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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Encounters with Big Muddy: My Introduction to the Lower Mississippi River

Grain silos on Mississippi River from Audubon Park, New Orleans, LA

“You’ll have to wait around for a week or so for your security clearance. But don’t be far away from your cell phone.” The 20-something who delivered this news looked tired. He had been processing the new wave of some 300 contractors who had been arriving steadily over the past 10 days. They had been recruited to work on FEMA’s Long Term Community Recovery program for Louisiana following Hurricanes Katrina and Rita -- the one-two punch delivered to Louisiana and Mississippi in August and September of 2005.

An hour earlier, I had landed at the Baton Rouge Airport along with a plane full of official-looking types. It was late January 2006, almost 6 months after “Rita-Katrina,” as we called it. I was about to begin work as a historic preservation specialist assisting in the next phase of the federal hurricane recovery efforts.

I’d never been to this part of the country before, so I decided to explore as much of the region as possible until the background check was completed. I fashioned a crash course for myself in the geography, climate, history, and architecture, embarking each morning on a different route out of Baton Rouge.

My first target was the architecture of the region and learning what had shaped it.  On the east bank of the Mississippi, I found LSU's Rural Life Museum, with wonderful examples of vernacular architecture, well-suited to the climate and culture of the back country.

Early shotgun house, Rural Life Museum, Baton Rouge, LA

Traveling along the west bank of the Mississippi, I found such treasures as Oak Alley, one of the early plantations and, many say, the "Grande Dame of the Great River Road," which was completed in 1841 and restored in 1925.

Oak Alley Plantation, Great River Road, Vacherie, Louisiana

Providing an underlying theme to my excursions was the iconic Mississippi River.  This was the languid, mythic river of Mark Twain. It is the river of commerce, central to our economy even today. It was also the rampaging river of 1927, which flooded thousands of miles of the heartland from Ohio to Louisiana and forever changed the ways in which the government tries to tame its waters -- attempts the river continues to defy.

So it was with great anticipation that I traced the Mississippi up one side and down the other in my travels.  And yes, I crossed over it a number of times. But it was impossible to get close to it. In spite of its dominant economic and cultural presence in the region, and its central role in our national history, I never felt as if I ever got a true sense of the river. I could not smell it, touch it, or watch its strong currents flowing by.

Tank farm and refining facilities on Mississippi River near Gramercy, LA

In the rural areas, protective levees had long ago been raised high above the river, blocking any views from the road. "No trespassing" signs cut off public access to the waterway. Near Baton Rouge, much of the Lower Mississippi is unrelentingly heavy-duty commercial. Here, public access to the waterfront is often blocked by industrial facilities such as warehouses, docks, tank farms, and refineries. Enormous barges ply the river or are parked along the docks. My views of the Mississippi were mostly quick left-right glances at 65 mph as I crossed over the bridges. From that perspective, the river looked torpid, thick - like gritty coffee with too much cream. But, of course, I saw it when it was quiet.

Veterans Memorial Bridge,LA-3213 over the Mississippi River, Gramercy, LA

The Mississippi is North America's longest and largest river in terms of the amount of water discharged. Each spring, engorged by melting snows and spring rains, the river wants to spread out across the great alluvial plain in the heartland as it did, unfettered, before the European settlers arrived. Since the mid-19^th Century, we have sought to discipline it, harness it, and protect ourselves from it.

The Mississippi River Commission, founded in 1879, was the first to undertake an effort to constrain the river exclusively by levees. The levees-only approach only exacerbated the problem by increasing pressure on the banks during high-flow events, resulting in their collapse. The approach was finally abandoned after the great flood of 1927, when the most of the levees in the Lower Mississippi failed, flooding some 26,000 square miles from Cairo, Illinois, to New Orleans. 

