Charles
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Charles
A Summer Day at Peekskill Farm: Gardening Tips, Weather Reflections, and Upcoming Pride Celebrations6/25/2025  St. Joseph's House in Peekskill, NY, was formerly part of the historic St. Mary's Church and convent located on Fort Hill. Yesterday unfolded like a page from a countryside diary—minus the polite penmanship—as I wandered through Peekskill Farm and met a young woman who seemed to have bloomed straight out of the rows she tended. Her name, if memory serves me right (and it sometimes doesn’t after two cups of sun), was Nubi. She had a radiant smile and a frame as slender as a reed, moving with the grace of someone who knows plants better than people. Honestly, she looked like she could photosynthesize. She picked mustard greens for me and a handful of snap peas that snapped with the kind of attitude only freshly liberated legumes possess. They were so crisp and sweet, I ate them raw like a rebellious rabbit. While harvesting, Nubi offered a tip—one of those deceptively simple gems: pick the bottom leaves first. It clears space and encourages the baby leaves to flourish, kind of like good parenting or workplace management, if corporate life had more chlorophyll. As the sun clawed its way higher, the heat became an unrelenting companion, draping itself over Peekskill like a hot yoga mat nobody asked for. We're not used to three straight days of this kind of simmering, especially not while volunteering ourselves as solar panels out in the fields. This heat wave had commitment issues too—it lingered deep into the night like an awkward houseguest, still making itself known at 4 a.m. But! A breeze of mercy is inbound. Cooler temperatures are on the way, and the partly sunny skies should arrive just in time to cast a golden glow on this weekend’s Pride celebrations. In Peekskill, we’ll gather Saturday at Pugsley Park—a proper, shade-friendly patch of joy—for a family-forward celebration that reminds us the best kind of heat is the one we bring with love. Yesterday held contrasts: brutal temperatures softened by kindness and snap peas, and a meeting of nature’s rhythm with something even messier—human connection. As the air cools and the weekend nears, I carry Nubi’s wisdom and those rebellious legumes with me, along with a growing excitement for a celebration that honors every color in the garden. If Peekskill were a British soap opera, its theme would closely resemble that of Emmerdale Farms.
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 Collard greens, as part of a low sodium diet, may reduce the risk of high blood pressure. The problem with studying website stats/traffic—unknown unique visitors, repeat visitors, and that mysterious bounce rate—is the risk of becoming almost obsessed. Like wondering what to write about tomorrow, or spiraling because a blog post you didn’t even pour your whole heart into gets more traffic than anything else. Case in point: that Easter Sunday blog in New York. I still don’t know why it resonated—but the numbers don’t lie. Yesterday’s heat didn’t bother me much. I stuck to my routine while a friend of mine, skinny as a reed, looked like he was dissolving into the sidewalk. Sweat poured off him in rivers. Climbing the hill to visit me was like trekking through a sunlit hell, so I did what anyone with a fan and some greens should do—I took care of him and cooked us dinner. Two options. First: collard greens and kale I picked fresh from Peekskill Farms. Stirred them slowly over a flame with both chicken and veggie broth, onions, garlic, and at the end—bright orange peppers, just for drama. Poured that over some macaroni-like noodles (don't ask me the name—I was low on the pasta I actually wanted). The second was meatier: chicken spiced with something on the “hotter than comfort” scale, slicked with sauce and spooned over the same noodles. The kitchen was quite warm, and for once, I did not place much importance on the presentation after completing all the cooking. He ate and liked both, and for someone barely tipping 120 pounds, he put it away like a competitive eater. Meanwhile, if I ate that much? Let’s just say I hate catching myself in storefront reflections—always takes me a second to register that the guy looking back is me. This morning’s already warmer, the kind of heat that makes me nostalgic for San Francisco’s worst Indian Summer week, when the mercury hit near 100 and the fog went AWOL. No one had air conditioning there. Everyone pretended that was normal. I had AC here last year. This year I do not. But weirdly, the fans and open windows are doing the job. I actually prefer it. AC gives me the chills, literal and otherwise. All that cold air just makes me sniffly, like I’ve caught a minor plague. Anyway—I’m ready to write. Fiction, that is. Been waiting for a particular moment to return to it, but maybe the moment is now. I just need time. Solitude. And less “entertainment,” which lately has felt more like a distraction dressed in sequins.  Peekskill Regeneration Farm located between Hadden Street and Decatur Avenue, adjacent to Oak Elementary School at Lepore Park. It is open to the public free of charge, and individuals are welcome to assist with the farm they have the time.   At the summit of Fort Hill, the Abbey Inn & Spa offers a luxurious restaurant and bar, as well as an elegant ballroom, all featuring breathtaking views of the Hudson River and the city of Peekskill
