Dawin Martin Docent

I wrote this a little short of a year ago and submitted it to the My View column in the Buffalo News. Rejected it was. I’m now 0-2 with that feature.

Since then the house has continued to reveal itself to me. I doubt that will ever end.

I stopped adding to the list of countries as there grew to be too many to keep track of. On just my once a week tour I’ve had visitors from every continent except Antarctica.

Oh, the visitor comment at the end is a sorta fix. It was written by our dear friend Paula who was visiting from her Toronto home. It was, honest to goddess, unsolicited.

I conduct my tour every Monday at 1:00PM. It’s been called “awesome” and not just by me.

Stop by if you can.

 Back in the chilly, dark days of early April I began docent training at the Frank Lloyd Wright designed Darwin Martin House. 

 

I had for many years conducted my own walking tour of downtown Buffalo. I did it just for my friends or their out of town visitors. I had, after all, worked downtown for forty years. I knew my way around and knew enough about the principal downtown buildings and their histories to keep my guests’ interest. My friends encouraged me to do it on a more formal basis, either on my own or with one of the tour companies that ply downtown streets.  But I was always daunted by the amount of additional research that I would have to do to be really qualified. 

Then I learned that docent training was being offered at the Darwin Martin House. Clearly, learning all about one structure would be a whole lot less taxing that learning as much about a city full of buildings. So I signed up. 

Early on there were times when I was ready to take a walk on it. I didn’t see any difference between the big chunks of required reading and homework, something I’d pledged many years ago to never do again.  Fortunately, most of it proved interesting and propitiously, some of it led me to other related readings.  

The first few classes featured speakers who introduced us to some aspect of the home’s architecture. I found them only marginally interesting.  They were followed by the heavy hitters. Ted Lownie, the architect who supervised the home’s extensive reconstruction, bumbled endearingly through his slide presentation, but nevertheless elucidated the revolutionary architecture Frank Lloyd Wright devised when designing the home. He was followed by Jack Quinan, the home’s curator emeritus. His presentation, enhanced with droll Irish wit, placed Wright’s work in historical context. Their talks engaged me. 

Next came our first assignment: stand in front of a group of classmates and deliver a brief talk about one of the rooms in the house. We’d been told to find our own voice, to prepare a presentation in our own words. My little talk included lotsa of the juicy stuff that marks Frank Lloyd Wright’s lifetime. But the teaching docent cut me short.  

“We don’t go into that,” He said.  

I left that night went home and sulked.  If they didn’t want my perspective, then the heck with them. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going back.   

Then, on the spur of the moment, I attended a talk on the history of the Martin House Restoration Corporation presented by Executive Director Mary Roberts. She spoke of the many people who had contributed. Some of the names she cited, Zemsky, Wilmers, Lipsey, were familiar; many were not. I was particularly struck by a photo of the late Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, whom I greatly admired, hugging one of the home’s piers.  Hers was the story of a two decade long restoration effort which had come a long way and accomplished so much. As I listened I began to realize that I was coming very late to a monumentally successful project.  It was time to give my ego a rest and learn from all of those whose achievements clearly showed they knew what they were doing. I rededicated myself and became the first in my class to complete training. In late June I started conducting a regular weekly tour. 

Those that believed that Frank Lloyd Wright’s early masterpiece would draw visitors from all over the world have been proven correct. In just the few months since my docent graduation, my tours have included visitors from China, Japan, Korea and Thailand, from Switzerland, France, England, Ireland and Germany, from Brazil, Argentina, New Zealand and South Africa. And, of course, from all over this country and Canada.  

Invariably they leave impressed.  They are struck by the audacity of Frank Lloyd Wright’s design and stirred by the home’s beautiful interior. And because the docents have been so well prepared, visitors leave with new insights into principals of architecture and social history.  One recent visitor wrote, “I’m still thinking about and talking about the house and all that I learned on the tour. Bravo! What informed volunteers you have!”

 

 

Rolling up Geary

I’m rolling up Geary. It’s a good east west route; its late on a weekday night, traffic is minimal and I’m kicking it. Above Divis I wheel into the right lane to catch the ramp up to where I’ll make a left onto Masonic. I flash on bumbling through this intersection just a few weeks ago, a menace then to me and all the other drivers.  Not now, not tonight. I can’t claim to know my way everywhere in San Francisco. The Laguna Honda route south to highway 1 remains an unsolved mystery. But I’ve got a good mental picture of the grids. I can find my way to most places.

