The Road to Gowanda: Part 1

The unmarked dirt road was not a road at all, but rather a couple of ruts at the edge of a grassy field. We had already passed it twice, admiring the cute gray cat lounging like a small panther in the tall grass. And we had already taken the only other turn off this short stretch of Wheater Road: a narrow way between cornfields that had dead-ended by an abandoned shanty at the edge of the woods. 

"The written description says it's here," I insisted as we idled on the narrow shoulder. "It's unmarked, at the end of a quarter-mile dirt road on the east side of Wheater between Bagdad and Rt 62." I opened the map app on my phone. Tapping the satellite image, I could see three light green clearings beyond the woods at the edge of the field where the cat was. "We're going in!" I said and put the car in gear. A hundred yards away I turned onto the grassy lane and drove to the back of the meadow. Over a small rise we saw a chained-off driveway that had been invisible from the main road. 

I pulled up to it and hopped out of the car. "I'm going to check it out!" I said.

"I'm going with you!" Heidi replied, and we left the a/c running for her parents and hopped over the chain.

The path curved around to the left and down a steep hill. I knew why they had closed it off; a car could easily get stuck going up or down this way. We flushed a flock of finches to the right and a woodchuck lumbered across the road ahead of us; clearly this trail was not well traveled by humans. It had been mown sometime this summer, but the grass was up to our knees in some places. Rounding the curve ahead of us, I stopped and pointed. "There it is!"

The Old Man

At dinner this evening, Heidi told her parents about a quick visit she made to a neighbor down the street. John was a childhood friend of hers, and he and his wife and their two teenagers live in the house that he grew up in.

"You were where?" her dad asked, cupping his ear. He hasn't replaced the hearing aid he lost a couple of months ago.

"John's!" Heidi repeated.

He nodded. "Were you talking to the son or the old man?"

Heidi was confused. I could tell by the look on her face that she thought her dad had lost his marbles. John's parents have been dead for 40 years. 

"I think your dad is calling your friend John 'the old man'," I guessed, knowing that his son was also named John.

"Right!" her dad waved a cranky hand. "Do you even know the kid?"

"As a matter of fact?" she answered, "I do. And I was talking to both of them."

Burst Bubble

Visiting Heidi's parents is always an opportunity to break out of the cultural bubble we live in. For example, here in Buffalo, the economic dynamic is much different than it is in the affluent, densely populated community where we live, right outside Washington D.C. and economics drives politics.

For one thing, the many national chains that have been sprouting up in the 20 years I've been visiting regularly are still matched by plenty of well-established, local businesses and restaurants that succeed because they have a loyal customer base, and they reliably deliver quality goods, just as they have for years. Another difference is the much higher proportion of blue collar workers and tradesfolk to office workers. Finally, there are many shoppers and tourists who visit the area from Canada, and their spending lifts the economy.

As I've mentioned before, Heidi and her mom are inveterate shoppers, and until the last year and change of COVID, no visit between the two was complete without at least one shopping day. Now that the crisis has been mostly managed, this afternoon we headed up to an outlet mall in Niagara Falls.  

Wow... The place was a ghost town and more than half of the stores were closed-- completely out of business. Those shops that remained open had pretty limited inventory; even Heidi and her mom were hard pressed to find anything they wanted. In our community, only a handful of businesses went under during the pandemic, and it was hard to relate to the reports of economic hardship in other areas of the country, but today I saw an example, first hand. The mall will probably recover, but with the Canadian border still closed, and many local workers still saving to recoup lost wages, it could take a while. 

Some Who Came Before

We spent the afternoon yesterday in the cemetery, or rather, in four cemeteries to be exact. Both sides of Heidi's family have lived in Buffalo for generations, and along with her parents and brother, we went to pay our respects to all 4 of her grandparents, as well as her dad's grandparents, and the brothers who were the first of their surname to come to the United States from Germany back in 1845. 

Remarkably, they were all laid to rest in what has become an enormous cemetery complex just south of Buffalo, in the town of Cheektowaga, NY. Originally known as The United German and French Roman Catholic Cemetery, it was established in 1859 by nine trustees, representatives of six parishes whose congregants were mostly immigrants. The cemetery quickly filled, and over the years several adjoining farms were purchased and used to expand the grounds. 

Five cemeteries are known today as The Mount Calvary Cemetery Group; in addition to Mount Calvary and UGF, the collective also includes Pine Lawn, Ridge Lawn, and Buffalo Cemetery. Adjoining the grounds are also 3 Jewish Cemeteries, a Lutheran cemetery, and two independent Catholic cemeteries, one, Holy Sepulchre, that was founded for Italian immigrants and another, St. Stanislaus, for Polish. Not far away is Holy Cross, originally consecrated for the Irish laborers who came to Buffalo to dig the Erie Canal, build the railroads, and work on the steamships that plied the great lakes. 

Standing in the shade of a silver maple and looking over gentle green hills filled with row after row of granite and marble stones it was easy to forget that each memorialized at least one real person with a whole life of joys and disappointments. Many were carved with a cross that was tilted at an angle, a symbol I was not familiar with until I looked it up. Known as a Portate Cross or the Cross of St. Glbert, it represents a burden laid down after a life well-lived.

Pray, Indeed

We had Thanksgiving dinner last night. The idea, at first, seemed a little silly, but as a houseguest, who am I to object to my hostess's meal plans? 

What started out as a simple roasted turkey breast soon included mashed potatoes and turnips. "All we're missing is the stuffing," Heidi's mom said, but since I knew there was a sliced batard in the bread box, that was quickly remedied. A can of cranberry sauce in the pantry completed the menu, and the five of us sat down to Thanksgiving in July. 

"It's my favorite meal of the year," her mom told us, and considering that the five of us are never together for that holiday, it seemed like a new tradition was being established. As we ate, I heard my own mother's voice singing one of the many little songs she had for every occasion. 

And pray, how could anyone ever be cross, 

with turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce?

The Sun is Not Sunny

The damp air is temperate and mild, as the dogs and I sit outside on this rainy, rainy day in Buffalo. A steady patter of drops on the yellow and white striped awning over my head is pleasant enough, and the light filtering through the solid cloud cover paints the yard an exquisite green, flooding the eyes and filling the heart. But the forecast? That it will be like this all week, the entire time we are here? Raises a tempest of concern.

Oh Thank Heaven

Quite often the estimated travel time from our home to Heidi's parents' is seven hours and eleven minutes, just as it was today. The distance is always 387 miles, and although we could drive straight through on a single tank of gas, we usually make one stop to stretch our aging legs and let the three of us pee, just as we did today. And usually? We can make the time up somewhere on the shaded mountain roads of the Allegheny State Forest, assuming we can avoid a logging truck or fracking tanker. If not, then I-99 or NY 219 is always a good bet to nudge the cruise control up a notch so that we can pull into the driveway in 7:11, just as we did today.