Hi Donna, The street is still much the same only older. The memories of us still linger there for anyone to stop by and collect them. Joey

Hi Donna, The street is still much the same only older. The memories of us still linger there for anyone to stop by and collect them. Joey

Hi Donna, The street is still much the same only older. The memories of us still linger there for anyone to stop by and collect them. Joey

Is this our old street? How sad! It was such a beautiful place when we were growing up. Or did it just seem so?

Is this our old street? How sad! It was such a beautiful place when we were growing up. Or did it just seem so?

The Senator’s Place The gas lights flickered unevenly in their colored sconces along the tavern walls. The pungent smell of ancient beer spills was embedded in the oaken floor boards. The reek of unwashed bodies mingled with cigar smoke and tickled the nose with its acrid scent. It was cool, dark and musty inside, ideally suited for the brotherhood of the befuddled who met there regularly to sit and visit with “the creature.” The conversation was usually lively with strongly held opinions on the issues of the day. The solutions seem to come easier after the fourth of fifth beer. The sign outside read “Martin’s Emporium of Fine Spirits.” But everyone just called the lower Main Street saloon “The Senator’s Place.” The proprietor, William Martin, was a man of substance in the waterfront area of Buffalo New York during the early 1900’s. His one term as a New York State Senator had convinced him that the elegant capitol building in Albany was a house of charlatans and blow hards. It had however earned him ever after the honorary title of “Senator.” That was the moniker that both patrons and friends adopted for him. The Irish were always fond of grand titles. Willie Martin didn’t mind much what people called him. Son of a First Ward, roof slater, William “Nails” Martin and Grandson of an immigrant Great Lakes sailor, Emmanuel “Manuch” Martin, he wasn’t much interested in the niceties of Buffalo’s social scene. His people were dock wallopers, grain scoopers and laborers who were usually only comfortable “with their own.” Most of the lads could claim direct descent from some ancestral rascal who had fled the constabulary in the misty isle of Eire to the safe haven of America. The King and Queen of England regularly received bawdy toasts at the bar commemorating and solidifying the undying enmity of a race of descendants who long remembered the oppression of English Colonial rule, even here in this working class section of Buffalo, New York, some 3,000 miles to the west. The Irish were short on the forgiving and long on the remembering. English writer Lord Chesterton commented ruefully that “The Irish were a race that God made mad, for all their wars are merry and all their songs are sad.” Waterfront saloons like Willie Martin’s were sometimes rough and tumble affairs, composed of a long wooden bar, polished to mirror shine, a row of stools and a few tables scattered along the wall. A platter of rough bread and slices of ham sat on the bar, for patrons who were paying for their drinks. Such was the sum and substance of the Senator’s current earthly domain. It was the second story of the building that held the real treasure. Like a latter day Ali Baba’s Cave, there could be found there an eclectic array of mercantile goods that had “fallen off” many of the cargo laden ships and commercial vessels in Buffalo’s busy Lake Erie harbor. If you needed anything from bolts of cloth, to firearms and metal ware, you could probably find it amongst the darkened rows of goods piled up in the tavern's second story. Privileged friends and family were allowed access to the treasure house where they could purchase some much prized materials at substantial discounts. The local constabulary looked the other way to this bountiful “commercial opportunity.” Most of the beat patrol lads were guests of Willie’s at least one night or two a week. Most also were cousins or family of the many patrons that wandered in and out daily. This was a small, tight-knit community of the descendants of the old sod. They were bound by ever tightening bonds of blood, tradition and mutual thievery. By and large the social commerce in “The Senator's Place” was quiet and peaceful. Laboring all day on the docks and grain boats took a bit of easing at day’s end. The icy foam and beaded sweat of several cold draft beers washed away the grit of the wheat from shoveling grain all day in the holds of Buffalo’s many grain ships. The wooden shovels or “hickory back hoes” were an extension of the men's thickly muscled arms, as they rhythmically unloaded the grain stuffs of the midwest for transshipment to the populous cities of the east coast. Occasional “dust em ups” would occur spontaneously in “The Senator's Place.” These were as natural as the rising and setting sun. Most patrons knew enough however to temper their disputes within an acceptable and mildly hostile range of spirited and ribald acrimony. These were hard men who led difficult lives. Hard measures were sometimes needed to deal with them. Willie Martin had the broad shoulders and oak hard arms of a laborer. His thrice broken nose and scarred fists marked him as a brawler with an impressive record of wins in an area known for its rough and tumble fighters. The Irish always claimed that they needed to fight each other in order to find opponents worthy of the effort. Usually a harsh glance, or a raised growl from the Senator, would terminate the bar room argument. Occasionally, under the sodden influence of too much of the barley, the combatants persisted or elevated the disagreement. Willie would sigh quietly, walk to the end of the bar and lock the tavern door. Then he would walk over to the two miscreants who were shouting or shoving each other. Quietly, so none would notice, he swung the leather sap, filled with lead buckshot, like a reaper’s swath. The thud of a leather coated sap striking just behind the right ear of one brawler was soft like a melon splattering. The effects were immediate. The large and drunken hooligan dropped like a felled oxen. The rising arc from Willie’s upswing caught the other miscreant on his right temple. He dropped soundlessly on top of his opponent. Fighting wasn't tolerated in “The Senator's Place.” All of the local patrons knew that. Regular patrons “Shithooks” Kelly and “Harborlights” Reardon had been watching the fracas from down at the end of the bar. They knew that the sequence of events following The Senator’s last warning would be predictable. They took a last swallow of beer and got up to help Willie drag the luckless brawlers to the alley door. The two unfortunate lads were pitched into the alley where they lay inert and lifeless amidst the garbage and the alley filth. It was Saturday night, so they had no work on the morrrow. They would wake several hours later on early Sunday morning just before Mass, with enormously sore heads and mild hangovers, mementos of their time spent with the creature. Both would be penitent for their collective sins and probably be allowed probationary return into the Tavern’s warm embrace after a stern warning from The Senator. Both had learned a valuable lesson that day. Occasionally even nastier sorts entered the tavern, and were bent on nothing honorable. For rascals like these, Willie had a sawed off shot gun mounted on a swivel pivot beneath the bar. The lethal keeper of order was rarely needed. But regulars spoke of it in soft whispers, pointing to the patch of repaired wood on the bar wall surface facing just opposite the cash register, and just about opposite the mouth of an evil looking shot gun they knew lay beneath. One late Saturday night a drifter had the temerity to point a Navy Colt revolver at the Senator and ask him for a large and involuntary personal contribution from the saloon’s till. Willie only smiled and continued wiping the bar with his left hand. His right hand slowly gripped the trigger of the shot gun and swung its mouth in the direction of the foolish stranger. When the rascal persisted in his unreasonable demands and then threatened to back up his request with lead, Willie squeezed the trigger. The shotgun roared and a large circular section of the bar exploded into the mid body region of the miscreant, folding him up like an accordion and propelling him across the bar, where he smashed into the wall and then toppled unceremoniously into a lifeless heap. The hushed quiet in the bar was louder than thunder. The other patrons of course saw nothing. They filed out of the saloon quietly after a quick and determined glance and nod from the Senator. Brothers Frank, Danny and Manuch Martin were summoned. The Martin boys wrapped the luckless and would be robber in a dirty canvas sail cloth. Lifting him on their shoulders like an old rug, they carried him down the alley to a ten foot skiff that they had tied up in the canal. The lads were all veteran rowers, used to lake oaring from years of competition at the Gaelic Rowing Club on the nearby Beach. They rowed steadily until the small craft was situated in deep water just outside the harbor’s break wall. The anonymous miscreant, for none would ever know his name, was dumped over board, weighted down with ballast stones from the canal boats. He had exercised a serious error in judgment that night and would never again see the light of day. The Martin boys were philosophical yet unapologetic. These were hard men they consorted with and hard measures were sometimes needed to deal with them. The Martin boys rowed back to the canal, tied up their dinghy and walked back to the Senator's Place. They settled in for a few final drafts of Iroquois beer before heading back to their homes on Louisiana and Fulton Streets. It had been a full and interesting evening. Any help that Willie needed was okay with them. He was the point man in the family team and provided the municipal contacts that helped all of them feed their growing families. The Martin brothers stuck together like glue. They worked, drank and went to church in the same neighborhood, a few blocks from the Senator’s Place. Anyone rash enough to face down one of the Martins faced the collective wrath of all of them. Tomorrow, William (Nails)Sr. would be asked to fashion and cut a wooden patch for the destroyed section of the bar. It would serve as a reminder to all who entered that The Senator didn’t tolerate tomfoolery in his place. The local constabulary of course would never become aware of the affair officially. If some officers did indeed hear the odd whisper of the event from the more voluble lads,they knew enough not to inquire further. This was the Buffalo waterfront and such things happened from time to time. And this was after all “The Senator’s Place.” The next morning, the Senator arrived early at brother Manuch’s home at 74 Fulton St. He was joining Manuch and family for early Mass and breakfast. It was still then the practice to fast before Mass and Communion on Sunday mornings. Willie had a soft spot for Manuch’s wife and family. He had not found time to yet make his own, so he adopted Manuch’s. Manuch’s wife Mary Tevington was a diminutive slip of a girl. Her folks, neighbors on the nearby beach, were “lace curtain Irish.” It was a local reference that meant “ they that had fruit in the house when no one was sick.” But she had no airs about her and fit well into the large and raucous Martin clan. Manuch and Mary already had a large brood of young ones. Daughters Marion, Lenore & Elizabeth were paired with sons Edward, John, William and Francis, the youngest. The brood, all spit-polished and shined for Mass, followed the three adults down Fulton Street, to the nearby haven of St. Brigid’s for nine o’clock Mass. Church in this neighborhood, like gatherings in the Senator’s Place, were a collection of friends and family that might just as well have occurred in a small town in the West of Ireland. The Rileys, the Higgins, the O’Connors and the Carney’s were all present this morning. Just across the aisle, The Burkes, the Ryans and the Quinns all nodded and smiled their greetings. Several of the men had been in the Senator’s place last night, when the odd stranger had come in so boldly and left so sadly, but that was another time and place now forgotten. Father Patrick Finnegan was in fine form that morning. The esoteric verbal jumble of the Latin Mass was a soothing analgesic to a flock that had labored much and difficultly to survive that week. They listened hungrily to the vigorous sermon of the priest, seeking to divine some personal revelation from the words the man uttered. Though small in stature, Father Finnegan was the top banana in a small tight knit community. He knew everything that went on and ministered to his flock in a manner best able to help them get through another week in a working class community where the creature influenced the lives of many of the brethren. Weekly confession revealed to him the long, seemingly endless line of human frailties and transgressions that needed absolution. He had already heard, via some mysterious neighborhood telegraph, of the incident in the Senator’s Place last night. A brief reference to pray for the souls of the recently departed was the only comment he would make on the matter. He was a practical man and knew well his constituents and the difficulty of their lives. After Mass, Willie, Manuch, Mary and the children walked back to Manuch’s home on Fulton Street for a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and jam. Working men had prodigious appetites. Children always ate like locusts. The children changed from their “good clothes” and were soon scattered throughout the neighborhood on their various missions and Sunday play. Mary , sweet soul that she was, washed the many dishes while Willie and Manuch walked down to the Senator’s Place. It was Sunday morning and the saloon was closed for business. But they were meeting their Da there, William Sr., so he could effect repairs to the bar wall before questions could arise from curious patrons on Monday. Willie also had invited brothers Frank and Danny to the meeting. He wanted to talk to them all about another expedition to Silver Creek, a small Lake Erie port, some 35 miles South West of Buffalo. It was also the spot where the brothers berthed their thirty foot boat, the Mary Tevington, named after Manuch’s wife. She was a wooden and gaff rigged sloop that had for many years hauled freight from Buffalo to the Dunkirk- Fredonia areas. She now served as the Martin clan’s principal means of smuggling boot leg whiskey into the United States from Canada. Usually the four hour sail from Silver Creek to the Canadian shore was uneventful. Their Canadian partners were faithful and the profits from the smuggled whiskey helped feed the families of all present. They were eager to make the run. But it was now early November and the dangerous gales could spring up quickly on shallow Lake Erie. Still, the men needed the money. The grain boats were coming less often as the shipping season ended. That meant less work for Manuch and the other grain scoopers. They had to provide for their families somehow and The Senator’s Place needed the stock. The brothers decided to make the run that evening. The day followed quietly enough. Willie helped his Da repair the bar and clean up the saloon. The other brothers spent time with their families and tended to the various chores that needed doing at week’s end. Buffalo’s harsh winter would soon be upon them. They needed sufficient stores of coal in their basement bunkers to fire their stoves and keep their houses in good repair, before hunkering down in the heavy snows to come. In the late afternoon, the Martin Brothers gathered at the Senator’s Place. They had on their heavy woolens and outdoor wear, suited for the cold run across the lake. A nip of the creature warmed their blood before setting off. It was only thirty some miles south to Silver Creek, but the roads were poor affairs and the ride down Route Five, along the lake shore, would take two hours. They bundled into the old Ford flat bed truck and set off. The fiery furnaces of the sprawling Lackawanna Steel complex were spewing their ash into the sky. The occasional heat of poured steel lit up the evening sky in a medieval fashion, like fiery scenes from the nether regions. The villages of Hamburg, Eden, Brant and Evans were as yet sleepy little affairs where small collections of citizens huddled along the lake shore to eke our their livings among the dairy farms and small shops. The rural Indian reservation near Brant was an isolated collection of mean houses where the Martins sometimes stashed their goods if the border patrol became excessively curious. Though the brothers could not know it, their shacks on the beach there would serve as family cottages for many generations of the Martin clan yet to come. Silver Creek was then a small village whose principal asset was a deep creek mouth where small sloops were berthed. The Martins boarded and readied the Mary Tevington for her sail across the lake. The wind was rising and the air cooling but it was November in Buffalo. It was to be expected. The four hour sail went easily enough. A westerly, quartering wind had filled their mainsail and pushed them easily north and west to the remote spot on the Canadian shore near Long Point. Their Canadian friends were waiting for them. They unloaded the cases of prized Canadian whiskey from the truck and then transferred them via dinghy to the shallow cargo hold of the Mary Tevington. A last friendly glass of the creature with their suppliers and they pushed off the beach, rowed out to the Mary Tevington and were off. The winds had risen considerably. It was dark out but one could still see the phosphorescent crest of the lake rollers as they crashed upon the nearby shore. It would be a rough ride back. The boat handled sluggishly with so much weight in her hold. The brothers tacked back and forth continuously hoping to gain an edge on the rising wind. Even laden with freight, the old girl heeled over precipitously from tack to tack into the wind. The Martins were sturdy sailors all. They had been raised at Grandfather Emmanuel Martin’s knee. Stories of his life, sailing the Great Lakes in both sailing ships and later in steam ships were familiar lore to all of them. They were all accomplished sailors and swimmers at an early age. Old Emmanuel saw to that. But even the considerable nautical skill of the Martins was tested this night. The strengthening westerly winds and the rising waves were making the short sail into a difficult voyage. Dead reckoning had gotten them off the Dunkirk light some six hours later. They were wet, bedraggled and weary from the hard sail. The Dunkirk light, flickering faintly on the nearby shore, meant that they were almost there. They tacked into the wind and ran quickly before it for the last few miles into Silver Creek, almost home. Whether it was a brief moment of relaxed vigilance or just bad luck, they never knew. A great crunching sound shuddered throughout the body of the Mary Tevington. They had struck a rocky shoal just outside the Silver Creek Harbor. The boat, rent with a great gash in her underside, was taking on water and sinking fast. A quick look at the rapidly rising level of the water in her hold told the boys all they needed to know. The ship was lost and they needed to look out for themselves. Launching the dinghy in this heavy a sea was a fool’s errand. It would soon swamp. Still, maybe it would help one of them keep afloat. They tossed anything that floated over the side, tied their shoes around their neck, said a brief prayer and then one by one jumped from the foundering ship into the roiling lake waters. From a young age, they were all strong lake swimmer but in seas like this, who knew? Each of them was tired rom the long sail, yet determined to make it to shore. Manuch had the image of sweet Mary Tevington and his large clan in his mind. He fought the roiling sea mightily and made for land with a vigorous stroke. A last glance seaward showed the lantern, in the mast rigging off the Mary Tevington, just slipping into the sea. She would sail no more. None would taste the fine nectar of her cargo but the fish and crabs. Somehow, the lads all made it to shore. They were all wet and bedraggled but happy to be alive. They could always outfit another ship and find more whiskey. Each other they could not replace. They were wet and miserable, yet giddy and elated, happy as all men are who have just come close to meeting their maker. They piled wet and cold into the old Ford flat bed and made the two hour drive to Buffalo. Collectively , they were silent on the ride back. All realized how close they had come to not returning. Lake Erie was an unforgiving mistress in November. Grandpa Emmanuel had taught them all that. Still, they were all alive and ready for another go when the time would next come. Like all seafarers, it was the way they made their living. Finally, on early Monday morning, they arrived at the Senator’s Place. Strong coffee, even stronger drafts of the creature and a large coal fed stove soon restored their mood. Frank and Danny good naturedly abused each other as to who wasn’t looking when the boat had struck the shoals. For years ever after they would refer to their “family swim” off Silver Creek Harbor, accompanied by gales of laughter. They would sail many more times during the coming Prohibition Era and run a lively speakeasy from the “Senator’s Place” for many years. It was who and what they were. -30- Joseph Xavier Martin

