“Meet the Delts,” the Rush Book of Delta Tau Delta, Gamma Omicron chapter, Syracuse University, 1967, with cover art by Philip Grady Kennedy. I didn’t write it, but I lived it.

When I was a boy, in the 1950s, my father’s parents had a summer cottage on Hadley Bay of Chautauqua Lake. As everyone knows, the word “chautauqua” is Seneca for “bag tied in the middle,” a reference to the narrow point in the middle of the lake, and it was there that the Bemis Point-Stow Ferry took us across the water, while still in our car, which was so cool, and one of my happiest memories.

The ferry began its trips in 1811, originally just a flat bottom raft propelled by oars and poles. This was followed by the use of ropes stretched between the shores, then a series of pulleys and ropes powered by horses on the shore. By 1887, steel cables were in use, the ferry cranked by hand. A steam engine came in 1902, followed by a gasoline engine six years later.

From 1943 to 1983, the ferry was operated by the Chautauqua County Highway Department, but they let it go when a bridge was built across the lake, a honking-big bridge for the Southern Tier Expressway that cast a modern shadow over the Hadley Bay of my boyhood, over the water where we rowed in my grandfather’s ancient wooden boats held together by innumerable coats of gray paint and kept afloat by constant bailing with Maxwell House coffee cans, over the sandbar where Aunt Marie took us to swim and play.

After the bridge, people predicted the ferry’s demise, but it was loved by so many, and survives today, operated by a non-profit corporation and with its own Facebook page.

Also, if you’d like to see video of the ferry in 1936, click here.

“These foreign people have thrown a circle around themselves… they have studiously striven to exclude everything American and to cherish everything foreign… There must be an interpretation anew of the oath of allegiance… It means that you will speak the American language, sing American songs; that you will begin earnestly to study American history; that you will begin to open your lives through every avenue to the influence of American life; it means that you will begin first of all to learn English, the language of your country.”

Such a contemporary sentiment in the United States. Could be talking about Muslims, and whatever languages they speak, right? Well, no. All those Americans speaking Spanish? No, again.

The quote is actually taken from a lecture delivered by Judge Charles Amidon at the sentencing of the Rev. John Fontana, the Lutheran pastor of Peace Evangelical Church, New Salem, North Dakota, when he was convicted of violating the Espionage Act of 1917. The judge went on:

“You have cherished everything German, and stifled everything American. You have preached German, prayed German, read German, sung German.”

German, in fact, was the second most commonly spoken language in 1918, and it wasn’t a crime to use it in conversation, but that didn’t matter when the United States entered the war with Germany. The Rev. Fontana was charged with being the “who” in these “whoevers”:

“Whoever, when the United States is at war, shall willfully make or convey false reports, or false statements with intent to interfere with the operation or success of the military or naval forces of the United States, or to promote the success of its enemies.

“And whoever, when the United States is at war, shall willfully cause or attempt to cause, insubordination, disloyalty, mutiny, or refusal of duty in the military or naval forces of the United States.

“Or, whoever, when the United States is at war, shall willfully obstruct the recruiting or enlistment service of the United States.”

A reasonable observer might ask how a German-American pastor in the middle of North Dakota could manage to interfere with the U.S. military, even if he tried, but the men on the jury had suspended the use of reason for the duration. They were convinced that from the middle of North Dakota, the Rev. Fontana had reached out to interfere with the operations of the U.S. military, and, by failing to fly an American flag at his church, buy Liberty Bonds or join the Red Cross, by never asking the choir to sing patriotic songs, he had fomented disloyalty. (Thirty-three young men from his congregation had joined the U.S. Army, but, you know.)

Born in Germany, of an Italian father and a German mother, Fontana had come to the U.S. at the age of 16 and was naturalized as an American citizen. He studied here, was ordained here, and then served a series of Lutheran churches, all of which conducted their services in German. In New Salem, 80% of his congregation spoke German, and his church council required him to preach in German.

With a salary of $1,000 a year, and $2,000 in debt, the Rev. Fontana declined to buy Liberty Bonds when asked by a local banker, John Henry Kling, who then offered to loan the pastor the money to buy a Liberty Bond, although the interest on the loan would have been higher than the interest earned by the bond. Kling was the prosecution’s chief witness. He claimed he saw a picture of the Kaiser on Fontana’s living room wall.

It was true that before the U.S. entered the war, the Rev. Fontana sided with the land of his birth in the European conflict. But all he prayed for was peace. Fontana spoke excellent English. He testified in English. His wife was an American. His children were American. But he was not American enough.

The prosecuting attorney, Melvin Hildreth, did not hold back.

“Search in vain for one who would do greater harm to the cause of the United States in this war, and you will find no one who will equal the minister of the gospel. He preached in a German settlement. His language was German and the song upon the lips of himself and his wife was German. His prayer to the God of battles was in German. His whole conduct has been in harmony with the land of his birth. Secretly he has carried on his work in the night time, and on Sunday mornings prayed for the success of German arms.”

Secretly he has carried on his work in the night time. Wow.

Nor did Hildreth hesitate to invoke images of the Lusitania, whose sinking by a German U-boat took the lives of 124 Americans among the 1,197 civilians who died.

“What minister of the gospel who loves God and his country can justify the sinking of the Lusitania, as the gurgling seas shrouded and snuffed out the lives of thousands of women and children and the hissing submarine went upon its deadly path.”

