In March of 1967 I started my confirmation classes at St. James Roman Catholic Church in Westfield. I was 13. Priests from the local diocese in Buffalo had come to Westfield to teach the classes to us. We were a group of Catholic children from the ages of roughly 10 to 13, boys and girls. Every 4 years the local church would graduate a class of confirmed students to religious adulthood in the Catholic Church. It was my turn.
I went to the first few classes but found them trite. It was supposed to be a serious undertaking with lifelong implications, but as much as I tried, and as much as I thought I wanted to be religiously pious, correct, and even pure, I couldn't bring myself to believe in what I was being told. I found myself questioning everything I was being taught and everything I was seeing around me in the church.
By the time time I was 13 the church, and my role in the church, was an endless cycle of monotony: go to mass on Sunday (or a convenient mass on Saturday night at 5 p.m. if Sunday was too much trouble); go to mass on the year's holy days (and unfortunately there were a number of those); go to confession every now and then to cleanse your soul; and give money. The bonus to make this all worth while; you could receive the body and blood of our lord Jesus Christ at communion during mass. What an enriching experience! And, you were pretty much guaranteed to get into heaven if you followed this course of behavior on a regular basis. (More later)
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Where is Home?
Doug, the magnet that keeps pulling you to Westfield has been tugging me back the same way for just as long. I haven't made it home as often as you have over in the past 20 years. Of course I left later then you did too. When my mom and dad still lived on Backman Avenue I'd go home whenever it was possible. Once they and my brother moved to Florida, our family vacations took us to the beach burying the kids in the sand instead of burying nuts for the long winter. I wish my family had never moved. I miss White Christmases. I miss the quiet roar of snow falling so fast the seams disappeared between roads and sidewalks and front yards. I miss throwing snowballs at semis and sledding behind the school. I miss choosing sides and calling fields and tearin the freakin cover off a baseball. I'm glad I left but maybe more glad I never left.
Our family has such deep roots there. Even though many of the kids have left and raised families elsewhere, its Westfield that gives us all a runway for a safe landing. Maybe I miss it more because I haven't made it my home for so long. My foundation was built by the family of aunts and uncles, nane, and all my cousins. I have a little bit of each of them in me. I love them all. They are so special.
My dad made his mind up to leave Westfield when my mother slipped once too many times on those icy winter sidewalks and streets. Do you remember walking on the sidewalks in the winter and there would always be a patch of ice hidden underneath the snow, silently waiting for an unsuspecting soul to come waltzing along and then without a warning - wham! On your butt. I remember what I use to say and I remember what my mom use to say - as a matter of fact I learned it from her. It wasn't so bad until everyone around made fun of you and knocked you down a second time on purpose. I owe you a couple of those I'm sure.
My mom always found those slippery spots. Her bones became ever so brittle. We'd walk together at times and she'd lean on me allowing me to save her from slipping on that ice. I loved having her lean on me. I just wasn't there all the time. Moms health never got better, and instead of freezing and slipping in Western New York, dad decided to don wings and fly south to the sun, the warmth and those sandy beaches - trading in snow shovels and gloves for swim trunks, sandals and Disney. They became bleeping snowbirds. Resident snowbirds in sunny Florida. My own adventure began one day after my mom and dad left driving the Volvo loaded with incidentals and memories from a lifetime of living in Westfield. My brother was right behind them. I watched them leave from the steps on my Aunt Nina's front porch, fighting back the tears knowing a life change was happening despite the fact none of us were that anxious about. I didn’t have too long to dwell on it as the very next day I left for Egypt and my journey began.
My mom lived in Westfield nearly all of her life. From the day she was born until the day they left for Florida. A lifetime of wishes and dreams, friends and family, familiarity. She was part of the town fabric, woven through close friendships and heart felt relationships. Commodie Mary, Aunt Josephine, brothers and sisters, Wednesday card nights with the girls, eight a.m. Sunday mass at St. James church, evenings outside underneath Uncle Carl's grapevine covered trellis sipping wine, laughing and watching the fireflies as the warm summer days turned cool and damp.
You lived on Main Street. From your house it was a short walk to school, the Vine City Dairy, to downtown, and right across the street from the old Moose building. I can only remember it being a burned out, heap of crumbling bricks. That building was there wasn't it? I hope I'm not making it up.
I remember on school days trying to walk fast enough so I could make it to your house before you left for school. I’d come by to your back porch and knock to see if you were still home. Your’s and your brothers shoes were always so neatly organized and in the winter the porch would have a plastic screen up to block the cold wind.
Dad and I would leave our house together on most days if the week. We would walk and even talk as we neared the end of Backman Avenue. The he would take the Bell Parkway toward work, heading to the corporate headquarters of the greatest grape juice company in the world. I would head toward your house, first going past Crandall, then down crossing Academy Street before reaching main Street. Then toward school with all the other walkers. It was about a mile to get to school from our house.
