I don’t see signs about wildlife very often, although this one at Windigo, Isle Royale National Park, warns unsuspecting visitors about the island’s less famous, thieving canine. What do the red foxes of Isle Royale do with the car keys and hiking boots they purloin?
This sign, at Hidden Lake Forest Preserve near Morton Arboretum, exhorts you not to panic if Wild Fido follows you. He’s simply giving you an escort through his domain. If this task makes him snappish, simply throw clumps of dirt at the ground by his feet. I’m having visions of Monty Python and “Confuse-A-Cat.”
Other signs warn you about smaller wildlife, especially the kind that hops aboard. This one, at Michigan’s Grand Mère State Park, tells what to wear to help stave off the dreaded tick. By the time you’re at the park, however, you may not have clothing alternatives handy. The tick shown is terrifyingly big, but the ticks that can share Lyme disease with you may be little larger than a pinhead.
Pro tip: At Shawnee National Forest, which is tick heaven, I thought wearing a hat would keep them off my head at least. Not so. After a delightful morning at Pomona Natural Bridge, I felt movement in my hair and found a couple strutting under my hat on top of my scalp. This is one of those times when baldness would be an advantage.
Located at a town park near Grand Mère, this sign is not so much a warning as a caution. If you aren’t careful and you spread the emerald ash borer, this will happen to your ash trees. I can attest to the lethal behavior of the well-named emerald ash borer—both tall, mature trees in front of The Flamingo, plus the mature tree that shaded my bedroom at 55th and Dorchester, succumbed to these little green scourges.
At Hidden Lake Forest Preserve, we’re told it’s too late to keep out another horror, the dreaded zebra mussel. You can be a hero, however, by cleaning your boat and equipment properly so you don’t transplant them to a body of water where they haven’t taken hold. The use of “infest” is a great touch. It reinforces the nearby “No swimming” sign nicely. Swimming in infested waters just doesn’t appeal to me, even if I could swim.
If you’re about my age, you recall that “only you can prevent forest fires (that aren’t caused by lightning strikes, volcanoes, and other natural hazards). Many parks post the current risk of wildfire danger based on conditions like drought and wind. At Lyman Run State Park in the Pennsylvania Wilds, Smokey Bear can’t seem to make up his mind.
This version of Smokey opted for words instead of visuals, which makes his message less ambiguous (no broken pointer). No doubt that snow on the ground helps to keep risk low.
Taking shape on Stony Island Avenue in the remnant heart of Chicago’s steel industry, Big Marsh Park features a bike park (built on slag too expensive to remove), natural areas, and occasional bald eagle sightings. An enticing hill nearby forms a lovely backdrop for a walk at Big Marsh, which is still in its infancy. When you get closer, however, and read the signs, you learn it’s a steaming, seething landfill that’s being “remediated.” There’s no happily running up and down this slope. How I miss the Industrial Revolution.
It’s not every day you’re warned about lurking unexploded bombs, but for me this was no ordinary day. It was my first visit to Old Fort Niagara in nearly 40 years, which coincided with Memorial Day weekend. Most of the time, the fort is manned by soldiers in 1700s military fashions, but in honor of the holiday other conflicts were represented. I kept my distance from the bomb. Just in case.
This is one of the odder warning signs I’ve seen. I left the chef alone—after all, he works with sharp objects.
Slow down. Chicago is under a budget crunch, but do they send out a lone fireman like this? A lone fireman without a steering wheel? Or arms?
Here’s a warning sign you can ignore. It’s outside Riley’s Railhouse, a train car bed and breakfast in Chesterton, Indiana, that’s a treasure trove of signs.
From the exterior of the car I slept in:
At Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore’s West Beach, it looks like the National Park Service is testing which sign or message is most effective at keeping visitors off the dunes. This one shows bare tootsies with the universal “No” slash, helpfully pointing out the dunes are ours.
A less friendly, sterner, more wordy one admonishes you to “KEEP OFF THE DUNES” and appeals to your desire to “Please help protect and preserve our fragile dune systems!”
