reflections of Mohonk Mountain House, originating in 1869

This first week of July many of us will be writing about Americana and displaying images of our beautiful country.

Some of us just spent a weekend at one of the great old lodgings from the mid-nineteenth century, an era when people carriaged or trained north of New York City to the worn, nearby mountains to escape from the heat and enjoy nature.

I returned to Mohonk Mountain House last weekend, 30 years older (and, sigh, thirty pounds heavier) than the last time I had ventured there. My sons were ten and twelve back then and my husband and I brought them here on a summer weekend.

We walked around the pristine sky lake, gauged in the Ice Age and filled by rain. The gentle path was punctuated by the original gazebos perched on many of the huge boulders and outcroppings surrounding the lake.

gazebos ring the lake, precariously perched

Signs around the premises 30 years ago read, “Shhh. Quiet.” I was nervous that my sons might raise their voices and be reprimanded by some Quaker descendent of the original owners.

Our small dark room seemed as if it were one of the originals from 1869, furnished with a straight-back chair and a small bed overlooking an old fireplace filled with ashes.

The food was overcooked and an afterthought. There was no wine that I remember. The place was pretty empty, except for older people rocking on the chairs on the porches overlooking the lake.

***

Driving up on this past summer weekend to attend the OS writers retreat, the rolling grounds, flower beds and hodgepodge lodgings of Mohonk seemed much the same as they did 30 years ago.

But I am no longer with the husband I first came with. I am here with a third, and he rowed me around the lake just like the first one did. Just slower. We were on our own, still newlyweds. Who could have guessed?

My grown-up sons are now living in New York City and are creative, and nobody can shush them. One even married us a couple of months ago.

The “Shhh” signs are gone. The only sign I saw was for fish food.

 but don't feed the fountain fish!

Our room was white and pale green. It looked brand new, as if no one had ever used it before. Lavish meals were displayed at buffet stations, and the main dining room was filled with children decidedly, happily noisy. I had some fine wine.

Older people still sat on the chairs on the porch, gazing at the lake.

But I am one of them now. Happily rocking, chair or not.

***

Our retreat to this piece of Americana has been chronicled by the other fine OS writers who attended, and I urge you to read them all for a Rashoman-like view of the experience. Greg Correll will compile the list of our takes in his definitive post about the writers weekend.

Greg initiated the idea, planned it, followed up, brought his exceptional writer friends to facilitate. He even had his best friend Alex take us on his tugboat along the Hudson.

 a sheriff's boat alongside our tug, when the tug wasn't steering right

Those of us who know Greg’s body of work realize that he is a brilliant man, artist and writer who deals with adversity. I think his writing sometimes captures the spirit of Walt Whitman. And those of us who have met him now know that he is a centered, gentle, patient man. He listens as much as he talks. He has  grace, and a generous spirit. He tells funny stories.  He has exceptional friends, a loving wife and lovely daughters.

Grand old hotels are pieces of Americana,  but good, talented people like Greg are the best of what America represents.

our man Greg on the Hudson, telling an amazing story