It was inevitable, all undeveloped land shall be deemed buildable. Money is king. We must feed our tax base, half acre lots, half million-dollar homes. Yuppies have found the cow pastures the stonewalls, they will mutilate, violate and denigrate all the “small” towns. The average commute will be great; they will leave Guilford for a train to the city at 5 A.M and return at 7 P.M. A small price to pay for living in “the country”. So, it came to be that about ten years ago the bulldozers, bulled, the backhoes hoed and my oasis would be no more. It’s called Lantern Hill and you will see why later in the story. I cannot tell you where or from whom the “real” name came from, but I will swear to you that it is not fiction. Or without a double meaning……

I never had a great sense of direction; even at school after I left class, I turn left instead of right, exit back doors instead of the front. And so, it goes how I finally found the band of light. It could be seen at night traveling along the serpentine road, Route 77. A flash across the bordering woods and a quick swoosh into the ebony night. Sometimes at night I would even see it ricochet off the roof of our house and illuminate the drawn shade. One day I did find out that the light was a beacon for airplanes and was located less than two miles from my house. I had driven, walked and ran by the access road hundreds of times without giving it a thought and then one day…..

It was well posted on the shackled gates, NO TRESPASSERS; I jumped it anyway. So, sue me.

Crunch, Crunch went my footsteps across the processed gravel road that bisected, on one side, a primordial forest and on the other wild thorn-ridden bushes. After about a hundred yards on the left, the improbable sight of a wide cow path peppered with fieldstones on the right and a huge fallow field defended by a broken down stonewall on the other. I saw a ring-necked pheasant there once taking a stroll, then two quick steps and aloft, weaving its EKG signature across the sky. In the distance was the improbable sight of a solitary oak tree, a dignified giant dappling the ripe earth in shadow. In the spring squirrels by the hundreds scoffed it’s offspring and played tag or kick the can. Many a red-tailed hawk would hang out in the adjacent tree line hoping for a rabbit or field mouse for supper. It intrigued me this old tree, seemingly without purpose, yet somehow vital and meaningful……

Up ahead about fifty yards the faux road started to incline and then , an abrupt halt to a chain link enclosure signed DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE. Inside a concrete Hydra with fat black cables and polyurethane red pipes violated the adjacent hill.

In the distance to the east with neck craned I got first glance at the tower. A lighthouse without ornamental stripes and a gnomish iron door. A thick antenna was strapped to its side a good fifty feet above the edifice. Even though I knew of its purpose, I imagined it owned by Big Brother or maybe N.A.S.A. Foot high grass held me back no more than a putting green would have as I ascended the promontory.

It was only a couple hundred feet above sea level but seemed the top of the world, as I glimpsed my perfect picture postcard. To the west I could see the village square, the Congregational church steeple pointing heavenly and its competition from Episcopilia , a stone fortress directly across. In the distance, Long Island Sound and a dotting of sailboats and above a pastel sky marred only by critter shaped clouds.

I treated this view with reverence and like a miser, only two people would ever be given the privilege. It was hoarded like Swiss chocolate by a a starving man, meted out in slivers with a worn pocketknife. It was my Monet kept in a closet. The rare bottle of Chateau-Lafitte, vintage 1947, priceless. My Hungry Hill…….

Somewhere there is a place that is special to you. Milk it, nurture it, make a goddamn movie if you must. Just remember it is temporary. You may not outlive it; your kids may learn to love it but someday it will be gone. Think about it, the Acropolis, the Liberty Bell, Plymouth Rock, The Blarney Stone, relics, small and decaying. Call me selfish but I’d steam doze or bull shovel any of them but for one last glimpse of my special place. Just me, the birds, the cows grazing there and my beagle Teddy. That would be nice.

by John F.Gozzi

PS If you are wondering , this was written in Creative Non-Fiction class over twenty years ago, all I did was edit for grammar and punctuation!