Mike Nardacci

To cross the Hudson River and head east on routes 43 or 2 or 7 onto the Rensselaer Plateau is to enter a landscape vastly different both geologically and topographically from that west of the river

Like John Greenleaf Whittier before him, Robert Frost is often thought of as a bard of cozy evenings by a fire, an impression created by poems such as “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,”  “After Apple Picking,” “Mending Wall,” and “The Road Not Taken,” anthologized in middle- and high-school textbooks in this country for generation

One of the fascinating things about reading older science-fiction stories is discovering that their authors predicted often years or even decades in advance things that came to be: Jules Verne’s lunar travel vehicles, Czech writer Karel Capek’s robots, Arthur C. Clarke’s communication satellites.

A common plot in British and American literature is the tempestuous romance that erupts between a beautiful, wealthy, cultivated woman and a handsome proletarian dude with no money or life prospects whatsoever.

Author’s note:  For years, I have been telling my English classes that someday I wanted to edit an annotated anthology titled “Short Stories I Wish I Had Written.”  I do not have any publishers beating down my door to get such a volume into print, but since we are all stuck in our homes these days, this seemed a good time to share some

“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,” Robert Frost wrote, “That sends the frozen ground swell under it,/And spills the upper boulders in the sun,/ And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

Someone once described the goldenrod that seems ubiquitous this autumn as “quill pens signing summer’s eviction notice.”  Whether it was the blooming of goldenrod or some other harbinger of summer’

Northern New Mexico and the “Four Corners” area of the Southwest are dotted with ruins of the ancient pueblo people whose sudden evacuation of their traditional villages some 800 years ago constitu

The stream called “Onesquethaw” undergoes extensive changes as it flows from its placid source in our portion of the Appalachian Plateau known locally as “the Helderbergs.” It incises its way throu

The precise locations of the caves referred to in this column have been left deliberately vague to protect both the caves and inexperienced persons who might wish to enter them.


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