The False Facade.... a long-ago story

[BklynMario]

The False Façade

I hate the end of summer. The only seasonal thing that I hate more than that is the beginning of fall. Like all of us who have grown increasingly wiser, and more meditative as we travel through our middle ages for a second time, I enjoy sitting with a good book, and simply becoming part of the fantasy of words that I wish I could concoct. Like all of us so deeply immersed in backyard summer ambience, enlightenment is nurtured in direct relationship to our drooping eyelids. And in doing so, we relive those experiences that have brought us to this stage of our wisdom.

We were going to Buffalo, New York! Four hundred and fifty miles from downtown Brooklyn! Buffalo! Near Niagara Falls! Our Lady of Loretto Knights were going to Buffalo to compete for the American Legion Drum and Bugle Corps State Championship. Buffalo! “That’s almost in Canada, ya know. That’s another country!”

Then come the questions: “D’ya think its cold up there now?” (This in the middle of summer.) “Don’t Indians live up there?” (Yes, they do, and I hear that they’re going to kidnap and hold us for ransom, unless they get Manhattan back.)

It could be that I’m exaggerating just a bit, but that’s the way it felt back then. It’s not that we were innately dumb, but rather that Buffalo was just another place on another map, accompanied by two black and white photographs in a fifteen-year-old textbook. Add to that that we were weaned on too many cowboy movies, and thought anywhere outside Brooklyn city limits was the “country” and you have some idea of our thoughts.

We get on the bus armed with salami, provolone, and capicolla sandwiches. Who knows what they eat up there? St. Christopher medals also help, as does a prayer and a blessing from our moderator. And we’re off!

The trip is unending. More trees and mountains than many of us had ever seen. The salami saturated air gave way to a new aroma that pushed its way through the open windows. Someone coughs. Country air. We didn’t get much of that in Brooklyn.

But we were going somewhere special. The full-color picture postcard that was sent to us from the hotel showed a brilliant red brick building meticulously scored with what looked to be sanitized gray mortar. Each window frame was scrupulously white, as were the flower boxes in which flourished multi-hued flowers all in full bloom. The final touch was the verdant vines that accented and completed welcoming visage.

“Welcome to Buffalo!” That was the last time that our bus driver’s map worked. Pleas for directions were futile. “Carver Hotel? Never heard of it!” How could this be? According to the postcard, the venerable hotel was newly renovated and waiting anxiously to greet us.

As we made our way through “The City of Good Neighbors” the neighborhood changed. Our bus driver pulled over to the curb. None of us could hear his entire conversation with the long-haired guy wearing two different shoes and pushing a grocery cart with a similarly hair-dressed dog in it. What we did hear was, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Two blocks on your left.” Our bus driver pulls some coins from his pocket, and from a safe distance, drops them into the hand of our tourist guide. “There it is!” “I see it!” “Yay!”

We are still a half block away. In order to get alongside our luxurious lodging, we’ll need to go around the block. We’re happy. The bus driver is happy. He accelerates as we speed past the Carver. It almost seems to tilt as our collective necks stretch for a better view. The Carver alone stands out as the most vivid façade on the block amidst signs bearing names such as, “Ajax Syringe Co.,” “Buffalo Plumbing Supply Inc.,” and “National Nuts and Bolts.” We try to ignore these omens of reality. After all, the postcard…

The bus is coming alongside the curb. The bus now tilts in the opposite direction. “That ain’t real!” “That’s a painting!” “What the #$%*+#!” (Muttered to each other. After all, we’re Catholic kids.)

It didn’t take us much longer to realize that the Carver Hotel was much more— or less— than advertised. The false façade would probably have been a true Hollywood-set work of art had it been relocated to California. Beyond that was lobby that reeked of mildew, muck, and month old wine spills— all clearly displayed on the carpeting where holes weren’t already in place. Not to be outdone, the walls displayed countless layers of paint peels desperately trying to show themselves. Anything that hung on the walls— photographs, signs, menus— anything— was either torn, stained, or ready to fall to the floor in hopelessness. The clerk at the front desk was in the same condition. Add our rooms to this list.

