The Burning of Black Rock (Pallets)!

It's sad to think that the best way to commemorate the War of 1812 here along the Niagara River is for a group of politicians to set fire to pile of old pallets. What's worse is that it took place on both sides of the border. And to think that this was just a rehearsal of what's to come.

During the War of 1812, on the Niagara Peninsula, and around all of Western New York and Southern Ontario, there were battles fought, won and lost, by both sides of the conflict. I guess I could best describe it as a 13-round heavyweight boxing match, where either side might win a round here and there, but neither had the knock-out capability, and the fight ended in a draw. Back and forth across the River, and up and down the frontier, armies were led in decisive battles and insignificant skirmishes, with no great gains for either the British or American cause.

Fingers could be pointed in either direction as to who might have set the first fire in "victory" or "withdrawal". This kind of tactic was often used during their prior argument of the 1770's. At that time, the loss of military provisions and supplies, through plunder and destruction, was not unusual. And, during a conflict where "citizens" were fighting "soldiers", their homes might have been considered military depots or supply stations or even forts. Yet, during the War of 1812, defined military and civilian structures had to have been more easily recognizable; stone walls and turrets versus painted clapboard houses with roofs.

So, when there came a time that American forces left the area of Fort George (Niagara-on-the-Lake), and ended up setting fire to more than just the Fort, the gauntlet was thrown. The British responded by chasing the American forces across Western New York and burning everything from Fort Niagara down to 18-Mile Creek, including Lewiston, Black Rock, and Buffalo. This left many farmers and residents without shelter in the middle of winter, which in turn led to many freezing to death.

So, my question is, does the "celebration" of the War of 1812 need to include such petty and irresponsible activities like burning bonfires along the Niagara River? Is that what we want our children to learn? "Hey! Let's celebrate innocent people freezing to death. Let's remember the burning of houses and farms."

Or, is this just a cheap and unimaginative way to "do something"? Rather than what the great State of New York has planned and budgeted for...... Nothing. No wonder Sam Hoyt was there amongst them.

What if it was Nice?

Here's a little tid-bit I picked up on the financial news.............
New York (Market Watch)…..9 June 9, 2010 Societe Generale analysts Evgeny Solovyov and Aymeric de-Villaret said in a note to clients, “This is no longer a question of the strength of its balance sheet (which we think is strong enough) but of whether BP will be able to take the situation under sufficient control by the time it has to decide on the dividend…to come up with a story palatable for the U.S. politicians and public opinion.”.........
So, a "grand" financial institution of France would like to see BP come up with some sort of "story" that we would find "palatable". How's this for palatable....If it wasn't for our saving your FROG ass, you'd still be saluting a guy with a cute little mustache.
If this spill was off the coast of Nice, or maybe Normandy, you'd probably think twice about wanting BP to come with a story. France would have to be concerned with all the rioting in the streets and the burning of BP's office throughout Europe instead.
Oh! Wait! That's right.....the oil is going to hit the Gulf Stream and then enter the Atlantic; destination........Europe.
I guess I'll have to hope that BP comes up with a story palatable for the EU and European opinion. HA-HA!

Hottie

The Obama came to town, primarily to celebrate the entrepreneurialship of some guy in the east side. The company apparently makes whatever you want them to, but their big claim to fame is the manufacture of salad bars. OK, but didn't that kinda go out of style in the 80's?

Being The Obama, he decides to stop on the way in to have some lunch.

OK....Let's see....Buffalo and ribs? No. That's not it.

Buffalo and fried chicken? No. But, it's close.

I know. Buffalo and chicken wings.

So, where does he stop? The "Anchor Bar", like every other tourist? No, better go to the place that won the last "Best Wings in Buffalo" contest. Duffs.

He (and the entire entourage) pull in and order a single medium, crispy.

OK. No challenge there. Best not get them too hot, otherwise you'll look like a fool for not getting a pitcher of beer to go with them. Up runs a lady, and before anyone can stop her, she says The Obama is a "hottie".

Oops.

Everyone in the world who has access to Youtube now knows about this women and her opinion of The Obama. I think it's kinda cute. Obviously, my opinion isn't shared by everyone, including quite a few locals who decided to write in to the News.