Queen City of the Lakes During the shipping season, at the Erie Basin Marina on Buffalo’s waterfront, you can often watch the massive bulk of a lake freighter glide by the nautical eminence of “The USS Sullivans,” “The USS Little Rock,“ and “The USS Croaker.” The battle ships and submarine, moored at the Naval & Servicemen’s Park, are floating memorials and naval monuments to the bravery of another age. The scenic walkway here runs along the Buffalo River and looks across to the 19th century eminence of the China Lighthouse at the U.S. Coast Guard Base. Looking out at the Lake from here,on a windy day, you can feel and see the undulating Lake Erie rollers, as they swell and crash over the cap rocks of the offshore break wall, in a spume of frothy spray.The mesmerizing rhythm helps the mind drift back to a time before there was a City of Buffalo. The Senecas, Iroquois and French traders camped here before it was the far frontier of a new America. Later, the Erie Canal helped funnel the new country’s Westward expansion through Buffalo, a wild and bawdy frontier town. The brothels on Canal Street were without number then. In the saloons, unscrupulous barkeeps were apt to slip the unwary patron a “mickey finn” in his beer. The unfortunate and unconscious pilgrim would then be fleeced of his poke and dropped into the Buffalo River, through a trap door in the back room. It was a rough and ready existence where the ruthless and the cunning prospered. Great tall masted sailing ships, with spider-webbed rigging and fluttering sheets of billowing canvass, plied the harbor and added more cargo and sailors to the already bustling tumult of the canal district. The crumbling grain elevators, on and around Kelly Island, are towering cylindrical reminders of a time in the 19th century, when Buffalo was second only to Chicago for grain storage, beef production and rail yards.The grain merchants hired the immigrant Irish in droves for the dusty and dangerous job of scooping and unloading the grain.The new Americans, with their lilting brogue and hickory backhoes, shoveled the mountains of grain from the waiting freighters. The eclectic architecture all around the area is the pride of Louis Sullivan,Frank Lloyd Wright, Richardson, White and other visionaries who were building a new America.The Delaware Avenue mansions stood as great gilded retreats of the privileged, symbols of Buffalo’s new found commercial wealth. The Panama exhibition of 1901 was a wonder of the modern world. President McKinley was shot down here and later died. Teddy Roosevelt was inaugurated shortly afterwards in the Wilcox Mansion. Jack London spent time in our county jail and Mark Twain was a newspaper editor here in the 1840’s. U.S. Presidents, Grover Cleveland and Millard Fillmore, hailed from Buffalo at a time when the city was a commercial and industrial colossus. The great open heart of Canada lies a few yards across the Niagara River. From the headland of the upper terrace, the mind’s ear can still hear the ancient echo of booming cannons from Forts Niagara, George and Erie.The thundering cannon still ring in our collective consciousness.The remembered and acrid smell of burning timber reminds us of the time, during the War of 1812, when the British and Indians burnt the new village of Buffalo to the ground.We have seen and weathered much in this town. Buffalo is a series of ethnic villages, linked loosely together in a confederation, that gives the city color and life. Buffalo has the vibrancy of New York City and the laid back charm of the mid west. Chicken wings,” beef on weck,” Bocce’s pizza and any kind of beer attract the faithful in great shuddering throngs.Our baseball and football stadia reflect the emergence of the rowdy working class to the pursuit of leisure.The games have the clash and ring of the Roman Arena, only in Buffalo we are more serious about the contests. The scattering of saloons, in the ethnic neighborhoods, is a smoky archipelago of warmth and companionship, a place where bankers and bums can rub elbows in a confraternity of the befuddled. Buffalo is a great ethnic swirl of color and diversity. But, beneath the patina of the Theater District, art galleries and museums however, beats the remembered heart of a sprawling frontier town, lusty with life. In that respect, little has changed in Buffalo. We are children of the weather.The snow and the wind often roar across the waterfront and then just as suddenly, are gone. It is like sharing sleeping quarters with a ten thousand pound elephant.You soon grow sensitive to its needs to toss and turn.Coping with the weather in Buffalo shapes and defines the mental toughness of our character. We are a city of immigrants that struggled much to get here and liked what we found. -30- Joseph Xavier Martin

GUNSMOKE REVISITED It’s funny what things stick in your mind from childhood. The images lie undiscovered, like mementos in an old trunk, until someone or something triggers the mechanism that opens the trunk and sheds light on the old memories that have been stored there these many years. I don’t remember how many times I watched James Arness, in the guise of Marshall Matt Dillon, walk down the streets of 19th century Dodge City and draw his six shooter to gun down an evil varmint. It seems like he out drew half the population of the old west during his weekly visits to our living room on Seneca Parkside in South Buffalo, N.Y. Then, he and Amanda Blake, as Longbranch saloon owner “Kitty,” would have their weekly conversation either before or after someone got beat up or shot in the saloon. Milburn Stone, as “Doc,” would be summoned by a limping “Chester,” who always seemed to be in a hurry to get someplace or do something. When he wasn’t running for the Doc, or working as a blacksmith, Chester was urgently seeking the Marshall to deal with some serious problem or malfactor. In a series of plaintive wails, Chester would call out “Mister Dillon,” “Mister Dillon!” Dennis Weaver never really shed the “Chester” image until much later in his career, when he assumed the “McQuaid” persona in another television series. Folks just naturally wanted him to be the “Chester” that they let into their living rooms every week. Why would Dennis ever want to be “McQuaid” when he was the Chester that they had known for so many years? Ditto for the rest of the cast. The plots, when there was one, were never very complicated. The good guy shot the bad guy and then won the girl or the horse, in a classic “oater” that was to become part of our American folklore. I have glimpsed, on occasion, the “gunsmoke” series on a cable channel that carries old syndicated television series from time to time. Matt Dillon, Kitty, Doc and Chester still play out their roles, just as I remember them from so long ago. The streets of Dodge City seem a little smaller and the dialogue a little simpler than I remember them. But the series still has the same elemental appeal that attracted me so many years ago. The good guy shoots the bad guy and get the girl or the horse. If only real life were so simple and the outcome so predictable. Joseph X. Martin

I can feel it again, that aura of being slightly ill at ease. The oppressive weight of the less than credible and self serving rhetoric crowds the air waves. It is near the eve of Election Day, 2008 in Buffalo, N.Y.. Today, seven separate mailers arrived at our doorstep urging us to vote for this “angel” or against “that devil.” The collective cost of the mailers would feed thousands of the poor for months. Why does it make me feel so uneasy? I also feel this way when I see “eating contests” at fairs and picnics. The thought of how many of the needy who could be able to eat, even a fraction of the food consumed, makes me uneasy. It isn’t any logical argument that I can articulate, just a vague notion that “something is out of balance here.” Am I the only one who feels this way or just the only one goofy enough to voice such feelings? And then there is the cast of characters involved. After thirty five years in the trenches, I “know a few things” about many who are involved. Is that really such and such that they are portraying as a Kennedyesque figure? I know that person to be nice enough, but an amiable boob! And is that other person really as bad as they say? I don’t think so. Flawed like the rest of us maybe, but not as evil as he or she is portrayed. What has happened to our political discourse that such feats of verbal and artistic magic can transform people this way? Who is the man behind the curtain pulling the levers like the Frank Houston Character in the Wizard of Oz? Why is he doing these things? “What’s in it for him” the cynic in me asks? It is the wrong time of year for Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny I know to be a fraud. How do we sort all of this rhetoric out? Voters are pretty sophisticated if not readily articulate of their feelings. They get a “certain sense” of things and cast their votes accordingly. Sometimes they get fooled temporarily. But in the long run, it usually works itself out. I think the common voters may be the great saving grace of our system, a philosophical leavener that lets the air out of the gas bags and separates the chaff from the wheat. The notion that this is true may be somewhat idealistic, but a comforting rationalization to me. I have been the lab tech, “Igor” helping create the monster enough times to make me feel uneasy when the current crop of Frankensteins wreak their havoc on the system. I have also taken down enough ogres to hopefully atone for my part in all adventures. In any case, I hope everyone votes on Election Day. Whenever citizens come out in large numbers, things seem to work out pretty well. Rascals only thrive and prosper in secret. The psychology of elections is simple enough. Get people to like your candidate and believe he/she will do more for them than “the other guy.” And how do we do this? Is it running some visually pleasing television and radio commercials, making phone calls and sending out slick mailers that say your candidate is the best thing since sliced bread? Well, partly so. Clever media utilization reinforces visually ideas that voters already hold about candidates.The actions of some involved in elections are a puzzle to me. They ignore the fundamentals. In most small communities in our country, there is an innate distrust of “outsiders.” The tendency is to back “one of our own” for election. It behooves candidates then to make themselves known, through a lifetimes activities, to the electorate. Barring that, second party validation serves the same purpose. It means someone that you do know and respect says ”this candidate will be good for us.” You trust the speaker’s wisdom and adopt his/her opinions, voting for the candidate that they recommend.Why don't they all do this? In some cases, it may be a fundamental lack of understanding of the process. In others, it is a professional arrogance that suggest that a small group of operatives can sell anything to any body. Sometimes it is true, usually it isn’t. The dynamics of winning the trust of the electorate are age old, since the first cave man promised to clean up the dinosaur doo doo from the cave entrance. It is mildy humorous for me to watch a television ad trumpeting the intelligence, initiative and qualifications of someone I know to be but an amiable boob. Who does anyone think they are fooling? The exception maybe sports and military figures. Americans, as George C. Scott narrated in his introduction of the movie classic “Patton,” love a winner. We over look faults that would disqualify other mere mortals. Is it fair? No, but it is human. It was always thus I suppose. “A “chicken in every pot,” “forty acres and a mule” and a cavalcade of other attractive hooks have lured in, and in some cases hoodwinked, voters since the dawn of our republic. As ugly as it can get today, it was even worse “way back when.” Is there a solution to this electoral myopia? Perhaps not. Sometimes we get “stuck with a lemon” no matter how discerning our judgment. Still, the fundamentals exist. Show voters the goodness, innate decency and favorable intentions of a candidate and usually they will adopt him/her as one of their own. All of the slick media ads, glossy mailers and catchy phrases won’t help a candidate unless he reaches out on a broad level to “engage the electorate.” Most people know this intuitively. Those who do it successfully win, those who don’t eventually lose. Vote as if your life and family’s health depends upon the election, for it does every time. -30- Joseph Xavier Martin