There is a lot more to this tale. Gugie, our wrestler-like bass-baritone player, nearly rolled out of his window sill high bed trying to find his “sleeping spot.” I don’t remember if it was Tommy, Clovis, or I who grabbed his leg and shook him awake. I also can’t recall who it was that came close to falling down the unlocked doors of the elevator shaft. I do recollect that there were more than a few women riding the mostly non-functioning elevator, who didn’t look, dress, or act like any of the girls in our color guard.

But in truth, none of this seemed to matter to matter to us. We were here for a championship drum and bugle corps contest. That, in and of itself, was enough of a great adventure for us. Everything else was a free side trip.

Clearly, I’ve exaggerated a great deal. How I wish that I could have had the foresight to see how important that time was to us. To be able to experience once again the joy of unbounded naiveté and fill the readily squandered minutes, days, and years. To be cognizant of the reality that this time will never come again.

Enlightenment comes too late……mario

[hairbear]

The False Façade

I hate the end of summer. The only seasonal thing that I hate more than that is the beginning of fall. Like all of us who have grown increasingly wiser, and more meditative as we travel through our middle ages for a second time, I enjoy sitting with a good book, and simply becoming part of the fantasy of words that I wish I could concoct. Like all of us so deeply immersed in backyard summer ambience, enlightenment is nurtured in direct relationship to our drooping eyelids. And in doing so, we relive those experiences that have brought us to this stage of our wisdom.

We were going to Buffalo, New York! Four hundred and fifty miles from downtown Brooklyn! Buffalo! Near Niagara Falls! Our Lady of Loretto Knights were going to Buffalo to compete for the American Legion Drum and Bugle Corps State Championship. Buffalo! “That’s almost in Canada, ya know. That’s another country!”

Then come the questions: “D’ya think its cold up there now?” (This in the middle of summer.) “Don’t Indians live up there?” (Yes, they do, and I hear that they’re going to kidnap and hold us for ransom, unless they get Manhattan back.)

It could be that I’m exaggerating just a bit, but that’s the way it felt back then. It’s not that we were innately dumb, but rather that Buffalo was just another place on another map, accompanied by two black and white photographs in a fifteen-year-old textbook. Add to that that we were weaned on too many cowboy movies, and thought anywhere outside Brooklyn city limits was the “country” and you have some idea of our thoughts.

We get on the bus armed with salami, provolone, and capicolla sandwiches. Who knows what they eat up there? St. Christopher medals also help, as does a prayer and a blessing from our moderator. And we’re off!

The trip is unending. More trees and mountains than many of us had ever seen. The salami saturated air gave way to a new aroma that pushed its way through the open windows. Someone coughs. Country air. We didn’t get much of that in Brooklyn.

But we were going somewhere special. The full-color picture postcard that was sent to us from the hotel showed a brilliant red brick building meticulously scored with what looked to be sanitized gray mortar. Each window frame was scrupulously white, as were the flower boxes in which flourished multi-hued flowers all in full bloom. The final touch was the verdant vines that accented and completed welcoming visage.

“Welcome to Buffalo!” That was the last time that our bus driver’s map worked. Pleas for directions were futile. “Carver Hotel? Never heard of it!” How could this be? According to the postcard, the venerable hotel was newly renovated and waiting anxiously to greet us.

As we made our way through “The City of Good Neighbors” the neighborhood changed. Our bus driver pulled over to the curb. None of us could hear his entire conversation with the long-haired guy wearing two different shoes and pushing a grocery cart with a similarly hair-dressed dog in it. What we did hear was, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Two blocks on your left.” Our bus driver pulls some coins from his pocket, and from a safe distance, drops them into the hand of our tourist guide. “There it is!” “I see it!” “Yay!”

