Directly across the lake, the Ellery hills rose to meet the sky, one followed by another. I wondered how far I could see, surely 20 miles, maybe 30. The world became an impressionist painting, life a canvas of muted pastels. I wanted to stand there forever. I wanted to live in a house right there with this view in front of me every morning of my life.

Is it any wonder I love this place? Why residents love this place? Why we stay, why we return if we’ve moved away? This is why I live here in Chautauqua County where the summer is short but magnificent, where this jewel of a lake is our view on life. I looked across to Fluvanna bay where my Grandfather Forsberg’s house stands on the hill. Some of the best years of my life were spent on that hillside, that shoreline. My grandparents were solemn, hardworking Swedes who came to America in the late 1920s for the same reasons thousands and thousands of others came. And the beautiful truth is, they found a good life, where they earned enough to save money, where they made a decent living at simple jobs that required no education (for they had none), enough to buy the land and build the house of their dreams, overlooking this lake.

Most of Chautauqua County (as well as Cattaraugus to the east and Warren to the south) were formed 50 million years ago, but the sweeping hills and the beautiful lakes occurred as the great glaciers raked their fingers over New York state down from Canada. Chautauqua Lake is several hundred feet higher than Lake Erie due to the end moraine of that great glacier, and it is one of the highest altitude navigable lakes in the country, sitting at approximately 1,500 feet. I wonder if my grandparents were drawn to this area because of Chautauqua Lake, one that resembles both Lake Vanern and Lake Vattern back in Sweden’s midlands. The dark pines and hemlocks of the county that surround the lake also must have seemed familiar to their Swedish consciousness. This area is not only beautiful with its glacial lake and waterways that connect with all of America but also it was haven for those looking for a new life and willing to work hard for it.

Today, my sister and I drove the streets of Jamestown, looking for the factory where our grandfather Carl worked for nearly 40 years, the Jamestown Metal Desk factory. We both recalled it was on Blackstone Avenue, and after some winding around on Jamestown streets once booming with manufacturing life, we found it. I recall my grandfather telling this story in his deep voice and Swedish inflections about his first winter in Jamestown, 1926, before the great marriage of labor and business produced a flourishing age of the middle class. He said, “Well, we had to walk down there to the factory door and stand outside in the rain or snow and cold before dawn.” The fellas would line up kind of in a circle around the main door. They stomped their feet and slapped their hands to keep out the chill. They all had the same look, desperation and hope.

Just after dawn, the boss would open the door and step outside on the top stair. He would point with his cigar and say, “You there. you, you and you. You’re the lucky ones today.” Then the boss would fling open the factory door and let the chosen workers of the day pass. He would turn back to the rest of us waiting in the grey light and say, Go on home now, get outta here. You can try again tomorrow.

Later that year, Carl found a good job with Jamestown Metal Desk, and he showed up every day for 40 years except for a few weeks of recovery after an injury to his foot. He never said much about his job, but we know he was loyal to it and a hard worker. On weekends, this same man whose hands worked on metal all week long, who daily worked amidst the pounding hum of machines, played the violin and the piano for his orchestra at the Vikings Club. In a few years, he saved enough to buy his first house in America, and in a few more, he built his own on the sloping shore of Chautauqua Lake, where he lived to be 84. He made sure his house had two huge picture windows overlooking Fluvanna Bay. He spent as much of his spare time on the lake as was possible. He fished and boated, painted his dock, put his boat in and out of the water. In short, the lake was his paradise.

Jamestown’s history is full of men like my grandfather Carl Forsberg, immigrants who had heart and courage and mettle, men who respected labor and gave their lives to one company. They were repaid with solid middle class lives. Their dreams were not to be rich but to have a sound and healthy life, to own a nice house, to enjoy their hobbies and to care for their families. People like this found their American Dreams right here in this factory town on the banks of the Chadakoin River. We should not forget that, and we should be proud of this history. But now, a great hush has overcome this town and how many others like it?

Sometimes, I drive the streets of Jamestown and feel the despair in the air. Those kinds of jobs are gone; the ability to work hard at a simple job and buy a house and earn a respectable living is a thing of the past in the wake of American factory towns gone silent.

No more do the great manufacturing machines pound out metal or saw the lumber that will be crafted into furniture known for its artistry nationwide. For the most part, the factories are silent. Whole buildings sit empty with gaping windows and fallen bricks. Near them in eerie contrast, fields of wildflowers thrive next to the gloom of lost dreams. Is it the end of the American Dream?

I don’t know why, but I have hope there will be a future for the middle class in this town, only one of the northeast’s rustbelt towns lost in 2017. We are in the Neo-World, post manufacturing era. We have one foot in the past and one in the nebulous future.

But there’s magic in these Chautauqua hills; there’s wonder in this cold glacial lake and beauty beyond words here. These are free wonders that restore the spirit. This area of the world, of the nation, is so special. It’s one of the loveliest spots on earth.

It’s so classically American, from its immigrants to its once flourishing manufacturing age to its hushed streets and falling down factories. Perhaps new jobs will come and old buildings will be filled with workers armed with the skills of the future.

Surely there is hope here and promise of a thriving economy and a strong middle class. We are all better when we are all better. I believe that. I’m praying that, as I stand here breathing in the past.