It strikes me that my knowledge of the city is much the same. You can form opinions over a five or so week stay. But how much can you really know?

 A few weeks back on one of my many walks it occurred to me that I was succumbing to the charms of the city. On the next walk the next day I was sure of it. The charms are many and varied and with prolonged exposure they can’t be eluded. Nor should they be.

I formulated the conceit many years ago. Take all that’s great about New York City, cut out all that’s not drop it down in a beautiful place and you’d have San Francisco. So true. The culture, the food, the architecture, the vibrant neighborhoods, the progressive politics, the open-mindedness  are all combined in a place where flowers are always in bloom, where from the beach you can watch the sun setting into the ocean. Jennifer disdains the public transit system as inferior to other places she’s lived like New York, Paris and Toronto. Indeed our one experience was pretty toonerville trolley like. But it is ubiquitous.

Yet for all its egalitarianism, it’s an enclave. “Didn’t you notice the bubble?” asked Mark Pesche. To the north, east and west, water. To the south, mountains. The sprawl, the ghetto, the crime, ungodly traffic, harsh reality has all been exiled across the bridge, the long long bridge, across the bay. Can’t fault that. Why would I? Could I have concluded this had we not stayed as long as did? Unlikely.

I’m writing this on the plane headed home. Below the shadows are lengthening across the landscape. We’d a passel of plans when we’d set out, trips up and down the coast, visits to friends in LA, riding the train north to redwood country, flying home by way of Florida where we’d spend a few days with our old friends, Hal and Kitty, at the Don Cesar on St Pete’s Beach. But once we found ourselves ensconced gratis in a lovely apartment on a quiet street in a great neighborhood we, as Garminella would say, recalculated. We understood that Katherine, whose apartment it was, could reclaim it at any time. Indeed, there were coupla false alarms. Katherine will be there for an evening, you’ll have to vacate. But each time she, in the end, stayed away. Then on Monday, she notified Jennifer she and friends would spend the night in her place Thursday. And then the plan changed to Katherine reoccupying her place for the weekend. With little time left before our scheduled flight home one by one our contingency plans quickly collapsed. Without a viable alternative we renegotiated our flight home.

So it wasn’t the trip we’d planned. It was far better than what we could have imagined. We spent time away from the harsh winter. We hung with the beloved daughter. We filled our days and nights with the things we love. We enriched our lives.

I learned my way around.

Multi-multiculturism

An old army buddy emailed me one of those anti-multiculturalism screeds. The maligning missive denouncing the pernicious influence of cultural diversity on our American way of life had the ironic bad luck to pop up on Dyngus Day. Whoever wrote this, it occurred to me, hadn’t spent anytime in Buffalo.  

 

Bishop Fallon High School is long gone. Now there’s a car wash where the school once proudly stood. Fallon was a West Side school which in those days meant most of us were Italian. However, reflecting Buffalo’s ethnic make up there were plenty of Poles, a smattering of Irish and a handful of oddballs with names like Dumpert.  My graduating class also included a Snodgrass, a Higginbotham and Hoffman, Kaufman and Zoffman.

The school may be long gone but those of us who graduated all those decades ago stay in touch. Members of my class or at least a pretty good sampling of those of us still in Buffalo (and still above ground) gather for breakfast once a month. At the next breakfast I attended I recounted the contents of the onerous email. The Fallon boys were outraged by what they perceived as nothing less than an attack on our way of life. In Buffalo, the Fallon boys insisted, we celebrate our cultural diversity. We all believe our lives are richer and fuller because of it. 

No sooner had the group settled down and returned to its usual topic, how tough we had it compared to youth today, when a younger Fallon grad stopped by our table to say hello. He serves on the board of directors of the Italian Heritage Festival which blossoms every summer on Hertle Ave.  The boys recounted the story of the offending email and indignation soared again.  

“If only the people who think like that could come to our festival,” he said, “They just don’t know what they’re missing – the music, the food, the fun, the food, the games, the food!”

 

“The food,” chorused the Fallon boys. 

“And there’s not just the Italian festival,” one of us pointed out. “Buffalo is a festival of ethic festivals.” 

There’s the Hellenic Festival,” someone else noted which lead to a cascade.  

“The Caribbean Festival.”  

“Juneteenth,”  

“The Hispanic Festival,”  

“There’s a Celtic festival in Lewiston.” 