We are still a half block away. In order to get alongside our luxurious lodging, we’ll need to go around the block. We’re happy. The bus driver is happy. He accelerates as we speed past the Carver. It almost seems to tilt as our collective necks stretch for a better view. The Carver alone stands out as the most vivid façade on the block amidst signs bearing names such as, “Ajax Syringe Co.,” “Buffalo Plumbing Supply Inc.,” and “National Nuts and Bolts.” We try to ignore these omens of reality. After all, the postcard…

The bus is coming alongside the curb. The bus now tilts in the opposite direction. “That ain’t real!” “That’s a painting!” “What the #$%*+#!” (Muttered to each other. After all, we’re Catholic kids.)

It didn’t take us much longer to realize that the Carver Hotel was much more— or less— than advertised. The false façade would probably have been a true Hollywood-set work of art had it been relocated to California. Beyond that was lobby that reeked of mildew, muck, and month old wine spills— all clearly displayed on the carpeting where holes weren’t already in place. Not to be outdone, the walls displayed countless layers of paint peels desperately trying to show themselves. Anything that hung on the walls— photographs, signs, menus— anything— was either torn, stained, or ready to fall to the floor in hopelessness. The clerk at the front desk was in the same condition. Add our rooms to this list.

There is a lot more to this tale. Gugie, our wrestler-like bass-baritone player, nearly rolled out of his window sill high bed trying to find his “sleeping spot.” I don’t remember if it was Tommy, Clovis, or I who grabbed his leg and shook him awake. I also can’t recall who it was that came close to falling down the unlocked doors of the elevator shaft. I do recollect that there were more than a few women riding the mostly non-functioning elevator, who didn’t look, dress, or act like any of the girls in our color guard.

But in truth, none of this seemed to matter to matter to us. We were here for a championship drum and bugle corps contest. That, in and of itself, was enough of a great adventure for us. Everything else was a free side trip.

Clearly, I’ve exaggerated a great deal. How I wish that I could have had the foresight to see how important that time was to us. To be able to experience once again the joy of unbounded naiveté and fill the readily squandered minutes, days, and years. To be cognizant of the reality that this time will never come again.

Enlightenment comes too late……mario

The best posting on drum corps planet,to date.

[RayH]

It sure was the best post to date. I really enjoyed reading that, because that story brought back many, many good memories. Thanks Mario for making my day.

[KeithHall]

It isn't so bad now though!

[slate belt corpsman]

It isn't so bad now though!

I also thank you Mario - you also made my day a little brighter - no sun only rain here in Pennsy and reading your story put sunshine here!

Oh if only we could turn back the clock knowing what we know now .......................

Edited November 13, 2008 by slate belt corpsman

[HornsUp]

Buffalo may have had the Carver, but there were similar establishments in Rochester.

I spent several Labor Day weekends in the 70s at both the Cadillac Hotel and the 111. Neither of which seem to be on Allen Buell's current list of approved housing.

[Rap48]

Great story. It brought back my thoughts of bringing the Shortsville Shamrock to Synphony Hall back in the 60ies. Most of these kids thought Rochester was a huge city. When we unloaded behind Synphony Hall we were greated by the locals, WOW Enough said.

Great story thanks for sharing.

[elphaba01]

"Buffalo Shuffle":

State Championships, 'tours' to Nationals, contests on weekends, practice "At the Hall" onece a week in the Winter, twice weekly at some shopping center's parking lot in the "Season" (Which was from mid May to October), "On the Starting Line" at Kennedy Stadium in Bridgeport, Roosevelt Stadium in "Joisey",

the "Orange Bowl" in Miami and Horlick Field at Racine. Fleetwood Records, the World Open, CYO Nationals, mid winter guard and "Individuals" shows at Staten Island, Brooklyn, Hawthorne, Mineola, Boston, Newark and Chicago. :big hug:

Thanks so very much "Bklyn Mario" for all jogging all the memories.

Elphaba

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