At the beach, this slash through a barely visible hiker shuns wordiness (or words) for directness and simplicity without justification or explanation.
It’s sandwiched between even more minimalistic signs with a slash, planted where the dunes start ascending. Don’t. Just don’t.
Years ago when a landfill near my cousin’s house became a Superfund site (just what you want in your backyard), it was surrounded by an electrified fence complete with warning signs. Noticing there were no insulators, I dared to touch it. In this case, however, I’m certain the area behind the fence is dangerous, and this is as far as I got.
Normal weathering or resentment over the weapons message?
Waterfall Glen, a DuPage County Forest Preserve, forms a ring around Argonne National Laboratory, “born out of the University of Chicago’s work on the Manhattan Project in the 1940s.” Naturally, the immediate area around the lab is secured. While I was baffled by this sign about “lock installation” and “any unauthorized lock,” it was the 10 or so locks on the chain that got my attention. Why do people need to add locks to that chain? Why do they need authorization? From whom do they get authorization? Why are unauthorized locks removed? What does it all mean?
Remember when lead was thought to be safe? I don’t, either. This sign is on an old pump at the remnants of an old general store in the western part of Shawnee National Forest.
Warning: If you leave expensive stuff lying around, even at an exclusive university, it will walk off. You can bank on it.
RATS? There are RATS in Hyde Park?
I started the morning out with a bang by falling hard in the Jacuzzi bath that I’d enjoyed so much — I knew I’d brought those spa shoes with treads along for a reason.
As this was the last day at Temple Hill, our host gave us a peek at the pool and garden area, complete with a Japanese tea house under renovation.
After saying goodbye, we took ourselves to a nearby laundromat to freshen the wardrobe and killed the waiting time by going to Wegman’s, a favorite of some of my friends (who wouldn’t love a place that carries Uncle Ralph’s Magic Sauce?) and Yoberry Yogurt. After the laundromat we made what I was sure was our final stop at a Tim Horton’s.
Temple Hill is across the road from an old cemetery that is still in use, so we walked through for a bit, long enough for me to spot the grave of a former New York governor. I also found a child’s grave marked by a flat, broken, worn tombstone at the base of a tree, half covered by dirt. Others had fallen over and broken. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust indeed.
This time we didn’t go through Letchworth but along its western edge. We spied a place where it looked like maple syrup might be available, but when we went in, we found a very musty old barn that seemed to be a half-abandoned disordered mess. I imagine it’s haunted at night by wheezing asthmatic ghosts. No one at the nearby house came out, but a neighbor pulled into the driveway across the road and tried not to give us stink eye.
This time I went into the Glen Iris Inn gift shop, relieving them of more postcards than was necessary, then we explored the museum, which I remember vaguely.
Although it was a little out of the way, I had J. return to the Wolf Creek picnic area so I could regret leaving it a second time, this one for good.
We settled in at the Glen Iris Inn for a leisurely dinner followed by farewell visits to the Middle Falls and the old railroad trestle, around which ground has been cleared of trees for construction of the new bridge.
Reluctantly, as always, we turned southward toward Coudersport, Pennsylvania, and Frosty Hollow Bed and Breakfast. Along the way we stopped at a grocery store where I asked one of the shoppers the way to the facilities. She pointed toward the back to my right, but a few moments later ran after me and said she was wrong; it’s near the deli. I couldn’t find it there, so I asked a woman working there. Next thing I knew, she was leading me into the “back of the house” to the room the employees use. I thanked her, adding that I could never have found it on my own. She smiled brightly, saying, “Always ask an employee!” I began to feel like I was in a disjointed dream.
When we passed through Belmont, J. asked me to make a note — he liked it. Small-town New York retains a certain quaint vintage look that, if it ever existed in Chicago, was likely destroyed by the Great Fire and suburbanization. We crossed back into Pennsylvania, passed through Coudersport, and arrived at Frosty Hollow Bed and Breakfast at around 10 p.m. for the final leg of this eastern adventure. We were in the Pennsylvania Wilds.
