A New Generation at Kelly's

This past Saturday Melany and I met up with Rob, Sheila, and baby Liam at their home in Amherst for a special adventure--a trip to Kelly's Country Store (on Facebook) on Grand Island! This was an exciting event on several levels.

Kelly's isn't your typical small-town gift shop. In addition to crafts, candles, knickknacks, novelty items, small toys, home decorations, tableware, etc., there are always antique items, old tools, and other memorabilia lining the front porch, aisles, walls, and even the ceiling, which give the place a distinctly homey, throwback ambiance. They even have a "cigar-store Indian"--the same one, I think, that's been there for decades!

And then there's the old-fashioned "penny" candy, a long counter holding jar upon jar of it: horehound, sassafras, clove, root beer barrels, licorice, lemon drops, "boston baked beans," chocolate-covered peanuts and raisins--if you remember it, they have it! And lots of homemade fudge, of course (especially my favorite, maple).

What makes this place really unique is the way it's transformed into a wonderland at holiday-time, especially Christmas. A back room is opened; the approach-way is filled with every imaginable Christmas-tree ornament and wall- or table-decoration (just how many versions of Santa Claus are there?); another short aisle takes you past a moving diorama of the Holy Family.

And then you reach it: darkened but for one of those rotating "disco" lights (I hate to call it that because it conveys the impression that the room is cheesy and modern, which it isn't in the slightest), "Santa's room" is covered floor-to-ceiling, and all over the ceiling, with antique toys, sleds, and children's whatnot. At the far end of the room sits Santa himself in a big chair--and he's about the most "real" Santa you'll ever encounter! Children and their families wait in line for a few minutes with the jolly old fellow, and hardly mind the wait, being surrounded with so much magical stuff!

What makes Kelly's so special to our family is that we're now into the fourth generation of Flemings who love to visit there! My memory is a bit hazy, but I'm sure my parents took me and my siblings there now and then over the years since the store opened in 1962 (what other small-town country store do you know of that's been around almost 50 years?) I do distinctly remember riding my bicycle there as a teenager--our house was only 2 or 3 miles away--to buy some candy and play the old coin-operated music box they used to have. I liked to visit there during Christmas break from college and law school, too. Then I got married and had kids of my own, and we'd take them to Kelly's on our annual Thanksgiving weekend visit to Grandma and Grandpa Moran's--I don't think Grandpa ever accompanied us, but Grandma did as long as she was physically able!

Here's Grandma with Donna and Robert at Kelly's on Thanksgiving weekend 1988 (sorry I cut off your head, Grandma!)

Getting pictures taken with Santa was a yearly ritual!

Here's Donna, Colin and Robert with Santa at Kelly's on Thanksgiving weekend in 1989.

Now our kids are grown up, and Rob and Sheila have started taking theirs to Kelly's!

Here are the proud parents with Liam on a bench just outside the store.

Apparently Liam had decided to rest up (on Rob's shoulder) for the momentous occasion of his first meeting with Santa Claus himself!

Because Liam wasn't in a position (yet) to actually talk with Santa, we were allowed to go to the head of the line and have his picture taken with the Jolly Old Elf. Liam was so overawed that he slept through the entire event!

He even slept through Sheila's attempt to load him into Santa's sleigh!

I got to hold the young fellow during most of the rest of our visit (after conning Melany into letting me hold him--I feel guilty now!), and he was awake for much of that time, just looking around and taking in all the sights and sounds. I didn't feel his weight at all until I handed him back to Melany--and then the soreness and stiffness hit! But it's a good pain!

Here are Grandma and Grandpa Fleming holding Liam in Santa's Room at Kelly's (we weren't really as shell-shocked as we look here).

We had a delightful time, and look forward to many more visits with Liam (and other grandchildren?) to Kelly's Country Store!

. . . On the Erie Canal

And you'll always know your neighbor
And you'll always know your pal
If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

from the song Low Bridge (1905)
by Thomas S. Allen

Well, I've never actually "navigated on" the Canal, unless being a canal boat passenger once or twice qualifies. But the Erie Canal--located, as the crow flies, only a couple of hundred yards from our house in Brockport, New York-- is an ever-present feature of our lives. My bus crosses and re-crosses it several times a day between home and work. My office window, in a 122-year-old building in downtown Rochester, looks out over an old aqueduct, on which a street now runs, that once carried the Canal across the Genesee River.

My office is on the second floor from the top of that red brick building at the left, about the fourth one in from the corner above the river.

Indeed, Brockport--the town we live in--is known as "The Victorian Village on the Erie Canal." It wouldn't be much of a place without the Canal.

