Rip Van Winkle – The Catskills Mountain Legendary Tale Rip Van Winkle Gather 'round for a tale of magic and mystery in the Great Northern Catskills One day, a man, harried by the nagging of his wife, wandered into the Catskills near his home. The adventure that follows is one of America's most cherished folktales – Washington Irving's Rip Van Winkle. For nearly two centuries, the myth of Henry Hudson's ghost and Rip's lengthy slumber have endured, adding to the delightful enchantment the Great Northern Catskills hold for many contemporary visitors. Rip is one of the Great Northern Catskills best-loved figureheads – a link to the past, as well as a present reminder of the region's unique place in American history. His tale goes something like this: Set in pre-Revolutionary New York, Rip Van Winkle lives a life of ease – much to the chagrin of his wife, Dame Van Winkle. Rip's passions include wandering through the Catskill Mountains and old-growth forests, being idle and enjoying life. He doesn't work for long however, and though itinerant, he is well loved by all in town. The children especially love the fanciful stories he tells.

One day, Rip wanders off into the woods to escape his nagging wife. Hearing thunder, he unwittingly follows the ghosts of Henry Hudson's men deep into the wilderness. As the men play nine-pins, Rip imbibes a "magic potion" - quietly falling into a deep sleep. He wakens 20 years later, his beard grown long and his beloved dog, Wolf, nowhere to be found. Rip makes his way back into the village and discovers that the American Revolution has taken place. He is no longer recognizable, nor does he know any of the townspeople who greet him. Rip's luck holds out and it isn't long before he finds his place among his grown children – though much of his family has passed on – and resumes his habitual idleness. His tale is repeated and solemnly taken to heart by hen-pecked husbands who wish they could have shared in Rip's good fortune and slept through the atrocities of war. From the pages of Irving's cautionary tale, the sense of adventure and intrigue have taken on a life of their own. Even now, the lush mountains, verdant valleys, rivers and streams of the Great Northern Catskills have the enduring power to enchant, delight and rejuvenate.

Rip Van Winkle Today In the Great Northern Catskills of New York – Rip is everywhere. His legend is almost as big as Hudson's. From celebratory events and commemorative statues, to numerous business names and wonderful paintings at many of the historic lodges and resorts – Rip lives. The Rip Van Winkle Wine and Cheese Festival kicks off each year in May – celebrating the bounty of regional cheese-makers, wineries and much more. Play the "Catskill Nine," a series of golf courses along the Rip Van Winkle Golf Trail offering incredible views of the mountains and valleys. Explore the attractions such as the legendary "cloves" where Rip took his marathon nap. View the colorfully painted statues placed around the mountain-top region or hike to the top of Hunter Mountain and discover a larger-than-life sculpture of Rip Van Winkle. Envisioned by David Slutzky and carved by sculptor Kevin Van Hentenryck, the blue sandstone carving is meant to depict Rip as he awakens to discover his curious predicament. Discover the Great Northern Catskills of Greene County – a land steeped in lore, mythologized by history and loved by visitors and literary legends alike.

What to Do Information on the Catskill Mountains | USA Today Information on the Catskill Mountains About the Catskill Mountains The Catskill Mountains, 135 miles north of New York City, are sometimes considered an extension of the Appalachian Mountains, which start in Alabama and end in Canada. Located west of the Hudson River, the Catskills boundaries include Delaware, Sullivan, Greene and Ulster counties. Visitors see breathtaking views of green mountains valleys and 98 mountain peaks that rise to more than 3,000 feet. The mountains and valleys feature winding streams and cascading waterfalls. Getting There Albany International, Binghamton, Kingston-Ulster, Oneonta, Stewart International and Sullivan County International airports provided transportation to the Catskill Mountains and offer on-site car rental services. Pine Hills Trailways, Shortline Bus and Ulster County Area Transit carry passengers to different areas in the Catskills. Amtrak and Metro-North trains in New York City serve areas along the Hudson River; these stops have taxi and car rental services. Winter transportation consists of buses that transport visitors to ski areas.