A Badge of Honor During the late 1950’s, in a small Catholic Parish on the South Side of Buffalo,N.Y., a cadre of children daily stood guard on the busy street corners around our grammar school. Our designated assignment was to hold back the overly rambunctious children, at major street crossings, until the adult crossing guard had reached the middle of the intersection. There, she extended her arms fully, stopping all vehicular traffic. Then and only then, we allowed the crowd of children, that we were holding back, to proceed safely across the busy thoroughfare. We were then in the 6th grade at St.John the Evangelist Grammar School. These positions were awarded to us by the School Principal. They were positions of trust in our small society, one we accepted and carried out with all of the solemn dignity that only a 10 year old can muster. The Captain of the detachment was a friend and neighbor. I, as the Lieutenant of the detachment, was next in command. We carried out our responsibilities as if we were a squad of highly trained militia assigned to protect our schoolmates from falling into harm’s way. In a neighborhood like ours, where no one had much of anything to speak of in the way of material possessions, honors like these were not taken lightly. The esteem accompanying one of these positions would be the talk of the neighborhood children. To emphasize our lofty positions, we were awarded a crisp white waist belt and cross chest strap, upon which gleamed the reflected glory of a “crossing guard” badge. It was for all of the world to see and take note that the wearer held a place of esteem in the local heirarchy. The patrol went about its duties day in and day out, throughout the nice days and the long cold winters that were then a feature of our Northern climate. No one of us ever complained of the volunteer efforts and the time it cost us in early arrivals and shortened lunch hours. This was a position of trust for which we all aspired and were grateful to be selected. It went on uneventfully until the Spring of 1959. I take note of the time well, for it is from that date that I first mark my realization that adults, as authority figures, are sometimes both flawed and tarnished. That is a revelation I would have thought impossible a few short weeks before. It was a fine soft day with a light drizzle falling, during the early morning crossings. All of our schoolmates arrived at our old tan, brick school complex without mishap. We proceeded through a morning of Math, English and religious studies in a fashion we had grown accustomed to for many days on end. At this age, the time spent locked away in classrooms could seem endless. As the noon hour approached, the crossing guard detachment filed out early, crisp white cross belts and shiny badges resplendent. We took up our stations on the main corners nearby, in support of the adult crossing guard. We alertly awaited the eager rush of the lunch and home bound students. I don’t really remember the name of the adult crossing guard. At our age, all adults appear as middle aged. She was enveloped in the standard blue police woman’s uniform with badged cap. We stood behind her, ready to hold back the throngs of excited children. A task we performed for her every day. This day however the crossing guard’s attention was diverted. One of the neighborhood women had stopped to chat with her. The crossing guard must have known the woman well, for she engaged in a lively conversation with the visitor, temporarily losing the vigilance that she needed to be on the look out for child risky automobiles. As luck would have it, one of the smaller children was both in a hurry and as small children are, oblivious to her surroundings. Before any one could stop her, the small child had run out into the middle of the intersection amidst a stream of oncoming traffic. A loud blaring of horns and the sickening sound of squealing brakes being hurriedly applied, stunned all of us on that corner. We looked apprehensively to the row of just stopped cars. To our great relief, we saw that the little one had reached the other side of the street, frightened but unscathed.It might have been just another anxious moment in the perilous life of children growing up in a crowded city, one that ended happily. But it didn’t turn out that way. Upon arriving at her home,the frightened child tearfully related the incident to her parents. The mildly outraged mother marched up to the school and demanded an explanation from the Principal. Now it might have ended here, with an apology from the crossing guard. Her attention was momentarily diverted and these things do happen of course, with so many children to watch. As luck would have it, the guard lost her courage under the onslaught of an angry parent and a particularly aggressive principal from the order of nuns that ran the school. In retrospect, I guess most mere mortals would have folded under that kind of pressure. But we, the crossing guard patrol, expected the adult to give a truthful rendition of the events and let the chips fall where they may.Fair, after all,was fair. The poor woman, perhaps frightened for her job, gave a tenuous account of youthful and inattentive crossing guard patrols that hadn’t been able to properly protect the small children from the perils of traffic on a busy intersection. A conference was held and the ruling sisters decided that the patrol was too young for the responsibilities of the job and that it should be given to older students. We on the patrol were crushed by the verdict. Hadn’t we given countless hours of our free time to man these posts? Hadn’t we done the job we were assigned in all manner of weather without recompense, save for the honor of the job? And now, to lose these respected positions because an adult had been too busy chatting with friends to pay attention to her work, we were to be stripped of our honors? This, decidedly, was not fair! No one of the patrol could believe that the adult guard hadn’t admitted her inattention. And then to point the finger at us, her loyal patrol? The indignity of it was almost more than we could bear. It still rankles me, even these 40 odd years later. One of the Nuns was scheduled to collect from us, our crisp white cross belts with shiny badges. It was a ceremony and a mark of shame for each of us that we would not forget for many years. As each of the patrol walked to the center of the class room, to hand in the belt and badge, there was a protracted silence in the classroom. Children of our age know high drama when they see it. Years later, I was to see several movies featuring military court martials. Convicted soldiers were stripped of their medals and had the buttons cut from their uniforms. I always knew how each of those men felt, the sick feeling in their stomach as the uniform they had worn so proudly was taken from them. After a time, the near tragedy faded from the collective psyche of the school community. Time and events marched on like they always do. We grew older, graduated to high school and lived out the lives that were fated for us in this working class community on the South side of Buffalo New York. But even after all of these years, the events of that day came readily to mind as I sat at a traffic light and watched a crossing guard safely usher a band of small children across a busy street. She smiled and waved at me and I returned the greeting. But, my eyes were drawn to the small figure on the curb behind her. He stood tall and proud for a ten year old. The crisp white cross belt stood out against his jacket and the badge was polished and reflected the noon day sun. On his face was a look of solemn responsibility and a youthful pride in the authority of his position. I couldn’t help but smile at seeing, reflected in his solemn face, the feelings that I once had known so well. And where ever that poor frightened crossing guard of long ago is, I hope she has totally forgotten the incident. I have carried the memory and the shame of it around long enough for both of us.

We visited Holy Cross Cemetery today. It was sunny and a cool 62 degrees out on this early October morning. The cemetery is timeless in its appearance. The large and weather worn limestone grave markers signal your entrance into the repose of the transplanted Irish. Many of the names on them are familiar to me, family friends and neighbors from the nearby community of South Buffalo. The St. Jude section is a well known destination for me. We stop first at Brother Eddie’s resting place and straighten up his stone. The heavy grass growth this Summer had covered much of the in ground marker. A few rows away, we clean up Maureen & Dad’s/Danny’s stone. We say a prayer and move onto the nearby Assumption section where Brother Jack’s grand marble marker sits proudly. He would have liked the Irish blessing on its face. I leave a golf ball on the edge of the stone as a memento. The visit is a reminder to me of who we are and from whence we came. We drive along McKinley Pkwy and then past Trocaire College/Mt. Mercy Academy. The homes along the way are a rota to me of friends and family some now long passed on. I catalogue each remembrance as we drive into the leafy green expanse of Cazenovia Park. The park entrance here at Abbot Rd. is now named after legendary Southpaw Baseball hurler Warren Spahn. He had been born and raised a few blocks from here before spending most of his playing career with the Milwaukee Brewers. They well remember their sports heroes here. A little league soccer game was in progress in the small field opposite the old Caz pool and along Neuman Street. Throngs of parents and grand parents watch their progeny run up and down the field in a timeless pursuit of autumn. The old caz pool is filled in now. The renovated Caz Casino, sturdy brick and prosperous in its appearance is still empty, a monument to times long past. A hundred years ago the casino had rented out canoes for recreation on the small pond and nearby Cazenovia Creek. Different generations live here today, unaware of their collective past. We park next to the small brick structure that once served as a park office of sorts. A baseball game is in progress in the nearby diamond. Two Catholic elementary teams are going head to head. The teams are coed, something novel for this area. Before the Federal Title Nine statues in the early seventies, young girls were relegated to the benches as spectators. We walk around the asphalt path that circles the “bowl” area of Cazenovia Park. The small grove of chestnut trees, immediately adjacent to the old St. John the Evangelist elementary school, reminds me of the Kingers games we used to play there. We would first capture the smooth chestnuts from the high trees before fashioning them into home made slingers. I wrote a story about it once and still have fond recollections of the area. Next, we come upon Seneca Parkside, a small dead end street the Martin Family had once called home. We walk slowly up the street. The houses are older now, some dating back to the 1920’s. They show their wear, aging dowagers straining to retain their cosmetic beauty. I know each house from our years here. I mentally tick off the list of occupants as I walk along. Gaska, Fitzpatrick, Martin, Esford, Johnson, Sullivan, Doyle, Carroll, Brown, Reidell, Gray, Acquino, Pingre, Spencer, Munson, Jackson, Thilke. The names come easily to mind and with them a rota of faces and flash of memories from long ago. In some plane of existence they all still reside here living out their eternal existence. At the corner of the street, I look along Seneca Street and see in my mind what once sat there. Liberty Bank, Colonial Kitchen, Mohican Market, Sears, Hens & Kelly’s, Kinmaid Mattar clothes, the Seneca Show and several others. Only the venerable Ettore Winter Photographic studio remains from the past. The once busy commercial area is now a weary and dimmer version of its past. The area is changing. Like most eastern cities, it is wearing down as successive genearations of people live out their lives amidst the gritty urban existence. We walk down Theresa Place, the next street over. I know the names here from my old Courier Express Paper route, Moore, O’Neil, Gorman, Cooley, Keifer, Devereaux. It is part of the same rota of memories from Seneca Parkside. I remember well the faces and personalities of those who once lived here. None I think remain. Cazenovia Park beckons. We walk past the old Caz Library. It is open now but only barely survives. Library consolidation has tossed it upon the tender mercies of a private support club. I remember my first library card here at age four and the many many hours of enjoyment spent inside its solid brick expanse. Just across the street, on the banks of the creek, I see the venerable American Legion posy #721. CBS newsman Tim Russert and his dad had made the place mildly famous in years past as one of their watering holes. I remember weddings and other events there from long past. We walk across the green bridge which straddles Cazenovia Creek between the two legions Drives. We see and appreciate the remarkably unique housing along Cazenovia Street. Spring Ice jams here had been both majestic and scary.Turreted and solid two story wooden homes sit in good appearance facing the park. Many local stories are etched there in these clap board homes. The “pond” is gone now, replaced by a small grassy meadow. I remember ice skating on that rough surfaced and open expanse. The nearby “stone bridge” is also a distant memory. It was a gathering spot for teens in ages past. Stories of some manufactured scare called the “Pink Ghost” come to mind. I don’t remember who or what it was only that is was the “scare de jour” for a few years. The Tosh Collins community center occupies the corner of Cazenovia and Abbot Rds. Behind it an indoor ice rink and next to it an enclosed swimming pool. It is quite an impressive complex for a city neighborhood. The small brick building here is all that remains of the open aired Cazenovia Ice Rink. One of the areas sons had been Buffalo Mayor for sixteen years. These structures are part of his favored legacy to his home turf. Across Abbott Rd. , sits Mercy Hos[pital in all its expanded glory. The Mercy Nuns could never have imagined the size of the place now, with its adjacent parking ramp. We continue walking through the park. I see familiar athletic fields. I had broken a shoulder on a football field here. We see the Caz park golf course in the distance. We recross Cazenovia Creek, over another venerable iron bridge. We watch the flights of ducks and Geese wading in the shallow and swiftly running waters below us. The leaves are already changing in the high trees around us. The snows will come in a few weeks to clasp the park in its snowy embrace. Many memories from this Park are with me still. We walk through the playgournd area, near the old wading pool, and then past the venerable Casino again. Another Soccer game is in progress in the field in front of it. This grassy expanse had once been a small lake. We stop at the shelter house and look at a section of newly paved bricks. Many are inscribed with names I have long known. It is a memorial of sorts to the better healed or larger families in the area. Each name on the stones evokes another memory for me of lives and times now long past. It is time for us to go. We mount up the chariot and drive slowly through the park ring road. How many memories can an area hold for you? Here there are thousand for me. Most are pleasant, and all in my distant past. We are who we were and this area is what I was and am. I come here not often but regularly to remind myself of that. It is a pleasant thing for me to do. -30- (1398 words) Joseph Xavier Martin October 6, 2008

That is a tall order. My family only lived there for 14 years. Successive waves of families combined in a river of memories occuring on that small dead end street.We were like a bubble floating on a river. Our entire subset of people floated down the river of time, sharing memories.New bubbles came after us with their own memories. Scores of children grew up on Seneca Parkside. each created his/her own memories.The Cazenovia Library, St.John The Evangelists, Cazenovia park and the Seneca St. shopping area are all central to the memories of the street. Growing up there was a bucolic time for me.Baseball games, the Caz pool & park, the library filled endless days of Summer for me with scores of freinds from the surrounding streets. I have tried to portray my memories of growing up there in a series of stories, some of which are posted here. Whenever I walk down that street, the spectral memories of those who lived in the many homes greet me as old friends.I remember the life and the virbrancy of those who lived in each house.Each a presence with a story worth telling. Perhaps I need to tell more stories of those who lived there. J.X.M

