Copake, New York
The farm of my youth had fields that stretched to the horizon, trees that took four of us to get around, holding hands, swings set up in their branches. The farm of my youth had barns full of hay to jump from the rafters in to. That farm had room to run, 170 acres worth. There was a house on that farm, with a porch that made time stop, with a view that made time stop, with rocking chairs that made friends stop. That farmhouse had a fireplace and wide floor boards and windows that looked out at the mountains. Character was what we called it. That house of my youth felt like life had been lived there since this country was new. Bunk rooms, bedrooms, playrooms and books about everything, everywhere. And now there's a guest house, art house, play house. A pool to swim in. That house, that farm, of my youth.
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