Inn. Now that the years have gone by, and I have created something for each letter, possibly one day it will be read to children as they visit and enjoy The Red Lion Inn.Nestling into bed and laying down to sleep, I begin to dream of all of The Red Lion Inn ABC treasures to keep….A is for the antiques up on the shelfs for all to see,B is for the Berkshires, just where The Red Lion Inn was meant to be.C is for Inn’s resident cat, who roams the halls at night,D is for the dining room, mmm, roast turkey, prime rib, always a delicious bite.E is for the antique elevator that guests can ride on going up and down,F is for the families whose laughter adds to the Inn’s joyous sounds.G is for the spiced gumdrops that bring a smile to one’s face,H is for the harp, adding beautiful music to the space.

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I is for inn, a place rich in historical stories, J is for jump in the pool in both summer and winter glory.K is for stealing a kiss at Christmas time under the mistletoe, L is for the two lions who sit in proud show.M is for the memories made by guests each year,N is for Norman Rockwell who lived in Stockbridge and spent time here.O is for the traditional, once a year visit, that provides many the family story to tell,P is for the porch where depending on the time of year, can sip lemonade or hot cocoa and sit a spell.Q is for quiet time, no louder than a whisper after 10 each night,R is for the Rocking Horse where children sit to take magical flight.S is for Stockbridge, such a quaint little town,T is for traditions and teapots on the shelves all around.U is of the union of families meeting up in the lobby greeting with a hug and a kiss,V is for the voices of carolers each year, singing songs that one wouldn’t want to miss.W is for the handmade felt wreaths that during Christmas, adorn each door,X marks the spot for shopping at the Red Lion Inn gift store.Y is for the yawns after such a relaxing day, Z zz’s are for what one will enjoy at the end of such a memorable stay.

THE PORCH by Lisa Greenwald

When I’m stressed, I picture the porch.I imagine myself seated on one of the white wicker chairs, looking out onto Main Street in Stockbridge. I picture myself breathing in the crisp, beautiful Berkshire air. My whole body relaxes. A sense of contentment washes over me. I feel peace.The porch at The Red Lion Inn has been a constant source of tranquility for me since I was a camp counselor in Great Barrington in the late 1990s. My friends and I would come to The Red Lion Inn on our evenings off and we’d talk about nonsense, mostly, and laugh like everything in the world was the funniest. We’d buy soda and we’d sit with our Birkenstock cladded feet up on the ottomans. Sometimes when we were feeling rich, we’d go to the back patio and buy food. French fries, specifically.We were all eighteen and nineteen then and our biggest troubles were campers that maybe weren’t the best behaved, or boys that maybe didn’t like us the way we liked them, or the fact that we had to wake up before eight in the morning. The porch was our break from our very demanding camp-counselor-routine (if only we knew what demanding really was!) On the porch, we could sort things out. We could figure out if maybe we were misreading certain cues and signals. We could analyze behaviors. We could support each other through life changes – sick relatives, parents divorcing, cross-country moves, and sibling rivalries. We could laugh about

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the same things over and over and over again. We could feel grown-up, yet shielded and protected at the same time.Even though many years have passed since our summers as counselors, I can see all of us in our jeans and our hoodies, standing in the staff parking lot at camp, discussing where to go for the evening. “Let’s go to the porch,” one of us would say, and we’d all happily agree. It was our place. Fast forward to my married life – my husband and I stay at The Red Lion Inn for special occasions – anniversaries and birthdays – and the part I look forward to the most? The porch. Of course. My husband isn’t much of a people-watcher, or an eavesdropper, or even someone who likes to sit and ponder the meaning of life. To be honest, we’re pretty much opposites in that way, yet our marriage works. He knows how much I love the porch, so I sit and eavesdrop and people-watch and ponder the meaning of life, while he visits The Red Lion Inn Gift Shop or the stores on Main Street again and again and again. It’s essential that I have my fill of porch sitting time, though it’s never enough. I always leave The Red Lion Inn dreaming about when I’ll be able to visit again.Four years ago, my brothers and I went through a significant life change. Our parents were splitting up after thirty-five years of marriage and everything felt catastrophic. Our mother was spiraling out of control; we had no idea how to