Because we were the only guests at Temple Hill Bed and Breakfast, we were treated to breakfast al fresco on the deck overlooking the back lawn. It was so perfect that I hated to leave. We had to get an eyeglass repair kit (can’t have a driver who can’t see), then stopped at Byrne Dairy for me to look around and then Cricket’s Coffee Company because neither of us can resist a good coffee shop. We scored some condiments, including mustard and nut butters.
Eventually we tore ourselves away to return to the park, where we stopped at several of the overlooks. At one I read a sign pointing out a barely visible waterfall below and noting that another of four waterfalls could be seen at the Wolf Creek Picnic Area, so we had to go there too. From a pedestrian bridge over Wolf Creek, you can see a series of teeny drops along the creek bed, like miniature Niagaras, with the road bridge in the background. In an instant Wolf Creek evoked memories of sunbeams interrupted by shadows playing over rocks and drops as I walked along the creek bed without a care at Chestnut Ridge Park during a church picnic. Wolf Creek became a surrogate for one of the richest of my childhood experiences.
The real waterfall, the most visible of the series mentioned on the sign, drops on the other side of the pedestrian bridge. I don’t remember seeing Wolf Creek with my parents, but then there is so much that I don’t recall.
J. satisfied some of his shopping urges at the Glen Iris Inn, where we spent a long time taking photographs of the Middle Falls, which many believe are the most scenic of the park’s three major waterfalls. It’s funny that I recall the falls, but not the inn. I am sure that one day Virgil and I and possibly my aunt walked along the rail line if not part of the trestle.
Instead of driving back through the park as we had the day before, we passed along its eastern edge, where the roadside sported horse-and-buggy signs indicating that it’s Amish country. It’s a lovely rural drive and on this day the robin’s egg blue sky was punctuated by amazing clouds that I couldn’t quite capture.
Our destination was the North Shore Grill on Lake Conesus in Lakeville, giving us an opportunity to see one of the Finger Lakes (if only the smallest). There’s nothing like enjoying a great meal and drinks outdoors on a lake shore around sunset. I walked to the end of the dock to take all of it in — if only I could take all of it with me.
After another sumptuous breakfast, we left for Letchworth State Park, which has a fascinating history that includes the abducted Mary Jemison and business mogul William Pryor Letchworth. It’s amazing to me to imagine places like Matthiessen State Park (Illinois), Morton Arboretum (Illinois), and Letchworth State Park (New York) in private hands. Can you picture waking up every morning and strolling to your private waterfalls and/or along your stretch of a river?
First we stopped at Mount Morris Dam and one of the gifts shops, where I spent an alarming amount on books and postcards. They even have the vintage-looking wooden postcards, which can be mailed for extra postage. We sat in the picnic area to try a treat and just to soak in the day. When New York weather is good, it’s wonderful.
I remember Mount Morris Dam vaguely. It looked dry around it. In 1972, Hurricane Agnes dumped a massive volume of rain on Pennsylvania and western New York — that’s when I learned hurricanes from the south could affect us so far inland. Mount Morris Dam, completed in 1954, was pushed beyond its limits (some water was released to avoid the river pouring over the top), but without it much of Rochester may have ended up flooded (or in Lake Ontario?).
We continued driving south through the park, stopping at the Gardeau Overlook and at the Lower Falls Restaurant for a leisurely, relaxing lunch.
Next we tackled the Lower Falls Trail, which is supposed to have 127 steps, although some people who were returning told us they’d counted at least 128. I can’t say an extra step makes a difference unless it’s exceptionally steep (a couple were). I can manage, albeit slowly and sometimes with a helping wrist.
Of the three major waterfalls on the Genesee at Letchworth, the Lower Falls are said to be the least scenic. You can cross a bridge over the river to get a better look at the falls and Tea Table Rock, which some people walked onto. On the other side, water drips down from the rocks with slippery mud underneath, making it a great place to stand on a warm day. J. went a little past the bridge, but I was trying to save my energy for the walk back and my knees for the 127/128/1XX steps up. I haven’t looked up how far the trail goes, but with more time and energy I imagine we could have seen much more. I can’t say for sure that I’d ever seen the Lower Falls or been to the restaurant before — perhaps, perhaps not.