Well, folks. I got news for y'all. This is Buffalo. It ain't some foreign capital. It's not some town where the unemployment rate is less than 4%. We all don't live in $1M homes. This, my friends, is the "City of Good Neighbors", the "Queen City", the home of the Buffalo Bills and Buffalo Sabres. We say things from the heart. We live and die from the heart. We give when it counts, and then we give some more. If you have a flat, this is the place you want to be stranded by the side of the road. 'Cause that's the way we roll.

So, don't chastise someone for getting all excited about seeing The Obama in person at Duffs. He's the one that stopped there. What did you want the lady to do instead? Just stand there and pee her pants. She wore her heart on her sleeve, just like the rest of us do.

Hell, if he'd have stopped at "Arty's", nobody would have given up their stool for him. To be sure, they would've bought him a beer or two. But, he would have had to buy a couple rounds himself. Otherwise, people would've talked.

What did you just say?

Talk about ease of use....
Just go to this site and see what everyone else is saying.....


http://youropenbook.org/

fruitful

nothing is simple
or so it now seems
care to be taken
by each in its time

cross over and back

guess once, but not twice

refute with temptation

laugh with both hands

see always ahead
look back to make sure
do kiss with desire
cry, once in a while

breathe

sleep well

don't stay cold for long

there'll be enough time

Railroad Express Terminal - Is quickly returning to the place from once it sprang. Around 90 years ago, rail service was the end to the means. Cartage, waterways, and shipping had controlled the movement of goods for most of history. Countries and governments lived and died by their ability to control seaway commerce; Carthage, Greece, Venice, Portugal, France, Great Britain. Wars were fought over the trade of raw materials and finished goods. Even American freedom was borne in retaliation for what was deemed unfair trading practice.
The "Iron Horse" replaced "good ol' Sal" in a way that no one could have foreseen. Travel to reach frontier outposts that originally took months was now completed in days; months reduce to days, and days reduced to hours.
Everything was being moved by rail; people, money, raw material, mail, and finished goods. No longer would purchases through the mail-order catalogs need to be made out-of-season. Christmas gifts didn't need to be ordered in July. And the quality of goods improved with manufacturing centers and their economies of scale.
And while Buffalo may have had 14 different railroad lines servicing the area, and each with its own station, a majority of goods still moved through the larger depots and terminals. This one, the New York Central and Hudson River Railroad Express Terminal, was one of the largest. During its "hay-day", movement of wagons and trucks was continuous, 24 hours a day. Measuring nearly one-quarter mile in length, it appears that it serviced no less than 4 different railroad spurs.

Now, it sits idle, awaiting its final collapse. No longer able to fight the elements, lacking a roof, walls, windows and solid foundation, pieces fall away daily. Columns slide apart under the water-weight. Roof panels disintegrate from lack of care. Cantilevered overhangs, that once protected dock men and teamsters, have long since surrendered to the inevitable rot and decay.

Except for this section. New life is supporting what was once hundreds of feet of awning. Here are 3 sections that have not given in.
Oh, to be that tree and hold on to the past as well.

Śmigły Wilno

or in it's full name......Wojskowy Klub Sportowy "Śmigły" Wilno.

