January 9, 2016
By Arthur H. Gunther III
NYACK, N.Y. — One of the givens of a Hudson River village like this is that in snow it is particularly beautiful, especially with lights on the water. But, as with all delights, karma makes you pay. I did so this weekend, gladly.
We had a five- or so inch snowfall, light enough to cover faults as meteorological makeup, but also so sticky that it took extra well to sidewalks and steps. Since one of the tasks assigned me in retirement is to shovel the walks and steps at the Edward Hopper House Art Center at 82 North Broadway, I showed up at my own appointed time (a true post-career benefit) and did the job.
Not as good as my grandfather required on his corner sidewalks at Ternure and Summit in Spring Valley, but safe enough for the many walkers who also add to Nyack’s downtown character.
With the work finished, and leaning on my shovel, it was easy to become the fellow stage left who observes the play not from the audience but from a special perspective behind the curtain. In other words, I was invisible, hidden from the street action, back next to an 1858 porch where the artist Edward and his friends and so many since probably have hidden in hide and seek, perhaps to observe the daily parade, as I was doing.
A woman with a dog walked by, then a fellow with a dog, then a teen with a dog. There may be a dog for each household in this village, and isn’t that part of a downtown, too?
Kids were already beginning to use their sleds, and how many — so many thousands of times — has that happened in a community that has super hills leading to the river?
There were runners, too, actually only one that I saw, and this fellow relishes jogging along in the snow. My son Arthur IV was not surprised to run into me, since I am aways in this special Nyack, and he knew I would be at stage left, observing.
All this happened on a snow-after morning, January 8, 2017, about 8 a.m. A delight to notice once again in a village in America.
The writer is a retired newspaperman who can be emailed at email@example.com