THE BANK It is a single-story, solid little building that sits on the Northwest corner of Seneca Street and Seneca Parkside, on the South side of Buffalo, New York. In the early part of this century, it was occupied by the "German American Bank." The ensuing World Wars made the ethnicity of the name unpopular and it was changed, for business reasons, to the "Liberty National Bank." That is how I remember it through most of my childhood, growing up in South Buffalo. The Bank kept that name, until after several mergers and acquisitions in the 1980's, it became what it is today, part of the Fleet Banking system. The exterior of the building is unassuming. It has a brownish, corrugated stone appearance and the geometrical angular lines that distinguish and enhance many of Frank Lloyd Wright's prairie-style structures. It looks like a neighborhood library. The building has a small ledge along its' front, about three feet high. It is just wide enough for a child to walk carefully across. To neighborhood kids like me, it was often a high walled chasm that we inched our way across, on a thousand imaginary adventures. At other times, it was an airborn troop carrier that we jumped from, clad in parachute gear. The Bank people were pretty good about not shooing us off the building, as long as we were reasonably quiet in our exploits. They only got a little nervous, when the armored cars arrived and the guards entered the building with sacks of money and hands on their guns. It was great drama for us to see these serious looking men in uniforms, with pistols at their sides. We watched them with a studious fascination that must have reinforced their own image of themselves, as fearless Mounties guarding a great treasure from all manner of dangerous desperadoes. It wasn't all imagination for us either. At the time, there were still several large, leaden slugs imbedded in the exterior of the building. Legend had it that machine gun toting police had shot down armed bank robbers there in the 1930's. We didn't need to know the details or even the truth of the matter. Running our fingers over the deeply imbedded slugs fired our imaginations. In my mind's eye, I could see grim faced Police spraying a volley of lead, at the robbers, from their stake out across Seneca street, on the corner of Buffum. The bandits returning fire, until they stumbled and fell, cut down by the withering fire of the Police. We re-enacted the scene endlessly in a thousand variations, over several summers, during the late 1950's. The Bank building seemed to get a little smaller each year, until even the "ledge" lost its' fascination for us. The bank wasn't changing, but we were. I never really had much cause to go into the building. We knew that the Bank held money, but beyond the sum of a few dollars and change and how much candy and soda that amount would buy us at the nearby "Fishman's Five and Dime", money didn't have much meaning for us. It was a time when "banker's hours" meant Ten A.M. until Three P.M. and no weekends. Working people didn't have much time or reason to go there, I guess. I remember that Dad always got his loans from the Fireman's Credit Union, though I didn't know what that was or how and where they got their money from and why we needed to borrow it. Mortgages were something I had only heard mentioned in hushed terms, and the great fear was in not keeping up one's payments. Then, the bank could assume an ominous spectre. Although the fear of being summoned to the bank, to explain late loan payments, was unarticulated by my parents, it was a presence and a spectre always there, deep in the background shadows of everyday living. In the nearby St.John the Evangelist Elementary School, the Bank initiated a program that tried to teach us to become "junior savers." I remember opening an account and sending in $.25 at a time, in small sealed envelopes. I guarded tightly, the small blue pass book that listed how much money I had saved. At one time, I had amassed the princely sum of $5.75 and, it was mysteriously growing monthly with something called "interest." I didn't know what that was, but I was happy that they had my money securely locked in their big vault and were protecting it with armed guards. My fortune was secure with them. Still, I walked by the bank regularly and checked, to make sure that they were keeping the money safe for me. In the lobby of the Bank was a small island counter that held several different colored deposit and withdrawal slips, that we viewed with great curiosity. They were stacked in neat little piles, seperated by small glass partitons. A ball point pen, secured with a small cord, was available for customer's use. People filled the slips out, with great care, and then stood patiently in line, until they advanced to the marble fronted teller's cage. After a quiet conversation with the teller, they either gave or received their money and had the information written down in their Bank Book. It looked, to us, like a fairly mysterious ritual that only adults would understand. We played around the Bank and watched the neighborhood change over the years. The Colonial Kitchen Restaurant, Thom McCann Shoes, Sears & Roebucks, Mohegans Market and Fishman's 5 & 10 store all passed into local history. Yet, still the bank remained, doing business under several names. It had become a neighborhood fixture, something that was always "there." It is the low slung solidity of the building that always, draws my eye. It has the look and feel of a Bank, solid, safe and secure. I have long since moved away from the neighborhood, but when I pass there, I still find myself looking for the imbedded leaden slugs and remembering how it was, long ago and far from now. Joseph Xavier Martin

I just bought a house on Seneca Parskide. it would be nice to know more about the history of the Street/Community, and perhaps some of the stories of the families who lived there.

THE IRON KINGER Several decades ago, throughout the Northeast, there grew towering groves of American Chestnut Trees. It was an era before the blight that almost doomed the species to extinction. These noble hardwoods rose sixty to seventy feet in the air, with large umbrella-like leafy canopies, that blocked out the sun and provided welcome patches of shade from the Summer heat. One such grove of these magnificent Chestnut Trees grew in Cazenovia Park on the South side of Buffalo, New York. The trees grew right across the street from St.John the Evangelist Elementary School, where most of the kids from my neighborhood were interred for ten months of every year. We noted the coloring process, of the leaves, every day as Fall approached. We were watching the development of our chief source of ammo for the months-long "Kingers Games that would occupy us into late November. The victors in these games would win bragging rights for the entire year.It was serious competition among the various bands of young boys from the surrounding neighborhoods of this small community. Billy Peterson and the Theresa Street.Irregulars were particularly obnoxious rivals and we tried in every manner possible to best them in all such competitive endeavors. During the Fall Season, these leafy giant Chestnut Trees would produce a thorny, egg-shaped, seed pod. It is brilliant green in color, and has milky white spikes all around its exterior. The thorns are very sharp. The chestnuts were formidable projectiles when directed at a human target by mischievous rascals . But, that was only a secondary value. Inside the pod was the treasure that we were really after. Securing these green, spiky, projectiles was no simple task. We were of course in competition with those pesky squirrels, who were laying the nuts in their nests as Winter stores. That, and the fact that the chestnuts hung from the branches, of these imposing wooden chestnut towers, far above us. Resourceful as most children are, we fashioned a makeshift type of boomerang that could be thrown upward at the targets, knocking them loose from their branches and into our eager little hands. It seemed like we would do this for hours on end until darkness chased us in doors. The real treat for us lay inside the pod. After you succeeded in prying open the thorny seed-pod and peeled back the inner membrane, there lay an egg -sized, mahogany chestnut that was smooth to the touch. It was rounded in shape, with an irregular, flat, white patch on its bottom. Some were larger and tougher than others. We examined them carefully, like jewelers looking for the perfect diamond. We then chose only the toughest and most resilient nuts for use. The deep, chestnut-brown coloring is appealing to the eye and pleasant to the touch. More importantly, the nuts were the raw material for our "kingers game. A nail would be driven through the smooth surface of the chestnut and a length of twine or a shoelace inserted through it. Then the string was knotted on either end of the nut, securing the nut in place. The rules of the game consisted of using the chestnut on a string as a swinging projectile, that smashed into another such instrument held in the hands of your opponent. Each in turn, we would smash our favored nut into that of the challenger. Usually at about the fifth blow, one of the nuts would begin to crack open and then finally shatter completely against the surface of the harder nut, spraying its green fibrous innards all over the ground. The remaining nut was awarded a "Kinger for each victory. A knot was tied on the upper portion of the shoelace, after every victory, to symbolize each "Kinger. Those who were lucky enough to find a harder species of the chestnut, and thus be awarded several "Kingers, were held in considerable admiration. Like medieval knights in jousting matches, it was a source of great pride, and bragging rights for the neighborhood, for someone in your band to own a nut that had many "Kingers. The much knotted instrument was carried with reverence by the valiant combatant. It was a rosary-like, holy grail that others, from far away streets, would come to view in awed silence. Only the bravest or most fool hearty would dare issue a challenge to such a fearsome weapon as a multiple Kinger. As the competition increased, and the perceived social status associated with it intensified, many of our gang, The Seneca Parkside Rangers, resorted to artificial means to strengthen our chestnut lances. It became a particular imperative when faced with what was to become known as "The Iron Kinger. The title was bestowed on an unusually resilient chestnut, owned by Billy Peterson from the next block over. He and his band were our chief rivals in the continuing battle for status in the crowded dead end streets surrounding St.John's Elementary School. Try as we might, all of our attempts at victory fell before the iron surface of Billy's chestnut. Our first method, soaking the nut in vinegar, proved ineffective and shattered in just six blows against Eddie O'Gormans hardier nut... Then, a neighbor of Billy' Peterson's told my Mother that she had heard that Billy baked the nut in the oven to give it strength. So, we dutifully roasted a dozen nuts, in Mom's oven, for over an hour. The cooked nuts looked tougher to us after this process and we were momentarily heartened. Surging forth from my kitchen, the Rangers sought out our detested rival in Cazenovia Park and issued a ringing challenge for battle. Alas, the brittle surface of our chestnut shattered against the "Iron Kinger in seven blows. The jeers of the Theresa Street Irregulars rang in our ears for days afterward We were at low ebb and facing the prospect of another year's loss of youthful esteem.. Another confidential informant( Billy's Sister) told us that Billy froze the nut to give it strength. That sounded good enough, so we froze a dozen, of our dwindling supply, to challenge Billy's iron kinger. With great fanfare we issued a formal challenge, delivered on a rock that we threw at the .Theresa Street Irregulars. It named Saturday , at High Noon, on home plate of the Softball Diamond in the Cazenovia Bowl, as the place of combat..The formal challenge was accepted later that day, via a rock that the Theresa Street Irregulars threw back at us. The match was on. For the remainder of the week there was a constant buzz, about the contest, among the various bands from the far streets bordering our neighborhood. Word of the contest, on Saturday, had spread all of the way over to the next Parish. There was much apprehension on our part as to the outcome. In school, Billy Peterson just smiled that "Billy smile of his and was as unflappable as ever.He always looked like he knew something that we didn't. On the day of the appointed match, we took our treasured chestnuts from the freezer and fashioned a mighty weapon that we hoped would finally bring the Iron Kinger to an end. We marched confidently over to the Cazenovia Park Bowl and readied for battle. Billy's band was there waiting for us. And so were a hundred or so other kids from all of the surrounding streets. It was to be the match of the century. With great solemnity we met and prepared for combat. As the challenger, we were awarded the first blow. With a mighty swing and a short curved arc, our chestnut crashed into the iron kinger with, what seemed to us, a killing force. Alas,It left but a scratch on Billy's Kinger. Billy's first blow was respectable, though not fatal. It made a noticeable dent in our chestnut. It was then I realized that we were in for it. We kept trying valiantly, blow after blow to shatter the "Iron Kinger. Except for a few scratches, the iron chestnut lived up to its name. As the battle wore on, we could see our frozen nut succumbing to the Iron Kinger. Our mighty frozen chestnut finally shattered, amidst loud "oohs and "ahs from the many excited spectators, on the twelfth stroke. The victorious Theresa Street Irregulars jumped up and down shrieking victory chants at us and everyone.We walked away from the field, and the crowds, disconsolate at our loss. After that, we gave up all hope of ever defeating the Iron Kinger that year. At School on Monday,Billy was most gracious in victory .. He told us we had put up a good fight. He again looked like he knew something that we didn't.. But, we knew and he knew that we were the losers and would forfeit bragging rights, for the year to come. Then the challenges would begin again, when the next batch of shiny green missiles emerged from the trees during the following Fall. Try as we might, we were never able to pry the secret from Billy as to the source of the strength of his Iron Kinger. Billy enjoyed his well earned status for the remainder of the year. The following summer, Billy's parents moved to California and he took the secret with him. In the ensuing years, no other Kinger like Billy's ever surfaced. The memory of Billy Peterson's " Iron Kinger "was a much repeated story in the neighborhood, shared every Fall with newer players to the game. It became a rallying phrase for us when we needed to achieve the impossible. It caught on so well that several years worth of our local, little-league sports teams were known as "The Iron Kingers. The legend grew, like all legends, until only a part of the fable had any ring of truth to it. Still, it was a good story. It was many years later that I discovered, by accident, the secret of Billy Peterson's "Iron kinger. I was waiting for a plane in Chicago's O'Hare airport, when the loud speaker asked if passenger William Peterson would check in at gate #34. It was the very gate that I was due to leave from. The name brought faint stirrings of memory to me from many years in the past. Curiously, I looked up as a tall, broad-shouldered man, about my own age, reported to the ticket agent at the gate. I didn't really recognize him until his face broke out in that broad "Billy Smile that I remembered from so long ago. I approached him and introduced myself, asking somewhat hesitantly if he were the same Billy Peterson who had lived in Buffalo, New York so many years ago. He replied in the affirmative.It was indeed the same Billy. We shared a cup of coffee in the nearby Lounge and traded various family information and all other such data that is standard fare for two friends who had not seen each other in many years. As we talked, the memory of the "Iron Kinger rose in my mind and I asked Billy for the secret of his invincible Chestnut. He looked at me sort of surprised and a little guiltily, stating that he had not thought of the "Iron Kinger in many years. I again prodded him as to the source of his nut's unusual strength. Somewhat sheepishly, Billy said rather casually  Well actually, I sort of carved the nut from a piece of oak and stained it the color of chestnut brown. You couldn't have beaten me unless you had one made of steel. The explanation hit me like a ton of feathers. I didn't know what to say. All of those years looking for the source of strength behind the Iron Kinger. All of those boys telling and retelling the fable of the many contests won by the invincible chestnut. And it had all been a fraud. Our conversation, after that point, was awkward. I could tell that Billy was embarrassed over the incident, even after all these many years. Luckily, Billy's flight was called then and hurriedly we said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch. He smiled that "Billy smile at me and waved goodbye as he walked down the jetway to his plane. On the way home, in the air, I thought of the fable of "The Iron Kinger. So many of us had been encouraged and sustained in our many endeavors by the example of invincibility portrayed by the Iron Kinger. And, it was all a sham.The match had been rigged. A few days after I returned, a registered letter arrived at my home. It was a short note from Billy expressing his pleasure in seeing me again. Included in the note was a receipt for a very large donation to the Boys Clubs of America. The donor was listed as " The Iron Kinger Foundation. It was a nice gesture on Billy's part and it made me feel much better about him and the whole incident. I never said anything, about our conversation, to those many comrades who gathered at the various reunions and social events emanating from friendships formed in that close knit community of South Buffalo. And when I overheard some fancifully exaggerated version of the "Iron Kinger fable, I nodded my head and smiled like the rest. Some stories just ought to be true regardless of the facts. Joseph Xavier Martin---

