According to several news outlets, Senator McCain has released his medical records, apparently demonstrating his physical readiness to take on the run for the Oval Office and presumably laying to rest any speculation that he may be too old for the job. As both The New York Times and NPR pointed out, McCain, at 71, if elected, would be the oldest president in U.S. history to begin a first term.
Acutely aware of the concerns about their guy's age, the McCain camp recently decided to show that the candidate is not some sour old geezer by having him appear on "Saturday Night Live" and poke fun at his advanced years by declaring himself to be "older than dirt."
As someone who just completed her 70th year and is now officially a septuagenarian, I'd like to know what that makes me. Am I now compelled to compare myself to the soil in my garden---a good bit of which predates me by quite a lot?
Granted, McCain was attempting to score points with the SNL audience, many of whom are in that coveted demographic which has so far favored Barack Obama. I can't imagine him making a similar crack in front of the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars. You know---his base?
Of course, the word got out, as surely his supporters must have known it would, so I can't help wondering how other older Americans feel about having one of their own generation hoke it up for the sake of a few unlikely votes. How about a little decorum, a modicum of dignity?
Don't get me wrong: I am not one of those people of a certain age who start calling themselves "70 years young;" neither am I of the Gloria Steinem persuasion that "70 is the new 50"---unless, of course, you're having industrial-strength plastic surgery. I leave my haleness, heartiness, and vigor to the eye of the beholder. I have no wish, however, to be lumped in with a candidate who is not only old in years but faltering in ideas and imagination.
What disturbs me about McCain's old-fart schtick is that he appears to think that by making jokes about his chronological age, voters will overlook the artheroscelosis of his politics, particularly his devotion to the tried-and-failed policies of the past seven years.
Not me---I may indeed be older than dirt, but I refuse to stick in the mud!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Virgins, Martyrs, and Wallflowers
When I visit my favorite consignment shops this time of year, I notice that the displays are all-prom-all-the time. I understand that: Of my long-ago prom days I remember the dresses more clearly that I remember my escorts. Even with pictures as evidence
Tight of bodice and voluminous of skirt, the gowns were typically nylon tulle over taffeta in a demure "ballerina" length, strapless, and complemented by a totally useless net stole that would slip off the back of my chair early in the evening, to be trodden by passing dancers and waitresses bearing trays of Cokes.
I wore them with a tortuously boned strapless brassiere, as many crinoline petticoats as I could pile on while still managing to zip up the dress, and old nylon hosiery because the aforementioned petticoats would make short work of good ones. It sounds perverse today to report that I wore a garter belt; I had to---in the Fifties, pantyhose were a fashionable woman's dream that had not yet come true. The height of my heels---silver for fall and winter, white for spring---depended on the height of my dancing partner. Since I was considered tall in my day, I acquired a large collection of cheap formal flats.
One dress was white, one pale yellow, one orchid with silver spangles worked into the net. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, and the net raised red welts along my neckline. My mother made that one, as well as two of my least favorite gowns, a dark green faille that wasn't at all what I had in mind and a red-and-white striped taffeta that made me look like an oversized candy cane.
I inherited my favorite dress from my stylish cousin Barbara, who attended a private girls' school and had cut quite a social swath among the young men at the boys' school nearby. The dress had a cranberry velvet bodice and net skirt over a satin underlay that was peppered with tiny holes. Moths, my mother pronounced, squinting at the fabric; just what she'd expect of the languid Barbara and Auntie Mary, my mother's oldest sister. "Mary always did think she was a 'lady,' "---my forthright mother's sternest criticism---"and she raised her girls to be the same. I'll bet Barbara threw that dress over a chair and left it for someone else to hang up, but the moths got to it first."
I loved the color and the velvet, though, and when, as my mother did, you had two daughters in high school, you took free dance dresses wherever, whenever, and from whomever you could. She spent several evenings hand-sewing the tiny holes with silk thread, and when she was finished, I couldn't see any imperfections through the clouds of net skirt. As Mother often said of her make-do efforts, "A man riding by on horseback couldn't tell the difference."
Nor would anyone else. With my mother's rhinestone earrings and silver mesh bag, I was all set for the fall semi-formal dance of the Junior Guild of St. Agnes. All I needed now was a date.
