This must be the place: ‘Got a bible and a rosary, god, I wish that you were close to me’
Front porch pickin' in Waynesville.
Garret K. Woodward photo
It’s Wednesday, Oct. 1. Midday. I was awakened, once again, by the incessant construction just outside my window on nearby Walnut Street in downtown Waynesville. But, thankfully, the abrupt disruption of my slumber was calmed by the early fall sunshine cascading into my bedroom window.
Midday and typing away wildly at one of those heavy wooden tables in the beloved cavernous depths of Panacea Coffee Company on Commerce Street. My favorite spot to hide out and get work done. Eat a hearty breakfast sandwich, sip a vanilla cappuccino, and write to my heart’s content. What more does one scruffy, vagabond journalist desire, eh? I say nothing else.
Oct. 1. Though scientifically, summer ended a week and a half ago, it’s this exact date that really puts the heat, humidity and glorious mischief of the season in the rearview mirror. Onward to the one season that resides in the deepest depths of my absolute being. Fall. Foliage and crisp, fresh air. Leaves changes, as well as yourself upon slowing down and reflecting on the year.
This day kicks off the, in my honest opinion, finest month on the calendar on the kitchen wall. Beyond the ideal out-the-front-door atmosphere of warm sunshine on your face and cool air swirling around you, it’s nothing and everything, too, like wearing your favorite jeans and boots after months of it being too dang hot and humid to do so (I grew up on the Canadian Border).
And being a native from the North Country of Upstate New York, the fall season conjures countless memories of this time of year. Vivid images of faces long gone underneath old maple trees with leaves bursting into bright yellow, orange or red. Hot cider and fresh doughnuts at Rulf’s Orchard. A chai latte at some cafe in the shadow of the Adirondack Mountains. Picking pumpkins. Etc.
My subconscious is happily haunted by those long, meandering drives somewhere, anywhere around the Champlain Valley and greater Adirondacks. Either when I was a teenager eager to wander outside of my geographic familiarity or merely a giddy (now) 40-year-old rolling down the windows on some cruise along N.Y. 3 into Saranac Lake or Clintonville Road into AuSable Forks, maybe along N.Y. 374 to Lyon Mountain or N.Y. 73 to Keene Valley.
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This must be the place: ‘You know that if we are to stay alive, then see the peace in every eye’
This must be the place: ‘Electric lizard, catching the flies, off the walls of this honky-tonk, my disguise’
And, after another glorious day of wandering and pondering the North Country, I will, like clockwork, circle back to my parents’ farmhouse. When I was in high school, they resided in my childhood home, this 1820 limestone farmhouse a mile from the Canadian Border. Nowadays, it’s an 1840 brick farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh, complete with a small pond, stone walls on the perimeter and a tin-roof barn filled with god knows what.
I guess the reason my fingers are running across the keyboard at a manic pace thinking about all this, is that my publisher is allowing me to slip my collar and head north, over the Mason-Dixon Line and back to Clinton County. It’s looking like early November when I can depart. This small open window of opportunity between when my co-workers want to do their own jaunts.
Fine by me. Early November is a great slice of the fall to be in the North Country. Although the foliage will be gone by then, the heavy snows and below-zero temperatures of winter have yet to arrive. But, there will still be roaring fires in my folks’ farmhouse, my 83-year-old father tossing an endless stream of wood into the two stoves (back den and living room), my mother watching the evening news in the fiery glow with her glass of chardonnay.
And, as per usual, I have a “to do list” of things that bring me sheer joy whenever I’ve returned to the starting line of my existence. It’s “Michigan hot dogs” (look it up) at McSweeney’s Red Hots, a greasy spoon breakfast (with real maple syrup) at Campus Corner Diner, tacos and margaritas with my mom at The Pepper or some scrumptious French cuisine at the Left Bank Cafe. Oh, and don’t forget to order some poutine (brown gravy fries and cheese).
But, in my heart of hearts, it’s being outside and disappearing into Mother Nature that truly makes me feel like I’m really home. It’s a trail run at Point Au Roche State Park on the shores of Lake Champlain, down the seemingly endless rail-to-trail that is the Bloomingdale Bog Trail, up the steep ascent of Poke-O-Moonshine Mountain or the 7.7-mile out and back to the fire tower atop Lyon Mountain (the same place my father and grandfather called home).
Beyond my lifelong old soul nature and deeply sentimental self for cherished people, places and things from my past, I think, honestly, that this might be the most homesick I’ve felt for the North Country as far back as I can remember. Ever since I graduated high school in 2003 and took off for the horizon, I’ve always kept pushing forward. Full steam ahead. Take no prisoners. Onward.
And as I reflect on that genuine yearning for home, I’ve found that a lot of it is a sincere need for some silence, either in my mind or surrounding me, with the only sounds I want to hear being that of the following: crackling of the woodstove, fall breeze through the trees, my feet crunching across the fallen leaves along some backcountry route in the midst of a trail run. It’s been a long year thus far: of traveling, of assignments, and of just being a human.
The world is an absolutely maddening place right now. In truth? It’s always been chaotic and confusing. It’s just a matter of how well you balance yourself, physically and emotionally. Put down the smart phone. Touch some grass, as they say. Go for a hike. Drink some water. Raise your head towards the sunshine. Take a deep breath. Get coffee with an old friend.
Or maybe take that long overdue trip back home, even for a day or two. Track down those old friends for coffee or your parents for a margarita (or vice versa). Find that favorite place of yours where your spirit and your intent are perfectly aligned, usually found just beyond the tree line, a ways into the forest. Heck, maybe just sit down like I am and write it all down, for nobody and everybody, but mainly for yourself and what it means to be alive.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
