Gentle Ending to a Long Journey

She looks smaller than I remembered. I was here just two weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

My mother's head rests on a pillow. Her eyes are closed. There are hollows in her cheeks that weren't there at the last visit. In spite of the warm day, she is covered with a sheet and a navy blue quilted bedspread. She feels warm to my touch.

In the intervening two weeks, my home state had been shaken by an earthquake, battered by a hurricane, and much of it is still under flood waters. This all seems of only passing interest at the moment.

This morning I drove from New Jersey to upstate New York on a road that I had traveled so many times, for so many years. This time was different. This time, my mother is dying.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, and kiss her on her forehead. I linger longer than usual to catch a bit of her scent. She smells clean, of hand lotion and soap. Her skin is delicate and soft. “I hear you are not eating very much these days,” I say.

She opens her eyes slightly. It takes her a minute to focus her gaze on mine. Not a smile this time. Just recognition. It's enough, however, for the moment. I had not even expected that much.

“I don't want anything,” she whispers. It is barely audible. Just a movement of the lips. But I am happy for any sign of consciousness. Even if her response signals the endgame.

On my previous visit, my brother and I brought ice cream - her favorite. As a child, I remember the voluptuous bowls of ice cream she consumed after dinner, when the table had been cleared and the dishes were still dripping in the dish rack. That Sunday, however, she did not reach eagerly for the dish as she usually did. I half-filled the little plastic spoon and touched it to her lips. Maybe  this would excite her taste buds. Maybe she'd want more. She closed her lips over it, letting it slide off the spoon and then melt on her tongue. She closed her eyes. When I offered her another, her lips tightened. No amount of enticement could tempt her to open her mouth for another taste. Her message was clear. Not interested.

This afternoon I read to her. The book was Paddle-to-the-Sea (1941) by Holling Clancy Holling, which is about a small carved canoe in which an Indian brave sat tall, crafted by the hands of a young boy in the wilds of Canada. The boy sets it on its journey from the mountains of Canada through the Great Lakes and then to the sea. It was a story I loved as a child and only recently rediscovered. Mom slept as I read. I kept on, if only to keep the sound of my voice resonating in her subconscious. I wanted her to know that someone who loved her was nearby.

It reminded me of the many times she would read to my brother and me as children. Not only the Little Golden Books that formed the core of our book collection, but also the latest edition of the comic book Little Lulu – our very first magazine subscription. Without fail, the afternoon it arrived in the mailbox we would run to the living room couch, where we sat, one on each side of her, resting our heads against her soft bosom as she read each panel to us. We hung on every word.

I finish Paddle-to-the-Sea. I stroke her hair. The administrator and nursing supervisor come in. We discuss how Mom is doing. It's hard to talk. My eyes keep filling up. I help to turn her to her other side – she has to be turned every hour. I want to be able to do more.

Mom sleeps. Occasionally she opens her eyes and looks at me. I say, “Hi, Mom. Can I do anything for you?” She closes her eyes again.

As the afternoon wears on, it seems she is having a harder time holding focus in the brief moments that her lids are raised, although she sometimes responds when directly addressed. I know she's in there, somewhere. I just can't get to her. She's on her own journey to the sea.

Mom was a nurse before she married Dad during World War II. She admitted that nursing was never her first love, and was happy to leave it to become a homemaker. Nonetheless, her life was spent appreciating nature and trying to understand the world around her.  I first learned the names of wildflowers while on walks in the woods with my mother and Grandmother. I am a historian today, in part, as a result of Mom's voracious appetite for the subject. Her quiet moments were often spent immersed in some enormous tome about the Crusades, the Popes, the lives of the Presidents, or some other similarly dense topic (as they seemed to me then).  She lead me on fascinating walks through many a country cemetery, reading the epitaphs aloud and looking for ancestors. She traced the genealogy of not only her family, but Dad's as well - even undertaking a journey with Dad to Canada's Gaspe Peninsula seeking some record of his Irish grandmother who was shipwrecked there over a hundred years before. And organization? Well, OK .... I never really mastered Mom's tidiness, but learned enough from her to at least feel remorse when I am messy.

I turn the pages of a book I am reading, while I stroke her hair. I leave the television on, thinking the sound of voices is helping to keep her tethered to me, to life, even if we are not conversing. Tomorrow, I will read to her again. This time I will choose an article from one of her favorite magazines - National Geographic or Birds and Blooms - still stacked in a neat pile on the bedside table.

There is so much I want to tell her. I want her to know what she has meant to me. How much my life has been shaped by her. About all the important things I learned from her. And yet, in spite of how much she has enriched my life, in spite of all I owe her, all I can manage at this end point is “I love you, Mom.” This, and anything else I might say, seems so inadequate.

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In Memoriam: Janet Travis Delaney

Janet Travis Delaney, ca. 1940

Janet Travis Delaney died Monday, September 5, 2011. She was 98. Mrs. Delaney was born in Endicott, New York, on December 22, 1912, to Earl Winfield Travis and Jane L. Travis (née Lusk). She was a life-long resident of Endicott, graduating from Union-Endicott High School in 1930. She received her nursing degree from St. Joseph's Hospital, Elmira, N.Y., in 1935, and later joined the nursing staff of Ideal Hospital in Endicott, where she practiced until her marriage to Raymond W. Delaney in 1941.

As the parent of a child with developmental disabilities, Mrs. Delaney, together with her husband Raymond, helped form one of the first parents groups focused on the needs of such children. Over the years, she contributed her volunteer efforts in many ways and was recognized for her work by the Broome Developmental Disabilities Services Office (BDDSO) in 1994. Mrs. Delaney was an ardent avocational historian and genealogist, as well as member of the Old Village of Union Historical Society, an organization for which she served as Secretary for some time.

Mrs. Delaney is survived by children Mary Delaney Krugman and Philip Lockwood Delaney; and grandchildren Sean Dennis Delaney; Erin Delaney Guidici, Daniel Delaney Krugman, and Casey Winfield Krugman. She was predeceased by her husband, Raymond William Delaney, and son, John Travis Delaney.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that Mrs. Delaney's memory be honored by a donation to the Parents Group of Broome Developmental Services Office, 249 Glenwood Road, Binghamton, New York 13905 (607) 770-0255.

