Category Archives: Travel

Art and Architecture, Family, Travel

To New York City in a Nor’easter? What Could Go Wrong? (Follow-up to Vagabond Shoes)

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View of the Courtyard of the Palace from the Villard rooms, October 2015

The New York hotel that I zeroed in on,  three decades ago, when we were poor grad students, was the Helmsley Palace.  It’s attached to the historic Villard Houses, which I’d read about in Paul Goldberger’s book on New York architecture.  Dating from 1884, the houses were modeled on a Renaissance palazzo in Rome.  Six adjoining brownstone townhouses surround a central courtyard, giving the effect of one large, grand mansion.  The first project of the architectural firm McKim, Mead & White, the compound was built for Henry Villard, a former journalist and president of the Northern Pacific Railway.  The location is Madison Avenue, directly across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral.   

The New York Palace, October 2010
View of the east side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, from the courtyard of the Palace, 2025.

During the 1970s, the developer Harry Helmsley acquired the air rights to the Villard Houses and made plans for a fifty-story hotel atop the compound. Preservationists raised the alarm after hearing that Helmsley intended to demolish large portions of the historic buildings. Plans were modified, and the developer agreed to preserve most of the townhouses, including their interiors.

Inside the Villard Houses, October 2015

I saw glimpses of these lavish interiors in commercials for the hotel during the 1980s.  The ads showed Harry’s second wife Leona Helmsley posed imperiously atop the central stairway, flanked by subservient staff.  The tagline was “The Helmsley Palace, Where the Queen Stands Guard.” Leona may have considered herself  the  Grande Dame of her husband’s hotel empire, but thanks to her bullying, demanding behavior, her employees dubbed her the Queen of Mean.  Having remarked that “only the little people pay taxes,” Leona later went to prison for tax evasion.  

My interest in the Palace Hotel had nothing to do with Leona Helmsley, and everything do with the beautifully preserved, gilded-age interiors of the Villard Houses.

One of the Villard Rooms, with chairs set up for a wedding, 2015.

I can’t recall the details that went into my booking what I thought was a night at the Helmsley Palace.  I must have caught wind of some pre-Christmas discount, because money was short in those days.  

The same room, from a different angle, 2015.

What I can’t forget, though, was that we arrived in New York from Princeton in the midst of a significant nor’easter.  I hadn’t  heard that weather term before, and I’d certainly not experienced it.  My husband and I quickly learned that a nor’easter, especially in December, is not a pleasant time for leisurely, big-city sight-seeing.  The winds howled without cease, exacerbated by the tunnels created by the tall buildings. A frigid mix of sleet, snow and rain swirled around us, pelting our faces. The streets of Manhattan appeared to be littered with hulking black birds in their death throes, as useless, abandoned umbrellas flapped in the breeze.  I can’t remember what we wore, but I know we were not appropriately dressed for such dire weather.  My husband didn’t have a hat.  I had a scarf, but it was quickly soaked, giving the effect of wearing an ice pack outdoors in winter.    

A hallway inside the Villard rooms, October 2025

Why did we not cancel?  Most such details, fortunately, are hazy. Probably because I’d already paid.  Probably because we thought, “Oh, how bad can it be?”  

It might have been worth braving the terrible weather if we had only been able to find shelter at last in that sought-after destination, the Helmsley Palace.

But no.  Somehow, I’d booked our stay not at the Helmsley Palace, but at the New York Helmsley.  I can’t remember when or how we discovered the mistake.  Did I realize the error before our departure?  Or did we go to the Palace at Madison and 51st, only to be turned away?  To be sent back out into the icy winds and make our sad way over to 3rd Avenue and 42nd?  

Another room in the Villard Houses, 2015. Now it’s used by the hotel as a breakfast space.

The New York Helmsley (now the Westin New York Grand Central) was, and is, no dive.  Its 40-story tower was constructed in 1981, a bland rectangular block similar to that at the Palace.  But its lobby was, to me, a dull, forgettable, contemporary space, and a huge disappointment when I was expecting the time-tested opulence of the Villard rooms at the Palace.  