Again, it was only John Henry Kling who testified that the Rev. Fontana had repeated the German claim that the Lusitania was carrying munitions, and was thus fair game. (The claim was, unfortunately for everyone, correct. Although denied by the British and Americans in 1915 and for decades after, the Lusitania was being used as a high-speed munitions carrier with its passengers as human shields. The cargo on its last voyage, as revealed by shipping manifests and subsequent salvage efforts, included four million rounds of U.S.-manufactured Remington .303 bullets, 5,000 shrapnel shells from Bethlehem Steel, as well as aluminum powder and nitrocellulose used in the manufacture of munitions.)

Hildreth continued:

“In times of war the unbridled tongue is more dangerous than the arms of the enemy, more stealthy than the submarine or the aeroplane… Scattered everywhere throughout the land are the churches of Germans. Not that all are disloyal, but many were made disloyal. Not that the sons of many did not go to war, but that the sons of many might be made lukewarm, weak and vacillating in the support of the government by the acts of such men as this man.”

The jury was out for five hours, and returned with a verdict of guilty on all three counts. Judge Amidon, in a speech reprinted in newspapers across the country, lectured Fontana at length, and concluded:

“And the object of the sentence which I pronounce upon you today is not alone to punish you for the disloyalty of which you have been guilty but to serve notice upon you; and the like of you, and all the group of people in this district who have been cherishing foreignness, that the end of that regime has come.

“The court finds and adjudges that you are guilty under each count of the indictment, and as a punishment therefor it is further adjudged that you be imprisoned in the Federal penitentiary at Leavenworth for the term of three years.”

The Rev. Fontana’s congregation raised bail money and he was freed while his appeal was pending. His first act, upon returning to church, was to conduct the funeral service of a young man killed in the war.

On Dec. 8, 1919, the 8th Circuit Court reversed the judgment. They ruled the indictment was not precise enough to allow the defense to prepare and there was insufficient evidence to prove Fontana had committed a crime. The Rev. Fontana served at Peace Evangelical Church until 1925 and then moved to Minnesota, where he led three congregations before moving to Chelsea, Michigan, in the early 1940s. The Rev. Fontana continued as pastor of that congregation until his death in 1953.

* * *

It was worse in Iowa. In May of 1918, the governor, William L. Harding, decreed that only English was legal in public or private schools, in public conversations, on trains, over the telephone, at all meetings, and in all religious services. He added to that in a speech: “Let those who cannot speak or understand the English language conduct their religious worship in their home.” Although he told one reporter, “There is no use in anyone wasting his time praying in other languages than English. God is listening only to the English tongue.”

Governor Harding’s proclamation was not a law, but was enforced by coercion, arrests by county sheriffs, neighbors spying upon neighbors and reporting what they heard (especially over party lines), and extra-legal court proceedings that assumed the authority to fine and jail suspects who did not buy Liberty Bonds or who were reported to be disloyal Americans, i.e., they were caught speaking German. Or Norwegian; in Iowa, that was illegal, too.

We could attribute all this to “war hysteria,” but many Americans still distrust people who speak a language other than English.

The United States, in fact, has no official language, and the language spoken by the majority of Americans came here from a foreign country, i.e., England. Nor have Americans been shy of acquiring words from other languages, such as possum, raccoon, squash and moose from Algonquin, cookie, cruller, stoop and pit (of a fruit) from Dutch; kindergarten from German, and barbecue, stevedore, and rodeo from Spanish.

A 2009 survey found 337 different languages being spoken in the U.S.A. Spanish comes in second with 35 million speakers, and Chinese is third with 2.6 million. German has slid to eighth place, with just a little over one million speakers. The 1880 census tells me that my maternal grandfather’s parents, who came from Germany to Buffalo, N.Y., spoke German at home. I don’t fault them.

When I was in the Air Force, I was stationed for a time at the National Security Agency. It was 1970, still part of the Sixties really, and so a great many people were enjoying marijuana and a great many others were trying to make them stop. Part of the latter campaign included articles like “Marijuana – Tell It Like It Is” which ran in the Agency’s (unclassified) Security Spotlight, v.7, no. 2, April 1970.

After reading the article, I was struck by marijuana’s similarities to coffee, which both the civilians and military personnel drank in prodigious quantities. And so, using the language of the published piece (it was remarkable how little I had to change), I typed up a parallel version, which was privately shared. A short time ago, when I came across the original (and only) copy, I thought, “This deserves wider circulation.” So here it is.

Coffee – Tell It Like It Is

Caffeine is a drug found in the berries of the coffee plant, “Coffea.” The plant grows in warm climates in countries around the world, especially in Yemen, Java, Sumatra, Mexico, Central America and South America. In the U.S., the drug is known as “java,” “brew,” “a cup-full” and by other names.

For use as a drug, the berries of the plant are crushed, separating the seeds from the pulp, and an infusion or decoction is then made from the sun-dried, roasted and ground, or pounded, seeds. The brown product is usually poured into and drunk from small cups or mugs. (These “cups” may be simple paper or plastic; however, they may also be ceramic or metal, and seem to grow increasingly complex and colorful as the user becomes more confirmed, and less casual, in his habit.) The aroma from coffee is acrid to mellow, and sometimes smells like chocolate or tea. Its odor is easily recognized.

The intoxicating constituents of the coffee plant are found in the seeds inside the berry-like fruit. The berries themselves, when prepared for drinking or eating, are known as “beans.”

