Coco
Seasoned Expediter
Our travels have brought us down from Canada into upper state New York. We are traveling from Buffalo to Pittsburg. This part of New York is such a contrast from the New York City area we have all heard about.
Our route is taking us through many small quaint towns, the “blue highways†we call them, in reference to their color in the road atlas. The day is cloudy and cold, but occasionally the sun peaks out and shines against the white birch trees jutting through the green pines making them look like bolts of lighting We are being kept company by a small rocky brook who sometimes likes to play hide and seek along the highway. We have passed dairy farms, crop farms, vineyards, orchards and combinations of all. We laughed when we passed a crop farm that had large round bales of either hay or straw wrapped in white plastic. It appeared to be a marshmallow crop. A quick comment on the CB radio got a laugh from the few truckers we shared the road with.
An interesting bit of nostalgia surfaced when we came upon a small green highway sign that read, “Woodstock 7†. Why would such a phenomenal event take place in such a remote area? I guess that is part of what made it what it was.
Some of these towns remind me of southern Illinois where I used to visit as a child. It seems odd to compare the two regions. It’s kind of like a time warp. The little towns have small stores and a pharmacy actually owned by a pharmacist. The local grocery store is named after the storekeeper and they still have a downtown. This is an area that hasn’t been subject to WalMartization.
I think most of the residents must be self sufficient, there are few signs of current industry and the towns are few and far between. However as we made our way through New York and into Pennsylvania there were obvious signs that early industrialists had came and went. The sure sign was the long rows of abandoned metal buildings that had turned to rust and had most of their windows broken, the tall smokestacks, and empty parking lots with weeds growing through the cracks of the aged pavement and of course, the railroad. These were the same places that years ago spilled hundreds of workers carrying metal lunchboxes into the street shortly after the four o’clock whistle blew.
Ironically, just a few blocks away were the magnificent painted ladies standing in a receiving line of royalty looking across the street and their little sisters with dirty faces. They were beautiful homes that were built in the heyday of steel and glass and housed the families of the upper crust. That had to be an exciting time, unlike the growth we see today that takes literally months to complete.
I can just imagine the sight of dozens of craftsmen swinging hammers and horse drawn power lifting big beams of wood high into the air. The wagons of supplies brought by horses clopping down the brick streets from a local sawmill. Imagine the sound of the chisel of the stone mason. The sound of a hand saw against the grain of wood and the fresh smell of sawdust everywhere.
True character and personality were built into these towns in a time when our future was young. Greater accomplishments have since been made. But, nothing is as sweet as yesteryear no matter how young you are.
The little rocky brook has grown to the river we just crossed over and in the distance we can see the signs of those great accomplishments as we come closer to Pittsburgh. Of course the first thing we can see is a WalMart.
Our route is taking us through many small quaint towns, the “blue highways†we call them, in reference to their color in the road atlas. The day is cloudy and cold, but occasionally the sun peaks out and shines against the white birch trees jutting through the green pines making them look like bolts of lighting We are being kept company by a small rocky brook who sometimes likes to play hide and seek along the highway. We have passed dairy farms, crop farms, vineyards, orchards and combinations of all. We laughed when we passed a crop farm that had large round bales of either hay or straw wrapped in white plastic. It appeared to be a marshmallow crop. A quick comment on the CB radio got a laugh from the few truckers we shared the road with.
An interesting bit of nostalgia surfaced when we came upon a small green highway sign that read, “Woodstock 7†. Why would such a phenomenal event take place in such a remote area? I guess that is part of what made it what it was.
Some of these towns remind me of southern Illinois where I used to visit as a child. It seems odd to compare the two regions. It’s kind of like a time warp. The little towns have small stores and a pharmacy actually owned by a pharmacist. The local grocery store is named after the storekeeper and they still have a downtown. This is an area that hasn’t been subject to WalMartization.
I think most of the residents must be self sufficient, there are few signs of current industry and the towns are few and far between. However as we made our way through New York and into Pennsylvania there were obvious signs that early industrialists had came and went. The sure sign was the long rows of abandoned metal buildings that had turned to rust and had most of their windows broken, the tall smokestacks, and empty parking lots with weeds growing through the cracks of the aged pavement and of course, the railroad. These were the same places that years ago spilled hundreds of workers carrying metal lunchboxes into the street shortly after the four o’clock whistle blew.
Ironically, just a few blocks away were the magnificent painted ladies standing in a receiving line of royalty looking across the street and their little sisters with dirty faces. They were beautiful homes that were built in the heyday of steel and glass and housed the families of the upper crust. That had to be an exciting time, unlike the growth we see today that takes literally months to complete.
I can just imagine the sight of dozens of craftsmen swinging hammers and horse drawn power lifting big beams of wood high into the air. The wagons of supplies brought by horses clopping down the brick streets from a local sawmill. Imagine the sound of the chisel of the stone mason. The sound of a hand saw against the grain of wood and the fresh smell of sawdust everywhere.
True character and personality were built into these towns in a time when our future was young. Greater accomplishments have since been made. But, nothing is as sweet as yesteryear no matter how young you are.
The little rocky brook has grown to the river we just crossed over and in the distance we can see the signs of those great accomplishments as we come closer to Pittsburgh. Of course the first thing we can see is a WalMart.
