I spent most of my adulthood in the Southwest where the name “Garcia” (pronounced Gar-see-ah, or if you’re a snooty Spaniard, Gar-thee-ah) is as ubiquitous as Smith. So that’s how I pronounced the name of the little road here in New England until I was gently corrected. According to the folks here, it’s not Spanish or Mexican, it’s French and pronounced Gah-shah. Named for the family that lived here, the Gah-shahs.

Awrighty then, but to make sure, I asked my landlord about the name of that little road I pass on my walks. This is the conversation that ensued:

L:  “No, that road doesn’t have a name.”

Me:  “I mean the little road right down there.” (*I point*)

L: “Yeah, it ain’t got a name because it’s not really a road, y’see. They put that in yeahs ago when they was building the house ’cause the contractors had to get in theah to put in pipes and electric and all that. And because it’s inside the town, the town comes out and clears it all the time. I wish they’d just let it grow back, ’cause it ain’t really a road.”

Me: “But there’s a street sign at the bottom.”

L:  “No, there’s no street sign ’cause it ain’t really a road. They need to stop clearing it and let it just grow back. I don’t know why they keep doing that. Ain’t nobody using it ’cept the snowmobilers.”

Me:  (seriously puzzled) “How do all those people get to their houses?”

L:  “Well, they never go that way. They take the other road.”

Me:  “What other road?”

L:  “The one that comes off it.”

Me:  (giving up and trying another tack) “But I’ve seen cars go in and out, and there’s mailboxes.”

L:  “No, the mailboxes ain’t on that road, they’re down by the other road. There’s a bunch of mailboxes down at Gah-shah, too, but that’s a different road. That wasn’t there when they put the other road in.”

Me:  “Yes, I meant Gar-sha. I mean, they have to come in and out there, don’t they? Because there’s no other way in or out.”

L:  “Sure there is. You just go up to that big house that you can see from the road. You know that house you can see up there, way up on the hill?”

I nod, remembering a house he’s pointed out that’s halfway to the stars. In fact, at night it looks like a star when it’s dark enough you can’t tell the mountaintop from the sky. It looked like it was a long way from Garcia, but my eyes are still flat-land geared.

L:  “Well, you go up there, that’s Mrs. B—’s place. Her son-in-law lives in the next house. That’s Donnie S—, you know Donnie, his dad used to work at the lumber company over there. Donnie, he married Sue V—, but they’re divorced now. His kids go to the school down there. His house is just past hers, he built it himself.”

I have no idea who these people are, but I say gamely, “So you know the people who live up there?”

L:  “Well, sure. Mrs. B—, she used to work at the old hospital, same place as my cousin.”

“But they have to come down Gar-sha to get to our road?”

“Oh, no, they can’t use Gah-shah, because there’s no connection there. See, you go up to Mrs. B—’s house, and Donnie’s place is just past it. Then you go on and you’ll pass his sister-in-law’s place, I forget her name, and then past that farm there, you turn right and you’ll come out on the road.”

“Out on which road?”

“The road down there, after you turn right.”  (No pointing this time.)

“Okay, but that’s not Gar-sha, right? That’s a different road.”

“Well, it’s the only way you want to go if you want to get back to the road. You don’t want to take Gah-shah, that don’t go nowhere. It’s a loop.”

Yeah, I know that, I walked up there looking for a shortcut back to where I live and could only turn around and retrace my steps. I’d forgotten that New England’s motto is “You Can’t Get There From Here.” And unlike John Steinbeck, I don’t really believe they do it on purpose. As my landlord’s daughter told me (after she stopped laughing at the expression on my face), “See, they’ve lived around here all their lives and it just makes sense to them. They don’t really understand why it isn’t perfectly clear to everyone else.”

One of these days maybe I’ll discover the road that goes up to Mrs. B—’s house, the road that isn’t really a road, that the town keeps clearing and he wishes they wouldn’t.

Right now, I just need to sit for a spell.