Western New York: How snow, people and a weak economy can free the mind

Growing up in Dunkirk from the 1960s - 1980s

Six to seven months of snow a year never made anyone flinch in the small town of Dunkirk, New York.

Dunkirk, western most city in New York State.

I never knew any different. In that time of year, thirty days without sunshine was not at all unusual. Snow clouds have a different color and the sky was often completely covered with them. I still think about the snow swirling in white-stark contrast to the lead-colored clouds they sprang from. I loved to hear the house creak; and to feel the house move under the push of the cold winds that carried the snow.

The gray cold comforted me. You know it’s the most bitter of days when you can feel your nose hair freeze, snow sticks to your eyelashes and even your cheeks. Only a small area of skin would be exposed on days like these, from just above my eyebrows to just under my nose.

The inside of my knit scarf would get damp with my exhalations, as I walked down the snowy street towards home, boots crunching on the ice crusted path. Sound is deadened by the snow’s insulating qualities, not traveling at all. Light is diffuse, bouncing off the snow, and for the same reason, it never seemed truly dark at night.  

Dunkirk is the most walkable town I have ever lived.

The hospital, library, grade school, middle school, high school, post office, grocery, and drug store were all less than a third of a mile from our yellow queen Anne Victorian house on Eagle Street. 

My home, 616 Eagle Street.

Houses in Western New York usually have an informal side or back entrance and our home was no exception. A broom would be left outside the door, next to the snow shovel, to brush snowy boots. Our family and friends would enter a linoleum-lined base area with steps leading up into the living area. 

This is the spot where wet boots went no further. There was a boot placement protocol: Each family member had a step to set his or her boots on. No boots would be left at the landing’s base, because it was always a big puddle of melted slush, and woe to the stocking-footed person who stepped in it.

Dad: “That wouldn’t be a problem if you brushed your feet off before you came in the door!”

In the living area, steam radiators, those cast iron monstrosities in the corner of every room, not only warmed the house, but were pressed into service in order to dry wet mittens and socks. It was a fall-winter-spring world that felt and smelled like damp wool, corduroy, down and leather.

Finding things to do

It could be a challenge to find things to do inside, in the frigid months of winter. I read a lot. My parents had a small library at home that had, among other things, an encyclopedia and a series of volumes that included “The Works of Chekhov,” “World’s Greatest Detective Stories,” and the “Works of Poe”. I read from those, when the weather was really bad and couldn’t leave the house to get to the library. 

The family library.

My brother Dave said on multiple occasions “You read too much. Your eyes are going to grow so big, your body is going to whither away and someone’s going to have to push you around in a wheelbarrow.” Nice.

Taking a break from reading, my friend Mark and I decided we would write and illustrate a science fiction story and we were the characters. In the winter months, we took over the attic in my home, fighting off the chill by wearing two wool sweaters at a time, and went about the business of creating a backdrop for our battle scenes set in outer space.

We would tape together many sheets of black construction paper, then piercing holes in the paper in order to shine a lamp through it.

Mark would take beer cans and glue plastic car model parts to them, spray painting them silver to look like spacecraft. Suspending the models from strands of fishing line, we would light the spacecraft models dramatically to photograph our space battles. When we got the prints back from the photo lab, I was amazed how realistic the images looked.

When spring emerged from the slush and blue skies appeared once again, we shot the location pictures all around town.

We photographed the “off planet” images in front of the jagged and stratified shale cliffs on the northernmost part of Dunkirk, the shores of Lake Erie. We killed off Mark’s alien character with a banana – a dramatic visual of him lying on his back on a rock outcropping, half peeled banana in his mouth with blood trickling down his face.

Me on my Gram Szczerbacki's porch, ca. 1966.

A lack of organized activities had its benefits. I would draw pictures any chance I could get, for as long as I can remember. In the summer before I started fourth grade, I set up GI Joes in intricate battle scenes and photographed them with my mom’s Polaroid. We made up complex hide and seek games and played kick the can with 10 kids at a time. At the playground, we would set a line of swings in motion, and try to walk from the beginning of the row of swings to the end of the row without getting hit by a swing.

Viewing art in a different light

One of the few summer activities that the city sponsored (besides baseball) was a summer art class. I participated in a summer art class when I was 12, in an unrented building downtown that was host to about 20 kids and two teachers. Tom Gestwicki was our teacher, and every day we learned something new about art, and I liked that.

One of the most memorable times is when he had us sit outside on the concrete sidewalk with our backs against the building in which the classes were held. “We're drawing this building today,” he said, indicating a building right across the street. So we did. The building had been built at the turn of the century, and was made of brick with strips of decorative sandstone details that separated the three floors. The building seemed much like the other seven buildings that made up downtown.

After about an hour, someone asked, “Why are we sketching this building?” He responded, “Because it's going to be torn down next month.” Tom felt strongly about the new trend: “Urban Renewal” was a euphemism, an excuse and a paid incentive to take down beautiful buildings in order to build fresh, new ones. In Dunkirk, however, the new buildings were never built. 

We went back to the classroom to display the art. I learned about creating art for advocacy, and it made me think that art was not necessarily just for pleasure, but as a way to teach and shape thinking.

By living in Dunkirk, I realize that a positive outlook contributes to a good life, and that restrictions can free the mind.
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Pictures by James T. Goulding and Julianne G. Macie. Map courtesy of Google Maps.