Category Archives: Community

Thankful, on this Thanksgiving Day (2024)

On this Thanksgiving day, a chilly drizzle dims, but cannot mask, the beauty of fall’s spectacular finale here in Northern Virginia.

Late-blooming roses and a few determined petunias share space with brilliant red maple leaves, soon to fly away. As I give thanks for nature’s many gifts, the words of this familiar old hymn, a comforting presence, abide with me today.

For the beauty of the earth,

for the glory of the skies,

A red maple, in its blazing final burst of fall color.

for the love which from our birth, over and around us lies.

Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise. 

Due to some unsupervised weeding and many hungry deer, only one Montauk daisy has bloomed in our patch this season.

For the beauty of each hour, of the day and of the night,

hill and vale and tree and flower, sun and moon, and stars of light;

Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise. 

A ginkgo tree, a living link to the era of the dinosaurs, dressed in its golden November glow.

For the joy of ear and eye, for the heart and mind’s delight,

for the mystic harmony linking sense to sound and sight;

For the past two years, this azalea puts forth a few fall blooms. Unlike the typical spring blossoms, of dark fuchsia, the off-season flowers have petals of striated pale pink.

Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise. 

Wishing you and your loved ones a Thanksgiving filled with many blessings!

 

–For the Beauty of the Earth

Words: Folliot S. Pierpoint, 1864

Music:  Conrad Kocher, 1838

What I Learned from Calls to Georgia Voters

I shut myself off from the election results as they trickled in on the evening of November 5.  I kept away from all sources of outside information. I didn’t want to experience in real time the constant minuscule ups and downs as votes were reported. I was reading a captivating book.  Its protagonist was a person who committed many terrible acts, yet managed to escape any serious consequences.

I’d been hopeful about the election, and I maintained that sense of optimism throughout the night. I know I dozed off at times, because I recalled some vivid, disturbing dreams, but I was awake most of the night, reading. 

As light was breaking, around 6:30 AM, I checked my phone.  My heart sank.  “Trump, Again.”  Really?  No!  No!  No!  Wow!

We’d been told, over and over, that it would be a very close election.  I believed this.  I knew that a Harris loss was very possible.  And I’d prepared myself for inconclusive initial results.  But I had expected so much more from my fellow citizens.  Wow.  Just wow.  Maybe I’m still dreaming.  Or maybe I’m still reading. 

One of my primary reasons for optimism was the many conversations I’d had with Georgia voters during the two weeks prior to the election.  I volunteered to do something I’ve never done before:  to make campaign phone calls.  I chose Georgia because the results were likely to be closer there than here in Virginia.  I grew up in Atlanta.  I have known my share of  Georgians. 

I never answer my phone to a number I don’t recognize; I resent such intrusions.  But I felt a pressing need to do something other than donate, and I didn’t want to knock on doors.  In this age of Zoom, the task is easier than ever.  I sat at my computer and waited to be connected to voters. When someone answered, their first name would appear on my screen.  I learned to make my case quickly and succinctly.

I made nearly two hundred calls.  Judging from names and accents, Georgians are a multi-cultural bunch.  This didn’t surprise me.  My Atlanta high school, Henry Grady, now Midtown High, had been a melting pot since the 1950s.  I couldn’t believe the number of people who willingly spoke to me.  I got many hang-ups, naturally.  I got a few gruff answers.  One man loudly demanded to be removed from this “KaMAla bullsh*t.”  But most people, even those who were not supporting the Democrats, were incredibly polite.  Many peppered their answers with “Yes, ma’am,” and “No ma’am.”

I spoke to several people who weren’t planning to vote, and others who couldn’t.  Two felt strongly that neither candidate took the interests of the average citizen to heart.  One Latina woman had missed the registration deadline.  Another told me that she couldn’t vote; she wasn’t a citizen.  She spoke quickly and nervously, as if she suspected I might be the voting police.  But her daughter was definitely voting for Harris, she said.  One soft-spoken young man said he couldn’t vote, because he was a felon.  (Interesting, isn’t it, that another felon is now the president-elect?) I talked to several White women who were all in for Trump. There were a few men who were vociferously anti-Harris, and wanted to discuss.  One man, who described himself as fifty-something and Black, was convinced that Harris was an evil gang leader, who cared nothing for other Black people except to garner their votes. Despite our rather extended conversation, I never found out where he got his information.  One young White man, speaking courteously, was enamored of Trump because he said “anything that was on his mind.”