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Silent Conversations

Evergreen Cemetery, Owego, New York

 Well, we have got what was coming to us, and here in this burial plot we lie: - We fourteen skeletons of Gibsons, Tinkhams, Drakes, Pixleys and Curtises, that once were clothed with flesh and lived and loved and laughed and danced and sang and suffered just like you till the God-created life transmitting spark that had been passed down to us from its beginning died.

 -- Captain Edward Tinkham Gibson, 1935

Epitaph in Evergreen Cemetery, Owego NY

At the top of a long, narrow drive that ascends the side of a ragged shale outcrop in Tioga County, New York, is a hamlet distinguished by a long history, picturesque landscaping, and exceptional works of art and architecture. Its residents – many distinguished, powerful, and/or wealthy, some less so – are universally well known for their quiet demeanor. Very quiet. In fact, they are all dead. 

Evergreen Cemetery sits on a scenic promontory overlooking the Susquehanna River and the Village of Owego.  A white marble obelisk perched on its summit is visible from miles away. Founded in 1851, this graveyard is a remarkably intact example of a rural or “garden cemetery” that first appeared in the United States in the first half of the Nineteenth Century. Landscaped with ornamental shrubs, trees, and other plantings casually arranged in an organic way, it reflected the new appreciation for nature and natural forms inspired by the American Transcendentalists. Although later in the Nineteenth Century, Fredrick Law Olmsted would refine the tenets of this philosophy into the art of landscape design, the rural cemeteries were the first examples of this approach to register in the public’s consciousness. 

The Notables

Evergreen Cemetery was established at a time when Owego was evolving from a frontier town into a town of substance and graceful civility. Among its inhabitants, the cemetery counts a U.S. Supreme Court Justice, numerous New York State Senators and Assemblymen, many of Owego’s Village Presidents and fire chiefs, business leaders, the editors of various publications, both local and national, and the scions of these and other prominent families.

There were also individuals credited with exceptional achievements. Among them was Helen Dean King, Ph.D., a professor who specialized in genetics research, who was honored in 1932 as one of two women recognized for highest achievement in scientific research in the world. And there is the grave of J. Alden Loring, renowned naturalist and author who traveled the world for the Smithsonian, the U. S. Department of Agriculture, and the Zoological Societies of the City of New York, Philadelphia, and Washington, DC. Loring was one of three naturalists who accompanied President Teddy Roosevelt on his year-long African safari. We’re in heady company here.

 

Croke Family Monument.

The Artistry and Architecture

The imposing granite monuments found throughout the cemetery are fitting memorials to those buried at their bases. The topography requires them to be grouped in small clusters rather than laid out in straight rows. The cemetery is founded on a steep slope traversed by several ravines, brooks, and culverts that tumble down the hillside towards town. Those who staked their claim on various plots up and down the incline arranged their headstones on terraces. Typically, they had commissioned a large monument with the family name prominently embossed on it, surrounded by smaller stones, one for each individual buried there. 

The more affluent built mausoleums for their families. The snide among us might say this was due to a desire for exclusivity, even in death; but it might also have been due to a desire to conserve space on the steep slope. Some of the mausoleums, in particular, are architectural gems, including the Cheney crypt (1897) and the Curtis family crypt (built 1907). 

Curtis Family Mausoleum (1907), Evergreen Cemetery.

The Curtis crypt, designed by the McDonnell plant in Buffalo, NY and executed in granite from Barre, Vermont, is both masculine and elegant. It is also a masterful feat of engineering. The roof is made of a single slab of rusticated granite, chamfered at the edges and almost a foot thick at the center. According to a brochure published by the Owego Historical Society, the stone on the roof alone weighs some 18 tons. That slab is capped with a second monolith, shaped to form the ridgeline of the structure, that reportedly weighs over 8 tons. These sit on a yet a third monolithic slab that forms the upper seal of the chamber within. The walls are formed of huge rusticated blocks of granite. The only refinements found on this massive composition are the elegant bronze doors and the perfectly-turned, piston-like Doric columns that flank the entrance.

Cheney Family Crypt (1897), Evergreen Cemetery.

The Cheney mausoleum is much more “feminine” in design, if we’re assigning genders to structures. The crypt is made slender by a tall center pavilion with a steeply pitched roof, topped off with a bronze urn. Like the Curtis crypt, elegant bronze doors are ornamented with grillwork, albeit much more effusive than those of its neighbor. The entrance is flanked by two attenuated columns with stylized Composite capitals. A flat, pointed frontispiece embossed with “Cheney” follows the gable profile, emphasizing the height of the center bay. A trefoil intrados is an interesting ornamental refinement of the main entry, which is echoed in the vent in the upper gable. Two low side wings come off the main pavilion, looking for all the world like a bustle under a dress from that century. 

Among the headstones is the massive Croke family monument somewhat farther down the hill (photo above). At some time, one of its ancestors ran Croke’s Livery, a prominent Owego business in the 19^th Century.

The Birdsall monument is graced by a lovely flowering hydrangea; someone in the Birdsall family obviously took great pride in his or her membership in the Order of the Eastern Star, whose emblem is emblazoned on the face of the stone. 

The Birdsall Family Monument, Evergreen Cemetery.

The headstone of U.S. Congressman and Senator and all-around political king-maker Thomas C. (“Boss”) Platt (1833 – 1910) is reported to be found somewhere in the cemetery, although I missed seeing it on this visit. It was designed by the noted New York City architect Ernest Flagg (Singer Building and St. Luke’s Hospital, NYC; Corcoran Gallery, Washington DC).

In another area, the graves of Civil War soldiers of Tioga County now rest, the identical stones standing in orderly ranks, one after the other, as the soldiers did during their last deployment. The section was originally opened by the by the Grand Army of the Republic (G.A.R.) in 1865; it was restored in 2007 thanks to the Tioga County War Service Medal Commission.

Civil War Section, Evergreen Cemetery. Created 1865; Restored 2007.

The Stories

The artistry embodied in Evergreen’s monuments and mausoleums, however, was not the only thing that captivated me. Rather it was the sense that I was stepping into a set from Thornton Wilder’s play, Our Town, where there seemed to be an eternal conversation taking place among the decedents. It was not only the expressive form of those artful headstones, but also the inscriptions that connect you with the people who rest under them. The sense of love, loss, disaster, honor – it’s all there. The emotions surrounding the events that brought those souls to this place still vibrate in the air, even on a still, languid summer afternoon like the one I was enjoying that day.

