Going west, you turn right on a dirt road. To the left is the usual stand of pine trees but to the right is a glorious, grassy hill five football fields in length. Seen from the highway, the hill is pristine: no litter, no stunted trees or out of control weeds, no broken down automobiles. Just an uniform stretch of grass waving briskly in the summer breeze. It's Plato's perfect hill from heaven; a launching pad from whence to leave this earthly plane. Maybe it'll snow this winter and children of all ages will find a board of some kind and go sliding down the side of the hill.