Dateline: Waddington, N.Y.
America began, on Main Street. America, to me, began in a small town.
Historians will call me out on that, but you know, so what.
To me America began in the morning of April 19, 1775 when in the small Massachusetts towns of Lexington and Concord townsfolk and neighbors stood in front of an invading foreign army, and said no.
No to kings, no to queens, not to foreign rule…and yes to freedom.
Yes to, self.
Sure, Boston was hugely involved, but when push came to shove the King advanced on a small town sensing weakness.
Imagine, 700 British troops, then the most powerful empire on the planet enters the small town and on the town green out steps 77 Militiamen, just common folks like you and me, they’re told, “Throw down your arms! Ye villains, ye rebels.”
And Main Street America, had enough.
Small town America, yeah they got your back.
Waddington, N.Y., people have been settled in these parts since 1797, pretty much had a front row seat to the War of 1812 battles being fought on the St. Lawrence River.
When I looked up this town my favorite bit of information was about a tough arse stagecoach driver named Hank Monk. It is said he started driving a stagecoach at the age of 12.
Here’s some info on Mr. Monk:
I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to listen to it. Horace Greeley went over this road once. When he was leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through quick. Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.
The coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the buttons all off of Horace’s coat, and finally shot his head clean through the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to go easier–said he warn’t in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, “Keep your seat, Horace, and I’ll get you there on time”–and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!
That was written in a book called Roughing It by a guy named Mark Twain.
These people of Wadding they got a bit of that Hank Monk in their blood, I’m cool with that.
Real cool with it.
I’m a small town guy, even though you know, I’ve never actually lived in one.
I dig the closeness of it, Waddington has, according to someone not me who counts things for the feds which I don’t, 2,266 people living here in 2010.
They should come count when we roll into town, we probably bring in another 200 or so with us when you count all the anglers and their families, B.A.S.S. folks and the service crews.
I’ve been here now three times and both times myself, Shaw Grigsby and Paul Elias, my on the road roomies, have stayed with Waddington town folk and it’s incredible how generous they have been to us, how they have become like family to us.
We shop here, we eat here, some go to church services here, and except for some bizarre internet and cellphone connections that keep welcoming me to Canada which is on the other side of the river where I’m not, you get to know the area, this isn’t a drive-by gig.
Waddington as I see it is a town I’d have no problem having a beer with, this time we are in a house with a nurse and a factory shift worker. People I meet around town are mechanics, farmers, town maintenance guys, small business owners, the dude who owns a bowling alley/bar joint to eat in.
That’s the block I grew up on in a medium sized city.
That’s 2,266 people (plus them born between 2010 and like today) of patriotic, god fearing, defend this nation, hardworking folk these here people.
I think like many of the small towns I see throughout this travel all over America gig, these folks need some help economically, but who amongst us don’t. I don’t know if the population is declining or not, my eyes hurt from squinting at numbers and I’m not doing it anymore today, that might be a problem here but humans are fickle, move away find out you loved what you moved from and move back.
But dig this, Waddington is sandwiched in between what seems like a billion acres of the Adirondacks, trust me it is so big you could hide a T-Rex in there and no one would get stepped on, and one of the prettiest rivers in the country, the St. Lawrence.
Truth be told here, I’m still a little upset at the St. Lawrence Seaway thing because it pretty much hurt my home town of Buffalo, what with ships being able to dodge the Erie Canal and skirt my digs, but I’m getting over it, slowly obviously.
People here love being out there inside the outside and they have more outside here than I’ve seen in a long time.
That’s the cool thing about small towns, they are surrounded by a bunch of the outside and the more you have to be inside the outside to get to the small town the cooler the town in my experience.
The suburbs, they’re a hundred miles that-a-way.
So you know fact from fake, no one in this town is paying me a dime to write this. I have not bought several thousand acres here in the hopes this story will make you drop everything and come here and buy my land. I have nothing with me that needs to be fixed on the cheap here, and as far as I know I’m not related to anyone here thinking or running for a local election.
I hope we at B.A.S.S. bring our game to more of small town Main Street.
I hope we drag our boats more by white picket fences, town parks with gazebos, backyard hummingbird feeders and where the sun sets late on summer nights.
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