The Banana Beagle

Another beagle

  Having returned from travels, I'm happy to report that I shan't be awarding a Flying Turkey this time, except perhaps a general one for Chicago O'Hare Airport which just can't cope with huge swathes of people going through immigration. Though of course it's nice to know so many people want to come to America. Interestingly, I remember when Jacques Chirac was elected President of France, his home patch, Correze, suddenly acquired a new motorway and everything started to run a little more efficiently. Sadly the same thing does not seem to have happened to Chicago.
    And American officials do like to yell at the tops of their voices, getting everyone in the right queue, as if we were a herd of deaf cows. It can be disconcerting for visitors who don't realise that Americans have many admirable traits but subtlety is not generally one of them.  
  I would, however, like to give a special mention to the tail-wagging sniffer beagle  who cheered us up and kept us entertained in the queue, with his handler feigning joky exasperation at his antics. The beagle is apparently trained to sniff out bananas and apples (we were told) and his handler was carrying a plastic bag, which she was rapidly filling with a haul of fruit.  One woman behind us had to surrender a couple of what looked like Waitrose apples. I would like to assure Americans that Waitrose apples are very hygienic and they really don't need to worry their heads about them. But that's modern life after all.You can't be too careful.  I wonder if they send the fruit back somewhere on a plane or whether it's just thrown away - in which case it's entered America anyway, hasn't it? Puzzling.

Summer Garden Memories

I'm on a short break - blogging will resume next week. But in the meantime, I can't resist reminiscing about my Western New York jungle.

 

Look too closely and you'll see the weeds (oh yes and a bee, above) but I still love it.

WNY Landmarks:The Little White Church

   Some time ago, I was driving through a nearby village called Great Valley, when, right in someone’s front garden,  I spied a tiny white chapel. In the middle of an immaculate lawn, topped by a cross, flanked by flowers and two white benches, it looked built for Hansel and Gretel. A sign said, “The Little White Church”, with, underneath, the words, “Welcomes You.”  Did it actually mean that?  Could anyone just walk in?  Being British, I checked first. There it was on the web, “The Little White Church in the Dell”, claiming to be the smallest roadside church in America and indeed open to anyone passing by. 

  And apparently it’s not the only church vying for the “smallest” title.  Extraordinary, when you’d think Americans would like everything big, big, big, that they’re so fascinated by tiny churches. I had no idea before I came here that Find-the-Smallest-Church-in America is a pastime among travellers.  There’s even another contender in our New York state, on an island in a lake. It accommodates just two people but it probably doesn’t count as a roadside church, since you can only get to it by boat.  Then there was the one I drove past on highway 17 down in Georgia. “The Smallest Church in America”, it said,  “Where folks rub elbows with God”.  It had its own miniature bell-tower and had been founded in 1949 by Agnes Harper, a local grocer, who took out the deed in the name of Jesus Christ.  It was non-denominational but people had left all sorts of Catholic mementoes – rosaries, miraculous medals, St Anthony candles.  That church was 10 feet by 15 – space for thirteen people if they held their breaths, according to the publicity. 

   But I’m afraid western New York has Georgia beat. Our Great Valley church is five feet by eight, big enough for four worshippers, max.   

  The owner, Gail Archer, showed me the exquisite little interior. There were gilded cherubs, brocade cushions for kneeling by the rail in front of a crucifix flanked by purple velvet curtains, a frieze of angels around the walls, plaques saying “Count Your Blessings” and “Be Still and Know that I am God” , an old Bible open, with a pair of round spectacles placed on it and a clever device to start bell chimes ringing when the door opened.  Music played softly – Gail didn't have it on all the time but tried to watch for people approaching. And it was air-conditioned too. Outside, the Ten Commandments greeted visitors and wind chimes tinkled in the breeze.

