LION’S TALES
A Collection of Shorts
by the
Guests of the Red Lion Inn
Vol. XXviii
First Edition.
© 04-2013 by The Red Lion Inn
Printed in the United States of America
Vol. XXviii
Table of Contents
A Perfect “Bucket List” Wish Fulfilled..................6
by Marilyn Stassen-McLaughlin
A Chance Encounter..........................................10
by C. Brown
Lunch at Widow Bingham’s Tavern....................16
by Sam V.K. Willson

ABOUT LION’S TALES
Periodically, 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 free overnight stay.
Please join us in congratulating the most recent winning
authors, Marilyn Stassen-McLaughlin, C. Brown, and Sam
V.K. Willson. We’re sure you’ll enjoy their tantalizing tales
during your visit and we hope your visit to the Inn will inspire
you to write your own story.
Find us on Facebook to discover the theme and
submission guidelines for our next storybook or
contact us at [email protected]
Best of luck!
LION’S TALES

“A Discovery”
by Marilyn Stassen-McLaughlin
A Perfect “Bucket List”
Wish Fulfilled
by Marilyn Stassen-McLaughlin
M
om, do you have any travel destinations on your
“Bucket List?” my daughter Martha asked when
she and husband Reg were visiting me Christmas,
2004. When Martha was three years old, she and I moved
from Minnesota to Honolulu and I’d been teaching there for
many years. My husband passed on in 2001. Martha and Reg
were eager for me to get back into a traveling mode.
A ‘bucket list?’ I put down my magazine and smiled.
“Maybe I am at that point.
“Well, I’d really like to see Paris, for sure. But also
I love New England. Remember on one of my Sabbatical
Leaves from Punahou School we visited Vermont, stopping at
countless roadside food stands, trying a different kind of apple
at each one? I’ve always wanted to go back to those lovely New
England states. I’ve dreamed of staying at a New England inn
for an extended weekend. I’d want an old inn, painted white,
with a big front porch. In my dream it would snow when we
arrived so that I could walk through new-fallen snow again
like when I was a kid in Minnesota. But I’d like it to melt
before we went home so driving would be safe. I’d want the
Inn to have an old fashioned sitting room with a fireplace, deep
plush chairs, and I could sit in front of the fire with a glass of
6
A Perfect “Bucket List” Wish Fulfilled
wine and a good book and…”
“Mom!” Martha interrupted. You’re going to that
conference on the Mainland next November. Come to our
place in Wethersfield, and let’s spend Thanksgiving weekend
enjoying a New England Inn. We’ll find one.”
So it happened, Thanksgiving, 2005. We drove from
their home in Connecticut to The Red Lion Inn. A few isolated
snowflakes were falling. “Maybe it might even snow there,
too!” I called from the back seat of the car. “Wouldn’t that be
wonderful?”
“Don’t hold your breath on that one, Mom,” Martha
called back to me.
We checked in that afternoon at The Red Lion Inn and
a friendly woman led us to a perfect room for the three of us.
It overlooked the roof and faced the street fronting the Inn.
The room had comfy old furniture. The Inn had been around
a long time. We looked at one another, “This is perfect!” Then
we opened our bottle of champagne from Reg’s carry-on and
toasted a perfect weekend. We took naps and that night the
Pub downstairs provided a tasty supper. We went back to
our inviting room and played a bit of the Hawaiian version
of Monopoly—with place names we all recognized. I lost, but
with Monopoly we all “win.” We were cozily content.
When we awakened on Thursday morning, Thanksgiving,
we looked out the window and couldn’t believe our eyes. Our
roof and the street below were deep in fluffy snow which had
fallen silently all night long and continued to fall—lovely
puffs—so quiet. It was unbelievably still. We stared out our
window down to the street below and whispered. “It’s so quiet,”
Reg whispered. We got dressed, ate breakfast, and Martha
asked, “Do you want to go out in the snow?” Of course, I
7
by Marilyn Stassen-McLaughlin
said yes. I put on my Adidas and we walked on the shoveled
sidewalk and across the street using tire tracks for our steps.