The Junior Guild was the offshoot, for high-school girls, of a Catholic women's organization (the Guild of St. Agnes) that did good works and raised money for the Sisters of Providence with card parties and dinner-dances. In the 1950s, in a small city, where the church a family attended was no small factor in its community standing, these young matrons---wives of Catholic doctors, lawyers, businessmen---were becoming a social force to rival the WASPish Junior League.
We, of the Junior Guild, were to be groomed as their successors. We were to become in our turn good Catholic wives and mothers, faithful to spouse and church, charitable, community-minded, and socially accomplished.
In the meantime, until we achieved holy matrimony, we were to take as our model St. Agnes, a poster child for chastity and purity. Depending on which edition of The Lives of the Saints you consult, Agnes---which in Greek translates to "lamb" or "pure one"---at the tender age of 12 (or 13 or 14) chose death over dishonor by pagan Romans. In either 254 or 304 A.D., she was (take your pick) beheaded and burned or tortured and stabbed or stabbed in the throat. Her hagiographers are unclear on those details but united in the notion that she preserved her virginity and won a martyr's crown on the 21st of January. The Roman Catholic Church proclaimed her the patron saint of engaged couples, Girl Scouts, and rape victims, the last designation either ignored or overlooked by our parents seeing us off with our sweaty-palmed adolescent swains.
Despite the high-minded intent of the organization, most of us joined the Junior Guild for one reason and one reason only: the fall and spring dances, held by tradition in the Terrace Room of the Hotel Roger Smith, about as elegant a venue as one could find locally in those days. We circled the polished floor from 8 to 11 p.m. to the music of Ed Novak, the moonlighting high school band director, and his small dance combo. The fall dance was always the night after Thanksgiving, the spring event a Friday night in mid-May.
In all respects, save one, the Junior Guild dances were identical to the high school proms: the former were ladies' choice affairs. If you were dating someone on a regular basis---we didn't go steady much in those days---it was a foregone conclusion that the young man would be your escort, and other girls would keep their hands off. If you didn't date much, you began early in the school year to consider the possibilities---the cute guy in French class, the silent type who stared at you in study hall, the least juvenile of the jokers hanging around their lockers before morning home room---hoping for a presentable male with a dark suit and access to a car.
The trophies to be won included a little tasseled dance car, a drying wrist corsage, a stiffly posed photo with the other couples at your table, and the opportunity to act, for a few hours at least, like a grown-up and practice one's party manners. It was all about See and Be Seen. Resplendent in your wide-skirted gown, steered around the floor by your chosen partner, you couldn't possibly be taken for a wallflower.
Few of these contrived pairings led to lasting romance; they certainly didn't in my case. They might, however, yield an unexpected quid pro quo. After going with me to a couple of Junior Guild dances, Steve invited me to the Junior-Prom that took place over Christmas vacation.
Bill took me to the formal dance sponsored by the high school newspaper in June of our senior year---a lucky break, inasmuch as I was the editor of The Herald, and staying home was not an option. For the occasion, I received my first orchid corsage. My dress was Empire-style white lace over pale blue, and my date wore a white dinner jacket, de rigeur for the last dance before graduation. I don't recall much else about the evening, not even the names of the other couples at our table.
When next I wore the dress, I was in college and dating a young man whom I thought might be The One. He wasn't, but the dance we went to was a lot more fun than those rigid affairs in the Hotel Roger Smith. Eventually, my mother handed on the blue-and-white-lace number to one of my younger cousins, and it went to Junior Guild dances without me. I started wearing little black cocktail dresses when I went out on semi-formal occasions and never thought of it again.
A few years ago, when I attended my 50th high school reunion, it was just for a moment, to quote Yogi Berra, deja vu all over again: white-clothed tables for eight around a hardwood dance floor, but this time I was alone. Blessedly, not for long. One of my old friends, who served on the reunion committee, had arranged to seat me at her table, along with three other singletons, all of whom had attended one or more Junior Guild dances with me---Ruthie, who had not cared to inflict a crowd of reminiscing strangers on her husband; Ann, who had never married after 18 years in the convent and 20 on the high school faculty; Bobbie, who had lost his wife, our good friend Momo, to breast cancer.
Somewhere between the salad course and her third glass of Pinot Noir, Ruthie turned to me and confided, "You know, I only came to this reunion because it's the 50th. I don't know who most of these people are and don't care; I didn't have a very good time in high school...all that pressure to pair off!" I agreed, adding that I'd had a lot more fun in college.
