I remember driving through the back roads of the small Adirondack town I grew up in. New Bremen, Carthage, Poland, Barnes Corners… all connected by veins of pine needle laced hot asphalt in the summer or grey frosted salt wash in the winter. I walked those roads as a child. hiked them as a teen. The cold night air stinging my eyes, walking along the road counting the dead frogs whose last moment saw something bigger then themselves coming fast. Fast in the way death comes. I remember Tug Hill Plato with the Amish Farmers. The Amish farms pushed back from the road, camouflaged at night, by the night, no light. The Mennonites have light. My brother married a Mennonite, they live up there on Tug Hill with their six kids and the wind mills. The wind farm sprung up there out of a company based in Texas. The Texans hadn’t realized anyone lived there, you see their eyes had not been trained to see them. Those little farms pushed away from the road, covered in scrub. Church at the end of a bike path of a road. They didn’t see those little farms as old as dirt. Now, what was once unseen can not be missed. Texas paid for digging up the land and planting those huge propellers. They paid a fee to the locals for mare their view. A view of a grey sky. A view of an empty grey sky. The locals laughed all the way to the bank with those checks. The view was like a head of hair to them. Worthless and vain. And then gone. The huge alien creatures, the wind mills, tower like cemetery markers. The Amish and Mennonite god, with his peacemakers, took their checks to the bank and did not duel the wind mills.
There is a road here near Brantingham Lake, near the Pine Tree Bar. A road that begins as a paved road, then a dirt road, then a trail head. A road that takes you back to a trail head in the Adirondacks. I have not travelled that road in over twenty years. That road leads to lost boy. Last time I spoke to the FBI, last year, they said their best guess is that he is still there. I’m grateful for the wind mills now. They can mark the way home for him, when he chooses to be found. The red single eye dotting the center of each propeller. They warn off imaginary flying things. He’ll see that at night, when no other light can be seen, and he will follow their lights home.