I’m in a place where nobody can find me except for me and I’ve been here before.
In fact, I spent two and a half years of my life here. Only then, there was a difference: Everyone knew me except for myself.
New Paltz, New York.
There’s nothing unique about this place, geographically or architecturally. It’s a typical town in upstate New York with a high school, a state university and husbands and wives.
No hospital, though.
I went to the State University of New York at New Paltz for two years, and on my first visit back in that same amount of time, I was there for two days.
Two days. Just enough time to remember all the people worth remembering here and to recognize all my old haunts before they had time to become familiar again.
New Paltz was founded some 350 years ago by Dutch shepherds, and sits at the foot of the Mohonk Mountains.
When the university is in session from August through May, the population of the town is nearly doubled.
Typical of SUNY towns.
An autographed picture of Robert DeNiro sits next to one of Julia Roberts, Bill Cosby and now the junior senator from New York, Hillary Clinton.
That last one is new; it wasn’t hanging on the walls of the earthenware store called The Groovy Blueberry two years ago.
One thing I’ve realized, though, is New Yorkers aren’t even in the same genus as Utahns.
I’ve lived in both places, and also have a dash of Boston gumption and brazenness in my veins.
Eye contact with strangers in Utah is an invitation for good conversation.
In New York, eye contact means you’d like a comfortable stay in a hospital bed with a distended orbital socket.
It’s not a straw poll in which one is better, it’s just the contrast of lives in different time zones.
I drove across the country with a New Paltz friend of mine a few weeks ago, through ten states and hundreds of thousands of stories like this one.
Everyone has one.
In North Platte, Nebraska, and Walnut, Iowa, and Portage, Indiana, stories abound. But, in New Paltz, I can write.
Oh, can I ever!
It’s an intimate form of writing, what you’re reading right now.
It’s not easy to push those demons from another life back down. Punctuation, letters, words and paragraphs weren’t meant for this kind of work.
Burying demons and other dark wraiths from a life lived on a seesaw is work meant for a therapist.
For me, that last comma and this upcoming period is the only analyst I welcome in my life.
Until next time, keep on truckin’.