He wasn't a real doorman, but General Washington greeted his troops at Sloan's Tavern

Dehydrated from walking twenty of my twenty six miles, I stopped at the Store at Five Corners the oldest continuously operated country store in America. During its history it has been a tavern, a mustering point for mounted militia, a stagecoach stop, a gas station, a tea room or a social center. The original building was a log cabin constructed in 1760 by one Isaac Stratton. Stratton sold the property to Samuel Sloan who built a tavern on the site in 1770. Sloan was a captain in the Minutemen during the Revolutionary War, and the tavern served as a mustering point for Colonial troops. Gen. George Washington stopped there briefly during the War, a historical fact that current Williamstown resident Jim Drummond can document. He may show you the old lithograph protected by strips of birch bark and depicting men and horses milling around in front of the old livery stable. Underneath is a caption which reads "General Washington resting his troops at Sloan's Tavern while en route to Fort Ticonderoga. The Store at Five Corners in South Williamstown Massachusetts has been all of these as well as home to some of Williamstown's best-known families. The big clapboard building at the intersection of Routes 7 and 43 has been moved, remodeled, restored and renovated, but it still serves the community as an old-fashioned general store.

I was a mess: dirty from navigating the bridge along route 43 that was "under construction". When you are walking, especially when you have already walked eighteen miles, an unexpected possibility of a five mile detour encourages you to climb barbed wire fences, cross a narrow six inch wide span of crumbling concrete with a fifteen foot drop to the river below and finally climb another fence despite the warning sign that says "electrified". Did I mention that my backpack, heavy with books and my portfolio, kept getting hung up on the rebar and the barbed wire? I knew the Williamstown gentrified farmers loved their cows too much to jolt them with electricity! I wasn't cut or burned, but I couldn't stop sweating. Sweat was pouring out of me.

I was sitting by myself at a table, alternately drinking from my bottles of juice, water and soda. When not holding a bottle to my mouth, my arms rested in the large pool of sweat forming on the table. I was staring blankly at the pool, trying to guess how long before it started to overflow onto the floor. Would I be able to bend down and clean it up? With what? My one handkerchief was still hanging on the last fence I had climbed. I had doubts of ever walking again, as a very painful cramp was inching up my leg. It had originated in my ankle, spawned from the bleeding blisters. I was convinced my feet and ankles would need to be replaced with surgical hardware. Visions of skin grafts floated through my head. I knew that when they (the air born EMT's - which I knew would be called once someone realized that I had fallen into a coma) removed my sneakers, bones would be showing through the raw flesh. "Om mani padme hum", stare at the pool of sweat, become one with the pain.

The mantra wasn't working, but voices started to rise to the front of my awareness. It wasn't the airborne medical team, but three middle, to more than middle, aged New York City matrons. I knew that they were New York matrons without turning around. They had to be, by their voices, and their vocabulary, both of which I was picking up as consciousness was returning. True to form I was invisible to them. It appeared that one of their friends, a "prima donna" (cast not the first stone) had been robbed. Now I quickly guessed that their friend was not a singer, but a vain, mean person. Their conversation wandered into discussions of whether to put one's valuables in a house safe or in a bank safe. One of the women kept her valuables in a safe in her bedroom - so she always knew where they were and could access them whenever she wanted. It was a "safe safe", in her words, because it was heavy! They discussed the number of drawers and compartments in their safes, and eventually got back to the robbery. It appeared that this friend had been robbed in the daytime. Everyone suspected her doorman, who she viciously abused. They were agitated now, and two of them talked about how surprised they were, as the doorman in question had an impeccable reputation. The leader of this matronly trio abruptly cut the discussion short with the words: "He wasn't a real doorman". The silence from her two acolytes spoke volumes. Obviously their leader would know the qualities and character of a real doorman! They got up to leave with some difficulty, weighted down with traveling jewelry and finery. Their New York City matronly radar guided them around my pool of sweat (now working its way to the door) without a downward or sideways glance. As before, I was invisible to them.