When dad couldn’t wait for me, I would go to Crandall Street and pass Uncle Louie's house, then further down the street past Uncle Charley's and Aunt Judy’s. At school of course I would bump into Aunt Nina in the principal’s office. After school if we didn’t have practice, I could visit Uncle Charley and Uncle Carl at Loblaw’s. Uncle Charley would point out the good fruit and tell me watch my ass. Uncle Carl would always look busy wearing his glasses and important looking chart. He told me it was his record of inventory. He’d remind me to tell mom he still had those good cuts of meat for her and she better pick hurry up and get them soon. Then he’d tell me to watch it, give me a smile and get back to making ticks in columns on his paper.
On the days I needed a haircut I'd head to the old locker building to see if Uncle Tony could squeeze me in. From there I'd go see mom to show her my haircut and she’d ask me “What did my brother do to you?” I can see her now gritting her teeth and tensing her lips and saying unintelligible words in Italian that would burn my fingers if I wrote them down. She’d get over it realizing it was at no cost to me or her. From there who knows, walk home, go the library, head over to Welch’s to see dad or to the news stand for a pack of cards. If we had a dime we could head to the bakery for a flakey, cream horn. Was I spoiled - yep. Did I care - nope. Shouldn't everyone grow up like we did?
I'll write more soon.
Our family has such deep roots there. Even though many of the kids have left and raised families elsewhere, its Westfield that gives us all a runway for a safe landing. Maybe I miss it more because I haven't made it my home for so long. My foundation was built by the family of aunts and uncles, nane, and all my cousins. I have a little bit of each of them in me. I love them all. They are so special.
My dad made his mind up to leave Westfield when my mother slipped once too many times on those icy winter sidewalks and streets. Do you remember walking on the sidewalks in the winter and there would always be a patch of ice hidden underneath the snow, silently waiting for an unsuspecting soul to come waltzing along and then without a warning - wham! On your butt. I remember what I use to say and I remember what my mom use to say - as a matter of fact I learned it from her. It wasn't so bad until everyone around made fun of you and knocked you down a second time on purpose. I owe you a couple of those I'm sure.
My mom always found those slippery spots. Her bones became ever so brittle. We'd walk together at times and she'd lean on me allowing me to save her from slipping on that ice. I loved having her lean on me. I just wasn't there all the time. Moms health never got better, and instead of freezing and slipping in Western New York, dad decided to don wings and fly south to the sun, the warmth and those sandy beaches - trading in snow shovels and gloves for swim trunks, sandals and Disney. They became bleeping snowbirds. Resident snowbirds in sunny Florida. My own adventure began one day after my mom and dad left driving the Volvo loaded with incidentals and memories from a lifetime of living in Westfield. My brother was right behind them. I watched them leave from the steps on my Aunt Nina's front porch, fighting back the tears knowing a life change was happening despite the fact none of us were that anxious about. I didn’t have too long to dwell on it as the very next day I left for Egypt and my journey began.
My mom lived in Westfield nearly all of her life. From the day she was born until the day they left for Florida. A lifetime of wishes and dreams, friends and family, familiarity. She was part of the town fabric, woven through close friendships and heart felt relationships. Commodie Mary, Aunt Josephine, brothers and sisters, Wednesday card nights with the girls, eight a.m. Sunday mass at St. James church, evenings outside underneath Uncle Carl's grapevine covered trellis sipping wine, laughing and watching the fireflies as the warm summer days turned cool and damp.
You lived on Main Street. From your house it was a short walk to school, the Vine City Dairy, to downtown, and right across the street from the old Moose building. I can only remember it being a burned out, heap of crumbling bricks. That building was there wasn't it? I hope I'm not making it up.
I remember on school days trying to walk fast enough so I could make it to your house before you left for school. I’d come by to your back porch and knock to see if you were still home. Your’s and your brothers shoes were always so neatly organized and in the winter the porch would have a plastic screen up to block the cold wind.
Dad and I would leave our house together on most days if the week. We would walk and even talk as we neared the end of Backman Avenue. The he would take the Bell Parkway toward work, heading to the corporate headquarters of the greatest grape juice company in the world. I would head toward your house, first going past Crandall, then down crossing Academy Street before reaching main Street. Then toward school with all the other walkers. It was about a mile to get to school from our house.
