"And Down the Path," c. 1920, from the gate. The hotel is on the left behind the trees, Linden Street is on the right.	Acclaimed poet and former Linwood resident, Harry Youtt, the inspiration for the title "Through These Gates and Down the Path: Linwood Park." Harry is composing a poem in honor of Linwood's 125th anniversary, which will be a prominent feature of the new book.	"And Down the Path," 1975, from the park. The Stand is off to the right.

It was the summer of 2004 and my extended family was in the park. That might not have been unusual except that I had had to sell our last cottage ten years earlier.

The Linwood Centennial had been a huge success, far beyond the hopes, I think, of anyone working on it.  My book, "Through These Gates: Linwood Park," which I had spent four years researching and writing, had been widely anticipated and warmly received. Virtually all 2,000 copies were quickly sold. My labor of love had proved truly gratifying.

But sometimes lives take unexpected paths. Two months after the Centennial my father was diagnosed with cancer. Within six years he and five other close members of my family had died, both my sons had left for college and I had gone through a divorce.  A few years more and my daughter had also left for college, I had to sell both our family home in New Jersey and our last cottage and my mother had died.

Then my path changed again. I ended up in Venice, a beautiful small town on the Gulf Coast of Florida.  Our family was celebrating one graduation after another. Julie married followed by David, giving me an instant eight year old granddaughter, Lisa.  When Julie graduated law school in 2003, after 23 combined years of college, all three of my children had graduate degrees and were launched on their careers. My grandson, Alessandro, was just a year away and my grandson, Nikhil, in another three. That Christmas my kids gave me a gift certificate good for a vacation anywhere in North America. They expected me to choose someplace exotic.  I chose Linwood.

So it was that we were all standing around in front of the Stand one day. Former cottage owner, and my former brother-in-law, Harry Youtt, was getting ready to leave for the airport to fly home to California.  He closed the car door and waved the driver on to the Gate. Then he looked resolutely down the old path across the grove and started towards it. Harry has never walked. At 6’4” he lumbers.  Then 63 and having suffered a stroke, his gait was slower but still recognizable.  Once a lawyer, by then Harry was also an acclaimed poet and professor. I knew, without being told, that his walk was not on ground alone. I recalled the words of the old Welsh folksong, The Ash Grove:  “Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.” I watched as his figure became smaller until it vanished in the mist of time and space. I knew that vision would remain with me.

In all my years of research there was something I had missed -- that path. Nothing had been mentioned about it in any of the company minutes. But paths are not suddenly built one day. They come into existence over time with the footsteps of thousands of sojourners. I now assumed it had been there from the beginning, perhaps even from the days of Wagner's Woods. The horses and buggies were parked across the road, drays brought passengers from the railroad and later the interurban stopped outside the park.  All those people walked through the gate and probably continued down the path.

Once you cross the road you enter the path. The picnic shelter looms ahead recalling family gatherings; the “shovel” board courts, as they were first called in the company minutes after someone had visited Florida and brought the idea back; the Stand with its penny candy; the swings that go up to the sky and, beyond that, our beautiful, blue lake with tiny sailboats bopping about. And off to the right, if you look very closely, you might see a lovely, white hotel with Hannah and Myrtle busy inside. Oh, I know, even the oldest amongst us probably remembers a dowdy grey, but I prefer to remember it through my grandfather’s eyes as the white fairy tale castle it once was.

I had been planning to reprint and update the book for the 125th anniversary since I had run out of books in 2005. I had actually started working on it and gathering photos in 2004. Gary had even promised that if I didn't live that long he would reprint it for me. When Janet Waggoner called on behalf of the 125th Anniversary Committee, also asking me to republish my book, I recalled that image of Harry on the path. I began to think about paths both real and metaphorical. I had planned to add material to broaden and update the book and wanted a title to reflect the continued journey. I now knew the title, "Through These Gates and Down the Path: Linwood Park."

THE ASH GROVE

The ash grove, how graceful
How plainly tis speaking,
The wind through it playing
Has language for me.
Whenever the light through its
Branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is
Gazing on me.

The friends of my childhood a
Again are before me,
Each step wakes a memory
As freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden
Its leaves rustle o'er me,
The ash grove, the ash grove
Alone is my home