Yaddo and an Awesome Christmas Present

I have a friend who lives in Saratoga Springs (New York), a very good friend whom I cherish. Even though we live less than half an hour away from each other, our Christmas gift exchange was somewhat delayed this year due to the usual life stuff. We have a lot in common, among them our names, year of birth, and a place called Yaddo.

Yaddo is located in Saratoga Springs, maybe a mile down the road from the world famous Saratoga Race Course on Union Avenue. It is an artists' retreat founded by Spencer and Katrina Trask in 1990. Katrina herself was a writer, and lived a life that was tinged with sadness. The story goes that Yaddo was named after a young daughter's mis-pronunciation of the word 'shadow'.

The entrance to Yaddo is enticing; two lightpost-topped stone pillars guarding a long road into the woods (picture borrowed from here for now, will replace with my own soon). 

As far back as I can remember, long winding roads into the woods have always tugged at me. Very rarely was I able to make that turn and see where it went, but that was not the case with Yaddo. My parents knew about Yaddo, a not-so-hidden gem in an area full of diamonds. I never thought to ask why. At the time my mom was home raising what would be six children, and my dad taught college-level biology to nursing students. I will never know why, but what I do know is that my parents took that turn through theYaddo gates and introduced their young daughter to what she thought was a magical fairyland.

I never forgot Yaddo. I dreamt about Yaddo often, strangely scary dreams in which I was locked inside the gates after dark and watched the statues come alive in the moonlight. The dreams stuck with me, and when I was in junior college I wrote a poem about the dreams that became my first 'published' work, appearing in a college publication. It also got recorded for a dial-a-poem line that existed way back then. I don't remember much about it, only that when you called you heard a random poem read to you over the phone (previously recorded). I tried to call the line for awhile to hear my poem read, but I was never successful.

One day I decided to revisit Yaddo, and made a pilgrimage up the Northway to see if the place that stayed in my head was still the same. I made the turn through the gates and held my breath as I drove slowly down the narrow road deeper into the woods that surrounded the grand mansion on the hill. The woods sparkled, just as they had in my memories.

I parked my car and walked across the great lawn, past the goldfish pond and somber mansion on the hill, through the gates into the rose garden. The statues were like old friends, standing watch over the carefully tended beds of multi-colored roses.

It felt good to be back.

The story does not end here, there will be more forthcoming.

My friend is drawn to Yaddo as much as I am, and volunteers there during the summer to soak in the energy of the grounds. As for the awesome Christmas present, she presented me with an original edition of a book written by Katrina Trask published in 1915.

To be continued ...