Abercrombie

…and believe it or not, the days are getting shorter.

About 35 miles straight south of Fargo, North Datoka, there is a small town on the Red River of about 300 people named Fort Abercrombie. In my mind’s eye, it is an idyllic facsimile of Mayberry, that once contained several gas stations, a bank, a Ford store, a blacksmith, a hardware store, meat market, laundry, café, grain elevator, grocery, truss factory, school, Lutheran Church and of course, a bar.

All the time I lived in the ever-changing environment of Los Angeles, I used to love my yearly pilgrimages back “home” to North Dakota. I would eagerly make the drive every summer, and with mouthfuls of sunflower seeds and bottles of cold Diet Coke, I’d roll my Ford 150  pickup across Wyoming (Evanston, Rock Springs, Rawlings, Casper, Douglas, Lusk) and into and across South Dakota (Hot Springs, Rapid, Wall, Pierre, Redfield, Watertown, Sisseton). After about 32 or 33 hours, somewhere on day two of the drive, I’d head up Interstate 29 and cross the border into North Dakota. As I entered the Peace Garden State, I could literally feel the clock turn back in time.

Several miles off the Interstate, right on the Red River that serves as the border to Minnesota, is the town of Fort Abercrombie. Abercrombie, or Aber as the locals call it, is a classic Midwestern small town. As you turn east onto Broadway off of “old 81,” you can look down the main drag and literally see the end of town on the opposite side. There are still some businesses on both sides of the road, with cars parked diagonally to the curb (more in front of the bar than anywhere else), and a city park that bookends the east entrance. Though I used to love town café owned and operated by my mom’s brother, it had long closed down by the time I made my yearly trips back to North Dakota. Thankfully, many of the town’s (and surrounding farm) locals still gathered each morning in the Town Hall (directly across the street from the old café) for morning coffee. Every morning when I would visit, I always looked forward to walking into that hall and receiving a greeting significantly warmer than anything I ever enjoyed back in LA.

Though people seem to come and go almost daily in my life both in Southern California and here in the District, I always had the comfort of knowing I could walk in and see the same old boys wearing the same old oil-stained overalls, faded Carharts, and dirty farmer’s Co-op hats. Gathered around the men’s table, Kenny Jacobson, Munce, the Herrick boys, Fritz Snyder, Philip Balmy, Sam Harsted, Carl Snyder, Mike Hagen, Eddie Miller, Chief, Maynard, Owen Meyre, Milt Greenier, the banker from Kent and my uncle Donald would sit there for hours telling really bad jokes, lamenting the stagnant price of wheat, talking about how much it rained, and generally solving most of the world’s problems. Some mornings, I would sit at the out-of-tune town hall upright piano and play “Red River Valley” or “Amazing Grace” and receive roaring applause…regardless of how many times they’d heard me play. No matter how insane things were in LA, it was a huge sense of comfort to know I could return to this pillar of stability knowing nothing ever changed…or ever would.

After going home every year from 1985 until 1998, I quit making the annual trip after I took off the tool belt and went to work for the local union in 1998. The work at the local union was too important, and the luxury of two-weeks off to make the long road trip really wasn’t possible. Thinking back, it was weird how almost overnight, something that was so much a part of my life suddenly got pushed to the bottom of the priority pile. Over time, I suppressed the urge to go back while I feverishly worked on the things I was so sure mattered so much more. I never really worried about it though, because I knew it would always be there.

I finally made the trip a couple of years ago, and after a speaking role in Fargo in 2007 I made the drive down Old 81 and spent a couple of extra days with my uncle Donald the summer…just before he passed away the following spring. As was the custom when we got together, we drove around the country on two-lane hardtop and gravel roads for hours and talked about old times. We traveled passed the different mostly abandoned family farms as my uncle provided a verbal genealogy of all the distant relatives. It was often too much to keep track of, and to be honest it was a little scary to hear that I pretty much seemed to be related to everybody.

As always, we also went into the Town Hall each morning for coffee. The first time we walked in on that particular trip, I was shocked at how different the never-changing scene looked that morning. For one thing, the crowd was much smaller, and most of the boys that had always been there…were not. It hadn’t seemed like it had been a whole lot of time since my last visit…and for a brief moment, I wondered what had happened between trips.  It took a couple of minutes to process it all, but suddenly it hit me that most of them had passed away. As I thought about it, I vaguely recalled my mother telling me at some point over the years amidst rushed telephone conversations as each one got sick or died…but in typical fashion I was far too busy to ever tally the numbers or take in the full impact of their passing. Thankfully, there was one regular I immediately recognized, and though he looked shockingly older, I was happy to see him there; mostly because he was typically among those most amused at my stories of rough-and-tumble life in Los Angeles. When I sat down at the table and said hello, he politely smiled at me and said “who are you?”

So, you’re thinking this is depressing, and repetitive and  you’re wondering how many times you have to be reminded that the people and things that matter to you most won’t last forever. Well, perhaps I’m once again guilty of looking only through only my lenses, but if you’re anything like me, you probably could use at least one reminder a week. So…here it is.

Another weekend is here and as the days grow shorter and we slide toward yet another Fall season (trust me…the flag football registration lawn signs are already going up), go out and have some summer fun. It’s going to be drier and near 90 each day so fight the urge to work and get outside and enjoy life. You’re only going to get one chance to live these next two days so try hard to make them matter. The people you love won’t be here forever, so if you can, find someone you care about and give them a hug. If you can’t find someone mortal to embrace…don’t sweat it. Instead, just let someone you love hug you.

The clock is ticking…so take about four minutes before you start your Friday to listen to Gillian Welch cover this seldom heard John Hartford song.

Listen to the lyrics. Just listen.

I wondered what happened betwixt and between...