LIVES RESURRECTED

Whenever I visit one of the old rural cemeteries in the vicinity of Brant Lake I reflect on life. Perhaps this is a paradoxical statement but I will explain: The occasional pickup truck drives past the headstones of the Old West Church Cemetery with barely a nod. Who wishes to linger with those who have…

HOPE

Over the years I have been fascinated by how towns acquired their names. For instance, when I was at seminary in Cincinnati, Ohio, I went on an excursion with a government employee, Keith, to secure the signature of a local school board president. We traveled into the depths of Kentucky until we arrived at Hazard,…

ONCE UPON A TIME

Once upon a time, Brant Lake was only a stream coming down from the Spuytin Duyvil, over a beaver dam and entering into the Schroon River. From the Schroon, the humble drops of water found their way into the Hudson and then the Atlantic. The flow continued across the ocean and, perhaps, that water we…

TO SEE THE WORLD

Not long ago, Kate and Nick, my wonderful blog mistress and master, without whom my blog would not be possible, visited on their way north. The couple had never seen Brant Lake, but after more than 100 postings they were experts on the area. Now I could share the reality that endears me to Brant…

CAMP ONEIDA

  My love of the Adirondacks and Brant Lake began as a child of seven, when I spent summers at a boy’s camp which, like many Jewish camps, bore an Indian name, Oneida. After five years at Camp Oneida, located outside the tiny western Adirondack hamlet of Woodgate, New York, the director Arthur Eckstein, Eck,…

UNDER THE LOCUST TREE

They were two old men, Felix and Arthur, and they sat in the blue Adirondack chairs under an ancient locust tree at Brant Lake Camp. Every day they sat under that tree. Usually in the morning. Once they had coached tennis at that boy’s camp. And they played. They possessed precision forehands, powerful backhands. In…

ON THE FLATS

  The flat tire began with a warning, “Low Tire Pressure,” appearing on the dashboard of my car and quickly accelerated or decelerated to “clank, clank, clank” as the metal wheel and the asphalt pavement joined in a cacophonous symphony, “Ode To A Flat Tire.” Cautiously we exited the Northway where a sign proclaimed, “Saratoga…