Greetings Dear Readers,
I decided to depart from my other blog, www.ayzha.wordpress.com because what I’ll be writing here really is about the start of a new and different chapter in my life. Oh yes, to be sure, there will be some of the same ranting my readers are used to, agree or not. But, somehow, going forward here in my new home in Brantingham, New York feels different, more satisfying, perhaps more settled and contemplative, certainly more observational.
You may wonder how, all of a sudden, I got from life for over a dozen years in oh-so-urban Connecticut to a place that in so many ways is the polar opposite. Here’s my story.
In the first year of knowing my future husband, 1965, I at age 16, he a year or so older, introduced me to this rugged, remote land where he learned to enjoy male camaraderie and the sport of deer hunting at a rough-hewn hunting camp barely accessible by foot in the middle of the woods. He was already familiar with the expanse of forests and lakes, square miles of the Adirondacks mostly inhabited by wildlife with human habitation the exception rather than the rule.
Within a couple of years, the advent of snowmobiles made this area of the Adirondacks a magnet for winter recreating. Several of the member of the hunting club bought machines, as they are affectionately called, and made “Unc’s Camp” their winter headquarters. There were miles and miles of dirt roads for riding, snow-covered state hiking trails now nascent snowmobile trails cut through the woods made by these early aficionados. These byways allowed access to many lakes and hamlets including country bars that offered hearty hot lunches with a beer. Here riders gathered to get warm and to exchange stories of both their adventures and misadventures that so characterized those early days of winter riding on crude machines (by today’s standards) years before Thinsulate and warm clothing made specifically for the sport made the cold weather more tolerable.
My husband-to-be and I were part of this early contingent of snowmobilers. In truth, Unc’s Camp had always been a male bastion but soon, women were invited into the fraternity…but only in winter. The small tar paper covered shack heated by a pot-belly stove garnered many memories of wild card games, thick steaks cooked on the wood stove, steaming hot cups of coffee and early breakfasts with platters piled high with pancakes, sausages and bacon before bundling up and heading out for the day’s ride. Probably the most difficult adjustment to make was the ubiquitous outhouse. At near zero degree temperatures, it took a lot of courage to make the trek in the dark of night when nature called.
Eventually, my parents joined the group and fell in love with the area. They bought their own snowmobiles in the early 1970’s and soon thereafter purchased 90 acres of land nearby. My father and grandfather built a large 2-room camp, a quantum leap from “Unc’s Camp.” The main room had a huge fireplace, a propane gas stove and refrigerator and a sink with a manual hand pump that brought water up from a massive stainless steel tank/cistern beneath the floor. Compared to “Unc’s,” we had a lot more mod-cons. An extra long picnic table served as meal and card game central. Light in the evenings came from real gas lights with mantels powered by propane. The other room was a bunk room with four double bed bunks make from angle iron by my grandfather replete with lumpy mattresses. After being out on the trail in all that fresh air followed by a few beers over a heated card game at night, believe me, no one complained. In the middle of the camp, a huge pot-belly stove kept us warm…or cold when it went out in the middle of the night. Here is where I learned the oft-debated craft of how to keep the thing burning all night. Woe be it to the first one up in the morning who did not spark things up for the rest of us nestled in our sleeping bags. We had many, many great times and fond memories of those weekends spent in my parents’ camp.
In the mid 1980’s, my parents decided to sell their home outside of Syracuse and build a new one adjacent to their camp. They chose a large 3-bedroom ranch design along with a three car garage and a workshop designed to keep my father out of my mother’s hair. Once their home was completed, my father was able to sell the camp to several guys who disassembled it and hauled it away.
My parents enjoyed 20 years of retired life in their new home until my dad became ill and passed away. My mom continued to live alone there though in the last few years dementia put her independence in jeopardy. A stroke on August 2 of this year and admission to the local nursing home sadly ended her life in the only new home she and my father had ever known during their 50+ years of marriage.
A few months before my mom’s health suddenly declined, my own job in Connecticut and my life there for all intents and purposes came to an end. I went from full-time to very part-time and the future of returning to full-time with the company I loved appeared to be bleak. Because of the dismal economy, finding another job in my field of public works construction, seemed to be futile. I don’t remember the moment I made the decision to move into my parents’ home but it just seemed more like it was destined to happen and so I just went with it. And, here I am.
My next “chapter” will continue with the challenges of the house itself.
North Country Journal 