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15_the_circle) wrote2007-04-01 11:00 pm
Electric City part 2
[OT from cottage renovations]
coming back for a visit after all these years showed how the passage of time changes those things of which one has memories, and also how one's own perceptions also change. the most remarkable difference is one of extreme compression: buildings have become smaller and distances shorter.
other changes were also striking: the Western Gateway Bridge had been replaced in the 1970s and a spur of Interstate 90 had been run through much of the downtown, taking out what had been there and altering the relative proportions of what remained (more on that later).
of course the first thing we wanted to see was the house in which our family had lived. having been built c. 1904 it has passed its own centenary and though it and its outbuildings seem much smaller, the proportions are as remembered and what remodeling has since occurred for the most part has taken place out back. of course there wasn't a way to see the interior but we walked around and did lots of gawping -- it's a wonder nobody called the Neighbourhood Watch on us -- but coming as we did before the deciduous vegetation leafs out the sight lines were about as good as they could ever get.
(click through these thumbnails for higher resolution images)
home
this frontal view shows the basic lines, also the striking similarity to the place where I lived years later in Garrett Park.
one striking change is the loss of tree canopy. mature trees both along the yard and all up and down the street have been reaching the end of their lives and are gone, leaving many holes in the skyscape.
the ravine
fine and pleasant as the house was and is, as kids what we liked best about the place was the presence of a side lot with a creek curving through it. the springs, streams and storm drains upstream are completely buried (we traced though the watershed and found no open flows), emerging in the back of the lot from large pipes running under West Alley.
for the next few blocks it passes under the streets through large culverts with handsome stone portals and dressed facing.
here the creek emerges from the other side of the street (we weren't in the habit of ever going there, but then there wasn't any need as the section next to our house had so much to offer). at some point over the past 4.4 decades a portion of the stone retaining wall collapsed into the stream bed. I don't think the prospects are good for anybody setting it right.
street furniture
the term commonly refers to benches, trash cans, mail boxes and the like. presumably horse troughs and hitching posts qualify in an historic or archaic fashion. just as outdated and fast disappearing from the contemporary urban landscape are fire (and police) call boxes -- domestic telephony has become nearly universal, emergency service dispatching is now consolidated, and the boxes tend to generate a high proportion of false alarms and to attract vandals. though fire departments have been abandoned call box networks everywhere, the one in Schenectady is still operational, or at least the illuminated beacons give a strong impression that it is still in service (curiosity has its limits, though: I didn't activate the alarm to test).
fire alarm - detail
look at this clenched fist with its handful of lightning bolts -- what a nifty logo. it adorns a box down the corner, just where it always was.
to be continued
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thank you.
visits to both upstate New York and southern California over the past few weeks have provided lots of opportunity for looping back. I hope you get a chance to visit S.C. soon; am looking forward to hearing all about it.
be aware: things will have gotten smaller.
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I especially like the bridge. It looks like it should have a troll in residence.
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I wish it did -- trolls would probably be taking better care of the stonework on the other side of the road.
as kids we spent, as I'm sure you can imagine, a great deal of time down there. the pipes, bridge, creek and ravine were populated with all manner of imaginary beasts and peoples. and the sound of running water was always there, within one's hearing if not one's immediate consciousness. it must have helped the transition from where we had lived before, a small house outside Boston backing up against a drop down to a shingle beach which the Atlantic kept in continuous motion. the sound of the waves, containing in the cycle the clattering of small stones rolling back down the slope into the path of the next wave to come in, remains with me to this day.