The drive into Antelope Lake through Taylorsville and Genesee is heartbreakingly bucolic. The road winds along little Beaver Creek through a Norman Rockwellian rural America. There are green pastures with cows belly-deep in grass, small New England–style cottages, nearby weathered barns pushed over by the wind, willows down by the water, and tiny stores with creaking floorboards and 19th-century-style cash registers ornate as churches and as big as Yugos. You can buy ice and beer and cold cuts, and drive on, dreaming of a simpler past. Was it really simpler? I don’t know, but the roll of the beautiful land certainly speaks to me.
© Jane & Hans Huber with Bill Mai/Menasha Ridge Press. All Rights Reserved.