By Jan R. Endresen, Rye resident since 1952
Standing beneath Grand Central’s dome,
In 1952, I asked aloud:
“When’s the next train to a place called home?”
She said, “Track 21. Rye.” And I was proud —
To follow rails to salty air,
Where the Sound kissed shores with grace,
Where Loudon Woods held whispered dares,
And haunted tales found their place.
Where churches flourish and prayers unfold
on Boston Post Road, As Blind Brook flows through.
At Lepler’s Toys and the Smoke Shop bright,
Childhood danced down Purchase Street,
Candy, treasures, laughter, light —
A town where joy and memory meet.
The years, like tides, came rushing through,
Yet Rye stood strong, refined, and true.
Boutiques, banks, and cafés — unfold
Christmas lights outshone the days — so bold
On Forest Avenue and Milton Point
From Playland’s beaches to Manursing’s shore,
Poningo Point to AYC’s oar,
This seaside town in morning’s hue
Is built on beauty, old and new.
Distinctive homes with weathered beams,
Where life unfolds like coastal dreams.
And now — the dolphins leap again!
The Sound runs clearer, revived by rain.
The Jay Estate, a stately guide,
The Nature Center, wild and wide,
The Wainwright House, with spirit bright —
All frame a town that feels just right.
To fall in love with Rye?
So true.
It’s something anyone could do.
Did the President really sleep here too?
For every path and every view,
Still leads me home —
To Rye,
to you.
