I'll See You on the Dark Side of the Falls

Recently, a very cool writing opportunity was pointed out to me by a number of laudatory friends. It was an advertised position for making contributions to a local lifestyle blog showcasing area cafes, golf courses, big red barns, yellow Labrador Retrievers, and bouquets of seasonal flowers, all captured carefully in accompanying images by a talented photographer. I was super excited because I love my town and all of its bounty...however, there is a gritty underbelly which lies beneath all of our farm-to-table restaurants and vintage automobiles and expensive antiques and my tendency, especially over the last five years, has been to seek out more and more of what quietly and humbly drives this place. I call that beautiful bedrock "the dark side of the Falls." 

So while I do want to write about which house on the north side of town has most festively decorated its holiday door, I am also eager to seek out Jamie, the once-homeless man, who sits in front of one of our most expensive and popular cyber-ready coffee houses with his paper cup primed for your offerings on the ground between his boots with the duct-taped soles. He will tell you anything you want to know if you engage him. My advice is, make sure you have at least 10 or 15 minutes to spend because he is a chatterbox of unequaled proportion. A few big-hearted friends supported an old fashioned come-together to bring him warm winter clothing and household items for an apartment he was able to move into after having been on the street for a long while. His red, raw chapped hands and iron-grey fingernails always touched my heart, so we made sure he got a brand new nail kit and some skin-friendly Dove soap in there, too. 

One of my cat-rescue friends pulled over and presented Jamie with an exceptionally generous cash gift at Christmastime when she saw him walking alone downtown on a below-zero afternoon. She told no-one but me.

These are the stories I want to share.  

I get excited when I see a new lash bar in town or a homemade cookie bakery which I am dying to try but I am equally excited to see Jeff. Jeff is one of those people with a smile for everyone, filled with joy and the holy spirit. Before Sandy's Clam Bar closed, we'd run into him there on the dance floor, holding one arm folded in an L shape against his chest, perspiring and laughing and singing aloud. Because of having had a traumatic brain injury, Jeff cannot drive and he therefore pulls one leg behind him in staccato step as he makes his way to his favorite haunts every day. Wearing a huge cross around his neck, both literally and figuratively, he laments to me that his favorite restaurant is still closed due to Covid and he is desperate for a cup of their thick, syrupy, on-the-burner-all-damn-day coffee and a slice of their Fruits of the Forest pie. I think he's more desperate for the company which he keeps there every night but I nod and concur. Jeff's nickname is 'Poppy Poptart' and if it's breakfast time, you'll see one of those sweet confections in his able hand, crumbs on his face and silvery foil flapping in the breeze as he ambles down the block. Upon learning that this was his go-to morning confection, a wonderfully softhearted friend of mine bought a case of them for me to present to him at that favorite restaurant while he ate his dessert and drank his ebony java one evening pre-pandemic. All the regulars at the counter clapped because Jeff is rarely quiet and in one magic moment that night we rendered him speechless. 

These are my favorites. The people who truly don't know how special they are. Do people write about them? May I have the privilege of being that writer?

I'd be honored to tell you about who had the coolest Adirondack-style wedding I've ever seen and which city street has the best block parties with chalk-on-macadam rainbow portraits and silver troughs of Nantucket Nectar, but I also want to tell you about Chris and how he parks himself inside the front lobby of our Hannaford on the cold days so that he doesn't have to spend more hours than necessary out of doors in the frigid air. I stand behind him at the Post Office every so often where he pays for single, pre-stamped envelopes with nickels and pennies, his right eye so close to the counter that it looks like he is preparing to rest his head. We saw Chris last night when we were out at our favorite pizza place. He wandered in, looking chipper in his neon yellow construction vest routinely worn at dusk so that he doesn't get inadvertently mowed down while walking in the street. The waitress knows his order without offering him a menu. She brings him water. He sits alone. As our table orders beer, wings, and pizza, we laugh with my Dad exchanging loud stories about what he is watching on Netflix these days. Chris gets a simple solitary sandwich on the opposite side of the room. My husband, always seeing what I see at each and every turn, nods to me and pays Chris's bill on the way out.

These are our town's people, too. I want to know about them just as much as I want to know about the millionaire obstetrician who travels abroad in search of unusual collectibles and the lumber baron who sits in Bill Parcell's box seats at the track every August. 

So, yes, invite me to your cocktail party and I will show up in the most darling outfit you ever saw. I will drink all the Prosecco and politely pass on the carbs, and fling my hair over my shoulder and discuss which Tesla is the biggest bang for the buck right now, because, if you know me, you know I love all of that. I will write about your foie gras and your charcuterie board and your Hacker Runabout and your advertising business. I will take notes on your Maltipoo and your award winning hybridized lilies and your gutted to the studs Victorian home that has been refurbished with reclaimed wood floors because I want to hear about what intrigues people and who doesn't love a good purse puppy, herbaceous botanicals and sad old house made good as new? But when I drive by that big red barn on the way home, I will see the struggle more than I see the structure. I sure as shit want to stop in front of it and feed the stray kitties and fantasize about spray painting the name of an old friend on it in big loopy letters before snapping a non catalog-worthy photo, because my friend happened to drive his Mustang off the road and was killed on that hallowed spot after working too long of a shift in one of those very restaurants that gets written about; and although that particular story might not be pretty it is a square in the quilt of this town, a block in the foundation of my life. And it all matters to me. 

Photo credit: Gene Krebs/Getty

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