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help her. We were hurting and struggling ourselves, trying to make sense of everything. We didn’t see a way out, we weren’t sure if we’d ever find a sense of normalcy again. Always the optimist, I needed to find a light at the end of the tunnel, something to envision far off in the distance, something to calm us down.“Things will be okay,” I told my brothers. “One day. Eventually. I don’t know when, but they will. I picture us – all three of us – on The Red Lion Inn porch and we’re sipping rosé and we’re laughing. It’s a cool night – maybe late summer or early fall – and we’re wearing light jackets and sandals and we’re looking out onto Main Street and all feels right in our little corner of the world.” There have been ups and downs since then. Probably more downs, but some ups, too. And every time – through the good and bad – I remind them about the porch. I picture it in my head, and encourage my brothers to do the same.How can a simple place to sit be so magical? A collection of chairs and tables and ottomans overlooking a quiet street? It seems like nothing much at all. But when you break it down, it’s actually everything: peace, contentment, nostalgia, community, comfort, tradition. The list goes on. The phrase “happy place” has become a bit overused in recent years. A catchall when people are unable to find a way to describe an amazing vacation spot or a favorite restaurant.

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But for me, my happy place is a real, true, oasis. The Berkshires is where I have my happiest memories, and where I truly feel the most at peace. Our world is frenzied and chaotic and emotionally draining and stressful. But when I’m in the Berkshires, I feel calm. I am the best version of myself – the best mother, the best wife, the best friend. My mind isn’t cluttered and crowded. I’m truly in the moment, grateful and appreciative.When I can’t be in the Berkshires in body, I’m there in my mind. I picture the porch.

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THE TIME TRAVELLER by Antonia Barron

So picture this if you will. I am perhaps twelve years old, freckled and with sandy pigtails. It is a hot summer’s day in Melbourne, Australia, and we’ve recently celebrated Christmas down-under with salads and seafood, long lazy days swimming in the bay, and evening cricket games between dads and kids while mothers sit out the front of our houses and sew, knit and gossip. It’s 1950s family life, Australian style; safe, optimistic, confident. I should be content; I get good grades at school, I go to ballet class and my dad has just bought a Ford Cus-tomline. Sweet.Instead I’m sitting in the shade of an old tree in my bathing suit, with water from the hosepipe playing over my feet in an effort to stay cool. I’m concentrating intensely on a picture in front of me, lost in a vision of snow and holly and cheerful families preparing for proper Christmas. What is this place called Stockbridge, with its picturesque buildings making such a charming streetscape? Especially that long white one right at the end, big as a ship, and with a tall Christmas tree standing down from the porch steps. My European soul is uneasy in this hot, dry land where the seasons are upside down and the brightly-coloured birds swoop in alarming flocks. I have fleeting baby memories of a gentler climate, songbirds, and snow, and this picture is calling to something in my heart.What I am reading is a copy of Saturday Evening Post. My mother works for a big American company that markets agricultural machin-ery to Australian farmers, and one of the bosses gives her magazines each week to bring home. I guess they are bought by his homesick expat wife who is desperately trying to hang on to life as she knew it, instead of this strange land which is just so foreign. She has my sympa-thy, and my endless gratitude as well, and I greedily devour her cast-off copies of Saturday Evening Post and the New Yorker. I tear the page out and pin it on my bedroom wall, where it keeps company with 17

