Molly Congdon

Ah, Saratoga, I am under your spell. The fire of a concert with a lawn full of fans. The solemn silence at the Battlefield. The rainbow of psychedelic hats during track season. The proclivity for puke on Caroline Street after one hell of a night. The satisfying crunch heard around the world when the potato chip was born. Magic.

Posted

Comments

No comments on this story | Please log in to comment by clicking here
Please log in or register to add your comment