Sitting in the bow of our barge, I decide I like the place where we have docked in Seneca Falls. The canal must be the town’s alleyway; my view is of the backs of red brick buildings.  There are lots of benches lining the dock for sitting—which many people do—and I love the stark beauty of the stately, now defunct Seneca Knitting Mills across the canal from us.

Exploring Seneca Falls

The morning is cool and crisp and seems a great day to explore the town.  Apparently, Michael has been reconnoitering the area because he leads me to a door that leads to an elevator that leads to the main street of town. Then he leads me left to a sign that highlights all the points of interest in Seneca Falls.  There are two that intrigue me, a sculpture garden trail and a sculpture of the three women that started the suffragette movement, which started right here in Seneca Falls. Did I know that?

The shaded sidewalk is cool and welcoming, but the sun is becoming just a wee bit warm.   The shade dictates where we walk, leading us to the beautiful Trinity Episcopal Church. Stained glass windows, soaring white columns, and intricate brown beams fill the interior, while the exterior is a rambling gothic mass of blue limestone. It could be a church of and for Dark Shadows—the ancient, ancient soap opera that I watched when I was so young it is almost painful to remember.

The church, built on the banks of Van Cleef Lake, has grounds that are manicured to a smooth velvet green while red and white flowers grow in prolific abundance under the protected shadows of the old stone building. We head for the gazebo—styled after the church’s architecture—and sit awhile, enjoying its lofty protection against the morning sun.

Finally, still in search of the statue, we meander on, walking past Italian ice cream parlors, bakeries, and tired old mansions now turned into apartments. They border crooked, cracked sidewalks where low weeds fill the spaces left by the broken concrete.

“I am woman hear me roar…”

We walk across the hot, busy bridge and turn left. There amid flowering, bright golden mums are the three women who started it all: Amelia Bloomer, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Susan B. Anthony.  I can’t help but wish the song by Helen Reddy had been around back then, knowing they would have embraced it and sang as they marched.  “I am woman hear me roar, in numbers too big to ignore…” 

Returning to the barge after lunch, Michael tries to turn on the air conditioner.  It doesn’t turn.  He’s hot.  I’m warm. But I don’t’ think it is so bad. I kind of like living out in the open, not in a closed box isolated from the world.

We read, we nap, we sit in front of the computer.  I write.

A Sculpture Garden Honoring Women

At 6:30, after the heat of the sun has abated, we head across another bridge—the bridge that inspired the opening scene in It’s a Wonderful Life—to the sculpture trail on the other side of the canal. Sculptures line the banks, and a mile-long grassy path leads us along the water’s edge. All of the statues at the beginning of the garden are of women—first woman police officer, first female mayor, Amelia Bloomer in her famous “pants”(now I know where the term bloomers came from—amazing!), and others unnamed.  As we walk, my phone records the journey and the sights.  This trail, it seems, is in honor of women or consists of sculptures created by women.

The sun sinks low, the forested path is dark. We decide it is time to turn around. Detouring by the Seneca Knitting Mills, Michael takes a picture of the Harriett Wiles. He wasn’t interested in the sculptures. There is evidence of construction work going on at the mill. Several signs tell us that this will be home to the new National Women’s Hall of Fame. It seems the women of Seneca Falls have been roaring for quite some time.

Breakfast for Dinner

Lunch out means dinner in; I have leftover veggies, bacon, eggs.  At first, I think omelet, then reconsider and choose frittata—onions, tomatoes, bacon, potatoes. The oven doesn’t want to turn so I can finish off the top of the concoction. And I’m too chicken to keep trying. A propane explosion in a small space is forever in the back of my mind, so I find a lid that kind of works and hope the top steams.  Once finished, cutting it into pie-shaped wedges is not working. The bottom of the pan doesn’t want to let go.  My frittata becomes a scramble as I pile it onto the plate with buttered toast. Heading to the table in the bow of the boat where Michael waits, he has already poured two glasses of French rose.

I am finally HOT from my sojourn in the kitchen. I want ice in my rose. My back hurts.  I want to sit awhile and enjoy the evening.  Michael calls me grumpy and goes into the galley to do the dishes. I guess, sometimes grumpy doesn’t hurt—a thoughtful husband doesn’t hurt either.

I start singing, softly, “I am woman hear me roar…”