The Highland Writers’ Group: Inspired by Views of Old Highland

The Highland Diner
by Karen Maserjian Shan

The diner was easy to spot. Its arched lintel, and green and blue striped scallop-edged awning not only sheltered the eatery’s glass-paneled front door, but also, with the purple and blue pansies spilling from the building’s anchored window pots, added eye-catching color to the otherwise nondescript Main Street that curved through a small hamlet in mid-state New York.
And then there was the neon arrow suspended from a metal rod mounted to the diner’s exterior that read “DINER,” perhaps, more loudly asserting what the large black lettering painted onto the building’s white-washed exterior stated: Highland Diner, potentially drawing in hungry passersby seeking a modest meal and homey comfort.
It was the diner’s neon sign, after all, that first caught Eliza Banner’s eye. The drive up Route 9W from New York City hadn’t been especially taxing but Eliza still had nearly two hours to go before reaching her ailing mother in Albany. Eliza hadn’t realized how hungry she was until a few miles back when a headache began to pulse at her temples and she noticed a grumble from her stomach. The throbbing prompted her to steer her Chevy Bel Air off the highway and into the nearest town, Highland. Better to grab a quick bite now at a local greasy spoon and quiet the insistent ache in head before it raged into blackening migraine, putting a screeching halt to her travel plans and delaying the help her mother needed.
From her seat on the cracked red vinyl in one of the diner’s dozen or so booths, Eliza held her head in her hands, her bent elbows resting on the laminate tabletop, so that her forearms and hands rose upward to her temples. She closed her eyes and exhaled. The sooner her waitress brought her coffee – dark and hot, please – and tuna on toast, the better.

November 1, 1918, Highland NY
by Larry Carr

The hardware store has a telephone, and every time it rings, it catches our breath. But it’s mostly for orders for nails or carpenter tools. And we go back to waiting. The four of us regulars wait here on the front porch. Sometimes a couple more folks come by. Mothers mostly. I think only twice Mr. Simpson drove up in his model T with some news. But it wasn’t much. Fred, from the post office, passes by and tells us no letters came in so things must be the same.
Our boys have been in France for months now. I bet it’s as chilly over there as here. November 1st. How can that be? They said this war would be over by Christmas back in’14. No need for us sticking our noses over there. That’s four years. But I guess wars have minds of their own. Mr. Johnson, the clerk at the store, offers chairs. He’s very kindly, but we’re too fidgety to plant ourselves. So, today, like those other days, we wait outside. Till the snow falls. And then he says we can come inside, closer to the telephone. I don’t think we can bear another Christmas without them. Maybe we’ll get some news today. Or no news. Which is better sometimes. For some.

The Trolley
by Anna Celotto

Here is a place, once you come to, you’re never supposed to leave. Everyone knows your past and your future. As if there were no other worlds for Lila to see, no other paths for her to follow, no other lives to lead. She was caged by a river to the east and a mountain range to the west. Ever since she was fourteen, Lila’s suitcase was half-packed and hidden under her bed. Now and again, as she got older, a little wiser, and a little more restless, she’d change out what she outgrew. Mostly dresses and unmentionables. She’d sneak in a few more dollars she’d earned. If she could outgrow clothes, why not people? Why not a quiet hole-in-the-wall town? Why not dreams? Her mother blamed the novels and the story papers. She read too much. It was too much fodder for a young girl’s imagination. She ought to have liked one of the local boys they’d invite for dinner. Settle down, as did friends and siblings, learn to cook, bake, and sew. Then she’d have her own home and raise the next generation here too. Hope arrived in layers in the summer of 1897. Teams of stalwart men laid beam after beam, rail after rail that became tracks that ran right through downtown Main Street, right under Lila’s window and right through her heart. Trolley tracks that lead to a ferry that crossed the river that led to a train that led to anywhere.

