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
