It's always fun discovering the hidden corners of western New York, with its dusty old houses, relics of former grandeur, as yet undiscovered by tourists, a magical place where you don't need a passport to go abroad. To Warsaw, for example, former home of, among others, the cowboy poet Earl Alonzo Brininstool. Here's the Wyoming County courthouse.
Thursday, September 23, 2021
Tuesday, September 14, 2021
Dateline: Cattaraugus County, western New York state
Wednesday, September 1, 2021
I had long wanted to pay another visit to what's locally known as the Springville Flea Market. It's some 45 minutes drive northwards from us, in a country town on the way to Buffalo. It's actually much more than a flea market. As you approach, cars line the road and people walk, weighed down with bags of produce - corn, melons, giant courgettes aka zucchini and summer squash. The forecourt - actually a bumpy slope - is full of haphazardly parked pickup trucks, kids and dogs weaving among them. I asked a man in a cowboy hat what sort of dog he had - a large, odd-looking beast with lithe body and long floppy ears. "A coon hound". Atop the slope, red wooden buildings that seem unchanged for decades. Children retrieve rabbits in cardboard boxes pierced with holes, a large turkey sits in a cage, goats, sheep and tiny calves in dank pens. The animal auction in a room with tiered wooden seats around a small ring, started and ended early. Alongside the buildings stalls of perfect, plump plums, peppers and peaches.
"We don't have so much today", the stallholder said. "We sent some of it south to help those people." I assume she meant Louisiana, reeling after Hurricane Ida.
And behind the buildings Amish ladies in their white caps and long blue Victorian dresses sell doughnuts of exquisite lightness. Or, if you prefer it, there's a truck selling that staple of American fairgrounds, fried dough.
And stretching to the horizon, on tables and on the ground bric-a-brac of all kinds from bedsteads to broken hoovers to dolls houses to bicycles to antique fire extinguishers, interspersed with stalls of bargain toiletries, toys and pristine baseball caps saying "Jesus My Boss", sadly made in China. A magnificently- moustached auctioneer wielding a portable microphone rattles his staccato spiel to a small crowd, "everything must go!"
There are plants too and herbs and lettuces and tarps spread on the ground with unidentifiable objects, "Everything on here for a dollar!" Something tells me we should have arrived at the crack of dawn to get the real bargains.
And in the middle of it all, a white van stands draped in a massive banner suggesting we do something unprintable to the current President of the United States. Around it memorabilia extolling the virtues of his predecessor.
I catch a bit of conversation: "Afghanistan - yeah - well I say we should never have gone in there in the first place. But...."
Saturday, August 28, 2021
Nothing new to report here. Thunderstorms, torrential rain, mugginess - well all right, no hurricanes but we might as well be in Florida. There's been a little bit more sunshine the past few days and the jungle is still looking perky...
....though unfortunately that's only served to bring out my nemeses, the lawn-mowing enthusiasts with which we're surrounded. It seems they've fine-tuned the radar which compels them to start up their deafening noise (turned into surround sound by all the echoing hills) as soon as I escape to the garden for a bit of respite and relaxation.
Yesterday was a case in point. I'd made my coffee, opened my vintage Inspector Morse novel and settled into the air chair on one of the few days when it's been dry enough - when all of them started up at once. Like maddened hornets amplified a hundred times, up and down, up and down they chugged remorselessly. The French have a law about not making garden noise at certain times when people want to relax - like lunchtimes and Sunday afternoons. I doubt that would wash in America. As I've often said, it beats me why people in this country prefer vast expanses of sterile lawn to flowers and trees. Or why they have to mow every time it's not raining. Will the world end if the grass grows an extra inch or two? It's not as if they use it for anything - I don't know, keep goats or play football or croquet - or polo perhaps - they've got enough acres. Someone told me it's to do with imagining they're Lords of the Manor - or something. Another theory of mine is that, with some kind of subconscious pioneer instinct, they like to be able to see the enemy approaching. Well no sooner had they stopped and I was looking forward to some peace, than I heard the first rumble of thunder. You can't win.
