Turning around the last bend in the driveway, up and to the left, nested among the black-eyed susans is the house, cosied in the folds of the hill. To the right, two apple trees perching on the edge of the llama field, long empty, and now cleared. Continue along the driveway and pull up next to the treehouse, the pond straight ahead. Or rather, the wetlands that used to be filled with frogs and bull frogs before one of the Chapin boys shot the beavers. Long grass tickles knee caps and thighs. Running past the firepit, up the hill, through the clovers, all the way to the cemetery on a sweaty summer afternoon, pause to pick a clover.

Lazy summer mornings interrupted by the oar of the canoe hitting the lily pads and a gunshot from the Lyden Rifle Range. There's a hole in the canoe taped on both sides with duct tape.