We take our old Radisson canoe named Edy to check out Esopus Creek flowing through Kingston, NY, and further north until it joins the Hudson. As we paddle on, we pass great fallen trees almost blocking the stream, one skittering muskrat and a lone Great blue heron loudly concerned by our presence. Sporadic noises of internal combustion engines carry over from the nearby NY Thruway and a string of tents hidden in streamside bushes behind a new car dealership mark an encampment of the city's homeless. A few days later we learn one of the residents was found dead, stabbed many times, under his collapsed tent. The police came and did the usual: had the camp cleared of all its residents. Would they also vacate an apartment building after someone committed murder on its 13th floor?
But for us it is still a gentle morning, spent between a clear sky arching above our canoe and a layer of silky mud passing under its bottom. Soon we meet another creek traveler -- a rare breed on weekdays -- in his own old Radisson he purchased for $200 after he dug it out of his neighbor's garage and removed the cobwebs. His name is Miron and he appears to be innocent of the basic "J" stroke which would keep his canoe tracking like a good sled dog. Instead, he paddles rapidly on one side and then on the other, sending his boat in different directions with every stroke. Hard work, this, but Miron is making progress.
Further south we find a log wedged across the creek and boisterous thickets of poison ivy crowding both banks. Portage -- and go on? Noooooo... we are both allergic, and I am already raking my forearms marked by last week's ivy encounters. We turn back and remember we need to send some books to my brother in Poland, so we drive to our post office. Not long ago, the building suffered some damage after one of the ancient Hurley residents rammed its front wall with his pickup. The local paper briskly reported:
No one was injured in the accident at about 11:15 a.m. after the elderly male driver of the truck parked in a space in front of the building went forward instead of backward, according to postal clerk Diana Cline. Cline said the unidentified driver told investigators his gas pedal stuck...
The note failed to mention we only ram buildings if we park our cars with noses pointing at them and then turn the ignition on and put our cars in the forward gear. The stuck gas pedal is a mere afterthought and should not be blamed.
After the front wall was replaced and enhanced by a great expanse of windows, we congratulated our P.O. clerks: finally, they had a lovely view of the sky, the neighborhood trees and more cars attempting to ram their building. The clerks agreed. But within a few days the new windows were blocked by cardboard boxes and other postal supplies, and that was that. Perhaps it is better not to see another pickup coming, with the gas pedal stuck to the floor?
John goes to mail the books. I walk to our gas station -- which is, as usual, trying to hire anyone willing to sell chewing tobacco, Wonder Bread and lukewarm pizza all day long -- and collect a tired squeegee: I may as well wash our Toyota's grimy windows. On my way back I see another Hurley ancient heading for his old red Chevy parked next to our car. The man notices me, too. He seems confused.
"Sorry," he says. "I see you want to clean my car's windows but I do not need it. They are dirty but I always find a part I can look through. So... no, but thank you very much. Not today."
Hm? Now it is my turned to be confused until he reaches into his pocket and fishes out some change.
"Here," he says. "I hope this helps. Please take it."
And suddenly I know: he thinks I am a "squeegee woman" because I am holding the right tool and remind him of many "squeegee men" who used to work street corners in New York and wash car windows stopped at the traffic for a bit of change. I look the part, too, with my messy hair and ratty paddling clothes. The man probably used to live in the city for many years before he retired, moved upstate and slowly became truly ancient. Never mind there were never any squeegee men in our village with its historic Huguenot houses and tidy gardens now crowded with triumphant day lilies in bloom.
I thank him, decline the change and get into our Toyota. John gets in, too. But on our way home I realize I may have done something else: take the money -- I think it was a couple of quarters -- and let the man feel he has actually helped someone.
©Yva Momatiuk