  Gail got the idea when she was cycling near Niagara Falls and came upon a similar tiny church. “Why, I’d like to have one!” she decided.  Hers was built a couple of years ago, with fifty people at the first service, sitting on the grass outside.  Gail told me it also hosted weddings. The neighbours were sceptical at first. “Do you really want people traipsing all over your yard?” but Gail went ahead anyway. She said she didn't want donations, for her, the satisfaction was providing a place of “rest and reflection”.
  The other day, though, I noticed, the "Welcomes You" sign had gone. I hope The Little White Church is still open.  

All Aboard

  I’m a sucker for steam trains and it was a happy day when I discovered I could take a trip in one right here in Western New York.  We had some young relatives staying,  so that was my excuse - but to be honest,  I didn’t really need one.

  It’s one of the paradoxes of America that railways, or railroads as they say here of course, were so important to America’s history and the country’s development  – just think of all those great scenes in the Westerns – and yet, these days, hardly anyone travels by train. It’s considered a bit of a joke. But give people a steam railway and they’ll come running.

   There’s not much in the little village of Arcade, save a couple of cafes, catering to the train-tripper trade but as we arrived, the refurbished ticket office at the “depot”, already had a long snake of families  waiting, marshalled by officials, dapper in old-fashioned peaked caps and waistcoats.

  “No picnic coolers”, warned the sign. It’s hard to separate an American from his picnic cooler and the day was hot and getting hotter. There’d be cold Coke and popcorn on the train though – for a small extra fee. 

The guards came in all shapes and sizes.

We walked out onto the platform where the vintage carriages stood ;  we’d been assigned to Number 311. 

Technically, there wasn’t actually a platform. This train, like American trains of old, would travel  at street level through the town. You had to scale the heights to get into it. We settled into our vintage seats, with backs you could usefully flip forward or back, to face either way. National Rail please take note.

  There was a small problem. There was no engine. Or rather there was one but it was away in the distance, being serviced.   We could see intermittent puffs of smoke but as yet no forward movement. 

 “There’ll be a very short delay” said a peaked-cap.   

 My heart sank.  Having done a lot of flying in America, I’m familiar with the “short delay”. It usually means you can kiss your day goodbye.  Or, in this case, get the substitute diesel engine, which would be a bit of a let down.

  Meanwhile, a man with an accordion walked up and down the carriage geeing everyone up with  “She’ll be Comin’ Round the Mountain” and  “Old MacDonald had a Farm.” As he started that one,  a small boy jumped off the train, hotly pursued by Dad.

 “Get back in here!”

 “No! I hate that song!”

 Some early trauma caused by the fabled farmer evidently trumping a train ride, the kid departed at a fair lick.

  “You can block your ears. Get back in here!”

  The kid reluctantly returned.

  At last, the engine started to move, got attached and with a groan and the clang of a bell, we were off.

 That’s a euphemism. We crawled. But it was a chance to wave to the onlookers with their cameras as we crossed Main Street and pulled laboriously out of town.

  Smoke blew past the open windows – full of smelly memories for the oldies and a frisson of excitement for the kids. The railroad, ever mindful that America is the land of lawyers,  said it admitted no responsibility for sooty clothes.

   The train limped through fields of just-springing corn, past lazy rivers and thick groves of summer trees. Something moved among them and I listened for yelping Indians.  But it was just a couple of deer scampering away.

    In the middle of nowhere, we jolted to a halt. There was a tiny museum with old telegraph and weighing machines and hot dogs and ice cream. The wheels got oiled...

 And I bought some rhubarb jam made in Yorkshire. Yorkshire, the village in Western  New York, that is.

Then we all clambered up for the journey back.  The kids gradually stopped waving and started wriggling and I heard the first plaintive,   “Can we get off now?”  We nostalgia freaks had forgotten something:  steam train journeys could be a mite boring.

   Still, I wouldn’t have missed it.  I expect that, in the future,  when they’ve learned to beam us everywhere,  Star Trek- style, they’ll advertise rides on slow old Boeings and Airbuses  -  complete with built-in delays of course.

What's That in the Car Park?

I did a double take. But actually, around here, it's not so unusual. Many Amish families have been moving in, taking over dilapidated farmhouses and starting new communities. Buggy signs have appeared on the roads.