I reached down and picked up some of the feathery fluff and
stared at little decorative flakes that fell on my jacket. It had
been a long, long time since I’d seen snow. We walked into the
Episcopal church across the street, sat silently in the sanctuary
for a meditative break, then moved to the social hall and ate
wonderful cinnamon rolls and hot coffee we’d purchased at
a shop nearby. Everyone greeted us. The snowfall seemed to
loosen our tongues. Such happiness!
The rest of the day we did our “own thing.” My choice was
to read my Ann Lamott book in the Inn’s homey reception room,
by the fireplace. As Thanksgiving dinner time approached, I
was happily distracted from my book, seeing a boot-clad little
girl with long white stockings and red velveteen dress walk in
with her short, puffy ski jacket “hoodie” covered with snow
flakes. The contrast of the dressy outfit, white long stockings
plus boots and ski jacket pleased me. “This is wonderful!” I
said to no one in particular. Children were shaking snow off
their outfits, pulling off boots, and parents busily helped them
remove jackets. My favorite little girl’s mother had to re-adjust
the red ribbons that had sagged to the side of the little girl’s head
when she removed her “hoodie.” I enjoyed conversations with
people near the fireplace. As visitors, we always ask, “Where
are you from? Of course, when they heard I was from Hawaii,
they exclaimed,” How do you like the snow?” We never see
snow in Hawaii except sometimes in the winter atop Mount
Mauna Kea on the Big Island of Hawaii. What a perfect day
we had! It was exactly how I dreamed it might be. Around
3:00 we went up to dress for Thanksgiving Dinner which
was delicious and our waitress was particularly attentive. We
laughed when she commented on how neat our place settings
8
A Perfect “Bucket List” Wish Fulfilled
were even after eating turkey and gravy. We didn’t feel rushed
at all by the dining room staff, even though the room was
packed. At The Red Lion Inn all is planned to make guests
feel comfortable and important.
The next day Martha and I visited as many shops as we
could find in and around the Inn. I bought Christmas gifts to
give my friends in sunny Hawaii. By the time we left the Red
Lion Inn, the snow was melting. Was that really possible? We
kept saying over and over, “What a perfect weekend.”
“Thank you, Red Lion Inn,” I called out from the back
seat, “You more than fulfilled that dream weekend on my
‘Bucket List.’” Martha added, “I’ll say ‘A-men’ to that, Mom.”
2
9
by C. Brown
A Chance Encounter
by C. Brown
O
n the worn threshold a flash of gold and blue caught
my eye.
It was Friday afternoon. I was newly assigned
to the western Mass.-Hudson River Valley region. My last
stop for the day had been a visit to the Austen Riggs Center.
Now I was treating myself to what I hoped would be a quiet
evening, a light dinner, and a good night’s rest before heading
back to the city.
I found the front door of The Red Lion Inn at the center
of a long porch. I imagined summer time guests rocking
green chairs from a past era while sipping sherry or a white
wine. The threshold board of the entryway showed the wear
of many visitors, carved out like a melon. I was thinking that
many visitors before me had crossed this threshold when I
spotted something small and bright and out of place there in
the entryway. I let go of my small, wheeled tote bag handle.
Holding open the door with my left hand I bent down and
retrieved the trinket with my right. It was a small green and
blue enameled diamond shaped disk on a thin, open loop of
gold wire—an earring.
This maneuver did not go unnoticed. Sitting by the fire
there was a gentle looking man with rimless glasses magnifying
his smiling grey eyes. Stretched out comfortably on the divan
10
A Chance Encounter
next to him was a black and white cat. The man gave me a
nod of approval. Coming in from the autumn chill the warm
room seemed to be filled with thousands of pictures, tea cups,
red curtains, and black keys hanging from a chain nailed to
the mantle. The room smelled faintly of wood smoke, but was
filled with the scent of mulled cider. I felt welcome. I checked
in leaving the earring with the desk clerk. He offered to escort
me to my room, number 242, but I declined. This was my first
visit to The Red Lion Inn and I was happy to explore a little
on my own.