When dad couldn’t wait for me, I would go to Crandall Street and pass Uncle Louie's house, then further down the street past Uncle Charley's and Aunt Judy’s. At school of course I would bump into Aunt Nina in the principal’s office. After school if we didn’t have practice, I could visit Uncle Charley and Uncle Carl at Loblaw’s. Uncle Charley would point out the good fruit and tell me watch my ass. Uncle Carl would always look busy wearing his glasses and important looking chart. He told me it was his record of inventory. He’d remind me to tell mom he still had those good cuts of meat for her and she better pick hurry up and get them soon. Then he’d tell me to watch it, give me a smile and get back to making ticks in columns on his paper.
On the days I needed a haircut I'd head to the old locker building to see if Uncle Tony could squeeze me in. From there I'd go see mom to show her my haircut and she’d ask me “What did my brother do to you?” I can see her now gritting her teeth and tensing her lips and saying unintelligible words in Italian that would burn my fingers if I wrote them down. She’d get over it realizing it was at no cost to me or her. From there who knows, walk home, go the library, head over to Welch’s to see dad or to the news stand for a pack of cards. If we had a dime we could head to the bakery for a flakey, cream horn. Was I spoiled - yep. Did I care - nope. Shouldn't everyone grow up like we did?
I'll write more soon.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Another Description of Westfield
Westfield stays with me. It's inside me, a part of my conscience that will always be there. It is who I am and I am at ease with who I am because I love Westfield. It is an amalgamation of the land, the lake, the people, the time, and the things I was taught. Things that are true and things that are false. I am Westfield and it will always be that way.
Westfield is a township with a village at the center. The township is the country. Along the lake it is a flat coastal plain about a mile wide. That is where most of the grapes were, and grapes were where the money was; money for the farmers who grew the grapes and money for the people who worked at Welch's Grape Juice Company. Welch's made Westfield special. It gave Westfield a notch up on the economic scale. It gave Westfield a library to be proud of and a good school.
Coming inland off the lake about a mile the land gives way to an escarpment that rises probably 500 feet or more. It isn't a mountain but a distinct line of hills that forms the primitive boundary of the lake as it was before the glaciers melted when it receded to its current level. The township lies within this landscape and it is here where all the farms and wooded land are. Grape farms and dairy farms and fruit orchards and vegetable farms. Cows and cattle and pigs and corn and hay and silage and manure and tractors and mud and dirt and streams and creeks and waterfalls and woods and rolling hills and railroad tracks and ponds and lakes and old dirt roads and the Chatauqua Gorge which is almost like its own secret Grand Canyon. And not very many people. And that made Westfield special. Not many people. Just enough to know. No extra people to clutter up the landscape, the social scape, the mindscape. Just a cast of characters that inhabited the hills and farms of the Township of Wetfield that surrounded the Village of Westfiled.
The Village was the center of the world. It was small but had everything you needed. It had a business district about three blocks long and it was surrounded by a grid of tree lined streets and mostly wood framed houses. Some were made of stone and some were made of brick. The houses are old now. They were old then. But they were nice neat houses. Some little and some not too big. A couple of them were grand. They were built by craftsman who paid attention to detail in a time when even an average family could afford some real style and design. "Ginger-bread," "built-ins," a real display of the artisans' expertise.
If the township gave a kid room to explore the wild world on his bike or by foot, the village gave a kid a place to explore commerce and relationships and social life. The village had Joe Ricket's butcher shop and Shorty's shoe repair, and the bus station with the Western Union Office and hardware stores and pharmacies and churches and doctor's offices and the Town Hall and the Greystone Hotel and even a hospital. It had W.T. Grants, a department store, a Loblaws grocery store and a Quality Market, a police station with a jail and its own newspaper, the Westfield Republican. And it had its bars and taverns; Lambs, Anthony's, Larry's Cantina. It had clothing stores and a bakery and a soda fountain and a movie theatre that played movies every day of the week. It had the Westfield Diner, and Calarco's Venetian Room and the Bark Grill. The village was rich with life and with people engaged in trading goods and money.
And always their was Welchs, with its big brick office building at the intersection of U.S. Highway 20 and New York State Route 17; the location of one of the two traffic lights in town. Welchs put Westfield on the map, so to speak. It made Westfield the self-procalimed "Grape Juice Capital of the World," which was advertised on a sign as you entered the village, and if you were a kid you believed in that mantle and you were proud of it. Most towns aren't the capital of anything but Westfield was the capital of something ... Grape Juice. Westfield made you feel good about yourself.
I never realized how small Westfield was until I moved away from it. My mom and dad divorced and our family just sort of disippated out into America. My mother went one way and my father went another way. My two brothers and I each went our own way. That was 37 years ago. But I found out that noone else in America knew anything about Westfield or where it was. Noone knew that it was the Grape Juice Capital of the World. Noone knew about the little girl Grace Bedell from Westfield who told Abraham Lincoln to grow a beard and how William Seward, the man responsible for the United States purchasing Alaska from the Russians in the 19th century, spent his summers in Westfield. Noone knew about Lou Dimuro, the American League umpire who used to live in Westfield and who became momentarily reknowned when he appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated during the 1970 World Series between the "Amazin' Mets and the Baltimore Orioles and the famous shoe polish call. Noone knew about an infinitesmally small town on the shores of Lake Erie in western New York. Noone knew there was a "western" New York or even a Lake Erie. And that's fine, because I know where it is and the people there know where it is, and it is still the center of the world and the beacon of my life that shines its light to let me know where I am from and what I know.
