Finding the Catskill Mountain House

We were staying at a small bed & breakfast in the mid-Hudson River Valley this week when we found out--on our last day there, of course--about a nearby site that was heralded as just the balm for sore eyes. Needing no convincing, and not daunted in the least by unfavorable weather conditions, we headed out in the direction of the Catskill Mountains toward what James Fenimore Cooper called the “greatest wonder of all creation.”

In the moist gray-blue air, this is what we got:

Then the clouds below us became a cloud around us. I could see and feel its movement as the fog crept around a corner and took over not only the land on which we stood, but also the invisible vastness in front of us.

The voice in the guidebook we’d consulted told us the view from the site of the old Catskill Mountain House was “so lovely that it transcends mere description to become a symbol of the profoundest yearnings within the soul of the beholder.” I was prepared to believe it; even in absence—the absence of the house, which was burnt down almost 50 years ago, and the absence of the view, which was hidden by all the weightless wetness of a levitating pond—there was something transcendental. And I thought, for sure, I’d be returning. I hadn’t seen what I’d hoped to, but I’d seen something.

It’s not the manifestation that keeps us coming back. It’s the promise.

Have you felt it?

That chill in the air? The scent of wood burning in someone's fireplace? The flame bushes in front of the library turning red? The squirrels going 'nuts' (pun intended) under your trees, looking for things to store for winter? Your grass greening up again for one last push before it dies off under all that snow?

Yup, it's that time. Summer seems like it's officially gone by. It's time to put the shorts and camisoles away and pull out the sweat pants and sweaters. It's time go check the winter jackets to see if they still fit. To look in the basket at the bottom of your hall closet for mittens, gloves, hats that can make it through another winter.

The fall catalogs are arriving daily. A week or two ago, the clothing looked ridiculously hot and itchy. Today they look comfortable and warm. Polar fleece, that staple of New England fashion, is starting to appear on the streets. The North Face Logo is all around us. Soon, the Uggs will be on the feet of teenagers and this old mom.

We New Englanders are a hearty lot. We take this change of season well considering that daylight is waning and soon we'll be living in the dark most of the day. From now to December the days grow shorter and darker until one day we realize that we haven't seen the sun at all.

The first snow will arrive shortly. Even though the Farmer's Almanac says we're going to have the warmest winter on record, we can't totally avoid snow. My neighbor, Mr BePrepared, has already put up his snow stakes in front of his house and long the driveway. No plow will make a mistake at his house!

Our family has taken out the down comforters already, but we still have the window air conditioners in. You never know in September. We could end up with a couple more 90 degree days before winters tight hold grips down upon us. You just never know!

The Dazzling Uncertainty of It*

This week has been typical pre-autumnal fare in New England. A tropical day followed by a sweatshirt day followed by a knee-high rubber boots day. Now the sun shines again, and somewhere in the yellow I find the energy and strength to recap for you the meteorological schizophrenia.

On Monday it occured to me that I am far more optimistic than I give myself credit for. It was a startling realization that came on the sandaled heels of summer. The day before had been balmy. Why I assumed that trend would continue is beyond me. I'm usually a glass-half-empty type girl, and I've lived in Connecticut long enough to know that a little skepticism in regard to the weather (or most anything, really) is healthy. But there I was with The Boss (that's what we call my two year old daughter around these parts), standing in our driveway, both of us donning sundresses and flip flops.

The Boss hugged into herself, bracing each forearm with the opposite palm. "Cold and rainy!" she chattered. A fine, fine mist was a veil all around us, fusing invisibly to our forms. I sighed. Then I scooped up The Boss and deposited her into her car seat. I grabbed a sweater from the pile of discarded items pooling on the floor in front of her. I wrapped it around her like a blanket. "Cold and rainy," she repeated in that pitiable lament. I looked down at her, her sweet face magnified by a bulbous drop of rain on my eyelash. So young. So not-yet-jaded.

I shut the door and walked around to the driver's side. I settled into my seat and put the key in the ignition. The mist on my head turned into disparate drops of water as I shook out my hair. "We're just going to have to deal with it."

***

The next day, the veil had intensified into sheets of rain. Everything was gray, except for the roads, which were vivid black. I drove toward our playgroup with slightly less concentration than the conditions required. Somewhere near the skinny diner filled with fat patrons, my wheels bit into a puddle that threatened to swallow the car whole. We went slightly sideways. There was a steady line of cars coming toward us in the other lane. I took my foot off the gas while both hands remained tight and white on the wheel. I was silent, but I heard a voice from the car seat behind me.

"Oh, man!" The Boss's outburst was not so much fearful as resigned. It was the recognition that her mother was a crappy driver. It was the articulated awareness that life is an adventure over which nobody, least of all a two year old, has any control. Oh, man. Turns out a toddler can be jaded after all.

The car righted itself and we sailed on through.




*Mark Twain, from a speech on the weather