Drinking coffee requires a special technique. Usually several drinkers will meet in a room (coffee lounge) or “just around the pot.” They may, if avid enough, hole themselves up in a kitchen or at a desk so they can drink as much coffee as possible.

The user takes the “cup,” sips from it, holds the liquid in his mouth, exhales slowly and swallows. As the aroma of coffee fills the room, each user begins to feel the “lift.” With increasing rapidity the cup is passed up to the lips.

Shortly after drinking the liquid, the user notices a feeling of warmth and “inner satisfaction” that is out of proportion to the apparent motivation. If the user is alone, he may watch TV or become active as toxicity increases. In company he may be talkative. His awareness and perception are considerably altered, particularly as they relate to his actual physical condition. He may feel “awake” when actually fatigued.

Coordination is altered, although the user may fail to recognize this, and complex intellectual capacities are altered, particularly those which govern speed, accuracy and retention. The individual’s basic personality is not appreciably changed but his behavioral reactions may be modified. Self confidence, unwarranted, is one of the usual reactions. The user loses his inhibitions in varying degrees. During this early period, he may feel awake and fresh. If a negative influence is introduced, however, he may become anxious, slightly paranoid and apprehensive. This experience is known as “coffee nerves” or “too much coffee.”

The total effects of the coffee “trip” last from one to two hours, after which the user feels slight lethargy and hunger. Experiences will differ since caffeine is a “predictable drug used by unpredictable people with fairly predictable results.”

The psychological effects of caffeine are as varied as the range of personality and as complex as the multiple factors which influence the user each time he drinks. If calm and in a good mood when he takes the drug, he may hum, laugh and joke, enjoying himself harmlessly. Under other circumstances, he may stare and dream.

Although no proof is available that coffee is physically addictive, users develop profound psychological dependencies on the drug. “I just can’t wake up until that first cup of coffee” is a commonly heard excuse for use.

And although no definite causal link has been established between caffeine and “harder drugs,” it would be well to remember that an over-whelming majority of alcoholics, heroin addicts and other drug abusers had experience with caffeine prior to their “final” addiction.

We can no longer sit by and watch people employ the “speed” lift of caffeine in place of good health, proper nutrition, and sufficient rest.

I was a child of the Sixties, and glad of it, and one of my favorite places during that time was The Dragon’s Emporium, at the corner of South Beech and Trinity Place in the Westcott Nation of Syracuse, N.Y. At first glance it could have been loosely categorized as a “head shop,” but the proprietors preferred to describe it as a place where you could find “organic crafts” – beautiful handcrafted items in leather and wood.

The resident artist was Bill McDowell, a graduate of the School of Visual and Performing Arts at Syracuse University, Class of ’68, and something of a work of art himself. Even in his youth, he was ruggedly handsome in a Wild Bill Hickok way, with a voice to match and eyes that twinkled when he smiled.

The front door of the Dragon’s Emporium was, fittingly, a full-length faux stained-glass panel, a dragon done with paint and lead, and it was breathtakingly beautiful.

I went there to shop for incense, a passion of mine then and now. And the store didn’t just stock sticks and cones; they had incense from all over the world, in every form; Bill showed me how to use discs of charcoal to burn the powders and nuggets. There was, as you’d expect, dragon’s blood, a reddish resin from trees on islands in the Mediterranean and Indian oceans. But I was drawn to the frankincense and myrrh, golden bits of resin. I knew the Wise Men had brought these to the Christ Child, but growing up in Kenmore, N.Y., I didn’t have a clue what was really under the gift wrap, until Bill poured them into my hand, to touch and smell.

I bought them, burnt them, enjoyed them. And on a visit home, I gave a small tin of each to my mother, who every Sunday rode herd in the nursery of the Kenmore Baptist Church. Now, at Christmas time, when she told the children about the Three Wise Men, she could show them real frankincense and real myrrh. This was not part of a standard Baptist upbringing, and I’m pleased to think that out in the world there are adults who know what gifts Two and Three were, because of my mother and Bill McDowell.

* * *

The Dragon’s Emporium passed the way of the Sixties. The beautiful glass door was shattered during a racial disturbance, and not replaced. Bill McDowell went on to co-found Eureka Crafts in Armory Square, Syracuse, and created some extraordinary works of art before his untimely death in March of 2011. I wish I could have shared this memory with him.

Plans are underway to demolish an existing structure on West Lake Street and build a replica of the Bull Dog Café on the site. A Los Angeles architect has been given the assignment of recreating the original as a weekend home for a financier from New York City.

“Everything will be a little larger in scale than the original, so it’s going to be a very liveable space. The master bedroom will be in the dog’s head, with a nice view of the lake from the dog’s eyes. And instead of window shades, the eyes will actually open and close. This house is going to be fun.”

Why the Bull Dog Café?

“My client saw The Rocketeer movie when he was a kid, and dreamed of living in the café, from there he discovered the Dave Stevens comics the movie was based on, and then he learned the café actually existed, here in L.A. It was built in 1928, stucco on a wire-mesh frame; it was torn down some time in the Sixties, but there are pictures.”

When asked about the plans, a Village official, who would only speak off the record, said:

“The residents of West Lake made it very clear, some years ago, that they did not want to be in the Historic District. And there’s nothing we can do to stop a demolition: If you own it, you can tear it down. So as long as the new structure stays within a footprint – and it’s a relatively small house – there’s not much to say.”

Was the Village anticipating legal challenges?