Our room was perfectly fine, definitely the nicest I’d ever entered in New York at that point.  It was a vast improvement over the youth hostels and threadbare accommodations I’d been used to in my low-budget student travel in Europe.  There were two windows, and an actual view.  Not an especially good view, out onto a gloomy, windswept 42nd Street, but also not onto an air shaft.

My mother likes to tell the story of a Manhattan hotel room she and my father stayed in when they were young and newly married.  In the adjoining bathroom, the tub appeared to have been cut in half by a wall.  That was one surprise, at least, that we did not encounter during our trip.  

Clock in a Villard Room hallway, October 2025.

We stayed only one night, which was a blessing.  A two-night visit was beyond our means.  The next day, a Saturday, the bad weather persisted. I had hoped we’d enjoy cheery lights and shop windows adorned for Christmas, but I recall no such festive sights.  I assume we took refuge in a museum or two.  But we walked the icy streets long enough to be very uncomfortable.  We went into one of the hundreds of Sbarros in Manhattan to try to warm up.  The door, oddly, had been open, and we closed it when we entered.  One of the employees rushed out immediately from the kitchen to close it again.  Really?  I rarely cry, but that day I put my head down on the cheap laminate table and sobbed.   My husband, shocked at my unseemly display, appealed to the employees, who were overheated because of their work near the pizza oven.  H promised the young men that we wouldn’t be long.  We’d  eat our slices, thaw out a little, and be on our way.  They allowed him to close the door.

We probably headed back to Penn Station shortly after we emerged from the Sbarro.  After two days of enduring New York in a nor’easter, it felt like luxury, for once, to settle ourselves onto those ugly orange seats in a shabby New Jersey Transit train.  

In the courtyard of the Helmsley Palace, October 2010, during a nicer visit.

We finally managed a weekend stay act the actual Palace Hotel in 2010.  We’ve returned there a few times since.  This past October, we had planned a weekend get-away at what is now known as the Lotte New York Palace.  A nor’easter was predicted to coincide with our visit.  This time, with the wisdom that comes with age and experience, we postponed for a week.   

Art and Architecture, Travel

Vagabond Shoes, Longing to Stray

My husband and I celebrated a recent anniversary with a weekend trip to New York.  We share the same attitude toward that great city:  we like to go there, briefly.  And then, especially, we like to return home.

I was in my mid-twenties before I got a first-hand glimpse of New York.  A friend and I were on the way to Vermont for skiing.  We’d flown from Atlanta to Newark to see his family in New Jersey before we made our way north.  From the passenger-side window of the rental car, I gaped at the city’s immensity as we sped across the George Washington Bridge.  Overwhelmed by the vastness of those towering building-upon-building-upon-building streetscapes, stretching in opposite directions as far as I could see, I felt like a country bumpkin, through and through.  It was fine with me that we didn’t set foot on that intimidating pavement during the trip.  

Cleveland Tower at the Princeton Graduate College

The next year I began graduate study in art history at Princeton.   The University is situated in what I consider an ideal environment.  Its lovely campus, with historic collegiate Gothic buildings, forms the heart of a bucolic, graciously landscaped small town.  And it’s about an hour south of New York by train.  At the University Book Store, I bought Paul Goldberger’s “The City Observed” to begin to familiarize myself with New York’s iconic architectural monuments.  In those pre-internet days, it was a treasure.  

During my first semester at Princeton, I relished the opportunity to be in New York every week.  My “Art of Ancient Rome” class was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  It was taught by Maxwell Anderson, early in his career, when he was the Met’s Curator of Roman Art.  He’d later be named director of the Michael Carlos Museum at Emory University, and then of New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art.   A couple of classmates and I would take New Jersey Transit from Princeton Junction to Penn Station.  We’d briskly walk the fifty blocks up Fifth Avenue to the Met.  The class extended past the time of the Museum’s closing, and it was a thrill to linger in that hallowed space after the guards had ushered out the crowds.  We also had the privilege of access to areas that were off limits to the general public.  To prepare for my term paper on the Boscoreale room of preserved Pompeiian frescoes, I was able to step across the velvet rope and take my time to closely examine the ancient paintings.   

