This must be the place: ‘Sitting in my beater, dead of winter, busted heater’
I-87 in Upstate New York.
Garret K. Woodward photo
Hello from Room 322 at the Fairfield Inn, located in Binghamton, New York. Exactly one year ago, I stayed in this same room. No joke, this is where I was placed. And, oh, how much has changed and, well, come to pass in this last calendar year since I laid down in this bed, since I opened up the drapes and looked out the same window onto the interstate traffic below.
A year ago, I checked into this hotel. I was extremely sad and very distraught. I was a couple weeks away from my 40th birthday and, in essence, I was alone or, at the very least, felt very alone. I just went through one of the biggest breakups of my entire life, and I didn’t really know what the future held. In all honesty, I still don’t. But, that’s the best part, so long as you have gratitude intact within, all while hoisting up your dreams into the morning light.
And yet, I was willing to lean into life, to really take charge and figure my shit out, to approach the unknown future, with my head held high and with a real sense of free will to be able to do so, for being able to wake up each day is a true gift in itself. It reminds me of a conversation I had yesterday in Abingdon, Virginia, en route to my native north country that is Upstate New York.
Her name was (is) Shirley Kaiser, age 78, and I met her in the bar at a local Mexican restaurant, Puerto Nuevo, on the outskirts of Abingdon. I’d been to the spot a handful of times before, happily stumbling upon it a few years back while I was in search of a quesadilla and a well-made margarita (housemade sour mix is the only way to go, y’all know what I mean) following a gloriously sweaty three-mile jog down the nearby Virginia Creeper Trail.
Initially, I noticed this feisty and fiery older lady holding court at the bar, giving joyous hell to the locals and friends alike. My kind of old soul, devil-may-care folk. Our interaction started immediately after I had already finished my meal, already finished my drink, had already signed and paid my bill:
• Shirley: “I wanted to talk to you, but you were eating your meal.”
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• Me: “I wanted to talk to you, but you were talking with your friends.”
• Shirley: “Well, I guess we both can talk to each other now.”
She told me about growing up in Abingdon, only to get married and follow her husband to Detroit, Michigan, where he got a job at a car factory. They happily called Detroit home for 43 years. He passed away not long ago, with Shirley soon returning to southwestern Virginia. When I crossed paths with her, she was cheering on her beloved Detroit Red Wings on the TV above the bar, a hockey organization she fell in love with decades ago for obvious reasons.
At the end of our conversation, I bid farewell to Shirley, only to ask “How does one maintain such a vibrant sense of self as they get older in an uncertain world?”
Shirley turned to me and said poignantly, “Well, I woke up today, and I knew who I was.” That profound statement struck me deeply, and on so many levels, whether literally or figuratively or spiritually. Right on, Shirley.
Merging back onto Interstate 81 North, the road was now enveloped in evening darkness. Headlights and taillights to destinations unknown. The sounds of Ryley Walker’s “Age Old Tale” radiating out of the stereo. Hands firmly on the wheel. The nose of the vehicle aimed for the North Country. Eventually, a peaceful hotel slumber was located outside of Christiansburg, Virginia, the hum of nearby I-81 lulling me to sleep in the midnight hour.
Wednesday morning. Complimentary hot coffee, hardboiled eggs and oatmeal in the hotel lobby. Weather forecasts and local news on the TV in the corner. Temperatures expected to drop sharply the further north I drive. Possible snow flurries a good chunk of the route above the Mason-Dixon Line. No matter, the trusty, musty Tacoma has four-wheel drive and I’ve spent enough winters roaming around the North Country to know how to drive safely.
The lonely trek back to the starting line of my existence. The long road home to the North Country. The dead of winter. The ice and snow of my youth. Of pickup hockey games on Lake Champlain. Of ice skating around the Olympic Oval in Lake Placid. Of skiing the slopes of Jay Peak, Mad River Glen, Titus or Whiteface. Of hot chocolate within your hands, the sounds of laughter and of wonderment only found in the innocence of time and place, of you and me.
The steering wheel remains steady and true in my hands. Restless thoughts bounce across the dashboard, each sentiment or memory now a dot connecting my heart and soul to the never-ending universe swirling around me, the past and present of chance and happenstance. The cold, unforgiving ground of mid-January in the northeast. The warmth of fireplaces in old farmhouses in the distance, but close enough to be noticed from the fast-paced highways of America, a timeless beacon of light on the horizon of our intent.
January 2026. Oh, where does the time go, eh? My 41st birthday is a little more than two weeks away. Shit, I was just getting used to the idea of turning 40, and another lap around the sun is impending? I remain thankful, in truth, for getting older is a privilege, especially if you’re able to retain mobility and keep your wits about you. The vision is clear and focused. The body is still willing to climb mountains, either physically or emotionally. The mind is still a sponge to peel back the layers of whoever or whatever stands in front of me.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