I stop in Westfield at least twice a year on my way to visit my mother in Youngstown, N.Y., on Lake Ontario below Niagara Falls, when I make an 11 hour drive from where I live in southwest Virginia. I usually call on Connie Strozzi at her florist shop on Main Street. She is my best childhood friend's aunt, and between my friend Greg and Connie we vicariously share and enjoy the stories of each others' lives and families. Sometimes I pay a visit to Rosie Thompson, on West 2nd St., who gave me a home in my late teen years when I was still trying to hang on in Westfield. I almost always call on my close friend Bob Olindo, who grew up in Westfield, but who now lives in Fredonia. Noone recognizes me anymore so I can be anonymous. I walk along Main St. in the center of town and look for familiar faces but don't recognize anyone. Time blurs all of our features. I drive around town and get out and walk. Almost every step I take, anywhere in town, conjures up a memory, a person, a story from the past. It is powerful in its own quiet way. It's good. It is my home.
Westfield is a township with a village at the center. The township is the country. Along the lake it is a flat coastal plain about a mile wide. That is where most of the grapes were, and grapes were where the money was; money for the farmers who grew the grapes and money for the people who worked at Welch's Grape Juice Company. Welch's made Westfield special. It gave Westfield a notch up on the economic scale. It gave Westfield a library to be proud of and a good school.
Coming inland off the lake about a mile the land gives way to an escarpment that rises probably 500 feet or more. It isn't a mountain but a distinct line of hills that forms the primitive boundary of the lake as it was before the glaciers melted when it receded to its current level. The township lies within this landscape and it is here where all the farms and wooded land are. Grape farms and dairy farms and fruit orchards and vegetable farms. Cows and cattle and pigs and corn and hay and silage and manure and tractors and mud and dirt and streams and creeks and waterfalls and woods and rolling hills and railroad tracks and ponds and lakes and old dirt roads and the Chatauqua Gorge which is almost like its own secret Grand Canyon. And not very many people. And that made Westfield special. Not many people. Just enough to know. No extra people to clutter up the landscape, the social scape, the mindscape. Just a cast of characters that inhabited the hills and farms of the Township of Wetfield that surrounded the Village of Westfiled.
The Village was the center of the world. It was small but had everything you needed. It had a business district about three blocks long and it was surrounded by a grid of tree lined streets and mostly wood framed houses. Some were made of stone and some were made of brick. The houses are old now. They were old then. But they were nice neat houses. Some little and some not too big. A couple of them were grand. They were built by craftsman who paid attention to detail in a time when even an average family could afford some real style and design. "Ginger-bread," "built-ins," a real display of the artisans' expertise.
If the township gave a kid room to explore the wild world on his bike or by foot, the village gave a kid a place to explore commerce and relationships and social life. The village had Joe Ricket's butcher shop and Shorty's shoe repair, and the bus station with the Western Union Office and hardware stores and pharmacies and churches and doctor's offices and the Town Hall and the Greystone Hotel and even a hospital. It had W.T. Grants, a department store, a Loblaws grocery store and a Quality Market, a police station with a jail and its own newspaper, the Westfield Republican. And it had its bars and taverns; Lambs, Anthony's, Larry's Cantina. It had clothing stores and a bakery and a soda fountain and a movie theatre that played movies every day of the week. It had the Westfield Diner, and Calarco's Venetian Room and the Bark Grill. The village was rich with life and with people engaged in trading goods and money.
And always their was Welchs, with its big brick office building at the intersection of U.S. Highway 20 and New York State Route 17; the location of one of the two traffic lights in town. Welchs put Westfield on the map, so to speak. It made Westfield the self-procalimed "Grape Juice Capital of the World," which was advertised on a sign as you entered the village, and if you were a kid you believed in that mantle and you were proud of it. Most towns aren't the capital of anything but Westfield was the capital of something ... Grape Juice. Westfield made you feel good about yourself.
