SignsBack in October, I dropped the Bad’Baru off for an oil change and a couple of NASCAR-style body patches at the Garage Generale Stanstead.

I loved the place. It was like Cheers! with grease.

Everyone really did know your name. There were always folks sitting in the office. Some of them were actually clients. Most were just visiting – sharing a story, sipping a coffee. Kim and his family played the roles of barista, chief mechanic and concierge.

When I came back in the afternoon to fetch the Baru, I noticed it was parked out on the apron minus the requested patchwork.

Inside the second bay there was a middle-aged Honda Accord with Maryland plates and its guts spilled out onto two rolling tables brought up close to the engine compartment. Kim and his crew were elbow-deep working in-tight to replace the water pump.

“Did the oil on the Subaru, Hal. We’ll have to do the patches next week. These folks broke down on 55 just outside of town and they’re a long way from home. Gonna try and get them on the road southbound before sunset.”

Standing in the other bay were two older gentlemen. One looked familiar.

“Zack stopped to see if they needed help. Tow truck driver wanted to haul the car up to a dealer in Magog. Zack told him to bring it over here. Good thing. Looks like the last dealer they visited didn’t put the engine back together with all the required parts.”

I asked the other man what part of Maryland was home. He started to describe the state as a map until I gently interrupted with “I used to live in Cockeysville.”

He smiled. “We’re from Bowie. My name is George. My wife and I have been coming up to Canada every year since we honeymooned at Expo 67 in Montreal. We’ve been married 46 years.”

“When we broke down on the highway, I didn’t know what to think. We were a long way from home. Then Zack stopped and we came here. He took us out for a tour of the town. We went for coffee. We visited the Haskell Library, the granite quarry, and that road where the houses on one side of the street are in Quebec and just across the road they’re in Vermont.”

“Canusa Avenue.”

“Yes. Canusa Avenue. In all the years we’ve crossed this border we’ve never stopped in this little town. And here we are – brought here by fate and the kindness of strangers.”

“Well, George, you’re in good hands. I best be getting home to continue working in the garden as promised. It was a pleasure meeting you. Safe travels for the rest of your journey.”

“It was good meeting you, Hal. We’ll see you again the next time we’re up this way. I’ll ask Zack to drop you a line to let you know we got home safe. Seems like the kind of place where folks worry about such things.”

Indeed, George, indeed.

In the months since then, Kim closed the garage to focus on spending time with his family. The garage office irregulars of the office stay in touch with nods, waves, and social media – but it’s just not the same. Almost as if the heart of our little town skipped a beat.

Thanks for your consideration.

Be well. Practice big medicine.