The Banks of The Cazenovia I grew up along the banks of this redoubtable stream in Western New York State. The people who live along this waterway are my friends and neighbors. Over the years, we have watched ice jams and floods wreak havoc on the surrounding terrain. We have also enjoyed its' languorous beauty during late summer and early fall. The history of Western New York is reflected in the growth of settlements up and down the Cazenovia, from the late 1700's to present day. The names of the towns and villages, on its banks, are reflective of America's immigrants. Once, Western New York was the wild frontier of a new America. Then, it developed into a 19th century commercial colossus. Now, it is undergoing a metamorphosis to an educational, banking, medical and information center. As these transitions occurred, our people lived quietly along the banks of the Cazenovia. Indian Villages, religious settlements, farms and rural towns evolved as America grew ever westward. On a topographical survey map, the stream is modest in size. To the residents of the area, it looms much larger. It was and is a source of food, water, irrigation, navigation and finally, recreation to many thousands of western New Yorkers. Follow me along its length. The Cazenovia has two principal branches, that serve as a watershed, draining the hilly regions of the southeastern portion of Erie County. They merge lower down, near East Aurora, and begin to gain in depth and speed, as the water courses over the slate and gravel bedrock. The western branch of Cazenovia Creek starts as multiple rivulets high in the hills south of Buffalo. The Forests along Genesee Rd., in the Town of Sardinia and Concord, are laced with ravines and feeder streams. The eastern branch has a similar genesis in the hills around the Town of Holland, on Rte. # 16. Here, at an elevation of 1400 ft., the highest in Erie County, the creeks must make a long and serpentine run, for the 30 odd miles downward, into the Buffalo River and Lake Erie. Both source areas are rooted with large stands of multiple variety, second growth conifers. It looks and feels like a far Northern Forest. The water is icy-cold at this level. Snow melt lasts far into the spring and feeds the tiny streams with a crystal clear runoff that sparkles in the sunlight. You first become aware of the western stream, as you drive north on Rte. 240, near the Kissing Bridge Ski Resort, in Glenwood. The depth is shallow, highlighting the pebbled concourse beneath. It runs parallel to the railroad tracks and serves as a moat of sorts, for the ski runs high above the west bank. In Fall, the fiery reds of the sugar maples and the dappled yellows and shades of orange and tan, paint a collage of blazing color and beauty in the area . The eastern branch flows through the rugged and hilly terrain of the Holland and Wales Townships, meandering along both sides of the old Olean Plank Rd, or Rte 16, as we now know it. Holland is a substantial Town, with a vibrant business district lining both sides of Rte. 16. The Holland Hotel evokes memories of traveling wayfarer stations throughout the west. Holland speedway is a modern motorized Arena, where piloted metal chariots duel weekly in the warmer months. Next up the line, on the west branch, is the small village of Colden. The water is running faster here. A functioning grist mill once stood on the site. Now, the charming Colden Country Store and the picturesque Colden Mill restaurant, with a turning water wheel, occupy the area. They draw a portrait of 19th century rural grace, replete with spired church . In winter, the village is alive with skiers headed to the nearby slopes. We like it best in Fall, when it is quiet and peaceful. Across the Colden Hills, the Eastern branch of the Creek runs along the boundaries of Emery Park, in South Wales. The gorges are steep and rugged here, with eroded shale formations. A miniature Falls cascades along the top of the Park. The area is beautifully forested with a second growth of many types of tall pines. The 800 acre Park is rustic and peaceful. On the western side of the Valley, the waterway parallels Rte. 240. Both occupy the bottom of what must have been an ancient spillway at the end of the last Ice Age. The entire valley drains part of the enormous Onondoga Escarpment, which is the northwestern corner of the Glacial, Appalachian Plateau. During the last Ice Age, the snow melt, from towering glaciers, was carried downward to the large inland sea below. The vast glacial pool covered Lake Erie and most of the western portions of New York State, Pennsylvania and northern Ohio. Mighty rivers of runoff gouged out a series of broad valleys, in this area, flowing South to North. 'Westfalls' reads the next road sign. The former Dog Bar restaurant, the West Falls fire hall and local store, make up the business community. Here, a small iron bridge crosses the creek to the eastern bank. The road leads up into the Hills and over towards the old Olean Rd and the eastern branch of the creek.The water runs swift and shallow here as well.White ripples of turbulent water, over a bed of smooth worn rocks, gives the appearance of a northern trout stream. The next few miles of creekbed, on both branches, flow through the rural farm lands of the Town of Aurora. Corn, wheat, sorghum, pumpkins and hay fields belie the popular image of New York State as an urban conclave. The rounded conical silos, of dairy farms , are peopled outposts amidst the solitude of the cultivated fields . Herds of cows and the occasional brace of graceful mares graze contentedly in the afternoon sun. The western branch passes the former settlement of Griffins Mills. Its' history and peoples are now only a distant memory. The branches then merge in the Town of Aurora, just west of the quaint village of East Aurora. Here, Elbert Hubbard founded The Roycroft institute for progressive thinking and artistic craftsmanship. He and his wife were lost on the Lusitania. It is also the Home of former U.S. President Millard Fillmore and the Headquarters of The Fisher Price Toy makers. The next few miles pass quietly through rural Elma. The trees are tall, stately, deciduous hardwoods, reflecting the areas original first growth. Elma Meadows golf course draws its' irrigation from the Cazenovia. It appears as a series of emerald green patches, amidst the hayfields and rural lanes. It is the leafy penumbra where Town and country first merge. The community of Springbrook is still remembered here by the Springbrook Hotel, on Rte. 16. It, as well as the North Star Tavern and several others, were stops on the Olean Plank Rd. This rugged stagecoach run made the bouncy 70 mile journey from Buffalo to Olean in the early 1800's. They and the Cazenovia, traverse the great defile of the valley gouged out by the glaciers . At this point of the journey, in Spring, the ice starts to pile up. The creek levels out and begins the last fifteen miles of its' meandering route through the populated areas of West Seneca and South Buffalo. The 'Community of True Inspiration ' flourished briefly here, in Ebeneezer, during the 1840's. They moved on to Amana, in the midwest, and gained fame manufacturing kitchen appliances. They were an immigrant German Religious Community seeking freedom of Worship. In the southeast corner of West Seneca, between Transit and Leydecker Roads, the creek flows through a broad canyon, with steep walls. From high above on Leydecker Rd., you can see the strata of shale carved out by thousands of years of erosion. A good sized island of scrub brush and deposited silt, splits the channel briefly, before it resumes its' original course. From this point north, begins a narrow and precipitous channel through which huge volumes of runoff surge every spring. At about the location of the Southgate Plaza, on Union Rd., the banks again start to level off. The stream takes on the normal visage of a lazy meandering creek in summer. A few hundred yards west of Union, the creek takes a right turn at Gossel's Island. This is a gravel bar deposited by the fast running waters of the creek. Unless it is excavated regularly, the surrounding areas are in danger of Spring flooding from the jammed up ice pack. The rich alluvial fan of silt deposited here, created fertile farmlands that were still in use for agriculture into the 1990’s. Along this section in winter, the flowing ice tinkles musically, as it jostles its way around the bend towards Buffalo. The stream passes to the east of the busy intersection at Ridge and Orchard Park Rds. . It is near the old Indian village on the Hill, at Seneca and Ridge. The Creek then bisects Orchard Park Rd., near Seneca St. Here, a large iron bridge spans the broad waterway, near the the old Bellwood Elementary School and Union Fire Hall . Next, it follows a narrow concourse through the Cazenovia Golf course, on the Buffalo border. The third hole is a nine iron shot across the creek. A picturesque wooden, pedestrian, suspension bridge spans the creek here . The second shot on the ninth hole also must cross the creek. Many, many shots do not carry the distance. For generations, this has provided pocket money for the local urchins, who retrieve the balls and sell them back to the errant duffers. Cazenovia park lies ahead, with all of its' natural beauty. Many large old Creek willows line the banks and give the area a stately elegance. In the early part of the century the area, which now has three baseball diamonds, was completely flooded. Canoes were rented from the base of the Cazenovia Park Casino. Later, during the 1930's, thousands gathered for concerts and legendary soft ball exhibitions. Shifty Gears was a local hero. It was a bucolic visage of pre World War I Americana. This area is also the site of the old Seneca Creek Indian reservation. For generations, the Seneca Indians, camped here and fished the creek. Two blocks over, at the end of Buffum St., is the original resting place of Mary Jemison, The " White woman of the Genesee Valley" and the great Seneca Indian Chief, Red Jacket. Both are historical figures of note and residents of the reservation. Many children play along the banks in the Park, fishing and hunting for crayfish and frogs. Several score of local Tom Sawyers have launched rafts and wiled away many summers here, oblivious of the world around them. Two iron bridges span the creek at either end of the Park. A series of flood control projects here, known to local youngsters as the "Dam" and the "slants,” create a concrete spillway for the fast rushing waters in Spring. A miniature horseshoe Falls, in the middle of the creek, draws crowds of urchins on warm August days. The large indoor skating rink and nearby Cazenovia pool complex are a stone's throw from the west bank. The final stretch of the Cazenovia, along Legion Drive, runs under three more iron bridges, at Stevenson St., Southside Dr. and Bailey Avenue . The area is densely populated with frame dwellings, that send forth the multitudes of urchins who roam the creekbanks and nearby parks. The Southside School sits on the east bank and the venerable South Park High School is a few blocks over from the west bank. Past these, near Mungovan Park, the creek merges with the Buffalo River, for its' final journey into Lake Erie. Here, every spring, motorized ice breakers must clear the mouth of the creek, to relieve the pressure of ice log jams miles upstream. The confluence of Cazenovia Creek and the Buffalo River occurs in an area that was once heavily industrialized. It often suffered from illegal chemical discharges. I can remember times past, when the creek from the Buffalo River to Stevenson St., was as black as ink and as turgid as mud. We never knew what chemicals invaded the stream at this point. Nothing lived in the water here, except what our imaginations created to scare the younger ones. Tougher environmental standards over the years have cleaned up this portion of the creek somewhat. Finally, we arrive at the Buffalo River. A large oil refinery and chemical plant once dominated the area. There are mostly residential and commercial strucutres here now. The Buffalo River and Cazenovia Creek join to form a substantial waterway that wends its' way past the tall grain elevators and bulky Lake Freighters, into the broad expanse of Lake Erie. The picturesque " China Lighthouse" here has warned sailors away from shoals since the 1830's. A Coast Guard Base and large Public Marina now dominate the River's mouth. Our journey is over. Cazenovia Creek runs from the rural and forested Hills in southern Erie County, to the densely populated residential neighborhoods of South Buffalo. The people along its' banks are ethnically and socio-economically diverse. They are farmers and businessmen, laborers and professionals. Each admires the creek in the warmer months and eyes it warily in the Spring. Indian settlements, Farms, Villages and Towns grew up along its' Banks. It isn't the Mississippi River, or the Ohio, but it has a magic and a life all its' own. We thought it just as interesting as the bigger streams and to us, it is home . -30- Joseph X. Martin

The Yearbook A few of the faces, staring up at me, are old friends. I have known them since childhood. Others I met in grammar school or church or on various athletic fields in the tight-knit, Irish-catholic community that is South Buffalo, New York. Their faces are unlined and smiling. The vigor and promise of youth looks up at me engagingly. Each picture, in the well ordered photo gallery that is my South Park High School yearbook, is a small window that looks out upon a universe all its own. When I look through the tiny window of the photographs, I see an entire galaxy of memories and life experiences. Each of these young people is now a mother, a father, a brother, sister, aunt, uncle, work-mate or one of a hundred other roles laid out for us on the stage of life. The world was our oyster then and we thought that we were invincible. Through some of the windows, I recognize the faces and the scenery. I have walked those streets with these people and shared their families and lives over the span of thirty years. It is that long since last we sat as students in the venerable educational institution, on South Side Parkway, that we know as South Park High School. But, it is the others that most intrigue me. Who is that well featured young face and why didn't I take the time to get to know him or her in school. True, there were almost 6oo of us in the graduating class. But, that is no excuse. I wish I had taken the time to get to know them all. How much richer my life would have been. Each of them has thoughts and talents and ideas that I think I would now find fascinating. Not knowing each of them is my loss. Through a few of the windows, I see the high canopy of a steaming jungle. Fine young men, like Tim Nightingale and Bobby Smith, never came back from the far battlefields of Southeast Asia. Their loss, and the joy that they might have contributed to all of us, momentarily saddens me. But then, I imagine an infectious grin on these photos and I remember the warmth and humor that once blossomed there. They, and the others that have fallen along the way, will always be with us, permanently captured in the full vigor of their youth. The kaleidoscope of memories spins faster now as a whirlwind of classrooms, teachers, pep rallies and athletics events swirl by in a fine mist of "the red and the black." "Dear Old South Park", I muse. Scrooge only saw three ghosts, I see hundreds. God, were we ever that young and carefree? It seems like so long ago and far from now. Many of the names have changed as the girls married and raised families of their own. Others have wandered to the far flung corners of the earth. I hear of them every now and then,as some precious tidbit of remembrance is passed along by a former class mate, in a chance meeting in a parking lot or store. "Do you remember Billy, or Suzie or Jean?" will be the entree to some story that will summon back for us, momentarily, those wonderful days of long ago. When ever I hear of some achievement or award by one of ours, I feel proud of their success.The sight of a name or face in the news or on television, brings me warm thoughts of how nice that person was and how well deserved is their success. These kids all came from blue collar, working-class families and had to climb their way up the ladder one rung at a time. They deserve their hard won successes and I hope that they are happy, with their families and friends in their chosen lives. I wonder too if they look often through the same windows that I do. Do they see my young face looking up at them? I wonder what impressions I created on them so long ago? I hope they were favorable. Sometimes we can be insensitive and hurt people without even trying. Time, I think, is a wonderful rose-colored filter. I have only good memories of these young faces. The laughter,the excitement,the expectation, I can see it even now in this fading gallery of youthful photos. I am glad that I held onto this yearbook.It is a link for me of many memories that I never would have summoned forth, unaided, by the picture windows of my youth. Joseph Xavier Martin