 A view from Fort Hill overlooking Bear Mountain and the Hudson River in the afterglow of a sunset.  One could adopt this style to stay cool during the summer, as observed at Peekskill's Juneteenth celebration on Central Avenue. Among the crowd, I encountered an individual who stood out as the epitome of coolness. I felt compelled to express my admiration directly, as he was also exceptionally charming. The heat is on, as they say—and so be it this week for those of us in the New York City area, all the way up through the Hudson Valley to Peekskill and beyond. I’ve vowed not to complain about the heat this year. Honestly, I could care less about it after enduring what felt like the coldest winter of my life—one that rivaled even the coldest winter ever spent in June in San Francisco. Peekskill held its own in the frigid sweepstakes with three months of chill and a streak of unshakable cold days and several inches of snow. But if the heat does get to you, Peekskill offers a few natural reprieves that may just be easier than surviving the concrete steam bath of the city—especially this week, as NYC celebrates Pride in honor of that fateful night in June 1969. It was then that gays, queers, drag queens, lesbians, and yes, straights too, took a stand at the Stonewall Inn. Legend has it the queens, grieving Judy Garland’s death just days earlier, had reached the point of no patience. Their grief turned fiery, and they fought back so fiercely that the police barricaded themselves inside Stonewall—fearful of the blowback, a Molotov cocktail among it. But that story, delicious as it is, deserves its own spotlight on another day. Right now, I’m supposed to be writing about this heatwave barreling toward us—temperatures pushing 100 degrees in New York City on Tuesday. Peekskill won’t be far behind. Even the city that never sleeps may find itself craving a good siesta when the mercury spikes. Still, if you're lucky enough to be in Peekskill, you can always head to the river where it’s cooler than downtown. Or escape into the hills—Fort Hill and Blue Mountain—where shade and trees provide a leafy sanctuary, and a breeze is almost always hanging around. Bring a book, kick back. Speaking of which, I’m in the middle of a good one right now—not my own, but a classic by the master himself: Doctor Sleep, by Stephen King. He was my favorite author as a teenager, and I guess this summer I’m rediscovering him… and, maybe, a few pieces of my younger self, too. Heatwaves, hills, and horror novels. Somehow, it all fits.  Any location atop Fort Hill, overlooking the river 374 feet below, remains cooler than the downtown area at the base of the hill during periods of high temperatures.
 
 “Indian summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.” ― Grace Metalious, Peyton Place  The heat wasn’t so bad in Peekskill yesterday. Low 80s, I’d guess. The city? Probably roasting somewhere around 90. I love New York, I do—but when the streets start to simmer and smell faintly of roasted pretzel and regret, I’d rather admire it from a distance. It’s a city best appreciated between September and April, when the concrete cools and people remember how to walk without wilting. Peekskill, by contrast, offered a more tempered affair. Humid, sure, especially downtown, where the sidewalk radiates warmth and the shade is more theoretical than actual. Trees are scarce there—nature took one look at the strip mall planning and said, “You’re on your own.” However, Peekskill's downtown area is notably historic and charming, characterized by a greater number of restaurants compared to retail establishments, well as an abundance of beauty salons and delis. Now, if you were in the mood for solitude (and I was), the best escape was by the Mac Gregor Brook–Watershed. Tucked behind Beer World and Family Dollar, it’s not what you’d call “picturesque” in a travel brochure sense—but hear me out. There’s a waterfall. A proper one. This is where Penelope Pond once rippled proudly, back when the schoolkids from Finktown used to play all year round—summer splashing and winter skating like they were born wearing mittens. Penelope Pond’s gone now. Just a memory dressed in cattails and mist. But the water still trickles down from the hills, slipping beneath downtown before it reaches the Hudson. And if you sit there long enough—if you hush the buzz of your phone and lean into the breeze—you’ll hear them. The echoes of 1949. The Finktown gang. Laughter skipping over water like a well-thrown stone. Here, the humidity didn’t dare enter. The breeze stirred the trees (the ones that had the decency to show up), and the water’s endless hush softened the afternoon. I sat on a rock, not exactly meditating, not exactly doing nothing, just thinking about what’s gone and what still lingers.
