UPDATED VERSION: Take a trip down memory lane with the Wrambler
By Chuck Wiser, I write the words to share what my eyes see and my heart feels
Waking at 3:00 AM for what we called in the military my “piss call”, albeit crudely stated in public, my mind already was too busily sorting topics for this writing even though it was only very early Tuesday morning. It’s even too early for my Facebook famous 4 AM Club. The two topics most prevalent in my mind were of commonly used phrases, past and present, and “roads that are now less traveled”.
On my frequent short road trips, usually associated with going to Olean to do my shopping thanks to the Walmart “draw,” I often choose an initial destination route or return route, other than the common shortest route, for another nostalgia experience. As I travel those routes “now less traveled,” my mind drifts back in recollection of certain areas or spots of historic significance to me. One, for example being route 446, once numbered 408 if I recall, going into Maplehurst connecting with Rte. 16. On that route closer to the Maplehurst end, there is a small pull off area now used as a way point for any number of missions, including one as named in my opening sentence, or to discard trash. In my “mind travels” it reminds me of fishing trips when my mother would take me there as a convenient fishing spot. I don’t recall if I or we ever caught anything, but I do remember often times using a safety pin bent into a fishing hook and just regular white cotton string as my fishing line.
That route now gains prominence thanks to my introduction to Eagle watching by famous Eagle and Wildlife photographer Dan Jordan (Jordan’s Photography). I am ever vigilant to the wildlife sightings that frequently present themselves via that route.
Another route, or combination of routes, involves Rte. 40 and Rte. 1 both leading into Nile, NY via the back roads. The end of Route 40 known as “Smiths Hill,” was a long hill which provided a fast sled ride down the ice- or snow-covered road, not “treated” as most country roads now are. Those routes, or a combination thereof also provided nocturnal visits when I had achieved driving status and would be searching for a convenient “parking” spot when I had a girl friend as company. I believe I’ve written in a previous article about the cow that so rudely interrupted our “necking” by nuzzling the car window with its nose.
More common in the present day, or once a more recently popular route, would include the Vandermark Road (Rte. 10) or McHenry Valley Road (Rte. 11) or Jericho Hill Road (Rte. 12), all leading into or through Alfred during my Alfred State College (ASC) teaching days. Currently my shopping destination is often Hornell given that there is a Hornell Walmart and a Lowes store available. A common travel experience along those routes now typically warrants vigilance or watching for unexpected road crossing or sharing with the deer in the area. One recollection of a related experience involved a late-night trip home following an overtime night at ASC and a later visit to Alex’s Bar. Traveling the Vandermark Road just after entering it from Brown Road (named after Earl Brown) and already “up to speed” I was startled by a flash of a deer into the road and hitting it broadside at full speed with my Toyota or Datsun Truck. My ambivalence is attributed to having owned and driven both and can’t recall which one I was in at that time.
I pulled over to the side of the road fully expecting to see a completely smashed or damaged front end. As I walked around the front of the truck, I was amazed that there was absolutely no visible damage to be seen or found, at least there in the dark of the roadside. Upon later inspection the next day at home there was very little in the way of damage to the front of that truck. The front of the hood was very slightly bent downward, hardly noticeable, and not even enough to restrict opening or closing the hood. I was totally amazed and impressed with both the design of the hood and my good fortune of having hit the deer in a perfect way. The deer apparently hadn’t even been injured as it didn’t stick around for my inspection.
The memory list includes another road no longer traveled. My grandparents, before moving to our old house on Rte. 275 (aka East Notch Road in the day) in Nile-Wirt, used to live on a road that travels from Rushford to either Franklinville or Centerville to the west of their farm. I used to spend summer weeks with my grandparents at their farm. Among those many memories I recall having walked and hitchhiked from Nile to their home one summer. The fact that my mother let me do that would scare the “be-jesus” (old slang) out of folks today. I was probably only around 13 years old at the time. I made friends with the neighbors of my grandparents, the Rutecki’s, whose father traveled daily to and from the Ford plant in Buffalo for his job. I befriended his children Mary and Bill and helped them with their “haying” for a couple of summers. I had somewhat of a crush on Mary, but she never knew it. I also ended up playing soccer and “track and field” events against Bill, who attended Rushford Central School in the early 60’s.
As I travel myriads of routes now, I often exercise my memory by trying to recall the names of various people that formerly or presently resided on my routes of travel. I recall those that I knew based on my personal knowledge of former ASC students or teaching colleagues; or people that attended my many “Industrial Training’ programs; or perhaps that had been friends or classmates of my offspring.
One such very recent “memory challenge” (this past Monday) involved my trying to recall the name of a guy that my eldest son is now acquainted with and for whom he has done some odd jobs. I was on a trip delivering my small snow blower to Lindquist’s Garage in Bolivar and tried to recall the name of a guy as I had seen and waved at him recently as he passed the house earlier in the day. On the trip back home the memory game continued as I tried to relate the first name recall by associating it with his parents, and going back further to people related to or associated with his parents. As I arrived back home, I explained my memory challenge to my wife, who is very aware of my issues, for many reasons.
Finally in a flash, I recalled the name of Butch Cozzi, formerly my mail carrier and before that a fellow fast pitch softball player in Wellsville and by extrapolation to the mother of Aaron Potter, who is my son’s landlord and friend.
I force myself to, or indulge in, these mental exercises, often very challenging, such as therapy or hopefully preventive maintenance, of my deteriorating memory. The upside, or perhaps downside to getting older, is getting old.
I certainly appreciate the fact that I can say that and perhaps to be able to write, and share it with you, as readers. Life goes on and I hope mine continues with it for many years to come.
I’m still trying to get enough Social Security to compensate for that which my mother never got as she passed away soon after turning 62 years of age, which was the Social Security eligible age when she passed away.
As my memories flooded through, I started to think in “poetic terms” as to where I’ve been, what I’ve done and what I’ve seen. I guess although it is still not daybreak but well past the 3 AM start but in full darkness, the thought process that developed the poem that follows is always bubbling below the surface of my consciousness.
As previously mentioned, I am eternally grateful for any and all comments, and this week in particular my heart is full. Andrew Harris, Editor and indirectly “my boss” in these writing adventures, passed along on a comment from a lady made as Andrew was honored at a Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) meeting recently. Her comment was likely the warmest and most meaningful I have received since the beginning of my Wramblings. Further comments, cares or concerns are welcome at IM.Wiserdad@gmail.com I leave you now on another road down…