But far and away, most of those I spoke with were eager and enthusiastic supporters of the Democratic party.  Our conversations were like those among old friends; we were working together for what we hoped would be the best outcome for the country that we loved.  I talked to many Black women who were Harris supporters for lots of reasons, but often with the well-being of their daughters and granddaughters prominently in mind.  There were a number of Black men who backed Harris wholeheartedly.  I talked with a White woman who had that genteel, Old Atlanta accent that has largely disappeared.  She was as flabbergasted as I was that Trump was the Republican candidate, again.  When one young man with a prominent South Georgia drawl answered and said he’d get his dad, for whom I was asking, I prepared  myself for an earful of disagreement.  Instead, his father, with just as pronounced an accent, told me that he’d been actively campaigning for Harris and felt betrayed by fellow Georgians who were supporting “that other guy.” A man of Asian descent related how his entire extended family had assembled together for early voting, for Harris. One older man started off slowly: “It’s a hard decision.  Do I support the candidate who incited an insurrection and got police officers killed on January 6th? Or do I vote for the woman who is qualified to be president?”  Another elderly man said he’d been a child during the 1930s, and he felt, with much regret, like we’d gone back in time.

I was reassured in discovering that the majority of Georgia voters on my call list were supporting Harris.  It was, as expected, a pleasure to speak with kindred spirits.  But what surprised me greatly was that I enjoyed talking even with those who thought differently from  me.  I never felt personally attacked. There was often humor in our exchanges.  In nearly every conversation, our shared humanity was tacitly acknowledged.   We were Americans who disagreed.  It reminded me of past eras, when we could support different parties without questioning one another’s patriotism or hurling insults.  Maybe it’s just that most Georgians are so polite?  

Whatever the case, the calls left me  more hopeful than I had been before.  They give me hope even now.  I was reminded that I feel better when I engage with others, especially with those I don’t know well.  Not long ago, my daughter remarked that one of the things she had missed most during the Covid years was the opportunity to talk regularly with strangers.  I agree.  If we’re ever to break through the barriers of extreme polarization, we’re going to have to talk, and listen, to one another.  And give each other grace.  Thank you, Georgia voters, of all political persuasions, for bringing this point home to me. 

Incidentally and aptly, the title of the book that held my attention all during the long night of November 5, was this:  The Sequel. 

Say No to Mr. No Fair!

In my last post, I wrote about how the current Republican presidential candidate relies on a childish strategy to deflect and redirect attention from his own misdeeds.  The “I didn’t do it!  You did it!” strategy has served him well. 

There’s another infantile tactic that he regularly employs, and that’s the claim of “No fair!”.  You know this maneuver.  You grew up with it, and chances are, if you ever used it, you grew out of it.

Remember playing childhood games in the neighborhood as a kid, and there was someone who yelled “NO FAIR!” at every loss? Usually there was at least one child who absolutely couldn’t abide losing. Not at High-Ho Cheerio, or Candy Land, or Freeze Tag, or Kickball. Not even Tic Tac Toe. No game was too trivial not to be contested. I recall gently asking one such wailing young acquaintance, “Do you really think it’s only fair if you win every single time? It wouldn’t be fair, see, if I won every single time, would it? ” My reasoning fell on deaf ears. The kid continued howling NO FAIR through the tears. Apparently the concept of fairness was created only for him; it did not extend to others.

The former president clearly continues to see the world this way.  Things are only fair if he wins.  When he lost the election in 2020, he cried NO FAIR. 

