Like the exhibit on display until January 8th at the glass museum, these teacup mornings are fragile. When its this cold, ice and glass are more prone to shatter, dry skin more prone to cracking and bleeding. The signs around town for the Blaschka's marine invertebrate exhibit are a frequent reminder that all who live in this community are creating a Fragile Legacy.
But at least we are creating it together.
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| Blaschka |
Like most towns in the Northeast, it's hard to get people to make eye contact with you, whether on the street or at the register. Maybe they're scared. A few years ago, there was a murder a stone's throw from where I live. Every day I pass the dilapidated mansion and, if my imagination is running high, I get chill bumps up my arms and down my back.
People in Corning get angry. Really angry. And if you want your business to outlast tourist season, you'd better open a bar.
Since the town is literally built on glass, building projects are at a standstill. The engineers blued the prints, counted the cost, dug the foundation—and kicked up the dust of lead, cadmium, and arsenic. The State Department of Health—my compadres, those who foster the tyranny of health promotion—said stop.
Okay, so, one less hotel. But in some residential areas, you can't plant vegetable gardens anymore. You can't let your kids dig into the soil with their fingers and toes without worrying. (That is, if you have kids to begin with. Margaret Sanger grew up in Corning and left her mark.)
No gardens, no dirt castles... Takes some of the joy out of being a kid, if you ask me.
Of course, Corning kids might prefer different things than I. I grew up in the dirt, with clean well water to drink, and it was marvelous.
The City of Corning will tell you the water is fine; the microbiology professor at the college on the hill will give you a "hell no it's not."
And yet, despite people and environment and politics, Corning is home.
We are Corning, and we are at home together.
When your car has a bad muffler, and you repeatedly tear up the road at 0300 hours, rather than call the police on you, your neighbors will convene and decide offering to pay for the repair might be the best course of action.
Not that the police are nasty. They wave hello and make you feel safe. Corning emergency personnel are topnotch. Even when off-duty, the ambulance drivers have good taste in donuts. The firetrucks are kept shiny.
When there's a problem, Corning is quick to lend a hand. Families, individuals, and businesses donate time, energy, and money to fix neighborhoods, whether it's boosting curb appeal or remedying a hazardous living situation.
We all know how to throw a good party on Market Street.
The coffee shop owner's daughter will make your cappuccino and latte on the house just because she wants to.
And, morning to evening, equinox to solstice, Corning is beautiful. Bridges, rivers, diverse people and lifestyles.
Beautiful. Most fragile things are.
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Even though we moved three and a half years ago, I was, until last week, legally traceable to a farm in Pennsylvania. I put up with paying taxes in two states to keep it that way for as long as possible. I've been driving three hours round trip to vote, or—when I got smart—casting absentee ballots.
I wanted nothing to do with New York State, except to jump in a lake or climb a mountain, be a part of the land but not the political geography or cultural identity. That still kind of holds true. But the other day, when the man at the DMV gently coached me to smile for the second try at a picture, I laid my weapons down. I gave him a crooked, amused, on-the-verge-of-laughter smile that will make for a classically unflattering, embarrassing driver ID photo. So much for the straight hair, and mascara that I'd bought singularly for the day (first tube in 2 years).
The same week, on my way home from applying for a library card, I turned around where the hill begins to crest. My breath plumed out in front of me. Living in this part of town requires one of two things: snow tires, if you have a car, or above average VO2max if you don't. I looked down the steep street, flanked by snow piles, and then across the river and to the snowy mountains, and all the houses jammed cozily between here and there, and I thought suddenly—it came as a surprise—
"Corning, I kinda love you."
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