At Inspiration Point, the views of the gorge are especially spectacular. Fortunately for us, William Pryor Letchworth was a generous man with foresight who wanted to preserve the gorge from a particularly grisly future subject to the whims of industry, economics, and greed. I’ll have to read more about the history of Letchworth in the books I spent my vacation money on.
J. also got his first look at the Upper Falls with the railroad trestle passing above them. This bridge, in place since 1875, is being replaced by an updated design that won’t have piers in the gorge. I’m glad I could see the old bridge one more time and now wish I’d walked it. I am sure my brother and I walked along part of it once, long ago on a beautiful day, surrounded by trees, sun, and shadows.
As it was Memorial Day, little was still open by the time we were ready to eat, so we went to Mama Mia in downtown Geneseo for doughy, cheesy food right before the rain that had been threatening finally let loose.
Intrigued by South Creek Road, J. and I set out before breakfast to drive down as much of it as we could. (I wasn’t looking at maps — no need to.) It ends in Eighteen-Mile Creek County Park, which as serves as a state-designated fishing hole. There’s not much of a conventional park here — just a gravel parking lot without even a portable john. A paved trail cuts into the woods, turning into a dirt trail with a side trail that looks like it goes down to the creek. We were going to be late for breakfast even if we hurried back (on the walk to the parking area, I got a friendly reminder call!), so we didn’t make it down. Later I read that Eighteen Mile Creek County Park is (take your pick) (1) abandoned (2) undeveloped. One website said there had been a proposal or plan to turn it into a golf course. No, no, no, a thousand times no . . . the same site also noted that the path we’d found doesn’t go to the creek, but one a tenth of a mile further on does. Reason to return . . . for now, it’s a relatively untamed spot that had drawn several cars to it by the time we left. Although the area is reverting to nature, J. found what to us appeared to be stone gateposts, with upper and lower hooks still attached. If I had known about this spot, I might have made an effort to go there. It would have been a strenuous ride up and down the mild inclines, though. Knowing me, I’d have flown over the rails into the creek. Four miles and twenty minutes to a bit of paradise — I could have managed it then and might even have appreciated it.
What’s a trip to western New York without a visit to Niagara Falls? I hadn’t been there since 1987, when I went late in the afternoon on a dreary day of threatening weather. Today was sunny and getting warmer by the minute, as we’d found on our morning walk. After a luxurious breakfast we left, making a stop at one of the Tim Horton’s along the way. With the help of Google Maps, I steered J. wrong briefly while in Buffalo, but soon we were back en route, and I was seeing familiar sights like the Pillsbury building, the Tifft Nature Preserve (which I’ve never visited), and the Peace Bridge.
Then we came to Grand Island, where the imposing bridges have been painted a blue that almost blends into the sky. The geography, which I’m sure I never understood, was coming back to me. I remember once or twice taking a more scenic route to Niagara Falls, but my guess is that it may have involved crossing the Peace Bridge and driving along the Canadian bank of the Niagara River.
I’d failed to take into account one important detail — with Memorial Day on Monday, the area was crowded with traffic and people, probably more so than usual. Someone in a hurry even managed to take a paint chip off the back on the driver’s side (as often happens, it didn’t register until later, but he heard and felt it). We found ourselves in a distant parking lot, waiting for a shuttle to take us closer to Goat Island. I don’t remember that at all from years ago, but while the populations of Buffalo and Niagara Falls have declined, the number of tourists who want to see this attraction seems to have expanded exponentially.
