THE GNUT ARCHIVE
From the Granite of New Hampshire to the Gulf Coast Sands
Exploring the lineage of my Family. From the peaks of the White Mountains to the Gulf Coast sands—this is the record of Jeffrey P. Landry and the men who forged him in the granite. 🤟
THE ARCHITECTS AND THE THRESHOLD
THE GIANTS OF THE VALLEY: GOODBOUT & NOWE
This photo captures the foundation:
My grandfather Ernest Goodbout and his father-in-law, Melvin Nowe. In the background is Delma, Melvin’s daughter and Ernest’s wife, caught right on the threshold.
I remember the long drives Ernest took us on to visit relatives who lived in a massive house with a grand piano and a porch that wrapped around the building, looking straight out at Mount Washington.
I don't know remember who those relatives were, but those rides through the Notch with Ernest and delma showed me the scale of the world I came from.
The Legacy of Ernest Goodbout
The Master of the Notch:
Ernest Goodbout was a man of the mountain who quite literally built the way forward.
He was the Old Man of the Mountain in the flesh—a titan who carved Goodbout Road off Maltese Farm Road, creating a sanctuary at the edge of the river for his family.
A master who could read the Franconia Notch like a weather map, he could catch fish with a string and craft anything from the timber of the White Mountains.
In the 60s, he built me and my cousin Richie wooden rifles so detailed they felt real in our hands.
He was the keeper of the Notch’s deepest secrets; after thousands of trips through the pass, he was the one who pointed across from Cannon Mountain to show me "The Old Lady." While the rest of the world stared at the Old Man, he showed me the hunched-over figure of the lady on Eagle Cliff that no one else ever seemed to see.
This photo remains a haunting echo of the man—the pigeon-toed stance and the ever-present cigarette. It captures exactly how he was standing in the doorway of the workshop when he fell for the last time, landing face-down on a board with nails in it.
Richie and I ran for the house, and it was Brenda who met the chaos with the speed of an angel. She was the one who reached him first, rolling him over, pulling his false teeth, and swiping the blood from his face to begin resuscitation.
It was the first time I had ever seen such strength under fire, and to this day, I don't know anyone else who could have done what she did. Brenda was, and is, a great woman.
That afternoon, Richie and I climbed the tree and stayed there, crying together until the sun went down.
Ernest didn't just leave us names; he left us a map, the tools to survive, and a legacy as unshakeable as the granite he mastered.
THE GENERATIONS: ERNEST, DELMA, AND THE FUTURE
A moment of the architects at rest.
This is Ernest and Delma holding one of the next generation—a rare quiet shot of the people who built the foundation of the Goodbout line.
Delma, the steady hand behind the scenes, and Ernest, the man of the mountain, passing down the grit that would eventually lead to the records of Jeffrey P. Landry.
This is where the lineage takes root.
THE GATEKEEPERS: DICK & BRENDA GOODBOUT
For 40 years, Goodies Mobil (Dick’s Mobil) was the high-pressure center of Lincoln—the place where the Hells Angels stopped, the snow machines roared, and the town's rhythm was set.
My uncle Dick and aunt Brenda didn't just own a business; they governed the valley. Brenda was the survivor of the line, a woman of unbreakable strength who moved forward even after her adopted parents, the McKays, were lost in a tragic plane crash in the Colorado peaks.
She was the one who piled us in the car for the Cascades and Lady’s Bathtub, teaching us to catch crawfish at Echo Lake by the bucketload. We lived on snow machines, fixing the mountain trails for winter and pushing those sleds to the 'impossible' cliffs at Bog Pond.
They bore the heaviest weights—losing their son Richie Jr. in Florida and their granddaughter Megan in 1990—yet they remained the bedrock of the Notch for over 65 years. This isn't just a sentence; it's the granite in our blood. 🤟
THE KANK SHOWDOWN: WHEELIES ON THE SIDEWALK
This wasn't a movie
it was a high-pressure reality right in front of the Lincoln police station. The cops had the Harleys pinned on the side of the road, but as they released the Angels one at a time, the statement was made.
They didn't hit the pavement; they took the sidewalk, popping massive wheelies right past the Lin-Wood High School and roaring straight into Dick’s Mobil.
The Angels walked in and asked if they could lock their bikes inside until the rest of their buddies were released.
Without missing a beat, Dick threw them the keys. He governed the Notch his way, and for a few hours, the 'Last Chance' was a fortress for the Kings of the Kank. This is the grit the tourists never saw.
THE LANDRY PILOTS: TOUCH AND GO FROM THE NOTCH TO NEWARK
My father and Uncle Bobby weren't just flyers;
They were masters of the 'touch and go.' One of their favorite moves was to drop into the grass field in Lincoln—land owned by the McKays—kiss the ground, and immediately roar back into the mountain air.
From there, they’d head to Newark, New Jersey, to do the same on those massive runways. Whether it was a grass strip that’s now part of Interstate 93 or a major international hub, they lived for the thrill of the stall and the precision of the landing.
They taught me to fly, but more importantly, they taught me how to pull out of a dive.
BEEBE RIVER: RACE CARS AND BOBBIN TOYS
Life at Beebe River was a world of its own.
We didn’t have store-bought toys; we had the Draper Bobbin Plant.
After the Nowe Boys were done revving the race cars—those engines drank fuel too fast to run for long—we’d head across the street.
There were acres of 'imperfect' wooden bobbins for us to pick through. We’d grab the ones that felt right and build our own worlds out of the mill's cast-offs.
Between the roar of the garage and the endless fields of bobbins, it was a playground forged in the grit of New Hampshire.
THE T-BIRD KINGS: BOBBY, FRANK, AND DAD
"In thier world, the Thunderbird was the GOAT. My Uncle Bobby and Frank H. Baker III lived across the street from each other, both tearing up the roads in their T-Birds.
It didn't take long for them to turn my father, Joseph Landry, from Volkswagens to Thunderbirds, too. Before long, all three were 'T-Bird Dudes.' I’ll never forget when one of my dad’s T-Birds was stolen right out of the parking lot in Enfield—it was the kind of car people would do anything to get their hands on.
Bobby, with his signature 'UTZ' at the end of every sentence, was the heart of that crew. They were pilots, loggers, and kings of the asphalt."