There’s no place like home

Looking back, I should have seen the handwriting on the wall. Born in Binghamton, NY, I spent my formative years on the banks of the Susquehanna River, catching crawfish and trapping tadpoles to observe their transformation into frogs. My family and friends spent idyllic summers at Seneca Lake where, as kids, we picked grapes for extra spending money and stargazed endlessly, wondering what the future held.

After college, we all headed off in different directions and I found myself in New York City and eventually, Los Angeles, where I spent decades lost in thought, constantly searching for the state of mind that my childhood memories would not relinquish. I spent a good deal of time in the great outdoors, eventually accomplishing a lifelong goal of having seen all of the United States, camping, camping, camping... unaware that I was attempting to recapture a sense of what it was like to have grown up with so many of the advantages that living in upstate New York provided me in my youth.

I’ve been back a few years now—and loving it—but it was only this past weekend that the picture became so clear. I still have friends who summer at Seneca Lake, and when invited to come up last week, I jumped at the opportunity. I stopped in Liberty, NY, to check out the new exhibit at the Catskill Artists Gallery. ( www.catskillartistsgallery.com ).

They were still setting up the lighting as I perused the group show, which includes work by local artists Kathy Jeffers, Margaret Helthaler, Robert Friedman, Laverne Black and Cecily Fortescue. Sculpture, photography and pottery are but a few of the artists’ specialties and the show, which runs through November 29th is certainly (in my humble opinion) worth viewing.

I made my way along Route 17 and cruised past Binghamton, historic Owego, through a (now bustling) Ithaca, which, although busier than I recall, still had a lot of the old charm and appeal that I remember so fondly. Making my way through the Finger Lakes, I had time to reminisce. Keeping in mind that the only constant in life is change, I observed the many changes that have occurred over the years throughout the regions I traversed, yet was able to see my past in all things present.

Watkins Glenn remains intact, although there are now more resorts. NASCAR and the Winston Cup are still a big draw for the racetrack, and the sheer beauty of the surroundings opened a floodgate of memory. I circled around the lake, making my way to the cottage in Lodi, NY and began the descent to Seneca Lake through the vineyards. Ahhh—the vineyards!

What was once the domain of concord grapes, jelly and jams has now (over a period of 30 years) become the “place to be” for wineries ( www.Fingerlakeswinecountry.com ). One still has to take the dirt road through old man Wagner’s fields, but instead of him threatening kids against stealing grapes, Wagner is King when it comes to New York wineries ( www.wagnervineyards.com ).

The gang trickled in one by one, and we all began a trip down memory lane. There have been births, deaths, dreams realized and some perhaps crushed, along the way—but all in all, we remain intact somehow, kept together by our commonalities. The years and the miles between us all washed away as we sat on the deck, overlooking the lake. One of my old friends looked at me quizzically. “Wait a minute” he said “Don’t you live in the Catskills now?” I nodded in his direction as he pointed out the obvious. “So you left your cabin in the woods, overlooking a lake—to drive four hours upstate to spend the weekend in a cabin in the woods, overlooking a lake?”

I nodded again as his words hit me. I looked around and realized the truth of what my friend had observed. After decades away, I had come home. Sure, now I live in another place, but is it really all that different? Sleepy towns, open skies, rustic environs and a sense of relief, knowing that if one can accept the fact that nothing really ever stays the same, it is possible to go home again, swept over me as I accepted the reality that is now my life.

Without really grasping what I had done, I’ve recreated the day-to-day life that I had yearned for over the years. We said our goodbyes for the season and I made my way back to the mountains I call home. Stopping once again in Liberty, I strolled Main Street and checked out the store windows, now filled with various artwork. Someone had the great idea to display these pieces throughout the town ( info@liberty-cdc.org ) and I was once again reminded of why I made the move back.

I love where I live and my new friends and neighbors. I feel that I am a part of a community again, rather than the faceless, nameless society that big city life encourages. I breathed the clean air and made my way to a cabin in the woods, overlooking a lake. I put my bags down, looked around and said to no one in particular: “That little girl was right all along. There’s no place like home.”