Pulaski

Just back from a weekend with my father, during which we interred my mother's ashes and had a committal service. About which there will be more, later. But starting before that...

We took a different route from Montreal to central New York this time, driving through Ontario along the St. Lawrence and crossing at Thousand Islands to pick up Rt. 81 south toward Syracuse. It was getting dark as we drove past the wetlands and strange wild edges of the area known as the Tug Hill Plateau, west of the Adirondacks and east of Lake Erie. We were hungry, and decided to pull off at the small town of Pulaski after seeing a highway sign for the "Hometown Diner." It's a depressed working class town, full of yellow ribbons on pickups and "Support our Troops"stickers and flags, with a nearly-deserted old mainstreet of brick buildings and empty shop windows. We parked and got out of the car and, spotting a Chinese restaurant kitty-corner across from the diner, walked down to check it out too. Two teenagers were coming toward us on the dark sidewalk, a girl and a boy, when something fluttered out of a doorway and across our shared path at ankle level. The girl looked twice, exclaimed to her friend, "That was a bat!" and then looked at me as if wanting adult confirmation.

"Yep,"I said. "That was a bat!"

"That's so weird," she said, widening her eyes in mock fear. We moved on. After looking in the window at the grim, faded pictures of Chinese meals, where the egg rolls and noodles had turned an unappetizing green, we chose the diner and headed across the street.

Inside it was bright and smelled like French fries. Two waitresses in red T-shirts were busy running from table to table, while a teenage boy in a similar shirt loaded a dishwasher. We sat down at the counter and looked at the specials. It was Friday - fish fry night - and the short order cook, an older man with a balding head, muscular arms, wearing a white apron, and a surgical glove on one hand, which he used to dip the big pieces of fresh cod or haddock into the egg and flour mixtures, was in a foul mood. The dishwasher boy looked sideways, shook his head, and remarked, under his voice, to the dark-haired waitress, "Boy, he's had it tonight!" We found out later that this had been a record-busy night; everyone was exhausted and the cook, who worked two jobs, had another shift to go to after this one. The waitress brought us coffee and a pot of hot tea for me;  J. ordered the hot turkey special and I ordered a fried fish sandwich. "That comes with a side - what would you like? We're out of the macaroni and cheese," she said.

"What's best?" I answered. "Is the cole slaw good? "

"That's my favorite,"she said, with a bright smile.

"Ok, I said, "Sounds good to me."

It took at least half an hour for the cook to get to our order, and in that time we looked at old photos of snowy Pulaski on the walls above the booths, and read all the signs posted over the prep area - there were many - some funny, some admonishing customers not to come behind the counter - "no exceptions!" We learned that the reason was that a number of regulars thought nothing of coming in and pouring their own coffee when the diner was busy, and the owner was afraid someone, including the help, would get burned. We also learned that our waitress's birthday was next week and she was hoping for money; she planned to let everyone at the diner know the date. Meanwhile Jim, the dishwasher, was unloading the steaming sterilizer and carrying on a conversation with a guy at the end of the counter who had come up from New Jersey to do some fishing with his wife. He picked at his dinner and when Jim asked him if he didn't like it, he said he'd had a lot to drink and didn't feel very hungry. He did, apparently, feel like talking.

"You go riding in the winter up on the Plateau?" he asked the kid.

"Yeah," he said. "When there's snow. Last year was a crappy year, but usually it's good." (The Tug Hill Plateau has a reputation for massive lake-effect snowfalls.) "A couple years ago at the Meet there were 20,000 riders up there. It was awesome." Up until then I had been thinking "snowboarding?" but when he mentioned that number it dawned on me that he meant snowmobiles. My mind went numb at the thought of the noise. The visitor asked him what it was like to live up here, and he answered that the only way for people to make it was if both the husband and wife worked.

"Guess I'll stay where I am," said the visitor. "I make good money down there and can come up here when I feel like playing."

