Hello from my parent’s farmhouse on the Canadian Border in Upstate New York. The 1820 brick structure is awfully quiet, especially since I’m the only one wandering around the property, seeing as my folks are currently up on the coast of Maine on their yearly summer trek to our old stomping grounds, a place in New England my family has visited every summer since 1972.
This is the last day of my (almost) two-month road trip. I left my humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville on June 10, en route to visit my girlfriend in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. Onward to endeavors of work and play in New Hampshire, Maine and Connecticut (via my rusty musty pickup truck). Onward to Alberta, British Columbia and Montana (via plane flight and convertible rental car). Back through Montreal and back down to Plattsburgh, New York. All that’s left to do this evening is pack up the truck and head south.
Duck below the Mason-Dixon Line to Western North Carolina. Some 1,100 miles and 18 hours (without traffic) to my greatly missed bed and front porch views of the ancient Blue Ridge Mountains. I miss my writing desk overlooking a bustling Russ Avenue. I even miss the incessant noise of construction out there on the street. I’m looking forward to returning to the place I’ve called home for the last 14 years. In fact, it was this exact week I moved to WNC.
For now? Constructing this column in the back den of the farmhouse, a lone fan blowing a slight breeze in my direction to thwart the humidity of a North Country summer. No air conditioning in the farmhouse, either. Just opened windows all throughout the place. The shade of century-old maple trees in the side and front yards, where each morning I pour a cup of coffee and sit outside in a wicker chair and overlook my mother’s serene flower garden.
The mind is restless, pondering this latest journey of physical abilities and intrinsic values. In truth, you’re never, ever the same after a road trip, thankfully. Whatever you’ve seen, heard, felt, smelled, touched, tasted and experienced is now chiseled onto the walls of your memory. You’ve added endless miles, both literally and figuratively, to the odometer of your existence. You made new lifelong friends and solidified bonds with those known for years now, all involved part of the countless junctures of your wanderings. You return home and the apartment still smells the same. You smile in reflection.
Packing up the truck earlier today, it was the usual rundown of things, a meticulous plan to place everything in its place. Not much space in the backseat of the truck. Just enough for my luggage bag of travel clothes, acoustic guitar, three pairs of running shoes (for hiking and pavement), two pairs of boots (for formal dinner and music festival mud), a cooler filled with snacks and half-a-submarine sandwich to eat at some point on the long drive.
And a small wooden box to find space for. Within the box are some of the ashes of my best friend of all time and space, Benjamin Perron. He unexpectedly passed away earlier this spring at age 42. Due to mechanical issues with my truck in May, I wasn’t able to attend the memorial service here in Plattsburgh. My mother went in my place and told a few stories to the crowd of his friends and family at Point Au Roche State Park. Upon leaving the service, Ben’s parents handed her the box and asked to give it to me for safekeeping.
It was a surreal and odd thing to initially see the box. When I arrived at the farmhouse, my mother had placed it on the stairwell to the guest room. At first, I didn’t know what it was, where a second later it clicked and I realized what I was looking at. The final remnants of my dear friend of 29 years, ever since the first day of seventh grade when we first met on the school bus.
Back then, Ben was an awkward, nerdy kid with no friends. I was in the same boat. Coming from Catholic elementary school to public middle school, I didn’t really know anyone. The only open seat on the bus was next to him. I asked if I could sit down. He smiled and said OK. From there, we were tied to the hip for decades. We engaged in teenage mischief together. Went to countless concerts and backyard parties. We picked up our prom dates in my old car. And I was even the best man in his wedding. The memories are endless.
I thought a lot about Ben when I was roaming up and down the East Coast and throughout the Rocky Mountains over these last two months. His passing was the main reason I hit the road, to once again cleanse my heart and soul of pain and grief. I thought of him in great detail when I found myself cruising along the Icefields Parkway from Lake Louise to Jasper, Alberta. With the convertible top down, I would constantly gaze up at the towering peaks of the Canadian Rockies, thinking how much my friend would be in as much awe at nature’s splendor as I was. He never really traveled outside of the North Country, even though I carried our memories together throughout my continued life on the road.
Other friends have asked me what I’m going to do with the ashes. Place the box on my bookshelf? Spread some of the ashes here and there? Who knows? All I can say is that it was a soul-stirring moment to take the box off the farmhouse stairwell and respectfully put it in the truck. Destination Haywood County, a spot on the map that is my home, a spot he never got to visit, at least until now. In the morning, I’ll crank the engine and put the truck in drive. The nose of the vehicle aimed for Interstate 87 to I-88 to I-81 to I-26 to I-40.
It’s now August. Like clockwork, the summer is fleeting. We wait all winter and spring for these sunny and warm days, only to have them slip through our fingers like the sands of time tend to do. Soon enough, Labor Day will be on the horizon, only to slowly transition into the fall foliage and the impending holiday season. No matter, for any and all days to wake up, to think freely, to remember loved ones, to get out of bed and enter society is a glorious day.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.