ABSTRACT
During the summer of 1994, quite unexpectedly, my wife Sally and I became bidirectional vacationers.
It all started when the fierce winter of 1993/4 dumped massive piles of ice and snow on top of our weekend house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, at a development called Hemlock Farms, about 100 miles west of New York City, where we live and work during the career-orientated part of the week. The illconceived hot-tar flat roof of our little Pennsylvania retreat creaked, groaned and then notched downward a couple of feet as the carpenter-ant-infested beams in the south-west wall collapsed, allowing the huge plate-glass windows that they had formerly supported to descend and to leave a broad swathe of clear daylight beneath the tops of the window frames up near the ceiling. Through this window of opportunity passed huge gulps of frigid Pocono air plus an occasional drenching of frozen sleet, frosty hail or blizzard flakes.
