Buffalo's Southern Island

Buffalo's Southern Island

It is a place that exists more in the minds of those who

live there, than anywhere else. You won't ever see the

designation for it on any map reference. But, you will hear

it referred to daily in a thousand conversations. Ask any of

its residents where they live, and the name will spring

immediately to their lips, even when they are far from

home. " South Buffalo" is as real and as separate a

community as any city, town or village in New York State.

Geographically, it encompasses that portion of the City

of Buffalo, that lies immediately South of Cayuga Creek and

the Buffalo River. The creek, river and Lake Erie to the

West, form an imaginary peninsula that abuts the City of

Buffalo on its Southern flank. There are bridges connecting

it to the city proper of course but the feeling, as a whole, is

one of living on an island. The residents tend to inter-

marry among the large extended families, patronize local

businesses and generally act as clannish as islanders do the

world over. It breeds an insular mentality that has kept

South Buffalo separate and distinct, from the rest of the

city, since the time most of it was first constructed at the

turn of the twentieth century. Before that, it was mostly

farmland and fields, the remainder of the Seneca Creek

Indian Reservation that occupied the land for generations.

The people who live here are predominantly blue

collar, working- class citizens who pay their taxes, go to

church, serve in the military and eschew social welfare

programs. They raise their children to get a good education

and climb the socio- economic ladder, one rung at a time.

Ethnically, they are diverse. But, the traditions of the

Irish are strongly rooted here. They are fierce in their

identification with, and allegiance to, the misty Isle of Eire.

St. Patrick's Day can be a week long Holiday in South Buffalo,

if the calendar co-operates and the liver holds out.

You will find many of the their number among

the ranks of the Police and Fire Brigades. It is an area

steeped in family traditions. Some of these civil servants

are the second and third generation of their family to hold

these positions. The sons and daughters of South Buffalo

are also proportionately over represented amidst the

ranks of the politically connected, but more about that later.

Physically, the sprawling expanses of Cazenovia Park

and nearby South Park, with the magnificent Paladian style

Botanical Gardens Complex and picturesque South Park

Lake, highlight the region. The mighty Industrial palaces of

Bethlehem and Republic Steel Companies once dominated

and colored the skyline. They are gone now and with them,

30,000 jobs. Most of their rusting bulk has, ironically, been

dismantled for scrap steel.

The pleasant meandering concourse of Cazenovia

Creek, with its large, old, Willow- lined banks and series of

scenic iron bridges, further divides the Island. Curiously,

there is a perceived social stratification that depends upon

which side of the creek you live on. There are social

gradations, even among the working class, I guess.

South Park Ave., Abbott Rd. and Seneca Street run

South to North, along the length of the Island, and are lined

with an eclectic array of bars, churches, funeral homes and

small businesses. The other major thoroughfare, McKinley

Parkway, is a broad residential boulevard of solid, two

story dwellings, that is as visually pleasant a place to live as

any tree lined suburb.

Several imposing institutions, like Mercy and Our

Lady of Victory Hospitals,with the adjacent OLV Basillica,

serve as area landmarks. There is, of course, an indoor pool

and ice skating complex and various recreational centers on

the island. Bishop Timon, Mount Mercy and South Park High

Schools are the institutions that train the area's young. The

loyalty to these schools is both generational and emotional.

An active sports program has created legions of devoted

fans, who follow the progress of the school teams with

religious intensity.

Predominantly Roman Catholic by religion, the Island

is administratively divided into several parishes. Prominent

among them are St. John the Evangelist and St. Theresa's,

both along Seneca St., St. Thomas Acquinas and St. Martin of

Tours, along Abbott Rd and finally St. Ambrose, Holy Family

and St. Agatha's along the McKinley Parkway and South

Park corridors. Most of the residents know and acknowledge

the boundaries of these parishes, identifying strongly with

them for a variety of demographic reasons.

In an Irish Catholic neighborhood like South Buffalo,

the Friday night fish fry is a ritual as regular and

unbending as Sunday Mass. To miss either is something

that just isn't done. The tradition has its roots in a centuries old Catholic

Church prohibition against eating meat on Fridays. The

"prods, as we then referred to our ecumenical Protestant

brethren, developed the term " mackerel snappers " for us

because of it. We didn't mind however, because we knew

that they were heathens and didn't know any better.