Wineries Wine-making along the Hudson River Valley dates to 1677, when French Huguenots planted vines in what is now Ulster County. The majority of the early wineries were family owned and operated. The 80-mile Shawangunk Wine Trail features 11 wineries in the Catskill Mountains. Applewood Winery in Warwick features handcrafted wines, as well as pick-your-own apples in the fall and a petting zoo for children. The owners host wine tastings and classes. Washingtonville’s Brotherhood Winery, listed on New York State’s Register of Historic Sites, has produced wine since 1839. Outdoor Adventures The Catskill Mountains covers approximately 300,000 acres of land protected by the constitution of New York State. They offer year-round outdoor adventures like hiking and mountain biking, nature watching and golf. Downsville’s 7,100-acre Bear Spring Mountain State Park contains a 24-mile trail system for hiking, biking and horseback riding. Visitors can fish, kayak and swim in Launt Pond. The park offers boat rentals and has 24 horse tie stalls.

Greene County features Hunter Mountain, one of the Catskills' largest downhill ski and snowboard centers. Hunter Mountain Ski Bowl has a 3,200-foot summit and consists of 53 ski trails over 240 acres. Historic Sites Dutch settlers came to the Catskills in the 17th century and set up communities throughout the region. Historic sites from the 17th century to the early 20th century dot the area, including battlegrounds and historic homes. Greene County’s Bronck Museum &amp; Barns, the oldest surviving home in Upstate New York, was the home of Pieter Bronck, the Dutch settler who gave the Bronx its name. Sullivan County’s 57-acre Minisink Battleground Park commemorates the 1779 American Revolutionary War battle in which Native Americans helped British soldiers; about 50 soldiers from New York and New Jersey died. Author Washington Irving set his story “Rip Van Winkle” in the Catskills. The Rip Van Winkle History trail features Irving’s home and the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. Accommodations The Catskill Mountains have historic hotels, bed and breakfasts, resorts and farm-style accommodations.

The 2,200-acre Mohonk Mountain House, one of America’s oldest family-owned resorts, is an 1869 Victorian castle on the Hudson River Valley in New Paltz. It features a turn-of-the-20th-century golf course, 85 miles of hiking trails and year-round activities. The six-room 1712 House in Stone Ridge comprises 80 acres with hills, ponds and meadows. Turquoise Barn Bed &amp; Breakfast, located in its 1800s Carriage House, has an organic farm and serves vegetarian, vegan and raw-food breakfasts. References Rip Van Winkle: A Reaction To The New America | Formations of American Culture Formations of American Culture Posted on October 25, 2012 by saba | 1 Comment Rip Van Winkle is a short story written by Washington Irving and is about a man who sleeps for twenty years in the Catskill Mountains to a much-changed world. Published in 1819, which was almost 35 years after the American Revolution, this story showcases the dramatic struggles the American society was facing with forming their own identity after the revolution.

The following passage written by Irvine describes the first scenarios Van Winkle examined upon waking up after his 20-year nap. “He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, none of which he recognized for his old acquaintances, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered: it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before…Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been.”(Washington Irving, NAB Page 36) The passage depicts Rip Van Winkle awakening from nap and entering the village in which he recognizes nobody. Van Winkle is surprised to walk into his small town to see strangely dressed villagers, new houses and young children hooting at him. The people of his town look surprised to see him too, and Van Winkle realizes that his beard has grown about a foot longer since before his nap. This newborn America that he walks into is bustling with growth.

Still, the nature and the real America he identifies with is still the same. Little does Van Winkle know that he fell asleep for 20 years. In this 20 years, America has been re-birthed and let go from the British crown. I was drawn to this story because it tells a story of an America I see today. The definition of America that this passage illustrates is one identical to the definition I use to describe my country today. Today, we view America as strong, free, beautiful, robust and industrious. The passage above uses the same descriptions of how America used to be hundreds of years ago. It is remarkable that at this day in age, which is almost 200 years later, America still has its same core qualities. Rip Van Winkle is a tale that shows acceptance, nature, politics, common working people and a potent society. Irving uses his story and the passage above to parade to the world what America is. America is a free country that hosts beautiful, mountainous country sides, pristine rivers and young towns. Irvings’ last sentence, which talks about the natural scenery, supports ideals that nothing holds us back and we still have our core natural landscape.