My car climbed the hill to the first stop along my tour: the white obelisk on the promontory. I wondered as I approached it, “Is a war memorial? The grave of a U.S. Senator, or maybe even a U.S. President?” Not at all. It turned out to be the grave of a young Native American woman who died in a train wreck in a town some miles away. It was erected by the people of Owego from private donations.

The epitaph reads: 

In memory of Sa-Sa-Na Loft, an Indian Maiden of Mohawk-Woods, Canada West, who lost her life in the railroad disaster at Deposit, N.Y., February 18, 1852, Aged 21 years. 

By birth a daughter of the forest, by adoption a child of God.

This, of course, intrigued me. It was the first story I researched when I returned to my office. The accounts revealed that Sa Sa Na Loft did not live in Owego. She had no relatives here at all. Reportedly, she was a direct descendant of Joseph Brant, a Mohawk leader prominent in the Revolutionary War. Brant’s second wife was named Susanna, which suggests that she may have been Sa Sa Na's namesake.

Sa Sa Na had traveled to Owego from Canada with her brother and sister on a mission to raise funds for the education of Mohawk children. For two days in February 1852, she and her siblings stayed with the family of Judge Avery, a prominent local citizen. She reportedly gave two concerts, during which the people of Owego thrilled at her beautiful singing voice. Then, the three siblings boarded the train for the little town of Deposit, New York, where they were going to spend the night. A freight train, which had left the station just a few minutes before, lost traction on a steep and icy grade just a mile outside of town. It raced uncontrollably down the slope backwards, slamming into the passenger train where Sa Sa Na sat. The lives of her brother and sister were spared, thanks only to happenstance.

After receiving news of her death, Judge Avery immediately sought permission from her family to bury her in Evergreen Cemetery as one of their own -- a request her family granted. Donations were collected for the marble memorial, which was erected some two years later on the promontory above the town. And there, after that brief two-day encounter, she has remained for almost 160 years, overlooking the Susquehanna River, a daughter of the Village of Owego. Today, some might wonder if Sa Sa Na would have preferred to take her final rest near her beloved Mohawk children in the forests of her native Canada, in spite of the great kindness shown her here. But we’ll never know, of course.

Epitaph of Cornil Bloodgood (d. 1876)

Another heartbreaking story unfolds on a stone along “Summit Road,” one of the drives in the cemetery. There, the Bloodgood family gravestone is marked by rustic stone cross of carved tree trunks that adorns the top of the monument. The cross is entwined with limestone leaves and roses that cascade down around its sides and encircle the main inscription on the front. But another inscription, located on the side of the headstone, near its base, was most intriguing. It was for “Cornil,” a 30-year old daughter of one of the Bloodgoods (although where she fits in the family tree, I am still at a loss to figure out), who died in the “Ashtabula disaster” on December 29, 1876. Of course, I had to look that one up, too. 

The Ashtabula train disaster was caused by the failure of an iron Howe truss bridge, which dumped an entire trainload of holiday travelers 60 feet into a ravine on a snowy Ohio night, just minutes away from the station. Those who weren’t killed by the impact were burned to death in the fire that immediately engulfed the wreck - a fire caused by lanterns and the coal burners that warmed the passengers on that freezing night. So here lay poor Cornil, 135 years later, at the base of this aged stone bouquet. I hope she was pleased to make it back to Owego and the relatives with whom she now shares the plot. 

Wood engraving of the Ashtabula River Railroad Disaster, published in Harper's Weekly, January 20, 1877.

Tragedy also visited the prominent Cheney family, whose mausoleum was completed in 1897.  Alfred C. Cheney was a self-made businessman, who ultimately became president of the Garfield National Bank and Safe Deposit Company in New York. He was also Treasurer of the Republican State Committee for a period and was one of the leading proponents of the Nicaragua Canal, a plan abandoned in the early 20^th Century in favor of the Panama Canal. Alfred surprised everyone when he died in 1893 while vacationing in Lake George. I suspect the Cheney crypt we see today was built for him. On a rainy summer’s morning exactly 10 years and 4 days after her husband’s death, Adeline Hull Chaney, beset with “nervousness,” jumped fully clothed into the waters of the Susquehanna River at Owego while visiting her sisters. After her body was recovered floating near the steamboat Dewey (who knew that there were steamboats on the Susquehanna?), she was interred in the Cheney crypt, too. For the Hull sisters, that sad procession up the long drive to the crypt at the top of the hill must have seemed interminable. Let’s hope that, for more than a century now, Adeline and Alfred have enjoyed the lovely view of the valley together.

View of the Susquehanna River valley from the summit of Evergreen Cemetery.

As my car returned down the hill and exited through the main gates of Evergreen Cemetery, I felt I had just attended some kind of social gathering, even though I had not seen a single person while I was there. Although it’s true that many of the stories of the dead only became clear after I had done a bit of research, the conversations the stones offer to the living can be very enlightening, if we stop to listen.

Evergreen Cemetery was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2002.

Resources:

“Alfred C. Cheney.” Obituary. New York Times. 15 July 1893.

“Ashtabula Train Disaster of 1876.” Ohio History Central. Website. Columbus OH: Ohio Historical Society. URL: http://www.ohiohistorycentral.org/entry.php?rec=466 accessed 25 July 2011.

 “Do not Stand by my Grave and Cry... A monument to a loved one, a tribute to a community.” Treasures of the Tier: A Monthly Column on Historic Structures of New York's Southern Tier. Website URL http://nyslandmarks.com/treasures/08aug.htmaccessed July 25, 2011.

“The Erie Railroad Accident at Deposit – Verdict of Coroner’s Jury.” New York Times. 21 February 1852.  c

“Railroad Smashing – ‘Crowner’s Quest.’” New York Times. 23 February 1852: 2. Courtesy of Proquest, Historical New York Times.

R. M. “The Erie Railroad Disaster.” Letter to the Editor.  New York Times. 27 February 1852:1. Courtesy of Proquest, Historical New York Times.

Sedore, Emma M., Tioga County Historian. Walking Tour: Evergreen Cemetery, Owego, New York. Brochure. Funded in part by a Preserve America grant. Owego NY:  Village of Owego, 2010.