“Maybe. But he’ll placate the neighbors, or overwhelm them with counsel. Plus, he paid a million over-market for the property, and everyone thinks they could be next for a windfall, so they don’t want to complain and ruin their own shot at it.”

I can’t wait to see this.

The Bull Dog Café in The Rocketeer, 1991

Bull Dog Café in Dave Stevens’ Rocketeer, 1985

Original Bull Dog Café, circa 1928

* * *

Posted on my Skaneateles blog, April 1, 2016

In 1817, Spain’s hold on its American colonies, including Florida, was weakening, so much so that an adventurer named Gregor MacGregor was able to take possession of Florida’s Amelia Island with an amateur army of 100 men. But within a few months of yellow fever and not much to eat, MacGregor abandoned his possession, which fell to Ruggles Hubbard of New York and Jared Irwin of Milton, Pennsylvania, two more would-be rulers. They resisted a feeble Spanish attempt to reclaim the island, but were forced to share power upon the arrival of Luis Aury, a Frenchman with lots of guns who said he was “a chief of the Mexican Republic.”

Aury had, in fact, been the first governor of Texas under the Mexican Republic, and now claimed Amelia Island for Mexico, although he was really only claiming it as a base for piracy. And for Spanish slave traders smuggling slaves into Georgia. And as a refuge for runaway slaves from Georgia. And as a refuge for Seminoles who raided settlers in Georgia then crossed the border back into Spanish Florida. It was an all-purpose haven.

This state of affairs was not pleasing to the United States of America. President James Monroe noted in his Second Annual Message, on November 16, 1818:

“Adventurers from every country, fugitives from justice, and absconding slaves have found an asylum there. Several tribes of Indians, strong in the number of their warriors, remarkable for their ferocity, and whose settlements extend to our limits, inhabit those Provinces. These different hordes of people, connected together, disregarding on the one side the authority of Spain, and protected on the other by an imaginary line which separates Florida from the United States, have violated our laws prohibiting the introduction of slaves, have practiced various frauds on our revenue, and committed every kind of outrage on our peaceable citizens which their proximity to us enabled them to perpetrate. This country had, in fact, become the theater of every species of lawless adventure.”

What he did not say, however, was that Amelia Island was a “festering fleshpot.” And that’s really the point of this piece. In the past 50 years, James Monroe has been credited with that phrase in scores of travel magazines, newspapers, on refrigerator magnets and t-shirts, and twice daily on boat tours that leave from Fernandina Beach. But the phrase appears nowhere in his extant writings, speeches or letters.

I do, however, believe I know where it came from. On July 7, 1963, an article entitled “Island of Destiny” by Teresa Holloway appeared in the Palm Beach Post, with this paragraph:

“Aury, a former officer under Napoleon, knew how to get treasure and where to hide it. Hubbard and Irwin certainly profited, too. When President Monroe sent an expedition to get rid of this festering fleshpot that was the triumvirate, Aury had hidden the proceeds of two prizes then in the harbor.”

The italics are mine, highlighting the fact that the writer refers to the nefarious trio as “this festering fleshpot.” Eleven years later (November 10, 1974) in a travel piece called “Amelia Island Plantation,” Rosellen Callahan of the Chicago Tribune repeated Halloway’s phrase without attribution:

“It was a repository for booty, a transshipment point for illegal African slave traffic, and a great trial to President Monroe who finally sent an expedition to clean up the ‘festering fleshpot.’”

Four years after that, newspaper writers began attributing the quote to Monroe himself:

“Pirates and freebooters made it a lusty port, which U.S. President Monroe called a ‘festering fleshpot.’”  –“Fernandina Is the Real Old Florida” by Horace Sutton, The (Montreal) Gazette, December 9, 1978

“Pirates and freebooters made it a lusty port, which President Monroe called a ‘festering fleshpot.’”  –“Fernandina, Florida Landmark” in the Asbury Park Press, December 17, 1978

And so it goes, to the present day.

I think it’s safe to say that Della Donner and Patti Collins met but once, in December of 1913. Although both lived in Washington D.C., they moved in different circles.

Della Newsom Donner “liked to go about a great deal.” Her former husband, William H. Donner, was “a home-loving man” who made $4,000,000 when U.S. Steel bought his plant in Pittsburgh. The couple divorced in 1907; he kept the four children and she was given a lot of money to leave town, moving first to Cleveland, and then to our nation’s capital. In 1913, she was living in The Dresden, a newly built and very posh apartment building. And when she went out, it was in a chauffeur-driven automobile.

Martha Louise “Patti” Lyle Collins, on the other hand, was a “gentlewoman of the South” from Mississippi and had worked at the U.S. Post Office since 1879. After the death of her husband, Nathaniel Dickson Collins, at the age of 44, she was left with two children, Mary and John Wilfred, as well as her widowed mother, and dwindling means of support. She didn’t think women should work, but neither did she think they should starve. Because of her education and facility with foreign languages, and “the united efforts of the Mississippi delgation in Congress,” she won a place in the Dead Letter Office, where partially, illegibly and phonetically addressed letters were given one last chance at finding their recipients.

To say that the Dead Letter Office was the ideal spot for her talents would be to understate the case.  Over the next 30 years, she became nationally famous for her ability to decipher addresses that baffled all others.  She was described as the department’s “presiding genius,” “the expert puzzle solver” and “little less than a wizard.”

