I just got home from four days in Stamford, New York. Population 1,241. Delaware County is the poorest county of New York. There are more homes vacant than occupied. It is no wonder as the homes are often huge rambling affairs that were hard to heat even in the best of times. I cannot imagine trying to keep a four-story twelve room home warm on wood stoves and candle sticks. I was told the obituaries would be full this winter.
It is beautiful there in a way that makes the West seem garish. The open spaces are many; breakfast is cheap and cooked in butter. I did not want to come home. I never want to come home after a stint in a different part of the country. Especially when the land is practically a dime an acre. But I do come home and the the dreams start. The dreams of a life away from the call of the alarm clock and toward the natural rhythm of rising with the sun. The rural roads and green acres which were the symbols of oppression in my youth have become a beacon in my adult years. There, my heart beats, Is where life really begins.
Almost as if we had traded climates, the humidity in Oregon was thicker than that in upstate. This morning, after sleeping a sound eight hours, I awoke to the boom of localized thunder and flashing lightening. Typically a rarity. But in these shifting times climates and hearts change alliances.
