There is something infinitely comforting about small towns. The streets appear to be lifted from a children’s book, the orderly sort that teaches you neighborhood words: policeman, schoolhouse, doctor, farmer.

This week, we drove up into the Catskills for an evening by the lake, ending up in Woodstock for dinner. To get to the water, we drive past a tiny white steepled church, next to a wide brook that rushes over smooth gray boulders. A weathered red barn houses a theater where indie bands will play all summer. We drive out of town late at night with the windows down, the air smelling sweetly of cut grass.