Mrs. Collins knew the name of every post office and city in the United States, as well as most of the cities’ street names. She knew the names of major corporations, colleges, government agencies and private institutions. She knew every lumber camp and mining settlement in the U.S., as well as the predominant nationality of each camp’s workers. She read and spoke six foreign languages, and could sound out phonetic spellings in an instant. She knew the particular handwriting styles that accompanied many languages, and could often identify the language by the handwriting alone. On her vacations, mostly in Europe, she walked through cities memorizing street names.

And she was gifted with amazing intuition. Her co-workers referred to her as a “blind reader,” because it appeared all she had to do was pick up an envelope, as if blindfolded, before announcing its intended destination. During her tenure, 87% of all the letters that came into the office – as many as 2,000 a day – were routed to the correct destination.

Mrs. Collins was much written about, and herself wrote an article on the Dead Letter Office for the February 1894 issue of St. Nicholas magazine. Articles such as Alice Graham McCollin’s “The ‘Blind Reader’ at Washington” in Ladies’ Home Journal, September 1893, were filled with examples of Mrs. Collins’ skill, such as follows:

Picking up an envelope addressed to 3133 East Maryland Street, with no city or state given, Mrs. Collins knew that while many cities had “Maryland” streets, only in Indianapolis did the numbers go as high as 3133.

A letter to “Tossy Tanner, Tx,” was correctly routed to Corsicana, Texas. “Cayo Huess” was deciphered as Key West. Mrs. Collins sorted out hundreds of phonetic spellings of “Chicago,” including Sheshajo, Jercago, Chahicho, Zizazo, Jaijo and Shyshigo.

A letter to a law firm at “Jerry Rescue Block, N.Y.,” made its way to Syracuse because Mrs. Collins knew the city was the scene of the 1851 rescue from jail of a fugitive slave, William Henry, who called himself “Jerry.”

“Agt. 49 Leon Gty” was all Mrs. Collins needed to send a letter to Box 49, León, Guanajuato, Mexico.

When handed an envelope addressed:

Wood,
John,
Mass

she quickly read it as “John,” under “Wood” and over “Mass,” i.e., John Underwood, Andover, Massachusetts. The letter was delivered.

One of the most common addressees on letters sent to the Dead Letter Office was “Santa Claus.”  Before Christmas each year, these came by the thousands. Early in her career, while caring for her widowed mother and two children, Mrs. Collins could only sigh when each new batch arrived. But as her financial responsibilities lightened and her income grew, she took it upon herself to be “Mother Santa Claus.” For 20 years, every Christmas, Mrs. Collins chose letters that particularly appealed to her and personally sent the writers gifts. She also shared “Dear Santa” letters with charitable institutions and others who were eager to help.

On Tuesday evening, December 23, 1913, Mrs. Collins left her office and went to buy Christmas candy for children. Then she headed home to her apartment. At the corner of 16th Street and H Street NW, Mrs. Collins met Della Donner.

Mrs. Donner was in her automobile, driven by her chauffeur, Charles Draughn, who later testified that Mrs. Collins “stepped from behind a moving street car directly before his machine.” He said he was going “no more than six or eight miles an hour,” but witnesses noted his car skidded 50 feet after he ran over Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Donner jumped from her car and ran to the fallen woman. Other pedestrians rushed to help, lifting Mrs. Collins’ body to the sidewalk, but she had been killed instantly.

Mr. Draughn spent the night in jail. The body of Mrs. Collins spent the night in the morgue, unidentified and unclaimed until the following day. Mrs. Collins’ death, while tragic, was not unusual. Automobiles had been killing pedestrians since September 13, 1899, when Henry Bliss of New York City stepped from a streetcar and was run down by an electric-powered taxicab.  (Today, U.S. pedestrians are killed at the rate of 12 a day.)

But with the death of Mrs. Collins, the nation lost a truly unique human being, a woman of remarkable intellect who enabled tens of thousands of Americans to receive letters that would otherwise have gone astray, a woman who brightened Christmas for so many children. We may never see the likes of her again.

Last week I was in Clover Boldt’s bedroom. She was not there. In fact, she was never there, and her bedroom at Boldt Castle was never finished. Today it has been carefully recreated as the room it would have been, had not her mother, Louise, died in 1904 during the castle’s construction, halting all work and leaving the castle an open ruin for decades, sitting on Heart Island across the St. Lawrence River from Alexandria Bay.

It was as a ruin that I first saw Boldt Castle, on a summer’s day some time around 1954 or ’55. I was a boy, expecting a castle like in the books and movies, and instead seeing bare rooms, fireplaces filled with gray dirt, plaster fallen from the walls. I was shocked that adults would let something so grand go unfinished and fall into such disrepair. The images have stuck with me for 60 years.

My wife on the other hand, had never stepped inside Boldt Castle. When she was a girl, her family had money for the boat ride, but not enough for the admission to the castle.

And so when the Skaneateles Historical Society offered a bus trip to the Antique Boat Museum in Clayton, and a boat tour of the Thousand Islands from Alexandria Bay, with a stop at Boldt Castle, we both felt it was an opportunity to close a circle.

In 1977, the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority acquired the property and began rehabilitating, restoring and improving the estate. The castle is becoming more and more of what George Boldt wanted for his wife. An entrance hall, a grand staircase, a dining room with Boldt family china, a library with George Boldt’s books, a era-appropriate kitchen and butler’s pantry, small dining rooms for the servants and kitchen staff, bedrooms for George, Louise and Clover have all taken shape in the years since 1977, and the work continues.

