There is a town in north Ontario.

I am listening to an album. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, "So Far", an album that I grew up with. One that has meaning beyond my enjoyment. One that extends its tones, reaching through my memory, and brings back with it the smell of pine trees in the summer, the image of lakes that look like pictures of water, and the smell of fish guts on denim. It was the album of my summer since I can remember, and it's only appropriate that I begin this summer with "Wooden Ships" and "Helpless", "Ohio" and Woodstock", songs I can sing word for word for word. Every family road trip we would roll to the north woods, with this album playing as our soundtrack, it was our tradition. Tradition like, cards before bed was tradition. Tradition like the NBA finals Bulls vs. Jazz was tradition for six years. Tradition like family is tradition. Traditions you don't hold on to until there is nothing left of them but flashes of out dated memories and a single pinch of a feeling that is enough to make you pine after those moments. You don't realize what is in them until you are out of them. CSNY is my pinch of feeling that sends me back. It is my last remaining connection to those filled-to-the-brim moments. There is no more MJ and the Bulls. There is still cards before bed, but not with the smell of humidity, still lakes, and dim lights that bring moths to the window, not those cards. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young is all I have from those summers, and in my mind I still need a place to go, all my changes were there.