After dinner, the music got louder and it was harder to carry on a conversation. I was driving a rental car and had had about as much as I felt I could safely drink, so I said my goodnights and left, passing confidently through the throng by all by myself. In my little black dress and fuchsia stole I looked fabulous; everybody said so.
Tight of bodice and voluminous of skirt, the gowns were typically nylon tulle over taffeta in a demure "ballerina" length, strapless, and complemented by a totally useless net stole that would slip off the back of my chair early in the evening, to be trodden by passing dancers and waitresses bearing trays of Cokes.
I wore them with a tortuously boned strapless brassiere, as many crinoline petticoats as I could pile on while still managing to zip up the dress, and old nylon hosiery because the aforementioned petticoats would make short work of good ones. It sounds perverse today to report that I wore a garter belt; I had to---in the Fifties, pantyhose were a fashionable woman's dream that had not yet come true. The height of my heels---silver for fall and winter, white for spring---depended on the height of my dancing partner. Since I was considered tall in my day, I acquired a large collection of cheap formal flats.
One dress was white, one pale yellow, one orchid with silver spangles worked into the net. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, and the net raised red welts along my neckline. My mother made that one, as well as two of my least favorite gowns, a dark green faille that wasn't at all what I had in mind and a red-and-white striped taffeta that made me look like an oversized candy cane.
I inherited my favorite dress from my stylish cousin Barbara, who attended a private girls' school and had cut quite a social swath among the young men at the boys' school nearby. The dress had a cranberry velvet bodice and net skirt over a satin underlay that was peppered with tiny holes. Moths, my mother pronounced, squinting at the fabric; just what she'd expect of the languid Barbara and Auntie Mary, my mother's oldest sister. "Mary always did think she was a 'lady,' "---my forthright mother's sternest criticism---"and she raised her girls to be the same. I'll bet Barbara threw that dress over a chair and left it for someone else to hang up, but the moths got to it first."
I loved the color and the velvet, though, and when, as my mother did, you had two daughters in high school, you took free dance dresses wherever, whenever, and from whomever you could. She spent several evenings hand-sewing the tiny holes with silk thread, and when she was finished, I couldn't see any imperfections through the clouds of net skirt. As Mother often said of her make-do efforts, "A man riding by on horseback couldn't tell the difference."
Nor would anyone else. With my mother's rhinestone earrings and silver mesh bag, I was all set for the fall semi-formal dance of the Junior Guild of St. Agnes. All I needed now was a date.
The Junior Guild was the offshoot, for high-school girls, of a Catholic women's organization (the Guild of St. Agnes) that did good works and raised money for the Sisters of Providence with card parties and dinner-dances. In the 1950s, in a small city, where the church a family attended was no small factor in its community standing, these young matrons---wives of Catholic doctors, lawyers, businessmen---were becoming a social force to rival the WASPish Junior League.
We, of the Junior Guild, were to be groomed as their successors. We were to become in our turn good Catholic wives and mothers, faithful to spouse and church, charitable, community-minded, and socially accomplished.
In the meantime, until we achieved holy matrimony, we were to take as our model St. Agnes, a poster child for chastity and purity. Depending on which edition of The Lives of the Saints you consult, Agnes---which in Greek translates to "lamb" or "pure one"---at the tender age of 12 (or 13 or 14) chose death over dishonor by pagan Romans. In either 254 or 304 A.D., she was (take your pick) beheaded and burned or tortured and stabbed or stabbed in the throat. Her hagiographers are unclear on those details but united in the notion that she preserved her virginity and won a martyr's crown on the 21st of January. The Roman Catholic Church proclaimed her the patron saint of engaged couples, Girl Scouts, and rape victims, the last designation either ignored or overlooked by our parents seeing us off with our sweaty-palmed adolescent swains.
Despite the high-minded intent of the organization, most of us joined the Junior Guild for one reason and one reason only: the fall and spring dances, held by tradition in the Terrace Room of the Hotel Roger Smith, about as elegant a venue as one could find locally in those days. We circled the polished floor from 8 to 11 p.m. to the music of Ed Novak, the moonlighting high school band director, and his small dance combo. The fall dance was always the night after Thanksgiving, the spring event a Friday night in mid-May.
In all respects, save one, the Junior Guild dances were identical to the high school proms: the former were ladies' choice affairs. If you were dating someone on a regular basis---we didn't go steady much in those days---it was a foregone conclusion that the young man would be your escort, and other girls would keep their hands off. If you didn't date much, you began early in the school year to consider the possibilities---the cute guy in French class, the silent type who stared at you in study hall, the least juvenile of the jokers hanging around their lockers before morning home room---hoping for a presentable male with a dark suit and access to a car.