  A boulder stands prominently at the entrance of Depew Park on Union Avenue Egg prices continue to bob and weave here in Peekskill, but in the Pearson household, omelets remain non-negotiable. We've scaled back from two eggs to one, true, but that lone egg still holds the line in the budget, proudly anchoring breakfasts with quiet dignity and an occasional dash of salt. Usually, I'm up early to write—except Sundays, when I sleep in and let my creativity hit the snooze button. But today, at a scandalous 9:41 a.m., I’m just getting started. The outdoor cats, Peshwari and Daisy, clearly noticed. They usually wait by the door like expectant doormen, but with the heat rising early, they took up shady residence in the courtyard. I spotted them from the bedroom window—tails flicking with the distinct feline expression of, “So… are you coming or…?” Over coffee, my mind drifts to global affairs. I’d read an article in the New York Times just before pausing my subscription (we’re on a break until August 14). I love the Times, but lately it feels like it should be renamed the New York Trump Times. Every headline’s a rerun, and frankly, I can only take so much before reaching my personal gag limit. One day, I hope we’ll live in a world where the Trumps and their cronies are mere footnotes. And when Clarence Thomas retires or floats off into judicial obscurity, well… I’ll raise an egg toast to that too. Yesterday’s workout was “late” by my standards—meaning after noon. I prefer my workouts like my coffee: early and with minimal heat advisories. But there I was, back at the old Nicholas Colao Field (or something that sounds like a pasta dish), just east of the newer Torphy Field—the same one where the Jets used to train before retreating to fancier turf. At this time of day, the field becomes its own little theater. Baby carts get pushed, dogs get dragged, and teenagers in purple shorts and flip-flops escort their equally half-awake girlfriends around like sleepwalking ducklings. A woman in a cropped red top, headphones bobbing, smiled like a summer anthem. An older gentleman speed-walked by, meteorologically alarmed, and we agreed that if the mercury hit 90, we both had a date with air conditioning. And then there was Buddy—a dog who might’ve been part bear. I asked the owner if Buddy was friendly, and he nodded. The second I called his name, Buddy launched himself toward me like joy on four legs. I nearly fell, but honestly? Totally worth it. I’ve always loved dogs. Always will. As for Iran, the headlines churn in the background of my brain. My feelings twist between empathy and hard truths—how do you hold compassion for a country when it punishes love? Somewhere deep inside, I feel a fire of fury, tempered by the understanding that geopolitics, prophecy, and ethics rarely ride in the same cart. If Iran really is Elam in the Bible, as some say, then destiny might have plans we can’t decode—not with eggs, not with headlines, and certainly not before coffee.  A winter coat is unlikely to be needed today in Peekskill, NY, if temperatures indeed reach 90 degrees.