He appealed to his followers. He repeated the claim, loudly and forcefully. Various media outlets amplified it. His base wanted to believe the lie, so they were hoodwinked. On January 6, 2021, they assembled at our Capitol in order to undo an election they had been told was illegitimate. Because Trump declared NO FAIR, some brought weapons, zip ties, and wore body armor. They broke through barricades, windows and doors. Most of them had been strident supporters of “law and order,” yet they viciously attacked the police who were there to defend our democratic systems. They roamed the hallways of the Capitol, chanting violent threats against duly elected representatives of both parties. They did it because their leader, their hero, had told them, and continued to tell them, over and over, that it was NO FAIR. They threatened to hang Mike Pence, their candidate’s own Vice President. What terrible vengeance would have taken place if our lawmakers had not been whisked to safety, with only a very few moments to spare?

Trump has never ceased claiming NO FAIR.  His  “unfair” election loss in 2020 has now morphed into his predicted “unfairness” of the 2024 election.  In recent rallies, he’s heavily seeding the ground, telling his followers that if he doesn’t win by a landslide, it’s because of rampant “cheating” by Democrats.  Yet again, the election is likely to be stolen from him, he maintains.  And yet again, ominously, he’s suggesting that bad things may happen if he doesn’t win. 

Why vote for an elderly version of that whiny kid who can’t stand to lose?  Ironically a vote for that candidate is a vote for unfairness.

I urge you:  vote for fairness for all.  Vote for Kamala Harris. 

 

*The Trump campaign filed over sixty lawsuits claiming election fraud in the 2020 election.  According to the Campaign Legal Center, a nonpartisan legal organization founded by a Republican former Commissioner of the Federal Election Commission, “The various claims of evidence alleging a stolen 2020 election have been exhaustively investigated and litigated. Judges heard claims of illegal voting and found they were without merit.”

With our Vote, We Can Say, “Enough!”

Around this time four years ago, I made an appeal for voters not to re-elect then-President Trump. I remain astounded that it’s necessary to make the same plea again, as we face, unbelievably, a third election featuring this most unworthy candidate.

There were soooooooooo many reasons not to vote for this man in 2020.  Of course, there were plenty in 2016, including the Access Hollywood tape that should have ended his campaign and political career.  There are far more reasons now.  The list is absolutely exhaustive.  It includes, of course, his crucial role in the events of January 6, 2021.  Another worth recalling is that he is now a convicted felon, found guilty by a jury of our peers.  In most states he would be unable even to vote.

And then there are many reasons that can be wrapped up in his character, or lack thereof:  he is childish in all the bad ways, and none of the good. 

Like a spoiled, angry child, when faced with potential conflict, he follows a well-worn playbook.  He declares, loudly and with vehemence: I didn’t do it!  You did it!  or I’m not!  You are! 

Most of us can remember at least one or two childhood acquaintances who made regular use of this old familiar taunt.  It was, almost always, a blatant lie.  I didn’t kick the dog!  You did!  I’m not a cheater!  You are! 

And for most of us, the absurdity of the tactic was always readily apparent.  We knew, even as children, that we’d be called out immediately as a liar and a fraud.  Many of those who relied on it in their youth have likely outgrown it with age. 

But for bullies, who wield power through fear, and never, never, back down from the lie, it can be highly effective.

We watched as the former president brandished the strategy like a light saber, time and time again.  Others remarked on it, referring to the practice as “projection,” a psychological coping mechanism in which one’s own shameful or unwelcome thoughts or hostile actions are projected onto another.  

Whatever one calls it–whether projection or the I’m not, you are tactic, it’s one of his signature moves. 

Remember when Hillary Clinton accused him, during a debate, of being Putin’s puppet?  His reply:  “I’m not a puppet.  You’re the puppet.”

Take note of his repeated references to the “Biden crime family.” 

Three  generals who worked for the former president–his Joint Chiefs Chairman Mark Milley, his Defense Secretary James Mattis, and his former Chief of Staff, John Kelly, have all declared Trump to be unfit for office, a threat to the Constitution and to the institution of our military.  What does Trump say?   A Harris administration will be a threat to our democracy.  

We should pay close attention to these projections.  When he says he won’t do some terrible thing, but the other side will, watch out.  A second Trump term will lack the responsible minders who babysat him during his previous term.  There will be no one to reign in the whims of the whiny man-child, the elderly bully boy.  The consequences could be dire.