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two of my current idols; Albert Einstein, because he seems so im-possibly cool and brilliant, and Paul Revere, who took action against civil oppression in that famous midnight ride, making him a hero to me with my newly burgeoning sense of social justice. Both are pulled from John Hancock advertisements, and they stay on my walls, together with the image of Stockbridge in the snow, for all of my high school days. Fast forward twenty years. The pigtails have gone, and most of the freckles. I have just kissed goodbye to a business and a marriage, but I’ve hung onto the half-remembered notion that I would find Stockbridge one day for myself. Somewhere in my boxed-up possessions are the magazine pictures of Albert Einstein and Paul Revere and a streetscape in the snow. And then life intervenes, as it does, and another three decades roll past.I am now living on the other side of the world in a Tudor house built, we think, around the year 1440. It is black and white, and has a red front door and tiny leaded windows. And in one of the low-ceilinged rooms over a huge fireplace hangs a collection of prints, framed at long last. There’s Paul, and there’s Albert, none the worse for being containered all over the globe for years. And there’s the streetscape in the snow. I get snow here too, never too deep or for too long, but a proper winter at last, and at Christmas. And then my daughter calls. She’s been living in Massachusetts for a year, doing brilliant and wonderful things that take my breath away. She has a plan; I am to fly to Boston and she will collect me and take me to the Berkshires, where she has a surprise for me. I am faint with excitement. I am barely prepared for such beauty as we drive west. There is a wildness to this landscape, but it is lush and voluptuous as well. Woods and forests blanket the rolling hills, and everywhere there is water in lakes and ponds and rushing streams. The small towns

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have a surprising familiarity, many of them remnants of 19th cen-tury building, just as in the Australia of my early life. I am instantly in love with it all. “We are staying” my daughter says, when we have exhausted the first excitement of being together after many months, “tomorrow night at an inn. It’s very special. I think you’ll like it.”Our drive takes us through winding roads in deeply wooded valleys, into a peaceful township redolent of age and contentment. The clapboard houses are Georgian, beautifully detailed, and nestling in elegant garden settings. As we drive along the main street, I feel a growing sense of excitement. Can it possibly be that – yes! There it is, that huge white ship of a building I have known and hankered over since I was twelve years old.The Red Lion, says the board at the front. We park the car and walk round and up the porch stair. It is like stepping into a dream; everything I could have imagined and more. Who could resist that birdcage lift, or the amazing teapot collection, or Norman the Cat? Who could fail to be enchanted by huge downy beds, chintz-covered sofas and a fire escape rope under the window in each room? The corridors are ripe for exploring, the cabinets of curiosities are fasci-nating, and dinner is a culinary highlight imprinted in my memory for evermore. We explore further afield – Edith Wharton’s wonderful summer cottage, the Rockwell Museum where I am delighted by seeing my familiar streetscape once more, tiny cafes and interesting chic shops. We return to The Red Lion a few nights later to sit on the porch with a cool drink and watch some entertainment from nearby Jacob’s Pillow dance festival. There’s no snow of course, as this is summer, but there is a warm and balmy breeze caressing my shoul-ders as I sip my gin and tonic and relax in a white wicker chair. It is absolutely idyllic. I reflect that although it’s taken me half a cen-tury, I am here at last. Time travel, it seems, really is possible.

THE LION’S TALESPeriodically, we invite our guests to put pen to paper (or fingers to keypad) and send us an original tale for potential inclusion in our Bedtime Storybooks, which are provided to our guests at turndown. Over the years, these stories have run the gamut from cute to courageous, nostalgic to noteworthy, and through their publication have touched the hearts of guests and staff alike.We are always overwhelmed by the results, and happy to offer the authors whose stories are selected a complimentary overnight stay.

TELL US YOUR STORY!We are now looking for future stories.

Keep in mind that all submissions must:• Fit within the theme of “Most memorable experience in the Berkshires”• Include a visit to The Red Lion Inn & Stockbridge• Contain 800–1200 words• Be submitted prior to March 31, 2020

When submitting, please:• Include a title, name and word count along with your phone number and address at the top of the page.• Include the story’s title and your last name in the filename, for example: A Unique and Enchanting Story-Smith.docxSubmit via e-mail in doc, docx, or rtf format to marketing@redlioninn.com Authors whose stories are selected will receive a complimentary overnight stay.

We look forward to your submissions!

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Stockbridge, Massachusettsredlioninn.com

june 2019