American Pie: The Up-State Life
...My house was one of just a half dozen that were scattered on a ridge that overlooked the Chemung river valley. The house of my nearest neighbor, whom I had not seen or heard from in the two years since I’d moved in, was perhaps 250 yards away...
John Merchant found that he was not welcomed with open arms when he went to live un up-state New York.
For more of John's enlightening words about life in the United States please click on American Pie in the menu on this page.
The term “up-state” in America is a gently pejorative label, signifying life-style and population characteristics that are borderline hillbilly in the eye of the labeler. The location of “up-state” is a perception that depends on the size and sophistication of the nearest city. At one end of the scale, to a New Yorker, if you live just a half hour’s train ride up the Hudson River valley you’re firmly in “up-state” territory, even though many or the people who work in the city commute from such places, and even beyond.
On the other end of the scale, if you live in the small town of Kingston, 60 miles further north, you’d have to hail from much further away to be labeled an “up-stater.” After living for a few years in the relatively cosmopolitan city of Philadelphia, an investment opportunity took me to really up-state New York. I had visited there on a number of occasions and was impressed by the majestic scenery of the Finger Lakes region, south of Lake Ontario.
I liked the look of the picturesque, neatly kept towns, set in rolling dairy country, and it seemed to be the right place to raise my teenage daughter, away from the temptations of the big city. Though the summers were a few weeks shorter and the winters potentially severe, the air was clean and the nights were quiet; not a bad trade I thought at the time. It took a while for the feeling of geographical and intellectual isolation to set in, but by that time I was too committed to leave.
In the meantime I plunged into the regional life. I took up sailboat racing on Lake Cayuga, joined a yacht club, some of whose members were Cornel University faculty, and learned to enjoy the winters through cross-country skiing, and ice skating on a small lake. I volunteered with some local organizations, which brought me into contact with some of the minor movers and shakers, but after a couple of years I began to have doubts about whether I could ever really belong.
From the town where I lived, the nearest cities were Rochester, 85 miles away, and Binghampton, 50 miles away; too far to go to a theater or to a good restaurant. In any case, both places had seen better days, and were typical of the “company towns” that experienced their high point in the thirties and forties.
The region supported two small airports that held the promise of a temporary escape if needed, but then the critical mass of passengers necessary for commercial viability declined, leaving just one airline. The local joke was that you could fly anywhere in the world from the Elmira/Corning or Ithaca airports as long as you first flew to either Philadelphia, JFK or Pittsburg, the only destinations served by the remaining airline.
After a while, the insularity and unfriendly nature of the locals began to irk me, and there seemed to be no way to penetrate their suspicion of incomers. My house was one of just a half dozen that were scattered on a ridge that overlooked the Chemung river valley. The house of my nearest neighbor, whom I had not seen or heard from in the two years since I’d moved in, was perhaps 250 yards away.
Driving up the hill on my way home one evening, I saw an elderly lady walking up the steep road. I stopped to offer her a ride, which she accepted with obvious relief. After exchanging a few pleasantries she said, “By the way, I’m your neighbor. I’m sorry I haven’t been over to introduce myself, but I’ve been very busy.” I never saw her again in the six more years I lived there!
Local people were most often cash poor and land rich. You can purchase 10 acres of land for $5,000 providing you don’t mind living in view of the shacks and shanties of the real hill-billys. For those who are unfamiliar with the US, there is a ridge of hills and mountains that run from West Virginia in the north to Alabama in the south, called the Appalachian Range.
It is one of the poorest regions in North America, and is home to family feuds, moonshine whiskey and dedicated in-breeding. Well it turns out that the Appalachian characteristics are not all confined to that region, and there were many such pockets of Appalachicana where I lived. Poor these people may have been, but that didn’t prevent them from accumulating any number of rusty old cars and broken-down pieces of farm machinery, all of which were displayed amid the spectacularly beautiful countryside, and watched over by some of the meanest dogs you could imagine.
It was perhaps a telling sign that an organization created to welcome incomers and settle them into the community, held functions that still were being attended mostly by people who had come to the area years before. It was their refuge from an otherwise suspicious and indifferent society. So the folks who attended the wine tasting evenings or belonged to the gourmet group were old friends, and ironically seemed to resent newcomers.
After eight years of trying to gain acceptance, and with my investment gone sour, I decided to quit. With immeasurable relief I cast off the pall of “up-state,” and moved to a town just 65 miles from New York City. Imagine my feelings, when checking into a hotel in the City, to have the receptionist say, “Wow you really live in up-state!” That young man knew nothing about “up-state.”
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