Hello from American Legion Post 912 in Rouses Point, New York. As I’m currently sipping a cold draft beer, I’ve been in continual conversation with the familiar faces of my youth, those elderly folks and people I graduated high school with, many of which I haven’t seen in years, all of which I cross paths with when I arrive back in my hometown for another funeral.
It used to be weddings when I found myself here, one mile from the Canadian Border, one mile from my old childhood home that some guy recently purchased who’s from the other side of the country. I wonder what my childhood bedroom looks like, I wonder how small it actually is, seeing as everything you remember always seems to be smaller in hindsight. Sip the beer and entertain the hearty conversation about nothing and everything.
I’m here today to pay my respects to my late Aunt Moe. After a lengthy battle with a horrendous disease, she passed away earlier this month at age 64. Too young, by my estimate, by anyone’s measure. Rouses Point is a tiny (tiny) town. And it will always be, well, my home, no matter the physical and emotional distance from there to my apartment in downtown Waynesville.
I woke up this morning in the guest room at my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh, about 20 miles south of Rouses Point. The early fall sunshine trickled into the 1840 brick home. I could hear the family dog walking around downstairs. I could hear my 84-year-old father chopping logs to get the woodstove rustled up to last the day. I could hear my mother getting ready down the hall, getting ready for the funeral of her baby sister.
By noon, my parents had already left the gravel driveway to head to the memorial service. Like clockwork, I was running late. Brush the beard, fix the bolo tie, make sure the jeans and clothes were prim and proper to say goodbye to one of my own, the blood within my veins that same as Aunt Moe. Hop into my rusty, musty pickup truck with North Carolina license plates and cruise up Interstate 87 to Exit 42 to Route 11, take a left at the stoplight and roll by my old high school up Route 276, take a right onto the Golf Course Road, tap the brakes entering Rouses Point, another left to the cemetery. Park. Get out.
I know Saint Patrick’s Cemetery well. Beyond my Catholic upbringing and going to church every single Sunday of my youth, there’s a lot of people I knew and loved buried there, the property itself on the edge of town, the west side buffered by an endless cornfield. Walking up to the service, I nodded to the graves of old friends and family members: Brian Power, my English teacher and cross-country coach; Arnie Beal, a local businessman and politician who lived at the bottom of my street and would let me ride in his classic cars. I love classic cars, and I never forgot how cool it was to ride with Arnie.
In a semi-circle around Aunt Moe’s grave, my extended family and a hundred or so folks said goodbye. Sweat dripped down our necks in the warm September sunshine. Not a cloud above. When the service ended, everyone left to head to the American Legion, except for our family. We all stood there, and someone had a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey. We passed it around and took a sip. Aunt Moe would’ve appreciated it. Her husband, my Uncle Chuck, took the bottle and poured a little bit on the nearby graves of my grandparents and cousin Nate, who was the older brother I never had, who passed away in 2021.
At the Legion, there were tall tales and beverages held high in memory of not only Aunt Moe, but also everyone else who has disappeared six feet below in this tight-knit community. I ran into friends I went to high school with, people I hadn’t seen in 20 years, and folks I didn’t even know were still alive. Such is life, eh? That’s just the way it goes, as they say. The sounds of Tom Petty and Van Morrison on the jukebox. The tears and smiles of a hometown.
Right around sunset, it was time to hit the ole dusty trail. Back onto Route 11 and I-87, but not before swinging into Saint Mary’s Cemetery. I wanted to say hello to my childhood best friend, Jason, who tragically passed away at age 19 in 2005. I remember his funeral vividly. I was 20 and at the precipice of my adult life. And I remember kissing his coffin before it was lowered into the ground, saying quietly to myself (and to him), “I’m going to live a life for the two of us.” I meant what I said, and it has remained etched in my heart.
The last of day’s sunshine disappeared behind the tree line of the rural farmland of the North Country. Windows rolled down in the truck, the sounds of The Tragically Hip echoing out of the speakers, specifically “Gift Shop,” the undulating tone of sorrow and compassion spilling across the dashboard: “The beautiful lull/The dangerous tug/We get to feel small/From high up above/And after a glimpse/Over the top/The rest of the world/Becomes a gift shop.”
Turn into the gravel driveway of the farmhouse. Park to the far side of the driveway to not block my father in when he needs to get out in the early morning to get his daily newspaper and coffee at the local diner. Walk inside and the old man is once again chopping wood. Stoke the fire. Keep the embers of life and love burning bright. He goes over and sits in his recliner to watch some college football. I grab the seat next to him. “Good game tonight,” I say. “Yeah, it is,” he replies. I lean back into the seat with gratitude intact.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.