Under construction from 1817 to 1825, the Erie Canal was the first transportation system between the eastern seaboard and the western interior (Great Lakes) of the United States that did not require portage. Cutting transport costs by about 95%, the Canal fostered a population surge in western New York, opened regions farther west to settlement, and helped New York City become the chief American port. It's no longer a commercial artery, but is still a recreational and historic treasure.

Currently, the Canal's chief role in our family's life is as the ultimate place to walk our big greyhound Frank--he loves all the trees, bushes and rocks lining the sides of the gravel path that runs alongside the waterway. For us, walking him there is a chance to get much-needed exercise, to chat and bond, and to enjoy a scenery that's both constant and ever-changing with the seasons--for example, the water freezes in winter, making a great surface on which ducks can land and "surf" to a stop on the ice, one of the funniest things you'll ever see! In the spring, the banks are crowded with brilliant wildflowers, and the chorus of frogs in the marshes along the path makes a compelling music. In the summer the path becomes a busy thoroughfare for joggers and bikers (the latter including me). And our fall season, my favorite, is just coming to a close. The air is clear and cool with that spicy/smoky aroma, and the trees and bushes are (or were, a couple of weeks ago) ablaze with red, orange, and gold leaves. I wanted to share with you some photos I took on several recent excursions along the Canal near our home.

The following two pictures were taken on a recent bike ride along the Canal heading west from near our house and toward the village of Holley. If I kept going this way, I'd eventually find myself in Buffalo!

The picture below was also taken heading west, but from the village of Brockport looking toward the SUNY Brockport campus and the vicinity of our home on the other side of that.

The next set of pictures, on the other hand, were taken just across the Canal from our house and headed east, toward the village of Brockport. This is the part of the Canal where we most often walk Frank. You can see him and Melany in the first picture below!

If you keep going east along the Canal from near our house, you approach the village of Brockport. Even here on the edge of "civilization," foliage beside the path can be almost as dense and colorful as you might find in a rain forest!

Nevertheless, if you look closely, you'll catch sight of a little house nestled amidst the boughs and fronds--almost looks as if a hobbit might emerge from it at any moment!

One of my favorite things about the fall in these parts are the little purple flowers--I don't even know what they are--that abound along our roads and pathways, including the Canal. They make such a contrast with the greens and golds about them!

Sadly, now that it's mid-November, our autumn brilliance is past. In about 10 days, the people who run the state canal system will draw down the water to almost a trickle, just enough to create an icy surface in December for the ducks to skate on. Fine entertainment as we walk Frank along the path in the bitter cold!

And I aint prevaricatin' 'bout the Erie Canal.

Spring Has Sprung!

I discovered this past weekend that nothing beats the rush of standing out in your yard on an early April day, soaking up sunshine and warmth, and gazing across brilliant green grass up to the budding trees! Just six weeks ago we were under a foot and a half of snow, and hosting a small herd of deer trying to scratch some sustenance from under the frozen blanket. Mercifully, we saw hardly a flake of snow after that weekend, and in recent weeks have enjoyed remarkably warm temperatures and copious sunshine (for this area).

Who would have thought that the season's first occasion for what most deem a drudgerous chore would fill me with delight?

As I mowed, Melany began working in the little flower garden beside our house--but not without interruption by Princess Chloe, who demanded adulation as she reclined on the sun-warmed driveway!

I think that if our long winters weren't so desolate and depressing, our spirits wouldn't soar as high as they do in the Spring, and we wouldn't appreciate this wonderful season so much. And with our world so widely plagued with conflict, misery, and fear, perhaps we should regard this time as a blessed portent of better things to come for all mankind:

For as the earth bringeth forth her bud, and as the garden causeth the things that are sown in it to spring forth; so the Lord GOD will cause righteousness and praise to spring forth before all the nations. ~ Isaiah 61:11

HAPPY SPRING, EVERYONE!

Winter Wonderland

For he saith to the snow, Be thou on the earth . . . ~ Job 37:6

And so it was--by the foot! This weekend saw the biggest one-storm snowfall total in the Rochester area in three years: depending on your precise location, 12 to 18 inches (I think we had about 16 inches in Brockport), and more in the hills. Of course, that isn't nearly what our neighbors to the . . . south have had in the last few weeks! Go figure. And my wife Melany is talking about someday moving south to avoid all the snow! She might want to rethink that one.

Anyway, once it stopped falling and blowing around, and we were able to drive Bigfoot up and down the driveway a few times, the snow made for some beautiful pictures. The one below was taken beneath a canopy of snow-covered branches on the tree that overhangs our driveway, just in front of the garage.