Our School
by Denise Collins

We attended what everyone called “the old building.” It sat to the left of the newer, sleekly designed school that held the kindergarten, first grade and the junior high and high school. We climbed the steep steps at the back of the old building and entered through the glass and wooden doors which opened onto marble floors that echoed when we walked to class. I don’t remember ever using the front doors. In the second, third and fourth grades, we mastered the 3 Rs. We also learned to crouch under our wooden desks for what were called air raid drills. The fear of war and attack still loomed large in the early l950s. I also remember the anxiety of my classmates when we waited to be sent to the nurse’s office in the newer building to get our polio shots. The polio epidemic was a very real threat to children at that time. The fifth-grade classes were on the second floor. I was a quiet student and blended in with my classmates as we endeavored to learn our lessons. Each day we studied, raised our hands, did our work, ate lunch with our teacher, ran around on the playground, and always, always followed the rules. But. . . Oh, the happy time after lunch when Mrs. Whelan, our somewhat strict teacher, read to us. Those books opened my mind and heart to the magic of poetry, and I was transported to unknown places, events and people. My heart stirred when she read of “Leetla Giorgio Washeenton”, an Italian immigrant explaining to his son in his broken, but eloquent English, about our first president, or Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride”, Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees”, and many more poems that taught me about life. There was a sadness to see the old building torn down and replaced with a driveway and parking lot. That place held many memories for me, but none more precious than what I received in that classroom so many years ago: my enduring love of poetry and the magic of it all.

1908
by Carol Dupilka

There is nothing like a monument to draw a crowd. The war brought with it a variety of issues. Some found sadness. Some found it stirred up great arguments. Some could see patriotism and bravery. The monument in Highland, New York was dedicated to the 156th New York State Volunteers Infantry Regiment, which served in the Civil War from 1862-1865. Its history had the power to bring people together. Three thousand gathered. On that day, many people arrived dressed in their grandest apparel. Was this a social gathering or a way to pass time in a rural, upstate New York community? Was this the time to remember the bravery and courage of those who served their country? The grandeur of the Queen Ann-style home in the background seemed to imply someone of importance was involved in the event. This could also be a motivating factor. Elitism and wealth can cause a parade of aspiring curiosity seekers.
At a time, when one could avoid the draft or pay for a substitute to take one’s place in war, a monument to those who served was fitting. This memorial represented a just cause. We can have diverse views about the disputes of nations, communities, even neighbors but drawing together to find common ground can never, never be a wasted endeavor.

Changes Revisited
by Lisa Rost Lewis

She can’t be more than three or four years old. Her excitement overflows into a chubby-cheeked ear-to-ear grin as she clutches a huge balloon. This photo I see on the library wall is black and white and dated 1947, but I’m sure the balloon is ruby red, and the satin ribbon in her hair is almost certainly pink. Something about the girl’s unfettered joy, in the midst of adults hurrying with purpose around her, makes me think of an event from my own childhood. I was about the same age as this girl in the Historical Preservation Society photo, but in my case, the year was 1963. Our aqua blue station wagon, sleek with jet-like lights, arrived home from the grocery store. In the back seat I eagerly clutched that week’s distraction—bath bubbles in a plastic bottle shaped like a lamb. So fun and silly, with an enticing new-vinyl scent. I luxuriated in the sweet anticipation of my bathtime—there would be water, suds, and a toy. Lucky me! Neighbors surrounded the car as we pulled into the driveway.
They all spoke at once: “Did you hear?” “Did you hear?” “Did you hear the news?” I thought they were eager for me to have a new toy. But how did they find out? It made me happy that they were excited, too! I soon realized, though, that they weren’t looking at me, or my plastic lamb. I heard raspy, whispered words about “The President”—the one with a little boy, and a girl like me. They said he was shot. He was dead. In the living room, grainy newsmen droned seriously from a TV that shouldn’t have been on during the day. The adults gathered and stared devoutly at the screen. I tip-toed behind them like I was sneaking out of church. The lamb-toy beckoned me to play. It could float in the sea, it could live on a farm, it could snuggle with me. I admired its molded shape and painted blue eyes, and I ran a finger over its pink plastic collar with a tiny gold buckle. Then I placed it carefully on the back corner of the bathroom shelf where it stayed untouched, because even at that young age, I knew.
Nothing was the same.