Saturday afternoons； with their influx of parents and visitors； brought a certain relaxation； less accountability。 On one such blue and vivid afternoon I slipped away to get to my hill。 From the great oak； I could see its summit ahead of me； unknown； inviting。 Inconspicuously； I edged along the baseball field； then slipped into the underbrush。
It was hard going； hard to keep a sense of direction in such a tangle of vine and thicket。 I stumbled over rotten logs； stepped into anthills。 Marsh hillocks gave way under my feet； dead branches snagged me； prickly seeds worked into my wet sneakers。 The air was stagnant。 With mosquitoes droning and hover…flies circling and darting； I plodded on； losing myself and losing track of time。
I must have been struggling on for at least an hour。 Suddenly I came to a clearing； an open grove of ash and maple； and as the sunlight filtered through the leaves。 I saw in front of me a eluster of ornate diminutivc houses。 Brightly painted in a variety of colors； trimmed with scrollwork and cusps and scalloped shingles； with narrow； high…pitched roofs； each was no more than an arm’s length from the next； and all were empty。 There was no sign of any living being。
To me； emerging from the wood； the sunlit grove was like something out of Grimm； as if this odd little village had been put under a spell and had been asleep for 100 years。 A yellow house in front of me with a blue…latticed front porch could have been waiting for Hansel and Gretel。 So quiet the grove was； so still the air； that even the aspen leaves hung limp。 Blu