Behind the bustling streets of the “Big Apple”, New York holds within its borders a place like no other: A tranquil escape from rush hour and the daily lives of hard-workers. The Adirondacks will always be a place I can call home, as many of my favorite memories have originated there over the course of my childhood. My grandparents owned a lake house in Schroon Lake, NY, which provided me with an experience unmatched by any hotel or inn. There have been so many wonderful moments there that will always remain in my heart.
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I learned in psychology that our sense of smell is directly related to some of the memories we form. It makes perfect sense to me because there is really no other explanation for my love of strange scents such as gasoline or wet dogs or pine trees. The air at Schroon Lake was always soaked in the sweet, musky smell of the pine trees, and I remember lucidly the scent of my dog’s wet coat as we tried to dry her off with her designated orange towel. I also delight in the smell of gasoline because it brings me right back to that place, when we would start the jet skis and watch the water begin to propel backward, the redolence of the gas wafting through the air.
I loved how the sand felt beneath my feet, wedging in between my toes as I sat and observed the world around me, or the cool, crisp air in the morning and at night, which gave me goose bumps, partially because of the cold and partially because of my delight at a feeling so awakening and refreshing.
I loved the way it tasted- the air, the traditional baked spaghetti my mom used to make, the slice of cheddar I would steal before she was finished making it- it all makes me yearn for the days when we would visit. I loved the grated Romano cheese my grandpa would always put on the table to put on our cappellini, and the bowl of sliced fruit he would have ready for us kids to enjoy on the porch every morning after we woke up. I would look forward to the afternoons when my grandma would make us egg salad sandwiches for lunch on the boat.
I’ll never forget how it sounded when I woke up in the mornings. I could hear the gentle bobbing of the docks over the rocking waves, the sound of the water brushing up against the shore. I’ll cherish forever the sound of those boats, too, as they glided across the water, their motors humming along. Even the slightest sound of the hummingbirds’ wings, rapidly treading air as they gathered around the feeder full of bright red juice, hanging on the corner of the back porch.
The way the water sits so still on a cold morning and mirrors the sun as it greets the world is quite unsurpassed by anything you’ve ever seen. I remember how much I loved the fireworks, too, on the Fourth of July, when we used to watch them from our boat on the lake. I’ve always loved how the flowers on the hill so beautifully set the scene, especially early in the morning when there was a light fog and the dew settled on the petals, or when you could just make out the silhouettes of each bush while the sun was setting in the background, painting the horizon with a sea of colors.
Oh, how I love New York.
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