“I don’t have a lot of retirement options,’’ Tom says. “I’m going on 66. I work half to two-thirds time and intend to keep it that way. I’ll hang around.’’
Leaving the mill, I get a sense of his connection to the place by taking Lost Nation Road north to Routes 3 and 145, taking in Beaver Brook Falls, and follow the weaving ribbon of road across the 45th parallel on the way to the top of the state. It’s the kind of drive where every other corner has an atlas-cover view.
Later, on my summer-ending trip home from the lake, I stop at George Calef Fine Foods, a quiet institution that has been part of our drive to the lake since our first trip there more than 30 years ago. Walk in and you’re greeted by a smiling staff, homemade moon pies, and duck decoys made by Grandpa Calef. It’s one of the last untouched places on this stretch of Route 125 that’s also called the Calef Highway. Head to the back of the store and find the butcher shop of your dreams: beautiful meat, custom cuts, and instant assurance that this is where you want to buy your meat.
“I’ve been cutting meat for 35 years,’’ says owner Jim Calef, whose herculean working hours give him a wiped-out, proud-father-of-a-newborn look. “I’m 47 - I’ve been doing this since I was 12.’’
“And he’s still got all of his fingers,’’ calls out his wife, Becky, from across the store, triggering chuckles from the staff.
Though they do a cleanup job at their deli (their roast beef sub with tomatoes and crunchy pickles is a trip-to-the-lake staple), their skill as butchers keeps them afloat in a tough-margin business.
“Our baseline is meat,’’ adds Jim’s son Royce, with a tone of friendly expertise uncommon in 16-year-olds.
I ask Royce his favorite beef cut and without hesitation, he responds, “The flatiron. It’s like a Delmonico, but it cooks fast.’’ It seems to be a stock response fed to him by his parents, so I pull a meat cut chart from my wallet and ask him to point to the cut.
“It’s in the front shoulder in the top half of the blade,’’ he says, pointing exactly where he should. I’m sold. I ask how he got so good at this and he replies, straight-faced, “It’s my whole life.’’
Leaving home again, the authenticity I’ve been missing is still here. I might have to drive farther or look harder to find it, but it’s here.
Joe Ray can be reached at joearay@mailcity.com.