Route 22 has brought me home and it will lead me away. It's a vital lifeline to cultural centers on weekends and a sleepy tractor filled lane on weekdays. Friends have been killed on it, so I respect it. My children, on foot, bicycle or motorbike were not aloud to cross it. Today I stand in grasses and recall the shouts of farmers herding their livestock. South of here I would sketch old Farmer Swendson as he buckled up his drafthorses. His two boys were killed on a go-cart crossing this highway. Up the road the Perotti's crossed with dairy cows twice a day! Every so often one would escape and angry weekenders from NYC would have to wait for the chase to end. Eventually the cows and the land was sold. Now the fields and silos are overtaken by bittersweet vines and poison ivy. No journey should ever be taken too lightly.
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