Buffalo, pre-wrecking ball

At 9:30, they're already on their second house of the chilly morning, only a tiny piece of an ongoing five year/5,000 house demolition project, all over the city. They describe the job as "taking out the trash." Passing locals acknowledge that the empty husks of buildings have to go, but wish that they could have been restored or replaced with something other than empty space.

Loss of jobs has driven away half of the city's 1950's peak population of half a million and left their former homes, boarded and slowly decaying in place, in many of the city's working-class neighborhoods. Demolished, these former homes leave gaping vacant lots, or in especially hard hit neighborhoods, whole stretches of empty fields. It's a disconcertingly common sight even only a few streets away from the mansions and tree-lined Olmstead-designed promenades leading to Delaware Park and the site of the Pan American Exposition of 1901. Then, Buffalo was one of the biggest and most economically successful cities in America, but in 1957, much of the shipping traffic previously sent through the Eerie Canal was rerouted by the opening of the St. Lawrence Seaway, and all that changed.

First Ward

Despite this, many of those who've stayed seem to be doing okay. Later, down in the First Ward, the evening is quiet. Massive grain elevators tower over the narrow houses of the predominantly Irish neighborhood, nearly encircling it. Many of the elevators around here are still (or again) operating, still providing jobs for many of the residents, as throughout the Ward's history. While other elevators stand silent, and many more have been knocked down in the years of slow Rust Belt decline (a turn-of-the-century map indicated 97, of which a fraction remain), life goes on. Here, abandoned houses are rarer and there's an anticipatory feeling: tomorrow is the Ward's own St. Patrick's parade, and ensuing festivities likely to pack the neighborhood's small, history-steeped pubs. We're in one of them, the Swanee House, a preferred spot of workers at the still-operating General Mills elevator just the length of a bridge away. Perhaps there's also a sense of optimism that comes with the knowledge that new investments and jobs are coming into the city at last. Apparently Forbes Magazine recently rated Buffalo ahead of New York City in job opportunities. At the same time, there are undercurrents of defeatism which may be hard to shake after the long years of economic downturn. Unfinished plans are cited: a subway to nowhere, an ambitious casino abandoned as a looming steel frame a few blocks away, replaced by a much cheaper aluminum box filled with slot machines.

Heads of horses

Two stops on the way up: the towering Tunkhannock Viaduct, which dwarfs the town of Nicholson, PA, and was the largest rail bridge of its kind upon completion in 1915, and the Village of Horseheads. We tried to get the a reason for the name and horsehead reliefs on the offramp from the locals but the story was a little vague. After a great deal of historical detail on a Revolutionary War campaign through the region leading up to a successful  two-part ambush on the British and their allies, the pivotal moment is hurried through, but seems to have involved pack animal decapitation. We're not entirely clear on why, or why the event has been immortalized in geography. I suppose it is good to leave some mysteries for the next trip.

Hospitality

At the end of a dead-end industrial drive folded into the Buffalo River, a man emerges from the bushes clinging to a trio of aging molasses silos. We stop to talk and it turns out that he is the new owner, inspecting his property. Out back, an iced but duck-filled industrial canal lets into the river, and he hopes to make use of the water access. Learning that we are in Buffalo in part to shoot its industrial history, before we even ask, he has offered permission to wander freely through his property.

Before leaving us to our work (he has other appointments) he makes some recommendations: one of the buildings contains some really good valves and afterwards we should head across the river to a looming stand of grain elevators managed by a friend who'd be happy to help us. The valves are great, and the friend, who is overseeing the renovation and restored operation of several elevators for local breweries, is extremely helpful. These two are not only examples of the unexpected hospitality of Buffalo property holders, but of the new investment. Industry is returning, old property being bought for new use. The elevator manager also turns out to be well known at the Swanee, another of the city's many flickers of small-town closeness.

Griffis Sculpture Park, Ashland Hollow

Route 219 winds south between foothill-tucked-towns and white-streaked ski slopes. A roadside sign in Ashford Hollow indicates that we are in the vicinity of the Griffis Sculpture Park. Reading the sign aloud, we can't keep scare-quote intonations out of our voices, but decide to check out whatever weird local roadside attraction the sign has indicated. What we find tucked away in the far reaches of western New York is out of scale with any reasonable expectation: the oldest and perhaps largest sculpture park in the United States. Over 100 artists have work in the park, but the towering metal figures and turrets of 1966 founder Larry Griffis Jr dominate the rolling landscape. Today, Larry Griffis III follows his father's tradition as a noted Buffalo metal sculptor. Later, we pull off in Lenox, PA for some fairly remarkable pierogies. If you're ever there, its the diner without all the pie billboards on the interstate, the tiny one.