On Fall weekends when the air was crisp and my Dad was itching to go to the country, we would load up the 1942 Ford and head north to Putnam County to spend two days at our grandmother’s rustic and unoccupied bungalow. The expedition would begin early on Saturday morning.  Mom and Dad had been awake for a while. It took some strategic planning because there were six of us, not counting Tippy, our dog.  Off we would go, packed into the small car with what supplies were needed to carry us through an experience thought to be made exciting by the absence of the modern trappings of life in Brooklyn as we knew it.  By this time the cistern at the bungalow had been drained of water and, of course, anything needing water had to be accommodated by other means.  This meant paper plates and cups, a few gallon jugs of Brooklyn water and what was jokingly known as the “potty,” a ceramic pail with a toilet seat.  I stop typing now and think that, as children, we never acknowledged the work that my mother put in for these two days, which included managing the “potty.” Mom would have packed food for the trip that didn’t require much, if any, cooking.  Dad would have scrounged up some hardwood for the pot belly stove and, failing that, the fuel would come from his seemingly inexhaustible supply of pallet wood. Refrigeration was not a problem.  There was a refrigerator at the bungalow, but it was usually so cold that anything that required refrigeration could be safely placed out on the porch.  And there had to be clothing changes for all of us.  Ann, Kathleen, Richard, Joan, Mom and Dad, our dog Tippy and all of this cargo …we were prepared for a trip of only 60 miles from 55th Street in Brooklyn, three blocks from the Atlantic to Ogden Road in Carmel, N.Y. The trip took us along the Gowanus Parkway to the Brooklyn Bridge with a stop for a bag of freshly roasted peanuts, along the West Side Highway to Route 6.  The Smithwick sextet would entertain itself with a series of rounds, singing “Frere Jaques” and “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” over and over.  Mom took the soprano, Dad the baritone and the rest of us filled in as the spirit moved us. It was part of the protocol for such trips to take a break.  There was a pull-off next to one of the reservoirs that supply New York City with water where we would stop and have some nourishment. Mom would magically produce our vittles out of the trunk. We ate saltines slathered with cream cheese and jam, washed down with home squeezed orange juice while Tippy, our dog, enjoyed a drink from the lake.  A quick stop at the little IGA in Lake Carmel, a fill up at O’Brian’s gas station where Dad would get all the recent local news and we were minutes away from our destination. While Mom and Dad unpacked the car, their offspring felt the need to run wild, yelling as loudly as possible as they gambled through the woods behind the house.  We were “free,” and although it wasn’t summer, we had the memories of the two weeks we spent with our grandmother. And joyous memories they were – of barefoot walks to pick berries, swimming in the lake, fishing, building sand castles and playing canasta, pickup sticks and bingo on the porch on rainy days.  There were thoughts of the sultry nights catching fireflies, or lighting bugs as they were called, and building forts in the woods. This late autumnal visit held its own cache.   Isn’t it odd that the inside of a dwelling could be colder than the outside temperature?  As Mom was busy stashing the weekend’s provisions, Dad would be busy lighting a fire in the pot belly stove.  What fun! Settling in meant turning on the electricity, such as there was, and planning the afternoon.  It might be a hike along the stream that ran in the woods across the road we called the “back lane,” a futile attempt at fishing off the rickety dock at the bottom of Ogden Road or, if it was really cold, we might just huddle around the stove and play pickup sticks or rummy.  Whatever, it was simple and thoroughly engaging for our child minds.  When we were older and all could read, Dad began to teach us how to play poker. In the evening, Dad would be outside, building a fire in what passed as a fireplace.  Made of broken cinder blocks, some stones from the woods and a discarded grate, it served our grandfather as the source of heat to boil water so that we could wash dishes and clothing in the summer.  Now it was the center of our evening feast.  There would be hearty sandwiches, fruit and potatoes. But these were not just any potatoes – they were the potatoes of dreams. Carefully wrapped in aluminum foil, they were baked in the coals of the fire.  Kitchen chairs were assembled around the overturned large metal pan in which we took baths in the summer.  We would be wrapped against the night chill with afghans which were abundant in the nooks and crannies of a building without closets.  It was de rigeur to celebrate when Dad put the jacketed potatoes in the fire…not on the grate, but in the fire. It was a rite for a time and place that has long disappeared.  We would eat, maybe sing more songs in what we thought was harmony as Dad checked for done-ness and when pronounced done, using fire tongs, Dad would remove each now blackened potato to the top of the ersatz metal table.  We’d wait until the wrappings could be safely removed and one, by one, Mom would hand each of us our spud.  There was no butter, salt or pepper, just the original potato, cooked with ceremony and warming our hands on a chilly night. Did it taste good?  Nothing better.  I can remember it now, eons of years later. The fire would become embers and even the afghans wouldn’t be enough.  We’d retreat to the almost warm house, climb into our beds, wearing all of our clothes except our shoes, and listen to “Gunsmoke” on the radio. In the morning it was off to church, a quick breakfast at Wilcox drug store, then back to the cottage for exploration in the woods and preparation for the ride home. It was so simple, a time and a way of living that has almost passed except now, when assembled with our children and their children, we fire up the collected wood on the beach at camp, roast marshmallows and sing songs to the warm summer nights.  No aluminum wrapped potatoes, no afghans against the cold night air, but family and simple fun.  What a treasure.  Thanks Dad.