Sedore, Emma, and Anthony Opalka. Evergreen Cemetery, Owego, Tioga County, New York. Nomination form for the National Register of Historic Places. Listed on the New York and National Registers of Historic Places, 2002. Courtesy of the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation. Database and Document Imaging. Website URL: http://nysparks.state.ny.us/shpo/online-tools  accessed 25 July 2011.

“Suicide of Mrs. Cheney: Widow of Alfred C. Cheney Drowns Herself at Owego.” New York Times. 20 July 1903: 2. Courtesy of Proquest, Historical New York Times.

Taylor, Troy. “Horror for the Holidays: Ghosts of the Ashtabula Bridge Disaster.”  2003. Prairie Ghosts. Website. URL: http://www.prairieghosts.com/rr_disaster.html  accessed 25 July 2011.

Weiser, Kathy, ed. and comp. “Railroad Tales: Ashtabula, Ohio, Train Wreck – Historic Accounts.” Legends of America. Website. Updated 2010. URL: http://www.legendsofamerica.com/rr-ashtabula.html  accessed 25 July 2011.

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The Girls at the Corner

They like to play hide-and-seek. Well, the truth is they are not really playing anything. Just going about their business. I am the one who looks eagerly for them each time I pass by, wherever they have wandered. Between the months of May and October, whether it be rainy or sunny, hot or chilly, the girls can usually be found congregating somewhere in the fields that straddle a hill in the northeast corner of the Town of Union, NY.

The cows belong to one of the few working farms left in my hometown. The survival of any farms in this part of upstate New York surprises me, as development has steadily crept up the hillsides of my valley over the years. As a child, I remember there being more of them. Although my family was firmly tethered to the Village of Endicott by work and relations, the countryside was always special to us; we explored it extensively in our Sunday afternoon excursions.

Case Road, looking toward Robinson Hill, Town of Union, NY

These recent bovine friendships flowered when my mother moved to a new senior care facility on the hills outside Endicott. This shift in my center of gravity required me to forge new routes from the highway to my mother's complex. Rather than follow my usual route along Main Street, I now exit Route 17 at the Oakdale Mall, the regional shopping center in Johnson City just east of Endicott. Five minutes from the highway and only a mile above the mall, I am on Robinson Hill, in the lush and fragrant uplands of the Susquehanna Valley. Wildflowers grow by the side of the road. Red-winged blackbirds soar overhead, their calls reminding me of picnics by the streams of my youth. There are trees and meadows, hills and dales, brooks and ponds. 

Farm at Robinson Hill and Case Roads, Town of Union, NY

At the corner of Case and Robinson Hill Roads where I make the turn toward the senior housing complex, there is a working farm complete with picture-perfect black and white cows. Not being an expert, I hear that these are Holsteins, the archetypical dairy cow of New York State. They would often hang out in the field nearest the corner where I turned up the hill. I could easily see their soft nuzzling noses scruffling among the hillocks. Some would look up at my car, bored, chewing. Then they would slowly resume their foraging. Occasionally, they would have arranged themselves in a circle to gossip in the shade of a stand of trees. Other times, they had meandered along a woodland cowpath to the other side of the hill, where I would find them grazing in the north pasture.

Seeing these cows always fills me with a sense of constancy. Beyond the ever-changing storefronts of downtown; beyond the industries that had built the town, and then abandoned it; beyond the big-box retail that now populates the valley ... this farm, these fields, these cows, have survived.

Farm in the Town of Union, Broome County, NY

Late last fall, after the cows had retired to the barn for the winter, the farmer removed the fencing at the corner where I turn off. I worried that perhaps this signaled the disappearance of yet another dairy farm. Was the field soon to be lost to a housing development (something more typical of my current home state of New Jersey)? Or was this evidence of some farm management strategy (something about which I am totally uninformed)?

Farming is not an idyllic profession. It's a hard life. Many farmers give up, looking for an easier way to earn living wage that doesn't depend on the vagaries of nature. 

According to the Town of Union Unified Comprehensive Plan for 2007:

There are only a handful of working farms remaining in the Town of Union. The decline of agricultural practices has been the result of many factors. In a survey of 448 owners of idle agricultural land in New York, forty-one percent said that they wanted to sell their land because they couldn't afford the taxes. Thirty-one percent wanted to sell because they needed the money. In most cases it has just become more profitable to sell the land to developers than to try to make a living selling agricultural goods. Twelve percent said that farming was impractical (Kay, D. and Bills, N., 2007). Whatever the reason, agriculture in New York and the Town has seen a steady decline in recent years.

At last count, the Town of Union has fourteen individual tax parcels that are locally designated as Agricultural Districts, accounting for approximately three percent of the land (2007 Town of Union Unified Comprehensive Plan). Among them is the farm I always pass on Case Road. There are several more farms along that road, although I found only one that seemed to still be a working farm. 

The decline of farming in this area is not new. As early as 1909, Ralph S. Tarr, Professor of Physical Geography at Cornell University, selected Broome County as one of seven Southern Tier counties for his article, “The Decline of Farming in South-Central New York State.” His opening paragraph offers up the stunning news that, while previous studies expressed concern about the decline of farming in New England, in New York State there were some 20,000 farms for sale at the time of writing.

The seven counties Tarr considered were all located within the hilly plateau of Southern New York and all were well connected with other parts of the state by virtue of numerous railroad lines. In addition, the region had access to the Erie Canal through the two of the Finger Lakes and was served by three major rivers, the Susquehanna, the Chenango, and the Chemung. Normally these would be factors that facilitate marketing of farm products. Nonetheless, the farming population in Broome County continued to decline during the 19th Century - over 3% in the years between 1890 to 1900.

Due to the poor condition of the soil in the uplands of the plateau, dairying was often the principal farm industry. Dairy cows can graze on very poor lands like those found in Broome County. And even poor lands can produce the forage needed to get the herd through the long winters of upstate New York.

Dairying, an industry in which New York State lead the country in 1900, still remains a major component of New York State economy. After decades of decline, Broome County evidenced an 8% increase in the number of dairy cows between 1969 and 1987. By 2007, the value of sales from milk and other dairy products from cows in Broome County totaled almost $21 Million, outstripping its nearest competitor (cattle and calves) by more than six times. Not surprising, the top crop in Broome County is forage (land used for hay, silage, etc.) and corn used for silage (feed), where some 34,000 acres are under cultivation (USDA, 2007 Census of Agriculture). 

