Exactly when did our collective reaction to a forecast of a lot of snow go from this….
to this….
?????????????????????
Ummm…hey, Buffalo?
Toward the unknown region
How would it be?
The most common adjective I ever hear used anymore to describe Buffalo, or Western New York, or Upstate New York in its entirety, is “dying”. And I suppose that might be accurate. But “dying” implies moving toward a state of death, does it not? So here’s my question: what will “dead” Buffalo look like? How will we know the city or region are dead? I assume the place will never look like the empty streetscape of The Omega Man, so what does it mean for a city to die? Are we literally talking about Western New York eventually looking like North Dakota?
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Hey! It’s not just us!!!
I’ve noticed that Buffalonians tend to think that one of our little quirks is referring to various highways in the region by affixing a definite article to them. We don’t drive on Interstate 90; instead we take “the mainline 90”. We don’t take I-290 to Amherst, we take “the 290”, and so on. Well, guess what? Kevin Drum reports that they also do this in Orange County, California!
Last month, when he was in town, I had dinner with Matt Yglesias, and when we were about done we got to talking about directions back to his hotel (this was a few minutes before I got lost taking him there). He noted that I, like other Californians, refer to freeways using the definite article: “the 5,” “the 405,” “the 10,” etc. Back east, I guess, you don’t do this, do you? It’s — what? “Highway 5”? Or just no identifier at all, as in “Take 10 west until you fall into the ocean and you’re there”?
Kevin’s wondering why this is the case. Someone apparently speculates that maybe it came from some kind of Spanish usage, given California’s history, but since we do that here too, could Orange County have been originally populated by ex-pat Buffalonians? And given the constant stampede of Buffalonians to North Carolina, are they talking that way in Charlotte now?
All I can say to people not living in Buffalo is this: Youse all sure do talk funny.
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With all due respect….
Sweet, sweet maple
We missed Maple Weekend by one week here at Casa Jaquandor, but fear not: yesterday morning we got up early and departed for the hills south of Arcade, NY, where on one hilltop the intrepid will find Moore’s Maple Shack. After stuffing ourselves with pancakes (three times we took advantage of the “All You Can Eat” policy”) drenched with pure maple syrup, two sausage patties each, and more coffee than I usually consume on any day of the week, we purchased a large bottle of syrup to bring home, along with a jar of maple cream (itself a wondrous substance) and a package of maple sugar candies.
About ten hours later we were finally hungry for dinner.
Pure maple syrup is obviously expensive, but ever since we made the switch, I cannot go back to Log Cabin or Mrs. Butterworth’s or any other imitation maple-flavored syrup. The only way I eat anything of that nature on my pancakes, waffles, or French toast is if I’m in a restaurant where the genuine article is not an option.
For any WNY-based readers who may still want a morning of maple-soaked pancakey gluttonous goodness, Moore’s Maple Shack will still be open for business for a few more weeks. But get there early: we got there in time to get the last open table, and from that moment on, there was a line out the door. And don’t wear nice shoes, as the place is very rustic and thus has a quite muddy parking lot.
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Marching….
I was listening to this week’s edition of A Prairie Home Companion last night, and I heard Garrison Keillor describe March in Minnesota in a way that also applies perfectly to March in Buffalo: “It is a month designed by God to make people who don’t drink learn what a hangover is like.”
Heh.
(By the way, f*** Daylight Savings Time in March. What the hell is that about? In Buffalo, that means that we get another hour of gray every day. Thanks, Congress!)
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Babies in Holland
Holland, NY, that is. Amanda Punaro is pregnant, and when Derek catches the bastard who did it!
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“Lelawala” (fiction)
Well, the winners were announced today in the Buffalo News‘s short story contest, and my winning streak has ended at one. Oh well…I can’t even get angry at the winner, since it turns out that he and I both work for the same company, but mark my words: next year I shall crush all comers like half-rotted pistachio nuts! Even more sadly, my submission wasn’t even chosen to be one of the five entries that are still alive for the “Reader’s Choice” thing, but that’s OK, since I’ve got a blog and I can therefore award my own tale the “Best Flash Fiction meeting the Requirements of the 2008 Contest Award EVER So Put That In Your Pipe and Smoke It You Goobers” Award. Huzzah!
