I grew up in a really beautiful place: Upstate New York in the United States of America. Orchards, fields, and a dark blue sky stretch out as far as the horizon . . . without the slightest vestige of a city or drudgery and frustration of city life. I grew up far out in the countryside, and long lines of sight and clean fresh air have been the rule of my upbringing. I enjoy this environment, and feel most comfortable when I am in places similar to it. I like to look out for miles across agricultural fields and watch the tractors pass over the soil and into the night. This is my home, and I have always known that Upstate New York is beautiful.
When I travel I tell people that I am from New York, and they take me for a city dweller. As I sit in my parental home now looking out the window, I must laugh at this. New York City is six hours by highway and on the other side of the world from where I grew up. I am a country boy.
I think that apple orchards, farmer’s fields, and tractors are beautiful. I like to watch the setting sun make the clouds all orange over the acres upon acres of green corn. I like being from the country side. I like being a peasant.
As I watch a big orange evening sun going down in a pool of starch red clouds over a green and full of life farmer’s field I cannot figure out why I ever leave here. This place is good: people are nice to each other, nobody has any money, and no one seems to have anything to do but grill their dinners in the backyard and play with their big dumb dogs. Why do I leave here?
Maybe because I know that there are wonderful places in this world; I grew up in one. So I read my books and smoke my pipe in the backyard of my paternal home, look up at the clouds, and know that I will be venturing on again in a couple of weeks to find other beautiful places in this world.
I am a curious boy.
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