Our meals came and were delicious, and she was right, the cole slaw - which had the surprising addition of pineapple - was terrific. We ate and listened to snips of the conversation at the end of the counter, which had turned from snowmobile racing to speeding tickets.

"I've had my license a year and haven't gotten stopped yet," said the boy. I looked at him as he moved skillfully between the dishwasher and the sterilizer, stacking the dishes so the waitresses could pick them up easily. He had an intelligent, good-natured face with the open expression I've always associated with local people in this part of the world, where so little happens in daily life that being social and talking to one another takes primary importance.

"You've got to be careful," said the visitor. "Them tickets can be mightly expensive." I looked over at him and wasn't impressed; he was wiry and had a hard look around his eyes and he'd obviously had too much to drink.

"Oh, I'm not too worried," said the boy, quietly. "My dad's a lawyer and he's good. He just defended this kid who had killed both his mother and his father and he got them off."

"Did you hear that?" I asked J. in a whisper. He shook his head and asked what they'd said; I told him I'd tell him later. I looked back at the boy, who was still working; he had a whole system figured out with the dishes. I had a sudden urge to reach over the counter and take hold of his shoulders and say, "Get out of here! Go to school somewhere and get out of this place before you end up in Iraq. You're a smart, good kid. Don't screw up your life."

Instead, the visitor and his wife stood up and were paying their check. "Hey," he said to the kid. "Give me your number and maybe we can hook up and go riding sometime."

"That would be cool," said the boy, as he fished a pice of paper out of his pocket, wrote on it and handed it to the man. They left and the waitresses rang up the two last checks; it was getting toward closing time. The dark-haired one took our money and turned toward the boy; taking hold of his left shoulder she spun him around so they were both facing the window, away from the customers.

"What are you doing, Jim?" she hissed close to his ear. "You should never give your phone number to strangers. You don't know anything about that guy!" And then, just as fast as she had grabbed him, she let him go, turned around and said, with a big smile, "Goodnight, folks," as she handed J. the change.

"Have a happy birthday," we said, and walked out into the night and drove away.

Comments

[zhoen]

The waitress was right, of course, but we all reach out for connection and like minds. We blog our personal details, and let slip information that could be easily used by a predator. The risks are stupid, but we keep opening up because the chance for friendship is stronger.

I'm rather fond of bats.

[dale]

Wonderful narrative. Thank you.

[Peter]

I grew to love the I-81 corridor in the years I lived in Central New York, but in since then, my memories of Pulaski are mixed up with those of similar towns except for the village's great attraction, the salmon-snagging, when a great run of fishermen with snagging hooks used to come to the Salmon River to try to catch fish that were on their way to open water after a summer spent in the upper reaches.

Maybe they don't even do it anymore; snagging was controversial 20 years ago. But I have clear memories of stopping in local diners all along the way up there, where their bright windows were beacons in the gathering dark when we were hungry.

If you like byways, consider taking NY 67 from Ballston Spa, on I-87, to Amsterdam, on I-90. The number of miles saved will about compensate for the slowness of the route, and if Amsterdam isn't pretty, it's picturesque.

Or spend the night in Alexandria Bay -- Everyone should spend a night of their lives in Alex Bay -- and detour down Route 12 from Watertown through Boonville, to see what the *other* side of the Tug Hill looks like. I once attempted a piece of automotive bushwacking from there, trying to find my way from Boonville to Big Moose via an uncertain black line on a Mobil map. I'd be up behind the West Canada Lakes to this day if a kid on a beat-up bike hadn't pointed out the right dirt road among the miles of featureless pines.

But I loved those towns best for their history, for in the days of water power they were vital, busy places, each with a mill or two that turned out some product or other for the regional market, and sometimes shipped them farther. Electricity and good transportation did them all in, of course, but they have come back a little as crafts workers set themselves up and tried to snag a few of those fishermen as they pass by. (A salmon snagger could be counted on to respond to the lure of a plastic-resin outhouse with an arrow -- his, hers, unoccupied -- the door and "Pulaski, NY" on the base. But to see the real mecca of tourist tchotchke you need to go to the mother nest, the central hive of all such things in New York, which I believe is Alexandria.)

