The U.S. Mount Washington sounds its “all aboard” as the dock gate opens. Three hundred passengers rush on, snatch their tickets then hurry up to decks one, two or three. There, in the gentle sunshine, they look back at the small port of Wolfeboro, N.H.

Excitement permeates everybody, even the crewmen who guide the ride on Lake Winnipesaukee three times a day. This “On Golden Pond” is hailed as the “oldest summer resort” in America, revered as the site of the superb movie with the same name.

Two visiting Orangeburgers in slacks and collared shirts observe the crowd with interest. All wear American favorites: girls, tight shorts; older girls, flowered culottes; men, wrinkled Bermudas and sloppy pullovers; fat men, much larger shorts.

As the whistle blows again, the gangplank goes up and powerful motors begin churning into one of the three largest U.S. freshwater lakes, and the 300-foot boat pulls away from shore. Out beyond lie 75 miles of water and just beyond, the foothills of the White Mountains.

As Wolfeboro fades away, passengers become more interested in one another, making introductions and small talk. Then, in only a few minutes, they become aware that there is one woman — beautiful — standing among them in a strapless, full length, lace evening gown encrusted with seed pearls. No veil, but pretty brown hair.

When was, when is the honeymoon? The bride stands at the rail chatting with a friend while the passengers speculate on many things: Did they just get married? Are they having their honeymoon on board; there are no staterooms? Which one is the groom?

The South Carolina man walks to her. “Congratulations. Did you just get married?”

She smiles friendlily. “We came aboard in Weirs (the lake’s other port) last night but a downpour prevented the ceremony. We had to cancel it. Both my parents and his are here so we all stayed in the hotel then said our vows this morning; the captain married us.”

By this time, several of the men and women passengers, who could withhold their curiosity no longer, followed on the heels of the Orangeburger. Many happy feelings resounded from the unplanned, informal reception.

One young man, with a broad, full and black haircut introduced himself as the groom: Tom Kielbonig.

“I have an orchestra, the Orange Crush. We play 80s music at college dances all up and down the east coast. We had a gig in South Carolina a couple years ago. No, not the University. Clemson, it might have been Clemson,” he said.

Sparked by these moments of joy, the Mt. Washington plied on through Winnipesaukee for three more hours, displaying for passengers endless shorelines of heavy trees with huge, handsome mansions hidden among them. Just when Tom and bride “Kelly,” a librarian, might begin their honeymoon continued to be a source of speculation, but Tom had said that he had another gig that night.

Getting ready for 13,000 The little town of Durham, N.H. (population 10,000) features twisting, mid-1700 streets. Victorian homes, all gleaming with white, yellow or dark red pain stand among many more stalwart, practical New England houses. All are white, all have no decoration, not even shutters.

Just past the “historic” downtown blocks, the University of New Hampshire begins, goes uphill and uphill past every style of college building from a two-story Gothic “Old Main” to a mammoth indoor stadium of 7,000 blue leather seats, the ice hockey arena.

“Man, I bet you see a lot of fast games here,” a visitor says to an employee.

“Yeah, when I can get a seat,” he replies.” They’re always sold out.”

Portsmouth and Rochester are 20 miles away.

Fruits of the Earth What’s more family fun for Carolina families and friends than to drive into the country to a farm selling its own fresh corn, watermelons, or both? Giff and Mae Burnap, who live near Farmington, N.H., take this a big step further. Still in their early thirties, they plant and raise and sell a full acre of both raspberries and blueberries, and several acres of high-colored peaches (keep in mind that this is 1,000 miles away).

Five acres of mouth-lusting yellow corn are ready for the public pickers. In the little “already picked” shack, the visitors stroll among some of the most savory fresh fruit pies in history. They cost $13 apiece but could easily serve eight or ten.

What a way to enjoy the delights of American produce in the 78-degree afternoon without having to stand in blistering sunshine.

Mae supervises the pie-making and displays, while Giff, after many laborious early morning hours, stands on the porch and happily chats with the hundreds of customers.

“I was born on a farm like this up on Lake Huron. After a few years working with Daddy, I wanted a place of my own. An old professor-friend at the university looked around and found this one seven years ago. We have three little girls now. “

The produce is sold at reasonable prices except for the hot house, high red, tomatoes which have a price tag of $3.50 per pound. Still, they sell.

Last comment It’s a mistake is to get caught behind a car with a sign announcing: “Driving Lessons, Driving Students.” On one N.H. highway beneath such a sign was a license plate with only one word in large capital letters, “NERVOUS.”

Retired editor and public relations executive Thomas Langford’s column is titled “Some Edisto Stories.” Let him know if you have stories to share: 803-534-2097.

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