But for me, the most wonderful part was a “before” picture at the entrance to one of the rooms. It was the room exactly as I remembered it from my visit 60 years ago. It wasn’t a dream. I hadn’t made it up. And now Boldt Castle really does look like a castle from the books and movies. It’s a good feeling.

*  *  *

The images above and below are from the menu of Clover Boldt’s bridesmaids’ luncheon, with thanks to the digital collection of the New York Public Library. When your father runs the Waldorf-Astoria, he can put on quite a spread for you.

I think it was called Fire Watch. I was in the U.S. Air Force, stationed at Ft. George G. Meade, an Army base in Maryland. Occasionally, we would be chosen for some duty that had nothing to do with what we were there for. I was tapped for Fire Watch in a former hospital, an old wooden building being partially used as a barracks, with several empty, abandoned wings. Every hour, I carried around a time clock about the size of a canteen, going from station to station, inserting each station’s key, which punched the location on a paper tape, just so they knew I’d been there. For the first few hours, I passed through evening life in the barracks, people reading, listening to the radio, but it got odder as the night went on. After Lights Out, everyone was sleeping, and I was the only thing moving. And in the empty, abandoned wings, it was just me and a flashlight, and squeaky floors. Around 2 a.m., it got kind of spooky. But on one of my rounds, in one of the old, empty wings, I saw a sign on a wall where a butt can had once hung. (A butt can, for those of you not accustomed to barracks life, was usually a large, empty juice can that had been painted flat red or gray, half filled with water, and hung on the wall to receive, and quench, cigarette butts; emptying the butt can and refreshing the water was an ideal job for the lowest ranking occupant of the barracks.) The sign was government property, but it was also a piece of folk art, abandoned, unappreciated. I set my flashlight on the floor, pried the sign off the wall and put it into my pocket. It has followed me from apartment to apartment, house to house, for about 46 years now. Yesterday, it asked to be on the Internet.

Before our trip to Florida, our daughter Abbie was discussing our itinerary with Ruben, her significant other, and he said, “So, essentially, all we’re going to do is eat.” Well, yes, restaurants comprise a large part of every Florida visit.

At One Ocean, where we stay in Atlantic Beach, and the young men who open the doors say, “Hello, Mrs. Winship, welcome back,” it’s all about breakfast. Lunch and dinner, we tend to gravitate to North Beach Fish Camp. Lunch on this occasion might have been poolside at One Ocean, but the pool was closed. The ocean, however, was open so Laurie and I walked a lot on the beach, smiled at the birds and collected shells. We also met a four-month-old dachshund who was so cute she almost moved me to tears.

Our two eldest granddaughters, Bella and Mariya, spent one night with us, camping out in the hotel room in their sleeping bags.

At The BookMark in Neptune Beach, a regular stop for us, I found a copy, in a gilt-edged and beribboned Macmillan Collector’s edition, of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I have no idea how I got this far in life without reading it, but it vaulted instantly into my top ten. Not sure what book it pushed out, but it truly belongs in my pantheon of favorites. What a delicious, heartening book. To Laurie, I read aloud a passage about the coming of spring; it’s one of those books where you just have to stop reading and say, “Oh, listen to this.”

In order to cut down on Abbie’s travel time, we next moved closer to Middleburg, to a hotel that’s just down the street from a dog track, Bestbet Orange Park. I have never gone to the dogs, but made a note to include this on a future excursion.

In Middleburg, I had a wonderful conversation with Ruben in the backyard. I watched small birds flit from tree to tree, and then looked up to see about 20 considerably larger vultures wheeling overhead. We do not have vultures in Skaneateles. I moved in my chair from time to time to discourage them.

Dinner was at G’s Slow Smoked BBQ, which was really, really good. We did have one dinner at home, featuring Abbie’s shepherd’s pie, which was, as always, excellent. Ava Luna, now one-year-old, has learned to dance, and busted a few moves for us.

Sherman, my granddog, is not allowed on the sofa. But grandpa invites him up onto the sofa, cherishes his company and pets him into a stupor. Until Abbie comes into the room, stops and stares at the two of us; Sherman’s eyes widen as he fears expulsion and I smile in contentment. Abbie rolls her eyes, moves on, and Sherman relaxes. He knows he has a pass. Ruben’s dog, Marcus, is also a love-sponge, but of a size that precludes his being a lap dog.

Our trip, this time, included a drive south to Stuart in a rent-a-car, which needed gas, prompting us to leave Route 95 and enter another world, one paved with a pebbly kind of concrete I had not seen since I was a boy. At the gas station, a woman was buying some candy and answering her phone. She was wearing flip-flops, tight jeans and a cropped top, the jeans and top framing a roll of fat which a more charitable observer might have overlooked had it not been accented by a tattoo of the sun, with wavy rays, surrounding her navel. While she looked for coins in her purse, she shouted into the phone, “Yes, I’m going to the job interview!”

In Stuart, to get into Mike and Mary’s enclave we had to punch a secret code into a keypad hidden in a hedge. The search for the box took just five minutes.

At their house, I settled into my Silver Bay routine: a nap in the morning, a swim, lunch, a nap, and, unlike Silver Bay, the cocktail hour. To prepare for this latter activity, Mike took me to Home Run Liquors. As you might expect from the name, the proprietors appeared to be from India. The bourbon selection was generous; I avoided those that seemed to be named and labeled for tourists, and chose instead a recognizable bottle of Michter’s.

