“We’re going to head out early,” I warned.
“How early?” Whitey inquired, with a quizzical frown painted on his face.
“Daybreak.”
I had just gotten out of the hospital two weeks prior, after getting my “angry appendix” removed, following a week of stomach turmoil I attributed to blue cans of carbonated addiction and a diet rooted in grease, and highlighted with salt. After all, it had been festival season on Long Island, with a plethora of tantalizing deep fried specialties from the various cultures that made up the melting pot of New York. We went to the Polish Fair in Riverhead, indulged in local fish in Montauk, and stuffed ourselves full at the annual Barbecue in Amagansett. Summer was coming to a close and we wanted to cram our schedules full, like our stomachs, in between the transition of tourist season and autumn vacancy that plagued the Hamptons after Labor Day. It wasn’t until I hunched over in agony after lifting a dozen bags of instant cement on a job site that I realized there might be more to the symptoms than a lack of regard for dietary health.
Whitey was one of the few to visit me in the hospital. The medically induced stay was extended to six days when it became apparent that my digestive system was not “waking up” at a normal rate, which lead to hours of discomfort and desperately trying to avoid the “feel good” button that doled out morphine like a Pez Dispenser, directly into my hard-to-locate veins. The hospital staff told me it would be okay, that junkies weren’t made overnight. But I’d seen it with my own eyes, and I knew my personality. I was going to avoid it at all costs. And after those endless sleepless nights that blended together like a puree of tomato colored blood and prayer, I finally made a lap around the nurse’s station, clutching my monitor like the Bible, that convinced the staff that I was well enough to be returned to the wild.
Those six days in the hospital were a time warp; it wasn’t the way the hands on the pristine white clock seemed to chase infinity, or the way I woke up every hour on the hour, trying to determine whether the pain in my gut or the indigestion would take the gold medal for worst experience ever. Those days were more instrumental outside of the hospital walls; for outside the tinted glass a chill had taken a rancorous bite out of summer. While I was held captive by scratchy bleached blankets and a robot that served only to wake me from my slumber with a scream tied to my vitals, Mother Nature had been shifting. She knew better than me that the show must go on, and she marched forward, adjusting her appearance and fragrance accordingly. When I was released, there was a difference in the temperature, there was a difference in the lighting, and I knew full well that a change was calling me, desperate for the reveling.
Two weeks into my healing, I knew I had to get back into the world. I had to get back onto my own two feet, to see what I had been missing, regardless of the physical challenges. I had read on social media of the marvel that was Castle Craig, a frame of beautiful stonework in Meriden, Connecticut, dedicated to the public on October 29, 1900, by Walter Hubbard. The tower sat on the cliffs, with an unobstructed view of the state facing the sea, drawing thousands of tourists every year adjacent the cell towers that served a different public purpose in the years that followed.
Whitey and I hit the road in my beat up Honda Civic on a cool September morning. Past the big rigs on the Long Island Expressway, past the white lines hashed out between the burning rubber, past the string lights draped across the pillars of the Throgs Neck Bridge, we made our way North onto the 684. Hooking East in Danbury, we traveled the i84 and similar roads that blurred together until, alas, something magnificent stood out on a ridge-line, proclaiming victory over all the competition, signifying a means to an end for our weary eyes which drowned in golden rays of a pristine Indian Summer. I burnt the tip of my tongue on a hasty sip of rest-stop coffee as Whitey shook the hangover from the bags under his eyes.
“That’s it! I think that’s it!” I proclaimed.
There, crowning the rock face of jagged stone stood a tower of man’s design; a tower of perfectly laid orbs of light, glistening in the sun, proclaiming this peak had been conquered and domesticated in decades’ past by men of gumption, and gifted by the philanthropy of industrious souls offering their token of beauty to the working class of New England palms, decorated by calluses and exhausted lungs in their servitude to Mr. Hubbard. We had arrived.
As we putted along the winding roads of Connecticut parkland, heavy clouds lingered as directions to the promised land. “Upward!” We climbed and climbed, the four cylinders of my sedan running in a rhythmic enthusiasm matched only by the trigger happiness of my shutter finger, gripping my camera as we pulled to the side of the road periodically to snap a memory of the view. And alas, finally we reached the parking area at the summit, where the cracking of oak leaves performed their serenade as they scraped across the pavement, sailing on an autumn breeze. Scratching and dancing, they illuminated the way, with tones of tannin and spice.
In awe, Whitey and I advanced, our muscles stretching as we shook off what remained of the three and a half hour drive. Immediately overtaken by the scene, my camera established the percussion to our soundtrack, clicking, tapping, chick-chicking to the rhythm as Whitey drew his secret weapon: his trusty old harmonica. With blasts of pain and soul he conquered every corner of the tower, flooding every crevice of the mountain with a tale of love, regret, mourning, deceit, angst, and remembrance. It echoed in the chambers, to visitors’ delight, and unexpected satisfaction. It was different from the Shagwong Tavern he performed at the nights prior; these fans had no notion of his arrival. He played onward, a musician unbridled, as we perched upon the throne. At the top of the tower, we felt the world humming just below our fingers. We were masters of the land, of the geography, of society, of the twisting roadways and shaking trees shimmering the sunlight as they quaked along the wind. From atop Castle Craig, we had it all.
To the West the American Flag waved proudly, high above the class of citizens below. To the East the cities lay dormant, hidden in the haze of lingering summer heat. To the South the clouds exploded, morphing and shaping before us, bearing down upon our mortal bodies as it provided brief eclipses from the sun. To the North the tree line sheltered, reminding that life goes on, in all landscapes, in all adversity, and would forever march toward the edge of time. We had made it. We had seen the crossroads. I had found the place where all the seasons merge with history, with life and love, to create the perfect balcony of clarity. And with the music of our own creation, and the lens of my dictation, we shaped it. For the first time in several weeks, I felt empowerment. And yet, I felt subjected to the beauty of the world, which had spared me not two weeks prior when I would have done anything just to experience the natural order from beyond the man-made walls of “hope.” This was raw, this was real, this was the life that had been eluding me.
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