I climbed a carpeted stairway that wrapped itself around
a shiny antique brass elevator. I was confused by the room
numbering but soon found room 242 in the front of the inn.
The key slid easily into the worn lock but needed a bit of coaxing
to turn. I wheeled my bag in, tossed off my heels, and lay down
face up on the single bed nearest the door to what I assumed
was a closet. Beyond was a small sink in a quaint wedge of
windows that jutted out towards main street. The room was
wall papered with an older but cheerful pattern of flowers. Some
pinks, some yellows, and green stems that formed diamonds.
This was a pleasant room. Everything was pleasant so
far. Thirty years ago, as a fresh college graduate, I’d not have
foreseen my life playing out this way. Always with customers,
but mostly alone. At Brown I’d made many friends, a few still
close, but over time most of the familiar faces had slipped
away. It was good to be in a nice place like this with some
happy thoughts of the past.
Should I call room service? I rummaged around
the bedside table retrieving a small, red, paper-bound
booklet. Opening it I found not the expected room service
menu, but a pamphlet of short stories. The story I hit
upon seemed to be a first person account of a past visit to
11
by C. Brown
The Red Lion Inn. The author spoke of “The Dining Room,”
fresh squeezed orange juice and muffins for breakfast, roast
beef and a pop over for dinner, and his favorite tipple, a Gibson.
Hesitantly I decided to make my way to the dining room.
I slipped into the only dress in my bag—light blue with a
V neck. Brushing out my hair at the sink, the picture I spied in
the mirror seemed scarily familiar. The pinks, the yellows, the
greens, and the sink. It was a painting in the room of the room
in which it was hanging. Cool!
I found my way down another wide and winding stairway.
Every inch of wall-space was tastefully adorned with myriad
framed pictures. Bits of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” wafted
over me as I descended. A slender young woman with short,
platinum blond hair was playing the baby grand at the base of
the stair. Animated chatter emanated from the lobby ahead.
As I paused at the entrance to the dining room I was
feeling awkward about being a single diner. There was a sign
that offered a possibly less conspicuous option—The Widow
Bingham’s Tavern. Inspired by the short story in the little red
book I resolved to stifle my reluctance and to be seated in the
Main Dining Room, albeit alone.
Looking up I saw a man staring at me from across the
living room. (Well, actually the lobby.) An instinctive twinge
of irritation was immediately followed by a hint of recognition.
It was the man with the smiling eyes. I had to admit to myself
that back in my room I’d thought of him just minutes earlier.
He seemed strangely familiar. Now he was not just looking.
He was up from his seat by the fire and coming towards me.
12
A Chance Encounter
I met his gaze with what I hoped was bit of a smile. As he
asked, “Do we know each other? Were we in school together?”
I spied his slightly askew tie. I replied, “And you even have on
your Brown tie.”
I remembered exactly who he was. Garry. A somewhat
older version of a young man who had been in my freshman year
creative writing class. The stories he shared with the class were
amazing. And he was cute, in his boyish sort of way. One night
we’d agreed to work on a story together. We were in his room.
He had some Kahlua. We wrote a little. Talked a lot. Drank
White Russians. I was sorry I’d told him that I had a beau back
in DC. Thinking about it later I was sure that he’d wanted to
kiss me. I’d have liked that. We stayed friends for the rest of
the semester, but as time passed our paths seldom crossed.
I told Garry that I was Laurie. I could see in his eyes that
he now remembered me too.
The maître d’ returned from seating a party in the dining
room and asked if we wanted a table for two. I started to
explain that I was alone. Garry asked if that was by choice or
if he could join me. I was pleased to have found my old friend
and pleased to have his company.
I don’t recall if I had the roast beef or the salmon.
Maybe it was the pork. It was a wonderful dinner. We shared
a bottle of wine. We caught each other up on the past thirty
years of our lives. Eight years ago Garry had lost his wife to
a courageous battle with breast cancer. Having had some
financial good fortune during the internet boom he had been
able to retire when his wife became ill. He came to Stockbridge
often. His only son, who’d floundered badly through his teens,
13
by C. Brown
was now doing well as a day patient. I felt my throat tighten.