Body Images As a writing assignment, one instructor asked us to write a piece describing what we “hated about our bodies” as children. I don't know that I was ever that self aware or self absorbed as a child to “hate” something about my body.” As children, we were thin, goofy looking and full of boundless energy. We ran through the parks and neighborhood environs of South Buffalo, New York like wild young animals on a romp. The notion of feeling bad, or disliking a personal physical peculiarity is a concept foreign to a gang of young hooligans. You were what you were. I think it is the introduction of “girls” that changed all that. I can remember the first time a pal asked me if his shirt looked okay, before we went out that night. I didn't understand the question and had no answer for him. Then, we started being aware of the length of our hair and whether or not a certain skin condition was going to clear up in time for the Friday night dance at Bishop Timon High School. Even then we were pretty accepting of the “physical hand we had been dealt.” The order of catholic nuns who taught and raised us would never understand questioning the top banana about the type of parts distributed, or the colors and styles that they came in. “God made us in his own image” they would chant in mantra.” It's not for you to question his wisdom,” the good sisters would admonish us. That ended that for us. Who was going to argue with one of those black robed gangsters? I still feel that way today. -30- Joseph Xavier Martin

Donovan’s Dilemna Liam smiled. The job offer was a good one. It included a signing bonus, above average salary and a benefit package that was more than generous. Bridget would be pleased. Or would she? The kicker came in the job’s location. Chicago would seem to Bridget and her family like we were moving to far away China. Offers like this one did not come readily in my field. It was an opportunity for me to break into middle management. Bridget could find a teaching position. And there were plenty of opportunities for an active social life in a big city like Chicago. The ordered plenty, of a suburb like Naperville, promised good schools for our family. It would have everything that Buffalo has, except for the network of family and friends that Bridget's family had amassed over four generations. Her Family affairs were like ancient clan gatherings. Several generations met to bask in the reassuring warmth of their own. Bridget was as much attached to these rituals as any of them. Truth be told, I liked living here too. Buffalo Sabres Hockey and Buffalo Bills Football tickets were easy enough to get. The Philharmonic, Theater, Opera, and other cultural institutions, all provided a varied and interesting social life. Buffalo really has everything except jobs, I thought ruefully.Unless you could claw your way into the network of political dynasties, that provided for their own, there were few real work opportunities available for mid level professionals. It was a Hobson’s choice dilemma. A warm and healthy Lifestyle, versus the lack of ability to sustain it. Well, better a choice than none, I reasoned. The local Taverns were filled with those who had no work or those who had work and hated it. I better ease this into the conversation tonight at dinner and see how it flies. Bridget was in a pleasant mood. School had gone well for her that day. The small personal victories, won in classes daily, were often enough to sustain teachers through the many challenges they faced. Bridget talked animatedly about the school newspaper and other projects that she and the kids were involved in. I made murmurring commments, and nodded in the right places. My mind was on other things. How could I ask her to leave all of this? Is this fair to her? Yet, I knew we had a family yet to raise. Bridget would need extended leaves during our child rearing years. We would need the added income to make sure the right schools and opportunities were within our reach. It was a poser. Bridget knows me well. She stopped, in the middle of stirring the sauce, and turned her laser eyes upon me. “OKay, what gives?” she said cheerfully. “Did you smash up the car or just murder someone?” Her tone made me smile. How I had managed to make this bright and loving woman my wife ? It was always a constant wonder to me. Briefly, I outlined the job offer and its possibilities. She nodded thoughtfully, digesting the import of the offer and its personal ramifications. She cogitated but for a moment, her sparkling eyes distant with thought. Then, she looked directly into my eyes and said. “Of course you will take the job.And whither thou goest, go I.” I hugged her tightly, glad for the hundredth time that I had married her. “Maybe some day we can move back here” I said hopefully. She smiled at me and said “yes, maybe. Our hearts will always be here in Buffalo. Maybe someday we will be able to come back to Buffalo. But, wherever we are together will always be home for us.” I smiled warmly at this wonderfully charming and enigmatic woman who had married me. Some of us are just plain lucky in whom we marry, I thought. I didn't need to hit any lotteries.I had already won the most important one of my life. -30- Joseph Xavier Martin

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The Christmas Visit The wind blowing across Lake Erie from the west was chilling, on this cold December day in Buffalo, N.Y. The snows had not yet come, but the temperature had fallen to the 20’s and the air was frigid. The clouds were a dark, dirty gray and pregnant with snow that was to come. I drove East along Ridge Rd passing by, and admiring as always, the ornate, marble epiphany of Our Lady of Victory Basilica in Lackawanna. Just past the Basilica, the solid iron fencing, around the perimeter of the Holy Cross Cemetery, is a familiar sight to me. Five generations of my family lie here interred. I have been a frequent visitor to this quiet gathering of the clan. I navigated through the open and ornate iron gates, of the Ridge Rd. entrance, and on into this garden of weatherworn limestone memorials. As always, the rhythmic cadence, of the names on the head stones, caught my attention and drew a smile to my face. O’Reilly, O’Malley, O’Toole, Deegan, Dugan and Dunne. It spelled out for me a Litany of the Gaels, that had crossed the broad ocean to settle in this area. They had come from the 1840’s onward, when “the hunger” had stricken their homeland. My people were among them and now lie peacefully at rest in this eternal village of their neighbors, friends and descendants. I drove along the Southern edge of the grounds in search of the St. Jude Garden of plots. For it is here that the current generation of Martins had interred several of our family members. At the very Southeast corner of the St. Jude Garden, a long oval of plots that runs South to North, and beneath the shelter of the second tree from the road, lies my brother Edward J. Martin. He had passed on at age 42, leaving a loving wife and three children. Memories of him are still strong within me, for “Eddie” had been a visceral presence whose force of personality and strong will had carved a life time of stories and episodes in the small community of South Buffalo, in a short number of years. His stone reads “U.S. Navy,” reflecting his service time in the 1960’s. I have many other thoughts of him but will save them for another story. I said a prayer for Eddie, admiring the green Christmas wreath that his wife Susan had left by his resting place. Three rows of graves to the West of Eddie, and 5 plots to the South, lie my Father Francis, sister Maureen and brother Danny. Maureen, only a year younger than I, had been taken from us at age 18 by a reckless driver, while crossing busy Rte. # 5 near Sunset Bay. Memories of her are the dimmest for me. I think the remembered pain of her passing always makes me block them out. She was a slip of a thing, at just over 5 feet tall. She had the raven hair and startling blue eyes of the ‘black Irish” in our line. She was gentle of nature and always solicitous of her family. Losing her broke my father’s heart. It was a difficult time for all of us. ‘Moe,” as we called her, had just graduated from Mount Mercy Academy and was headed for college when she was struck down on that late June evening in 1968. And Danny, poor Danny, Daniel Eugene Martin was never one meant to survive. Intellectually, he was the most gifted in a family of very bright people. His common sense levels were predictably and sometimes humorously non-existent. I remember with a smile the times when mom sent him for milk at a nearby milk machine on Cazenovia St. Danny, absent minded as ever, would put the quarter into the slot and remove the two pennies in change from the return slot. Much to my mother’s exasperation though, he would often forget to take the quart of milk that he had just paid for. He did manage to get through the University of Buffalo and then saw service in the U.S. Army in Germany, before heading down the dark path that took so many of the Irish before him. “The creature” had claimed him, the same as if she were a great snarling beast that devoured the souls of the Irish. We buried him at age 34. I said a few prayers for them and talked with my dad for a time, telling him of the family’s progress since last we had talked. Francis Harold Martin had loomed large in all of our lives. His death, at age 61 in 1976, had shaken us all. Even now, some 29 years later, the memories of him are still strong. A Eulogy of him that I wrote and had published in the old Buffalo Beat Magazine, spelled out the caliber of the man and what he meant to all of us. The chill of the wind broke my reverie. I walked the 90 yards or so to the Southeast, into the “Garden of the Annunciation.” There, a grand, black-marble monument, etched on its face with the “claddagh hands clasped,” announced the final resting-place of another brother lost, John Francis Martin. Jack, or “Marty” as his friends called him, was a bon-vivant of the first caliber. We lost him at age 40, in a car accident on a lonely stretch of highway in Boston, N.Y.. His wife Kathy had been near inconsolable at the loss. I think most now of Jack I guess, because he was the last one that left us. It always hurts more to lose those younger than you. Somehow, the feeling that I should have protected him more lingers within me. He was much loved by family and friends and a character of the first magnitude in the neighborhood taverns, his favorite haunt after working hours at the post office. I said a final prayer for Jack and told him that his wife was fine and recovering as best she could. The Christmas wreath, on his grave, looked festive against the black marble. I nodded, as I left, to Tom Brook’s grave. It faces Jack’s. His wife Kathleen, a cousin, had adorned his resting place with a shamrock shaped marble stone with the words of an Irish prayer engraved on the lower portions. Such is the force of the claim, of our far away ancestry, on all of us. Way up by the fence, along Ridge Rd., our smallest and younger brother Kevin lies peacefully with My dad’s parents Emmanuel and Mary Martin. Kevin had been taken from us in child hood. He was but the whisp of a memory to even the oldest of us. I nodded my head to the vagabond winds that had recently claimed Brother Paddy. He had seen service, as a combat medic in the central highlands of Viet Nam, during that awful comflict. He now lies peacefully in a Military Cemetery, just outside of Concord, New Hampshire, with another band of brothers. He has joined the rest of the Clan Martin now in their eternal rest. And now, all of them lay at peace, with the hundreds of ancestors and thousands of friends and neighbors who had preceded us into this garden of weatherworn limestone epiphanies. I come here, not often but yearly, to wish them all well and tell them that I still remember them, as they were in life, vibrant and alive. Their presence in my memories makes me sad sometimes. But, I wish it that way, for it causes me to remember and come and visit them, to honor who they were and what they meant to me. I like not Christmas much, but I wished them, one and all, our fondest sentiments as we neared this, the most spiritual of Holidays. I will remember each of you this Christmas morning and say a prayer that all of those whom you left behind are safe and well this day. Merry Christmas Dad, Maureen, Danny, Jack, Eddie, Paddy, Kevin and all of those many that came before us. You will live on through me, and the others who remember you, as long as any of us walk this earth. -30- Christmas Day, 2003 Joseph Xavier Martin

Tree Bones From twenty paces away, they looked like a pile of bleached and whitened bones lying washed up on the small limestone seawall along the shore in the Erie Basin Marina on Buffalo’s waterfront. The “bones” were splintered and of various lengths. They lie like a whitened pile of pick up sticks, interspersed among the various flotsam and jetsam that had drifted into the harbor washing in with the continuous linear array of Winter storms that blew in regularly off volatile Lake Erie. As I got closer, I saw that they weren’t a huge pile of bones, from some long ago disaster, but whitened and sun-bleached shards of trees that glistening brilliantly in the afternoon sun. My mind immediately drew the contrast between the giant leafy umbrellas of Summer and Fall and their shattered and splintered remains lying now before me. I wondered from what shore these “bones” of trees had fallen and drifted here. Are these detritus from the Canadian shores to the North or wooded remains from Pennsylvania and Ohio? A more knowledgeable person could have inspected the grain of the “bone” and deduced the various types of tree involved. To me however they were just the dryed-out remains of generic trees. Once they had stood tall, along the banks of Lake Erie, providing shade and beauty. Each of these leafy monsters had probably weathered a thousand storms over the years. During each tempest, swaying to and fro in that frightful “oaken ballet” of a tree caught in a windy storm. And then,with time and age, the roots dying and the pulpy fibre of wood drying out, one of these “arms” had snapped from its juncture to the mighty wooden edifice, by the force of the wind and waves. It had then floated off in the raging storm to arrive here on our shore, desolate and dessicated. Perhaps some young person will collect these bones for the beauty of their withered driftwood form. Others may use them to kindle a blaze somewhere. Most of the “bones” however will stay locked in their forlorn embrace, decorating the shoreline with their glistening white appeal until another storm washes them away to a different shore or drags them to the bottom of the seething sea. All of these thoughts passed through my head in a flash as I walked along this wind- swept and storm tossed seawall. Treasures like these arrive daily here and wait for the right pair of eyes to discover them. Perhaps I should walk this way more often. -30- Joseph X.Martin