One year, for Christmas, I purchased a soccer ball for my dad. I don't remember why I did. I just did. I thought it was something he might enjoy. Growing up, my dad never showed any natural athletic sport abilities. He didn't throw a football very well. And forget about trying to teach him how to toss a Frisbee. Horseshoes and Jarts were OK, but not too many kids play catch with their dads with Jarts. The thing was, he couldn't get the throwing motion down; like his rotator cuff didn't rotate.
(There was a trick us kids used to use to show off our coordination skills. You bend your arm up at the elbow until your hand is touching your shoulder. Then, rotate your hand so it is palm up on your shoulder. Then, while keeping you hand on your shoulder, raise your forearm up so that it is parallel to the ground. Then take a stack of quarters and place them as close to your elbow as you can. Without letting them fall, swing your hand quickly forward and catch the pile of quarters.........My dad could not rotate his hand the right way, thereby NEVER being able to catch the quarters.
But, he could play the hand slap game very well........I digress........)
So one sunny day, with my sister's kids in tow, my mom and dad decide it'd neat to have a picnic. Growing up, these would typically mean getting out the old galvanized Thermos cooler, making noodles salad and maybe some fried chicken, a watermelon, throw in a couple beers for dad and a jug of lemonade for us kids, and we'd travel to exotic places like Dufferin's Island or Ellicott Creek. This time, however, the trip was just down the street to Sheridan Park.
We nestled into a shelter, fired up some charcoal in one of those mandatory stationary grills, and headed out to the hill. I ran to the car and got out some toys for the grandchildren and even that soccer ball I decide to include.
Getting close to the group, I kicked the ball towards my dad. In an instance, it was like someone had flipped a switch. He suddenly turned into "Soccerman", with incredible skills and abilities!
With grandkids laughing and screaming with joy, he was able to dribble, pivot, and pass the ball without even watching his feet. He was constantly trying to keep a straight face, but I could see he was having the time of his life. When he took off his shirt and got down to his undershirt, I knew he was getting down to business. At one point, during our spontaneous game of "keep away", he passed the ball to me and I quickly returned it.
Then, to everyone's amazement, he started dribbling the ball over his shoulder. Yes, from a toe kick, over his shoulder, and then with the same foot flexed fully behind him, kicking back over his shoulder onto his toe. He did this without watching the behind-the-back contact, not once, but twice more. Then laughing, punted it out into the field for the grandkids to chase.
He was slightly out of breath at this point, but when I asked him where he learned to kick like that, he just said, "You baseball play. I soccer." And, he walked away.
I can only imagine that "his team" was very likely one that played close to the farm. Knowing that he always said his family lived near Wilno, I can just imagine him watching "Śmigły" Wilno. Who knows.....he might have even been on the team.......

"Fore!"

Those of Polish decent seem to understand. Those who are not, but have a connection to someone who is, seem to understand. Those who do not have no great understanding at all. Apparently, anyone who questions Obama's decision to go golfing rather than show some public sign of sympathy or grief is challenging all of democracy.

I am not saying the man should have spent the entire day on his knees praying. Hell, even after a whole year of living in the White House, he can't even decide what church he should belong to. But, he should have used some respect towards a whole nation that was spending the day watching their President being interred.

Like I said elsewhere.....

I used to golf. I've got no problem with the President being a golfer. The fact that he disrespected the memory of 96 Poles is what has me upset.

"Well, I can't get to the funeral, so what else should I do? Go to a Polish church and attend mass?....No....Maybe head over to the Embassy and convey my sorrow....NAW.....Invite some of Poland's representatives, like the Embassador or UN Delegate to a solemn ceremony here at the White House.....NOPE.....I've got it! Let's go play golf! That's just like showing grief, right? Denial is one of the Seven Steps of Grief, isn't it?"

PUTZ!

I guess I need to explain.....The crash caused me to think of why the group was traveling......and then to what took place back then.....and who was involved.....and how close my dad's family farm was to the area....and how he was "detained" by the Soviets.....and ended up on one of those "cattle trains" to Siberia, where men, women, children, and the elderly were often left on them for days at a time, with no food, no water, no facilities, no room to move, without heat, watching friends and family get sick and, without receiving a bit of care, dying and remaining in the train car, only to get to one destination and be moved to another train….


to be separated, with men sent one way, women and children (sometimes) in another, left to build their own shacks from the scraps of lumber that might have been left behind in the forested wilderness, to make socks from mittens, and mittens from hats, and hats from socks, to suffer frostbite and hunger and lice and dysentery, to travel miles to a frozen lake, and there, to break through the ice in order to retrieve fresh water only to have it freeze again.....

...to finally be freed by the Soviets once Germany attacked, but only after being forced to admit to the Allies that Stalin had "detainees" from an Allied country, to travel by whatever means, again in cattle cars for days and weeks with the promise of food and clothing only to be denied, finally ending up in Iran and Iraq only to be sent further south to Palestine, .....to being outfitted and trained, but to only be used as back-up to the British Forces for fear that you would run away from battle, to distinguishing yourself time and time again once allowed to fight, to be THE armed force that takes Monte Cassino when the American and British were repelled for months and time and time again, fighting in the mud and blood, eventually in hand to hand combat, to again fighting the Nazi army each time you were called upon….