 Nicolas J. Colao Memorial Field, Depew Park, Peekskill, NY  Since I have lived here, now in my third June in Peekskill, NY, this month appears to be the rainiest, with the lingering chill of winter still. Hear it pour. Softly, in the grass and weeds of the backyard—now lush, green, and grown so high it must feel like jungle to the creatures who pass through: the wild cats, Daisy and Peshwari (though truthfully, they’re not so wild anymore), other strays who drift in and out, raccoons, skunks, birds, and that beautiful little baby chipmunk. I think that’s who I’ve spotted recently, nibbling at the weeds. Hear the rain, hear it pour. A slow beat. A pita pata on the concrete. A pita pata on the windowpane, in the alley, where it taps the propane tanks and the leaves that drape overhead—one limb reaching for my kitchen window, as if to greet me each morning with a quiet “Hola.” Hear the rain. I do hear. Clearly, now. On days like this, reading feels right. Anything does, really. But reading is my favorite—well, next to creating. Next to writing. Next to making love. Though lately, that last one feels more like a chore than the sacred ceremony it used to be. I crave it less. And that’s okay… Because I know who it is I truly crave. The rest? Just passing shadows—fillers— until he returns, like the rain, echoing now in my ear. Jogging will be delayed this morning. That’s for sure. Rain falls the backyard on Decatur Avenue, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of a jungle.
 Peculiar things you notice when you start cutting back on drinking (but still drink, because moderation is also a vibe): You develop what can only be described as a bloodhound’s sense of smell. Not for flowers. Not for danger. For people. Specifically, their post-binge body scent after they’ve spent the night in your bed or your sofa, marinating in vodka, beer, and probably bad decisions. You wake up thinking, Is this eau de regret? It’s not awful—but it is persistent. Like a cologne called "Distilled Choices." And naturally, once you notice it on them, you spiral into self-awareness: Do I smell like this? Have I been bringing this same fragrance to brunch? It’s the kind of realization that makes you reach for herbal tea with a touch of existential dread. Last night’s dream? A cinematic fever dream dropped straight out of 1975. I was trapped inside a movie trailer, complete with dramatic lighting and the ABC Movie of the Week theme swelling in the background like a soap opera scored by a kazoo. The music’s still in my head. I even looked it up on YouTube this morning to make sure it wasn't some neurological condition. It wasn’t. It’s just my brain’s new ringtone, apparently. Some folks say hell is eternal fire. I say it’s reruns. And Earth? Just Hell with commercials. Same plot, new channel. We get up, do our rituals, check the news, scream internally, repeat. Speaking of endless reruns: Trump, post-G7, is apparently back in his Putin phase. Like a toxic situationship you keep re-following on Facebook. He wasn’t into him, now he’s back into him, probably sending late-night “You up?” DMs across geopolitical lines. As for me, I’m pausing my New York Times subscription. Between the reruns and the rent, something’s gotta give—and I already canceled my gym membership that I never used, so journalism drew the short straw. Sorry, democracy. It's not you, it’s capitalism.  Latin Deli & Grocery, Main Street, Peekskill, NY Some mornings I am as blank as a sheet of paper. There are no words in me—not for lack of desire, but because my mind wakes numb. I rise late, without having done anything so exciting the night before that might justify it. Just too much rum and beer, and not much else I can recall. There were voices all around me—so many—and I drank more just to drown them out. All I wanted was solitude, but I wasn’t alone. Is it moodiness? Perhaps. Today, I feel without purpose. On days like this, it’s easy to forget your schedule, to postpone everything and be quietly grateful it’s not one of those days spent in an office for eight or ten hours—pushing paper, making calls, sitting in meetings when your mind has nothing of substance to offer anyone. You show up in body only. The paycheck’s the only thing that really arrives. It’s a gray June day—the sky overcast, and a chill lingers despite the humidity having tamed last night’s biting wind. I think about that last bottle of beer—the one I didn’t really want but enjoyed all the same. A dark, tasty Brooklyn Brewery brew. It outdid the Colombian one I picked up from Latin Deli, the one I shared with a friend who never stopped talking. But that was fine—I didn’t want anything else in that moment. Nothing more than the bottle emptying. When they insisted the night keep going, I just said, “I can’t,” and went home. That was enough. Today, I’m reading The First Part of Goethe’s Faust. Someone gave me an old copy. I’m tucked in bed with a bowl of homemade chicken soup, and I’m struck by these lines in the Dedication: “The austere heart feels itself growing mild and soft. What I have, I see as in the distance; and what is gone, becomes a reality to me… I know how the spirit of people is propitiated; yet I have never been in such a dilemma as now.” Moody is the day. But reading in solitude somehow suits me. In this quiet fog, I’ve made a kind of peace.  Walking around Sleepy Hollow Golf Course in Scarborough on Father's Day did little to improve my moodiness.   Butterbeans featured in a photograph shared on Facebook by Lambs Produce, located on 2nd Loop Road in Florence, SC. Ah, Facebook—the unofficial museum of forgotten childhood labor. This morning, it decided to jog my memory about the summer ritual of shelling speckled butterbeans on my grandparents’ farm. I suspect I wasn’t grinning back then the way I am now, but hey, time has a way of softening the memory of tedious tasks into something…almost charming.
