Oneonta, New York, with 14,000 residents is much larger that Thornton Wilder's "Grover's Corners", Vermont. But it has a river coursing through reminiscent of Meredith Wilson's "River City", Iowa and William Inge's Kansas town, the setting for "Picnic". The "town" has two distinguished colleges; Hartwick and SUNY Oneonta. It also has two descriptive appellations; "The City of the Hills" and a terminal sounding epithet, "Life Enjoyed". It remains a "town" because the resident population has not increased since 1950, and the fictions, myths needed to bind together vast populations in cities, nations are deluded in smaller population centers. Living in a "town" we see individuals more clearly, relate to them better (or perhaps worse) but with less distortion created by the patinas of myth. Clips of life in Oneonta over nearly four decades illustrates the point, perhaps.
Raised 50 miles north of Oneonta I still had no idea of its location. For a job interview in 1966, I followed a map from Utica to Cooperstown and then into Oneonta. Soon on a hill in front of Hartwick's Bresee Hall I absorbed for the first time the wonderful view of the Susquehanna River Valley.
My introduction to the people of Oneonta occurred on a crisp Halloween night that same year. My wife Annette, two daughters and I had been living in town for just two months. We went downtown where half the population was parading in the center of Main Street, the other half lining the sidewalks watching. Happy, noisy, costumed children everywhere. I had felt that I knew no one. But going home my face muscles ached, stressed from constant smiling, grinning and chatting.
We bought our first home - a large 1912 house that bordered six other properties. The day after closing I walked up the shared driveway to greet one of my neighbors, an elderly woman.
"Hi, I'm John, the new owner". She looked at me, then at the house and back at me. "So the Bards were finally able to get rid of that place". She turned and walked away.
Our third daughter Jennifer, was born the following year.
Ox Johnson was the proprietor of the neighborhood Deli. Ox was a business man first, politically conservative, a bespectacled, suspender wearing Elk member, with a sense of humor so dry that one could rationally challenge its very existence. He considered me a lefty college professor who might mature, maybe, someday. Once he asked me if I could help him move some produce. He had hurt his back. Sure, I said. Three days later we were in his truck driving to my surprise, to New Jersey, his source for fresh vegetables. Soon I was loading bushels of tomatoes, melons, cucumbers into the truck. Ox bought lunch. We would also serve together for several years, along with banker Henry Bunn, on the City of Oneonta Tax Assessment Review Board. Later I helped carry Ox to his grave.
The officer issued the ticket to me for violation of the leash law - in Wilber Park I had let Swede run loose. I appeared in City Court before Judge Walter Terry who happened to be a fellow poker player. Judge Terry seemed to be suppressing a smile as I stood before him. I was reprimanded, first offense, fine suspended, then admonished, "and let this be a lesson to you".
I was on my way to Washington. The radio reported that Harry and Cathy's 23-year old son John, had been killed in a plane crash. I doubled over with anguish. Two days later I returned to Oneonta and now stood poised to knock on Harry's front door. It popped open, Harry pasted me, "Let's go!" We walked down Roosevelt Ave, crossed Main Street, then down Grande Ave to Neawha Park. Passing through the Park, we headed west on River Street, A couple of miles later we were on Oneida Street heading north to Chestnut, then east to Main and finally back to Roosevelt Ave. Neither of us had uttered a word - words had no meaning - Johnny was gone. Slowly I followed Harry through his front door.
Steve, his wife and two daughters lived across the street. Bob, his wife and two sons lived next door. Both were police officers. Joe Pigeon, wife and four children lived on the next block up. Joe was the Oneonta Fire Chief and his son Patrick would join OFD and become a future Chief. Patrick's cousin Jeff also became a firefighter. Whenever sirens wailed in Oneonta it became a moment to pause and think about our neighbors.
Real "towns" are like that.
