Montgomery Place

                The apple branches were bare beneath the early November sky. In the switch grass a coyote stalked its prey as the trees above bore the full fruit of autumn. The Taconic parkway wound its way through upstate New York, through miserable old farm towns and bustling country villages. The rural life was tired, but true. On the simple back roads, where the power lines were down, old men with chainsaws worked to clear the roads of the debris from October’s storms.

                There is something mythic about the down-home country life.

                Away from the chaos of the concrete, and the selfishness of the fast-paced city life, there is no hiding from the hardship and the hard work of the simple life. Maybe Thoreau was right after all; maybe it was really about simplicity. Out here, beneath the big sky, where the rivers still tumble free from culverts and asphalt, the Great Spirit can be heard whispering the ancient song.

                But you have to stop and listen.

                I pulled off the Taconic near Red Hook and made my way west toward the Hudson. I carried in my back pocket a stone pulled from the shores of the Atlantic, where the waves had smoothed its rough edges soft as my lover’s skin. Sometimes, when I find myself near a body of water, I can begin to feel it shiver, as if to tell me home is merely a skip away.

                Annandale is the type of town that maps have forgotten. Deep in the valley, guarded by old oaks and hemlocks, she is the virgin daughter of the Hudson, veiled and pure. Her marshes were singing beneath the sharp sun, and I found myself driving slow and watching the road for Rip van Winkle and Hudson’s crew, returning to the mountains for the last of autumn’s storms.

                She is home to a great history.

                Down an old dirt road I parked and wandered.

                I found Montgomery Place as it might have been 170 years ago. The gardens, in neat array, were kept by old caretakers. I paused a moment as they raked the leaves.

                “Do y’all have to rake the entire property?”

                “You bet,” they said with a laugh.

                “Damn, I hope their payin’ you well.”

                “Well, it’s good work either way.”

                I nodded and looked out across the lawn, “This is a beautiful place.”

                “This is your first time here?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Make sure you make the hike down to the Saw Kill.”

                “Yeah? What makes that so special?”

                The older of the two workers smiled, “you’ll see.”

                I laughed, “alright then, I’ll let you get back to work and I’ll go explore.”

                “Don’t get lost,” he said with a pause, “unless that’s what you want.”

                I nodded and ambled across the grounds. Past the old gardens, and down in front of the old manor house. For a moment I trespassed into history. The stone was as beautiful as it must have been when it was built. Just the thought that someone had lived there made me uneasy. It seemed too much, even for a family and its servants. The darkness inched over me as I felt subdued by the boredom of money and privilege.

                It was something I just didn’t understand.

                But I turned the corner around the house, and the lower lawns stretched their lazy bodies down along the banks of the Hudson, and basked beneath the smiling Catskills. The sun began to dip toward the horizon, and the shadows were growing long. There appeared a golden haze above the river and I felt that if I got to close, I might disappear and become a part of the river legend.

                The darkness subsided, and the freedom replaced it.

                I followed an old trail down to the banks of the Saw Kill. The river surged to meet the Hudson, and I understood the old men and their mystery. The river fell and tumbled over great stones and filled the air with boisterous song. The stone in my pocket trembled. I climbed the rocky banks and stood beside the rushing water. I looked down the falls and for a moment I thought about tomorrow. About the days left.

Was man ever meant to sit still, or were we meant to run like the river, and at the end of it all join something greater?

The return to my car was slow, intentionally slow. I paused to watch the blue jays contend for space in the canopy. Down in the marsh I heard the brotherly bark of a heron, and was soon joined by its shadow as it passed above me. Soon I turned the key and drove back down the old dirt road, and history returned to its place in the past.

I made one more stop before rejoining the Taconic and heading home. I stopped the truck at the Montgomery Place farmer’s market. The apples and squash were the last of the season, and the supply was dwindling, the herald of the coming winter. In the fridges I found what I was looking for, hard cider. I bought two mason jars full of it and two butternut squashes. The girl working the stand was beautiful, with soft blue eyes and tangled brown hair woven with sunshine.

She smiled at me.

I placed the stuff on the counter and caught her eyes.

“That’s exactly what I would have bought.”

“Is the cider any good.”

“Its delicious, but I help make it so I might be biased.”

“Oh really?” I popped the top and took a swig.

“How do you like it?” she bit her lip.

The cider was crisp and finished smooth, “Delicious.”

She sighed, “I’m glad you like it.”

She rung me up and I left her, and our story ended before it began.

On the ride home I felt warm and alive, and as I pulled into my town, the sun set behind me.