Happy trails ...

[Dave]

Damn fine slice-of-life post, Beth. I can't help wondering whether you still would have been inspired to write it if the food hadn't been delicious?

[Beth]

Zhoen, you're right.

Thanks, Dale.

Peter, thanks for this terrific addition. We often drive NY 67 from Ballston Spa to Amsterdam, and also like NY 30, which continues from Amsterdam to Rt. 20, past old Dutch barns with their faded-red-paint arched doorways. But I've never really been on the back side of Tug Hill and I've never been to Alexandria - sounds like a great omission in need of correction!

Dave, yeah, I would've written it anyway. The food was good but it will fade into memory long before the human stuff does. It was the impression of these lives - the cook's, the dark-haired waitress's (who was really pretty,very nice and still young) and that kid's - all very much stationary, and mine, passing through - that made me want to write about it. Because I grew up in a place like that, and I know what it feels like, and what it feels like to leave, and to come back.

[Susan]

I have been in the diner, I am sure. My Dad was a manufacturer's rep who traveled what we called "the North country" and he and my Mom bought a place in Theresa NY just south and east of Alex Bay. It was on Moon Lake.
Anyway, we would drive 104 from Rochester on our way to the Moon, and always went through Pulaski. Even now my bros and srs and I will mention Dad's route through Pulaski and the pie at the diner.
I liked reading your piece. It would not have been complete without the edge of violence when the boy mentions the murders. The open faces, lazy conversations and the potential for violence fit my memories of the North Country..

[Jean]

I was there, I could see it all, and what the young man said about his father sent shivers up my spine. This is really wonderfully written. Gave me more of a small-town diner than all the similar scenes in all the American films I've watched.

[Larry Ayers]

A very nice narrative indeed! This is my first visit, but I'll be back.

[language hat]

Terrific post. Thanks.

[Jack Ruttan]

When I read "riding" I thought of horses, and had an image of a squad of 2000 riders on horses on snowshoes. (or maybe Clydesdales, as in those winter beer commercials. Normal horses, I think would sink in the powder,) But I've never done that sport where a horse pulls you along and you're on x-country skis. (it's called something Swedish, I think)

[Beth]

Thanks and welcome, Susan and Larry. I appreciated what you said about the open faces and conversation and violence, Susan - that's my feeling as well.

LH - glad you liked this one!

Jack - wow - that never occured to me, but what an image it would be! (And I don't know the name of that Nordic sport either, but I know what you mean - Scandinavian immigrants used to do it in New England as well.)

[Jack Ruttan]

The web calls it Ski-Joring. Something I should know as I've got Norwegian blood, and was touring on wooden skis since a tot.

[Beth]

Thanks, Jack! Now that I see it again, I remember the term but I'd certainly forgotten it. Let us know if you ever try it!

[Tom Montag]

Oh, Beth, you have a terrific eye and ear, and the perfect pen for such writing. This is lovely. It took my breath.

[Beth]

Well, I wrote that one with you in mind, Tom. I felt like you were sitting there with me in that diner, too!

[John Northrup]

Great narrative. I will surely be back when I have time to browse. I wish I could write as well. I grew up on The Tug, and you capture the small town feel perfectly. I know the area very well. thanks,
http://winteridge2.blogspot.com/

[beth]

Hi John - delighted to hear from you! I looked at your blog and was glad that someone is writing from and about the Tug Hill Plateau - I don't think there are very many central New York bloggers to begin with, and there is so much that could be written about. The wind farms are an interesting experiment, both scientifically and sociologically. There's one near my father's home, in Madison, and the residents have pretty much accepted it. The windmills have a certain kind of beauty, too, even if it is startling to see them towering above the hills.

I hope you'll keep reading The Cassandra Pages, and I'm always grateful for comments and feedback.