Even in Modern day America today, only 94% of American land is classified as undeveloped. (Heritage.org) Many stories from this generation reflect on prosperous individuals including Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and John Adams. Yet, no authors focus on the common people and the people that make America. Unlike other great authors, Irving chooses to focus on the common people in his stories, like Rip Van Winkle. Van Winkle is a hard-working American, who slept for 20 years to come to back to a new America free of the revolution. Irving focuses on a full generation after the Revolutionary War and introduces a new American identity with the passage above. Van Winkle walks through his village and sees a village that only focuses on the present. He sees no one dwelling on the past. Van Winkle confirms that nothing is holding America back as new homes are being built and the village growing at an astounding rate in 20 years. However, the heart and sole of America is the same. Physically, American has not changed but mentally there is a new optimism as it is being propelled into a new and great society.

About Us - Estates by BrophyEstates by Brophy About Us About Us History Facts The Catskills have been a favorite rural retreat from New York City and its surrounding areas dating back to the point of the city's origin. The Catskills inspired the birth of America’s first artistic movement, The Hudson River School of Art, during the late nineteenth century which quickly gained recognition from New York City’s artistic community. The Hudson River School paintings inspired many generations of artists, including the elites. The famous American author, Washington Irving, wrote about the mountains in his legendary novel, Rip Van Winkle, where he fell asleep in the Catskills Mountains for 20 years after an encounter with the ghost of Henry Hudson and his men. The Catskills have long been a haven for musicians and other performing artists. Perhaps the most famous event and locale in area is the Woodstock Music and Art Fair which was held in Bethel, New York for three days during mid-August of 1969. Woodstock was described as an “An Acquarian Exposition, Three Days of Peace and Music” and it drew approximately 400,000 young people.

Acts at Woodstock included Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Santana and The Who. The event is immortalized in the film, Taking Woodstock (2009). The Catskills was also setting for the 1987 hit movie, Dirty Dancing. Geography The Catskills span from the Hudson River Valley west into central New York State and occupy five different counties (Delaware, Greene, Schoharie, Sullivan, and Ulster). It is a vast forest preserve which is protected from many forms of development under New York state law. The region contains more than 30 peaks over 3,500 feet high and six prominent rivers. The Catskills continue into the immediate southwest of Pennsylvania, known as The Poconos. I haven't been here in way too long, since my family vacations at the Rip Van Winkle Motel!! And since finding out that my 2nd great grandfathe r is James Reid, ...manufactur er of the "Catskill Knuckledus ter", I am planning on a Fall visit back to the Rip Van Winkle!! I have already gleaned some informatio n from the Cairo Historical Society! PROUD to be a relative of Catskill folks!!!

See More Rip Van Winkle Summary - eNotes.com Rip Van Winkle Summary link Link “Rip Van Winkle” is an American masterpiece of the short story. It is based on local history but is rooted in European myth and legend. Irving reportedly wrote it one night in England, in June, 1818, after having spent the whole day talking with relatives about the happy times spent in Sleepy Hollow. The author drew on his memories and experiences of the Hudson River Valley and blended them with Old World contributions. “Rip Van Winkle” is such a well-known tale that almost every child in the United States has read it or heard it narrated at one time or another. Rip is a simple-minded soul who lives in a village by the Catskill Mountains. Beloved by the village, Rip is an easygoing, henpecked husband whose one cross to bear is a shrewish wife who nags him day and night. One day he wanders into the mountains to go hunting, meets and drinks with English explorer Henry Hudson’s legendary crew, and falls into a deep sleep. He awakens twenty years later and returns to his village to discover that everything has changed.

The disturbing news of the dislocation is offset by the discovery that his wife is dead. In time, Rip’s daughter, son, and several villagers identify him, and he is accepted by the others. One of Irving’s major points is the tumultuous change occurring over the twenty years that the story encompasses. Rip’s little Dutch village had remained the same for generations and symbolized rural peace and prosperity. On his return, everything has drastically changed. The village has grown much larger, new houses stand in place of old ones, and a Yankee hotel occupies the spot where the old Dutch inn once stood. The people are different, too. Gone are the phlegmatic burghers, replaced by active, concerned citizens. Rip returns as an alien to a place that once considered him important; he discovers that life has passed on without his presence. Irving makes clear that change is inevitable and that one pays a huge price by trying to evade it. He also makes it clear in “Rip Van Winkle” that certain fundamental values may be lost when people prefer change to stability and are willing to sacrifice everything for material prosperity. Rip’s return shows him to be completely disoriented by the march of time.