Fields along Case Road, Town of Union, NY

The economics of agriculture are too complex for me to digest for this study. It is obvious that many challenges remain for farming, including being able to eke out an adequate living from the land.

Recent years have offered hopeful signs for the long-term survival prospects of farms in the Southern Tier, if farms can adapt quickly enough. Technological advances have made smaller farms more productive; for dairying, this means more milk is now produced from fewer cows. There is ready access to a variety of modes of transportation to get goods to market. Consumers are increasingly interested in buying locally. There is reduced interest in red meat (much of which is produced by competitors in the West and Midwest), and greater interest in purchasing vegetables, grains, and fruits. New specialty markets for such things as organic farm products have opened up as consumers look to “eat healthy.” And more people regard fresh air and open space a basic element of one's quality of life. This all bodes well for the preservation of local farms.

As for my farm on Robinson Hill... well, the cows reappeared this spring, but the fence did not. I scanned the fields for the black and white dots, finally finding them grazing along the far tree line. The field on the corner where the cows used to greet me has been left fallow, at least for this season. I saw the farmer out there on his tractor on my last trip through - perhaps he's harvesting next winter's hay. It was a happy sight.

Resources:

Bills, Nelson, Krys Cail, and Monika Roth. Southern Tier Agriculture: A Regional Economic Resource and a Landscape In Transition. Powerpoint. (2005). URL: http://www.slideshare.net/KrysCail/southern-tier-agriculture-a-regional-resource-and-a-landscape-in-transition accessed June 30, 2011.

A History of American Agriculture - Farmers and the Land.” Growing a Nation: The History of American Agriculture. URL: http://www.agclassroom.org/gan/timeline/farmers_land.htm accessed June 25, 2011. Project funded by USDA CSREES cooperative agreement #2004-38840-01819 and developed cooperatively by: USDA, Utah State University Extension, and LetterPress Software, Inc.

Kay, D., and Bills, N. “What are the plans of owners of idle agricultural land in NYS?” Rural New York Minute. 2007. Cited in the 2007 Town of Union [NY] Comprehensive Plan.

Stanton, B. F. The Changing Landscape of New York State Agriculture in the Twentieth Century. Agricultural Economics Extension Bull. 92-5. Ithaca NY: Department of Agricultural Economics, New York State College of Agriculture and Life Sciences, Cornell University, March 1992.

Tarr, Ralph S. (1864 – 1912), Prof. Phys. Geography at Cornell University. “The Decline of Farming in South-Central New York.” Bulletin of the American Geographical Society, Vol. 41, No. 5.American Geographical Society, 1909. Courtesy of Googlebooks. URL http://books.google.com/ accessed June 29, 2011.

Tomlin, Elizabeth. “Agriculture IS Economic Development – Central NY Ag Council 2011.”Country Folks, Eastern Ed. Palatine, NY: Lee Publications (April 25, 2011). URL: http://countryfolks.com/ME2/Audiences/dirmod.asp?sid=350E94585B37465F8B5F8BA068B734F5&nm=Features&type=Publishing&mod=Publications%3A%3AArticle&mid=8F3A7027421841978F18BE895F87F791&AudID=90DC82AE125D4E708CD1E3ED9DA80CA2&tier=4&id=81A37F22667540CA9DFDF20302FDE074 accessed June 25, 2011.

Union [NY],Town of. “Goals and Objectives: Agriculture.” Chapter 17. Town of Union Unified Comprehensive Plan. URL: http://www.townofunion.com/

U.S. Department of Agriculture. “County Profile: Broome County, New York. 2007 Census of Agriculture, Volume 1, Geographic Area Series. URL: http://www.agcensus.usda.gov/Publications/2007/index.asp accessed June 25, 2011.

Along the Delaware

Delaware River at Lambertville, NJ

My life's dream was to live beside a river. But a recent biking trip along the Delaware may have changed my mind.

Rivers have a powerful mystique - they are ever changing and yet eternal. When placid, their gentle ripples reflect the sun and sky. Within hours, they can become brown torrents, roiling and treacherous, that destroy everything in their path. What could be more fascinating than to witness such things first hand, day after day?

The Delaware doesn't seem to have any nicknames, unlike the Mississippi River, which has collected a number of handles like "Big Muddy" or "Ol' Man River" or "The Mighty Mississippi." No, this river is simply called "the Delaware."

The facts: 

The Delaware is the longest un-dammed river in the United States east of the Mississippi, extending 330 miles from the confluence of its East and West branches at Hancock, N.Y. to the mouth of the Delaware Bay where it meets the Atlantic Ocean. The river is fed by 216 tributaries, the largest being the Schuylkill and Lehigh Rivers in Pennsylvania. In all, the basin contains 13,539 square miles, draining parts of Pennsylvania (6,422 square miles or 50.3 percent of the basin's total land area); New Jersey (2,969 square miles, or 23.3%); New York (2,362 square miles, 18.5%); and Delaware (1,004 square miles, 7.9%). Included in the total area number is the 782 square-mile Delaware Bay, which lies roughly half in New Jersey and half in Delaware. 

-- The Delaware River Basin Commission

I often travel along the Delaware on my way to upstate New York. If the river is low, new islands stand exposed in the middle of the riverbed. If the river is high, muddy water washes through the trees and up into the back yards of the houses I can see across the way.

A subconscious conversation hums in the back of my mind as I drive my route. If I think about it, I realize I'm checking to see how well the houses nearest to the river have survived over the years. If they date from the Nineteenth Century, I figure they have seen a fair bit of high water in their lifetime and yet have survived. I notice what steps their owners have taken to keep them intact: evidence of flood damage repairs; newly elevated buildings; solid retaining walls. “That’s where I would live,” I murmur smugly to myself when I spot a place that appears unassailable, sure that property is the answer to a long and happy life on the river.

The small towns along the Delaware River are charming. Lambertville, one of the most intact, has filled many of its historic storefronts with antiques, home décor, restaurants, bed-and-breakfasts, and other upscale establishments. Every year, the annual “Shadfest” draws thousands of visitors, in addition to the usual crowds of summer day-trippers. Stockton and Frenchtown – albeit more modest in scale than Lambertville – also flourish mostly in the summer but are still real places to their year-round residents. Kayaking, biking, hiking, fishing, boating, shopping, eating – all great summer sports take place in these towns along the Delaware.