Ahem…
Anyway, here’s my entry. The requirements were these: no longer than 600 words, the story must be set in Western NY, and must include a man, a woman, and “a job offer”. My tale is based on the Native American legend of the Maid of the Mist. Enjoy. I rather like the way this one turned out; I gravitate toward ambiguous tales of magic.
Handing her a cup of tea, he asked: “You said you have a job for me?”
The old woman nodded. “A woodcarving project that my husband started just before he died.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t do much carving anymore,” he said. “It’s getting hard to hold a chisel.” He rubbed his arthritic fingers.
“You carved that,” she said, gesturing to the item on the mantelpiece behind her. “I saw it at the Fair last month. I knew when I saw it that you were the one for this job.”
He lowered his head. “I didn’t want to enter it at all. My son made me do it.”
“I’m glad he did,” she replied, approaching the figurine on the mantel. Eight inches long: a Native American woman in a white birch canoe. Intricate carvings of animals along the sides; her gaze turned upward into the sky…or beyond. “I doubt Lelawala had red hair,” she said.
The man sighed. “Artistic license. She’s only a legend.”
She smiled. “Maybe not. My grandmother always claimed her as an ancestor.” She glanced at the framed photograph next to the carving, a photograph of a red-haired girl. “But it is a likeness, isn’t it?”
The old woman’s eyes compelled an answer, and he nodded. “Yes.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“She died?”
“Last February,” he said. “It’s been hard.” He didn’t mention that her middle name had been Lelawala, or that he and his wife had met on the Maid of the Mist.
The woman brushed away a tear. “I had a son, once.” She ran a finger along the wooden boat’s painted gunwales. “I want you to carve this. Just the canoe. I need it finished by the next first day of Spring.”
“Why then?”
“Because it has to be then. Will you do it?”
“By Spring? That’s six months–“
“I didn’t mention that the canoe is life-size,” she cut in.
He gaped. “Life size?”
“Can you do it?”
He swallowed. Again her eyes compelled him, and he nodded. She smiled and drained her teacup. “I will call you with the arrangements. Thank you.”
After she was gone, he wondered why he agreed. He would wonder that often, all the rest of his years.
The six months he had were just enough. Finally on the first day of Spring he met her on Grand Island, at sunrise, amidst the swirling mists, at the edge of the water, as she had instructed. She was so much more frail now: the result of age and leukemia. He knew what was to happen now, of course. He’d long since figured that out.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “I can’t watch.”
Her only reply was to kiss him on the cheek, and then she climbed into the boat and began paddling away from shore. The current was slow at first, but it would become soon become inexorable. He stood there watching as the mists closed about her. At the very last, a beam of young sunlight shot through and made her hair appear as though fiery red.
“Lelawala!” he shouted, but no response came. The mists closed and she was gone.
There were few tourists on Goat Island that early. It was cold and foggy, and the water was still choked with winter ice. Some thought they saw a boat, but in the fog no one could be sure, save one German tourist whose camera caught a glimpse of a red-haired maiden in the mist, riding a canoe into the embrace of mighty Niagara, the thundering waters bringing her home.
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Buffalo, conquering the world!
Gregg Easterbrook, who can be right once in a while, on Buffalo pizza:
TMQ lamented that it longs to savor Chicago deep-dish pizza; those objects in the grocer’s freezer just don’t do it, and restaurant chains that advertise “Chicago-style” pizza seem to mean East Chicago, Ind. Jeff Roberts of Columbus, Ohio, reported that Giordano’s, the current mecca of deep-dish pizza, now ships its pies overnight. The new pizza sensation that’s waiting to happen is Buffalo pizza, which is roughly a cross between Chicago style and the Greenwich Village style of “foldable” pizza preferred in New York City. An out-of-the-way place called Bocce Club in the Buffalo suburbs makes the best Buffalo-style pizza and also ships overnight. Taste-makers, this form of pizza needs to be discovered.
I’ve long thought that people ’round these parts are too hard on Buffalo pizza. Let its praises be sung!