2011-11-21 - 12:06 p.m.
When I was about 11, I wanted to live on top of Dan�s Mountain, the long ridge behind our house. On top of Dan's, skeletal gray metal radio towers stand like stray whiskers. One of those will be my lighthouse, I thought. In the summer, I can�t see the towers at all and I�ll forget about them, but when the leaves fall, at night, their endless blinking red-red-red looks so lonely and majestic up on that ridge, 3,000 feet high in the frigid January wind. I�d take a job up there, in a warm little shack, one window looking east, toward the cities, and one looking west, toward a thousand more ridges, those cold gray towers above me, the blinking red light saying, I am here, I am here, I am here.
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