Hey there, folks! Pap Steve here, your tech-loving grandpa who’s usually rattling on about QLED TVs or robot vacuums over at papstevereviews.com. But today, I’m setting the gadgets aside to take you back—way back—to some of my earliest memories, summers spent on my grandfather’s dairy farm in Windham, New York, up in the Catskill Mountains. I was just a little tyke then, knee-high to a grasshopper, but those days stuck with me like molasses on a biscuit. They shaped me—taught me what hard work really means—and now, I find myself drawn back to those mountains every chance I get, kicking back in a log cabin we built in 2014 with a view of that very same farm. Grab a coffee—or heck, a cold lemonade—and let me tell you about it.
Windham’s one of those tucked-away gems in the Catskills, about three hours north of New York City, where the air smells like wild mint and thyme and the hills roll out like a green quilt. Back in the ‘70s, when I was maybe four or five, my folks would pile us into the old station wagon every summer, and off we’d go to Grandpa’s place. It wasn’t some fancy spread—just a hardworking dairy farm with a red barn, a herd of Holsteins, and a view that could knock your socks off. I was too young to do much heavy lifting, but oh, the memories! I can still hear the cows mooing at dawn, feel the cool dirt under my bare feet, and smell that sweet hay Grandpa stacked higher than I could climb.
As a kid, everything felt big and alive up there. I’d toddle after Grandpa as he trudged out to milk the cows, his weathered hands moving like clockwork—bucket, stool, and a whistle while he worked. He’d let me “help” by carrying a little pail or tossing feed to the chickens, and I’d puff out my chest like I was the king of the farm. One time, I got it in my head to chase a calf around the pasture—ended up face-first in a mud puddle, laughing ‘til I cried while Grandpa just shook his head and grinned. Then there were the evenings, sitting on the porch with a root beer, watching fireflies dance over the fields as the sun dipped behind the mountains. Those summers were simple—hot days, cool nights, and a sense that life was just right.
But it wasn’t all play. That farm’s where I learned what work really means, and I owe that to Grandpa. He wasn’t a man of many words—tough as nails, with a handshake that could crush a walnut—but he lived by a code: if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. I’d watch him rise before the sun, tending cows, fixing fences, hauling hay, never complaining, even when his back ached or the rain wouldn’t quit. One morning, he handed me a broom—couldn’t have been more than five—and said, “Sweep the barn floor, Stevie. Every corner.” Took me an hour, and I griped plenty, but when I finished, he nodded and said, “Good job.” That stuck with me. It’s why, at 56, I still put my all into everything—whether it’s reviewing a MacBook or building this website for you folks. Grandpa’s work ethic? It’s in my bones.
Those memories faded a bit as I grew up—school, jobs, raising my own kids—but the Catskills never left me. Life got busy, and the farm changed hands after Grandpa passed, but I’d drive up now and then, just to see those hills. Then, in 2014, my family and I decided it was time to plant our own roots there. We built a log cabin—nothing fancy, just cozy and solid—right on a ridge overlooking where the old farm used to hum. It’s not the same farm land (its an old pasture from the farm), mind you; the dairy days are long gone, replaced by wildflowers and quieter pastures. But from my porch, I can trace the outline of where Grandpa’s barn stood, and it feels like he’s still there, tipping his hat.
Now, at 56, I spend as much time up in Windham as I can. Summers are my favorite—my grandkids tearing around the cabin, chasing each other like I chased that calf, while I grill burgers and watch the same sunset I did as a kid. The mountains haven’t changed much—still that mix of rugged and gentle that us 40-to-65-year-olds can appreciate. I’ll sit out there with a beer, the log walls creaking in the breeze, and think about how those early days shaped me. No Wi-Fi half the time, and you know what? I don’t mind. It’s a break from the tech I usually rave about—a chance to unplug and just *be*.
For you folks reading this over at papstevereviews.com, I reckon some of you have your own version of Windham—a place that pulls you back, where you learned life’s quiet lessons. Maybe it’s a farm, a lake house, or your old neighborhood. Me, I’ve got the Catskills in my blood, and that cabin’s my way of keeping it close. Next time I’m up there, I might even drag my laptop along and write a review from the porch—something like “Best Binoculars for Mountain Views” for us over-40 explorers.
So, that’s my story—summers of mud, milk, and mountains, and a work ethic that’s carried me from a little boy with a broom to a grandpa with a website. Drop a comment below and tell me about your summer spot—I’d love to hear it. This is Pap Steve, signing off from Windham, where the past meets the present, one memory at a time.
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