New Hope, PA, on the Delaware River.

Both sides of the river have historic canals and towpaths now maintained as state parks with bicycle/hiking trails. The feeder canal of the 70-mile Delaware & Raritan Canal system follows the river on the New Jersey side. In Pennsylvania, a 60-mile towpath follows the former Delaware Canal.  Each has its own distinct character.

Along the east bank of the Delaware, the tow path follows the state parklands through the communities of Lambertville, Stockton, and Frenchtown. It passes, for the most part, through heavily wooded areas somewhat elevated from the river. In the few areas where you pass near a settlement, a few of the newer houses are on pilings, elevated some 20 feet above grade. It seems impossible to think that the river would ever come up that high.

On the Pennsylvania side, much of the tow path passes through farmland and along the rear yard fences of some lovely vacation retreats on the canal. They are not elevated, to any great degree, and have beautiful, well-tended gardens. Many seem a fair distance from the river.

Although living by a river always has its share of dangers, recent years have brought more floods to the Delaware than anticipated. In 2004, 2005, and 2006, floods caused significant damage to a number of towns in the Delaware River Basin.

As recently as March 2011, flooding damaged significant sections of the towpath on the Pennsylvania side of the river, breaching the canal wall. Our recent bike tour followed the D&R towpath from Lambertville to Frenchtown, NJ, returning along the Delaware Canal on the Pennsylvania side of the river. Although the route on the New Jersey side was in excellent condition, the western bank showed dramatic evidence of the recent flooding, especially just north of the hamlet of Lumberville, PA, where the river jogs eastward - a point where the river had to clamber overland in its straight-line rush towards the Delaware Bay. Major repairs were clearly underway, but the towpath is still in rough shape, which prevented us from exploring this side of the river extensively. The canal is dry, logs and limbs brought down the river are lodged in trees, and houses we saw along the canal there have muddy feet – their canal-side gardens bore evidence of a recent high-water mark. Those with minimal damage have substantial stone or concrete retaining walls on the river side.

Lumberville-Raven Rock Pedestrian Bridge

We stopped for coffee in Lumberville, much of which is within a National Register-listed historic district along River Road. We asked the owner of the Lumberville General Store (1803) (great coffee and biscotti, by the way) how she had fared in the recent floods. She confidently said, “Oh, we’re up too high. We never get flooded.” The same providential siting has benefited the Black Bass Hotel across the street (shown in photo at right in background). This inn was built in the 1740s and still keeps an elegant watch over the Delaware River, just south of the pedestrian bridge over to Bull’s Island State Park. “However,” the store owner warned, “I think you might want to cross over to the Jersey side here – the tow path below Lumberville was washed out last month and is not ready for cycling yet.” Sure enough, when we looked over the railing on the way back to NJ, a large gouge taken out of the bike path had recently been stabilized by rough fill of orange clay and gravel. 

Although my romantic idea of living by a river still persists, the exigencies of preparing for these “significant flood events” – the number of which seems to have increased over the past few years – is enough to dissuade me from actually plunking down my money on a riverfront property. It's one of life’s turning points, I suppose, when practicalities outweigh romance.

Nothing, however, should dissuade anyone from visiting these delightful river towns and enjoying days on both sides of the Delaware. The area is one of New Jersey’s “10 Best.” And as for NJ's neighbor across the way, Pennsylvanians have chosen the Delaware as the 2011 River of the Year, according to a recent news release of the PA Department of Conservation and Natural Resources.

So, even if you don't live on the Delaware, you can still enjoy every minute of your stay. It's an amazing place.

The New Hope-Lambertville Bridge over the Delaware R.

Resources:

The Black Bass Hotel. Website. URL: http://www.blackbasshotel.com/ accessed May 18, 2011.

Borough of Frenchtown, NJ. http://frenchtown.com/

Borough of Stockton, NJ. URL: http://www.co.hunterdon.nj.us/mun/stockton.htm

City of Lambertville, NJ. Official website. http://www.lambertvillenj.org/

D&R Canal History, Delaware and Raritan Canal Commission, official website: URL http://www.dandrcanal.com/history.html, accessed May 18, 2011.

The Delaware River Basin Commission. "The Delaware River Basin." Official Website. URL: http://www.state.nj.us/drbc/thedrb.htm accessed May 22, 2011.

The Lumberville [PA] General Store. Website URL: http://www.thelumbervillegeneralstore.com/ accessed May 18, 2011.

“Lumberville-Raven Rock Pedestrian Bridge.” The Delaware River Joint Toll Bridge Commission. Website. URL: http://www.drjtbc.org/default.aspx?pageid=83 accessed May 18, 2011.

Pennsylvania, State of, Department of Conservation and Natural Resources. “Delaware Canal State Park - Park Field Guide.” Pennsylvania State Parks. Website. URL:

http://www.dcnr.state.pa.us/stateparks/parks/delawarecanal/delawarecanal_fieldguide.aspx accessed May 18, 2011.

--- "Pennsylvanians Choose Delaware as 2011 River of the Year." News Release. 13 January 2011. URL: http://www.prnewswire.com/news-releases/pennsylvanians-choose-delaware-as-2011-river-of-the-year-113453869.html

U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Philadelphia District. “Delaware River Basin Comprehensive Study - Interim Feasibility Study for New Jersey.” U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Website (Updated to 02-Feb-2011). URL: http://www.nap.usace.army.mil/Projects/delbasin/ accessed May 18, 2011.

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Hello, Sunbeam: Fleeting Light though Well-Loved Spaces

A splotch of rainbow appeared on the wall of the upstairs hall yesterday morning. A brilliant, prismatic, disembodied streak of light. How curious. For some 35 years I have lived in this house, but I'd never seen light falling on that wall before. I reached out my hand and caught the light in my palm. I leaned into it then looked backwards over my shoulder for the source. Ah, it was just a ray of sun glancing off the corner of the vanity mirror left standing open. Nothing mysterious. Just a happy surprise, after a long winter of cold grayness.

In these early days of "Just-spring," I am more aware of such luminous aberrations. I came downstairs one morning last week to see the folds of a sheer curtain on a north window lit by a rosy glow. It seemed far removed from any opening that might allow a ray of light to penetrate there. No, it wasn't Tinkerbell hiding there, as my young sons might have fantasized a million years ago. It was just the sunrise reflecting off my neighbor's window into my front hall, finally landing on the curtain two rooms away. Again, nothing mysterious. Just a wayward beam of light that had found its way into a dark corner of the front parlor.