Horace Wilkinson Bridge, Interstate Route 10 at Baton Rouge, LA

The 1928 Flood Control Act gave the Corps of Engineers supervision of flood control in the region and launched what today is called the “Mississippi River and Tributaries Project.” This project introduced new ways to reduce flood damage: reservoirs, channel improvement and stabilization, and myriad other engineering solutions to control the unruly Mississippi. And yet, all those efforts seem doomed to failure. In 1983,  the Upper Mississippi saw the largest flood in the history of the United States to date. Already at this writing, towns in the Upper Mississippi River Valley are filling thousands of sandbags in preparation for the potentially massive floods along the river resulting from an unusually high snowfall over the past winter.

Each February, I think back to my first encounters with the Mississippi River in 2006. Although Baton Rouge proper is favorably positioned to ride out potential flooding along the Lower Mississippi unless it tops some 48-51 feet. elev., flooding on some of its tributaries have affected other areas of town. If all else fails, the Army Corps of Engineers can open the Morganza Spillway above Baton Rouge, which redirects the flow into the Achafalaya Basin where it can be absorbed by extensive wetlands. Nonetheless, everyone keeps one eye on the river when spring comes.

This treacherous and unpredictable river has created a distinct culture, built on commerce, wealth, and disaster. This river culture is what I hope to explore during the next phase of my learning about America. So the background readings have begun, the route is being plotted, research on the optimum season to begin the journey is underway. Perhaps I will see a few of you at some point along the Great River Road.

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Update (May 2011): The flooding along the Mississippi River anticipated some two months ago is now underway. The levees opposite Cairo, Illinois, have been dynamited, flooding hundreds of square miles of farmlands in neighboring Missouri. The Mississippi Delta, where the states of Arkansas, Louisiana and Mississippi come together, is preparing for historically high flood crests - higher even than the floods of 1927. Once again, all eyes are on the Mississippi.

See: Robertson, Campbell. "In Mississippi Delta, All Eyes on a Swelling River."New York Times (6 May 2011): A14. URL http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/07/us/07flood.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=mississippi%20delta&st=cse

Resources:

"Barry, John M. Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How it Changed America. New York: Touchstone, 1998.

Davis, Edwin Adams, Ed. The Rivers and Bayous of Louisiana1968. Gretna, LA: Pelican Publishing Company, Inc., 1998.

Crawford, Dr. G. “Controlling Floods along the Mississippi: Stainless steel wire embedded in concrete helps control erosion, improve navigation.” Nickel Magazine (March 2008). Online version: URL: http://www.nickelinstitute.org/index.cfm?ci_id=16769&la_id=1#  [The 2008 archives were recently deleted from the Institute's website. Dr. Gerald Crawford a Toronto-based consultant to the Nickel Development Institute.]

“Flood! Dealing with the Deluge.” Nova Online. Website: URL: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/flood/deluge.html accessed February 28, 2011

Gazit, Chana and David Steward, Producers. “Fatal Flood.” Film aired on American Experience by Steward/Gazit Productions, Inc., WGBH Educational Foundation (2001). URL http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/flood/maps/index.html accessed February 28, 2011. 

Geyer, Thomas. “Mississippi runs high risk of flooding this spring.” The Quad-City Times. Online version. January 28, 2011. URL: http://qctimes.com/news/local/article_280174dc-2aa1-11e0-9de5-001cc4c03286.html accessed February 28, 2011. 

The Mississippi River and Tributaries Project. New Orleans: U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, New Orleans District. Website. URL: (last updated May 19, 2004) http://www.mvn.usace.army.mil/pao/bro/misstrib.htm accessed 8 February 2011.

“Mississippi River Basin.” Water Encyclopedia: Science and Issues. Website. URL: http://www.waterencyclopedia.com/Mi-Oc/Mississippi-River-Basin.html accessed 8 February 2011. 

“The Mississippi River Flood Of 1993.”  The Weather Channel: Storm Encyclopedia

http://www.weather.com/encyclopedia/flood/miss93.html  accessed February 28, 2011.

National Aeronautic and Space Administration (NASA). “Flooding along the Mississippi (2002).” Visible Earth. Website. Visualization Date: 22 May 2002. URL http://visibleearth.nasa.gov/view_rec.php?id=2717 accessed February 28, 2011.