Behind the glasses I could see Garry’s eyes well up as he
quietly explained that his son had been lost to him. Riggs had
found him and brought him back.
I do remember the warm sugar cake with the cold
maple ice cream we shared for dessert. And then our visit to
the Lion’s Den. The New England Troubadour was really
good! He played guitar and sang old favorites from the
Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, and Cat Stevens, as well as his
own clever compositions. As the waitress approached, Garry
apologetically asked if I could pardon a minor display of
male chauvinism, but could he please order for the two us?
He ordered two White Russians.
We stayed at our table through the last set. It was well
past eleven. It had been a long day, but I felt invigorated. As we
walked up the small stairway into the Widow Brigham Tavern
we realized that Garry’s room must be the corner room right
next to mine. Garry told me that our rooms were connected
at the door by the sink. Garry and his son had taken the two
rooms the night before he had checked him into Riggs.
When we got to my door Garry waited as I opened it.
We thanked each other for a wonderful night and I slipped
inside. As I closed the door I saw that he was still standing
there, watching me as the door closed. Too late I wished that
I’d moved more slowly. I remembered seeing that same look in
his eyes years ago.
14
A Chance Encounter
On the little desk in my room was a plate of chocolate
dipped strawberries. They were accompanied by a brief note
from a “Mrs. F” profusely thanking me for finding her lost
earring. I couldn’t very well eat them alone. I tapped on the
door to the adjoining room. Garry opened it immediately.
That was three years ago. We visit the Red Lion Inn
often. Together. Always on our wedding anniversary.
2
15
by Sam V.K. Willson
Lunch at
Widow Bingham’s Tavern
by Sam V.K. Willson
W
e were on the outskirts of Stockbridge, Massachusetts.
We’d been driving since early morning, coming
back from northern Vermont, and were showing
signs of running out of conversation.
My co-driver was Danny, an old friend and neighbor in
Somerville, Mass., a part of Boston. Danny was 28, I was 30.
We had both done well enough in high school, but decided
against college. Being young, single, fairly well bank-rolled
after 5 years of work, we enjoyed the occasional weekend
escape to the ski slopes. Luckily, that year, the weather and the
powder cooperated well into early Spring.
Danny had inherited a frown from his father. He looked
perpetually angry, but in fact was, if anything, perpetually
relaxed. Like me he was Boston Irish, both of us more or
less blond, showing signs of paunchiness and chronically in
need of a haircut.
That day we stopped about 1 o’clock at The Red Lion
for hamburgers and fries and maybe a couple slices of tomato.
There were half a dozen other patrons already lunching in the
Tavern. When our menus announced a daily special of Caesar
salad, minute steak, and dessert, we both agreed.
16
Lunch at Widow Bingham’s Tavern
“OK,” Danny said. “I’ll go for the special. Where do you
think the john is?”
“I’d be willing to bet it’s around that corner. It usually is.”
“Fine,” Danny frowned unconsciously. “Tell the waitress
I want the special.”
As he headed for the far corner, it dawned on me that we
needed to spice up our trip with a little something unusual.
We could discuss Somerville bars and Vermont landscapes just
so long.
The waitress who was standing by, probably wondering
if we’d made up our minds, looked like the younger, gentler
sister of Marjorie Main, that terror of old movies who looked
like she’d spent her younger years driving covered wagons to
Utah. As I remembered it, only W.C. Fields could match her
razor-sharp comebacks.
I gestured to her with a big smile. She headed for our
table, pulling her order pad out and returning the smile.
I said, “I’ve got to tell you something. I hope it will be
OK. My friend is really my patient. He’s had a very rough time
in the army. When he was OK, we decided, the two of us,
it would be better if he not be exposed to sharp or pointed
things… you know, like knives and forks. Usually he forgets
our safety agreements, but I’m sure he’ll remember this one
and not raise a fuss.”
I gathered up the knife, fork and spoon from Danny’s
place and handed them to the waitress.
“What’ll he do?” she asked, obviously concerned.
“Oh, I guess he’ll want a fork, maybe a knife too, but just
17
by Sam V.K. Willson
don’t give him anything. Maybe a big soup spoon will be OK.