Now, shelling beans wasn’t hard work, but let’s not pretend it was riveting either. The excitement was mostly contained in the beans themselves—especially the ones flaunting those deep purple speckles like they had been hand-painted by some meticulous bean artist. My cousin Kat, my brother Tommy, and I were tasked with prepping them for grandma’s cooking and canning, while my youngest brother, Darrin, somehow escaped the chore under the flimsy excuse of being “too young.” Suspicious, but unchallengeable. What was Darrin doing while we were elbow-deep in beans? No idea. But I do remember one crucial detail—our soundtrack. Since I owned the equipment, I naturally appointed myself DJ, forcing Kat and Tommy to listen to whatever I deemed worthy. They protested initially, claiming my selections were “too white,” which, as far as I was concerned, was an absurd way to classify music. It’s either good or it isn’t—and given time, they came around. Probably due to sheer exposure. Speaking of questionable playlists, one of my prized cassettes featured nothing but TV commercials and CBS soap opera themes—from Love of Life all the way to The Edge of Night. And if you think The Edge of Night didn’t have the most dramatic, world-shifting theme music in existence, then I don’t know what to tell you. Despite shelling what felt like an infinite supply of butterbeans, Grandma always had a plan for them—most were stored, but the lucky few made it onto our dinner plates. She served them over jasmine rice with homemade cornbread, and honestly, cornbread only tasted good to me when accompanied by butterbeans. A picky boy, but a discerning one. Time sure does funny things to memories, doesn’t it? Back then, I was just getting through the chore. Now, looking back, I see the music, the laughter, the ridiculous tape, and the oddly mesmerizing beauty of those purple-speckled beans. And somehow, it all feels more like a snapshot of summer than a task.  The Juneteenth flag has replaced LGBTQ Pride flag at Peekskill Hall as of Thursday, June12. Like many, I only recently learned the full story of Juneteenth—so seeing its flag replace the LGBTQ+ banner at City Hall caught me off guard, especially since it’s still Pride Month everywhere else. Peekskill has a long, proud connection to Juneteenth. After the Paul Robeson riots of 1949, the city earned the ironic motto “Wake Up America, Peekskill Did.” What’s less known is that Peekskill began honoring Juneteenth in 2011—years before it became a federal holiday—thanks to the research and passion of Smith Street resident Aishah Sales. Her thorough timeline lives on the city’s website, tracing how Peekskill has celebrated Black freedom and resilience long before national recognition. Here I stand, caught between two symbols of liberation. I’m proud to be an ally of both communities, but I felt torn the moment one flag came down. Maybe it’s what people with intersecting identities experience: you belong to many movements yet can feel displaced when they compete for visibility. I respect and will continue to honor the Juneteenth flag. I’ll celebrate Pride wherever those flags fly—throughout Peekskill and in New York City, where they remain raised. To me, both banners honor struggles and triumphs: Pride for LGBTQ+ liberation, and Juneteenth for African American freedom. The true tension isn’t in the cloth or pole, but in the emotions they carry. So why can’t we raise them together? Flying both flags side by side would affirm that solidarity isn’t a zero-sum game, and that our pursuit of equity grows stronger when our movements stand united.  The LGBTQ+ Pride banner and flag were displayed at City Hall in Peekskill a week ago. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON
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