In my 18 years in New York, I’d never gone aboard any of the Maid of the Mist boats. From what I can recall from my brain’s faulty data banks dating to the 1960s and 1970s, the Maid of the Mist was a popular, modestly scaled service, but today it’s a big operation that moves people with the precision of a factory conveyor belt. I told J. that the people ahead of us disappearing into the bowels of the next Maid in line were destined for some hideous end (Soylent Green?), never to be seen again (the people visible on deck could simply be a regular cast planted there to make you feel complacent). As it turns out, the scale wasn’t my imagination or a distorted childhood memory — the boats I would have seen when I was, say, five years old carried about 100 people, while today’s Maid has a capacity of 600. I wish I’d had a chance to take the trip as a child, even without an iPhone or Nikon to record it.
As an aside, operations on the Canadian side are run by a different company, so when you look down you’ll see a boat loaded with blue ponchos (American side) and a boat loaded with (maple leaf) red ponchos (Canadian side). Rival rain gear!
After passing through the pre-boarding points of the Maid of the Mist experience with assembly-line efficiency, we picked up our own blue ponchos from a giant shed and were shepherded on board, where we found a good spot with a view, not too many heads in front of us, and a bar to cling to. The ponchos are effective at keeping out the spray from the falls — my arm got wet mostly because water ran down the sleeve as I held onto the vertical bar.
The Maid of the Mist stops at the more attractive Horseshoe Falls first, lingering long enough for us to appreciate the beauty and power of the water and its deafening roar. I’m still amazed a boat can approach so closely, to be swallowed by the mist. My dad, more knowledgeable than I, used to find my fear that it would capsize amusing. Today the boat stayed in place seemingly effortlessly as I struggled to take photos while trying to keep the iPhone and camera dry.
Next the Maid swings back toward the American Falls, where the remnants of several rock slides prevent too close an approach and there’s less mist further out to obscure photos. I’d rarely been to Niagara Falls on such a sunny day, when even the lines of the water looked crisp in the bright light.
After leaving the Maid, we spent a long time in the observation area, which has magnificent views. Although I tried, it was hard for me to imagine the real “Niagara Frontier” the way the first people in the area had seen it. (I can’t picture the abomination of the Niagara Mill District, either, even after seeing vintage photos of it.)
By now I was getting tired, it was late in the afternoon, and we needed to get back to pick up my cousin and his wife for dinner, so we skipped Old Fort Niagara when I realized how far away it was and turned south toward Grand Island and the B&B for a brief cleanup and rest stop.
Next we headed into Hamburg and through Water Valley toward Eden. I can’t explain it, but I love the drive through Water Valley, which is little more than a bridge over a dip in the landscape where the creek runs. I always felt like I’d been transported instantly and magically from town to country, from present to a recent past. Past Water Valley, Braymiller’s Market, where we used to stop for ice cream or custard, is still there, looking unchanged.
For a short time there was a European cheese store on Route 62, where my dad willingly stopped so I could buy cheeses and a powdered Swiss drink that came in a jar with a red label and lid and had a robust flavor like a grain. I can’t remember the name anymore, even after I found it once or twice at the old Chalet in Hyde Park.
The shop looked quaintly European to my young mind, and I loved the cool atmosphere inside, dim after the brightness of the outdoors. I was heartbroken when one day we stopped to find it closed — no yelp.com then to warn us of these things. The building is still there, housing a Subway sandwich shop complete with the original Swiss-themed exterior artwork. As of June 2015, the franchise is up for sale for the reduced price of $55,000. How interested am I in franchising?
After dinner at Pegasus in Hamburg, we took my cousin and his wife home, where we visited for a couple of hours. I learned some new stories about both my dad and cousin. He told me the union had leased their hall next to Tony’s (formerly Jim’s) because they didn’t need that big of a space. I said Ford seems to be doing well and keeps its buildings well maintained, unlike some of the rusty plants in south Buffalo (and survived, unlike its neighbor, Bethlehem Steel). He noted, however, that in its heyday the Ford Stamping Plant had up to 5,000 employees, while now it has perhaps 700. It’s no wonder they don’t need that big union hall. He also mentioned what a fabulous place Old Fort Niagara is with all its history, which cemented the idea of going there. After taking a couple of photos and bidding them a very reluctant farewell after 11, we returned to the B&B, which we still couldn’t find in the dark!
