I just returned from a short visit to a place where I grew up. One of the places. I always felt like a visitor there. Good people all around me, but not my people. If you know what I mean.
What struck me on this visit, as always, is the landscape. A German work ethic is applied to the land with a firm hand, and in early spring the whole place is fields of color. And I don't mean planting fields.
Broad expanses of saturated color. Grass green. Sky blue. Earth brown. With sharp edges and angles between. (In fact, Mennonite women bent over edging tools and weed wackers along roadsides everywhere we traveled). No serendipity or happenstance. Orderliness and plain beauty.
It makes this part of upstate New York, which I love, look like it needs a haircut and a shave. And the quick touch of a hot iron.
(Thank god I finally found my people.)
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