I never realized how small Westfield was until I moved away from it. My mom and dad divorced and our family just sort of disippated out into America. My mother went one way and my father went another way. My two brothers and I each went our own way. That was 37 years ago. But I found out that noone else in America knew anything about Westfield or where it was. Noone knew that it was the Grape Juice Capital of the World. Noone knew about the little girl Grace Bedell from Westfield who told Abraham Lincoln to grow a beard and how William Seward, the man responsible for the United States purchasing Alaska from the Russians in the 19th century, spent his summers in Westfield. Noone knew about Lou Dimuro, the American League umpire who used to live in Westfield and who became momentarily reknowned when he appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated during the 1970 World Series between the "Amazin' Mets and the Baltimore Orioles and the famous shoe polish call. Noone knew about an infinitesmally small town on the shores of Lake Erie in western New York. Noone knew there was a "western" New York or even a Lake Erie. And that's fine, because I know where it is and the people there know where it is, and it is still the center of the world and the beacon of my life that shines its light to let me know where I am from and what I know.
I stop in Westfield at least twice a year on my way to visit my mother in Youngstown, N.Y., on Lake Ontario below Niagara Falls, when I make an 11 hour drive from where I live in southwest Virginia. I usually call on Connie Strozzi at her florist shop on Main Street. She is my best childhood friend's aunt, and between my friend Greg and Connie we vicariously share and enjoy the stories of each others' lives and families. Sometimes I pay a visit to Rosie Thompson, on West 2nd St., who gave me a home in my late teen years when I was still trying to hang on in Westfield. I almost always call on my close friend Bob Olindo, who grew up in Westfield, but who now lives in Fredonia. Noone recognizes me anymore so I can be anonymous. I walk along Main St. in the center of town and look for familiar faces but don't recognize anyone. Time blurs all of our features. I drive around town and get out and walk. Almost every step I take, anywhere in town, conjures up a memory, a person, a story from the past. It is powerful in its own quiet way. It's good. It is my home.
Monday, February 4, 2008
When Did Greg and I Meet?
When did Greg and I meet? I can't remember a specific time or incident. I believe we first became friends in the 4th grade when we both had Miss Aldrich for a teacher in 1962. We had to be aware of each other before that time. We both went to St. James Catholic Church in Westfield, and we both would have gone to catechism together on Mondays at the church. For that matter, we made our 1st Communion together in the second grade. We also both played little league baseball at the Fireman's Field under the viaduct and at the base of the wooded hillside below the Welch's plant. But although I can almost force my brain to conjure up images of Greg in those situations I can't remember any interaction with him. Even tracing my memories back to the 4th grade I can't come up with any specific event where Greg and I did anything together, but I do remember a few things about Greg that I know I became aware of during that 4th grade year: he liked baseball a lot; he was into Civil War history; and he liked to read.
In fifth grade we had different teachers. That was 1963. But in 1964 we were both in Mrs. Carr's class and from that point on we formed a friendship that has grown stronger and older with time.
Westfield Academy & Central School consisted of kindergarten through 12th grade, all in one building. There were roughly 90 to 100 students in each class, so there were about 1300 hundred students in the building at any one time. Mrs. Carr was in her last year of teaching. I think she was 65 years old and looking forward to retirement. She had a reputation as being a strict disciplinarian. She was especially known, as rumour had it, for cracking a ruler over the knuckles of your hand for misbehaving. Little did I realize as I started my 6th grade year that a small group of us in the class, including myself, would end up bringing Mrs. Carr to tears and totally destroying the myth that she was a strict disciplinarian. She never once attempted to hit any of us with a ruler, and I am not proud to say now that we might possibly have made her final year of teaching the most difficult year in her long and admirable career.
I won't use last names as Westfield is a small town and to this day there is a good chance that everyone in Westfield knows everyone else. But I will say that myself (Doug), Greg, and Bob, created a triumvirate that basically held court throughout our 6th grade year in Mrs. Carr's class. We did have two female co-conspirators, Sue and Donna, who, if not as openly contemptuous of authority as we were, certainly provided us with plenty of moral support and encouragement. Actually, we weren't really contemptuous of authority, but Mrs. Carr had such a formidable reputation that when we found out it was all built on a deck of cards we just couldn't help taking further advantage of her. It was just too much fun and we were unable to show any restraint once we realized we had the upper hand.
None of us had ever experienced a classroom where the students could rule before. This was Westfield, a small rural town in the farthest western reaches of New York state in 1964. I have always thought that Westfield in the 60’s was probably not much different than Westfield in the immediate post WWII years. It was off the beaten path, far from the suburban growth and culture that was happening in the country’s metropolitan areas where probably 85% of the nation’s population was then living. Change came slowly to a place like Westfield. It was still o.k. and standard for teachers to paddle students, crack a ruler on their knuckles, or smack them on the top of their head with their class ring. I know of these things "firsthand." And if you got disciplined at school, you were apt to get it even worse from your father when you got home, and your parents would find out if you had misbehaved at school. Westfield was small and “news” spread quickly.
