Welcome to Witassic, Massachusetts. My Town. We’d have liked to have referred to it as Our Town, but some hamlet up in New Hampshire, oh, about 72 miles due north of here as the carrier pigeon used to fly, already laid claim to that nickname. Threatened to sue us if we did. That’s why no family in Witassic names its sons Thornton, and the only Wilder family in town went to Springfield and petitioned to have its name legally changed to Tamer. But we’re small enough and proud to describe Witassic to outsiders as My Town because everybody knows everybody, nobody is better than anybody else, and here we prize individualism over collectivism.
Witassic is nestled deep in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts, close enough to Stockbridge that some folks go over on Saturdays to eat lunch at Alice’s Restaurant but far enough off the beaten path that we’re hard to find unless you know where to look. We’re not on any maps or GPS, and there’s only one road in and out of My Town. In fact, we’re so small that the signs at both ends of town read “Entering Witassic” and “Leaving Witassic” on the same side. There’s no need for a traffic light. We don’t even have stop signs since Massachusetts motorists ignore them anyway. We also don’t have a Dalmatian to ride shotgun in the town’s only fire truck down at the all-volunteer fire house but do keep a framed picture of one on the front seat. I don’t know whether it’s absolutely true or not, but some say Witassic can lay claim as the “Smallest Small Town in America.”
Don’t be misled. We’re small, but Witassic is an active and thriving community, and there is always something interesting going on during all three seasons of the year. You read that right. Witassic, like the rest of New England outside of Maine, only has three seasons: winter, summer, and autumn. Spring is only a myth. Heck, we all know February has only 28 or 29 days, but around here the month of March is anywhere from 51 to 83 days long. Winters are long and harsh; there’s no denying that. But we have a newcomer here who used to live way up in Jackman, Maine, who said he wanted to retire somewhere warmer in the south and is grateful for three seasons. He said there are only two seasons down in Maine: snow flies and black flies. We get a quite a few tourists from the Canadian provinces too. When they stop at the last Flying A filling station in America to gas up on their way to Florida and stretch their legs, they sometimes wander over to Grandma Winslow’s Olde Antiques Shoppe right next door and read the sign that informs them there are other locations in Miami, West Palm Beach, Boca Raton, and Orlando. They think they must already be in Florida, so they tend to stick around for a few weeks. We don’t have the heart to tell them any different, or that Grandma Winslow doesn’t even own the other stores. Honestly, it helps that there’s a road sign north of here that reads “Florida, 22 miles.” That’s Florida, Massachusetts, of course, another tiny town in the Berkshires. But when it comes to tourists, the unofficial town motto of Witassic is: “If they don’t ask, don’t tell.” And, frankly, our little economy can use the loonies. Good jobs can be tough to find.
The two biggest employers in My Town are the Witassic Casket Company and the Witassic Gasket Company. Luke Tamer, our postmaster who doesn’t see very well and out of vanity refuses to wear specs, often gets confused and delivers mail to the wrong business, particularly when people with sloppy handwriting either leave an unintended ink blot on or near the bottom arc of the C in Casket or don’t finish off the G in Gasket. It happens more often than you think. The company motto for the coffin manufacturer is “You’ll go out in style, and you’ll never be out of style for all eternity in a Witassic Casket.” The gasket company doesn’t have an official motto, but the unofficial one by its employees is “Our product is so good we prevent leaks for the CIA.”
My Town is proud of its coexistence with nature. We are located at the foot of Mount Witassic, notable for having the most and shortest bunny trails of any ski area in North America and one of the last rope tows in existence. Some critics insist it’s not a mountain at all because it’s not at least 300 meters high and Mount Witassic is only 71 meters, which includes the ranger station on the summit to watch for forest fires. But the USGS says there is no exact measurement that turns a molehill into a mountain, and we concur with the geologists. The Town Forest features 250 acres of Bonsai Trees, but children under the age of 13 are no longer permitted to enter because careless youngsters were crushing too many of them underfoot. An oak tree, not in the Town Forest but on the edge of town, played an important role in early American history. Chiefs from the largely peaceful Witassic and warlike Mohawk tribes, and later on early colonists to the region, held powwows beneath this mighty tree to iron out their respective differences. In the 1920s the state designated it a historical site and erected a marker to honor the Powwow Oak. Then, a few short years ago, a snowplow knocked down the marker, and the Powwow Oak was rededicated with a new one. Less than two weeks later a huge limb fell off the 350-year old tree, and a tree surgeon determined it was dead and had to come down. The marker is still standing, and so is the Powwow Stump.
There is plenty of wildlife in the environs of My Town, but hunting season lasts only one week in October, and it’s a scavenger hunt, a tradition and one of the most popular activities in Witassic. The list of items to be scavenged changes from year to year with the exception of the coveted Knitting Needle in a Haystack. (A sewing needle would be too hard to find.) Whoever combs through the haystacks and finds it is crowned King (or Queen) Knit-Wit and is paraded around the town square in an antique ducking chair from Colonial times that was used to drown witches.
Everyone looks forward to the annual Witassic Classic, when the PMGA – the Professional Mini-Golf Association’s Tour – comes to My Town in June. It is billed as the Masters of Mini-Golf, because some of the most challenging mini-golf courses in the world are right here in Witassic and feature multitudes of mini-bunkers and mini-water hazards. The toughest mini-golf hole in the entire world is the infamous 14th, popularly known as the Dragon’s Mouth, on Mount Witassic’s rugged Alpine Course. The fairway between the tee and green is 48 inches long but only an inch and a half wide and flanked by pits of flaming propane gas on both sides. Many a tournament has been won – and lost – on this hole. In addition to a sizable purse, the winner of the Witassic Classic is presented with a green parka. The Fourth of July is highlighted by the Witassic Sparkler Festival. We take safety seriously in My Town, and fireworks are prohibited, just as they are everywhere in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. So prizes are awarded to those whose modified sparklers burn the longest or are the most colorful. Last year’s top prize went to an 11-year-old girl whose sparkler had all the colors of the rainbow and burned for three minutes and twenty-three seconds.
Interscholastic athletics are immensely popular. Witassic High School is the smallest in the New England so doesn’t get much statewide recognition for its sports programs. Winning seasons are understandably rare for the Wits, although one of their wrestlers made it all the way to the second round of the state tournament several years ago. But Wits events are always well attended and often sold out. Even the Witassic Middle School’s sports are popular as fans turn out in large numbers to cheer on the Half-Wits.
So if you’re looking for a place where you can escape reality, believe me when I tell you Witassic is the perfect place to be. And to the good folks in Peterborough and Lake Wobegon, I say eat your hearts out!