My last significant trip to Hamburg, in 1987, had been bittersweet — my brother, sister-in-law, and I visited for about a week to help my dad pack and get ready for his move to Altoona, Pennsylvania. Worried about becoming less independent, he wanted to be closer to his sisters and other family members, which I thought was wise. My connection to the familiar, already weakened by distance, time, and events, was about to be severed, which weighed on me even during a gloriously sunny, colorful week in early October. I didn’t want to let go, but had no choice. I had returned once that I remember, in 1999 for a high school reunion, but didn’t see much beyond the banquet room.
In the years since then, sometimes I’ve dreamed about my hometown. Most of these dreams have been the garden-variety “I’m in high school again and can’t find my locker/locker combination/class/schedule” expressions of stress.
A couple, however, stood out. In them, I had returned to Hamburg to discover that the familiar had become the strange, or at least dominated by it. In one, a roadside had been transformed into the unrecognizable in some undefinable but palpable way. In another, narrow, high houses dominated the sky where the woods behind our trailer used to be, with the magic valley in those woods that I used to dream of obliterated by a reality that I saw in a dream.
I digress. When we’d driven along Route 20 the night before on the way to Sharon’s Lakehouse, I’d been struck by how familiar the way seemed, even in the dark, even with whatever changes there had been. It’s not that Route 20 south of Amsdell Road looks radically different from any other place. It is, however, different from most of the parts of Illinois I’ve seen. It’s more wooded along the roadside, with a house, cluster of houses, or small business breaking up the darkness of the trees. The front yards are deep, some filled with older trees. The lights inside peer into the darkness, but mostly don’t overwhelm it. In Illinois, the area that comes closest were parts of the way between Harrisburg and Golconda in the Shawnee National Forest. The southern part of western New York isn’t as open or flat as the central part of Illinois, nor nearly as densely populated as northern Illinois around Chicago. I relaxed into the familiar comfortable place that I’d been missing and reshaping in my dreams.
Our first day, to be devoted to exploring the Hamburg area (I was deciding this as I went) dawned as sunny, comfortable, and perfect as I could want, with just a bit of extra wind to keep Lake Erie choppy.
After checking out the lake view and the Steel Winds wind turbines, and eating a gourmet breakfast in the company of our hosts and a fellow guest, we picked up my school friend BL. Her mother, my former 6th grade English teacher, looked great, and I told her so. “You’re still lying!” she said, feigning (I hope) a tone of disgust. “Still?” I said in disbelief. We were told BL was hopped up on Tim Horton’s coffee and to keep her out as long as possible.
I didn’t know where to begin, but I had J. take us to Pleasant Avenue and to the dead end where it’s cut off by I90, aka the New York State Thruway. I used to ride my bike here to sit among the trees and weeds. Somewhere I have a photo of my old Huffy Superstar parked in the road, among the light and shadows.
I’m not sure I remember the order of where we went or stoppped, but here’s the list:
We took BL home perhaps a little less hopped up on coffee and visited a little more with her and her mother, sister, and brother-in-law. Oddly, even with as much time as I’d spent there during my teen years, I might not have recognized the house or the yard.
They gave us some dining options, so after checking out the sunset over Lake Erie we ended up at Uncle Joe’s Diner on Route 29 near Seoules Road. J. was able to get a version of a local favorite, beef on weck. I can’t be sure I’ve ever tried it myself. After that I was ready to relax and reflect on my rediscovered love of creeks, which I’d known about all along.
While I was lightly napping today (February 13, 2005), I had recurring thoughts of a field overgrown with weeds next to pavement. Then I thought of a store with an outside display, possibly of baked goods, and an unmanned cash register. In my mind, I started walking up a hill that I knew well. As in all my dreams, it all seemed surreal.