My house was built around 1860. There have been a number of alterations to it over the years. A new porch in the early 1900s. An extension to the dining room in the 1940s. Several shutters have gone missing. But, for the most part, the house remains little changed from when it was originally built. For over 150 years, the light has entered this house through the very same window sashes. It follows the same path across my floors now as the one it traced in the 19^th Century.

Light was once considered the enemy of interiors. Indeed, sunlight is very destructive of just about everything domestic – textiles, paper, wood, works of art. The fight against its ravages was once waged not only by servants in grand houses, but also by housewives of more modest means. Fine things were expensive. Carpets, needlepoint, paintings, and furniture all reflected the family's position in society. They were part of the legacy to be passed down to future generations, and thus should be carefully conserved.

Exterior shutters were the first line of defense against sunlight in the 19th Century. Then came interior blinds and rolled shades; then curtains, first a sheer layer then finally heavy opaque fabric like brocade, lined with linen, which could be drawn against the harmful rays. Interiors were dim.

In the U.K., the epicenter of material culture during that period, curtains were covered with paper when the house was not occupied. Carpets were covered over with sheets of coursely woven fabric called “druggets” to prevent wear and fading. Upholstered furniture was covered not only with slip covers, but also top cloths to keep off the dust. It is interesting to note that the country houses north of London best known for their tapestries were often least used and, therefore, least subjected to light.

But farther north on that island, the attitude toward sunlight is much different. One September, I stayed in the hamlet of Sheildaig in the Scottish Highlands with a friend who was scouting a site for a cottage she hoped to build with her husband. This area of Scotland is at the same latitude as Labrador. Winters can be dreary affairs, often with somber skies and copious rainfall.  Even in fair weather, there might be less than an hour of daylight. The sun – or lack of it – plays a significant role in siting buildings.

Scottish Highlands near Sheildaig.

My friend and I explored a number of areas, ticking through a list of queries to find the ideal spot. Most of these related to the position of the sun. Where is south? Will the house be out of the shadow of that hill? If not, the building could spend five cold months during the winter without being touched by  a single ray of direct sunlight. What kinds of plants thrive here – do they reflect good conditions for a garden? Sunlight, in that place, is an important asset.

Conservators struggle to guard precious collections from the ill effects of light. Modern prescriptions for preventing deterioration of museum-quality interiors are based on a more scientific understanding of the properties of light than the slip-covers and druggets of the 19^th Century. They now well understand that incandescent bulbs emit little UV radiation, but generate a large amount of heat, which damages collections. Care is taken to keep the light at a low intensity and far enough away so that its effects on the items displayed are minimized. Under-shelf lighting, which tends to overheat an exhibit, is avoided. Florescent lights are cooler than incandescent ones, but emit UV; they should be fitted with a UV-absorbent jacket. In addition to shutters and sun-blinds of their predecessors, modern conservators use such things a UV-absorbent film installed on the window glass. (However, LED lights, the new darling of energy-efficiency moguls, have proved deficient as far as color discrimination and degradation of certain hues.)

My house, however, is a living-place, not a museum. My children have already put cartons of household treasures inherited from the dismantled homes of their grandparents in storage somewhere. I'm not sure how much more they want or need.

So, the rays of light that find their way into my house are welcome, if fleeting, visitors. Yes, I look at my rugs and my curtains and think, “These are getting a bit faded, aren’t they….” And yet I make no move to block the sunbeam that has traveled the same path across the floor of my dining room for going on two centuries. Far more important than protecting my aging furnishings is enjoying the perpetual - and sometimes whimsical - journey light takes through my well-loved spaces.

Resources:

Sandwith, Hermione and Sheila Stainton, Comp. The National Trust Manual of Housekeeping. New York: Penguin Books in Association with the National Trust [U.K.], 1985.

En-Joie Park, Endicott, NY: Vanquished by the Mighty Susquehanna

En-Joie (Ideal) Park Swimming Pool, Endicott, NY. Ca. 1910

When the waters of the Susquehanna River overtopped its banks and crept toward my grandmother’s house each spring, Dad would gather us in the car for a family field inspection. Grandmother's house was on Main Street just west of En-Joie Park, where Booth Avenue curved down into South Street by the tennis courts. Fortunately, the house was on a rise high enough to escape the flooding. But on the corner of South Street, just down the bank behind her house, were two houses that often fell victim to the river. They looked so forlorn -- surrounded by water, with no signs of life. It was the early 1950s. I was very young. 

My grandmother had four children by my Dad's father. Grandfather died in the 1920s, when my father was just 14 years old. In the 1930s, Grandmother remarried the widower of her sister - my Dad always called him "Uncle Rol" -- and moved herself and her family into his house on Main Street by the park. By the time I was born, Grandmother lived there with her stepson, my aunt, uncle, and my cousin, renting the place for around $25 per month. 

To us, one of greatest assets of my grandmother’s house was its proximity to En-Joie Park, which was just across the street. The park facilities -- except for the pool, which charged a small admission fee - were open and free to all. This was thanks to the generosity of Endicott-Johnson Shoe Co., which not only was benefactor of the park, but built the town of Endicott to house its workers. The park's name was pronounced "en-joy," building on the initials "E-J," the local nickname for the company.

The park played an important role in our family history. When my Dad was a teenager, he worked every summer at En-Joie. Sometimes he worked in the basket room at the bath house; sometimes at the clay tennis courts on South Street. It was through his work at the tennis courts that he fell in love with the game, becoming an avid player and later a local tennis champion.

Before the elder relatives from far-flung towns in upstate New York died off, we would all gather for family reunions in the wood picnic pavilions above the river. Since this was the Irish side of the family, no fewer than eight different family recipes for potato salad were laid out on the tables with the hot dogs and hamburgers. Children were allowed to roam freely in the park – we could swim,  ride on the carousel, swing on the swings, or torture our siblings with stomach-churning, bum-smashing drops when we jumped off the seesaw before they did. For hours, the men would sit at the tables and play cribbage, sticking their pins in the wood board all afternoon, oblivious to demands from spouses or children. Sometimes, there would be a concert in the bandstand.