I also took a walk. There was a lone pelican in the retaining pond, black ducks with red bills (either moorhens or muscovy ducks), and little white ibises. I did not see any of the local whistling tree ducks, but I did hear a rooster, who lives on a nearby farm.

Mike and Mary took us to Chuckles Antiques & Books in Hobe Sound, a sprawling warren of rooms filled with treasures. I wanted everything, but was limited to something I could pack, and found a copy of Cinderella Stamps (1970) by L.N. & M. Williams which meshed perfectly with my passion for faux postage and later led me to Fred Melville’s gem, Phantom Philately (1923). This excursion also took us down a banyan tree-canopied road which was quite magical.

In downtown Stuart, I enticed my brother and his wife to drive across the bridge from Jensen Beach and join us for lunch at Sailor’s Return. Now in his fifteen year of retirement, Kent was glowing with good health but not happy with his golf swing.

One evening we motored to West Palm Beach to have dinner with Mary’s daughter, Beth, and her family. Beth was one of Abbie’s babysitters, some 25 or 30 years ago, and easily the funniest; I thought her destined for stand-up comedy but she chose instead to become a math teacher. We were dining outdoors because in Florida you can do that and because Beth’s three children have an abundance of energy. Placed on treadmills, they could power a city. So they played hide & seek in the plaza while we perused Amici’s menu. I don’t remember what I ate; I just remember having a wonderful talk with Beth.

After dinner, Beth pointed out that the plaza hosted a day care center that was right next to a cigar store. The oddness of the adjacency was not lost on me, but I didn’t dwell on it because I love cigar stores. My great-great-grandfather, John Thomas Lang, was a cigar maker. I feel a bond. I love the smell of tobacco, the richly colored art on the labels and boxes, the symmetry of a hand-rolled cigar, the texture of the leaf, the shades of brown, the neatness of the cigars in rows and bundles. I was into the cigar store (The Smoke Inn II) in a heartbeat, wide-eyed and breathing deeply, walking reverently up and down the aisles. And then I spotted a beautiful box with just two cigars left, and asked if I could have the box if I bought the last two. I don’t smoke, but I wanted the box. It had everything: a parrot, fields of tobacco, a ship on the high seas, gold lettering. And thanks to the helpful clerk, it became mine. Beth’s daughter appeared in the doorway and shouted, “It’s time to go!” and I emerged triumphant.

Our return journey was uneventful, which is how we like it. On the roof of the airport garage, our car awaited us, under a coating of frozen sleet and wind-driven snow. Home again, home again.

My father was a fisherman. He loved to go fishing. And then he would bring his catch home and we would have fish for dinner. Dinnertime with my father, at a very small kitchen table, was never fun, but the fish added a new element of pain. Every mouthful could contain a fish bone, an invisible needle that would end up in your gums or the roof of your mouth. I never had one stuck in my throat, for which I am truly grateful, but many, many stopped my chewing with a sudden jolt, and then there was the process of “fishing” them out, politely. So, I hated fish, not for the taste, but because of the pain.

Every summer at that time, I went to Camp Vick, a Baptist church camp, and one evening in the dining hall we had fish sticks. No bones. Delicious. So I came home and thought I could tell my father that I liked fish now. And at dinner that evening, I said, “We had fish sticks. They were delicious.” And I thought he would be happy because I liked fish.

“Fish sticks?!,” he shouted, “That’s garbage fish.” I put my head down, and did not press the matter. But today, on Father’s Day, I was in the grocery store, and I bought fish sticks.

A doctor, who was a great help to me, died yesterday. In 1989, Dr. Steven Alexander got me to specialist who solved a problem that had dogged me until then. More importantly, Dr. Alexander made me realize that my health wasn’t his responsibility; it was mine. I couldn’t just coast and say, “Fix me, doctor” whenever I got sick. I had to take steps to be well. He essentially pushed me out the door and said, “Start walking.” And I began to walk two miles every morning, rain or shine. And I am still walking every day, almost 30 years later.

I didn’t know, until I read his obituary this morning, that Steve was born in Berlin, and when he was just three fled Hitler’s Germany with his parents. Most of the family did not escape, and died in the Holocaust. Steve grew up in Homer, N.Y., went to college and medical school and became a doctor. His first “practice” was a MASH unit in Vietnam; I remember seeing a grainy, color photo on his office wall, of Steve at work, saving a life in a poorly lit tent. He received the Bronze Star for his service.

When I read his obituary, I couldn’t help but reflect on the Nazis marching in Charlottesville, chanting, “Jews will not replace us.” I believe that replacing even one of those marchers with a compassionate physician, a Bronze Star winner who saved the lives of American soldiers in Vietnam, a good man who helped so many others, would be a step in the right direction.

Steve made a huge difference in my life. I didn’t enjoy being sick but it was a pleasure to see him whenever I was. He was open, honest, engaging and funny.

Thank you, Steve. I will always be grateful.

In October of 1937, Tulane, the Green Wave, defeated Colgate’s Red Raider football team 7-6 in the new Roesch Memorial Stadium in Buffalo, N.Y. My father took three pictures…

And even sneaked a shot of the press box…

I love the hats, the microphone on a trunk, and the headphones. Roesch Memorial was soon renamed Grover Cleveland Stadium, then Civic Stadium and finally War Memorial Stadium. In the 1950s, I went to the stock car races at Civic Stadium with my big brother and his friend Wally, “The Walrus,” an historic visitation to be sure. But the site was made even more famous by the Robert Redford film “The Natural,” filmed there in 1983, before the vintage stadium’s demolition in 1988.

