SINCE I’VE STILL GOT nearly half a day to kill until I meet up with Erica and her writing professor, I decide to start at the start. That means driving over the big iron and concrete Patroon Island Bridge spanning the Hudson River into Rensselaer County then heading out toward the old town of Chatham, which lies on the hilly, rural borderlands between Massachusetts and New York State.
The drive in Dad’s funeral hearse is scenic and peaceful. Miles and miles of the prettiest farm and wild country you ever did see. Soon a stream, known as the Kinderhook, emerges on the right side of the road. A favorite amongst the local fly fishermen. Even I’ve been known to drop a line in its swift moving, crystal clear water from time to time.
When I come to a short m