“There’s a Lebanese festival in Williamsville." 

“What about the German festival in Hamburg?” 

 “There’s a Macedonian festival in Blasdell.” 

“Don’t forget the St. Patrick’s day parade.” 

“…and the Pulaski Day Parade.” 

Then the boys started listing Buffalo’s cultural centers: Irish, Polish, Jewish, even, just a few blocks apart in over in the Riverside neighborhood, Serbian and Croatian. (I’ve always been amused by the juxtaposition of last two, the former in a brightly painted home and the latter looking for all the world like a bunker.)  

The Fallon boys concurred that the rest of the world could learn a lot from how we observe our multicultural heritage here. We’re united by how we celebrate our diversity. Our discussion just helped to make it all the more clear that denouncing multiculturalism in Buffalo is like denouncing sunshine in a nudist colony.

 

 

 

Oklahoma Breakdown

Tooling outta Tulsa. It’s the first sunny day on the trip. And I’m thinking I haven’t written anything yet. What? .Maybe something about how we travel now, GPS, satellite radio, cruise control.

Then WHAP!

Then KHWAMP, WHAMP WHAMP WHAMP WHAMP

I hope it’s the road surface but I’m also pretty sure it’s a flat. I pull onto the shoulder, get out and look. It’s not a flat. It’s a blowout. There’s nothing left of the left rear tire but a few shreds of rubber still attached to the wheel.

I get back behind the wheel and push the emergency service button. First a recording, “This call will be monitored for quality control purposes.” Great. That’s reassuring.. Then a worried voice, “Is everyone alright?”

I explain the situation. “We’ll call someone to come and change the tire for you. “I’ve got you westbound on I-44. Is that correct?” It is I tell her. It’ll be about half an hour,” she says.

About twenty minutes late my phone rings. ”This is Ed from triple A. I understand you need someone to change a tire. He’s on another call now. He should be there in half an hour.”

So we sit by the side of the road. An Oklahoma state trooper pulls up. “Is help on the way?” he asks.

“We hope so.”

Turbulence from the semis rushing past rock the car. Some trucks pull into the outside lane.

“Some will. Some won’t,” says the trooper.

He departs.

Another twenty minutes go by. The phone rings again. “This is Becky from Acme Tow Truck. Are you on the 44?”

“Yes.”

“Our driver is on his way. He should be there in a half an hour.”

Half an hour goes by. Another phone call from Becky. “Is he there yet?”

“No.”

“What exit are you near.”

“I don’t know but I see a sign that tells me I’m seventeen miles east of Stroud.”

“I’ll tell him that. Maybe it’ll help him find you.”

I’m tempted to say that it can’t be hard to find a car broken down on the side of the Interstate.  But I forbear.

Fifteen minutes later Matt pulls up in the service vehicle. He’s taciturn but sets straight to work and gets the spare mounted. I note that the car has suffered some structural damage.

 “Will it be OK to drive?” I ask.

“Might be.”

He departs.

We decide to drive the seventeen miles to Stroud and see how it goes.

Exiting there we can hear a lotta distressing noise coming from the wheel well.

Then, lo, directly across the way: Roy’s Repairs Shop. Might better be called Roy’s Ramshackle Repairs Shack. And there is Roy played by Wilfred Brimley. Well, just about. He’s older, short, round bellied, dressed in matching green mechanic’s slacks and jacket both of which are as grease stained as his green baseball cap. He sports a full grey mustache also grease stained.

He speaks with a thick Oklahoma accent “Back ‘er in and lemme see what I can do.”

He directs us to the “customer waiting room”. Clutter galore. But on the walls are all these somewhat reassuring thank-you notes from folks in distress that he’s previously helped. A half hour later he calls us out to see what he has wrought. He’s repaired the damage. Not so that the car won’t be spending time in the collision shop sometime soon. But seemingly secure enough for us to head on our way.

“How much do I owe you?”

Roy takes off his cap, runs his hand over what little hair he has, looks skyward. “Well, lessee. A half hour labor. Thirty dollars.”

We need a new spare tire so we get directions to the Lexus dealer in Oklahoma City downloaded to the navigation system.  When we get there we ask them to look over Roy’s work and let us know if they think we can make it to San Francisco without further intervention. We can they opine.

Modern road trip: emergency response system, navigation system, cell phones. And good ole Roy by the exit in Stroud Oklahoma just there to help.