I’ve had this dream thought before, and it surely relates to the South Shore Plaza across from the trailer park where I grew up. Rte. 20 was on one side; Rogers Rd. was on another. A third side bordered an overgrown area next to a house’s backyard, while the back parking lot/delivery area faced an overgrown area that buffered the plaza from modern apartment buildings. (Even Hamburg was becoming 70s urbanised.)
It seems odd that I would have some deep emotional attachment to a piece of suburban blight like South Shore Plaza. I’m not sure when it opened — probably in the late 1950s or early 1960s. Most likely, my parents went to the grand opening. The plaza was anchored by three major stores: a grocery store (Loblaw, A&P, perhaps some others later I don’t remember); Hens & Kelly, a somewhat upscale department store that gave out Green Stamps and where I got my ears pierced; and a discount chain store (Neisner, Big N, K-mart, perhaps others).
Among the other stores were a Your Host restaurant (diner-style chain, with counters and tables), Carvel Ice Cream (the chain is still around!), Edie Adams’ Cut & Curl salon, a drugstore whose name I’ve forgotten, and other specialised stores.
The plaza was catty cornered and downhill from the trailer park, so we did a lot of shopping there. The first grocery store had a tiled lobby area with gumball and toy machines; I remember seeing the elderly Mrs. Clarke and her chihuahua Tiny there one evening as she waited for her family. Apparently, Tiny was a one-woman dog and didn’t even like Mrs. Clarke’s daughter and son-in-law, with whom she lived. But Tiny was always happy to see me; whenever we visited them, on Abbott Rd. off Rte. 20, he would spend the evening blissfully cuddling with me. When Tiny died, Mrs. Clarke told everyone that I was the only other person he had ever loved.
The plaza was across the Bethlehem Management Club on Rogers Rd. (now privately owned as Brierwood Country Club). On July 4, we, along with many others, would arrive at the plaza parking lot to watch the club’s fireworks from our car (later, our van). It was one of those traditions that children look forward to and teenagers disdain. (I do think I always looked forward to it to a lessening degree as a change in routine.)
Within 10 years or perhaps less, the plaza was already in decline. The local economy, built on Bethlehem Steel and Ford Motor Company, was poor, and the energy/fuel crisis of the early 1970s was probably a factor. Even Hens & Kelly, which I think was sold, eventually closed, with the once-upscale space being taken over by a discount warehouse-type store.The anchor stores kept closing and then re-opening months or even years later under another brand, only to close again. Then the smaller specialty stores became things like a dollar store and a secondhand bookstore. Everyone in Hamburg who still had jobs and money was flocking to the new, more respectable malls in other suburbs like Cheektowaga. The death blow came when a mall with all the popular chain stores opened in Hamburg itself.
I have an aerial photo from 1995 showing the plaza. The last time I saw it was in 1999, after a class reunion. It had fallen into disrepair, and there was not much left aside from a couple of random stores and a bar at the upper end. It would be a wonderful thing now just to tear it down, to rip out the massive parking lot, and to let it revert to a field and then woods, or, more likely, to make it into a housing development.
What I remember best about the plaza was a courtyard between Hens & Kelly and the next store up. It was simply raised ground with plantings, where you could sit on the cement and relax. I’m not sure why I liked it so much; it was usually shady (there may have been an overhang), quiet, and used mainly by people cutting through to the back parking lot. My childish mind found it different, even mysterious — an odd oasis connecting the very different front and back of the plaza and that still evokes a pleasant, even interesting feelings.
In my half-awake state, I think I realised why my early memories of the plaza mean so much to me. It was my town square, the center of my community, a destination, a change in routine, where we went to see and buy things and where we would run into Mrs. Clarke and Tiny or one of my dad’s Ford coworkers, where my mother would go faithfully to Edie Adams’ Cut & Curl for her monthly perm — all within walking distance, if we were so inclined, or a hop in the van away. That the plaza was in its prime and served as this center for only a few years and that it is now a blight and has been one for 35 years doesn’t matter; the memories, the good feelings, and the sense of timelessness I felt in that courtyard do.
Link added March 17, 2006: Hens and Kelly in Wikipedia
Tweet added March 6, 2023:
