My Beautiful Valley

A funny thing happens when you live in a place nearly all of your life. You stop seeing it. You drive to work, to the store, to the doctor, to all the places you normally go. You visit friends and slink into the usual hangouts or pop into each other’s houses and start forgetting that…hey, this is one damned fine piece of the planet.

My beautiful valley reminds me of that every once in a while. When I’m driving home and I reach a particular summit of the highway and see that the sun is hanging at just the right angle to illuminate Kingston’s two rounded hills that separate me from my house. Yes, those twin mounds look like a great big rump. But it’s our rump. And it’s magnificent. And when the leaves start to change and I drive westbound over the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge…the sumptuous colors take my breath away, and I have to remind myself to concentrate on the road.

So yes, every once in a while, my beautiful valley stands up and waves her verdant arms as if to say, “I’m still here! You, reading the newspaper and carping about your taxes, I’m still here! You, shuffling off to school or to work, I’m still here, and I’ll always be here!”

But, we forget. I did that in Boston, too. One of the cutest little cities going, lousy with history, and I only see Paul Revere's grave when people come from out of town to visit.

And here, back in the land of my birth, I’ve been forgetting, too. Last weekend, in a challenge to myself to let more spontaneity into my life, and to do more “small, scary things,” I agreed to an invitation to walk across the Hudson River on the brand-new pedestrian walkway. It was reconstructed from an old railroad bridge decommissioned by a fire in the 70s. I knew that our congressional rep, Maurice Hinchey, struggled to get money to see this project come to fruition (our biggest money maker is tourism, followed closely behind by our massive number of chain restaurants), but I didn’t know that the funds had been secured and the “Walkway Over The Hudson” had been completed. Turns out, Pete Seeger kicked off its official opening a week earlier.

The whole idea of it originally gave me the heebie-jeebies. I’m not THAT scared of heights, but I would be terrified to walk across a narrow footbridge that high up. When I met up with my family at the pedestrian entrance (all of us bundled up against the cold and wind) I found that although it was high up (as high as the Mid-Hudson Bridge, which was a stitch down the road), the concrete walkway was broad enough (about as wide as a narrow, two-lane road) to offer comfort and braced on either side by secure railings.

As I walked across with my father, stepmother and two stepbrothers (and assorted dog-walkers, stroller-pushers, bicyclists, weekend looky-loos and yes, even a couple of Rollerbladers), I saw my beautiful valley as if for the first time. Her gentle curves and rolling slopes. Her autumn wardrobe, shrouded in places by a mist that hadn’t yet cleared.

My chest literally filled with pride. “Yes,” I wanted to tell the out-of-towners, “This is my valley. And I’ll share her with you. But only if you appreciate her. I mean, genuine appreciation. None of this, ‘oh, I went away for the weekend, blah-blah-blah,’ but true, heartfelt appreciation for what you saw. And a promise to return. With your friends. And lots of money.”

I also wanted all of my local friends and neighbors to come here. Bring their friends, their kids, their dogs, their families, their guest visiting from out of town. Maybe it would make all of us appreciate this place where we all live a little bit more. And looking at my beautiful valley from hundreds of feet in the air, how could you not love her?

And maybe it would convince us that she (and all the other lovely places where you live) is worth a little more care.

Or at least get us to look up from our computers and newspapers and daily routine to pay attention to it.