Just as I loved being immersed in such unique surroundings at the Met, I was energized by the bustling atmosphere of the vibrant city.  But I was always relieved to arrive back in quiet Princeton.  That relief was particularly pronounced one evening when a fellow classmate and I fell sound asleep on the train, missed our stop, ended up in Trenton and had to backtrack.  

Throughout my years as a grad student, I was in New York on a fairly regular basis, but for day trips only.  I dreamed of spending the night in a beautiful hotel after a leisurely dinner, instead of rushing with a crowd of strangers to pack onto a grimy, harshly lighted New Jersey Transit train.   One December, I seized on a chance to do just that.  I planned what I hoped would be a very special trip to the city, complete with Christmas lights and a grand hotel, for my husband and me.

It turned out to be a memorable visit, but not in a good way.

Princeton Grad College

In an upcoming post:  the story of that ill-fated trip.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Travel

From one Pope to Another

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St. Peter’s Basilica on Good Friday, April 8, 1985, taken during my first, and perhaps only trip to Rome.

With the passing of Pope Francis last month, the world lost a rare spiritual leader, one who managed to remain uncorrupted by the power his prestigious earthly office afforded him.  He embodied humility.  He didn’t just preach about the need to care for the poor, the sick, and those on the margins.  He lived that calling, daily.  When he washed the feet of prisoners or shared a table with the street people of Rome, he wasn’t performing.  By all accounts, his goal was authentic connection with real people, not publicity stunts or photo ops.  Before becoming Pope, he’d been Jorge Mario Bergoglio, a pastor and good shepherd who led his flock with compassion.  As Pope, pastoral care remained a priority.  Like Jesus, he was concerned for lost sheep, for those who went astray.  Like Jesus, he interacted frequently with ordinary people.  Like Jesus, he lived a life of virtue; he didn’t merely signal it.   He gave the glory to God.  

I had feared, and rather expected, that a new Pope would mean a shift away from Francis’s emphasis on humility and concern for the downtrodden.  I was afraid that Francis’s successor might be one who put more emphasis on the imperial majesty of the Papacy and strict adherence to the finer points of Church doctrine rather than on living out the message of Jesus.   

And so I was surprised and relieved when Robert Francis Prevost from Chicago was announced as the 267th Pope.  An American who spent much of his life in Peru, he began his first message to the world with the words “Peace be with you.”  He connected that greeting, the first words of the resurrected Jesus to his assembled disciples, with Pope Francis’s final Easter blessing.  He spoke in Italian, Spanish and Latin, but not in English.  He spoke of the need to build bridges through “dialogue and encounter.”  He spoke of a universal Church that opens her loving arms wide to all, as welcoming as the long, curved colonnade of St. Peter’s Basilica.  He quoted St. Augustine in saying, “With you, I’m a Christian, but for you, I’m a Bishop.”  He spoke of a Church that works together in service for justice and the common good.  And he said, with firm resolution: “God loves you all, and evil will not prevail.”  

Cardinal Robert Prevost, or Bob to his friends, chose the Papal name of Leo XIV.  The last Leo, who held the office from 1878 – 1903, was a champion of the working poor and an advocate for social justice.  The new Pope’s name choice signals his like-mindedness.  His initial message yesterday as Pope, as well as the impressions of those acquainted with him, suggest that he will not veer substantially from the path set forth by Pope Francis.

I’m a lifelong United Methodist, not a Catholic, but the Pope is considered by many to be a prominent representative of Christ here on earth, so  his words and actions matter to me.  I happened to see Pope John Paul II heading towards St. Peter’s on Good Friday, 1985.  I was in Rome with my boyfriend at the time, an avowed agnostic, disdainful of organized religion, yet possessed of a strong moral compass.  When all those around us burst into cheers at the sight of the Pope waving benevolently to us from behind the glass shield of the Popemobile, Jonathan joined me and the crowd in exuberant applause.  The Pope is a significant figure in the world, even to those who may think they see him as irrelevant. 

I hope the leadership of this new Pope will serve as a reminder to all Christians, but especially to Americans, Roman Catholic and Protestant alike, that Jesus beckons us to a faith surpassing all boundaries made by human hands.  The resurrected Christ called his followers to make disciples not just of their fellow Israelites, but “of all nations” (Matthew 28: 19).  The concept of “Christian nationalism” goes against the very principles of love and inclusion preached and modeled by Jesus.

Habemus Papam.  We have a Pope. 

May Pope Leo XIV be an ethical inspiration for people the world over, no matter their faith, or lack of it, to work together, with patience and kindness, toward peace.  

View of Rome from the Forum, April 1985.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Community, Family, Travel

The Time My Mother Met the World’s Tallest Man

My mother as a baby, ca. 1935.

I thought I knew all my mother’s stories about her childhood and youth.  Most I’ve heard multiple times, which is to be expected.  My daughter would likely say she’s all too familiar with anecdotes from my past.  (Except for one, which she heard for the first time recently, and it truly surprised her.  But that’s for another day.)

Mama at about ten, ca. 1945.

 

 A while ago Mama’s memory was jolted by a segment in one of her frequently watched History Channel shows. The topic was Robert Wadlow, the world’s tallest man. At his death at the young age of twenty-two, his height was 8 feet 11.1 inches.   

Did she ever tell me that she met him when she was a little girl? 

What?  You met the world’s tallest man?  No!  How could you have never told me that?

My mother’s first grade school picture, ca. 1941.

She wasn’t sure. It must have slipped her mind, until just then.

As she remembered, her father’s brother Ben had taken her to a favorite restaurant on Main Street in her home town of Lebanon, Kentucky. This popular meeting spot, memorably called Humpkey’s, featured in many of Mama’s recollections.  Open from early till late, it had a soda fountain, candy and ice cream sales in the front, and café tables in the back.  Everyone, young and old, socialized, snacked and lunched at Humpkey’s.  I have a vague vision of going there with my grandfather when I was very young.  Apparently Mama’s uncle had heard that the world’s tallest man would be stopping by, and he took little Betty Ann, then no more than four years old.  She couldn’t recall her parents, or any of her four siblings, all much older, being there.  

But now she was starting to wonder if any of that had actually happened.  Had she just made it up?

Main Street Lebanon, 1983.

It was thanks to my late cousin Maryella, who lived her entire life in central Kentucky, that I was able to confirm my mother’s recollection.  Until her untimely and unexpected death, Maryella maintained a Facebook archive of old newspaper clippings on Marion County events.  Searching her site, I found an article from the local paper, dated May 8, 1939, on Wadlow’s visit to the town.  He was twenty-one at the time. For the past year, he’d been traveling the country as a representative of the St. Louis-based International Shoe Company, which supplied his size 37 shoes free of charge. Lerman Brothers Department Store on Main Street had invited him to make an appearance in Lebanon. 

Main Street Lebanon, December 1984.

Robert Pershing Wadlow was born in 1918 in Alton, Illinois, a small town near St. Louis.  His great height was caused by hyperplasia of the pituitary gland, resulting in excessive production of human growth hormone.  At eight years old, he was already six feet two inches tall.  At thirteen, he became the world’s tallest Boy Scout, at seven feet four inches. As the eldest of five children, Robert was a caring and considerate big brother.  Growing up in Alton, he was a familiar figure in the community, accepted and well-liked.  To his peers in school (where he was a good student), church and scouts, he’d always been just Robert, who happened to be very tall.  But of course, he attracted attention everywhere he went.  In 1936 he traveled with the Ringling Brothers Circus. He didn’t think of himself as a showman, certainly not a side show act.  In his appearances in the center ring, he wore a suit and tie, not the flashy top hat and tails that circus bigwigs would have preferred. He saw his towering height not as a handicap, but as a feature that made him unique. Throughout his life, he was known for his kindness, humility, gentleness and quiet dignity. 

Main Street Lebanon, November 1983.

According to The Lebanon Enterprise article, a sizable crowd had gathered that day in May to await the celebrity’s appearance.  After arriving in the specially modified family car with his father, Robert climbed atop a flat-bed truck parked on the street as a viewing platform.  His father addressed the group and spoke of his son’s rapid development from an eight-pound baby born to parents of typical height.  Robert made a short endorsement for the International Shoe Company, but spent most of his time seated in a chair chatting amiably with curious townspeople. His demeanor was described as pleasant, humble and at ease. After a while, a few of the town’s tallest young men were invited to climb up and compare their stature with Robert’s.