O’Connor, Anahad and Monica Davey. “Mississippi Surges over Nearly a Dozen Levees.” New York Times (20 June 2008). URL: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/20/us/20Floodcnd.html accessed February 28, 2011.
 

Scarpino, Philip V. Great River: An Environmental History of the Upper Mississippi 1890 – 1950. Columbia MO: University of Missouri Press, 1985.

Twain, Mark. Life on the Mississippi. 1883. Rpt. Signet Classics. New York: New American Library, a Division of Penguin Group, 2009. 

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A Lickety-Split Park Tour: What do you actually learn in 5 hours?

Sunset near King's Canyon National Park.

So you've just driven hundreds of miles to get to visit a national park. Maybe some of you have come all the way across country. Some of you have come from other countries. How long did you actually stay in the park once you got there? And .... the ultimate question.... was it worth it?

Last summer, I traveled around the western United States following the route of the 1920 National Park-to-Park Highway dedication tour. But many of you already knew that. But did I tell you how long they spent on the road to visit those 12 parks? How long they stayed in each one?

I was curious, because I have been dogged by the feeling that my compressed schedule - albeit unavoidable - gave these parks short shrift. Unworthy, somehow. And yet .... I felt exhilarated. Was I too easily satisfied? What was I looking for?

Thanks to the original itinerary, which was reproduced in The Playground Trail by Lee and Jane Whiteley, we can estimate how much time those 1920 travelers spent on the road vs. time spent they spent in the parks. We know, for instance, that the original route covered 6,350 miles. It took them 77 days -- about 82.5 miles per day. In most parks, they spent a just a half a day - probably around 5-6 hours. In rare cases they spent the night (although in vast Yellowstone they stayed on for several days and still felt that they hadn’t scratched the surface). In comparison, my trip around the loop took only 24 days (subtracting the days spent on diversions) -- an average of around 265 miles per day.

Service Station (1929), Longmire Historic District, Mount Rainier NP.

It’s not unexpected that the Park-to-Park tour took 3 times longer than it took me to drive about the same the distance, given the challenging road conditions in 1920. But I what I found most surprising: they spent about the same amount of time within each park as most visitors spend today.

Statistics about how long visitors stay per visit, what parts of the park they are most likely to see, the purpose of the visit (hiking, driving through, camping, hotel stay) – all these are useful tools for good park management. Without the numbers, it’s hard to prepare for possible adverse impacts to delicate ecosystems from foot traffic. How otherwise to anticipate vehicular impacts on roads and the level of regular and special maintenance that will be needed? What kind of merchandise should be stocked in the visitor centers? How many rolls of toilet paper should be ordered for the restroom facilities?

Visitor Center, Zion National Park, Utah

Putting aside the essential mission -- preservation of these unique environments for the benefit of humankind -- there are very practical needs that must be met for optimum accessibility and enjoyment by the public.  For the planners, each aspect of park use is studied and user needs anticipated to create a good visitor experience. For without a positive experience in the parks, no matter how extraordinary they may be in themselves, there is the deep-seated fear that we will become disenchanted with them. And if fewer people come, it may ultimately be felt in the budget allocations that allow us to protect the parks. The effects would be devastating, not only to the park system, but also to the many ancillary enterprises that depend on visitor traffic.

Needless to say, it's critical to make the parks work smoothly. The parks constantly work to accommodate a wide range of programs - recreational, educational, scientific, artistic - as well as handle the large crowds deftly, so that no one feels discomforted.  The optimum result is that each visitor senses that he or she has had a unique, personal encounter with nature at its most magnificent - a feeling perhaps shared by fellow travelers, but a private one nonetheless.

This summer's visitor count in our national parks reached historic highs during July and August. The overwhelming number of visitors made it something of a challenge to experience these breathtaking places on one's own terms. Unless you were camping in wilderness areas, moments of solitude were all but impossible. And, since I had no intention of giving some bear the opportunity of having me for an afternoon snack, camping for me was out of the question. Accommodations at the lodges and cabins had been fully booked for months. So I usually stayed in a hotel just outside the entrance gates.

Dawn at Twentynine Palms, CA, just outside Joshua Tree National Park.

