Photoset
October 02, 2012
2 notes

When I was younger my dad used to take my brother and I hiking through the oak-laden woods of Western New York. “If you look closely, you might be able to find some arrowheads,” he’d say. Very dad-like, but that was enough to send us scourging for hours, because I used to believe— and still do— that he was right. Those natives weren’t so removed from my present. Surely I’d be able to find some of their leftovers! But that’s also the blessing and the burden of being of the historical mindset: the past is always almost close enough to touch; almost clear enough to see. I can’t tell you how many childhood moments I spent waiting for an Iroquois to tap me on the shoulder. 

Have you ever heard of Caneadea, New York? If you have, we should talk, because I’m sure you have some sort of connection to the place, and that our ancestors probably rubbed elbows at a social gathering. It’s about 1.5 hours from Buffalo and perhaps about 2 from Rochester. The path to get there— rt. 19 to rt. 49— has that same sort of off-the-grid, backroads of Geneseo feel, but this one is different: this is the path of my roots, ancestrally speaking. 

Caneadea Cemetery isn’t fully abandoned, but the nature of its abandonment is a unique type that I haven’t encountered anywhere else. I’ve been coming at least once a summer with my dad for as far back as I can remember. It was there in that cemetery where I waited for the natives of Western New York to emerge from the brush and offer me an arrowhead as a sign of alliance. In between the graves of my ancestors I envisioned a lifetime older than I was, not just because of my historically-bent mind, but because I had never witnessed another person visit the cemetery while we were there, let alone discover any new grave sites. The place seems lonely; stagnant. An outhouse-sized caretaker’s quarters that had been in disrepair since prior to my arrival on the grounds, with layers of spiderwebs forming a cotton blanket over the outsides of the windows, was nowhere in site upon my arrival this past summer. While I questioned whether or not anyone had even opened its doors in decades, it was solidified proof that whatever oversight that took place since the spiders began weaving their webs failed to be enough to warrant that of a caretaker. When he walked away from his last day of work, it seemed he took his job away with him. 

This all isn’t to say that individuals don’t look out at all for the cemetery. New flags make their way to the fallen heroes, mostly from a regiment that fought in the Civil War, including a great, great, great grandfather of mine, and every so often it seems as though the lawn is cut. Whether this care is taken by someone from the town, however, is unclear, but I have my reasons for believing it’s not coming from the cemetery itself.

Many of the stones are fractured in a curious way— the tops laid carefully at the base, their writing weathered and slightly overgrown. In fact, some of the stones have been so enveloped that it’s difficult to tell where dirt and stone divide in certain areas. Some sites are completely covered. My great grandmother’s grave, Pearl, is so close to the edge of a small mountain that a good erosive winter might give us cause for concern come Spring. Sadly, my grandparents don’t have headstones (burials the result of cross-country sibling travel and the continual plan-makings that just push all plans to the future, including plans for headstones), which makes me wonder just who else might be without one, and without any loved ones to acknowledge them above ground. But I have to say, it’s beautiful. Even when you notice a stone you hadn’t seen before, or a freshly placed vase you could have sworn wasn’t there moments ago when you walked by, it’s still eerily comforting. Then again, it is there I picture the ongoings of my people. A Civil War Soldier, children taken too soon, and my Grandpa Fred— a celebrated boy scout who saved someone from drowning, earning his fifteen minutes of Erie County fame— were they ever here?

The berries and fresh water that runs into Rushford Lake remind me that life will still beat on. Long after the last arrowhead has weathered and last flag planted, the land’s hand will play a role in the area’s unique abandonment. And like the caretaker, when I’m standing in the midst of it all, I can’t help but wonder if it would be possible— if I stood there long enough— to watch it all slowly start to happen. 

Perhaps next July. Be on the look-out for the follow-up, avid readers. 

Tags: Caneadea Rushford Lake WNY buffalo buffalo ny geneseo rochester westernnewyork cemetery haunt haunted gravestone raspberry