> Weathering the Storm > > The sun was shining brightly on Tuesday morning, the 21st of > November, 2000. It reflected brilliantly off the snowy white blanket that smothered the streets and houses of Buffalo and Western New York .It was the calm after the brutal storm of the night before. > > The snow had come quickly, in a frozen rainfall of slushy precipitation. " Lake Effect Snow" is the meteorological term for the phenomenon. Cold winds, rushing over the warmer Lake Erie surface,soak up huge quantities of moisture. As the water-laden clouds rise over land, the moisture falls in great sheets of frozen snow. It functions like a giant snow making machine at a ski resort. If you have ever seen these cannon-like snow guns, you have an appreciation for the volume of precipitation that these storms can generate. Lake Erie is pointed, like a huge winter artillery piece, at Buffalo and Western New York. The snowfall occurs, under Arctic conditions, whenever the Lake Erie ice has not yet frozen over. > > The event comes quickly, with little warning. If the wind direction is steady, the narrow band of snow will be well delineated. You can literally watch a white curtain of snow falling, down the road, when all about you is clear. > > The TV stations regularly post " snow squall warnings." The radio drones on, like the prayers for the dead, a lists of school and event closings. The lists grow with the storm's magnitude. In your mind's eye, you can almost visualize the track of its' path, as you listen. The schools wink out in a linear, contiguous geographical array. Huge quantities of milk, bread and staples disappear from store shelves, as if by magic. Mentally, we batten down the hatches and prepare to weather the storm. > > These narrow bands of snow are wind driven. They oscillate from southwest, to west, and then finally Northwest, with the prevailing winds. The direction is channeled by the windmill effect, of a counter clockwise low front, as it sweeps across the Great Lakes. It functions like a huge garden hose erupting in an icy spray that covers Western New York. Then, to add insult to injury, the process can reverse itself, as the front passes through and the wind shifts. Sometimes, an unfortunate community has just dug itself out, when it is buried yet again. It develops a stoic patience within us, a stolid resignation and acceptance of the inevitable. > > > > Yesterday, the day of the great Storm 2000, had started out normally enough for a Monday in November. I arrived at work at 7 A.M.. The clouds out over Lake Erie looked threatening and full of snow. Was it only two days ago that I had cut the grass? > > Saturday night and on into Sunday morning had dumped about 10 inches of snow on us. As Western New Yorkers, this was just a mere inconvenience. We shoveled out with a minimum of fuss and continued on with our lives. > > For Monday, the weather prognosticators predicted 1” to 3" of snow. No one even broke stride in their daily activities. We all went to work and carried on as usual. During the morning hours the weather front closed in and we saw the first taste of what was to become a monumental lake effect snow storm. Still, no one had issued any warnings and those of us in the Rath County Office building had no apparent cause for alarm. > > I should have known some thing was up. One of my colleagues had slid off the road in the morning and banged into another car some place in the North Towns. It was only a small incident, with no one injured. We quickly arranged for a tow, collision service to repair the vehicle and an alternate fleet vehicle to provide transportation. At the Rath building, jobs and events went on as usual. My deputy director and I sat through an interesting, two-hour presentation for an oracle based > software system. The wind and the snow howled outside like a banshee in torment. Still we had no apparent cause for alarm. > > Along about three o'clock a message came from The Emergency Services Department advising us that we were to urge all employees to go home at three o'clock. It was the first inkling for me that we were in for it. I debated whether or not to stay in the office and ride out the storm. Like all gamblers, I decided to make a run for it to the South Towns, hoping to beat the advance of the storm. It was to be my first error of the day. > > The building elevators were jammed. The feeling was one of > "catching the last life boat" on a sinking ship. Everyone knew it was a race to get home before the weather locked us in. We got to our cars easily enough and then turned on to Franklin Street. The traffic was heavy and slow moving, but it is that way on most days, so I had no cause for immediate alarm. I turned right onto Court St. and headed East across Main St., finally managing to reach the Elm Street Arterial. The traffic was heavy but still moving. I made it to Seneca street and opted to take the "surface streets" rather than the Thruway. It wasn't one of my better decisions. Very quickly, traffic ground to a halt. The heavy wet snow exploded above us with frequent lightning bursts and powerful gusts of wind. > > The distance forward was measured in inches, sometimes even a few feet. The windshield kept fogging over and the snow and ice would encrust and freeze the wipers and windows. I had to constantly exit the car, brushing the accumulations of snow and ice from the windows and wipers during the frequent periods of standing dead still while the storm exploded over our heads. > > One of the radio stations began to take calls and offered to coordinate help for stranded motorists. Unlike the blizzard of 77', cell phones were a fixture in many of the stalled cars. A constant novena of pleas for help drifted out over the sodden and frozen air waves. The snow was piling up underneath us and the path forward was along two deep and frozen ruts in the heavy snow. As we approached each intersection, the competing current of vehicles crossing the intersection fought against our tide southward us on Seneca St. Each intersection became a battle of wills and spinning tires as the conga line inched forward. Periodically, some cowboy in a four-wheel drive would roar down the opposite lane facing oncoming traffic and tempting the fates and a head on collision in the blinding snow. Fortunately there weren't many of these yahoos about. > > The casual pedestrians were angels in the snow. A welcome push from one, to a skidding vehicle, might make the difference on whether or not it made those last few inches up the icy incline of the bridge. Bless them for their selfless spirit, they always seem to spring up like dandelions in Buffalo emergencies. It is a frontier spirit of overcoming shared adversities that is an admirable quality of Buffalo people. ¢ > The feeling of sitting in an immovable car on a rut that was leading nowhere, hour after hour, was one of impotent frustration at the inability to affect one's fate. I can now more properly empathize with those several unfortunate souls, in the blizzard of '77, who sat in their stalled or stranded vehicles, hour after hour, watching the fuel supply evaporate and the wind and the snow howl around them until icy calm brought them final surcease. > > As you are sitting there in the storm, you don't really think of yourself in mortal danger. It was only when I ventured outside to clear the windows and wiper blades every few minutes that I felt the full force of the storm. I was not dressed properly for the weather and wouldn't have long survived the storm should I be forced to abandon the vehicle. I looked over carefully the buildings and enterprises that I might have to seek refuge in. A fire station at Elk and Seneca looked promising. > > > > But, I crept forward ever so slowly until I barely managed to crest the slippery ridge of the intersection at Smith and Seneca Streets. It was there that I almost gave up. Traffic was creeping North from Seneca, East from Smith and South from the immobile conga line that I sat in. All three streams were attempting to merge into the one creeping lane headed east on Smith street to a fate and a destination I knew not. It was one of those moments in time when you either accede to your fate or roll the dice and set a course against the tide. I have never been much in favor of letting fate decide my course. > > > > > Impulsively, I decided to roll the dice and slid onto Smith St., headed West into the face of the storm. Maybe I could find a way out of this mess. The snow ruts were well over 15" deep as I bumped along. Several cars ahead of me sat immobile, wheels spinning in place. Too many years of mild Winters and "all weather radials." I was thankful for the front wheel drive and the powerful traction of the lower gears of my Ford Escort. I managed to slide around the spinning wheels and slalom into the intersection of Smith and Elk Streets. A burst of engine power carried me over the bridge there and I was free. > > Ahead of me lay the open expanse of Elk Street. It was "open," because no plows had yet gone down the there yet and the "path" consisted of two ruts in the 15" of snow. I didn't stop to think about the problem, just concentrated on keeping my car in the two ruts and heading onward away from the stalled line of cars. Most vehicles have a tendency to "fishtail" side to side in the snow. It is an art to constantly turn into the skid and correct anew without spinning out of control into a hopeless 360 degree spin that would bury you in a snow bank. In the distance, through the flurries, I could see the neon lights of the "Three J's" bar. I knew that South Buffalo, my boy hood home, lay dead ahead. For the very first time, I thought that I just might make it home this night. > > At the Seneca Street exit of the Niagara Thruway, I expected to see a line of cars leaving the Thruway, but there was not a one. Either all Southbound traffic had cleared the area in the five hours I had sat stalled on Seneca Street or worse, the traffic was stalled on the Thruway and no one could get off. I said a silent prayer for fellow travellers and wished them god speed. > > I sailed through the intersection of Elk and Bailey, bouncing along in the deep ruts and praying that the Lord would guide me straight and true. It is always interesting how close to the Lord you become when you really need him to help you out. > > At Elk and Seneca I expected another solid line of traffic from downtown, but there wasn't any at all. The intersection of Bailey and Seneca must be the barrier that was blocking all South bound traffic. I wondered, somewhat peevishly, why someone in an official capacity hadn't tried to unplug these bottlenecks and keep the traffic moving. Perhaps in the heat of the storm, there are only so many things that an overwhelmed municipality can cope with. The rest, as in frontier days, is reliance upon our own courage and resourcefulness. > > I made the turn onto Seneca St., and sailed Southward in ruts that were at least passable. Several urchins tried desperately to grab onto my car's bumpers for that dangerous ride, but I managed to elude them with bursts of speed. I felt for all the world like a Pony Express Rider making a mad dash through a hostile countryside. > > As I crossed the border into West Seneca, my relief was palpable. The roads were crusted with snow, but passable. Without effort, I made the corner of Seneca and Ridge, almost home. A turn East onto Ridge and a few blocks over and I slid into my own street, just shy of Union Road. The street hadn't been plowed yet. Ruefully, I thought that I would get bogged down after all I had been through. But, I slalomed into my driveway and turned off the ignition, happy to be home and safe. > > My wife was waiting for me, concern etched on her face. I wasn't one of the high-tech drivers who was equipped with a cell phone. Like relatives and loved ones of the thousands of other travellers abroad on this foul evening, she had been left to worry about me in silence. > > Stiffly, I exited the car and walked into my home. It had never seemed so welcome and warm as it was tonight. I changed from my wet clothes and made some hot cinnamon tea, letting the tensed muscles of my shoulders relax for the first time in many hours. Although I was glad to be home, I thought of the many thousands of those who were left back on the roads, stuck in traffic that would not move. > > > > We watched the weather reports and special updates on all three local television channels. T.V. news showed abandoned cars that lay all over downtown Buffalo, making any attempt to traverse these streets all but impossible. This was going to be one hell of a clean up job on the morrow. Later that night, the wind and awful snow gradually migrated Southward, giving the City of Buffalo a much-needed break. > > Hundreds of school kids had been stranded on their buses in a futile attempt to get them home. They had been taken to schools, fast food restaurants, fire stations and any other place that would offer them warmth and safety. Western New Yorkers are at their best in times like these, offering generously of themselves to help others in need. > > Anxious parents flooded the lines looking for the children. The 911 system crashed from overuse and the media attempted to fill the void and disburse helpful information in its periodic updates. Lots of people had remained in their downtown offices, warm and dry. Theirs had been the intelligent decision. Many of us who sat in the storm wished more than once that we had stayed in our offices and ridden out the storm. > > In some ways, this storm had been worse than the Blizzard of 1977. Thousands upon thousands of motorists had been caught trying to escape downtown Buffalo and been stranded in this event. Like all calamities, it had been a confluence of many events that had produced the catastrophe. What we should have done, or not done, will be debated endlessly over the ensuing weeks and months until this memory too fades into the dim recesses of local history. > > And now Wednesday morning, the clean up begins in earnest. Tow trucks will clear the roadways. Great fleets, of heavy winged snow plows, will clear the accumulations from the streets and highways. Tons of road salt will pepper the streets. The roar of snow blowers, like the buzz of angry bees, will be heard throughout the neighborhoods. Snow shovels, manned by brightly clad residents, furiously nibble away at the clogged sidewalks and driveways. When you finish, of course, the plows will thunder by and fill your drive way with snow, once again, at no extra charge. You need a sense of humor during Winter in Western New York. > > When we were children, the heavy snows came with great regularity. Then sometimes, scores of neighbors would band together and shovel out the dead end street where we lived. The plows were usually hopelessly behind. It would take them days to reach us. It breeds a kinship among us here, in Western New York. It's a feeling of overcoming shared elemental hardships. Like cleaning up after earthquakes, tornadoes or floods, it generates a fierce pride of self sufficiency. We are a hardier people here in Western New York. We bend with the wind and persevere. We are a people who live in harmony with the ferocity of nature and prosper in spite of it. > > > > -30- > > (> > 11/20/00 > > Joseph Xavier Martin > > > >