Irving takes pity on his comical creation, however, and does not punish him. Instead, Rip is allowed back into the new society and tolerated for his eccentricities, almost as if he were a curiosity. Rip has slept through vital political, social, and economic changes, including the Revolutionary War, and he returns ignorant but harmless. Irving’s suggestion, then, is that Rip is a perfect image of America—immature, careless, and above all, innocent—and that may be why he has become a universal figure. The recurring theme of financial failure evident in two pieces preceding “Rip Van Winkle” is also found here, as is the concept of sterility. Rip awakens twenty years later and discovers that his gun and his faithful dog are gone. He notes the changes in the village and sees another Rip Van Winkle character there, has a sudden loss of identity when he returns, and realizes that there has occurred the birth of a new nation, with the replacement of King George by George Washington. Irving emphasizes the comic rather than the tragic, because Rip turns all the above into a positive affirmation of himself.

He acquires a new identity and has a wondrous tale to tell of irresponsibility which counterpoints the stress of puritan ethics. The tale of “Rip Van Winkle” has found expression in other artistic media. Five stage plays have been made of the story, beginning in 1829. There have been three operas, several children’s shows, and a television film by Francis Ford Coppola in 1985. Perhaps the most famous adaptation was made by noted nineteenth century American actor Joseph Jefferson III, who played the role of Rip for forty-five years in a very popular and much-beloved interpretation. Jefferson’s vehicle proved to be one of America’s most successful plays of the period. In the theater, it far surpassed in popularity Irving’s other masterpiece, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” More Content: Summary (hide) link Link Rip Van Winkle is a good-natured but unassertive descendant of the Dutch settlers who assisted Peter Stuyvesant in his military exploits. Every small community has someone like Rip: the entertainer of local children, the willing helper of his neighbor, the desultory fisherman—but a man constitutionally unable to work on his own behalf.

Rip’s farm falls into ruin, his children run ragged, and his wife’s bad temper mounts. He takes refuge from Dame Van Winkle in protracted discussions at the village inn, all-day fishing expeditions, and rambles in the mountains with his dog Wolf. It is on one of these occasions that he encounters a company of antique Dutchmen who are playing at ninepins in a natural amphitheater high in the Catskills. Offered liquid refreshment, Rip drinks himself to sleep, from which he awakens the next morning, as he supposes, to find everything inexplicably changed: his dog gone, a worm-eaten gun in place of the one he had brought, no trace of the bowlers or of their bowling alley. Descending to the town, he finds his old dog strangely hostile, his house abandoned, and even the village inn replaced by a large new hotel. The first person Rip actually recognizes is his daughter, now a young wife and mother; she kindly takes the perplexed old man home to live with her family. He learns of the death of many of his old friends and of his wife, for whose demise he feels nothing but relief.

When he sees his son Rip slouching against a tree, looking much as he himself did “yesterday”—actually twenty years ago—he briefly doubts his own identity. The larger changes in society are yet more profound. Rip went to sleep a subject of George III and has awakened a citizen of the United States of America under the leadership of George Washington. Although Rip soon falls into his old loitering ways, justified now by his white beard and the absence of matrimonial demands, it takes him some time to absorb the Revolution that has run its full course while he slept. The town has learned to accommodate the new republic, and all the changes lend charm to Rip’s fresh recollections of the old order. Rip tells and retells his story, which is accepted most readily by the older Dutch villagers, who have kept alive a legend that Hendrick Hudson’s men keep a vigil in the nearby mountains and play at ninepins there regularly in the afternoon. Rip prefers the company of the young, however, not so much to be in touch with the new as to preserve the old in a relentlessly changing world. link Link Along the reaches of the Hudson River, not far from the Catskill Mountains, there is a small, Dutch town.

The mountains overshadow the town, and there are times when the good Dutch burghers can see a hood of clouds hanging over the crests of the hills. In this small town lives a man named Rip Van Winkle. He is beloved by all his neighbors, by children, and by animals, but his life at home is made miserable by his shrewish wife. Though he is willing to help anyone else at any odd job that might be necessary, he is incapable of keeping his own house and farm in repair. He is descended from an old and good Dutch family, but he has none of the fine Dutch traits of thrift and energy. Rip spends a great deal of his time at the village inn, under the sign of King George III, until his wife chases him from there. When this happens, he takes his gun and his dog, Wolf, and heads for the hills. Wolf is as happy as Rip is to get away from home. When Dame Van Winkle berates the two of them, Rip raises his eyes silently to heaven, but Wolf tucks his tail between his legs and slinks out of the house. One fine day in autumn, Rip and Wolf walk high into the Catskills while hunting squirrels.

