Tales of Route 22

“I’m a road runner, baby,” goes the old rock lyric, one we took to heart and lived as much as we could. Like most American teens, we sought freedom and liberation, a wide variety of old rusty clunkers our admission ticket to fame and fortune. The precise pathways were many, but I’d say none more frequently utilized than Route 22.

NY Route 22 meanders through all sorts of early settlements, many if not most going back to Colonial times, some much larger today, but quite a few not changed all that much over the past 100 years or more. Although at one time or another I’ve traveled over most of it, the section between Salem and Hoosick Falls comes first to mind, so indelibly etched I could almost navigate it blindfolded.

Some 22 sections almost invite high speed driving while other parts bend and twist so severely that passing even a slow moving tractor is insanity. The highway goes right through the heart of Cambridge and Washington County, the crossroad with NY 372 hosting our only traffic light, something outsiders frequently found amusing.

“We’d hang out by the red light,” I remember telling a college buddy who asked about what we did back home.

“Red light? “my pal prodded. “You guys only have one color on your lights?”

“We just said red light for some reason to refer to the traffic light,” I explained.

“THE traffic light,” the amused Brooklynite continued. “You mean to tell me you only have one traffic light where you come from?”

“Yep,” I answered. “Don’t even need that one, but without it we’d probably get confused giving directions.”

The area near the 372/22 crossroad was our version of the village square, a place to watch the world go by, meet friends, or just hang out when the weather was nice. Partly because of the highway intersection, and partly due to added amenities that included two popcorn/hotdog stands on diagonal corners and a convenient parking lot in front of what used to be the A&P, “The Red Light” was the place to catch up on Cambridge gossip and make plans that were often more dreams than future reality.

Another sure-fire teen magnet was the pay telephone right outside the A&P, both attributes dissolved by passing time and new technology, but in the 70s a pay phone served as our most limited version of the cell phone. From freeing Prince Albert to trying to arrange a last minute date, a coin opened up larger worlds, or in the case of Prince Albert, just bugged the poor unfortunate store employee listening to a call asking if he or she had Prince Albert in a can, an affirmative answer always leading to the punchline, “Well, can’t you let the poor guy out?” It’s classic junior high humor only second to “Is your refrigerator running?” and the dire warning to go catch it before somebody got hurt. If you received one of these calls  in Cambridge in the late 60s or early 70s odds are I was either directly responsible or knew who was, so I now apologize most belatedly for the inconvenience.

The informal gatherings, at least for me, began long before we were old enough to drive, the bicycle our only means of transport, but later on any given Saturday night the parking lot hopped as much as Cambridge ever did (meaning not much) but did draw all sorts of personalities. It also frequently featured the main guardians of Route 22, the NY State Police.

After considerable contact, first as a local hooligan and later as a newspaper reporter, I grew to enormously respect the guys in gray. I use “guys” as female troopers were rare and perhaps nonexistent at this time. Anyway, the troopers I grew to know well were almost all big men who just happened to be pretty darned smart too, the sort of people even dumb kids like me didn’t mess with if we had any choice.

Maybe because I collected just about every trooper’s autograph on one ticket or another, names like Mann, Hebert, Westcott, Endee, and Dean have never left my consciousness. Initially, I looked at these men as oppressors, an extension of the “man” dedicated to killing good times and our avowed enemy. Upon maturity, I’m of the mind, as are all of my friends of this period, had it not been for these troopers lots of us would be dead or have felony records. Actually, the amount of restraint shown was amazing. Once again, the beauty of small town living had much to do with our survival.

Like the rest of us, most troopers lived in the area and knew our families. For decades Mom had her hair done by Mrs. Endee, who we jokingly called “Bunny the Beauty Butcher.” Marty Westcott was a local scoutmaster. Trooper Dean a member of the Colia Church.

It was at the Baptist Church in Sandgate, VT I heard what I pray was my last NY Trooper sermon, one completely unlike the ones Bob Endee was fond of delivering to us at various places all along Route 22, his longest a fiery soliloquy about all sorts of evils that would see us in prison if we didn’t wise up. At the time, we thought he was the meanest guy on the planet, but Trooper Endee mostly just chewed us out and sent us home, lots of times with a ticket or two, but never to jail.

The Sandgate sermon, around five years ago, took place in a tiny church that reminded me a lot of the one in “Blazing Saddles” where the good reverend read from “Mathew, Mark, Luke and Duck,” just before a bomb went off.

Mary and I went to church in Sandgate with Mom and my Aunt Ethel who played organ there many times. At some point in his life Trooper Mann became Reverend Mann, an ordained Baptist minister. I can’t remember a single word of the sermon because I sat transfixed on the pulpit, anxiously expecting Rev. Mann would whip out his own bomb, a summons book, and then point directly at me to bellow “Be gone, Satan!” But, of course, that never happened. Still, when Rev. Mann greeted us as we left church, I was surprised he didn’t ask, “May I see your license and registration, please?”

It was revelatory seeing the Rev. Mann in a different persona, one far removed from what I’d have to say was standard operating procedure for troopers I frequently observed. I don’t know if it’s training, basic personality, a .377 magnum, or some other unknown quality, but all of these troopers could project powerful authority without even speaking.

One of my life’s greatest blessings was seeing the Cambridge area from a completely different perspective, the second time as a young adult trying to forge a professional career. At first, I was most apprehensive in my initial dealings with local police, very much afraid I either wouldn’t be taken seriously or face a wall of stony rejection. Instead, I found universal acceptance and sensed my former “adversaries” not only treated me with respect, they were genuinely happy to see I was alive, well and performing a constructive service.

Once a week I’d travel up Route 22 and stop at the old trooper substation, a small white wooden building now relocated and greatly enlarged. Back in the 70s though it was a one room operation just south of Salem. My visit was to collect what was called in my field “the blotter,” a listing of arrests for the week and prime news for my small newsbeat.

One visit in particular merits review. I can’t remember which troopers were there, just that there were several, all of them laughing about a DWI arrest somewhere I also don’t remember.

According to one of the troopers, a routine patrol found a car stuck in a deep snowbank that ran along a ditch, the back wheels of the car no longer touching the ground. Although the car was still running, the driver was passed out behind the wheel.

The trooper approached the driver’s side window and tapped on the glass with his flashlight. This woke the driver who grabbed the steering wheel and proceeded to “drive.” The trooper then ordered the man to roll down the window, which he did, while still “steering” the car with his other hand.

“What are you doing?” the trooper demanded.

“55,” the man replied.

Best DWI story I ever heard.