And here's a closeup of the fascinating lattice-work formed by those branches:

There is a race that suffers in winter far more than we do: the deer. They're a more common presence in these parts than rabbits. The woods, and even the nearby college campus, seem to be teeming with them. Backyards adjoining wooded areas are regarded by them as mere extensions of their feeding grounds. It's like living amidst herds of wild horses galloping about everywhere.

How do animals that big run so fast through the thickly tangled undergrowth? I've seen them leap over fallen trees and hang almost motionless in midair. Many people consider them pests, and they can be a danger running across roads or, every once in a while, into a house. I, however, look on them as beautiful, gentle creatures just trying to survive and provide for their children in a difficult world. It's a breathtaking delight when they wander into our back yard and come right up to our house to nibble on the bushes.

I guess I should be angry about the damage they sometimes do--few things are uglier than denuded bushes in the springtime around one's house--but I can't help feeling sorry for these noble animals. It's sad to see them pawing through the snow on a frigid, windswept day trying to find a few dead leaves or sticks to eat.


Just this afternoon Melany and I watched a young doe struggle from the woods through heavy, wet snow up to her shoulders to reach a bare spot under a pair of pine trees in our back yard. There once was a blanket of dry leaves and small branches under there, left over from fall raking, but the deer pretty thoroughly consumed that before this one arrived. Then she forlornly dragged herself back through the snow and into the woods. Melany had me take a panful of cracked corn out to the trees after she left, in hopes that she and her fellows could reach it again. Within the hour, they were back!


Is this not an allegory for all life in this world, including our own? The deer have only the generosity and providence of God to sustain them, and humbly endure whatever challenges come their way. We "higher" creatures, on the other hand, take great pride in our own ingenuity, and many dismiss the whole idea of God as unnecessary and irrelevant to their lives. That is, until some disaster strikes, like one of the earthquakes that have recently devastated Haiti and Chile. Then they rend their garments and moan in sorrow, or even in anger at God (whom they just yesterday forgot or disdained) for the "injustice" of it all. Perhaps we should be more mindful of the wild creatures with whom He's blessed our lives, and remember from Whom we really receive life and all our bounty.

These wait all upon thee; that thou mayest give them their meat in due season.

That thou givest them they gather: thou openest thine hand, they are filled with good.

Thou hidest thy face, they are troubled: thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust.

Thou sendest forth thy spirit, they are created: and thou renewest the face of the earth.

Psalm 104:27-30

Special thanks to my daughter Donna for taking the stunning picture above and the "chow line" photo above that, while she was here visiting in January!

You Think You Have Weather Woes?

This week marks the 147th anniversary of one of the most miserable (for Union soldiers) episodes in the American Civil War: the infamous "Mud March" of the Union's Army of the Potomac up the north bank of Virginia's Rappahannock River, in an ill-fated attempt to outflank Gen. Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia, which was dug in around Fredericksburg.

On December 13, 1862 the Union Army, after crossing the Rappahannock and taking Fredericksburg in a drive south toward the Confederate capital of Richmond, suffered more than 12,000 casualties (to the Confederates' 5600) in a series of futile frontal assaults against rebel troops entrenched on Marye's Heights behind the city. The next day Union commander Gen. Ambrose Burnside (above left) obtained a truce from Gen. Lee to attend to the thousands of freezing Yankee wounded still littering the ground below Marye's Heights, and on December 15 the Federal forces retreated back to their camps on the north side the river. The Battle of Fredericksburg was one of the worst defeats inflicted on Union troops during the War.

By mid-January 1863 Burnside felt growing pressure to resume the Federal advance on Richmond. He devised a plan to march his army several miles to the northwest of Fredericksburg, cross the Rappahannock, and circle around to hit the left flank of Lee’s army still encamped south of the city. December had been cold, but January's weather was relatively dry and mild up to this point, and the roads were in good shape. Prospects for a winter campaign seemed favorable.

What happened next is aptly described in the book Washington Weather, by Kevin Ambrose, Dan Henry, and Andy Weiss (2002, Historical Enterprises):

On the morning of January 20, 1863, the Army of the Potomac formed columns and began the march up the Rappahannock River. Unknown to the soldiers, a massive storm was developing near the southeast coast and had started to move northward. Rain began falling during the evening of January 20 and continued to fall heavily on January 21. Burnside’s army quickly got bogged down in the mud. Temperatures hovered in the upper 30’s, adding a chill to the drenched soldiers. Wagons sank to their wheel hubs in mud and artillery became hopelessly stuck. A team of 12 horses and 150 men could not pull one cannon out of the mud. Also, the soldiers slipped and fell repeatedly, while others lost their shoes in the thick mud. . . .