Growing up, with a large Catholic family in South

Buffalo, meant sending one of the little darlings off to

Trautwein's or Reidy's Fish Market, on Friday afternoon, for

the weekly ration of Blue or Yellow Pike. In addition,

coleslaw, potato salad and a massive amount of french fries

and rye bread were customary. When Lake Erie died and

the pike ran out, we settled upon haddock as the fish of

choice. The smell of grease, cooking in the neighborhood,

was a pleasant reminder to us of who and what we were.

As we grew older and married, the custom ordained

that on Friday nights, we migrate to one of the local taverns

for dinner. There, however humble the surroundings, could

be found many of the neighbors partaking of this aquatic

communion. Usually, a couple of Genesee beers accompanied

the ritual. Sure, they have wine at the altar, don't they?

The new age, and cholesterol consciousness, brought

on the advent of "broiled fish, but it wasn't the same. If the

fish wasn't fried and of heaping proportions, something

seemed amiss.

The local traffic, on Fridays, could be a hazard around

the taverns. You could get killed crossing Seneca Street.

People had thoughts of getting to the restaurant and

securing a table promptly on their minds. Driving and

parking were secondary concerns. The business, to the Taverns,

was in volume and what former Buffalo News Columnist Bob Curran

fondly calls, " barley sandwiches."(Beer) Indeed, you could procure the fixings

for the dinner, from Trautwein's or Reidy's Fish Market, for

only a few cents cheaper than that charged by Early Times

or the Red Brick Tavern. Many are the pleasant memories

that I have, of arriving at one of these emporiums and

being greeted, by now grown childhood friends, sharing the

custom.They are honest and hard working people, indulging

in a level of social intercourse, that is tribal in its ritual and

reassuring in its regularity.

Like villages in rural Ireland, taverns were the center

of social life. Everyone had their favorite, in South Buffalo,

and were fierce in expressing their loyalty. Social Clubs

sprang up around the chosen place and many of the

regulars often participated in athletic and social events,

sponsored by the tavern. The camaraderie engendered

carried over into many other facets of our daily life.

Like most ethnic neighborhoods, there were a few

watering holes in South Buffalo that served as front line

positions, in the continuing political Tong Wars. Lads from

differing factions and clans would gather nightly, for a few

rounds, to talk over the happenings of the day.

"Smitty's, one of the more legendary such

establishments, was like "Cheers." You always knew

somebody and they always knew your name. The place was

run by a prince of a man named Ed Smith. His family was

large and both fierce and out spoken in their loyalties. One

day, a prominent elected official, from an opposing political

faction, was served his beer and advised it would be

appreciated if he finished his drink and "got the hell out."

There were no ambiguities here. "For us or against us " was

the code.

This particular establishment had a long and colorful

history. Run since the 1940's by old Joe Cooley and then by

the Smith Family, it was always a hangout for the local

politicos. The place had made the transition, over the years,

from Republican to Democrat, as the demographics of the

area changed. During W.W.II, servicemen in uniform, drank

there for free. If they were a little short on money, they

could also count on some help from the proud proprietors.

One time, as I talked quietly with friends at the bar,

no less than four separate fights broke out within a 45

minutes period. One involved an incumbent Legislator, who

accidently broke his opponent's leg. The next slaked the ire

of a future Streets Commissioner and a local policeman,

whose gun and holster flapped obscenely through the

wrestling match in the snow. The others were routine

punch 'em ups and not worthy of comment. None made the

news. In this neighborhood, you took your lumps and were

quiet about it.

The then Police Commissioner, Jim Cunningham,

commented ruefully on the South Buffalo Taverns. He said

that complaints of police brutality were non-existent in the

area. If the cops were a little rough, you figured that they

got you this time and maybe you would even up at some

future date. Perhaps, it is the legacy of the sprawling

frontier canal town that preceded modern day Buffalo.

The saloons themselves, were a smoky archipelago of

warmth and companionship, in an often difficult

environment. Wielding the scooper's shovel all day and

resenting the fat bellied foreman barking the orders, were

things that needed a bit of easing at day's end. Thoughts, of

the icy foam and beaded sweat of a tall schuper of beer,

were long anticipated and much appreciated. Several hours

later, most of the lads made it home, after a fashion. And

herself, left home for the evening, was not amused at the

dubious condition of the lads arriving at the kitchen door.

