This morning began with our usual debate in the darkness at 5:10 a.m. as to whether we should go to the gym or sleep another 40 minutes. I roll upright. Peg peers at the Hershey's Kiss-shaped outline perched at the side of the bed.
"Are you going running today?" This is code for "Damn, son. There's a lot more of you to love these days."
I realize I need to start running regularly again. I've let the cold and ice serve as an excuse for a sedentary lifestyle, and at my age this holding action against the ravages of time only moves in one direction, and ground lost in retreat is never really regained. Yep, I need to start pounding pavement, every day.
But this morning we instead go to the gym, where I lift weights while rocking out on '70s FM classic rock and P learns something on her phone while rowing in place. I get annoyed that the TV on the wall is tuned to Fox Business, with its cast of scoundrels, but before I can get a full head of steam another gym rat changes the station. I do like this place.
After a brisk fifty-minute workout, it's out the door and decision time again--do I turn left or right to go home? I opt for something different and turn left, figuring I'll cross town on Cedar Street about a block from the house.
Walking down the busy street I notice a historic marker perched oddly alone on a little grassy hillock. I get my shoes wet in the tall, strikingly green grass hiking up to read.
The Delaware Indian word "Achsinessink" apparently means "rock on rock," and refers to a chimney rock formation along the Chemung River near which they situated a village. The formation was blown up long ago when the railroad came through these parts.
The Moravians wandered these hills trying to convert the Delaware, often under the suspicious eyes of the English settlers nearby. When the Revolutionary War began, the Delaware were sufficiently ambivalent that both sides worked at wiping them out, and those who'd taken to the Moravian brand of Christianity fared especially poorly.
And the "forbidden path" apparently has nothing to do with whatever racy inference you're probably drawing right now--it referred to a westward trail into Ohio that the natives had forbidden the white settlers from traveling. It seems these missionaries got the Delaware to cut them a break, and we can see how that worked out.
Turning south one's eye is drawn to the headquarters of Corning, Inc., sprawling along the banks of the Chemung. The old headquarters is an ugly, space-age looking thing now mostly vacant to the north. This building is sleek, low slung, and a little menacing with its walls of black glass.
In the foreground is the berm built in the '70s to keep the Chemung River within its banks, after the great flood of '72 sent a wall of water through town. In the background is Corning's iconic tower featuring Little Joe the gaffer depicted on the side.
There was a time when I thought I'd just stay here, go to work for Corning, and spend the remainder of my days around nice people making things that improve the human condition. That didn't work out, however. One's vocational dexterity is greatly diminished at nearly 57 years old, with monetary obligations and not enough working life remaining for anyone to hire you. I watched my dad go through this a quarter century ago, and it arrived for me sooner than I realized.
As I ponder walking across the busy highway bridge into town, I notice a pedestrian crossing right there in front of me, the Centerway Bridge. How had I missed this?
Built in 1921, the bridge is soil-filled so they can grow flowers on it. The Houghton family really wanted it constructed, I guess so Mr. Houghton could drive that Bentley from the old Corning Glass Works headquarters that was once behind me, and straight up Pine Street to the Knoll. It's been closed to vehicular traffic since the '80s, and now is a delightful foot path from the Corning Museum of Glass into town.
If you peer across the bridge, you can see a few of the things I've described before. Over there on the left, the pale roof of the mansion on the Knoll peeks over the trees about halfway up the hill. To the right, just past the General Steuben Hotel, the clock tower of the Corning Free Academy pokes up abruptly. The Sinclaire Mansion is just beyond, a little further up the hill.
My contemplation of the views from the bridge is interrupted with a jolt as the 7 a.m. whistle (or horn--not sure what you'd call it) blasts from this building on the north side of the river, just behind me.
I almost leapt over the side of the bridge. Maybe some long-buried memory of air raid sirens during a far-off, unpleasant time briefly poking through the surface of my consciousness.
Coming down the south side of the bridge one encounters the old Centerway Clock Tower and Square, another one of those iconic Corning spots you can find in any tourist guide to the place.
There's no one out this morning, maybe because it's a little raw and damp.
Passing Corning, Inc., I notice that it's built on piers, with parking below. One could fairly guess that the high water mark of the 1972 flood probably crested just a little below the current floor level of the building.
Market Street is mostly deserted, except for an occasional car likely being driven by one of the local proprietors, out here at seven to unlock, count change, and get ready for the day. It's been almost miraculous that these small businesses have survived the pandemic, although a couple hung up their aprons with the promise to return once things truly get back to normal. We'll see.
It truly is the prettiest, cleanest downtown I'll ever experience, with no chain stores and no ersatz quaintness for tourist consumption. This is, as near as I can tell, authentic Main Street America. We're going to miss it.
Another space I never noticed--the lovely gardens of the Presbyterian Church at the base of Southside Hill.
It's enough to damn near make me want to be a Calvinist. Well, almost. And it does remind me of how much I miss the sacred spaces that once gave so much meaning to my life. Maybe one day.
Next on our tour comes the familiar huff and puff up Pine Street toward home.
Those sidewalks are a mess, aren't they? It turns out (per our new friend Mike) that the City of Corning is responsible for maintaining the trees along the street, but the homeowners are in charge of maintaining the sidewalks being slowly destroyed by the roots of those trees. It's a dodgy thing taking a walk at night here--Peg usually insists we keep to the streets rather than risking a nasty fall.
I pass the house Peg always says reminds her of the one in which she grew up in Tennessee.
There are no such edifices in my childhood, only a parade of ugly tract homes growing progressively larger as Dad climbed the HoJo ladder, then dramatically smaller after the divorce. I guess the upside is that we can drive by any generic neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses, and I'm reminded of my Velveeta and Wonder Bread childhood sitting on furniture from Levitz and watching the Banana Splits after school. Every place the same.
As I come up on the Sinclaire House I notice some unusual structures up on the roof.
Given that the stairs leading down from the northwest corner of the porch are just below, my guess is that these barriers are meant to keep an avalanche of accumulated snow from raining down on someone's head from the steeply pitched roof.
Time to get on with the day--I have an early hearing first thing eastern time, then need to steal a little billable time to study the instrument panel of this new airplane, a far more complicated beast than the venerable, round-dial F-15. And maybe I'll take a few minutes at lunch to go for a jog, and start chipping away at this paunch.
Comments