The trophies to be won included a little tasseled dance car, a drying wrist corsage, a stiffly posed photo with the other couples at your table, and the opportunity to act, for a few hours at least, like a grown-up and practice one's party manners. It was all about See and Be Seen. Resplendent in your wide-skirted gown, steered around the floor by your chosen partner, you couldn't possibly be taken for a wallflower.
Few of these contrived pairings led to lasting romance; they certainly didn't in my case. They might, however, yield an unexpected quid pro quo. After going with me to a couple of Junior Guild dances, Steve invited me to the Junior-Prom that took place over Christmas vacation.
Bill took me to the formal dance sponsored by the high school newspaper in June of our senior year---a lucky break, inasmuch as I was the editor of The Herald, and staying home was not an option. For the occasion, I received my first orchid corsage. My dress was Empire-style white lace over pale blue, and my date wore a white dinner jacket, de rigeur for the last dance before graduation. I don't recall much else about the evening, not even the names of the other couples at our table.
When next I wore the dress, I was in college and dating a young man whom I thought might be The One. He wasn't, but the dance we went to was a lot more fun than those rigid affairs in the Hotel Roger Smith. Eventually, my mother handed on the blue-and-white-lace number to one of my younger cousins, and it went to Junior Guild dances without me. I started wearing little black cocktail dresses when I went out on semi-formal occasions and never thought of it again.
A few years ago, when I attended my 50th high school reunion, it was just for a moment, to quote Yogi Berra, deja vu all over again: white-clothed tables for eight around a hardwood dance floor, but this time I was alone. Blessedly, not for long. One of my old friends, who served on the reunion committee, had arranged to seat me at her table, along with three other singletons, all of whom had attended one or more Junior Guild dances with me---Ruthie, who had not cared to inflict a crowd of reminiscing strangers on her husband; Ann, who had never married after 18 years in the convent and 20 on the high school faculty; Bobbie, who had lost his wife, our good friend Momo, to breast cancer.
Somewhere between the salad course and her third glass of Pinot Noir, Ruthie turned to me and confided, "You know, I only came to this reunion because it's the 50th. I don't know who most of these people are and don't care; I didn't have a very good time in high school...all that pressure to pair off!" I agreed, adding that I'd had a lot more fun in college.
After dinner, the music got louder and it was harder to carry on a conversation. I was driving a rental car and had had about as much as I felt I could safely drink, so I said my goodnights and left, passing confidently through the throng by all by myself. In my little black dress and fuchsia stole I looked fabulous; everybody said so.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Road (Much) Less Traveled
I have a love-hate relationship with the New York State Thruway nurtured over decades of traveling it, primarily to Central New York, as both driver and passenger. I appreciate its efficiency, the ease with which I can skirt densely populated areas at high speed, the straight shot that gets me from here to there almost effortlessly with my E-Z Pass, as long as I remember which exit to take. It's a highly engineered process.It's all process, though, and that's what I hate about it: I am neither here nor there, merely in transition, and while sometimes this in-between state can be conducive to thought, especially when driving alone, it's dangerous to fall too deeply into the rapture of the road. I rush lemming-like along a concrete conveyor in a kind of limbo where I slow down or stop at my peril, and the momentum seems to be out of my control. I have often made a conscious effort to be less lead-footed, to relax and enjoy the drive, but once I enter the slipstream of traffic, my good intentions fall by the wayside, and it becomes a point of honor to pass as many of the other lemmings as possible.
As the years go by, however, my definition of "making good time" has changed considerably, so almost every time I travel to my sister's house in Skaneateles these days, I pick up U.S. Route 20 at Darien Center and turn east with a peaceful sigh. Since Route 20 becomes Genesee Street, the main drag of Skaneateles, all I have to do is follow my nose.
Before the Thruway, which lies north and mostly parallel to it, was built, Route 20 was the main east-west highway across New York State, and in some places the past shows in derelict mom-and-pop motels and abandoned diners. In many others, though, Route 20 is alive and well and catering to the tractor-trailer drivers heading west from Interstate 390.
Although I meet a few of the semis heading toward Buffalo, for the first 20 miles or so out of Darien Center I can generally count on splendid solitude with no reason under the sun to go any faster than the posted limit. I have time to observe, to notice small things---signs along the road, circling redtail hawks, farmstands touting the season's first asparagus, white geese in a front yard which are not lawn ornaments.
