This must be the place: ‘Now you say you’re leaving’ home, ‘cause you want to be alone’
Bloomingdale Bog Trail in Upstate New York.
Garret K. Woodward photo
Hello from my folks’ farmhouse out in the countryside of Upstate New York. It’s been mighty frigid here in my native North Country since I arrived home last week. At one point, ‘round midnight on a recent evening, the temperature dropped to around -22 degrees. Daytime temps hovered at zero for several days, with wind chills from the Canadian Arctic making critters outside hide and remain silent and those inside huddled near the fireplace, waiting out the cold.
This is the first time I’ve been home in just about exactly one year. And it was the same story even then, below zero weather and lots of snow. Heck, we got over a foot of fresh powder yesterday alone, my trusty, rusty pickup truck now entirely covered up with the white stuff and currently resembling a tall, rectangular snowbank. Brush off the snow and get on with your day, eh?
This go-round, I traversed north of the Mason-Dixon Line to see my parents, with my mother’s birthday last week the main focus of this trek up and down the Eastern Seaboard. The morning of her birthday, she had to take my father to a doctor’s appointment across Lake Champlain in Burlington, Vermont. By that evening, I was able to sneak her away to Anthony’s Bistro (the fancy restaurant in these parts) in Plattsburgh, New York, for a meal and a beverage held high, in unison, and in celebration of her special day.
Now? It’s early Tuesday evening. The farmhouse is in its usual rhythm. My father in the back den, tending to his woodstove and watching sports. My mother in the living room, tending to her woodstove and watching the local news. Our family dog, a golden retriever, lying on the wooden floor of the kitchen, a few feet from where I sit at the table and type away wildly. The windows of the house are fogged up from Old Man Winter licking his chops.
Although it’s freezing cold and most people wouldn’t venture to this part of the country until at least Memorial Day Weekend, I find this time of year quite enjoyable. The silence. The tranquility. This true sense of place and genuine appreciation for the changing seasons. I mean, how can you appreciate the dog days of summer if you can’t handle the depths of winter, the ancient and timeless splendor of what it takes to bundle up and head out the front door?
Truth be told, this is the second year-in-a-row that I’ve found myself up here in the attic of America. Not necessarily by choice, more so circumstance. By spring, I’m usually bouncing around Southern Appalachia on an array of assignments. By summer and fall, more assignments as I aim the nose of the truck towards the Rocky Mountains, with Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Idaho and South Dakota being the main anchor points of my wandering.
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And yet, I find solace and joy when I pack up my things in my quaint apartment in downtown Waynesville — winter clothing, warm boots, proper outdoor running/hiking gear — not long after the ball drops in Times Square for New Year’s Eve, fill up the gas tank on Old Asheville Highway on the outskirts of town, and start the long trip (1,100+ miles) down Interstate 40, up I-26 to I-81 to I-88 to I-87 to the 1840 brick farmhouse in Plattsburgh.
My mindset on this excursion has been, as per usual, one of great reflection. It never ceases to amaze me how much I have to think about and how many miles it takes to get even a little bit of clarity within my restless thoughts. It conjures that old adage, “Oh, what a difference a year makes.” The head on my shoulders remains steadfast, much more than it was one full wall calendar ago when I retreated to the North Country in search of myself once again.
By this juncture of the column, it’s a few hours after I initially wrote the first part of this here column. Amid the initial run at completing this piece, it was decided that my mother and I would go play some pool at the local lounge, Meron’s, which has been a mainstay in the Plattsburgh community for decades. Both my parents remember going there in the 1960s, when they were young adults, when both had yet to meet in person.
Like clockwork, playing pool at Meron’s with my mom is something we’ve been doing for the better part of the last two decades, at least since I was 23 and just had returned from my first reporting gig out in Idaho in 2008. At age 40 (now), I still look forward to when my mom asks if I want to shoot some billiards once I’m done remote work for the day and can slip my collar.
Like clockwork, we pull into the snowy parking space at Meron’s, the old-school neon lights atop the front door glowing in the faint, cascading snowflakes from the heavens above. Walk in and order my usual, a Labatt Blue Light. Head to the pool table with a pocketful of quarters (one game is only 75 cents). Head to the nearby jukebox and select the same songs she and I always play when we play pool: Chicago, Jimi Hendrix, Rolling Stones, Animals, Sly & The Family Stone, Blood Sweat & Tears, The Eagles, Willie Nelson and so on.
We usually end up playing three or four games of pool before the jukebox selections have run their course. Between the beginning and the end of the Meron’s journey, many topics have been covered between the two of us, with the usual subjects coming to the surface of the conversation: love lost and love found (on my end), grandchildren (on her end), and whatever else may strike our fancy — from politics to music, traveling dreams to everyday situations.
An hour or so later, it’s time to go back home, but not before acknowledging my mom’s birthday (last week) being listed on the famed calendar tacked up on the Meron’s wall in recognition of locals beloved by the establishment. The page next to be recognized is February, with my birthday also listed (Feb. 5). It’s a privilege to be listed. It’s a privilege to spend quality time with her, too.
Cruise back to the family farmhouse, down frozen roads of familiarity and of my youth, snowbanks higher than the hood of the vehicle, now the guardrails of time and place. Zoom by road signs to other towns held close to my heart, and to my memory. My mom thanks me for the great night. I concur.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