Santa’s sleigh passes Lerman’s Store on Main Street in the Christmas Parade, 1983.

These details of Wadlow’s visit were news to my mother.  But the final paragraph in the article noted that “following his engagement, the party had lunch at Humkey’s (sic) Confectionery and then left for Campbellsville.”

“You did see him, after all!,” I said to my mother.  “And of course, it happened at Humpkey’s.”  

Main Street Lebanon, December 1984.

Robert Wadlow died just a little over a year after his appearance in Lebanon.  As he aged, his quickly growing body was under ever greater strain.  He wore braces on his legs and used a cane to walk, but he never resorted to the use of a wheelchair.  During a public appearance in Michigan, an ill-fitting brace rubbed a blister on his ankle. Because he had little sensation in his lower legs and feet, Robert didn’t notice the injury until it had become infected. Despite emergency surgery and a blood transfusion, the infection worsened, and Robert died in his sleep on July 15, 1940.  Penicillin, which might have solved the problem, wasn’t in regular use until later that decade. His final words were “The doctor says I won’t get home for the celebration,” a reference to his grandparents’ upcoming fiftieth anniversary party. 

The life of the world’s tallest man was unfortunately short, but his legacy is long.  When I mentioned his name to my husband, he recognized it instantly.  Not much of a reader growing up, he ordered a kids’ Guinness Book of World Records  every year, if he could, through Scholastic Books at school.  He remembered reading about Wadlow, and he knew  his record had never been broken.  “Wow!  Nana met Robert Wadlow!  Amazing!,” he exclaimed.  My daughter’s fiancé, also a World Records enthusiast, was equally impressed. 

Wadlow’s record will likely remain unsurpassed.  His condition,  known as pituitary gigantism, was accurately diagnosed during his childhood.  It’s now typically treated successfully with surgery, but during his lifetime, that was deemed much too risky. 

Robert Wadlow will be remembered as one who persisted through hardship, in ways that most of us can barely conceive.  Daily, he navigated an environment built, from his point of view, on a cramped and unaccommodating scale.  Think of an American Girl doll being trapped in a Barbie-sized world.

Because of his large size, Wadlow had no choice but to be visible.  Far more visible, at all times, than most of us would choose.  The typical celebrity has the option of dressing in forgettable attire and a baseball cap in order to slouch about unnoticed.  Wadlow was never afforded that luxury.  While his fellow citizens of Alton apparently took his outsized presence in stride, he could expect stares of amazement everywhere else.  His attendance with his YMCA group at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1933 at age fifteen, for example, was caught on film.  He must have tired of the never-ending stream of photo-seeking strangers.  He must have groaned inwardly at hearing the same old jokes about his height.  But those who knew him, as well as those who met him briefly, were impressed by his positive, matter-of-fact attitude, his patience with onlookers, and his complete absence of self-pity.  He was not known to have complained about his condition or about being pestered by goggle-eyed crowds. 

We all face challenges, but few of us are forced to deal with them in quite such a public manner.   When I get the urge to whine about my problems, I’ll think of that tallest-ever man, a perpetually young man.  Robert Wadlow persevered through unusual difficulties, all the while extending grace to those around him. 

 

 

Art and Architecture, Community, Travel

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.

Family, Holiday, Memorials, Parenthood, Travel

Father’s Day 2024

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Daddy and I, July 1965, in Lebanon, KY.

A particular image of my father has taken up residence in my mind recently. I see him sitting at our kitchen table in our house in Atlanta. He has a map open–a fold-up highway map, the kind we used to buy at gas stations and welcome centers–those old ones that today’s young adults have rarely seen. He has a pen in hand, and he’s cheerfully planning the route for an upcoming trip. The destination is likely to be one with which he’s very familiar. Probably it’s a town in central or eastern Kentucky, to visit family. Even near home, Daddy didn’t like to follow the same path twice. Mama said that was one reason she never learned her way around Atlanta. Daddy enjoyed driving, and he was good at it. He’d had considerable practice, as he’d been driving since he was twelve or so. He was born in 1929, and he learned on a Model T. I always knew that if I needed a ride somewhere–anywhere accessible by car–Daddy could, and would, gladly oblige.

