There were many parts of summer I hated when growing up. From fourth through eighth grade, playing in the local Cinderella Softball League required that you practice next to a sewage treatment plant in a swampy valley that was buggy in addition to stinking to high heaven. I had a slew of untreated pollen allergies, which meant rubbing my red eyes with my right hand while swatting away mosquitos with my mitt.

Though I grew up in a small city, I had plenty of access to what we called “the sticks.” I had no overriding passion for rural America, probably because in Western New York, rural meant poor. But thanks to novels, stories, and paintings, I fell in love with the summer landscapes of pre-industrial America.