Freedom Summer
he son of an Adirondack pack peddler once told me his father knew the woods by memories of kindness, or its absence. From this farmhouse the young immigrant could hope for a seat at a kitchen table, maybe a plate of something warm. From that one, a pack of mean dogs snatching at his heels. And that was the map he went by, the one that showed the way. I know people who map the Adirondacks by their favorite vernal ponds, or swimming holes, or trails where they can run a