  I’m always surprised by the contrasts of life in America. Yes, the Americans have consumerism and materialism and terrible television. But they also have the Amish.

    The first Amish farmhouse I saw was neat, if slightly peeling, with a long washing line attached high up on the barn, on which hung wide trousers, shirts and aprons, all in shades of blue.  We knew it was Amish because there were no electric or telephone cables going to the house, no cars or tractors in the yard, just a couple of black horse buggies parked among the straw bales.  A hut outside had a handwritten sign:  “Baked Goods. Closed on Sundays”.  A girl came out of the house – she could have been any age from 12 to 30, barefoot, in a long dress of  heavy blue cloth, fastened not with zips or buttons, but pins. She wore a cap over her hair and spoke in an odd, German-sounding accent. She was polite but not effusive – very un-American. She apologized that there were only a couple of pies left but we bought what she had. As we left, a row of children, boys in straw hats and baggy trousers with braces, little girls in bonnets, waved shyly from the porch. I tell you those pies were the best I’d ever tasted. 

  The Amish, from the European Anabaptist tradition, are a Christian sect that believes in a humble, pacifist, family-oriented life, foregoing luxuries and modernity. Like many other religious groups, they found a haven in America, first arriving in the early eighteenth century. Now they live in 22 states and in Canada.

  Our local western New York Amish are the Old Order  – the strictest. They have no electricity, cars, washing machines, telephones, though they can use a diesel engine for a lumber business, for example. Their clothes are always blue or black.  The men, once they marry, grow long beards framing their faces – but never a moustache. The children go to special Amish schools until age fourteen, when they leave to help on the farm.

  Their life may look simple but the Amish have excellent business skills. They sell baskets, woodcarvings,  pickled beets, peach preserve, apple butter, vegetables – and build the best barns, which they’ll do for the market price and a lift in your pickup truck (allowed, so long as someone else drives).  The local tourist office issues maps showing which farms in the back roads sell what and reminding visitors to treat the Amish with respect, not to take photographs and never never to expect them to open up on Sundays. “Going to the Amish” is a popular excursion among our neighbours and people from much further afield.

   And the supreme “Going to the Amish” experience is buying a quilt. At our favourite place, in an outbuilding warmed by a wood stove, was a massive bed,  piled with layers and layers of spectacular quilts,  in age-old patterns. The couple, Elizabeth and Levi, were a good team, he lifting each quilt, while she explained the one underneath. We chose one called “heart of roses’ – each rose petal exquisitely embroidered by hand. Elizabeth, in Dickensian black bonnet and stout boots, wrapped the quilt in a bin liner and gave us washing instructions – cold water and salt . She had a map on the wall in which she’d stuck pins marking where her customers had come from.  There were several pins in Britain.  

   The Amish successfully and serenely manage to be both of the world and out of it. You can be driving on a country road and see an Amish horse and buggy trotting along at a spanking rate, complete with red safety triangle on the back. (Unfortunately there have been collisions, especially when people don't know to expect them.).  We saw an Amish couple at an auction, cannily buying up those old sewing machines you work with your feet.  They pay for their hospital treatment in cash – reputedly getting a good deal.  They’re law-abiding, peaceful and pay their taxes. And people admire them for sticking to their principles.
  But I wish the Amish family who had a stall at our local farmers' market would come back - they sold the most delectable doughnuts. 

Not for the Faint-Hearted

 I had better warn you that what follows is not for the squeamish.  But it might serve as a reality check for my London friends who envy my life in rural Western New York bliss.

  It’s true that, where I once had a balcony and two plant pots, I’ve now got a veritable Garden of Eden – rolling acres with a twinkling mountain stream,  chipmunks  scampering  around,   woodchucks waddling onto the porch, white tail deer lying down to sleep in dappled glades,  wild turkeys  sweetly teaching  their children  to fly from our garden furniture, hummingbirds and fat bumble bees  buzzing  melodiously among the flowers.

