Preston Hollow Detour

On the way to pick up our Thanksgiving turkey at Heather Ridge Farm on Sunday, we passed the turn off for Bates Church. This little road always reminds me of Keck Road in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York where I grew up. It was a dirt road just down the street from where we lived, at the end of which was a steep hill that motocross riders climbed in daredevilish stunts once a year. The road had a foreboding quality about it. I ventured onto it maybe twice in my entire childhood. There was one ramshackle house on Keck Road that for many years was abandoned. Once, when the house was occupied by a family with many sons, my brother, Ted, went there on a play date. At dinner that night, my mother asked him how it went. I’m sure she wasn’t expecting Ted’s reply: the most exciting game played during the afternoon was knife throwing. “We threw them right into the living room wall,” my brother said with a mixture of glee and trepidation. He was 8 years old at the time. I was 13. I remember my mother making a small choking sound before asking, “And where was Randy’s mom during this game?” “In the kitchen,” came Ted’s reply. He never returned for another play date.

I haven’t ventured down to Bates Church yet. But at least it’s a “Glenn” and not a “Norman” who operates the nearby garage.