By January 22, the rain had ended but the entire Army of the Potomac was still mired in the mud. The weather remained cloudy and damp, with temperatures hovering in the upper 30’s to near 40°F. The damp conditions and above-freezing temperatures kept the roads soft and muddy. Ammunition and supply wagons remained stuck fast, and horses and mules died of exhaustion in the mud. The challenge was no longer to cross the river and attack Lee, but instead to get unstuck from the mud and return to camp.

The soldiers who were there always tell it best. Private John J. Ingraham of the 121st N.Y. Volunteer Infantry wrote home:

We had marched two or three miles and the rain turned to hail & from that to snow and then it commenced blowing and we came near freezing. Everything was frozen stiff. We finally got to the Landing by wading through creeks and mud. We got there about dark and we had to pitch our tents in the mud and water 6 inches deep. . . . [T]here was no wood to be got. . . . Went without supper. Everything was frozen and the next morning it was hard work for some of us to talk. That was what made me sick and it brought many of our soldiers in the grave.

Surgeon Daniel M Holt of the 121st N.Y. (as related in A Surgeon’s Civil War, the Letters & Diary of Daniel M. Holt, M.D., ed. James M. Greiner, et al, 1994 Kent State University Press) wrote:

Such mud, you nor I never saw before. Pontoon boats, batteries, ammunition trains and horses formed an unbroken mass—all stuck in the mud… During the three days of which I write, I had no tent to shield me from the rain incessantly falling so that I was perfectly wet through without the means of drying myself, everything was so soakingly wet that we could not make fires, and here against the roots of a tree I stood for three days and nights, with a soaking wet blanket and an India rubber cap to contend against the watery element.

More interesting details, and the climax of the sorry story, are described in the book Civil War Blunders, by Clint Johnson (1997, John F. Blair):

The frustration sometimes caused men to boil over. On one occasion, two of Burnside's corps found themselves at a crossroads. Instead of halting one corps to let the other pass, both commanders ordered their men to continue marching. It looked like a giant demolition derby, with men crashing into each other as they slogged through the mud.

Burnside sought to raise the spirits of his men with the aid of alcohol, as was commonly done. . . The whiskey flowed, at least until a fight started between a Massachusetts regiment and a Pennsylvania regiment. When a Maine regiment tried to make peace, the Massachusetts and Pennsylvania men turned on the third regiment. Soon, more than twenty-five hundred Yankees were having a fistfight in the Virginia mud as watching Confederates and other Yankee regiments roared with laughter.

. . . To add insult to injury, the whole fiasco took place in view of the Confederate army. . . . As the Union soldiers struggled to extricate one muddy leg after another just to keep from drowning, Confederates called across the Rappahannock. They shouted encouragement, telling the soldiers how many more miles they had to walk. They offered to take the pontoons and have them in place when the Union army arrived . . . They even offered to let the Yankees to borrow boards from the plank road on their side of the river if it would help them get to Banks' Ford any faster. Signs proclaiming "This Way to Richmond!" showed up along the march. The Federals were too tired to shoot at their tormentors.

Officers began to tell Burnside to call off the march before all the horses and mules fell over dead, leaving no way to remove their cannons should the Confederates attack. Finally, he gave the order to return to camp. By January 24, the Mud March was over. A march that should have taken no more than four hours at two miles an hour had become a four-day, out-and-back disaster. Hundreds of men--perhaps more--died of exhaustion by the side of the road. Hundreds more deserted and started the long walk north.

Two days after the campaign's collapse, on January 25, President Lincoln relieved Gen. Burnside and named Gen. Joseph Hooker to command the Army of the Potomac. Never again would a major military campaign be conducted during the winter months in Virginia.

As a Civil War reenactor I have marched and slept out in the rain and mud, without any tent or covering but my wool uniform. But I've never done it in the winter months or for days or weeks on end. What the original soldiers endured is beyond my comprehension. As awful as their burdens were, I sometimes think that our safe, affluent lifestyles deprive us of the chance to be tested and become more resilient and resourceful. On the other hand, I'm sure that the men of January 1863 would have instantly surrendered all their resilience and resourcefulness to be warm and dry again! So the next time you find yourself cursing the dampness and cold, just remember how good you've got it!

Blowing It

I've sold out. Today, after intense lobbying by my wife and elder son, I broke down and bought a snowblower.