En-Joie Pool, ca. 1910.

It was a rite of passage to be allowed to walk to the park alone on summer days. My brother and his friends, manly minimalists, rolled their bathing suits up in their towels. I always toted a girly beach bag containing my suit and towel, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with some change jingling around in the bottom. By the time we arrived, a line had already formed at the front entrance to the bath house. When the doors finally opened, we climbed the concrete stairs into the shadowy entryway, where we plunked our quarter on the worn counter.  In exchange we'd receive a wire basket with a brass tag on a stretchy band that we put on our ankle.

We would spend the whole afternoon at En-Joie, free of parents and responsibilities. The water in the huge, kidney-shaped pool was icy cold, even on the hottest days. It took forever from the moment I stuck my first toe into the freezing water until I dared a full-body plunge. But after a while, we didn't feel the cold. When our lips turned blue and our teeth chattered, we went over to the “baby pool” – a shallow, light-blue square adjacent to the big pool. The water was always warmer there.  We splashed though small ponds in the lawn at the perimeter of the pool that smelled of mud and cut grass and chlorine – smells that still today mix together in a pungent memory of my days at En-Joie.

Every summer I took swimming lessons at the pool. They started at 9:00 a.m. The water was even more frigid than it was at noon, but it didn't matter - we were eager to jump in and rack up as many little pins as possible. Tadpole. Dolphin. Swordfish. We pinned them proudly on our suits to let the world know how accomplished we were. Over the course of two or three summers, we'd finally be able to sew the exalted Jr. Lifesaving patch on our suits.

Winter comes to the Susquehanna River.

When winter came, we didn’t go to the park. It was empty, cold, and buried under a crusty layer of white. Anyway, we were too busy with winter things. In our absence, the frozen ground would press relentlessly against the empty concrete shell of the pool. Snow would weigh heavily on the  roofs of the old wood picnic pavilions. When the spring rains came, they would drench the hills and valleys around Endicott and fill the Susquehanna to the brim. Swift, muddy water would once again begin to climb over the banks towards my grandmother’s house. The river flooded the park, too, filling in the hollows near our favorite swings; inundating the little brook that flowed through the park with brown mucky water, leaving a skim of silt and sticks and debris; and covering the clay courts where I pictured Dad, forever young and tanned and smiling, playing tennis so long ago.

Flooding in En-Joie Park and Field, 1948. Vestal Bridge over the Susquehanna in background. Courtesy of Dryer Family photos: http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~dryer/page15.htm

Ultimately, flood control came to Endicott, authorized by the federal Flood Control Act of 1954. In 1957, construction began on a levee and a flood wall that would encircle En-Joie Park, dooming it thereafter to be a part of the sacrificial flood plain along the north bank of the Susquehanna. The project was completed in 1961.

The flood wall forever changed the way we thought of the park. The grassy slope we rolled down before we jumped over the brook into the park was replaced by a high earthen berm. We couldn't see over the top of it. When we were in the park, we couldn't see out. The brook was filled in. The berm was a steep climb, even for our strong young legs. And the grass - it wasn't soft and moist and fragrant like a lawn. It was bristly and dry, sown on hard clay compacted by steam rollers.  No longer a greensward, it was built to withstand the pressures of the river. The flood wall, although perhaps a godsend to many, was the beginning of the end of our happy childhood days in the park.

1957, the year the flood control project began, was also the year that the Endicott and Johnson families – families that had guided E-J Shoes since its beginnings in 1899 – brought in outside management. Thus began a long period of decline for a company that reportedly manufactured almost all of the footwear used by the US Army in both World Wars.

En-Joie Park faded with the fortunes of Endicott-Johnson. The pool's concrete shell developed severe cracks; it leaked; finally, whole sections of the wall collapsed inward and lay on the pool floor. The old wood pavilions were torn down. No tanned high school students worked the concession stand.  Or mowed the lawns. No one went there anymore.  Thoughts turned to the new park being built on high ground on the north side of Endicott, across town from where the Susquehanna flowed.

By 1965, George W. Johnson Park had opened on Oak Hill Avenue. It boasted a pristine Olympic-sized pool. Swing sets were salvaged from the old park and relocated to the top of the hill. The old carousel was removed from its decades-long home by the river and installed in a shelter in Highland Park, another new park north of town. A new generation of children -- at once joyous and fearful -- would hold tight to the reins of the brightly-colored horses and swans and pigs on the whirling merry-go-round, just as we used to do.

Once the new park opened, En-Joie was finally abandoned. The hole where the pool used to be was filled in. The towering old trees were cut down. The hills and dales of the park were leveled for new tennis courts and a baseball diamond. It became a non-place to our generation.

I was in one of the first crews of lifeguards hired for the new Northside pool, having earned the most coveted Red Cross patch - Water Safety Instructor - that year at college. Each weekday morning that summer I would teach the new crop of Tadpoles and Dophins and Swordfish how to swim. I put sticky white zinc oxide on my sunburned nose. As I made my rounds during free swim, I twirled my lifeguard’s whistle – the sign of ultimate authority to people under ten -- as had generations of lifeguards before me. I sat in the tall lifeguard chair and savored the fragrance of fresh-cut grass and chlorine and Coppertone. In the evenings, chilly in my wet bathing suit and wrapped in a towel tied at the waist, I would help close up the bathhouse for the night.

The pool was the place for giggling and splashing and sleeping on a towel in the sun, thinking of nothing in particular.  Freed from books and teachers and schedules, "horsing around" at the pool was a way that we tested our social skills. We carried the lessons learned at the pool into adulthood. There was a kind of cosmic resolution as I watched the new generation adjust to the idea that one could actually jump into freezing pool water at 9 a.m.  And not only did they live to tell about it, it became a point of pride. And, after checking off the list of skills mastered, they, too, could carry a  bright, new shiny swim pin on the strap of their little bathing suits that day.

I loved every minute of that job. Working summers in the town park felt like a family tradition, a legacy I inherited.  But living the legacy never held quite the same magic for me as did the old En-Joie of my childhood -- the now mythical place where I first learned to swim. It was all gone, conquered by the Mighty Susquehanna and the passing of time.

Former site of En-Joie Park in 2011

Resources:

New York State Department of Environmental Conservation,
www.dec.ny.gov/docs/water_pdf/fcpprjendcot.pdf

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