I would not be fair to myself, or to Greg and Bob either, if I make it sound as though we were a bunch of bratty little piss ants who had no respect for our elders or our public school institution. And Mrs. Carr was an excellent teacher and a very warm and giving person. In her 6th grade class that year we were heading into adolescence as she was heading towards retirement. When we discovered that we had the ability to control her classroom on a fairly regular basis, it brought the three of us together in a series of year long adventures and episodes that cemented our friendship and a relationship that lasted through high school and continues to this day, some 40 years later. There were simply times when we "pushed the envelope" further than we should have due to the sheer exhiliration of escaping the tedium of another elementary class day by creating our own distraction that actually made school fun ... at least for us. It never occurred to me until now that there might have been serious students in that class who actually enjoyed recitations, written assignments, and listening to other students read lessons from the social studies text. Well, I hope it's not too late to apologize 43 years later. Sorry. (But I do remember some of you laughing at our antics, and that was our main goal. Laughter made the day go faster!)
So yes, I guess I could say that I really met Greg in 1964, in Mrs. Carr’s 6th grade classroom, and from that point on we revelled in the simple beauty, freedom, pleasure, and even excitement, of growing up in the village of Westfield, N.Y., in the 1960s. With its incredible cast of characters, and during a tumultuous period in our nation’s history, Greg and I started our journey towards adulthood in this small rural town which to this day serves as an anchor for our friendship and a sanctuary for so many wonderful memories that provided us with an incredibly positive start to our lives. And if you don’t believe me, read on, because you are about to find out what it was like to live your chilhood, adolescence, and teenage years in the “Grape Juice Capital” of the World ... Westfield, N.Y.!!!
In fifth grade we had different teachers. That was 1963. But in 1964 we were both in Mrs. Carr's class and from that point on we formed a friendship that has grown stronger and older with time.
Westfield Academy & Central School consisted of kindergarten through 12th grade, all in one building. There were roughly 90 to 100 students in each class, so there were about 1300 hundred students in the building at any one time. Mrs. Carr was in her last year of teaching. I think she was 65 years old and looking forward to retirement. She had a reputation as being a strict disciplinarian. She was especially known, as rumour had it, for cracking a ruler over the knuckles of your hand for misbehaving. Little did I realize as I started my 6th grade year that a small group of us in the class, including myself, would end up bringing Mrs. Carr to tears and totally destroying the myth that she was a strict disciplinarian. She never once attempted to hit any of us with a ruler, and I am not proud to say now that we might possibly have made her final year of teaching the most difficult year in her long and admirable career.
I won't use last names as Westfield is a small town and to this day there is a good chance that everyone in Westfield knows everyone else. But I will say that myself (Doug), Greg, and Bob, created a triumvirate that basically held court throughout our 6th grade year in Mrs. Carr's class. We did have two female co-conspirators, Sue and Donna, who, if not as openly contemptuous of authority as we were, certainly provided us with plenty of moral support and encouragement. Actually, we weren't really contemptuous of authority, but Mrs. Carr had such a formidable reputation that when we found out it was all built on a deck of cards we just couldn't help taking further advantage of her. It was just too much fun and we were unable to show any restraint once we realized we had the upper hand.
None of us had ever experienced a classroom where the students could rule before. This was Westfield, a small rural town in the farthest western reaches of New York state in 1964. I have always thought that Westfield in the 60’s was probably not much different than Westfield in the immediate post WWII years. It was off the beaten path, far from the suburban growth and culture that was happening in the country’s metropolitan areas where probably 85% of the nation’s population was then living. Change came slowly to a place like Westfield. It was still o.k. and standard for teachers to paddle students, crack a ruler on their knuckles, or smack them on the top of their head with their class ring. I know of these things "firsthand." And if you got disciplined at school, you were apt to get it even worse from your father when you got home, and your parents would find out if you had misbehaved at school. Westfield was small and “news” spread quickly.
I would not be fair to myself, or to Greg and Bob either, if I make it sound as though we were a bunch of bratty little piss ants who had no respect for our elders or our public school institution. And Mrs. Carr was an excellent teacher and a very warm and giving person. In her 6th grade class that year we were heading into adolescence as she was heading towards retirement. When we discovered that we had the ability to control her classroom on a fairly regular basis, it brought the three of us together in a series of year long adventures and episodes that cemented our friendship and a relationship that lasted through high school and continues to this day, some 40 years later. There were simply times when we "pushed the envelope" further than we should have due to the sheer exhiliration of escaping the tedium of another elementary class day by creating our own distraction that actually made school fun ... at least for us. It never occurred to me until now that there might have been serious students in that class who actually enjoyed recitations, written assignments, and listening to other students read lessons from the social studies text. Well, I hope it's not too late to apologize 43 years later. Sorry. (But I do remember some of you laughing at our antics, and that was our main goal. Laughter made the day go faster!)