But we, the people, we can stop him. Trump’s Republican colleagues didn’t have the guts to do so when they could, during one of his two impeachments, or after he was voted out of office.  It’s up to us, the voters, to say, “Enough.”  We can vote for the capable, responsible, intelligent candidate who will work for us. We can vote for Kamala Harris, former District Attorney, Attorney General, U.S. Senator and current Vice President.  We can vote, not for the criminal, but for the candidate who seeks to uphold the law and make it work for the American people.

 

Halloween ’24 and its Prequels

Slim revels in the various lead-up events to the big day. His enthusiastic presence heightens the fun at our church’s annual Trunk or Treat. It’s a pleasure having him by my side, revving up the crowd from his usual perch at the back of my car.

It was Slim’s idea that the refurbished nativity animals accompany us to the event.  By this time, he and the pups had gotten chummy with the foursome of ox, donkey, lamb and ram.  He decided that their debut at Trunk or Treat should function as a preview in preparation for Advent.  But they needed some Halloween flair, he insisted.  He dug through boxes of fall decorations to find suitable ribbon for bows, which he carefully tied around each faux-furry neck. 

We were all happy to see our daughter and her fiancé, who dropped by last weekend between Halloween parties. Slim heartily approved of their regal vampire costumes.

Slim loves a festive centerpiece, and he has an eye for detail. In our dining room, he toyed with the painted gourds, arranging them just so in the punch bowl.

The week before Halloween was warm and sunny here in Northern Virginia. Between decorating projects, Slim could often be found soaking up the October rays and basking in the balmy breezes. While sad to see that the impatiens had succumbed to a recent frost, he appreciated the persistence of our petunias.

He was surprised to discover some out-of-season blooms on our lilacs.

A birder from way back, Slim had for years been encouraging me to join the Feeder Watch program of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Now that I have, I understand. I’ve always appreciated the peace that comes from being immersed in nature, especially at times when the human world is a muddle of confounding conflict. And I’ve found that when I’m counting birds for Feeder Watch, I pay closer attention to each little creature that appears. I’m looking with greater concentration and intentionality, and the experience is more satisfying. Slim spent hours sitting motionless in a chair close to the feeders, gazing at the variety of birds that swooped around him, not troubled at all by his presence. I found some precious moments to settle myself in a chair just beyond, and savor the pleasant ambiance.

Before long, it was time for the annual pre-Halloween joyride. The dogs piled in, and Slim took the wheel. On an afternoon that epitomized convertible weather, they merrily cruised the neighborhood, looking for old friends and admiring the numerous ambitious Halloween displays.

Slim has claimed that he and his wide circle of influencers are largely responsible for the exponential growth of Halloween, from a quick one- day celebration, to a weekend, to its own extensive season. He’s been known to get a bit cocky, so I take his words with a grain of salt.  Is it really a good thing, I wondered, for gargantuan blow-up spiders, demons and Disney villains to join us as early as August?   I asked him why he and his colleagues, if they wielded such power, couldn’t turn their attention toward easing some of society’s ills. They were trying to do just that, he replied. The thinking was this: If we can unite for weeks over a love of candy, playing dress-up and poking fun at our fears, maybe we can realize that our points of commonality outnumber our differences. 

Maybe there’s something to this.  Even one day of Halloween is an amazing occasion.  People across our country open their doors to hand out generous amounts of candy to children.  Most of these are kids we hardly know, or have never met.  We greet and give to strangers, simply because they show up, wear a costume, and say “Trick or Treat.”  It seems that over the years on October 31, we’ve moved toward a greater emphasis on the treating than the tricking.  That’s something to keep in mind and strive for, every day, whether it’s Halloween season, or not.   

Slim and my husband worked together to light up our house in a Halloweeny palette of orange and green.

Before Voting, Listen, and Remember January 6, 2021

For those of you who intend to cast your precious vote for the former president, I ask you first to do this:  listen to him speak, in his own words.  Pay attention to more than the carefully clipped sound bites offered by Fox News.  Like other conservative media outlets, they do their best to sanitize him. They pick out the strongest snippets of a Trump speech or interview, repeatedly emphasizing those that make him sound “presidential.”  Take some time away from the pundits who tell you how to think. 

