Buffalo Gal

Romanticists (and possibly propagandists) believe my hometown was named by French missionaries for its' beautiful river -- Beau Fleuve.
Realists (and possibly cynics) say that if ever a town should be named after a smelly, cumbersome prairie beast, this is it.
This time of year I'm with the Romanticists.
The other night I went out on a river cruise and thought about all the rivers on which I've played tourist.
So we don't have the verdant hills of the Rhine and Mosel, but the water is much cleaner than the Mississippi and deeper than the manmade, extended pond in San Antonio. The Houston Ship Channel is strictly for hulking tankers. The Altamaha's siltly red clay in Georgia keeps a million secrets. The harbors in Balitmore and Bostom are almost as nice, but the the Potomac and all three of Pittsburgh's Rivers don't even come close.
We cruised the basin of Lake Erie where it narrows to an idyllic stretch of several miles before it drops over Niagara Falls. (You can't help but wonder how Native Americans and the first missionaries got word to turn back at Grand Island or else)
On one shore you see the downtown skyline and the General Mills grain elevators (yes, the whole area still smells like Cheerios and Lucky Charms when then are in production... and those products remain my favorite comfort foods). Down river is the Peace Bridge and Canada. Most people don't realize that Canada is west of Buffalo.
I grew up not really fathoming the concept of international border. Canada was just like having a cool, but quirky, cousin with a good exchange rate.
Our boat didn't go out on the Lake, but could see the steamers and distant shores of the Southtowns.
One hundred years ago this was a world shipping hub. That night our catamaran had open water.
The reflecting sunset bathed the skyline with possibility and I felt again my childhood awe of my city, the one that ruled glorious before I was aware of other possibiiities.
The one where ladies wore gloves to shop downtown and men believed that industrial giants were invincible.
It was hard to come back to land.

Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs

Buffalo Gal Judi Griggs I'm a communications professional, writer, cynic, mother, wife and royal pain. The order depends on the day. I returned to my hometown in November 2004 after a couple of decades of heat and hurricanes. I can polish pristine copy, but not here. This is my morning exercise -- 20-minute takes without a net or spellcheck. It's easier than sit ups for me. No guarantee what it will be for you. Clicking on the subscribe link will send you an email notice when each new entry is posted.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (0) Share on Facebook		2005-05-22 9:13 AM Beau Fleuve or Buffalo Romanticists (and possibly propagandists) believe my hometown was named by French missionaries for its' beautiful river -- Beau Fleuve. Realists (and possibly cynics) say that if ever a town should be named after a smelly, cumbersome prairie beast, this is it. This time of year I'm with the Romanticists. The other night I went out on a river cruise and thought about all the rivers on which I've played tourist. So we don't have the verdant hills of the Rhine and Mosel, but the water is much cleaner than the Mississippi and deeper than the manmade, extended pond in San Antonio. The Houston Ship Channel is strictly for hulking tankers. The Altamaha's siltly red clay in Georgia keeps a million secrets. The harbors in Balitmore and Bostom are almost as nice, but the the Potomac and all three of Pittsburgh's Rivers don't even come close. We cruised the basin of Lake Erie where it narrows to an idyllic stretch of several miles before it drops over Niagara Falls. (You can't help but wonder how Native Americans and the first missionaries got word to turn back at Grand Island or else) On one shore you see the downtown skyline and the General Mills grain elevators (yes, the whole area still smells like Cheerios and Lucky Charms when then are in production... and those products remain my favorite comfort foods). Down river is the Peace Bridge and Canada. Most people don't realize that Canada is west of Buffalo. I grew up not really fathoming the concept of international border. Canada was just like having a cool, but quirky, cousin with a good exchange rate. Our boat didn't go out on the Lake, but could see the steamers and distant shores of the Southtowns. One hundred years ago this was a world shipping hub. That night our catamaran had open water. The reflecting sunset bathed the skyline with possibility and I felt again my childhood awe of my city, the one that ruled glorious before I was aware of other possibiiities. The one where ladies wore gloves to shop downtown and men believed that industrial giants were invincible. It was hard to come back to land. Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs Read/Post Comments (0) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top