Closed
Yesterday (Monday, February 18th, 2013), in a feeble attempt to distract from the incredible sadness engendered by the dreadful fate that has befallen me, I decided to treat my friends who daycare my dog to an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast at world-famous Cartwright’s Maple-Tree Inn.
Cartwright’s is only open during the maple-sugaring season; that is, when the sap is running in their giant stand of sugar-maple trees.
They serve all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes with the real maple-syrup they’re making.
Cartwright’s is out in the middle of nowhere on the eastern side of western New York’s vast Genesee valley (“JENN-uh-see”).
The Genesee river flows south-to-north through the valley to Rochester (N.Y.). The valley was the first breadbasket of our fledgling nation.
Wheat would be shipped up to Rochester over a long-abandoned canal. Traces of that canal are still extant.
In Rochester the wheat might get milled and/or transshipped east on the Erie Canal.
Cartwright’s is in an extremely rural area; the Genesee valley is no longer the nation’s breadbasket.
Yet Cartwright’s is world-famous. Tour-buses of doddering oldsters join others who came by car. The pancakes are good, but the draw is the real maple-syrup.
I’ve been to Cartwright’s quite a few times, first maybe four or five years ago with a bunch of Transit retirees.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS; “Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
The Transit retirees hit Cartwright’s once a year.
We took my brother from northern Delaware to Cartwright’s last year. My wife was still alive then.
Now I push Cartwright’s on everyone, including the people who daycare my dog while I work out at the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua.
My friend is the husband of a lady who owns a pet-grooming establishment.
The lady does the grooming, and her husband is her assistant.
They daycare my dog as old friends — her husband and I once worked together at Canandaigua’s Daily Messenger newspaper. His wife worked at the Messenger too.
They daycare my dog partly to offset the horrible event I’ve suffered, the death of my beloved wife.
So my friend showed up about 9 a.m. yesterday so we could go to Cartwright’s; his wife was unable to attend.
Cartwright’s is a long drive from my house, about 45 minutes to an hour into the rural outback.
South on Interstate-390, off at Mt. Morris, then up and over to Nunda (“None-DAY;” often mispronounced as “none-duh”). Then south along the “Short-Tract Road.”
Could the Governor of New York locate Short-Tract? Our state’s national senator not too long ago, Hillary Clinton, mispronounced “Nunda.”
We passed run-down abandoned houses, some in partial collapse, fodder for a future fire-department practice-burn.
There’s no longer a living to be made out here.
Short-Tract is actually a small hamlet, but if you blink, you’ll miss it.
Just south of Short-Tract, left on county-road 15A; there’s a sign for Cartwright’s.
Then a long gradual climb of about two miles, and suddenly “I think this is it.”
But the parking-lot was empty — usually it’s packed.
It looked like Cartwright’s was closed.
“Open February 12th,” a small hand-painted sign said.
I got out and walked toward the restaurant.
A small lighted sign was in a window. “Closed,” it said.
I unholstered my SmartPhone, and after arduous struggle I Googled up the Cartwright’s website.
“Closed Mondays,” it said.
“Well I wish I’d seen that,” I said.
“So much for Cartwright’s,” I said. My doggie daycare friends are only off on Monday.
“Well, we have to eat something,” my friend said.
We had come down there on empty stomachs, planning to pig out on pancakes.
Returning through Nunda, we stopped at the “Poor American Cafe,” a ramshackle dive endemic to the setting.
There was a sign on the wall: “due to budget-cuts the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off.”
Cartwright’s is only open during the maple-sugaring season; that is, when the sap is running in their giant stand of sugar-maple trees.
They serve all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes with the real maple-syrup they’re making.
Cartwright’s is out in the middle of nowhere on the eastern side of western New York’s vast Genesee valley (“JENN-uh-see”).
The Genesee river flows south-to-north through the valley to Rochester (N.Y.). The valley was the first breadbasket of our fledgling nation.
Wheat would be shipped up to Rochester over a long-abandoned canal. Traces of that canal are still extant.
In Rochester the wheat might get milled and/or transshipped east on the Erie Canal.
Cartwright’s is in an extremely rural area; the Genesee valley is no longer the nation’s breadbasket.
Yet Cartwright’s is world-famous. Tour-buses of doddering oldsters join others who came by car. The pancakes are good, but the draw is the real maple-syrup.
I’ve been to Cartwright’s quite a few times, first maybe four or five years ago with a bunch of Transit retirees.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS; “Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
The Transit retirees hit Cartwright’s once a year.
We took my brother from northern Delaware to Cartwright’s last year. My wife was still alive then.
Now I push Cartwright’s on everyone, including the people who daycare my dog while I work out at the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua.
My friend is the husband of a lady who owns a pet-grooming establishment.
The lady does the grooming, and her husband is her assistant.
They daycare my dog as old friends — her husband and I once worked together at Canandaigua’s Daily Messenger newspaper. His wife worked at the Messenger too.
They daycare my dog partly to offset the horrible event I’ve suffered, the death of my beloved wife.
So my friend showed up about 9 a.m. yesterday so we could go to Cartwright’s; his wife was unable to attend.
Cartwright’s is a long drive from my house, about 45 minutes to an hour into the rural outback.
South on Interstate-390, off at Mt. Morris, then up and over to Nunda (“None-DAY;” often mispronounced as “none-duh”). Then south along the “Short-Tract Road.”
Could the Governor of New York locate Short-Tract? Our state’s national senator not too long ago, Hillary Clinton, mispronounced “Nunda.”
We passed run-down abandoned houses, some in partial collapse, fodder for a future fire-department practice-burn.
There’s no longer a living to be made out here.
Short-Tract is actually a small hamlet, but if you blink, you’ll miss it.
Just south of Short-Tract, left on county-road 15A; there’s a sign for Cartwright’s.
Then a long gradual climb of about two miles, and suddenly “I think this is it.”
But the parking-lot was empty — usually it’s packed.
It looked like Cartwright’s was closed.
“Open February 12th,” a small hand-painted sign said.
I got out and walked toward the restaurant.
A small lighted sign was in a window. “Closed,” it said.
I unholstered my SmartPhone, and after arduous struggle I Googled up the Cartwright’s website.
“Closed Mondays,” it said.
“Well I wish I’d seen that,” I said.
“So much for Cartwright’s,” I said. My doggie daycare friends are only off on Monday.
“Well, we have to eat something,” my friend said.
We had come down there on empty stomachs, planning to pig out on pancakes.
Returning through Nunda, we stopped at the “Poor American Cafe,” a ramshackle dive endemic to the setting.
There was a sign on the wall: “due to budget-cuts the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off.”
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• The “Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost seven years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]).
posted by BobbaLew at 6:27 PM
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