This must be the place: ‘There’s no simple explanation for anything important any of us do’
Point Au Roche State Park.
Garret K. Woodward photo
I had just finished a 3.3-mile jog along the backroads of Clinton County. The afternoon sun was quickly falling behind the snowy peaks of the Adirondack Mountains in the distance. The slow shadow of winter night soon enveloping the Champlain Valley, my parents’ Upstate New York farmhouse smack dab in the middle of it. And it was at this moment my mother asked me a question.
“Do you still want to go to Canada and get some poutine?” she posed. I was still in my running clothes and it was frigid outside, but I didn’t care. The thought of real deal poutine (cheese curds and fries covered in brown gravy) sounded too good to pass up. That, and the sound of it made me immediately hungry.
Jumping into my mom’s car, we cruised up Route 22 from the farmhouse towards the Canadian border crossing in Mooers, New York, about a half-hour drive from where my folks call home in Plattsburgh. With the sun setting, we drove by timeless farmland in the valley, by old colonial homes and vast cornfields, through small villages and quaint hamlets of my youth.
Along the way, I pointed out places that remain intact in my memory. There was Ashley Jennett’s former childhood home, an old high school friend, whose house I remember going to for her birthday party in middle school. Then, there was Susan Seymour’s old house, one of my closest friends growing up, a beloved face I haven’t seen in years, who I last heard was living in Chicago.
And there was also Ben Perron’s old home he and his ex-wife once inhabited not long after they got married. He had been my best friend since the first day of seventh grade, a time when I had no friends and he didn’t either. We met on the school bus en route to a cross-country race, the only seat left on the Twinkie-shaped vehicle being one open spot directly behind the bus driver and across the aisle from our coach. I asked if I could sit. He said okay.
I was the best man at Ben’s wedding ceremony. At the time, I was 24 and had recently returned to New York from my rookie gig as a reporter in Idaho. It was 2009 and the U.S. economy was in the gutter, myself making peanuts writing dinky articles for the local newspaper. And I recall many-a-time rolling up to Ben’s former house to hangout, to do and say nothing and everything. Those memories and moments now covered in dust, happily cherished.
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Turning off Route 22 into Mooers, we drove by the elementary school, an aged building still full of life and education. I played basketball there on Saturday mornings as a little kid competing against Mooers as a member of the St. Mary’s Academy team from nearby Champlain. It was also the same place where I had my first day as a substitute teacher, a position I sporadically took when I was back home from college on winter, spring and summer breaks.
Rolling up to the border crossing, we handed our passports to the Canadian officer. He momentarily questioned why I was crossing through a small, rural port, being a North Carolina resident. Once he found out I was raised in these parts, he smiled, handed me back my booklet and welcomed us to Canada. Onward to Hemmingford, Quebec, for steamy hot poutine, a traditional dish in the North Country that’s truly, and honestly, only perfected above the border.
Initially, the plan was to hit up the Resto Pub Witsend, the main culinary spot in the heart of the tiny Quebec community. Stepping onto the porch of the limestone structure, the front door was locked. Even though the website said it was open on Sunday afternoons, that appeared not to be the case. Maybe it was the frigid cold of the past week or so? Maybe it was the lack of business during the winter months? Who knows? It was all locked up and we were out of luck.
Regardless, I was able to find another location just down the road that was actually open and had rave reviews online for its poutine: Burger Bob’s. The dining area was completely empty when we walked in. No matter. Two small orders of regular poutine, please. Soon, two bowls of poutine appeared and we dove right in. It was so delicious that there was a peaceful silence of contentment and comfort found during the meal. I felt at home with this meal.
With the bowls licked clean, we said goodbye to Burger Bob’s and started up the car. Instead of heading straight back to the farmhouse, my mom and I decided to venture east, back over the border and along Route 11 to Rouses Point, New York: the hometown and starting line for both of us. We weren’t ready to go back to Plattsburgh. Why not just drift a little more down the open road and wander into RP, maybe even a beverage at the American Legion?
To preface, the “Legion” is the main social hub of RP, and has been for many years since the other bars in the town all closed a long time ago, an era when the town was vibrant and full of optimistic people, now mostly vacated since the pharmaceutical factory shutdown when I was in high school. And yet, the “Legion” remains, as do many folks I still know and will always call family.
Bellying up to the bar counter, the room was somewhat empty, save for some old-timers and a few folks my age that I didn’t recognize. I tossed a few dollars into the jukebox and played the sounds of my homeland, which was The Tragically Hip, a legendary Canadian rock band that is now regarded as the soundtrack of the North Country. Sip on a cold Labatt Blue Light and let the music play. The swirling of moments long gone, now frozen in memory.
Ever since I left RP at 18 for college some 300 miles away in Connecticut, the only times I’ve ever found myself in the “Legion” were either for post-funeral gatherings for my grandfather or my late cousin (who was like the older brother I never had) or for impromptu gatherings of old cronies whenever I found myself in town every blue moon. It felt good to be back, even if I kind of felt like a stranger in my hometown. My mom had similar sentiments.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