.....to find out after years of agonizing over being able to free your home land that the British and Americans "decided" that it would be better to "give" Poland to the Soviets as a "prize" for all the work they did in defeating Germany, leaving you without a country and an inability to go "home" for fear, once there, you would be returned to your "vacation" in Siberia, and to finally end up as the greatest man I've ever known? How did you survive? How did any of you survive?

PS. That even to this day, where the Batan Death March has always been considered a War Crime, none of the actions taken by Stalin, the Soviets, and the Soviet Army against the Poles, Lithuanians, Bulgarians, Hungarians, and others were EVER considered to be so. That may be why neither Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Gorbachev, nor Putin has never felt the need to appologize. For them, it was, and likely continues to be, just business as usual because no one would dare accuse them otherwise.....

First it was jacket drawstrings. Now, it's your shoelaces

The following is a parody of a newswire item from today.......

The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission, in cooperation with the industry named below, today announced a voluntary recall of the following products. Consumers should stop using recalled products immediately unless otherwise instructed.

Name of Product: Shoes with laces

Units: About 250 Billion

Manufacturer: (You name it. They all have laces.)

Hazard: Shoes, sneakers, boots, sandals, and other footwear have laces through the eyelets which can pose a strangulation hazard to anyone stupid enough to take them off and use them as a noose. In February 1996, the CPSC issued some ridiculous guidelines (which were incorporated into every industry "voluntaryily" in 1997) to help prevent anyone from strangling or getting entangled on the neck from the laces of any footwear, such as shoes and sneakers.

Incidents/Injuries: None (except for those individuals who were incarcerated in local jails and who should've been on suicide watch from the beginning, due to their total embarrassment for some other law or guideline they violated, like not removing the drawstring from their childs jacket.)

Remedy: Consumer should immediately remove the laces from all footwear to eliminate the hazard or return them to the place of purchase. In the mean time, everyone should go barefoot until each and every shoe, sneakers, boot, or sandal in America is equipped with velcro-type closures.

Reasoning: The US Consumer agencies are headed by absolute IDIOTS who think that ALL people are as stupid as they are, thereby creating such obscure laws to make it impossible for businesses to succeed.

WARNING: Going without footwear on your feet WILL RESULT IN INJURY. But, that's not our problem. For that, you have to talk to the NTSB to have everything paved over with asphalt.

My wife and I had only been married since August,1976. We started out in an upstairs flat in Kenmore. It was just the right size for the two of us.

There were a couple of problems though; the gas bill for December was over $350.00 (Yeah, in 1976. We were able to determine that the landlady kept her heat turned down and just sucked up what ever heat we could provide.), and apparently, when we weren't home, our busy-body old landlady would let herself in and look around. (That's a whole other story!)

So, we found a place out in Amherst and were getting ready to move.....on January 28, 1977. We had the hardest time trying to find a U-Haul to rent. Seems everyone was thinking there was a big storm coming in. "C'mon, how bad could it get?" Luckily, there was a vendor out near where we were moving, and my wife gave him a sob story that worked.

We spent all of the 27th loading up the truck. It's a good thing we were able to leave it and my Pinto in the driveway. None of that snow had to be shoveled. The rest of the driveway was a mess, with no less than 2 1/2 feet of snow leading up to an 8 foot drift across the garage door. When I piled it up in front of the other half of the garage, our "lovely" landlady came out and started complaining. Oh, well. She got the rest of the driveway shoveled for free. What does she have to complain about? Certainly not HER heating bill!

As I stated, we lived in Kenmore. And, those of you that know Kenmore, the Village plows were continuously on the road, hour after hour, during the storm. The streets were completely clear and already salted down to bare pavement. Driving in the Village with the rental was not a problem. But, once we got to the Town of Tonawanda and the into Amherst, it was a different story.