As evening comes on, the two sit down to rest before heading for home. After they rise again and start down the mountainside, Rip hears his name called. A short, square little man with a grizzled beard is calling to Rip, asking him to help carry a keg of liquor. The little man is dressed in antique Dutch clothes. Although he accepts Rip’s help in carrying the keg, he carries on no conversation. As they ascend the mountain, Rip hears noises that sound like claps of thunder. When they reach a sort of natural amphitheater near the top, Rip sees a band of little men, dressed and bearded like his companion, playing ninepins. One stout old gentleman, who seems to be the leader, wears a laced doublet and a high-crowned hat with a feather. The little men are no more companionable than the first one has been, and Rip feels somewhat depressed. Because they seem to enjoy the liquor from the keg, Rip tastes it a few times while they are absorbed in their game. Then he falls into a deep sleep. On waking, Rip looks in vain for the stout old gentleman and his companions. When he reaches for his gun, he finds that it is rusted.

His dog does not answer his call. He tries to find the amphitheater where the little men were playing, but the way is blocked by a rushing stream. The people Rip sees as he walks into town are all strangers to him. After many of them stroke their chins upon looking at him, Rip unconsciously strokes his own and finds that his beard has grown a foot long. The town itself looks different. At first, Rip thinks that the liquor from the keg has addled his head, for he has a hard time finding his own house. When he does locate it at last, he finds it in a state of decay. Even the sign over the inn has been changed to one carrying the name of General Washington. The men who are gathered under the sign talk gibberish to him, and they accuse him of trying to stir up trouble by coming armed to an election. When he is finally able to inquire into the whereabouts of his old friends, he is told that men by those names have moved away or have been dead for twenty years. Finally, an eager young woman pushes through the crowd to look at Rip. Her voice starts a train of thought, and he asks her who she is and who her father is.

When she claims to be Rip Van Winkle’s daughter Judith, Rip asks after her mother. When Judith tells him that her mother died after breaking a blood vessel in a fit of anger at a Yankee peddler, Rip identifies himself as Judith’s father. Although an old woman claims that she recognizes him, the men at the inn only winked at his story until an old man, a descendant of the village historian, vouches for Rip’s tale. He assures the men that he has it as a fact from his historian ancestor that Hendrick Hudson and his crew come to the mountains every twenty years to visit the scene of their exploits, and that the old historian has seen the crew in antique Dutch garb playing at ninepins, just as Rip has related. Rip spends the rest of his life happily telling his story at the inn until everyone knows it by heart. Ever afterward, when the inhabitants of the village hear thunder in the Catskills, they say that Hendrick Hudson and his crew are playing ninepins, and many a henpecked husband wishes in vain for a drink of Rip Van Winkle’s quieting brew.

Rip Van Winkle | Storynory Rip Van Winkle Download 00:00 / 00:00 For the first time on Storynory, we bring you a 100% made-in-the-USA, genuine American accent! Bertie wanted this classic American fairy tale by Washington Irving to be told in the right voice. He asked our long-standing friend Charlie Loeb from KTNA Radio in Talkeetna, Alaska to read the story for us. Thank you Charlie for obliging! Rip Van Winkle lived in a village in New York State back in the days when it was still ruled by the British. He fell asleep for 20 years and woke up to find that there had been some very big changes (at least on the surface). This is a long story (40 minutes or so). We wanted to keep the classic prose of Washington Irving. The story flows beautifully and is full of humorous touches, but it’s definitely one for when you have got time to sit back and listen – maybe on a rainy afternoon or a long car journey. Read by Charlie. Text by Washing Irving. Proofread by Claire Deakin.

RIP VAN WINKLE Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. At the foot of these fairy mountains the traveler may have seen the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great age, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather cocks.

In that same village, and in one of these very houses, there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked husband. Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians.

Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. The great error in Rip’s composition was a strong dislike of all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and uphill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody’s business but his own.

As to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son, Rip, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in a pair of his father’s cast off breeches, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment. But his wife kept continually dinning in his ear about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence.

Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master – for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master’s going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods; but what courage can withstand the ever-enduring and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue?

