One of my favorite feelings in the world is driving out of Boston. Compass pointing west, I downshift mentally to the measured, comfortable pace of the western massachusetts wavelength. With each mile, the tightness, harbored in my neck and shoulders, fades. Eventually, it’s discarded somewhere along the way entirely, can’t be sure which mile marker exactly. I grow stronger, I center. I’m home… The following is a tribute to the region, an ode to Western Mass (and its rivers and ponds).
But, before I get too far ahead of myself (which I do…constantly), where is this mystical place? Where is this western mass?
Well, you see, it depends on who you’re talking to…