The ruts in the snow and ice on Sheridan were 8 to 10 inches deep. It's a good thing there wasn't anyone else on the road that morning. At times, the truck would start moving sideways on its own. Stopping was not possible. I even remember seeing a Town of Tonawanda Police officer just watching us slide through an intersection nearly sideways. He didn't come after us. He just shook his head.

We got the truck unloaded and returned it to the vendor. He said he was going to meet us at the store, but he never made it out of his driveway at home.

When I got back to our new apartment, the phone rang and it was my boss. He wondered if I was going to be able to make it into work. (WHAT!?) At the time, I was employed by Tops Markets at Hertel and Elmwood.

Apparently, the store hadn't closed and customers were walking in, buying anything they could find. A lot of the employees that were scheduled to work were having a hard time making it in.

My dad had helped move us, so he said he would take me in. As I said, I only had a Pinto, but he had a big old Galaxie 500, able to plow through anything.

Getting back to Kenmore was not a problem. Driving down Elmwood from Sheridan was a breeze. But, once we hit the City line at Kenmore, it was another world. It didn't look like a plow had been there at all. He was able to eventually get to Hinman and Elmwood, but then the fun began.

If you can remember, there used to be a Twin Fair just south of Hinman. And on the other side of Elmwood was a huge industrial plant; big square building that went back a couple 1000 feet, WITH A BIG FLAT ROOF! All the snow that didn't stay on the roof was now on Elmwood. There was a drift that started at the warehouse and stretched all the way across Elmwood into the Twin Fair parking lot.......10 FEET HIGH!. There were cars and trucks buried under it.

My dad took a chance and drove into the Twin Fair parking lot. By driving almost to the front of the building, he was able to get around "the drift" and out the other side. But, what lie ahead? More abandoned vehicles and a bus or two, that's all. At least there wasn't another "beast drift".

We made to Tops and this parking lot was just as bad. Nothing but buried cars. Yet, people were walking to and from the store. The entire front of the store was coated with snow. The foyer, with its heater and grated floor, had a drift going all the way into one corner. The evidence of snow didn't stop until you were 5-10 feet INSIDE the heated building. There was almost nothing left on the shelves; bread, milk, eggs, produce.....gone. Canned goods were almost all wiped out. Even toilet paper was down to singles.

Luckily, I was able to bargain with the store manager. I would stay to try to refill the shelves, but after 6 hours I was leaving. But, I would come back to help, and I did.

It was 3 days before a tractor-trailer was able to make a delivery. By then, the store, including the back store room, was nearly empty. And, it would take another 4 trailers and 5 days before the shelves were filled again. Fresh produce didn't show up for a week.

Sheridan Park Sledding

With the news that the toboggan runs at Chestnut Ridge Park have reopened, I can't help but think back to when Sheridan Park had it's runs, too. Granted, the hill at Sheridan was no where near as high, nor was the run as long, nor was there a beautiful stone-and-timber lodge to head into when you got cold. But, it was "our" park and we could get there, or home, pretty quickly if we wanted.

The hill the toboggan run at Sheridan sat is no longer a hill. During the last "renovation", the valley was all but filled in, and now it's barely a dip. But, back then, when the conditions were right, you could fly down the hill, across the valley, and part way up the other side. And that was just with your sled. The toboggans easily made the traverse and sometimes only stopped when they ran out of decent snow.

If you were really up for a challenge, you headed to the "other" hill. Granted, this one was actually on the Golf Course, and there was no official acknowledgement of it, but it attracted a more daring clientele. We didn't know it then, but the hill was actually the tee for, what would eventually become, the 13th hole.

The hill itself was a vista; all the way from the dam to Ensminger Road. Directly below was the "deadly" 2-Mile Creek. If you weren't able to stop, or if you made the ill-advised attempt to cross the walk-bridge with your sled and missed, you were in the water. Granted, the flow of 2-Mile Creek was not torrent, nor deep. But, being wet in the winter was not something anyone looked forward to.

The hill also had 2-3 plateau's. Once I became a golfer and frequented the course, I learned that these were various tee-boxes. But, when you're a kid, you only know that, unless you launched from the very top, you were a sissy and didn't belong here; you should be on the other side of the park.

