I have a strange penchant for strange. I’m not embarrassed by it, either. This world is moving so quickly, I want to grab it by the hair and gobble it up. I’ve already digested the homogenized memory makers–the mandatory Disney, the portrait studio sittings, the societaly menued holiday dinners–and I’m full. I don’t need another Rockwellian time. I need real adventures. I want to feed my children’s souls the marrow of America–a rare steak and flaming dessert instead of the dry turkey and puréed pie that society keeps trying to bind us to. I struggle every day to help my boys grow into the kind of men who can respectfully and intelligently buck tradition in favor of fervor and delight.
Today, we drove to Sleepy Hollow, NY. It’s fair to say I forced everyone to go. On the way, we listened to the Washington Irving story, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow–together. We laughed at what a wordy bastard Irving was and at the goofy schoolmaster Ichabod Crane. My teenagers tried to pretend they weren’t interested, but the book stopped when I took a call and outcry was immediate. Go figure.
The Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is adjacent to the Old Dutch Church–built in 1630 and STILL in use today. Washington Irving is buried there, as well as the Carnegies, a few Rockefellers, Francis Church (look him up), The Ramones (not today, just for a bit in 1989)….. There are more than 40,000 people buried there. Considering the town population is about 10,000, it is fair to say that Sleepy Hollow is NOT the best place to go during a Zombie Apocolypse.
I loved it. I have cocktail stories for days and my kids and I will feed on the private jokes with inappropriate church giggles for years. We even ate homemade ice cream while walking Main Street in Tarryrown. By the way, I charged the entire vacation to Mr. Underhill’s American Express Card. Want the number?