The consensus was that I'm too old and decrepit to shovel snow anymore, at least without serious risk of a heart attack or stroke. No matter that I've been doing it the old-fashioned way since the Johnson administration (that's Lyndon, not Andrew), including during and after the "Storm of the Century" (or Great Blizzard of 1993), when I shoveled for two days straight and was piling snow more than six feet high at the end of the driveway. No matter that the shovel and I were still going strong here less than 12 months ago.

My father continued to shovel at my age (54), although he then decided to avoid the shovel/snowblower issue altogether and moved to Florida. I suppose a snowblower would be the cheaper alternative in the long run--although, if I use this thing six or seven times a year (about how often during a season that we have a snowfall really worthy of attack by a snowblower) and hang onto it for as long as 12 or 13 years, I'll still be paying around $10 for every time I use it. Besides, how am I to prove my manhood between December and March? What if they revoke my honorary Amishman's license? I used to be able to stand out in the middle of the windswept, snow-choked driveway for hours on end, hurling shovel after shovel-full into the yard, and feel mighty superior to my wimpy neighbors as they crept out of their comfy dens, pushed their put-puts up and down their driveways a few times, and timidly retreated back inside while I toiled on and on outdoors like a REAL MAN! Now, I'll be no better than they are.

However, I console myself with the knowledge that now my dear wife won't have to confront a snow emergency when I'm not around, with nothing but a shovel in her hand. In fact, now that I think of it, she won't have to do that even when I am around. She'll be able to drive that sucker up and down the driveway all by herself, while I protect my delicate constitution inside, lending her moral support and preparing hot chocolate to keep her going.

Guess I'm still a REAL MAN after all! ;-)

Leaf Me A Lawn

Before the crisp, golden weeks of autumn merge into the cold, gray months of winter here in Western New York, a solemn ritual must be performed by almost every homeowner: the Raking of the Leaves. There are those in contempt of virtue who have turned it into the Blowing of the Leaves or the Mowing of the Leaves, but they aren't worthy of attention. The rest of us measure our manhood in barrels or bags filled, or tarpfuls hauled, and in this department at least I can stand with the best of any half-acre man. This year I got almost the entire job done in one weekend, thanks to the efforts of my lovely assistant Melany.

In the past, I could count on the "help" of my children: in their younger years, mostly to jump and roll around in my piles to make sure they didn't get too tall, and as teenagers to grumble and amaze me with their magical vanishing acts (which is why I have no photographic evidence of their help in those years).

(UPDATE: The picture of Colin (left) and Robert immediately above has been added so as not to exclude our beloved youngest son from our leaf-raking memories--the leaves around that swing certainly needed raking!)

Then the children left the nest and I faced this enormous task all by myself (except for the aforementioned efforts of my lovely assistant Melany). But this year, I had help from a new source: Frank the Tank, Greyhound Extraordinaire! Melany brought him outside where I was raking in the front yard; he took one look at the blue plastic tarp I was raking leaves onto, and knew in his heart that we had put it all there just for him. Into the pile he dove, thrashing about in delight, and flashed me a look that said, "Try to get me out of here and I'll bite your arm off."

So, we let him stay and even rubbed his belly as he rolled around in the leaves. Just like the children, he lost interest after a little while, and I was able to finish the front yard.

Today, Melany let Frank out in the back as I was dragging myself through the last part of The Struggle. He took one look at the small mountain range of leaf piles I had built up in the empty lot beside our house, and tore into them like a cannon ball--then jumped, rolled, and buried himself in them for a good five minutes before charging out again and shaking off the bits clinging to his coat. It was so hilarious, Melany decided that we should try to "videotape" the scene with our digital camera, if we could get Frank to do an encore performance. After calling my son in Buffalo to talk me through how to do this, we coaxed Frank back into the leaves. Of course, he now adopted a coolly indifferent air as you might expect from a teenager, and contented himself with burrowing into the nearest pile and letting us heap more leaves on him. Perhaps it was just as well that he didn't play about more vigorously, because one viewing this my very first video recording would think we were in the middle of a 9.5 magnitude earthquake at the time. I'll let you judge for yourself below, and enjoy the antics of our latest four-legged "child."

When the Frost is on the Punkin

Yep, it's that time of year! Crisp, spicy air; expanses of red and gold leaves everywhere; Indian corn, squash, and pumpkins abounding; the pungent aroma and sweet taste of apple cider. Even the sun shines occasionally here in western New York! Nothing better captures the sights, sounds, and spirit of the fall season than the poem When the Frost is on the Punkin by American folk poet James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1912). So, to brighten your day, here's the next best thing to visiting a farm in harvest!

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here--
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock--
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover over-head!--
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me--
I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock--
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!