Both north and south of "the hill", were long meadows (fairways) that paralleled the creek. The one to the south was more frequently utilized, as the walk back up the slope was more stepped, and you could, if you were so inclined, throw yourself down quickly to catch a short-run back down the hill. This type of action took place during the busiest of days, where you could wait long periods of time at the top of the big hill for traffic to clear. Remember, with this hill being "unofficial", there was no standard return route to the peak; you could be cut down at any moment by a kamikaze sledder.

One fine and fitful Saturday morning, we didn't have a ride from home to the Park, so three of us decided to walk. Now, during the summer months, this never seemed like that long of a walk. Even though it was cold and snowy, the trek there was fueled by a wanton desire to fly downhill. The return home was far from our minds.

We attacked the hill with avengance; hitting the plateau's, flying across the snow and ice, having a blast. Then came the challenge.....how far can you go. The north side of the slope was not being used by many; it had not received the settling of snow normally needed to allow for metal-runnered sleds to go great distance. But, after 10 to 15 runs apiece, the arena was set for the competition.

Each of us took turns with the others acting as judge. One rule was specific; you could not lunge your body weight forward in order to eek out a few more feet of travel distance. (Before we had left for the day, I took the time to clean and wax my runners, unbeknownst to my competitors.)

As the snow pack improved, distances, that first had just barely reached the bottom of the hill, were now extending yards and yards out onto the far plain. This great action was beginning to draw the attention of other sledders, so our sanctuary was soon to be invaded. We had little time left to compete without interruption. It was decided; one more run each.

Knowing that I would be hard to beat, I went first. And what a run it was. I caught the perfect line between slope and snow and traveled farther than anyone had done that day. Full of pride, I turned when I arose from my Silver Salute, facing my enemies, waving my arms in triumph.

Of course, the attempt by our second sledder ended without as much jubulance. A quick puff of snow was the tell-tale sign he had entered into a previously unvisited area and came to a sudden stop. Failure!

Our third entrant eyed the slope well. Now, there was no rule against taking a running start and flopping face first onto the sled. If you did this, it had to take place before hitting the downward slope or you were disqualified. Back and back he went. 10, 20, 30 yards. And then the scream. A primal scream to not only excite himself, but to let everyone in the immediate area that a great feat was about to take place.

Off he went, flying faster than anyone had been able, taking a line in the snow no one had even attempted, heading toward the lip of the embankment. (Apparently, this area of snow was well packed, and having no barriers to assist drift formation, was crusty and iced over.) Out onto the plain. Farther and farther. Easily past my great distance. But, he was not giving up. Out and out he went, until the mark he had set was beyond anyone's imagination. Then, and only then, did he turn towards us while still lying on his sled and yell, "I won! I wo---".

Down into the creek, into the abyss. It was either the upward movement of his triumphant arm, or losing sight of where the sled was heading that caused his watery disappearance.

Each of us threw down our sleds and flew to his assistance. There was little to do at that point but laugh. We tried not to, but we couldn't help ourselves. Icicles were already forming on his sled runners. And, then his gloves. And, then (snicker, snicker) his eyebrows.

Luckily, he hadn't rolled in the water after he slid down the embankment. It was more of a sit-down. But, a sufficient amount of him and his clothing had entered the water, whereupon standing, all fluids trapped beneath his snow pants headed directly into his boots; actually, golashes, with the buckles down the front. Socks, shoes, golashes, underwear, long underwear, pants, and his jacket and sweater and shirt and hat; all soaked.

As I stated earlier, we didn't have a ride to the park. And, we didn't have a ride home. The walk that, in normal conditions, took only 15 minutes was going to take much longer today. And, for one of us, it was going to be a lot wetter and very cold. At least this time, it wasn't me that had to explain to my mom, "Why?"

"Off with his head..."

His father warned us....no one listened.
He was trained in Yemen....no one knew.
He had explosives sewn into his underwear....no one dared to look.
He succeeded in only burning himself.....no plane went down.

OMG! He was trained in Yemen! Quick! Shut down the embassy!
Why didn't any one tell us there were bad people there in Yemen. "Off with his head!"