Each morning began at dawn with a quick breakfast, then off to the entrance gate. I stayed, for the most part, on the major roads through the parks, stopping occasionally at a sampling of the more spectacular sites. Towards the end of the morning, a stop at the visitor center to look for books on the history and natural features of the park. Before noon, if I was lucky, my visit would happily conclude with lunch at one of the historic lodges where I could scan through the books I had just bought. Given a demanding schedule, I felt I didn’t have the time – at least on that trip – to take advantage of Ranger talks. And, although I am ashamed to admit it, I often gave the interpretive exhibits a only quick once-through. I was in and out of the park in less than 5 hours.

Dining Room, Glacier Park Lodge (1913), East Glacier, MT

Five hours doesn't sound like much. But according to the website National Parks Traveler, that's pretty typical. By its calculations, in 2008 the average visitor spent less than 5 hours per visit in almost 82% of America's national parks; in fewer than 5% of the parks did the average visit include an overnight stay. In spite of the great distances some travel to arrive at the entrance gates, the actual time spent in the parks seems minimal. And yet, many find the experience so valuable that they come away saying, “That was fantastic!”

I loved every second of my five hours. Seldom have I been more absorbed in my surroundings - looking, wondering, puzzling, trying to understand what I was seeing. And, of course, being on the alert for Wild Things. This urbanite had brought several multi-tasking amusements along just in case I got bored slowly crawling along the wilderness roads - satellite radio, audio books, etc. But I never once used them in the parks - they were an intrusion of the mundane into the sublime.

It is fascinating that, with so little time devoted to actually experiencing our national parks, we are so deeply entranced with them. Our love affair is certainly not founded in a John Muir-kind of sojourn: a contemplative meandering through the mountains and valleys of the American West.

Western Columbine, Mount Rainier NP

No, unlike Muir’s Nineteenth Century pace, our enjoyment of these Western wilderness areas is high-impact: immediate, sensual, experiential. Perhaps in another kind of park it would have been different, but I felt none the poorer for not having attended the Ranger talks or studied the interpretive exhibits with greater attention. All of that seemed an intellectual distraction from my more elemental experience.

Still-vivid memories of each park linger: the smell of crisp mountain air; the delicate drops of mist clinging to the wildflowers; the rays of light filtering through the giant Sequoia forests; the acrid sulfur smell that wafts through Yellowstone. These remembrances continue to inspire. No doubt, each traveler’s journey through our national parks is touched by similar moments that make the experience so pleasing to the senses, so uplifting for the spirit.

But, back to the practicalities of crowd management, toilet paper helps, too. And so to the engineers who fix the roads. And the Rangers who take care of us. And the naturalists who take care of the flora and fauna. And who could forget the visitor centers? And ….. well, lunch.

With all that to manage, I think the National Park Service has been doing a masterful job. Our national parks are as magical to us as they were to John Muir. Even though we can't stay very long.

Resources:

Bernstein, Danny. “The Numbers Behind National Park Visitation.” The National Park Traveler. (April 23, 2010). Website: URL: http://www.nationalparkstraveler.com/2010/04/numbers-behind-national-park-visitation5723 accessed January 29, 2011.

Eagles, Paul F. J. and Stephen F. McCool. Tourism in National Parks and Protected Areas: Planning and Management. New York: CABI Publishing, a Division of CAB International, 2002.

Repanshek, Kurt. “Odds and Ends From Visitor Surveys at National Parks: You'd Be Surprised At Some of the Answers.” The National Parks Traveler (September 19, 2010). Website. URL:

http://www.nationalparkstraveler.com/2010/09/odds-and-ends-visitor-surveys-national-parks-youd-be-surprised-some-answers6861 accessed January 29, 2011.

Tilden, Freeman. Interpreting Our Heritage. 1957. 4th Ed. Chapel Hill NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2007.

Whiteley, Lee and Jane Whiteley. The Playground Trail - The National Park-to-Park Highway: To and Through the National Parks of the West in 1920. Boulder CO: Johnston Printing, 2003.