Trask Avenue

flag bunting in front of the old Hopewell Academy (est 1756)

Hopewell exists in our consciousness somewhere between dreams and fantasies. An impossibly gorgeous spring morning is bright, cool, and verdant. The scent of blooming honeysuckle and the purposeful hum of lawn mowers are inescapable. A slight breeze slips through the trees, gently rustling leaves and encouraging recently migrated sparrows and warblers to tweet their singular songs. Hopewell’s languid tree-lined streets boast charming, historic homes with double doors and broad front yards. Abandoned tricycles sit quietly on their side waiting for the return of children momentarily distracted by some new thrill. A modest variety of quaint storefronts cater to the town’s eclectic residents offering quality antiques, piano lessons, and interior design services, specialties not suited for the impersonal reality of the large shopping malls to the east. People sit at sidewalk tables eating breakfast muffins and chatting with neighbors. The distant whistle of passing cargo train is a reminder that a world exists beyond Hopewell’s borders, a world far more stressful and harsh. For now drifting between dreams and fantasies seems about perfect.

flowers on a rail

hopewell station (currently not in use)

calvary baptist church

old home

residential

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