The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy summer’s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. It would have been worth any statesman’s money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler.

How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Brummel, the schoolmaster; a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary! How sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn. At the door of which he took his seat from morning until night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions.

When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would nod his head in approbation. From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was that August personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative was to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, taking gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution.

“Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee.” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face; and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland.

He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild and lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from the overhanging cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing, the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys. He saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air.

“Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” At the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him. He looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be someone of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion; a cloth jerkin strapped around the waist, and several pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load.

Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thundershowers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly, what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity. On entering the amphitheater new objects of wonder presented themselves.

On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught.

One taste provoked another; and he repeated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. II On waking he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor, the mountain ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks, the woe-begone party at ninepins, the flagon; “Oh! That flagon! That wicked flagon!” Thought Rip. “What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?” He looked around for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old fire lock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten.

He now suspected that the grave revelers of the mountain had put a trick upon him and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs.

He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witchhazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities. What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast.

He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife, but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire lock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous.

There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors, strange faces at the windows, everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains, there ran the silver Hudson at a distance, there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. “That flagon last night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!” It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay; the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed.

“My very dog,” sighed Rip, “has forgotten me!” He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. He called loudly for his wife and children but the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. III He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, “The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Dolittle.” Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes; all this was strange and incomprehensible.

He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly changed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, General Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling tone about it, instead of the accustomed drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens; elections, members of congress, Bunker’s Hill, heroes of seventy-six and other words, which were a perfect jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded around him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired, “On which side he voted?” Rip stared in vacant stupidity.

Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, “Whether he was Federal or Democrat?” Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question, when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, “What brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?” “Alas! Gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!” Here a general shout burst from the bystanders, “A Tory! A Tory! A spy! A refugee! Hustle him!

Away with him!” It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold vausterity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking! The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors. “Well, who are they? Name them.” Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?” There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder! Why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotten and gone too.” “Where’s Brom Dutcher?” “Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony’s Nose.

I don’t know, he never came back again.” “Where’s Van Brummel, the schoolmaster?” “He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in congress.” Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war, congress, Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?” “Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” Exclaimed two or three, “oh, to be sure! That’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.” Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain, apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name.

“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wits’ end. “I’m not myself. I’m somebody else, that’s me yonder. No, that’s somebody else got into my shoes. I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and everything’s changed, and I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!” The bystanders began now to look at each other, nodding, winking significantly, and tapping their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. “Hush, Rip,” cried she, “hush, you little fool; the old man won’t hurt you.” The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind.

“What is your name, my good woman?” asked he. “Judith Gardenier.” “And your father’s name?” “Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it’s twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl.” Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice, “Where’s your mother?” “Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler.” There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. “I am your father!” Cried he. “Young Rip Van Winkle once, Old Rip Van Winkle now!

Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?” All stood amazed until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! It is Rip Van Winkle, it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long years?” Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks. The self-important man in the cocked hat, who when the alarm was over had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head, upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood.

He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. It was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprize, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. His father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back.

As to Rip’s son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but showed an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. Bertie’s asked me to give you a message: If you run a community radio station, Bertie would be happy to let you use audio from Storynory. If your station does not have a very big budget, he’ll let you use the audio for free. Storynory’s audio is also used in all sorts of projects, including, academic, music and performance. All you have to do is email your request to bertie@storynory.com. Tyler Jessey — March 20, 2013 my papa tells me this story!! love it! Ashtyn — March 20, 2013 dear bertie, i really liked the story!! can you make hore about you in the future.OH and also some more katie stories please!!!!!!

vanguard — March 20, 2013 Tell me if I got this right Bertie: Rip Van Winkle meets a stranger guy who takes him to some weird place where the weird stanger guy lives and he drinks some liquor and kind of ”wakes up” and he goes to his village in the future and thats why his beard was extra long and he meets his daughter and his grandson? Did I get that straight Bertie? Plz reply. #1 fan, Kara Kara — March 20, 2013 Dear Kara, not far off – but if you listen to the story you will get the full picture ! Bertie — March 20, 2013 I like it Anonymous — March 25, 2013 I would like to know what the first story u posted on S.T.? I loved this story at first i thought Charlie would be boring boy was I wrong Wish I could meat you guys. Love u so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so much.

