In the Catskill Mountains

After hitting all the nostalgic spots in Oswego, we packed up and headed 3 hours south to where my dad grew up, the Catskill Mountains.

I decided to take the longer route just so I could retrace the tracks our old 15 passenger van would make back in the days when our family would set out to visit the Holdrige side of the family.  The rolling hills, the little villages, the winding rivers, and the family farms all surfaced long buried memories of this grueling trip.  When I was a kid it seemed like the longest trail of tears, but it's really not that lengthy of a drive.  I didn't appreciate the unique beauty of it back then, but it stabs me now.

We got to our Air BNB in Samford just before dusk.  It's a gigantic house tucked up on the side of a mountain meadow overlooking the valleys and hills sprawled out over a hundreds of miles.  It felt like a scene from Anne of Green Gables.  Green lush fields of alfalfa, foothills folding into each other with a backdrop of purple peeks, mountain-majesty just like the song says.  Looking over thousands of acres there are only about 12 houses and farms that you can see with your naked eye, so much virgin territory it takes a while for your brain to adjust from what it's used to--dense overpopulation where people are crisscrossing and packing into little lots like cordwood.  The expanse is stunning.

The house where we're staying has a couple huge porches with swings and rocking chairs to take in the sights and sounds.  Speaking of sounds, I woke up yesterday to spend some time with God while sipping a cup of hot coffee on the deck when the sound of a roster pierced the morning air in the distance.  Mixed with the cacophony of crickets and chickadees, it was like a sound track from the Master's.  Sitting out on that porch just made you feel like all was good in the world, like there is hope for humanity.  There is land filled with simplicity and beauty and serenity.  It's not all congestion and riots and protests and madness and outrage.  This earth still has preservations of untarnished wonder.  

I climbed the mountain our house is built into with my boys and their cousins later that morning and with every step it seemed like the scenery would open up and change textures.  The visage was breathtaking and every time I stopped and turned around to catch another glimpse of glory, it seemed I was on a different mountain with a different landscape layered in front of me.  The kids eventually had their fill of climbing, so they decided to cut through the field and make their way down to our abode.  I stayed up there a while longer to talk to dad and mom.  I wanted them to know I still thought of them often and that this trip was healing parts of me that have stayed a little raw under the surface.  The closure I was feeling in the last couple days felt like a gift I didn't deserve and I told them so.  

I especially could feel the spirit of my dad all over these holy hills.  The place where he cut his teeth as a little boy and learned a farmer's values.  In the short time we've been here, I can see how our lives were more like a farmers and less like a pastors.  It's clear to me now that the simplicity of my upbringing was shaped by the Catskills and the ethos forged into my father that set the trajectory of our family.  I'm glad for it.

I walked down the hill to rejoin my family as we get ready to head out to have a reunion with the extended Holdridge family.  This trip couldn't be going any better.