Be humble

I suspect that most people who ultimately settle and make a life in an area that is different from where they grew up, have a yearning to go back to where fond memories originate.  My genes and roots originate in the North Country of New York State.  I left there long ago, but for reasons I do not understand, I have been feeling a strong pull to return.  Over the past Winter, I made plans to go back to one part of my past.  My maternal grandparents were what I think of as hard rock New England Farmers.  They built their home themselves, my Mom was born in the house and over the years that I knew my grand father, I remember a man who said little and never stopped working.  He slept, ate and worked.

People from other areas often have little understanding of the North Country area.  They think of the teeming population of New York City and seldom understand that is a small (very small) part of what makes up New York State. 

Circumstances worked out for the visit.  It was a trip I wanted to make alone and as my friend Tom has a conference in Ottawa, I left him in Montreal and rode South.

The last time I visited the old family farm was 1963 - it was my grandfather’s wake and he was ‘laid out’ in the front room - a custom that still exists in the area.  I had not been back since.

The day I arrived, it was over 90 F and the countryside was bathed in a sharp white glare that I remembered well.  One passes through many small North Country communities and the last one before the farm is still as sleepy and quiet as I remember.  On hot days woman are seen sipping cool drinks on the porch and people do not move very fast.

Grass is growing up through cracks in the pavement.  The buildings are faded and practical.  Doors and windows are open and the old foundations of granite are still straight and true.  People get by, I guess.  Much as they did years ago when I was a regular visitor to Uncle Tom’s General Store.

It is easy to view this a community that time forgot.

As I passed though the village, memories of small boys daring to swim in dangerous places came back, and the reason was obvious.  I was looking at the place that the village boys played.

Of course small boys were not allowed to go here, but small boys have a way of getting out of the site of worried Moms.  Fathers who understand what small boys needed to do, had their ways of sharing secrets with their sons.

It helped that my Dad understood.

Like many things viewed many years later, the size of the waterfall and pool seemed much smaller when viewed though older eyes.

I was disappointed that I did not see children playing in the village, but perhaps time and no opportunities has taken people to other area.  It was a sleepy quiet place to visit.

To reach the old family farm, I recalled a long dirt road. It was still there and it was still dirt.  The sign at the end of the road said “Eggleston Lane”!  I never knew.  My grandparents surname was Eggleston.

The road had not changed.  The landscape had not changed.  Dust still coated the grass that grew to the edge of the road.  The county still kept the road well graded.  There was one new resident (out of sight back in the trees) on the road. 

I stopped the bike and sat in the field at the edge of the road.  I gazed at the landscape.  I imagined the milk truck going down the road to pick up the milk that Poppy had moved to the milk house.  I imagined an old Nash Rambler car going down the road with my grandparents as they made their way to Church.  No one passed and only the sound of the breeze intruded.  It was a lazy Summer day that only a small boy with no responsibilities understands.  For that little while, I was that small boy.

A few miles down the lane I arrived at the old farm.  Not much has changed.  The screened in porch is gone and that saddened me.  Many evenings were spent sitting on the porch and talking about the day’s labour and the labour that was planned for the next day. 

I could imagine Poppy, shoulders stooped, as he walked to the barn to do the never ending chores.  He never stopped.  I guess one just did not stop working.  I have heard it called a New England work ethic - but much would be simple necessity.  If one was to live - one worked.

The area is one of poverty, but poverty with dignity.  People get by.  They farm, they sell wood, they do mechanical work, they do odd jobs - they get by and they don’t have a lot of expectation they will get anything they have not worked for.

People help each other.  The help that is offered is never asked for nor is there a feeling of entitlement.  It is simply what neighbours do. 

Sadly, the farm is no longer a working farm.  Poppy’s dairy barn is now longer the source of pride that it once was.  Time and weather has taken a toll.

..and so I did go back and I am glad I did.  It is likely that I will not go back again.  Memories have been refreshed, time has been turned back, and for just a few hours, I saw life through the eyes of the small boy I once was.  I saw my grandfather and grandmother and I saw Mom and Dad.  I even spoke to them.  I think they smiled.

The was one thing left to do.  At the end of a long day of haying, we would go to a swimming hole to wash off the sweat and chaff of the day.  It was a time when the body was weary from a day in the sun and throwing bales - but it was a good weary.  The Bouquet River is at the end of the road.  The swimming hole is still there.

The water still moves slowly with a torpid grace.  The sun is still hot and the trees give the slow moving water a green glow.  Grass still grows to the edge of the river and the bank is still soft with slippery clay.  It is still a very private place.  The only sound is of birds, an occasional slap and gurgle of water.  It is a very peaceful place. 

Why not?  I was alone.  I slipped out of my cloths and put on a pair of shorts and stepped into the river.  The bottom was as slippery with clay as I remember and was more shallow that I remember.  I recalled a large boulder in the middle of the river.  The current would swirl around the boulder making the river deeper there.  It was still there and it was still deep.  As I looked back to the shore I could seem my Mom and Dad - both young and happy - both keeping a very close eye on the happy kids in the water and smiling.  I smiled back.

There are things that people need to do in life.  This one one I needed to do.  I did go back and the visit accomplished what I hoped.  As I left the area, it was with a sense of (what is the word?) - just that there was a smile on my face and an inner feeling of contentedness. 

Over the years, I have found many places that I love.  This was one of them.  I am happy to have seen it one more time though they eyes of a small boy.