Tuesday, August 17, 2021
There's nothing like a rain-washed garden...
Except when it's rained non-stop for weeks. A watery sun just out for long enough to take a few snaps. Meanwhile friends in Ohio are having a drought. No chance of that here. Everything's getting and taller and stragglier and more out of hand but at least I don't have to water.
Never mind that, having built a Fort Knox around the blueberry bushes to keep the deer, turkeys, woodchucks and other birds out, the berries nevertheless disappeared. Those blinking chipmunks again. That's how they repay me for all the peanuts I've dished out. Fortunately they don't eat flowers.
So, though, are the mosquitoes, which are just loving this weather.
You can't even step outside before you hear the ominous whining - and they always get you on the one minuscule part of you you forgot to spray.
We've got quite a tally of Japanese beetles so far, but, says my neighbour, it could just be attracting more of 'em.
Thursday, August 12, 2021
Our closest metropolis, here in western New York, Buffalo, is proud of its botanical gardens, which I've just visited for the first time. I'd never seen them but had driven past, remarking on some slight similarity with Kew.
When I was about six year's old I stroked someone's pet cactus because it looked furry. I'm still pulling the spines out. Despite that, I never really understood the fascination before but I think I do now.
Friday, August 6, 2021
Which would you prefer?
In Britain we call vaccinations "jabs" but when I used this expression to someone here, they recoiled in horror - "A what? Oh - er you mean a shot?" Which makes me think how things have changed over the past few months. In February, down in Florida, we dragged ourselves out of bed at 6am to get on the web and desperately fight for the tiny number of vax slots available at Publix supermarket - those with slower internet connections didn't have a prayer, competing with thousands upon thousands of other hopefuls. We signed up for text alerts from counties all over the state, we hovered anxiously over our phones waiting for the call - and when it came we danced in celebration. I had friends who travelled four hours and back in a day to get their precious Pfizer or Moderna in some far-off town, which, by some fluke, had availability. When hubby and I finally got our shot slots we queued in a long snaking line in a redundant shopping mall - finally reaching a huge, cavernous hall with rows and rows of people rolling up their sleeves like a scene from a dystopian film. How we wanted to hug that nurse! How grateful and privileged we felt and how secretly smug that we were so tech savvy that we'd managed to snag number 8,000 in the Sarasota County queue when others were lamenting, "I'm only number 63,000!" And now no one wants their miraculous free gift any more. I drove past our equivalent of the local council offices and saw a person dressed, I do not joke, as a coronavirus, ball, spikes and all, pathetically waving a banner screaming, "Get your vaccinations here!" They could have added, "Purrrleeeeeeze!" Any queue was conspicuous by its absence.
I have two practical suggestions. Number one: pretend it's still scarce and exclusive. That will get 'em interested. Number two: start calling them jabs. It sounds far more exciting.
Sunday, July 25, 2021
(See below) The babies are growing bigger and stronger the poor geranium is getting smaller and weaker. I should think they are about ready to fly though they seem in no hurry. They probably enjoy their regular shower and fertiliser bath gel. I can't wait to reclaim my property so I wish they'd get a move on. I just wonder what inappropriate place their mother is going to pick next time.
Saturday, July 17, 2021
Strikes again! If it wasn't enough last year to build her nest on top of the motion detector lights on the garage door and bring up two families amid flashing lights and grinding door-opening machinery, she has this year chosen the hanging basket.
You can just see her little beady eye centre of picture between two dead leaves. I didn't want to get too close. I only recently spotted her, not understanding why there always seemed to be a disgruntled flapping take-off whenever I walked past. Presumably she doesn't mind getting watered and fertilised on a regular basis.
Of course it may not be the same robin but I like to think it is. There can't be two of them that stupid.
Thursday, July 15, 2021
OK, let's not talk about the football.
Let's focus on the positive. Such as, there has been so much rain in the past couple of weeks that I might never need to water the garden again. You have to slosh around in your wellies, or, better still, swimsuit and snorkel. The mushrooms are gargantuan, to the delight of the slugs..