If you listen to the former president for more than ten minutes or so, you’ll likely hear incoherencies, bizarre claims and convoluted ramblings.  You may hear cringeworthy references to his own and others’ physical appearance: he could be sunning his “beautiful body” on a Riviera beach instead of toiling away on the campaign trail; his many super rich friends are unattractive in their bathing suits; he’s much better looking than Harris, etc.  There’s the continuing preoccupation with crowd size. There are anecdotes about groveling sycophants who approach him to kiss the ring, begging him, “Sir, sir.”  You may hear him refer to himself, inexplicably, as the “father of IVF.” He may mention that a Harris administration will outlaw cows and windows. 

You’ll almost certainly hear petty, school-boy insults: demeaning nicknames (he often reminds the crowd that he’s good with names), and mocking taunts.  You may hear him refer to those he dislikes as “human scum.” You’ll likely hear him demonize certain marginalized groups, a practice which has had very real and serious consequences.   

You’ll hear many empty promises, impossible to fulfill, and blatant, outright lies.    

But perhaps most significantly, you’ll hear some frightening, dangerous assertions. 

In a recent interview with Bloomberg News, Trump referred to  January 6 as a day “of peace and love.” 

In a Univision Town Hall on October16, he claimed that during the January 6 attack on the Capitol, “no one on the other side was killed.”  And by “the other side,” he means the police.  Five police officers died from injuries they sustained defending the Capitol.  It’s an odd and alarming construct from someone professing to be the “law and order candidate.” He claimed, falsely, “There were no guns down there; we didn’t have guns.” Then he doubled down in aligning himself with those fighting the police:  “The others had guns, but we didn’t have guns.”  Note the use of “we.”  He is no longer separating himself from that day’s violent mob.

Listen to him discuss plans for a second term. He needs to win the election, or the consequences of his many illegal actions may finally catch up to him.  He intends to persecute those who disagree with him.  He plans to fill the Department of Justice with his lackeys and root out “the enemy within,” by whom he means duly elected representatives, among others.  You may hear him make barely veiled allusions to the threat of violence if he does not win the upcoming election. You’ll hear him speak highly of dictators, whom he sees as role models.  Remember that in a second term, his administration will consist of only the most extreme Trump loyalists.  There will be no “adults in the room.”  No guardrails will remain. The prospect is truly chilling. 

Did you watch the terrible events of January 6, 2021 as they unfolded? If so, you know what you saw.  Don’t forget.  Don’t let Trump persuade you that his version is the true one.

Ask yourself this:  How can it possibly be in the country’s best interests for this man to be president again? 

 

And after you listen to the former president speak, unfiltered, for a while,  I urge you to do this:  give some time to Kamala Harris, our current Vice President, former Attorney General of California, a prosecutor whose job was to enforce the law.  Maybe you’ll see that there are plenty of good reasons to cast your vote for her.   

 

Rain? Rain! Welcome Rain!

When I awoke yesterday and looked out my bedroom window, as I do most mornings, I was, very briefly, confused. The front walkway appeared to be wet. But that couldn’t be. Here in Northern Virginia, our version of extreme weather this summer has been fixed and unchanging: exceedingly hot, and absolutely dry. By mid-morning, the sunshine is so relentlessly intense, so adamantly bright, that it takes on a sort of menacing quality. Plants are shriveling and lawns are browning. Squirrels splay their little gray bodies out flat on tree branches, attempting to cool off. They resemble the stuffing-free toys we used to buy our dog. The neighborhood fox family trudges by slowly, mouths agape, panting. Even the birds look miserable, as if their feathers were burdened by the heat. After about three weeks without a drop of rain, we were at last gifted with a pounding evening storm three nights ago. But rain in the morning? That just doesn’t happen.

Water droplets, though, were visible on the hydrangeas.

And on the leaves of the red maples and climbing roses. The impatiens were bowing their heads, as in grateful prayer for the healing moisture.

The temperature dropped from the high 90s to the 70s. Furry and feathery friends appeared newly invigorated. The rain continued, off and on, all day long.