  Never mind that the acres are mostly jungle,   the chipmunks and woodchucks have dug a network of tunnels under the lawn worthy of Colditz Castle, the  turkeys  guzzle up all the blueberries,  the deer treat the shrubs like a buffet, the bees have managed to make a nest above the porch and the flowers mostly drown in triffid-like weeds, whose powers of growth and regeneration dwarf those of their counterparts in Britain. Whatever they’re on should be patented by some pharmaceutical company.   Perhaps the flora and fauna are all the more vibrant here because of the shortness of our summer. We’re in a constant battle with nature and nature always wins.  

     And it seems that, every year, nature throws some new delight at me.  Actually, did I say that nature always wins?  Not quite always.   A couple of summers ago, the lad who mows what passes for our lawn, was giving it a  vigorous going-over.   After he’d finished, I discovered a casualty.   A small snake had gone to its just deserts.  I tweaked it with a stick and a shudder,  then did a double take, backed away  and screamed for hubby,

  “Quick! Come here! I think it’s -  it’s - omigosh - I think it’s a rattlesnake!”

Hubby came running and scrutinised the corpse,  “I don’t see a rattle. ”

  “Yes but it’s just been run over by the lawnmower – it’s not exactly in good shape!  The rattle could be, well, anywhere!”

   I went weak at the knees and clutched at hubby’s arm.  I’m used to the snakes around here they call garden snakes. I don’t like them but they’re totally harmless. This one’s markings looked very different.

  I rushed to the internet and with shaking fingers looked up  websites with graphic photos of “Snakes of Western New York”,  the Common Garter Snake, the Black Rat Snake, the Eastern Hognose Snake et al.  Our victim  didn’t look like any of those. Until I got to the photo of, yes, you’ve guessed it, the Timber Rattlesnake.

   “You told me you didn’t have rattlesnakes here!” I howled to hubby, “That was before we were married of course!”

   The poor man shrugged,  “Well I didn’t think we did. I knew there were some in Pennsylvania……”

  “But that’s only half an hour away!”

  “Hang on”,   said hubby,  trying to regain control of the situation. “Look at the map of their territory. See, our bit isn’t shaded..”

  “Snakes can’t read maps!”   

   I must admit,  I was beginning to lose it.  Where there was one rattler, there might be hundreds  more and where had it come from, if not from under our garden shed? I was mentally packing my suitcase for England. Even hubby, for all his bravado,  looked a little green-around-the-gills.  “Maybe”, he suggested, “We could take another look?”

  Gingerly I went and studied the deceased a bit closer. I turned it over. It had a sort of chessboard pattern on its underside, and red blotches  with black lines around them.

   We went back to the internet. Suddenly a flood of relief swept over me. There was a photo I’d missed. “Eastern Milk Snake,” it said,  “Checkerboard pattern on its underside”, it said,  “Red blotches with a black line around them”, it said, “Harmless” it said.

  I told a friend about it afterwards. She fell about laughing. “You thought it was a what?!”

 “Well yes and then it turned out to be..”

“Don’t tell me – a milk snake!”

 “There”, said hubby, “Didn’t I tell you? Nothing to worry about!”  

  “This time,”  I muttered under my breath. 

 Did someone mention the Garden of Eden? 

Watch out. This one's alive.

A Strange Creature

It didn't look like any butterfly or moth I'd ever seen but there it was, poking at the flowers with a strange-looking hooked nose. Was it some weird mutant flown in from lands beyond? In fact, I almost thought it was a hummingbird, of which we have a few in summer, buzzing around briskly like tiny helicopters. But it was much too small, of course.
  Then I happened to be looking at the Hummingbird page in my new Birds of New York Field Guide (by Stan Tekiela). And in the section called "Compare", it said as follows:  "No other bird is as tiny. The Sphinx Moth also hovers at flowers but has clear wings and a mouth part  that looks like a straw which coils up when not at flowers. Doesn't hum in flight, moves much slower than the Hummingbird and can be approached. "  Sounds just the chap. Golly, thanks, Stan! Nice to know my mind is not yet completely addled.