I stand on the rise near what was once the baseball diamond. To my right is the black oak, several hundred years old, beside which we used to hold our Saturday night campfires.How many times on heat-heavy August days have I stood on this rise looking out over the wooded landscape toward the Camden hills?For me it was always a magical prospect, the austere2countryside stretching away with the sharp definition of an 18th-century aquatint across hill and woodland to Mt.Battie outlined against the horizon.At our campfire evenings, when we gathered around the great oak just after sunset, Mount Battie without losing its definition would take on a blue luminosity.