So yes, I guess I could say that I really met Greg in 1964, in Mrs. Carr’s 6th grade classroom, and from that point on we revelled in the simple beauty, freedom, pleasure, and even excitement, of growing up in the village of Westfield, N.Y., in the 1960s. With its incredible cast of characters, and during a tumultuous period in our nation’s history, Greg and I started our journey towards adulthood in this small rural town which to this day serves as an anchor for our friendship and a sanctuary for so many wonderful memories that provided us with an incredibly positive start to our lives. And if you don’t believe me, read on, because you are about to find out what it was like to live your chilhood, adolescence, and teenage years in the “Grape Juice Capital” of the World ... Westfield, N.Y.!!!
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Westfield ...
In 1965 Greg and I sat in Miss Betts 7th grade history class and spent an entire year learning about our state, New York, and our town, Westfield. It was Miss Betts last year of teaching. She must have been at least 65 and was retiring at the end of the school year. She had taught many of the fathers and mothers of the students in our class, the parents of our friends. She had been teaching in the Westfield school system since at least 1930. I remember her vividly to this day. She was "old school," no pun intended. Miss Betts was strict and she had total control of the class. She commanded respect, worked hard at teaching, and she knew her subject matter. If she is still alive today, and it wouldn't surprise me if she was, she would be 108 years old. She was a treasure trove of historic information about New York state, but perhaps even even more importantly, she was probably the leading authority of information about our town, our community, Westfield. She was her own institution, a proud citizen of Westfield, N.Y., and this is what she taught us about the town that we grew up in, as best as I can remember:
In the late 1600's and early 1700's, French explorers were travelling up the St. Lawrence River from Montreal. "Up" in this case would have been south, or southwest. They would have travelled to the beginning of the river at Lake Ontario, and from there southwest to the far end of the lake to the mouth of the Niagara River. At the mouth of the river they built a fort, Fort Niagara, in what today is the Village of Youngstown, N.Y., about six or seven miles below Niagara Falls. (The fort is still there and is well worth a visit.) These explorers pressed on from Fort Niagara on orders from the King of France to continue claiming and mapping this part of New France for its European motherland.
They would have travelled a few miles up the Niagara River to what today is Lewiston, N.Y. in their hollowed out canoes, carried their boats and supplies up the Niagara escarpment and past the Falls to the northern point of Grand Island, where they would have put back into the Niagara River and paddled upstream past the current site of Buffalo, N.Y. and out onto Lake Erie. From there they went southwest along the southern shore of Lake Erie until they disembarked at a point at or near what today is Barcelona, N.Y. From there they followed an old "portage" through the woods and up another escarpment to Mayville, N.Y., and the northern end of Lake Chatauqua. After leaving Lake Erie and just before the escarpment rising towards Mayville, this "portage" took them right through the main intersection of what today is the Village of Westfield. The portage in Westfield is Portage St., north and south, and also New York state Route 17. The explorers eventually found their way to the current site of Pittsburgh and beyond by way of Lake Chatauqua, and the Chadakoin and Alleghany Rivers. In Pittsburgh they established Fort Duquesne and New France was expanding rapidly into the interior of North America as the English had established themselves only along a thin strip of the east coast between New England and Georgia. These French explorers in the beginning of the 18th century were the first Europeans to set foot and eye on the land that would eventually become Westfeld, N. Y. It would be over 100 years before the first English speaking Europeans settled and established Westfield as a town at the very beginning of the 19th century, approximately 1802 if I can recollect Miss Betts speaking to me from the past, when a James McMahon and perhaps a brother of his established the town in almost the most western point of New York state along the shores of Lake Erie. (This information is off the top of my head. It is basically correct but in all likelihood not very exact. Where is Miss Betts when I need her? Caroline Betts, are you still with us? Now there was a teacher who was truly deserving of a "Teacher of the Year" award.)
(Well Greg, I just had to do a quick historical/geographic background of Westfield. Got to have some sort of perspective to work from. But, I like the blog, and I hope and assume I am using it correctly. And, since we haven't established any specific direction in which our story of Westfield will take us ... well, this is a beginning footnote of sorts. More later ... its late Sunday night, 1/6/08.)
In the late 1600's and early 1700's, French explorers were travelling up the St. Lawrence River from Montreal. "Up" in this case would have been south, or southwest. They would have travelled to the beginning of the river at Lake Ontario, and from there southwest to the far end of the lake to the mouth of the Niagara River. At the mouth of the river they built a fort, Fort Niagara, in what today is the Village of Youngstown, N.Y., about six or seven miles below Niagara Falls. (The fort is still there and is well worth a visit.) These explorers pressed on from Fort Niagara on orders from the King of France to continue claiming and mapping this part of New France for its European motherland.