When I first started taking Route 20 a couple of years ago, the place names rang only faint bells: Here is Alexander, which I know mainly because the volunteer fire department band always marches in our town's parades, and here is Pavilion Center, familiar from local deejays' lists of school closings.
Along this stretch in the Town of Bethany there's a large barn close to the road, on the door of which, in foot-high letters is the message, "DAVE'S NOT HERE." The letters are always freshly painted, the door always swung back to face the road, leaving me to speculate that "Dave" is NEVER there and making me wonder why he is so sought-after.
Just past Fox River Antiques (a big white barn that I have vowed one day to visit) Route 20 merges with Route 5, and the distinctive blue-and-gold highway markers of Livingston County appear, giving me the fleeting impression that I have strayed into foreign territory. The Village of Avon is the first settlement of size, home to a couple of pottery shops, a Dairy of Distinction, and a mini plaza with Tops Market. (I am holding out for the Wegmans in Canandaigua.) Next is the Village of Lima, a neat, pretty, and prosperous farming community, which recently succeeded in preserving its bucolic character against the onslaught of a proposed Wal-Mart Super Center. Having been there and done that as a resident of East Aurora, I give the denizens of "The Crossroads of Western New York" a drive-by high-five.
The Bloomfields, East and West, are the next points of interest. Settlements of quirky cottages behind picket fences, gracious stately homes, and country inns, they could have been transported in their entirety from New England and gently dropped among Upstate New York's rolling hills. East Bloomfield (birthplace of the Northern Spy apple) in particular shows its Yankee lineage with not one, but two simple white churches---one of them Congregational---facing each other across a genuine village green.
On the outskirts, so as not to distract from the charm of the village itself, there are strings of antique shops, of which my favorite is the by-appointment-only dealer in old and rare books, who periodically announces on his sign the availability of "literary kittens, free to good homes."
Canandaigua, the first city on the itinerary, welcomes me with all the amenities I might require in a series of strip malls, fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and chain drugstores along a widened, divided Route 20 with turning lanes, stop signs, and strategically placed traffic signals. No need to go through the city center (which is charming), no opportunity to see the lake. "Your money," Canandaigua seems to say, "can stay, but would you please leave? Here, we'll make it easy for you." I can take a hint; I make a quick pit stop at Wegmans, pick up some baked goods to take to my sister's and a Diet Pepsi, and get back on the road.
Contrast that atmosphere with the college town of Geneva, where a thriving business district abuts the fraternity houses and playing fields of the Hobart-William Smith campus with its enviable hilltop view of Seneca Lake. I sweep down the the hill and along the lakeshore, near the Finger Lakes at last.
Although I apparently leave the water behind as I continue toward Waterloo (birthplace of Memorial Day, and don't you forget it!), the most modest homes---even a trailer park---on the south side of the highway boast a dock or a boat slip. They are lucky enough to have frontage on a narrow canal connecting Seneca and Cayuga lakes, and I often weigh the dilapidation of the available real estate against the seasonal pleasures of sitting on my own dock at sunset... Nah!
Waterloo itself would not be much of a change of environment; its sprucely kept mercantile center parallels East Aurora's in vintage, style, and aspiration. East Aurora's Main Street business district is not quite as large, but Waterloo has nothing like Vidler's. So there.
For character, I prefer Seneca Falls, and not merely for its history as the birthplace of the women's rights movement. "Gracious" is the word that leaps to mind as the route swings hard left from a string of one-of-a-kind shops meant for browsing onto a broad, tree-lined avenue of large, lovingly restored Victorian houses set well back on wide lawns. It is a town designed for strolling.
Veering temporarily away from the lakes, I skirt the Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge and am pleased to see that the bald eagle's nest, incongruously constructed atop an electrical pylon, is still there. Maybe there are new eaglets...
And now for a touch of Route 20 irony: Red, white, and blue signs surmounted by American flags dotted along both sides of the road, reading "No Sovereign Nation, No Reservation." They mark the boundaries of the Cayuga Indian Land Claim, which comes nearly to the tract dominated by BassPro, purveyor of metal-tipped arrows, nylon tents, and aluminum canoes, in Auburn's Finger Lakes Mall.
