My grandfather didn't like soft ice cream. I don't know if he thought it was some sort of devil- creation, or whether he just didn't understand why people would prefer it to the real ice cream he made for his dairy bar. He is long gone, and his ice cream is gone longer yet. I miss then both, but I never could dislike soft ice cream. I did say a silent apology to him though, as I landed at a little village in the Cohocton Valley last Sunday specifically for a soft ice cream cone. It was to be a dessert for the airport breakfast I had just departed.
It probably was my lucky day, because the ice cream stand wasn't open yet, and I walked the rest of the way into the village. It was almost noon and the temperature was no more than warm, with a gentle breeze under a blue sky with puffy clouds. With splashes of red, white, and blue bunting and a few extra flags flying, it was what anyone dreams of for a 4th of July weekend. Slowly I felt like I was walking into a Norman Rockwell picture gallery.
My first stop was the train station, nicely trimmed and painted with a new coat of dark green paint. I imagined it was waiting patiently for the next train to pull into town, even though it has been quite a spell since the last train stopped there. It seemed unconcerned, although there were a few buildings nearby that seemed to have given up the wait.
The downtown block was mostly brick, not too different in origin than any other town around, but it carried a subtle aura of understatement. It was just a bit better kept than most places, and it seemed to say this is the way we were, the way we are, and the way we will be. Even with the 4- lane at the edge of town, it is a long way to the supermarket, and the local grocery still survives as a family enterprise. The wood floorboards creaked a hello as I walked down the aisles and they sported a few patches of tin where alterations had been made. It had character that you don't find at Wegman's or Tops.
I crossed the street from the grocery and admired the gazebo in the park, and then looked over at the bank. I noted that the recent facelift included proper attention to the vintage alarm bell mounted high above the sidewalk. Its freshly re- lettered red BURGLAR ALARM sign proclaimed a reassurance to depositors and a deterrent to would be thieves.
My attention was captured, and I spent more than an hour walking through the residential streets, admiring a village with so many pleasant homes. The beauty was not in grandeur, but in consistency. Most of the homes were on large lots, with the garage or a barn out back, a neatly kept lawn and garden, and a porch or two. Again, nothing grand or ostentatious, just consistently nice.
I found the Central School is in one corner of town, and it too, fit the classic recipe of its time, an ornamented two story brick and stone building with nice lawn in front and a small bus garage out back. This school hasn't been reworked as much as most of the original schools, but through the years, none of the additions has marred the view from the street. The cornerstone reads 1938, and the clock above the entrance doors reads the correct time.
As I walked through the streets, I listened to several robins clucking, and suspected that one of their fledglings had caught the ear of a neighborhood cat. From time to time a dog would bark from a side yard as I walked past, and sparrows chirped regularly, not reserving their voices for just the morning or evening serenades.
I had literally dropped from the sky into this little town, yet it had such a powerful sense of familiarity. People waved greetings from back yards and driveways. One man was re-pointing the stonework of his foundation, and said that he had moved in just a few years ago, and liked it because nobody "told you what to do". As I approached a corner I thought for a moment like a schoolboy and wondered if I should turn down this particular street to see if Susie was sitting on her porch... waiting for someone to just happen past.
Once upon a time, my visit would not have been unusual. Airplanes were supposed to become as common as cars, and every town would have an airport nestled beside it. For a number of reasons that never happened, but last Sunday I was grateful for use of the private airstrip at the edge of this particular town. I hope I can return later this summer for the ice cream that I missed.