Around 1995, I came across my fourth grade class photo. Since I moved from Locust Valley, Long Island to the Finger Lakes midway through sixth grade, I had been in touch with only a couple of my classmates. On a lark, I scanned the photo and emailed it to the only person from Long Island I had talked to in the past 40 years, fellow Cortland alum Doug DeRancy. So, I was surprised when Doug emailed me back and said, “Thanks, that’s great. We have a listserv for Locust Valley High School class members of ’67. I’ll send it out.”

Over the next month I heard from a dozen or so elementary school classmates. I have to admit, I couldn’t remember some of them. But that’s okay though, because some of them didn’t remember me.

Fast forward to this July. Phyliss and I decided to go to Casa Del Sol for dinner. Once a year we take the pontoon boat from Ampersand Bay, down the river, through the locks to Lake Flower for dinner. The return trip in the dark is always a good test of our boating skills.

As is frequently the case, Casa was crowded, but we soon got seats on the verandah. There was a family to our right and a couple about my age to the left. I always look around at Casa to say hi to any local friends who might be dining, but I didn’t see any that night.

Hester’s grandfather’s artwork (Provided photo — Jack Drury)

It was a beautiful warm Adirondack evening, and we followed a ritual going back to the 1970s. My mother, who traveled around the globe 40 weekends a year to judge at dog shows, made dinner at Casa her first stop when she got home. I always thought there should be a tiny brass plate in her memory at one of the tables: Kitty Drury dined here 1978-1988. We had some deluxe nachitos in her memory, as well as a couple of margaritas. All too soon, we were done with dinner, paid our bill and were ready to head over to Mountain Mist for ice cream before heading upstream home.

Occasionally, someone I don’t know will recognize me because of this column and compliment me. I’ll admit, I never get tired of it. Fortunately, no one has let me know how much they detest it … yet. When the woman sitting next to us approached, I thought she might be one of my readers. I was taken aback when the woman said, “You’re Jack Drury, I went to elementary school with you in Locust Valley.” I had to immediately stop and think. No, it wasn’t Linda Leydon who in Kindergarten, I kissed in the back of the school bus, nor was it my 6th grade crush Crystal Waters. Somewhere deep in my gray matter came a name. I responded as if I had just seen her yesterday, “You’re Hester Simpson, your mother was Madame Simpson, the French teacher.”

Hester knew I lived in Saranac Lake from the 1995 email. While sitting near us, she said to her husband that she thought the guy at the table next to them might be Jack Drury, her elementary school classmate. She googled my name and in the vast wasteland of the internet found a current photo which confirmed it.

We made plans to get together the next day, and Phyliss and I got to share one of our favorite activities with them: a boat tour of Lower Saranac Lake. Sharing a bit of the cultural and natural history of the lake never gets old. I learned she was a very well-respected visual artist who lives in Manhattan, but we found that we had something else in common other than a Locust Valley childhood — visits to Saint Pierre and Miquelon.

What are Saint Pierre and Miquelon you ask? It’s an archipelago of eight islands located 12 miles off the south coast of Newfoundland with a population of less than 6,000. My family made the journey in 1959 on a memorable vacation across Newfoundland. I have distinct memory of taking a small boat loaded with more sheep than people for the hour-and-a-half journey to the islands. Other memories include a distinct odor while visiting a mink farm and practicing my elementary school French — thanks to Hester’s mother — where they speak European French, not to be mistaken for Canadian French. It was quite an adventure for a 10-year old.

Hester’s grandfather’s artwork (Provided photo — Jack Drury)

Hester’s reason for visiting Saint Pierre and Miquelon was even more interesting. Saint Pierre and Miquelon is a self-governing territorial collectivity of France with its residents are French citizens. It has a long history of issuing postage stamps, all of them the work of artists. SP-M stamps are in demand around the world to well-informed philatelists. Hester’s grandfather, like Hester, was a well-known artist and had painted several landscapes of the islands. Hester inquired to the local museum to see if they might like them. They did, and Hester and her husband got to hand deliver them. No easy task, considering that there are only two flights a week to the islands or the ferry, with or without the sheep. Not only are the paintings on display in the museum, but they are being considered for commemorative stamps.

We all have items that bring special meaning to our lives because they provide special memories. Of her grandfather, Hester has his paintings that she took to the islands. I, in contrast, have a memento of my trip to Saint Pierre and Miquelon in 1959. It is a miniature toy killick and it has been sitting on my desk for many years. What’s a killick? It is a traditional, homemade anchor consisting of a large stone secured within a wooden frame. While perhaps not as significant as a painting, every time I look at it, it provides a special memory of our family adventure in 1959.

Sure, today’s technology can drive you crazy, and there are some days that I wonder if it portends the end of civilization as we know it. On the other hand, when it provides opportunities as it has for Hester and me, it provides some wonderful memories. And after all, when it’s all said and done, is there anything else?

My souvenir killick (Provided photo — Jack Drury)