Weekended on Cayuga Lake, more or less in my preferred style. The top photo is from the middle terrace. There are three, in a tier. Saturday, my father drove us to the town where he grew up to visit his parents' graves and we had a tour in his Vanden Plas Jag, past the grand mansion he almost bought when I was a child, and the house where he used to spirit away the 1953 Mercury with his best friend, under the noms de guerre "Pick" and "Wires," which also got us a story about the time he was "raising hell" with some friends in a 1939 Ford convertible coupe when an error in judgment sent them sailing over a 15-foot cliff into a cow pasture, and a pretty good one about racing carts as kids on "baby carriage wheels" ("Where did you get them?" "Well, you were already going around anyway, collecting metal for the war") starting up on the hill, at Mark Twain's grave, and breakneck speed down. He also noted the location of a former estate, which he recalled fondly because, "I used to make out with a girl in the bushes."
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