Mama remembers how Daddy poured over such a map while my husband and I were on our way to New Jersey after our marriage in the fall of 1995. I was moving away, and this time, it seemed likely to be for good. Before, I’d always returned after a few years. H and I were in a packed U-Haul, with my little Rabbit convertible behind on a trailer. Because we left later in the day, we spent a night on the road in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. When I called home to report our safe arrival, Daddy quickly picked up the phone. He’d been worried about us. (He didn’t yet know that I’d perhaps married as capable and confident a driver as he.)

My husband and I with the moving van in Atlanta, November 1995.

“I’m so relieved to hear your voice!,” he exclaimed. “I think I drove every mile with you!”

Daddy was not a man who cried easily or often. But Mama said she remembers him shedding some tears that evening, as he worried over the map.

H with the van in Carlisle. The trailer for my small car was huge, and could easily have held a Cadillac. As H said, “We were long.”

On this Father’s Day, and every day, I’m grateful to be my father’s daughter. I know that wherever life takes me, no matter how treacherous the road, Daddy is there beside me, every mile.

My husband and my father in Atlanta, December 1996.

Somehow now the years have spun by like the numbers on the oven timer, and H and I are a married couple past middle age, with a daughter of our own. She’s twenty-five, a young career woman, living in another state. But it’s Maryland, and she’s still nearby. So far, we’re lucky that way. I know that she, too, counts herself fortunate to be her father’s daughter. She can be sure that her Dada, like her dear Papa, will be forever at her side, driving with her every mile.

For another post on my sweet Daddy, see here.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Travel

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!

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Nature, Travel

Spencerport, the Picturesque

Over the Memorial Day weekend, my husband and I drove up to New York state to visit his family in the Rochester area.

We watched our young nephews play hockey, of course, in a very cold, very old-school ice arena.

But there was time for me to indulge in a favorite activity, walking interesting historic neighborhoods. H’s sister and her family live in Spencerport, that picturesque Eerie Canal village bedecked with Hometown Heroes banners. A charming, pedestrian-friendly town, it’s filled with comfortable old homes and well-tended gardens. Spring had truly sprung, at last, in the Rochester area. Lawns were lush, trees were leafy, and flowers were flourishing in the bright sunshine. After a brisk morning walk with my sister-in-law, I retraced our footsteps so I could linger and take many photos.

Spencerport may win the prize for the greatest number of Little Free Libraries per square mile. Their repeated presence is one expression of the town’s gracious, welcoming attitude.

Another is the multitude of cute rock critters peeking out from their dwelling places, to be discovered if one pays attention.

We missed the lilacs, for which the area is famous, but rhododendron, irises and peonies were near their peak.

It’s a town of lovely old churches. Above, from top to bottom, are the First Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ, the United Methodist Church, and St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church.

Above, just a few of the village’s cheery old homes.

The stately edifice above, on South Union Street in the heart of town, next to the old Masonic Temple, now houses professional offices. Because of its Neo-Classical appearance, typical of bank buildings on the main streets of American small towns, I had assumed it was built as a bank. But its facade originally belonged to a grand home at 25 State Street, in what is now downtown Rochester. The house was demolished in 1923, and the bank, fronted by the saved facade, was erected two years later. Spencerport’s central district retains a variety of businesses that serve practical needs. In addition to a grocery store (with a handy parking lot), it has quite a few thriving restaurants, as well as a dog-friendly brewery which we’ve enjoyed, in the past, with our family and Kiko.

The town is dotted with verdant pockets of greenery, and two swift-running creeks wind through yards and between homes.

And then, further enhancing the town’s quaint aspect and running through its midst, there’s the Eerie Canal itself, to be discussed in an upcoming post.

For an earlier post on Spencerport, see here.

Community, Holiday, Memorials, Travel

Once Again, and Daily, May We Honor our Hometown Heroes

The Hometown Hero banners are up again along the quiet main streets of little towns throughout upstate New York. They honor men and women currently serving in our armed forces. Most of the faces are young. So, so very young. They look down from flag-draped lamp posts along Union Street in the little village of Spencerport. Some are smiling, appearing hopeful and excited. Others are stoically stern. All of them should break our hearts.

