Water and I go way back.
My hometown is Spencerport. Port
refers to being on the Erie Canal (NYS Barge Canal). We are one of many ports; Fairport, Brockport, Middleport, Gasport, Lockport. I stayed pretty close to home in the village of
Spencerport at first. But once I graduated
from crawling to walking, I was off exploring.
My Mom put me in a leather harness and tied the harness to the
clothesline in the side yard. But my
greatest teacher, necessity, soon taught me to untie knots and slip out of a
harness. What a fantastic world for
discovery stretched out past 309 South Union Street. I was all of two or three.
South Union is a rather busy main street. It was an ongoing parade of cars, trucks,
Greyhounds, and other sometimes exciting vehicles like fire trucks, the
police car, and delivery folk; milk, dry cleaning, coal, ice (more later on the
ice). Most if not all were powered by
horsepower vs. horse power by the time I arrived. As a toddler I used to sit on
the curb and wave to the folks. And they waved back. Come summertime it would get awfully still, hot,
and humid. I would strip, and sit on my
clothes on the curb. Not only would
folks continue to wave but soon the phone would ring and Mom would come running
out of the house and scoop me up. I was told it was not proper to take your
clothes off and sit on the curb and wave to cars. Even if it’s hot and humid. But I soon grew tired of traffic and struck
out to find and enjoy a quieter time.
Behind our house was The Swamp. It was a large overgrown oasis of shade and
secluded green. The lifestream of this
Eden was the west branch of Northrup Creek.
I spent many an hour in the early years exploring mossy banks, crabs
(crawdads), water skeeters, pollywogs, dragon flies, groundhogs, muskrats… all
sorts of swamp residents. Fortunately,
for a 2-year old, there weren’t a whole lot of snakes, crocodiles, or other wildlife
threats. Except mosquitoes! But my
pre-school education in the swamp included more than botany and zoology. Thanks to my curious nature and my trusting neighbor
friend, Donna, I also became quite proficient in human anatomy and sociology.
By the time I was three or four the trips got a little longer. The Erie Canal was “downtown”, just under a
half mile north of my home. On the large
rock banks of that waterway were millions of lessons to be enjoyed. At first I’d just wander about and wait for
the bell to ring, signaling that the lift bridge was going up to let a barge
and tug pass under. I’d run to the
center of the bridge and jockey into position so the smoke from the tug boat
would hit me. Then I’d run to the other
side and wave as the bridge went down again.
Life’s simple pleasures. Come 5 o’clock someone would usually pick me up
and drive me home for supper.
There are comfortable concrete alcoves under the Martha
Street canal bridge with plenty of shade or protection from wind and rain where
I could daydream, nap, wave to tug boat crews, and learn to smoke. My first
experiment with that vice consisted of one of my Dad’s pipes and some Lipton
teabags, a much milder introduction than Prince Albert or Mom’s Pall Malls or
Winstons.
We didn’t swim much by the Martha Street bridge. As I recall there was a rope swing on the
south side but since it was within eyesight of the bridge tender at the lift
bridge on South Union, we didn’t use it much.
He’d get all bent out of shape and have Charlie Ballard (the police
department) come up and shoe us away. Once I was old enough to ride a bike we journeyed
east 2 miles to the Gillette Road flood gates. That place was heaven on earth for
a kid on a hot summer’s day. It was out
in the country so nobody bothered us. It
took awhile to master but jumping off the flood gates was good for hours of danger,
i.e. fun. The bottom of the gate was
around 20 feet from the water. The top
was maybe 40 feet. If you didn’t hit the
water just right, it hurt. A lot! I’ve seen kids forget to tuck in an arm and
pop the skin on their forearm like a Zweigle’s white hot. It wasn’t a good idea to expose cuts and
scratches to the canal water (or swallow it!).
Even back then, the Erie Canal was a far cry from Adirondack Mountain
Spring water! We all knew to watch out
for dead cows or pigs before we jumped. I never actually saw one, but that was
the tale. Now that I think about it,
cuts and scratches were the norm for a boy. The immune system of a 7 year-old
in the 40s was a marvelous thing.
Heading East from my home was the east branch of Northrup
Creek. It had an easier time of it than
the swamp side. After gurgling along
through open pastures, it turned west for a bit and went through an old
geological depression. Mr. Noble, who owned the land thereabouts, used that
depression to make a living. He blocked
up the creek in the fall and created a large pond. After it froze, it was cleared (a board
dragged behind a tractor), swept and provided us all with a large skating
rink. At night there were a few lights
atop phone poles and a rickety old shed with benches along both sides, a
pot-belly stove in the center, and a small counter with sodas, candy, and a
couple lace hooks to cinch up skates. I
didn’t have fancy lace up skates though.
Mine just attached to my goulashes with leather strips. What with strap-on
skates, four layers of clothes under a padded snowsuit, I wasn’t at all
graceful or on my way to the Olympics.
But then, it didn’t hurt to fall either. I remember well the smells of wet wool, pulling
snow balls from my mittens and throwing them on the stove to watch them dance
into steam.
Once winter was coming to an end, Mr. Noble would harvest
the ice, pack it with sawdust in his ice house, and provide villagers with
refrigeration till next year. Come to
think of it, he delivered on a horse powered wagon. I remember the canvas apron on his shoulder
to keep dry and those big, nasty looking ice tongs! You wouldn’t believe how great a fresh piece
of ice tasted on a sweltering August afternoon.
Kids today … aw, never mind.
Just north of north of Mr. Nobel’s spillway the creek went
over a small waterfall. It was and is my home-away-from-home. I
can still hear it and feel the coolness. If I can wangle permission (or not),
my ashes will someday rest next to that waterfall. As a
youngster the falls seemed a good size.
But when I visited it in my 50s, it isn’t much at all … maybe all of 3-4
feet high and 5 feet wide. Just a trickle these days. At the bottom were grassy banks, lots of
rocks, lots of creek-like marine life, and pure, natural, peace and contentment. It must have been a place like this that was
the inspiration for spas, yoga, back to green movements and tranquilizers. One
big problem was that it is located about midway between home and school. As a result, I was very frequently late for
school and late for supper. Now that I
am older … a lot older … I believe the time was a well spent part of my
education. But at the time it was not seen that way by teachers and parents.
I had no real solution for my teachers. After awhile they tired of sending notes home,
making marks in attendance lists, or sending me to The Office. No, I stand corrected. They never tired of
sending me to The Office. I don’t know
why it never occurred to me to leave home earlier in the morning. All I know is that the teachers didn’t think
if it either!
As for being late for supper, that was usually covered. First of all, my doctor/father was frequently
late due to patients, house calls, etc.
Secondly, I had a plan. Between my
house and the falls was Fairfield Cemetery, another quiet and peaceful
place. If I was lucky, I could borrow an armful of fresh flowers to
give to my Mom when I was running late.
That worked a few times -- ‘til
I forgot to remove the RIP ribbon.
TBC.
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