I am well again, but the burning question remains: "What is a real doorman? Research reveals that a doorman guards the entrance to doors, and may work at apartment buildings, hotels, large business buildings or nightclubs. A related term to doorman is the word doorkeeper, the person responsible for guarding the door and permitting entry or denying it to people who want access to a building. The United States House of Representatives had an official doorkeeper until the post was abolished in 1995.

My only knowledge of the routine of a doorman comes from "The Doorman" the one-hundred and fourth episode of the NBC sitcom Seinfeld.  Elaine house-sits for Mr. Pitt. Jerry goes to meet up with her to go to the movies and winds up offending the Doorman. Jerry apologizes, saying he is not used to doormen, and just wants to be friends with him. So to make up for it, Jerry watches the door. The doorman leaves Jerry in charge while he goes out quickly to buy a beer. Jerry feels the pressure of being a doorman, even signs for a package. But when Jerry leaves his post the couch in the lobby is stolen.

“What is a doorman without a door?” That is the question that director Wayne Price explores in his new movie, The Doorman, a film that balances the line between fact and fiction. The movie is a faux documentary that focuses on exclusive club doorman Trevor W. (Lucas Akoskin) who tries to maintain the facade of his elite lifestyle after the loss of his job.

Jerry felt the pressure of being a doorman, signing for a package. In this day and age with UPS, DHL and FedEx delivering all of our purchases from LL Bean and Amazon, you or someone who knows you, have to be home between 9 and 5. This is simply untenable. I don’t have an office. I sometimes go places, meet people, hop around. What is a guy to do? A building with a doorman seems like the best option, if price wasn’t an issue. Oh, and the fact that they don’t exist in Portsmouth. But a doorman would be handy dandy. Have you ever gone through the hassle of missing a lot of UPS deliveries and then trying to find the UPS depot? Only to arrive and find the gate locked and nobody home.

Often I am the doorman for my building. I am home a lot, blogging and working in my digital darkroom. I'm on a first name basis with "Myron", our postman. He'll buzz me to see if I have any orders to go out. The UPS guy will buzz me to get in the building. I learned to appreciate Myron's small but valuable courtesies when he was out with a hernia. His replacement would ignore my packages left at the bottom of the stairs for pickup.

It's an awesome responsibility being a doorman. The first few times I accepted delivery for someone I was flustered. Do I write a note? I don't know their first name. Do I put the note in an envelope? Do I tape it to the door or slide it under the door? Can I leave the package outside their door or should I take it into my apartment. What if I haven't heard from them by nine? I work at my computer with a headset. They could have been banging against my door and I wouldn't know. It might be an important package. Should I buzz them? What if they are asleep?  When do I return the package to Myron or the UPS man? After one, two or three days? Will my neighbor be angry that I accepted the package from Victoria's Secrets when I know that there is no Victoria living at the address? What if it's porn? Will they think I peeked?

I don't know if I am a real doorman. I don't have a uniform or belong to a union. I do a good job; nothing has been lost or stolen on my watch. Even though Mr. Jones on the first floor can't look me in the eyes, I don't press the issue. I greet him with a "hello" and "have a nice day". He gets lots of packages from Sweden, all from YUMXXX Publishing. Above all a doorman is discreet!

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Whether they are made of pork, as is most often the case, or of beef, veal, buck, goat, chamois, venison, sheep, wild boar, or horse, cured meats (salumi in Italian) were born of a need to conserve meat for months after the slaughter of the animal. Salting, smoking, and air-drying are the three processes by which fresh meat is transformed into a long-keeping staple.

While all meats are salted, some are smoked, and others are simply air-dried. Italians have been making an amazing array of cured meats for thousands of years using both noble and humble parts of the animals they raise. The ancient Romans prized the spicy pork sausages crafted in the southern region of Basilicata (called Lucania then, and giving rise to sausages named Lucaniche still eaten today). And, fond of intensely tasty foods, they smoked or salted whole pig thighs, yielding savory Prosciutti not unlike those still made in mountain villages across Italy.

Two thousand years later, pork remains Italy's favorite meat for curing. Pigs are especially prevalent in areas where there is a notable cheesemaking tradition: after all, wherever there is cheese, there is excess whey, which, combined with bran and corn, becomes perfect feed for pigs.

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