This must be the place: ‘In the woods from far away, from across the fields and pastures, in the cool misty morning air’

A&E Columns

This must be the place: ‘In the woods from far away, from across the fields and pastures, in the cool misty morning air’

An old gas pump in the North Country. Garret K. Woodward photo

Hello from atop the roof of my parents’ 1840 brick farmhouse. Some 20 feet up on the back end of the structure. It’s hot as hell walking across the old roof in the midday sunshine and heat of early summer in the Champlain Valley of Upstate New York.

As stated in last week’s column, I’m in the North Country to take care of some family business. Way beyond the Mason-Dixon Line and within a 20-minute drive to the Canadian Border. The land of black flies and pine needles strewn across the forest floor. Old maple trees and maple syrup. Boating on Lake Champlain and cold suds at the Fourth Ward Club in nearby Plattsburgh.

I’m up on the roof due to my 82-year-old father. With stubbornness and pride running through his veins, it took some convincing to get him to not climb up the ladder. He wanted to clean out the gutters and trim some of the branches off the large maple tree in the backyard hanging dangerously over said roof. Either trim the branches now or, perhaps, have one of the big limbs snap off in an ice storm. It’s happened before, back in January 1998.

So, with my father keeping watch as I made my way up the never-ending ladder — my mother and my girlfriend, Sarah, also observing from a safe distance in the backyard — I carefully hopped off the ladder and walked up the steep pitch of the roof to the other side where the clogged gutters were now sprouting small trees and thick roots of their own, the hanging limbs of the maple tree within grasp.

Nearing the edge of the roof, I held steady. Dusty work gloves from my folks’ barn across the way. Tools to rip out and clean out the gutters. A branch trimmer for the smaller limbs, a handsaw for anything else too big to snap in two quickly and efficiently. All as my father continually points out which ones need to be cut.

Yank out the thick roots, dirt and leaves from the gutters. Toss the soggy lumps over the edge of the roof onto the driveway below. Repeat until the process is done. Trim the limbs and toss those, too. Reach slowly down to grab the water hose with the extension, pull it up onto the roof and spray out the gutters until everything flows smoothly once again.

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With a daddy long legs spider crawling up my left boot and sweat dripping down my forehead, I took a breather for a moment. I also took in the scene before me. My tough-as-nails father instructing me how to do what I already know how to do (cut limbs, clean gutters, etc.). My beloved mother and girlfriend picking up the discarded limbs and dirt lumps scattered around the driveway.

It was also the last day before Sarah and I had to pack up my truck and motor 1,100 miles to our apartment in downtown Waynesville. And although I’d rather be disappearing into the depths of the Adirondack Mountains in the distance on a day like this — jumping into a cold river following a hot afternoon hike, maybe up near Tupper Lake — I realized the roof was the only place I wanted to be.

You see, it dawned on me while on that damn roof about how many more times I may be able to help my father out with whatever he needs tinkering with at the farmhouse. What needs to be repaired or replaced or in dire need of attention. Some spit shine and some old-school Yankee ingenuity. Blood, sweat and tears. The bond between father and son, no matter the stubbornness and pride exhibited by each, either acknowledged or oblivious.

A sea of memories started creeping up on me with each limb cut off the old maple tree, each clump of soggy dirt from the gutter. Visions of our former farmhouse up on the border in Rouses Point. My childhood home, which my folks sold right before I graduated college in 2007. An 1820 limestone house with a barn with a slate roof and seven acres of property surrounded by endless corn fields.

With orders from my father, the daily adolescent and teenage chores would run the gamut. Help him load up firewood to chop on the side lawn and then stack it high inside the barn to dry out. Paint the trim on the barn each spring following a harsh winter. Wash the minivan. Fix the fences along the back pasture. But, mostly, I would stand there and listen to the old man teach me something, most of which is still intact and written down on the walls of my mind.

And just as quickly as those foggy memories of yesterday were conjured, they vanished in an instant when I was shaken out of my trance and back into reality. It was the voice of my father, bellowing from way down below in the backyard, making sure I could see the exact branch he was pointing to as to signal the last one to cut before slowly slinking down the pitched roof.

Grip the ladder firmly and turn yourself around ever so carefully. There’s small clumps of slippery mud on the ladder rungs. Guess I didn’t toss the clumps out far enough over the driveway from high above. By the time I stood firmly again in the backyard, returning to my anchoring point of balance and safety, my father already had another project for me waiting in the wings.

“Hey, I need you to help me saw off that big branch there,” he pointed to the other side of the old maple tree. “It dead and is also hanging over the driveway.”

“Sure, no problem,” I responded. There’s no sarcasm in my voice, just genuine sincerity in approaching the next task at-hand, gratitude within for this interaction with the old man as the clock ticks away like it always does.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.

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