LONERGAN’S WAKE The band played with the ardor of a group of Scotsmen attacking a free lunch. The bunting and posters were hung in a lavish array of red white and blue. The beer flowed like water and some few noses were already as red as fire hydrants. The crowd was animated and expectant. From the podium, the speaker was finishing his introduction and bringing his oration to a blustery conclusion. Beyond the first few rows, no one could much hear him, but they nodded and clapped in the right places. Sure, twas' the Devil himself that was among them. His smile was Arctic in its' warmth. The calculating rascal looked, to me, like a great white shark deciding upon whom he would bite into next. His tones were warm enough, quiet like a rattler about to strike. It was the eyes that gave him away. They were dead, cold as and lifeless as stone. Michael Riordan Hennessey, the U.S. Attorney for the Western District, held court effortlessly. Like most delusional paranoids, he imagined that the flock was spellbound before him. The quiet whisper of his banter seeped slowly into their collective psyche. It was only the professional pols who were immune. From a life time of habit, they focused but the merest fragment of their attention on his words. Their main energies were spent surveying the gathering and determining the next recipient of their charms. They cheered the loudest though, when he was finished, from long practice as drum beaters. They were as pilot fish, surrounding a shark and feeding off the remains of the plundered carcass. We were gathered here to honor one of our own, James Patrick O'Connor. “Seamus” to his friends, he was a prince of a man, who we thought could help us along nicely. You had to keep your wits about you at these events. The line between a wake and a rally was a fine one. The major difference was that it was easier, at a wake, to work the principal honoree. Also, he couldn't deny how close of a friend and supporter you were or claimed to be. His inability to flee was also considered a plus. The rest was pretty much the same. Sometimes, we drank a little bit more at the wake and were kinder to the honoree', not always, but usually. Tonight was no different. Himself, the grand James Patrick O'Connor was again running for Mayor. Nothing warms the cockles of a supporters heart like thoughts of how the great man could help you after the election. To some, it was quantifiable. So much money, so much time, equaled a job at a certain level. The efforts of others grew geometrically, in their own recollection, within days of a victory. The aura became one of the last train leaving the station. Everyone wanted to be on it. " Sure your Honor, I've got the grandest nephew who will work like the devil for you", began the plea . " Myself, I'm not in need of anything. Well, maybe a small job, with a decent rate of pay, of course, but the nephew, he's in need. Can you help us your honor?" And on it went. Those petitioners who were successful, were usually not happy either. They imagined the payoff larger and sooner in coming. They were also resentful of the success of others. " Sure, the lad only hung a few signs and did little else, compared to ourselves ", would be the whisper. And on it went. If you had a dark sense of humor, the characters could be the stuff of much enjoyment. Sometimes, the great man himself would be holding forth on a subject. He would turn to me and with a wink, speak favorably of one lad or another. The admiring listeners would mumble their agreement and add what " a darlin' lad" the subject was. Without missing a beat, his honor in the next breath, would mention some grave failings that the same lad possessed. The chorus instantly assented, with a " and sure, the lad is too fond of the barley.” More than a few minutes of this sent me ruefully on my way. His nibs, who was mightily amused, never let on what he really thought. He learned more from listening to the reactions of the Greek Chorus. Only the twinkle in his eye gave him away. Tonight, however, the joke was on him. He was basking in a self satisfied glow from the warmth of a multitude of cheering acolytes. He went on his way that night, with grand thoughts of enthusiastic and faithful admirers. We sighed with relief and dodged another bullet. His nibs had given us twenty four hours to put on the rally. The faithful were invited, the hall decorated and the preparations laid. No one had bothered to check the date, however. It was a weekend heavy with First Communions and Graduations. These were important clan gatherings in an Irish Catholic Community like ours, not to be missed. Twenty minutes before the Rally, the place was empty. A wake held during the Super Bowl would have generated more enthusiasm. Never at a loss, the lads fanned out across the area and emptied out every gin mill within a two mile radius. The lure, to all who would listen, was promises of free beer at the rally. His nibs, as was his custom, showed up an hour late. By that time, the place was packed with an enthusiastic, if red-eyed throng of supporters, cheering lustily for the great man. The gossip level was at fever pitch during these affairs. In small groups, throughout the hall, the knowing wink and the careful whisper conveyed some small secret or another. More than likely, the information had already been published in the paper that week. It didn't matter, it was grist for the mill and fodder for the blowhards. You could learn a lot at these shindigs, if you listened carefully to who was saying what. You also had to know who was related to whom and in what political camp they were currently housed. It was a musical mosaic of Babel, that could play a recognizeable tune to the discerning ear. It is a never ending chorus that changes with the political winds. We used to call it the "Buffalo Shuffle", in "A Weasel Minor.” The chorus sang it with vigor, and to be fair, as much sincerity as those directing the whole hot aired symphony. A gauntlet of earnest handshakes and a litany of requests, accompanied my slow and easy departure. Like wild beasts in the jungle, you knew enough never to run, show fear or hurt before the watching eyes. Twas' another performance, scripted well and good. There would be many more like it in the never ending drama. J.X.M

T H E T I G E R G U N When we were children, Carl and I used to roam the wilds of Cazenovia Park, on the South side of Buffalo, N.Y. . We walked the creek banks there, exploring the fauna and flora with all the animation and wide eyed wonder of Henry Stanley searching for Lake Victoria in Africa. The cat-o-nine tails, along the banks there, are tall and willowy. They sway and rustle in the wind. Like most children, my imagination was continually in overdrive. I would see the reeds move and imagined that a Tiger was lurking there, stalking us. It was silly of course. Part of me knew that there were no tigers in Cazenovia Park. But, somewhere in my imagination and just beyond the first row of reeds, I sensed a presence. It lay there quietly, waiting for me to get too close. If I were careless enough to do so, I was sure that it would pounce. I avoided the area as much as I could. I never let anybody know what I thought was lurking there, in the bushes. I didn't think they would believe me. Also, aspiring little men couldn't run away from things, no matter how scary they were. It bothered me a lot. Other kids would run through the area and I would stop to watch them. I half expected to see an enormous striped monster rise up, with a carnivorous roar, and tear them in half. It didn't get them though . It was waiting for me. I couldn't stop thinking about the lurking beast. One day, when we were playing in the area, I stopped dead in my tracks. I could sense it near me in the reeds. I thought I could hear its' heavy breathing and a quiet throaty purring. The willows were parting in a line that led right to me. I couldn't move. I knew it would soon strike and I was scared to death. The sudden hand on my shoulder startled me like a loud clap of thunder. It wasn't the beast, but Carl. He could see that I was frightened and asked me what I was afraid of. I knew that if I said its' name,it would jump out of the reeds and eat both of us. Carl wasn't too much older than I was, but I knew that he wasn't afraid of anything. If it was a Tiger, I knew he would walk into the reeds and smack it right on the snout. Then, maybe it would go away. I decided to tell him the secret and hoped that he wouldn't laugh at me. That would have been more painful to me than a Tiger bite. He didn't laugh though. He looked at me in that older and wiser way of his and said calmly,"why don't you pull out your Tiger Gun and shoot it." At first, I couldn't quite believe what he had said. What Tiger Gun? Where am I going to get a Tiger Gun? I hope he wasn't laughing at me. Hesitantly, I stammered the question to him. "Where would I get a Tiger Gun?" He took a while before he answered, to make sure that I would hear him and understand. "The same place you found the Tiger"was his answer. It was a revelation! In the span of micro seconds, the Tiger lay dead of leaden shot from the most enormous Tiger Gun that I could imagine. It would never rise again. After that, there were many times in life when I felt a Tiger lurking in the bushes, waiting to pounce. Whenever that happened, I took a deep breath and fired the most powerful Tiger Gun that I could conjure. The "Tiger" would always vanish in a cloud of imaginary powder and shot. Much later, when I read and admired fables like "Rumplestiltskin,ù I understood the beauty and simplicity of Carl's Tiger Gun. I think everybody should have one. I know that I keep mine always at the ready, waiting for any Tiger dumb enough to bother me. Joseph Xavier Martin

PASSING THE TORCH The ethnic and familial roots that weave the tapestry of life, in South Buffalo are both durable and far reaching. Favors and alliances won in one generation, are often negotiable in the second and third. The working class ethic bred a resentful contempt for authority deep within us. Perhaps the legacy of staring up from the ditch at a fat bellied foreman, who hollered "dig faster and harder,” made us that way. Automatic respect was granted to no one. It was said in the neighborhood, that "you call no man sir, except your father, the drill instructor and the arresting officer." Getting someone elected is a complex and esoteric array of disciplines that involves changing attitudes. Much of it however, comes down to the grinding tedium of street work. It includes phone banks, passing out slingers, covering election booths, stuffing envelopes and putting up signs. On election day, when there was an enormous amount of work to be done, many of the crafty would want to be "floaters.” These are people who would, in theory, be roving trouble shooters. They would help "where ever needed.” Of course they helped no one and disappeared when ever the candidate left. Somehow they magically reappeared, by a process unfathomable to me, whenever the candidate returned to the scene. Most of the business of campaigns is discussed in guarded tones, as if the world were listening. It was a necessary precaution, because many of those on the fringes of campaign are the most voluble. A sly wink and a lowered voice of "someone in the know" often gave stature to the unimportant. The Maxim that "if two people know, it is not a secret" proved to be true time and time again. Among our crowd, everyone had an aging relative involved in the "game.” Mine was my Father's brother, Uncle Edward. He was a storied and legendary ward politician, who carried the Republican banner in a Democratic bastion for decades. He and a delightful Octogenarian Pol took an interest in me as a youngster. They tried to help me along in what had become for us, a family trade. Manuch's uncle Willie had been a saloon keeper and a N.Y State Senator, who had helped him get started. He was carrying on the tradition with me . He told me up front, that the business was a "whore's game,” and most of it's players earned the title daily. Once, when I told him that I would be volunteering to stuff envelopes for a local candidate, he pulled me aside and gave me an uncle's advice. "Lad, if you are goin' to be marchin' in the parade, make sure you carry a piece of the banner.” Once, Uncle Edward was in a political shoot-out with a rival. Edwin Jaeckle, who was Tom Dewey's national campaign manager and a local Republican fixture, pulled him aside. "You Irish rascals are all alike" he said, you telegraph your punches. "The opposition can see them coming, avoid the attack and take precautions before hitting back. What you should do is "stand back in the crowd and throw a brick at your target. "The intended victim doesn't see the missile coming and doesn't know who threw it afterwards. You get the job done and don't risk retribution." It was hard learned advice from a consummate professional who knew how the game was played. For, we were players in the grand game of politics. We ran as if the Devil were fast upon our heels, for often he was. -30- Joseph Xavier Martin

Hi Donna, Thanks. Glad you enjoyed the shared memory. There are a flock of others about South Bufalo, if you want to tune into AbcTales.com/user/jxmartin. I well remember you and your family. Your mom and dad were wonderful people. They infused all of you with their good nature and kindness. I remember well what you all did for Jackie's funeral. It was much appreciated. God bless you all for your kindness. I hope your children grow to be as nice as all of you. Vaya Con Dios, Joey

Dear Joey Loved the story. It brought back many memories of Seneca Parkside. Have always watched for your letters written in to the Buffalo News. The whole "Esford" family always watch for them. Your Old Neighbor...Donna

THE "FIFTIES" IN “South Buffalo” The coal truck backed gingerly into the narrow city driveway. It had a clearance of only a few inches on either side. The coal chute was lowered through the open basement window, so that it came to rest inside of the wooden coal bin. With a roar of rock on metal, and a cloud of black dust, the monthly fuel for the furnace was delivered. The chute was retracted and the coal truck pulled carefully out into the dead end street. Scatterings of small children dodged in and out of the alley, curious at anything out of the ordinary. Next, we had to shovel the coal back into the bin from where it lay strewn about the floor. Then, a quick application of the broom tidied up the black dust. Later, Dad would come down and feed the ebony nuggets into the waiting maw of the old cast iron furnace. The metal door, to the hungry monster, was streaked with rust. It had raised letter castings on it, depicting the now forgotten name of the manufacturer. Large, hollow, cylindrical arms, like branches of a mighty tree, fed hot air into the open registers in the floors above. The open grates, in the floors, seemed to swallow objects large and small. Every evening, the fire would be carefully banked so that it would last until morning. The ashes had to be cleaned out weekly, from the grate below the fire. We put them out at the curb, in metal baskets, awaiting the open, fan tailed trucks that hauled the powdery white residue away to the dump on Squaw Island. It only seems cumbersome in retrospect, now that we have modern gas furnaces. Technology freed us from the drudgery of feeding and caring for the glowing iron monster. No more coal bins and no more coal dust. It seems so long ago. The "rag man ", the " fruit & vegetable man,” the "ice man,” the "milk man,” and other assorted peddlers, were weekly visitors to Seneca Parkside, our small dead end street, in South Buffalo. Some of the wagons were still drawn by horses, others by lumbering, box-shaped trucks. " Mister Softy" Ice Cream is the only one who comes by now. The red, Niagara Frontier and yellow, Buffalo Transit buses ran regularly by the corner of Seneca & Cazenovia, carrying people "downtown" and back. The radio jingle, of a Sattler's Department Store Ad, seemed to crowd the airwaves. Who did not know Sattler’s address at 998 Broadway? It is a bygone era. Shea's Seneca Theater, at the corner of Seneca & Cazenovia, offered two features on Saturdays, for the $.25 admission. Another dime for popcorn or candy and we were ready for an afternoon of adventure. The Lone Ranger, Superman and a whole posse of western heroes, rode across that magic screen. The occasional "Hoola Hoop" contest, drawing or promotional event, was greeted with hoots of noisy laughter from the crowds of neighborhood urchins, who populated the many rows of red fabric seats. It was a magical place, that elaborate palace built by Mike Shea, in era before us. Monster Movies and 3-D glasses, to watch the "13 Ghosts,” were standard fare. We cried, in the dark of course, when " Old Yeller" was shot. We cringed when the "creature from the black lagoon" swam eerily through the dark waters, after the unsuspecting heroine. " Rodan " and "Godzilla" weekly terrorized all of Japan and the " Blob " scared most of us silly. Outside, "Chevies,” with big engines and noisy mufflers, were the teenage chariots of choice. Boys had funny hair styles modeled after a "duck's behind" and girls wore checkered skirts, with bobby socks and saddle shoes. The music, something called "rock & roll,” was alien to our parents. Some outraged seniors saw it as morally degenerate. It was thought as salacious as the "B" movies posted in the rear of the church, by the Bishop. Quiz shows and live theater dominated the new fangled television set. We saw the occasional Flash Gordon and Superman shows. "Milton Berle,” Ed Sullivan, Arthur Godfrey and Lawrence Welk were the adults show of choice. "I remember Mama " was something that we all watched. "Mr.Wizard,” "The Mousketeers " and "Captain Kangaroo" were also favorites. "Navy Log " & "The Silent Service" were Saturday night fixtures. James Dean was whiny and troublesome, and motor cycles became the emblem of a rebellious generation. Nothing as outlandish and bizarre as the coming 60's was in anyone's imagination. Malt shops and soda fountains were all the rage. Cherry cokes and " Soldier Boy " or " Johnny Angel,” on the jukebox, were something that everybody understood. Weekly dances, at Bishop Timon High School, insured that boys and girls would stand on opposite sides of the Gym. We were all a little jealous of those few boys who could actually dance. The Space age was starting, with something called "Sputnik." A minor league baseball player, named Fidel Castro, surprised everyone in Cuba. Who would have thought that baseball players read up on dialectical materialism? Eisenhower and an era of good feeling permeated the decade. People were beginning to move to someplace called " suburbia ." Dick Van Dyke introduced us to it, with Rob and Laura Petrie, on television. It was an original decade, a transitional bridge from a rural, bucolic America, to the crowded urban centers that we now populate. The innocense of Andy of Mayberry and Gomer Pyle would not long survive. J. X. M