Auburn is where my sister goes to shop at Wegmans, Wal-Mart, or Office Max. It has all the big-box stores, fast-food franchises, and auto dealerships deemed necessary for suburban life but distasteful to suburban sensibilities. There are still attractive older neighborhoods in Auburn, though, that are markedly more affordable than the houses further east on Route 20 across the Onondaga County line, so the city is essentially an outer-ring suburb of Syracuse.
It's all downhill from there. Literally.
I slow as I approach the Skaneateles limits marked with the sign, "Gateway to the Eastern Finger Lakes." On the right is the cemetery where my husband's parents' remains are buried under a huge pine tree; on the left is the posh new Mirabeau spa, which purportedly draws beautiful people from Manhattan determined to become more beautiful. Then I pass The Krebs, West Lake Road, and the Sherwood Inn, which faces the lake and the mooring of the lake steamer Judge Ben E. Wiles.
An old hand at this after all these years, I keep to the right at the light beside the Blue Water Grill. Only tourists get stuck in the left lane, where they must turn onto Jordan Street whether they want to or not. I continue up Genesee Street past the ever-so-clever boutiques, an inviting old public library (where the children's room features murals by Skaneateles resident Patience Brewster), lakeside Thayer Park, and St. James Episcopal Church, where I was married on a Thanksgiving weekend 46 years ago. The good women of St. James operate a thrift shop closer to the village center that I never miss visiting, but I'd better not stop now or my sister will wonder what happened to me.
Before losing sight of the lake I say Hi to Pete, whose ashes are out there somewhere under the waves. He doesn't reply, and I don't expect him to because he never does. I have always assumed he is otherwise occupied. As one of his friends wrote me after his passing, "He's in a better place, where it's always a great day to go sailing."
With the Stella Maris retreat house on the right, I hang a left onto Onondaga Street, just the length of a track on the CD player away from my sister's driveway. Now that's what I call a good time!
As the years go by, however, my definition of "making good time" has changed considerably, so almost every time I travel to my sister's house in Skaneateles these days, I pick up U.S. Route 20 at Darien Center and turn east with a peaceful sigh. Since Route 20 becomes Genesee Street, the main drag of Skaneateles, all I have to do is follow my nose.
Before the Thruway, which lies north and mostly parallel to it, was built, Route 20 was the main east-west highway across New York State, and in some places the past shows in derelict mom-and-pop motels and abandoned diners. In many others, though, Route 20 is alive and well and catering to the tractor-trailer drivers heading west from Interstate 390.
Although I meet a few of the semis heading toward Buffalo, for the first 20 miles or so out of Darien Center I can generally count on splendid solitude with no reason under the sun to go any faster than the posted limit. I have time to observe, to notice small things---signs along the road, circling redtail hawks, farmstands touting the season's first asparagus, white geese in a front yard which are not lawn ornaments.
When I first started taking Route 20 a couple of years ago, the place names rang only faint bells: Here is Alexander, which I know mainly because the volunteer fire department band always marches in our town's parades, and here is Pavilion Center, familiar from local deejays' lists of school closings.
Along this stretch in the Town of Bethany there's a large barn close to the road, on the door of which, in foot-high letters is the message, "DAVE'S NOT HERE." The letters are always freshly painted, the door always swung back to face the road, leaving me to speculate that "Dave" is NEVER there and making me wonder why he is so sought-after.
Just past Fox River Antiques (a big white barn that I have vowed one day to visit) Route 20 merges with Route 5, and the distinctive blue-and-gold highway markers of Livingston County appear, giving me the fleeting impression that I have strayed into foreign territory. The Village of Avon is the first settlement of size, home to a couple of pottery shops, a Dairy of Distinction, and a mini plaza with Tops Market. (I am holding out for the Wegmans in Canandaigua.) Next is the Village of Lima, a neat, pretty, and prosperous farming community, which recently succeeded in preserving its bucolic character against the onslaught of a proposed Wal-Mart Super Center. Having been there and done that as a resident of East Aurora, I give the denizens of "The Crossroads of Western New York" a drive-by high-five.
The Bloomfields, East and West, are the next points of interest. Settlements of quirky cottages behind picket fences, gracious stately homes, and country inns, they could have been transported in their entirety from New England and gently dropped among Upstate New York's rolling hills. East Bloomfield (birthplace of the Northern Spy apple) in particular shows its Yankee lineage with not one, but two simple white churches---one of them Congregational---facing each other across a genuine village green.