Sure, it was a hard night indeed spent debating the issues

of the day and the proper solutions to them.

As we grew older, you could see the mark of the

"creature" on some of the luckless souls. They were headed

down into the abyss, God love them. Hard drinking was a

problem that we had all seen close up, in the large families.

We tried to be understanding, but it was as if the mark of

Cain blazed upon the unfortunate. The stricken knew, on a

visceral level, that they were doomed.

In most of South Buffalo, the side streets are lined with

large, old, two-story frame dwellings. The different Catholic

parishes had established the lines of demarcation,

previously mentioned, that separated one grouping of

streets from another. Like most artificial boundaries, the

lines are invisible, yet powerful in the effects that they

created. No ardent patriot ever identified more strongly

than we did, with the Parish that sheltered us. The local

church was a modern Fort Apache to which we turned, in

times of laughter, or through a veil of tears.

The kids in our neighborhood went to the local Catholic

Grammar School, St. John The Evangelist. There, in addition to our

regular studies, we were instructed in the perils of life and the

damnation of sinners, by a community of nuns from the Order of the

Sisters of Mercy. The nuns were pretty much adjunct mothers and

although inclined to be crotchety, cared about us. They

looked after our spiritual and physical well being. It wasn't

unusual for them to step in quietly and help with food and

clothing, when one of us was in need. They did this with

the finesse of experienced diplomats, in a blue collar, ethnic

community that prided itself on accepting charity from

no one.

Going to a Catholic Grammar School was like being

raised by a churlish maiden aunt. You spent all day with

these women. Their authority and concerns encompassed

your entire life. If they got wind of mischief or bad habits

after school, they were on you like a detective the next day.

No hardened policeman ever perfected the third degree like

these women had. One way or another, they managed to

extract the details of the offense from you. The call would

then go home to your parents, and things would be

decidedly unpleasant there as well.

I remember one incident in particular, that involved

throwing snowballs. The Mother Superior lined up about

twenty of us in a row and methodically questioned each of

us as to our culpability in the incident. Any one naive

enough to admit guilt, got a backhand across the face.

Nobody had to instruct us on the philosophical merit of the

protections afforded us by the fifth amendment. We figured

that out pretty quickly all by ourselves.

As far as education went, the Nuns did a pretty fair job

with limited resources. We weren't allowed to "not do the

work." That path led to fire and brimstone. The threat was

pretty intimidating to junior urchins like us, with vividly

active imaginations.

Many of the members, of this order of Mercy, were

of Irish-American extraction. Guilt, as a behavioral modifier

was honed to a fine science. To this day, I still have

uncomfortable memories of threats and exhortations,

promising eternal damnation, for some minor offense or

another.

The Diocesan parish priest was also a figure to be

reckoned with. He was the unquestioned arbiter of the

moral code, that ruled our daily lives. He was the top

banana of a tight-knit Catholic Community. If he put the

finger on you, you were in for it, good. You could count

upon a pretty fiery sermon, the next Sunday at Mass,

detailing the infraction. You also squirmed like hell in your

seat, praying that he wouldn't name names. It was a very

real and much feared threat.

The nuns and priests loomed very large in our young

lives. They did care for us however and spent their own

lives in relative poverty, looking after other people's

children. They were special people. We withstood the

occasional ruler across the knuckles and were better people

for it.

Next to the religious community, in South Buffalo,

politics was the interest of choice. It was a pervasive

influence in our daily lives. The elections and their results

were topics of conversation around many a kitchen table.

Families chose sides, along clan lines, and cheered on their

faction with all the intensity of a hotly contested football

game. You voted the way your Father did and his Father

before Him.

Among our crowd, many of us had an aging relative

involved in what was popularly called "The Game." Mine was

my father's brother, Edward. He was a storied and

legendary ward politician, who carried the Republican

banner, in the democratic bastion of South Buffalo, for

decades. Our Family had been active in Politics since before

the First World War, when everybody was a Republican.

