Looking back and reflecting on our news and shared stories
A COLUMN By Clayton “Tiger” Hulin
October has always been my favorite month. It starts clean, cool, and full of promise, that first breath of woodsmoke and wind that makes you want to work a little harder and breathe a little deeper. By the end of it, everything changes. The air turns heavy with leaf mold and memory. The colors fade, but somehow the world feels more honest for it.
This October, Allegany County reminded us of who we are, for better and worse. The Legislature moved to prepare for exceeding the two percent property tax cap and to raise pay for department heads again. Fire departments asked for help to train for electric vehicle fires after the governor’s veto. Senator O’Mara warned of a state budget teetering on fiscal delusion.
In the courthouse, old marble floors echoed with new names. In living rooms across the county, people wondered how much more the belt could tighten, always around the same waist. I am not here to drag anyone through the mud. I am here to ask: in twenty-five years, has the county ever said, not this time? Have the legislators or the department heads ever looked around and said, we will make do like those who work under us?
I do not ask to criticize. I ask to understand. I would like to be humbled. If it has happened, tell me and I will write it in gold. Restraint is not weakness. It is leadership.
Even so, there was good news worth telling.
The Wellsville girls volleyball team finished strong and brought home a championship, proof that teamwork still beats cynicism. The Jingle & Glow Committee is gathering trees and garland to light up Fassett Green Space, one bulb and one smile at a time. NY Forward grants are breathing new life into Main Street, where old storefronts are getting fresh coats of paint and a little hope.
Across the way, a few unsung heroes made smaller news that matters just as much. Two Sisters Wildlife Rescue and Life on the Wildside worked with Hornell Police to save two bearded dragons and a parrot from a condemned property. They stayed up through the night to nurse them back. Those animals will never touch a budget line, but their story still says something about who we are.
On the ground, the Allegany County Women’s Republican Club held its annual dinner, prime rib, laughter, old friends. I have been just as impressed by the Cattaraugus County Women’s Republican Club, a group of women who show up, volunteer, bake cookies for nursing home residents, and remind us that democracy still depends on people who care enough to roll up their sleeves.
A Quiet Departure
October also brought the resignation of District 4 Legislator James Rumfelt, a man who wore both uniforms, first as Andover’s Police Chief, then as a county legislator. Jimmy was one of those rare public servants you could believe in. We spent a lot of time riding together in ambulances, and I can tell you firsthand, he carried people’s pain like it was his own.
He wasn’t perfect, but he was steady, and that counts for more. If he says he has to go, then he has to go. There are few legislators you could put money on to mean what they say. Jimmy was one. No hard feelings, only gratitude.
At Alfred State, Dr. Angela Graves was named a SUNY Fellow for Civil Discourse, teaching the next generation how to talk without tearing each other apart. I remember learning Active Listening and Sound Reflection when I was a student there. It is good to see that tradition still breathing.
At the other end of the cosmos, columnist Frederick Sinclair wrote about the Sun, the Earth, and the comets locked in a long dance, a reminder that even the universe knows seasons of pressure and release, collapse and renewal. The timing felt right.
Still, every October I feel that itch. The fiction writer in me wakes under the journalist. Reality offends my sense of decency more than any monster I could invent. You can write ghouls all day. You cannot outdo the creativity of human greed dressed as good governance.
Twain and Swift on the Courthouse Steps
I imagine Mark Twain and Jonathan Swift on the courthouse steps, two ghosts arguing in the autumn sun.
Swift would call taxation a trough for swine with degrees. Twain would say that around here we call that a budget meeting.
Swift: The constituency pays to be pickpocketed, then thanks the thief for the courtesy.
Twain: That is democracy, son. The lambs vote for the butcher and argue over who sharpens his knives better.
Swift would shake his head. Then they deserve their fate.
Twain would grin. They do not deserve it. They will get it anyway. Government is gravity with paperwork.
They would laugh together while the courthouse bell marked the hour, and wouldn’t it be something to have a courthouse clock that still rang on the hour, loud enough to remind the whole town what time it really is?
Swift would mutter that reformers never die, they just run for reelection. Twain would tip his hat. Heaven save us from reformers with expense accounts.
And in the courthouse window you could catch a faint reflection of every voter, wondering how much this year’s budget will cost in hope.
The Nail House
Down the street stands a small, square, stubborn house. Parking lots and county buildings have grown around it. I call it a nail house, a place that refused to be bought, buried, or forgotten.
Step inside and time slows. You can hear the laughter of children who have long since grown. The air smells like memory and defiance. The county keeps expanding, takes one more home off the tax rolls, and pours one more layer of asphalt while it cries poverty.
Someday I will tell you that story in full. For now, know this: while budgets climb and chambers echo, there is still one light on in that house. Someone is still home.
Valley Light
When the month closes, I drive north along the Genesee, past the bends where mist hangs low like old hymns. I drop into the Ischua, where the cold water glints like hammered glass, and the farms settle quiet under the fading maples.
This valley has seen hardship before, floods and freezes, empty mills and empty promises, yet it greens again. What leaf mold is to the garden, struggle is to the soul. Compost for next year’s bloom.
Let October end the way it should, with one last breath of woodsmoke and hope. For all our cracks and quarrels, the valleys still shine. The people still show up. And the light, late as it is, still finds its way home.
It has been my pleasure to bring you the news I can and the stories that deserve a heartbeat. If I know you, I probably love you. And if I don’t know you yet, well, we’re just friends waiting to happen.
— Clay Tiger Hulin is a Franklinville NY writer using several mediums from old-fashioned reportings, creative writing, to opinion pieces. You can reach him anytime, claymation_88@yahoo.com