I hate to bother you with this, but it’s for his own good, and
of course for the safety of all your other patrons. And YOUR
safety, too.”
She nodded as she thought it over. “Maybe I should act
like I don’t speak much English. Would that make it easier?”
“Great idea. Pleasant, of course, but just can’t make out
what’s the matter. That’s assuming he raises a fuss. And as his
doctor, I’m pretty sure he’ll be…well, insistent, but I hope not
too physical.”
“Oh, he gets physical?” She looked rather uncertain
that she wanted to participate in this experiment. But she
seemed a tough, middle-aged, New Englander and had probably
handled more than a couple of ‘physical’ drunks in her day.
“If he seems to be getting physical, I’ll give you a signal.”
“Like what? A wink? Should I be watching for a wink?”
“I’m really not sure. But please don’t worry. He’s usually
placid as a…well, as you and me.”
Danny came around the corner. I handed the waitress
his table silver, and she quickly tucked it behind her back.
I said, “So, Miss, I guess we’ll both have the special. OK?”
She was looking closely at Danny. “Yes. I got it.
Two specials.”
He pulled out his chair, sat down, and draped the napkin
across his lap. He said, “And I’d like a Bud Light if you’ve got it.”
18
The waitress looked wide-eyed at me. I nodded, looking
straight at her. “Sounds good,” I said. I nodded again.
“I’ll have one too.”
When she’d left, Danny said, “Nice clean john. And real
paper towels, not those damned hot air machines that would
probably take a half hour to dry you hands if you had the
patience—so you wind up drying your hands on your pants.
Right?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Glad it was nice and clean.”
We chewed the fat for a minute, guessing at the driving
time back to Somerville, until our Caesar salads arrived. Some
big pieces of lettuce, grated cheese, and even some croutons.
Danny felt under his dish for a fork. Nothing there of
course. He said, “Chintzy dump. I don’t have any silver.” He
looked over his shoulder for the waitress. “Where’s the wicked
witch of the west?”
‘I’m sure she’ll be right back.” I started spearing my salad,
paying no attention to his no-silver problem.
When she emerged Danny called out, “Miss! Can I have
some table silver please! I don’t seem to have any.” He didn’t
sound angry, though he was, as usual, frowning.
The waitress…it seems to me the sign on her chest said
‘Janet’…hurried over, smiling, and said, “So sorry. Here we
go.” And placed a big soup spoon beside his plate.
Danny picked it up, looked at his salad, and called out
as she hurried away, “Miss! Sorry! I need a fork. And a knife.”
Janet stopped and made a ‘just-a-minute’ sign, and went
into the kitchen.
Danny said, “This is a first. Go ahead, eat. I’ll catch up.”
He was taking the little local inexperience in stride, crunching
on a crouton with the usual frown but constant good nature.
Janet appeared with our two bottles of Bud. As she set
them down, she glanced toward me and raised her eyebrows
questioningly, as if to say, ‘I hope beer doesn’t set him off.’
Danny said, “Thanks. I still need a fork.”
Janet said, “A what?” I almost forgot. We’d decided she
didn’t speak much English.
“A fork to eat my salad with. A fork.”
Janet nodded, but looked at him rather dubiously.
After she’d left, Danny said calmly, “I don’t think our
lady speaks all that much English. Maybe hasn’t been in
this country too long. God, you’ve finished your salad, and I
haven’t even started.” He picked up the soup spoon. “Maybe I
can make some progress with this.”
“Oh, gosh,” I said. “No hurry. Take your time.”
He managed to balance a piece of lettuce from the plate
to his mouth. The second piece fell halfway there. He cursed
under his breath. “My kingdom, my kingdom for a fork!”
“Ah,” I said. “You always remembered your Shakespeare.”
Janet appeared again and I saw her take a big breath
before heading toward our table. She held out a napkin to
Danny.
Danny seemed on the verge of losing it. “Oh my God! A
fork! A FORK! “He pointed at his salad. “A fork to EAT with!
A FORK!”
“It’ll be all right,” I said, patting him on his shoulder.