"Manuch, as he was called, looked the part. His shoes

were always shined and his hat brushed. A crisp white

shirt and a freshly pressed gray suit completed the image.

These are powerful icons in a community that earned its

living, for the most part, from the sweat of its brow.

He had a working man's respect for any job that you

got to use your brain, instead of your back. He and my

father, Franny, were the sons of a water front scooper, one

of those hardy Micks who muscled grain on Buffalo's

waterfront. Manuch took an interest in me as a youngster

and tried to help me along in what had become for us, a

family trade. Manuch's Uncle Willie had been a saloon keeper, where

most of the political meetings were held, and a New York

State Senator. Willie had helped get him started in

the business and he was carrying on the tradition with me.

The Irish had learned early that Politics was a ticket

out of the slums. They infiltrated the ranks of the civil

service and stood their own for public office, to control the

mechanics of the system. Tammany was our spiritual

progenitor and taking care of ones own was a way of life.

City Hall and the Court systems were an employment

cornucopia that would feed thousands of the faithful in

South Buffalo. The formation of the Irish Political Mafia was

for our own protection. All of our Grandfathers

remembered the "Irish need not apply" signs on places of

employment. We saw to it that none of that nonsense would

ever happen to us again.

The various political campaigns were waged with the

ferocity of a religious crusade. No quarter was asked for or

given. The enemies made in one generation, were often

passed down into the second and third. Grudges were a

much treasured family inheritance, often carefully

nurtured with grand donnybrooks in the local saloons.

The neighborhood saloons, as mentioned, often became

front line positions in the continuing skirmishes. It was

here that the Irish Politician learned his trade. Sure, who

could be angry with the darlin' lad who had bought the last

round? Bless his sainted mother for bringing him among us.

Many is the local Democratic Party Chairman, Judge and

elected official that sprang from these humble origins. The

discussions between the lads could sometimes become

boisterous, and often a point was expressed with a wee bit

too much emphasis on the opposition's personal

shortcomings. And, if the occasional plate glass window was

shattered by someone sailing through it in a bit of

regrettable exuberance, sure it only added to the charm of

the place. It was but a family squabble amidst people who

had lived and died, along side of each other, for generations.

We knew each other by the parish, street and family

name. The "shirt tail cousins" among us were legion. Our

ancestral home was not a distant emerald isle, but a

collection of streets and characters called "The Ward."

From it, most of our forebearers had "migrated" South,

across the Buffalo River, in search of a better life. It existed

in our minds as a spectral Brigadoon, to which everyone

referred with nostalgia, over a lengthy tale and a barley

sandwich or two. Usually, it involved characters like

"Harbor Lights" O'Brien , "Potatoes" McGowan, " Diapers"

Reardon or some such colorful figure. "Nails" and "Manuch"

Martin were two such figures in my own clan.

A frontier honesty pervaded the area and people

rarely locked their doors at night. You could depend upon

the neighbors to watch over the castle if you were away. On

the quaint dead end streets, people sat on their front

porches and watched the comings and goings of the

neighborhood, while enjoying the evening air. And sure,

the odd lad weaving down the street, in the wee hours, like

a sailor at sea in a gale, was the subject of much review,

around the area kitchen tables, for days afterward.

We were fortunate enough to live across the street

from Cazenovia Park. We could sit on the porch and watch

hardball games, on diamond # 1, every summer afternoon.

The older folks told tales of the 1930's. They remembered

when 30,000 people would gather around "The Cazenovia

Bowl", to watch the antics of legendary softball players like

"Shifty Gears" and "Bobblehands" Callahan.

Before that era, the bowl was a flooded portion of

Cazenovia Creek. Canoes and row boats were rented, from

the Cazenovia Park Casino, to Sunday revelers, in a more

peaceful and bucolic era long past. I suppose, that we often look

backward, with fondness, for things that time and fading memory

have softened. They seemed like simpler times then and I am glad

that I remember them that way.

Novelist Tom Wolfe wrote that "you can't go home

again," and maybe he is right. But now and then, it is fun to

look back and remember the way it was, long ago and far

from now, in a place that existed more in the minds of those

who lived there than anywhere else. South Buffalo is

Buffalo's " Southern Island." I was born and raised there

and although I no longer live there, I am an islander still.

Joseph Xavier Martin