It continues today, as well. Normally, I’d be disappointed to wake up to another rainy day.

But these are not normal times.

The sky is crying, the streets are full of tears
Rain come down, wash away my fears
And all this writing on the wall
Oh, I can read between the lines

Rain come down, forgive this dirty town
Rain come down, and give this dirty town
A drink of water, a drink of wine

–Hand in Hand, by Dire Straits

Historic Scottsville, NY

About a twenty minute drive from Spencerport is the village of Scottsville, NY. On its outskirts is the ice arena where our nephews played their Memorial Day weekend hockey games. Each boy’s team played a game, with an hour in between. The rink was, as I’ve mentioned, quite frosty. Despite the blanket I shared with my sister-in-law, a couple of my fingers were going numb well before the halfway point. To warm up and take a break, and because my husband knew I’d appreciate a look at the old buildings, we went on a drive through the main streets of Scottsville.

The area in and around the town contains a number of houses that stand out for their unusual textured appearance.  What looks from afar like an odd sort of brick turns out to be small, rounded stones, neatly set in straight rows of mortar.  The rocks were tumbled smooth during the long process of glacial shifting and melting that occurred thousands of years ago at the end of the last ice age.  As the prehistoric glacial Lake Iroquois gradually gave way to Lake Ontario, the easternmost of the Great Lakes, many stones were deposited in what is now the greater Rochester area.   Early nineteenth-century settlers, clearing the land for farming, uncovered and collected the numerous small stones.  They were conveniently at hand, and they gave rise to the cobblestone houses of upper New York state. 

The first floor walls of the home above were made from cobblestones.  The house has a plaque bearing the date of 1838.  Many cobblestone dwellings date from around this time.  Only one such home remains in the city of Rochester itself (at 1090 Culver Street).  It’s been vacant for a while and has fallen into disrepair, but an effort toward its preservation is under way.  About seven hundred cobblestone buildings are thought to survive in the area around Rochester.  There’s a Cobblestone Society and Museum near the town of Albion, about thirty-five miles northwest of Scottsville. 

Scottsville’s Rochester Street Historic District encompasses forty-one homes, many, like the one above, dating from the 1830s – 50s. Most were built in the simplified Greek revival style popular throughout the U.S. during these decades.

Running through the center of Scottsville is tranquil Browns Avenue, where a couple of historic churches are set among the homes. Located at #1 on the street is Union Presbyterian Church. While the congregation was organized in 1822, the present white frame building dates from c. 1850. The spare, gabled facade is a simpler, flatter version of a Greek or Roman temple, the flat pilasters recalling Doric columns. The four arched, stained glass windows, single round rose window and two tall doors are placed with perfect symmetry. The central block is topped by a short bell tower, in which round-headed arches are supported by a sturdy Doric colonnade. The railing around the tower suggests its use as a lookout post for scenic views of the surrounding town.

The central portion of Grace Church dates from 1885. The projecting wing behind was added in 1956. A bell tower, barely visible at far right, was built in 1976.

Just a bit further down Browns Avenue, at #9, is Grace Episcopal Church, which dates from 1885. It was designed by Harvey Ellis, a local architect known for several buildings in the area, including Rochester City Hall. Ellis was influenced by the medieval revival style known as Richardsonian Romanesque, after the architect Henry Hobson Richardson. Richardson’s buildings are characterized by a sense of ground-hugging weightiness, even when topped by soaring towers. They typically feature an interplay of earth tones and heavy textures in their use of rough-hewn stone and contrasting colors, as in Boston’s Trinity Church* from the 1870s. The Richardsonian influence is evident in Scottsville’s Grace Church in its low-slung, Latin cross plan, wide, heavy porch, and its use of mixed materials. The rough lower level is composed of local fieldstone, arranged randomly, not in neat rows as in the cobblestone homes. It contrasts with the upper frame section, faced with wooden shingles and painted rusty red. The side walls contain windows of stained glass. I love the bold Trinitarian design of the scrollwork of interlocking circles within the central arched window above the porch. The cross-topped conical form at the peak of the gable rather resembles a floating, festive hat.

