We stayed somewhere west of Montreal (maybe Cornwall, Ontario), but I wrote just that at the end of yesterday’s post.

Tim Hortons was in Morrisburg, Canada, and I have to say that I am more impressed with Strader Auto next door as they were the clue to find out where we were on the map on this day. Congrats to them for still being in business; as far as Tim Hortons goes, there’s no rhyme or reason they are as popular and ubiquitous as they are. Had we been able to find poutine for breakfast, we might still have tried Tim Hortons, but we’d have known to spit it out, opting for potatoes, cheese, and gravy instead.

When I think bucolic living, this would do it for me right here, but then in 60 days, when the bitter cold of the region’s winter kicks in, I’d likely not continue holding fast to that idea.

Passed the Prescott Rotary Lighthouse which was an ice cream shop in Prescott, Ontario, Canada. Did we stop for ice cream? I have no idea but from the angle of the sun, I’d guess it was still too early for that, and in any case, we have some ideas for that when we get into Buffalo.

We crossed into New York at the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority at Alexandria Bay and still had 240 miles to go before reaching the city in which I was born.

Pizza from Bocce Club on Bailey Avenue in the Amherst neighborhood of Buffalo is a mandatory stop, not just to satisfy our hunger but to allow us to carry with us some much-needed, awesome cold pizza on our flight home tonight.

This is Fowler’s Chocolate. I think I shared a photo of the place back in the year 2000 when we visited here while Caroline and I were on our first cross-country trip, and while I may proclaim not to enjoy nostalgia, that’s just lips flapping when it serves me to sharpen my edge-lord persona. Bocce Club, Ted’s Hotdogs, Anderson’s Custard, and Fowler’s with their orange chocolate are pleasures from my childhood I can’t ignore.

We had one more stop to make this afternoon, and it was quite possibly a mistake. Our great aunt and uncle, who used to live near Santa Barbara, California, in the town of Goleta, skipped back to the place of their birth, Buffalo, New York. Not only that, they bought a house across the street from where my father grew up and where my aunt Lillian was still living. They didn’t so much move as they escaped due to a part of their past catching up with them that brought my aunt shame and anger because of so many unresolved issues. Once back here in Buffalo, it was obvious that my uncle’s health took a severe turn for the worse, as he was a shell of the man he used to be. Now, we were left with the tragic image of a couple half-broken and seeming to be quite unhappy in the last stages of life. Woody passed the following year, December 16th, 2012, at the age of 88.