Hello once again from Niantic, Connecticut. This is the last day of this current chapter of the “Great American Road Trip.” It’s been a pretty special and meaningful visit to the Long Island Sound and coast of New England.
To preface, I went to college not far from here, about an hour west along Interstate 95 and up I-91 to Quinnipiac University in Hamden, Connecticut. I graduated 19 years ago, which is insanely wild to even comprehend. And I fondly remember those four years that I called The Constitution State home, even if some of the details have become blurry and frayed at the edges.
Yesterday, my girlfriend, Rebecca, and I went for a walk around the neighborhood where her folks live, just outside of Niantic. These elegant seaside abodes. Ocean waves lapping the shoreline beaches. The faint scent of salty air amid a warm July sun. Sizzling pavement and the sound of lawnmowers in the distance. Plans for an afternoon dip in the cold waters.
Stroll over to the nearby pavilion hidden inside Rocky Neck State Park, the grandeur of the stone structure not lost on me. The plaque on the side of the building stated its construction in 1936 by the Works Progress Administration (WPA), part of President Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal. I stood there and reflected on the beauty of the New Deal, and how it rescued our country in the throes of the Great Depression. I thought of my grandparents and what they went through in those days, and how it built their immense character.
Thoughts about where we as a country, and a people, stand at this current juncture of history, this recent 250-year marker of democracy and the unknowns of tomorrow, all rolled up into a wild, violent cacophony of firework celebrations, backyard barbecues and sunburns. Switching between Wimbledon and World Cup matches, sporadic live news coverage of the war in Iran, rising gas prices, uncertainty within Congress, and whatever else to keep you up at night, whether we realize that stress and impact or not.
As stated in previous columns (and in daily interactions), I remain an eternal optimist, even if I’ve, perhaps purposely, ignored looking at my smart phone on this recent excursion. The silencing of the electronic device in my pocket has been quite pleasant this past week, especially leaving it on the charger in the guest room, only to then walk out of the house and towards the beach.
Once at the shoreline, Rebecca and I pull the kayaks away from the stone wall and flip them over, sliding the plastic vessels into the water. Don’t forget to pack a couple cold beers for the journey across the cove to the “Jumping Rock,” a natural formation with deep waters to leap happily from. Paddle across the harbor and head for the rocks. Haul the kayaks up onto the small white sand beach behind “Jumping Rock” and unbuckle the lifevests. Crack open the cold Narragansett Lager and salute one another, then a salute to the heavens above.
Traverse the rocks to the exact jumping spot, all while Rebecca and her siblings telling me stories of going there as kids many years ago. They marvel with a jovial laugh at how much higher the “Jumping Rock” seemed back then in elementary school, and how “there was this insanely cool Black Lab that would always jump off the rock, swim back, climb up and jump again.” The pure reflection and nostalgia of the moment at-hand isn’t lost on us.
This morning it was German pancakes prepared by Rebecca’s brother-in-law covered in maple syrup I brought down from my native North Country of Upstate New York, the Parker’s sugarhouse located not far from my parent’s farmhouse. Memories conjured easily with each bite, the taste of the syrup bringing back images of myself being a kid and eagerly awaiting my mom to make us French toast with Parker’s liquid gold spilled across the plate.
Pictured in this week’s column is the world-famous “Michigan” hot dog, a staple of the Champlain Valley and greater North Country. According to Wikipedia, it “is a steamed all-beef hot dog on a steamed bun topped with a meaty sauce, generally referred to as ‘Michigan sauce,’ and is a specialty in and around Plattsburgh, New York” (my hometown). That about sums it up, even though one cannot truly appreciate the delicious work of art that is a “Michigan” until they’ve cruised on up to Clare & Carl’s hot dog stand on Route 9 in Plattsburgh and devoured a few (pro move: a side order of onion rings).
And as I’m typing away, it just dawned on me the erratic, wayward nature of this column, where it shifts from cherished old memories of summer and a perpetual sense of chaos and confusion in our universe today. Maybe that’s the essence of this time of the year? This subconscious yearning for innocence and peace as an adult, only to be found happily over a hot fudge sundae at a Dairy Queen celebrating its 74th season of operation immediately after a serene sitdown dinner with family at the local lobster shack in the fading sunset.
It’s all so wondrous and surreal, this thing called existence. Where to from here, eh? Just hold steady and keep your wits about you. Hold your loved ones close, too. Kindness breeds kindness. And like it was stated in Jack Kerouac’s seminal 1957 novel “On the Road”: “Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”
Fourth of July has come and gone, now just a final streaking firework across the rearview mirror, at least until next year. What’s ahead, you might ask? Who knows? Definitely more swimming and grilling out. More endless miles traveled down that ole lost highway of America, the sounds of Hank Williams and Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys echoing from the truck speakers, the windows rolled down, a cool breeze swirling around the cab of the vehicle.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.