As summer officially comes to a close, let's briefly recount these past three summers of having a chance to be a tourist in my home state of New York.
View of Ashokan High Point Mountain, the Ashokan Reservoir (June 2024)
I never thought I would live near my hometown near Albany.
Not because I didn't have a good childhood. Living between two sides of my family (each an hour away) made by neighbors as a third family. We had sleigh riding (not sledding) parties in the ravine behind Highland Ave. We even hung spotlights on towering trees above the ravine to illuminate the bottom of the ravine. Imagine two trains of blown up tubes of 10 or more. It was scary being up front as the only way to stop was going part way up the other side of the ravine, with the potential of flipping into the small, not always completely frozen creek.
Meanwhile, summers were running back and forth between backyard fires, dashing among the darkened streets playing manhunt, kickball games, and touch football. Learning how to throw the perfect spiral.
Imagine joint camping trips, sometimes leaving early because of torrential rain and having a pizza party back in the neighborhood. Fourth of July picnics with lots of pool time, the classic patriotic food cake, and choreographed dances put on by my sister and neighbor to 3LW and the Cheetah Girls. (I'm grateful there is neither photographic nor video evidence.)
I knew I would move away, though. From a job perspective, I assumed I'd lived in DC. I made it to DC's back door, starting my career in Maryland with an internship 10 summers ago.
Coming back to visit now after moving to Michigan five years ago (albeit we live in Michigan sporadically) has made me appreciate even more where I grew up.
Reading guide books that named small towns that I would play sports against (I'm thinking of you, Catskill and Hudson). Rekindling my love of the Hudson River School paintings and Frederick Church’s home, Olana. Sharing that with Paul and his new love for the area feels sweet.
These past three summers I have had a chance to be a tourist in my home state. We've walked along the Ashokan where my grandpa would have put it in his motorcycle in the 1930s. We’ve hiked in Minnewaska, where my dad remembers visiting blueberry stands along the winding roads. I've explored Troy, retracing steps with my family's history living in a primarily Irish community, working in the iron mills and running kitchen saloons. With work trips in Manhattan, I've keyed in on a forgotten history of my dad's Irish side in Hell's Kitchen. While walking Huguenot Street in New Paltz, I reckoned with being a descendant of the Deyos, one of the original 12 patent families, who owned people until slavery became illegal in 1828. (This is the area where Sojourner Truth was enslaved.)
As the summer comes to a close, I think of the the lyric from Champagne Supernova by Oasis, “‘... people believe they're going to get away for the summer.” (With the announcement of an Oasis reunion tour and the 30th anniversary of that album, will I get to hear this song live next year?!)
I have always daydreamed of a true summer escape, owning a summer home that becomes a staple in your family. I’ve found glimpses of this with my and Paul’s AirBnb stays.
These last few summers have been a chance to live out that sentiment and “living to honor the past”, as sung in Vanessa Carlton's Blue Pool. (Seeing Vanessa perform at Alive in Five in June and hearing that song live just felt right.)
Until next summer, New York.
Your expat, Kathleen
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