SLEEPY HOLLOW: CHAPTER TWO – ART, UP CLOSE AND ALMOST
PERSONAL
If I were truly following
my son’s lacrosse schedule this whole time, I would have had three chances to
visit Sleepy Hollow, NY, by now. Each
time the trip came up, I found an excuse not to go. This year, his senior year, I’m making an
extra effort to get to the (far) away games.
Sometimes I travel with others, sparing myself the solo drive with only
my AAA card to save me in an emergency.
Sometimes I travel alone.
One thing about me
traveling alone – I try to discover something or someplace new every time I go
on a trip like this, so I start planning my travel well in advance. My target destination is not Sleepy Hollow;
it is Dobbs Ferry, located south of Sleepy Hollow via Tarrytown. For a bibliophile, though, being near to
Sleepy Hollow and not actually visiting it would be a travesty. I would probably have to change professions.
Here’s what I know about
Sleepy Hollow, NY: Washington Irving wrote a story about the Headless Horseman
who terrorized smarmy Ichabod Crane past the church and over a bridge, and
Irving is buried in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.
Other than that, the place holds no special meaning for me.
I mention my upcoming
journey to a co-worker who tells me about a different church, not the Old Dutch
Church of Washington Irving’s lore, but a nearby stone church with stained
glass windows by the famous artists Marc Chagall and Henri Matisse. I’ll be honest here; I initially believe she
is absolutely shitting me. There is no
way in hell that a church in the middle of nowhere has masterworks by Chagall
or Matisse, let alone both of them at the same time in the same place.
It cannot be true.
She swears it is so, swears
she even attended a wedding in that same church and has seen the windows for
herself with her own two eyes. So, we do
what any intelligent researchers would do; we immediately rush to the Internet.
Hot damn. It is true.
The church sits around the
corner from Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, maybe three miles to the east, and, if I
plan my entrance to the Hudson Valley correctly, I’ll drive right in past this
very church, the Union Church of Pocantico Hills. It takes a little extra planning, but this is
exactly the route I decide to map out for my trip.
My expected ETA at the
church is 10:45, but I actually arrive earlier, nearer to 10:30, because I am a
speed demon behind the steering wheel. I
won’t be able to get inside to see the glorious windows with the light
filtering through because the church, which runs tours every half hour when it’s
open, is (surprise) not open. Like the
rest areas I’ve encountered along the way, the church is closed for the season
and will reopen on April 1, except for Tuesdays because the church is always
closed on Tuesdays. No matter. It is still March, and, as irony would have
it, I am here on a Tuesday, anyway.
Double whammy.
I park my car in the church
lot sort of near the two cars that are already there. I assume they are church employees’ cars, and
I back into the space partially because I always back into spaces when I can,
and partially because I hope someone inside sees my out-of-state license plate
and realizes I drove wicked pissah fah to come see this architectural gem and
takes mercy on my stained-glass-loving soul enough to allow me inside the
sanctuary.
I spend ten minutes
photographing the church with my camera.
I snap a few shots with my cell phone, too, and immediately email my
coworker with the confirmation that I made it to NY and I found her itinerary recommendation. Somewhat deflated that there isn’t enough sun
to pop the windows’ colors from the outside, I take a few more photos and head
to my car.
By now the temperature has
climbed a bit (plus I’m menopausal, and I’m probably having a hot flash), so I
roll down my driver’s side window as I am about to pull out of my parking space. Before I can put the car into gear, the
church bells start ringing. The bells
must ring on the quarter hour because I know it isn’t 11:00 yet. I don’t even care about the time or the reason:
I hear the bells chiming, which is especially
thrilling since I do not see the Chagall and Matisse masterworks except from
the dark side, so close (and almost personal), and yet so far.
I ponder stopping by in
the early evening on my way home again, but my GPS takes me another route, and
I am not wise enough to double-check the maps before I hit the road. I’ve had my Chagall/Matisse moment, so I’ll have
to settle for my outdoor pictures and the Internet’s indoor pictures to paint a
complete portrait of my touristy moment in Pocantico Hills.