“You can have my fork.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I don’t WANT your fork.”
Janet said…and I thought I heard a note of panic in her
voice… “A minute. A minute. I’ll get something.”
Danny said, “I don’t want something. I want a fork!”
“Yes, yes,” she said, and headed back to the kitchen.
Danny said, “I never saw anything like it in my life.
She looks like she’s worked here forever, and she doesn’t speak
English! Unbelievable!”
Indeed, Janet came hurrying back with a glass of water.
She set it down in front of Danny, but she was staring at me.
Her eyes said, “He’s going to get physical, isn’t he? He’s going
to attack me. I just know it. I don’t blame him. You shouldn’t
bring him to a place like this. I think this is your fault.”
I said quietly, “My friend here needs a fork to eat his
salad. Could you please bring him a fork?”
“Oh heavens yes! A fork! Oh yes of course. A fork.” She
hurried away.
Danny said, “Don’t count your chickens. If she manages
to bring back a fork, I’ll be willing to buy your dinner at the
Union Oyster House when we get back to Boston. If not, we’re
out of here! OK?”
“Oh sure. I think she’ll bring you a fork. How come you
don’t want a knife?”
“Who says I don’t want a knife? Of COURSE I want a
knife, but I don’t want to confuse her. I need a fork more than
a knife. I’ll try for a knife if we get as far as the steak. Oh God,
here she comes.”
Janet said, “Here’s your fork, sir. Would you like a knife?”
She glanced at me and I quietly nodded.
“Yes,” I said. “I think my friend could use a knife.”
Janet said, “Oh fine, sir. I was just afraid…” and she bit
her tongue. “Now tell me,” she said, “Would you both like
your steak rare or well done?”
I looked at Danny, gesturing for him to go first. “I’d like
mine rare. You know what that means I suppose.”
“Rare? Oh yes, I certainly do. I’ve been working here for
twenty-five years. I sure know what rare means.” She looked at
me. “You too, doctor?”
“Yes, rare for me too, please.”
When she was out of earshot, Danny said, “Why in
God’s name did she call you ‘doctor?’ She’s got the most
screwed up brain I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. Doctor?
Maybe she’ll call me ‘Your Honor’ if we order coffee. Or if
we’re lucky, ‘Your Highness.’”
“Maybe it’s a tradition here,” I offered.
“Yeah. Like serving salad with a soup spoon. You’re right.
Maybe it’s traditional.”
“I bet,” I said.
The steaks were nice and rare…in fact unforgettable…at
least for me.
2
A Brief History of The Red Lion Inn
From its origins as a small two-story tavern erected in c. 1773 on
the Boston-Albany road to today, the historic Red Lion Inn has welcomed
both leisure and business travelers. In 1774, citizens from several Berkshire
towns gathered here to pass resolutions protesting England’s repressive
Acts of Intolerance.
During its first 20 years, the Inn expanded multiple times and went
by several names, but it always featured a red lion on its sign. It has been
known as The Red Lion Inn since the 1890s. From the 1860s through
the middle of the twentieth century, the Inn was owned by the Plumb
family and their descendants, the Treadways. Mrs. Plumb was a voracious
collector of furniture and teapots, many of them already antiques in their
time. The Inn was destroyed by fire in 1896, but many of the furnishings
and collectibles were saved by alert townspeople, and still grace the Inn
today. The Red Lion was rebuilt the following year on the same footprint.
When the Inn was acquired by the Fitzpatrick family in 1968,
the collecting tradition was carried on by Mrs. Fitzpatrick while Mr.
Fitzpatrick served in the State Senate during the 1970s. The Red Lion
Inn once again became a center of political activity in Berkshire County.
Through the years, the Inn has hosted six U.S. presidents: Grover
Cleveland, William McKinley, Howard Taft, Theodore Roosevelt, Calvin
Coolidge, and Franklin Roosevelt.
The Red Lion Inn is now owned and operated by Mr. & Mrs.
Fitzpatrick’s daughter Nancy. Today, guests still find antique-filled rooms
and genuine hospitality, along with innovative New England cuisine and
the convenience of modern amenities.