Photo
May 24, 2012
5 notes
Though it usually alludes to desserted, dilapidated places, abandonment can be applied to objects and discarded items of the past as well. Sadly, written history leaves objects and items behind, just as it does places. An object deemed noteworthy or significant may find itself in a local museum or archives. An important or historic site may find itself on the National Registrar for Historic Places. But what about all the rest? These are the sort of thoughts that run through my mind as I drive from Rochester or Geneseo to Buffalo. For the past ten years I’ve been regularly driving the same route: 63, 20, 77, and 90 W. My route is extended now. What used to be a quick, hour-long trip from Geneseo to Buffalo has since turned into a seven hour trip from Brooklyn. But, every time I see signs for the I-90 N, I feel a rush of excitement, and a strange comfort. Within an hour I know I’ll be in Western New York. Whether urban or rural, I know I’m almost home. Here time seems to stand still. Farmhouses have kept their signature slants, and the weathered wood on pre-war farm colonials have continued to boldly stare Western New York winters in the face year after year. I’ve never seen anyone parked outside of the restaurant appropriately (and non-ironically) dubbed “The Barn.” The business activity of the “lumber company” at the bottom of North Street in Geneseo seems questionable, and its hastily hung signs and obscure location quite often leave me wondering whether it was ever really a business at all. I’ve never knocked on the door of the slanted, grey house on Rt. 63, but my imagination has concocted various reactions amongst the owners as they open the door to creepy- yet endearingly curious- stranger. Are they freaked out? Do they invite me in for homemade bread hand-canned jam? Do I find their Wal-Mart brand butter and disregard for recycling disappointing, crushing my rosie hopes for the slanty, grey house people? And these two cars? Well, they haven’t moved in ten years (at least in front of me). Every year I’ve watched the snow pile upon them in the winter, and slowly melt away with the spring. I’ve watched tractors and bobcats park themselves alongside of the old rust machines, but they’ve never moved. They’ve stayed still, and ten winters later, against the enduring, perennial slideshow, I find myself confusedly recalculating my years as I meditatively continue my drive.  I’m secretly enamored with this area. Though I say that time stands still, I mean it as a compliment (most of the time). This former frontier land played host to Erie Canal antics, the Second Great Awakening, and the rural scenes of the Women’s Rights Movement. It was also the birthplace of the Spiritualist Movement, and this area of Western New York isn’t going to let you forget it, either. Slanted grey houses and rusted clunkers remind you as you pass them by that they were used once, and they saw life here before you did. The particular abandonment is anomalous. Without the distractions of the city, it’s easier to notice the juxtaposition of the modern alongside the abandoned. In the alternate driveway, a Prius is parked next to an oversized trampoline. Down the road, and old barn stands behind a renovated, country-chic cabin home.  But maybe that’s what’s interesting about abandonment in the first place. The feeling of used, lived-in, or settled… all in the past tense. Every time I drive by these cars I wonder when they’ll be forgotten. I wonder how I’ll feel if when I drive my familiar route on my familiar roads they’re not there one day. I wonder why abandonment is sometimes such a familiar feeling. 

Though it usually alludes to desserted, dilapidated places, abandonment can be applied to objects and discarded items of the past as well. Sadly, written history leaves objects and items behind, just as it does places. An object deemed noteworthy or significant may find itself in a local museum or archives. An important or historic site may find itself on the National Registrar for Historic Places. But what about all the rest?

These are the sort of thoughts that run through my mind as I drive from Rochester or Geneseo to Buffalo. For the past ten years I’ve been regularly driving the same route: 63, 20, 77, and 90 W. My route is extended now. What used to be a quick, hour-long trip from Geneseo to Buffalo has since turned into a seven hour trip from Brooklyn. But, every time I see signs for the I-90 N, I feel a rush of excitement, and a strange comfort. Within an hour I know I’ll be in Western New York. Whether urban or rural, I know I’m almost home.

Here time seems to stand still. Farmhouses have kept their signature slants, and the weathered wood on pre-war farm colonials have continued to boldly stare Western New York winters in the face year after year. I’ve never seen anyone parked outside of the restaurant appropriately (and non-ironically) dubbed “The Barn.” The business activity of the “lumber company” at the bottom of North Street in Geneseo seems questionable, and its hastily hung signs and obscure location quite often leave me wondering whether it was ever really a business at all. I’ve never knocked on the door of the slanted, grey house on Rt. 63, but my imagination has concocted various reactions amongst the owners as they open the door to creepy- yet endearingly curious- stranger. Are they freaked out? Do they invite me in for homemade bread hand-canned jam? Do I find their Wal-Mart brand butter and disregard for recycling disappointing, crushing my rosie hopes for the slanty, grey house people?

And these two cars? Well, they haven’t moved in ten years (at least in front of me). Every year I’ve watched the snow pile upon them in the winter, and slowly melt away with the spring. I’ve watched tractors and bobcats park themselves alongside of the old rust machines, but they’ve never moved. They’ve stayed still, and ten winters later, against the enduring, perennial slideshow, I find myself confusedly recalculating my years as I meditatively continue my drive. 

I’m secretly enamored with this area. Though I say that time stands still, I mean it as a compliment (most of the time). This former frontier land played host to Erie Canal antics, the Second Great Awakening, and the rural scenes of the Women’s Rights Movement. It was also the birthplace of the Spiritualist Movement, and this area of Western New York isn’t going to let you forget it, either. Slanted grey houses and rusted clunkers remind you as you pass them by that they were used once, and they saw life here before you did.

The particular abandonment is anomalous. Without the distractions of the city, it’s easier to notice the juxtaposition of the modern alongside the abandoned. In the alternate driveway, a Prius is parked next to an oversized trampoline. Down the road, and old barn stands behind a renovated, country-chic cabin home. 

But maybe that’s what’s interesting about abandonment in the first place. The feeling of used, lived-in, or settled… all in the past tense. Every time I drive by these cars I wonder when they’ll be forgotten. I wonder how I’ll feel if when I drive my familiar route on my familiar roads they’re not there one day.

I wonder why abandonment is sometimes such a familiar feeling. 

Tags: Geneseo Buffalo Rochester Rt63 wny westernnewyork