On the outskirts, so as not to distract from the charm of the village itself, there are strings of antique shops, of which my favorite is the by-appointment-only dealer in old and rare books, who periodically announces on his sign the availability of "literary kittens, free to good homes."
Canandaigua, the first city on the itinerary, welcomes me with all the amenities I might require in a series of strip malls, fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and chain drugstores along a widened, divided Route 20 with turning lanes, stop signs, and strategically placed traffic signals. No need to go through the city center (which is charming), no opportunity to see the lake. "Your money," Canandaigua seems to say, "can stay, but would you please leave? Here, we'll make it easy for you." I can take a hint; I make a quick pit stop at Wegmans, pick up some baked goods to take to my sister's and a Diet Pepsi, and get back on the road.
Contrast that atmosphere with the college town of Geneva, where a thriving business district abuts the fraternity houses and playing fields of the Hobart-William Smith campus with its enviable hilltop view of Seneca Lake. I sweep down the the hill and along the lakeshore, near the Finger Lakes at last.
Although I apparently leave the water behind as I continue toward Waterloo (birthplace of Memorial Day, and don't you forget it!), the most modest homes---even a trailer park---on the south side of the highway boast a dock or a boat slip. They are lucky enough to have frontage on a narrow canal connecting Seneca and Cayuga lakes, and I often weigh the dilapidation of the available real estate against the seasonal pleasures of sitting on my own dock at sunset... Nah!
Waterloo itself would not be much of a change of environment; its sprucely kept mercantile center parallels East Aurora's in vintage, style, and aspiration. East Aurora's Main Street business district is not quite as large, but Waterloo has nothing like Vidler's. So there.
For character, I prefer Seneca Falls, and not merely for its history as the birthplace of the women's rights movement. "Gracious" is the word that leaps to mind as the route swings hard left from a string of one-of-a-kind shops meant for browsing onto a broad, tree-lined avenue of large, lovingly restored Victorian houses set well back on wide lawns. It is a town designed for strolling.
Veering temporarily away from the lakes, I skirt the Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge and am pleased to see that the bald eagle's nest, incongruously constructed atop an electrical pylon, is still there. Maybe there are new eaglets...
And now for a touch of Route 20 irony: Red, white, and blue signs surmounted by American flags dotted along both sides of the road, reading "No Sovereign Nation, No Reservation." They mark the boundaries of the Cayuga Indian Land Claim, which comes nearly to the tract dominated by BassPro, purveyor of metal-tipped arrows, nylon tents, and aluminum canoes, in Auburn's Finger Lakes Mall.
Auburn is where my sister goes to shop at Wegmans, Wal-Mart, or Office Max. It has all the big-box stores, fast-food franchises, and auto dealerships deemed necessary for suburban life but distasteful to suburban sensibilities. There are still attractive older neighborhoods in Auburn, though, that are markedly more affordable than the houses further east on Route 20 across the Onondaga County line, so the city is essentially an outer-ring suburb of Syracuse.
It's all downhill from there. Literally.
I slow as I approach the Skaneateles limits marked with the sign, "Gateway to the Eastern Finger Lakes." On the right is the cemetery where my husband's parents' remains are buried under a huge pine tree; on the left is the posh new Mirabeau spa, which purportedly draws beautiful people from Manhattan determined to become more beautiful. Then I pass The Krebs, West Lake Road, and the Sherwood Inn, which faces the lake and the mooring of the lake steamer Judge Ben E. Wiles.
An old hand at this after all these years, I keep to the right at the light beside the Blue Water Grill. Only tourists get stuck in the left lane, where they must turn onto Jordan Street whether they want to or not. I continue up Genesee Street past the ever-so-clever boutiques, an inviting old public library (where the children's room features murals by Skaneateles resident Patience Brewster), lakeside Thayer Park, and St. James Episcopal Church, where I was married on a Thanksgiving weekend 46 years ago. The good women of St. James operate a thrift shop closer to the village center that I never miss visiting, but I'd better not stop now or my sister will wonder what happened to me.
Before losing sight of the lake I say Hi to Pete, whose ashes are out there somewhere under the waves. He doesn't reply, and I don't expect him to because he never does. I have always assumed he is otherwise occupied. As one of his friends wrote me after his passing, "He's in a better place, where it's always a great day to go sailing."
With the Stella Maris retreat house on the right, I hang a left onto Onondaga Street, just the length of a track on the CD player away from my sister's driveway. Now that's what I call a good time!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