They would have travelled a few miles up the Niagara River to what today is Lewiston, N.Y. in their hollowed out canoes, carried their boats and supplies up the Niagara escarpment and past the Falls to the northern point of Grand Island, where they would have put back into the Niagara River and paddled upstream past the current site of Buffalo, N.Y. and out onto Lake Erie. From there they went southwest along the southern shore of Lake Erie until they disembarked at a point at or near what today is Barcelona, N.Y. From there they followed an old "portage" through the woods and up another escarpment to Mayville, N.Y., and the northern end of Lake Chatauqua. After leaving Lake Erie and just before the escarpment rising towards Mayville, this "portage" took them right through the main intersection of what today is the Village of Westfield. The portage in Westfield is Portage St., north and south, and also New York state Route 17. The explorers eventually found their way to the current site of Pittsburgh and beyond by way of Lake Chatauqua, and the Chadakoin and Alleghany Rivers. In Pittsburgh they established Fort Duquesne and New France was expanding rapidly into the interior of North America as the English had established themselves only along a thin strip of the east coast between New England and Georgia. These French explorers in the beginning of the 18th century were the first Europeans to set foot and eye on the land that would eventually become Westfeld, N. Y. It would be over 100 years before the first English speaking Europeans settled and established Westfield as a town at the very beginning of the 19th century, approximately 1802 if I can recollect Miss Betts speaking to me from the past, when a James McMahon and perhaps a brother of his established the town in almost the most western point of New York state along the shores of Lake Erie. (This information is off the top of my head. It is basically correct but in all likelihood not very exact. Where is Miss Betts when I need her? Caroline Betts, are you still with us? Now there was a teacher who was truly deserving of a "Teacher of the Year" award.)
(Well Greg, I just had to do a quick historical/geographic background of Westfield. Got to have some sort of perspective to work from. But, I like the blog, and I hope and assume I am using it correctly. And, since we haven't established any specific direction in which our story of Westfield will take us ... well, this is a beginning footnote of sorts. More later ... its late Sunday night, 1/6/08.)
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
My Friend Doug and I are going to write a book
Two guys now more then fifty years old have spent a lifetime apart physically, but another lifetime connected emotionally deeply rooted by a high school friendship borne in their hometown of Westfield, New York. They laugh when joking about the fact everything they needed in life they learned in Westfield, their ground zero. Lured by its small town comfort, simple beauty, the field, family and pages of stories and stories, that formed the very foundation they have leaned on all this time, until now.
Thirty years after they saw each other the last time, they reunite in Atlanta which between the two of them and their families is the 15th place they have lived. an amazing journey not uncommon but an adventure that has shaped their lives and the people around them.
Once reconnected its like nothing has changed - a lifetime of living and experiences hasn’t affected their friendship it has only given them more share with themselves, their families and others around them.
Neither of us are sure where this is going to take us. There are no boundaries. In the little bit I have written, I've found the road to be very emotional. I came from a large Italian-Austrian family with lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, many of whom I'm still in touch with. After a lifetime of living away from my memories, Doug (my best friend in high school) and I have circled back together. The bond has remained strong and our stories are so vivid we have laughed endlessly remembering our young exploits. Much of the time we spent together since seeing each other again has been on the phone. Not as much fun as being together and sharing our thoughts with the rest of the family but just as important to reach out when our homes, families and work keep life busy. And thats where the challenge comes in. Writing and talking have borught us back together and have linked our families forever. I'm excited about learning from my friend, and listening to how his life changed since leaving Westfield.
Its 2008. Happy New Year. This year will be the best yet!
Thirty years after they saw each other the last time, they reunite in Atlanta which between the two of them and their families is the 15th place they have lived. an amazing journey not uncommon but an adventure that has shaped their lives and the people around them.
Once reconnected its like nothing has changed - a lifetime of living and experiences hasn’t affected their friendship it has only given them more share with themselves, their families and others around them.
Neither of us are sure where this is going to take us. There are no boundaries. In the little bit I have written, I've found the road to be very emotional. I came from a large Italian-Austrian family with lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, many of whom I'm still in touch with. After a lifetime of living away from my memories, Doug (my best friend in high school) and I have circled back together. The bond has remained strong and our stories are so vivid we have laughed endlessly remembering our young exploits. Much of the time we spent together since seeing each other again has been on the phone. Not as much fun as being together and sharing our thoughts with the rest of the family but just as important to reach out when our homes, families and work keep life busy. And thats where the challenge comes in. Writing and talking have borught us back together and have linked our families forever. I'm excited about learning from my friend, and listening to how his life changed since leaving Westfield.
Its 2008. Happy New Year. This year will be the best yet!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)