Let’s carry such young faces with us, every day. May they be living reminders of the reality of the ongoing sacrifice taking place continually, here and in far-flung spots, for our precious American freedoms. Let’s honor these soldiers, like my twenty-one year old nephew in the Marines, who offer up years of their youth so that we may remain the unique country that our founders envisioned.

Keeping these young faces in our minds and hearts, let’s behave better toward one another. Let’s remember that they’re toiling now to keep us free. Free to voice our own opinions, and free to disagree with one another. But when we disagree, let us strive to do so with grace, thoughtfulness and kindness, recognizing our common humanity. So that we might discover common ground. And so that we won’t take impulsive actions that will jeopardize the republic for which these young heroes fight.

Also on Spencerport’s Union Street lies peaceful Fairfield Cemetery, which I first explored on a walk five years ago with my dog Kiko. As Memorial Day approaches, the graves of the war dead are decorated with American flags. Pictured above is the monument to those from the area who gave their lives defending our Union during the Civil War. Let us remember the devastating cost of a nation divided, and of going to war against one another.

As this viciously polarized election season ramps up, let’s take a deep breath and consider that our hard-won democracy might indeed be fragile. Let’s make choices that show we value the sacrifice of all our hometown heroes, of today and generations past. Let’s remember that they have fought and died, and continue to fight, to protect us from falling prey to tyrants. Let’s pay close attention. Let’s not be misguided by anger and spitefulness. Let’s be informed and seek the truth, even when it’s not the truth we want to hear. Let us not be fooled. Let us recognize those who try to manipulate us into willingly laying down our invaluable freedoms.

Long may our land be bright with freedom’s holy light!

–America, Samuel Smith, 1832

Community, Family, Travel

A Post-Memorial Day Wish

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Last week, my sister-in-law sent me these photos from her Eerie Canal village of Spencerport, New York. Walking past Fairfield Cemetery in the center of town, she saw veterans placing flags on graves of the war dead. She knows I’m a big fan of her lovely little town, which has been a frequent Memorial Day destination for our family. This year, only my husband made the trip; he took advantage of the three-day weekend to spend some time with his Mom in nearby Rochester. I have pleasant memories of walking the old cemetery’s verdant paths with my furry companion, Kiko. It was good to see that Spencerport’s patriotic traditions live on.

The pictures remind me of our American tendency to temporarily lay aside our polarizing differences as Memorial Day approaches. Ever so briefly, we unite in honoring those who gave their lives in defense of our country. Around this time, we join together momentarily to acknowledge the brave men and women who paid the ultimate price.

It’s my ongoing prayer that we might keep this Memorial Day attitude alive all year long. Our military heroes deserve more than to be saluted perfunctorily on certain holidays. Let’s remember that their sacrifice was for our everyday freedoms, which should not be taken for granted. They died so that we may continue to pursue our dreams and live the lives we choose. They died so that we may be able to air our opinions and grievances without fear of bodily harm or imprisonment. Therefore, let’s honor their memory by trying to refrain from snap judgments and personal attacks. Let us not jump eagerly to accept just anything we want to believe. Let us take pains to discern the truth, even, and, indeed, especially, when it may lead us to change our minds. Let’s exercise some of that critical thinking we should have been taught in school. May we learn to recognize the sly manipulators among us, those who benefit from stirring up trouble and maximizing our differences. May we try to lecture, to talk at one another less, and to listen more comprehensively. May we practice kindness, and grow in wisdom. May we be guided toward common ground, toward a vantage point from which we might see some of our perceived differences evaporate like an early morning fog. If we make these efforts, we really might be able to work together toward that more perfect union. This great republic of ours is worth it. The sacrifice of our Memorial Day heroes begs us to do so. May they not have died in vain.

Long may our land be right with freedom’s holy light!

–America, Samuel Smith, 1832

For previous posts on the picturesque and patriotic town of Spencerport, see For the Hometown Heroes on Memorial Day, May 2019, and On The Road Again, and Back into the World, May 2021.