About a half mile away, at 99 Main Street, is the Roman Catholic Church of St. Mary of the Assumption. Dating from 1855, it owes its existence to Irish immigrants of the area. In its emphatic verticality, the church offers a striking contrast with the low, horizontal form of Grace Episcopal. With the tall, spire-topped central tower and elongated, arched windows, it reaches confidently for the sky. The brick corner piers atop the tower, each with its own mini-spire, further accentuate the sense of upward motion. The central block resembles an imposing Romanesque fortress. The heaviness of the dark brown brick is offset by touches of snowy white. The delicate arcade below the entablature and the gable reminds me of daintily applied royal icing on a chocolate cake.

The architectural gems of little Scottsville, like those of Spencerport, offer proof of the unexpected and often overlooked beauty of many an American small town. There’s no need to cross an ocean, or board a plane, to take in sights well worth seeing. Remarkable monuments that testify to the diversity and ingenuity of our predecessors may be right under our noses!

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*Another important example of Richardsonian Romanesque in the area is the central building of the Richardson Olmsted Campus in Buffalo. It was designed by Henry Hobson Richardson in the 1870s as the Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane. Now it’s being restored as the Richardson Hotel.

Low Bridge! (On the Eerie Canal)

Just about every time we cross the New York state line on our way to my husband’s boyhood home in Rochester, he starts singing some mishmash of the chorus of the old Eerie Canal song.

Loooooowwww bridge, everybody down. . .Low bridge. . .15 miles on the Eerie Canal!

I guess every fourth grader in New York learns about the Eerie Canal as they study state history. As well they should. It was a truly big deal. I was introduced to its significance on my first trip to the Albany area. I went home with my friend Mike to Clifton Park during winter break in grad school. It was mid-January in 1987, and the northeast was still a bit stunned after a blizzard that had dumped three feet of snow. The two things I remember most vividly about that long-ago excursion were these: the snow (so much snow), and the Eerie Canal.

Mike had been a fan of the canal since his elementary school days, and he wanted to make sure I grasped its importance. It was a marvel of engineering, he stressed, created under extremely demanding circumstances. Irish immigrants provided the bulk of the back-breakingly difficult, poorly paid labor. They toiled with little more than pick axes, shovels, plows and wheelbarrows, using the occasional ox or mule. A stump puller was designed to assist in tree clearing. The original Canal, forty feet wide and four feet deep, took eight years to build. It was completed in 1825, two years before the country’s first railroad was begun. The Canal links Lake Eerie with the Hudson River, and from there, in New York Harbor, meets the Atlantic Ocean. Flat-bottomed packet boats heavily laden with products like wheat, flour or lumber were pulled by mules along the towpath that bordered the waterway. (Their descendants are today’s gargantuan ocean-going container ships, like the one that recently destroyed the Key Bridge in Baltimore.) The Eerie Canal spurred the development of the Great Lakes region, as well as further westward expansion. It was an early driving force that turned New York into an economic superpower and helped earn it the nickname “Empire State.” It brought wealth to the towns it bordered, from Albany to Buffalo.

Railroads and highways gradually replaced the Canal as a trade route. These days it’s a busy recreational waterway. The mules are gone, but brightly painted packet boats, similar to the old canal boats, are often moored along the banks. These wide, low boats, which may be rented, are popular for touring. And on the Eerie Canalway Trail that runs along the water, it’s possible to cycle the entire three hundred sixty mile-length of the Canal.

The Canal still serves as a central focus of many villages in upstate New York. The colorful Union Street bridge in Spencerport, above, is just steps away from the center of town. A horn sounds when the bridge is about to be raised to allow a taller boat to pass under it. The Spencerport Depot and Canal Museum hosts displays about the Canal and its history, and serves as a welcome facility for boaters. Our nephews are often among those fishing from the banks of the Canal. It’s common to see kids bicycling along, carrying their lunches and fishing poles, as if they were emerging from a Norman Rockwell painting. Another unexpected sight to my citified eyes is that of vending machines selling live bait.

Old and new come together seamlessly and captivatingly in Eerie Canal towns.

The Canal and its towns are well worth a visit!