pleas answer my queshtin @ the comment bar P. S. I think u uesed too many BIG words so so so so so so so so so so sorry 4 being rude!!!!!!!!!!!!!:(:(:(:( your #1 fan (georgia) — March 26, 2013 dear your #1 fan (georgia) I think the first story we published was The Frog Bertie — March 26, 2013 I’m American and live in New York!!! Guinea pig — March 27, 2013 I’m American and live in New York!!!! Guinea pig — March 27, 2013 are there any polish fairytales on storynory,if not can you nake some please? laura — March 27, 2013 Dear Laura there are no polish stories yet… But will look for some! Bertie — March 27, 2013 Dear bertie i loved this story hibah — July 19, 2016 Our family listens to storynory every night and I’m so glad to see Rip Van Winkle on here.

Being from Tarrytown, New York, where the Author Wahington Irving lived in his beautiful house, Sunnyside, which we’ve been to many times, and now we can enjoy the story read to us. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is also a great, but a little scary story that is told in every classroom in Tarrytown every Halloween as our school mascot is the headless horseman. You should try that one too. We will keep listening to storynory. Thank you so much for the stories. Jennifer — January 16, 2017 Mountain Madness: The Catskills Are Back - Hudson Valley Magazine - August 2014 - Poughkeepsie, NY Mountain Madness: The Catskills Are Back Mountain Madness: The Catskills Are Back A word from Hudson Valley Editor in Chief, Olivia J. Abel By Olivia J. Abel 07/27/2014 Photograph by Michael Nelson So it turns out that the Catskills are not really mountains after all.

I know, I know, that sounds ridiculous, and I dare you to tell that to someone who has just spent the day climbing one of the high peaks — those towering masses of land all reaching higher than 3,500 feet. Still, according to geologists at the Department of Environmental Conservation, they are actually plateaus that have been eroded (by rivers, etc.), so that they look like mountains. Well, whatever they are exactly, the Catskills have been luring generations of New Yorkers to frolic in their beauty for hundreds of years now. As famed painter Thomas Cole wrote, “Must I tell you that neither the Alps nor the Apennines, no, nor even Etna itself, have dimmed, in my eyes, the beauty of our Catskills.” So when we sat down to write about the Catskills for this issue, we knew that we had a big job ahead of us. After all, there is so much to talk about.

There’s the legend of Rip Van Winkle, the Borscht Belt hotels of the mid-20th century (and their equally famous decline during the end of that century), one-of-a-kind hikes — the stunning twin Kaaterskill Falls, for example, is the stuff of legend at this point — as well as camping, biking, and a host of other outdoor activities. But the big story of the day is that the Catskills have seemingly overnight transformed from a sleepy, somewhat rundown region to a hip ’n happening hangout for all types of urban culture vultures and — dare we say it — hipsters. What is this we hear? It seems that every season, at least one new boutique hotel throws open its doors — and more and more city folk flee upstate to the forest. Cultural offerings abound, gastropubs serve up farm-to-table fare, you can even stay in a luxury yurt. Yes, glamping has come to the Catskills. So, we couldn’t cover everything about the Catskills in these pages — not even close. And for the purpose of inclusion in this issue, we basically considered the Catskills to be west of Woodstock.

So while this is in no way a complete guide, I hope that we’ve filled you in on some really interesting people, places, and things that you may not have been aware of. And we also have lots more cool Catskills stuff at . A while back we put out a call on Facebook for readers to share their favorite Catskills memories with us. So many of you wrote to tell us your magical childhood memories. Whitney Druker, who now lives in the state of Washington, wrote this: “I grew up in a small town called Krumville. It’s now part of Olivebridge. People laugh when they hear the name, but it was the best place on earth to grow up. What I loved best was the seasons. You could smell each season coming. There was no best season either, each one had its uniqueness. Spring would bring the water rushing in the creeks from the melting snow and the geese flying back home. Warm summer nights would bring out the whippoorwills and beautiful sunsets over the mountains. Fall would bring the smell of leaves and cold crisp air. Huge snow walls to get to the mailbox, sledding down empty fields, ice skating on ponds — all are happy winter memories.

I can’t imagine growing up any other way.” I hope you’re inspired to create some Catskill memories of your own. Cheers,

Question: Which character fell asleep in The Catskills for 20 years?
Answer: RIP VAN WINKLE