After my parents died, these photos were among the things passed down. They show my father as an infant, his mother’s family, my Winship grandparents, who I knew, and my Slocum great-grandparents, who died before I was born. And my Aunt Mame, who also went by Mazie.

Bucktooth Run (circa 1905). L. to r., Hollis Slocum, Abbie Slocum, Charles & Minerva Slocum, Homer Slocum and his sweetheart, Mazie Anderson.

August 4, 1905. L. to r., Hollis Slocum, Charles Slocum, Abbie Slocum with her arm around an unnamed yearling, Minerva Slocum, Mazie Anderson (with a rifle on her shoulder) and Homer Slocum. (Also, Bess the Horse appears at the left in the larger photo.)

Circa 1914. Standing, L. to R., Abbie & Clair Winship; Mazie & Homer Slocum; Edith Slocum standing in front of her father, Lewis Slocum, and Hollis Slocum. Seated, Charles & Minerva Slocum, and in Minerva’s lap their grandson, Keith Winship, son of Clair & Abbie.

These photos were taken near Bucktooth Run, between Little Valley and Salamanca, New York. Charles E. Slocum (1847- 1923) was the son of William G. and Anna E. Slocum. His wife, Minerva (Jones) Slocum (1850-1922), was the daughter of Sylvester Jones (1817-1899) and Belinda Jones (b. 1820). Minerva had two brothers: Charles Jones of Montana, and Noble Jones of Bucktooth Run, and a sister, Estella.

Charles’ and Minerva’s eldest son was Lewis H. Slocum (1875-1953). In 1901, he married Thressa Widrig (1873-1922), daughter of Conrad and Harriet Widrig. The year before the marriage, she had been a servant in the Slocum household. Lewis worked as a farm laborer, and later making veneer. Thressa was alive at the time the 1914 photo was taken; I do not know why she doesn’t appear. Edith May Slocum (1901-1973) was the daughter of Lewis and Thressa; Edith married Harry Luther Hoover in 1920; they had two daughters: Lorraine and Virginia.

The second son, Homer Jones Slocum (1880-1938), moved to Niagara Falls in 1903 and worked for the Niagara Power Company. He married Mary Jane Anderson on June 20, 1906. He died of a heart attack at work on August 6, 1938. Mary Jane Anderson was born in Beamsville, Ontario, October 26, 1877; she was the daughter of John Anderson and Jane Ballantine Anderson who were born in Scotland and emigrated to Canada.

To her contemporaries, Mary Jane was known as Mazie or Mame. After Homer’s death, she lived in Niagara Falls with her niece, Mary Lou (a.k.a. Mrs. Hardell Shipp; Mrs. Wilson Aaron; Mrs. Edwin Trask) (1921-1981), daughter of Frederick Young and Dorothy Ann (Anderson) Young (d. 1957), and Mary Lou’s children, Glenda Aaron and Frederick Homer Shipp a.k.a. Frederick Trask (1948-1995). Mame Slocum died in 1981.

The third son, Hollis William Slocum (1885-1927). In 1920, he was working in a furniture factory, but by 1923 he had moved to Campbell, N.Y., where he worked as a cheese maker. On February 23, 1923, he married Ethel Mary Crance, a divorcee from Corning, N.Y., in Salamanca, in the parsonage of the local church, probably because this was a second marriage for the bride. The Campbell newspaper reported, “The marriage of this popular young couple came as a great surprise to their friends here.” In 1927, Hollis died at the hospital in Bath, N.Y., after “an illness of several weeks.”

Charles’ and Minerva’s daughter, Abbie Belinda Slocum (1891-1980), married Clair C. Winship (1889-1975) on December 30, 1912. Keith Winship (1913-1998) was their firstborn son, and my father. His siblings, Elliott, Eva and Lee, provided me with wonderful aunts, uncles and cousins.

My father took three photos on his New York City honeymoon.

My father took seven photos of the Lewiston ice jam of 1938. Lake Erie, being shallow, was prone to the buildup of ice in the winter, which then went over Niagara Falls in huge blocks. The flow of the lower Niagara River couldn’t handle that much ice, and it collected in ice jams, most notably in 1844, 1909, 1936, 1938 and 1955. A winter “ice boom,” first placed in Lake Erie in the early 1960s, has successfully regulated the flow of ice since then.

In 1938, the ice took down the Honeymoon Bridge, one week before this photo was taken. The wreck of the bridge was held up by the ice until it finally melted in April.

My father, probably at Chautauqua Lake.

Al Kranz, with pipe and fish.

My best guess: a bagpiper at the Canadian National Exposition, Toronto, Ontario.

My father’s photo album included three photos of the legendary Cyclone roller coaster at the Crystal Beach amusement park in Fort Erie, Ontario, just across the Peace Bridge from Buffalo, N.Y.

The Cyclone was one of three coasters designed and built by Harry G. Traver, and was variously described as “the thrill of thrills,” “revered and feared,” “sheer viciousness,” “sadistic” and “brutal.” The Cyclone placed more than 4 Gs on riders and approached 60 mph over a twisted curves and steep, angled drops. There were no brake runs outside of the station as there were no level portions of track where brakes could be placed.

One writer described the ride: “After what has been called the ‘best first drop, ever,’ a horrifically steep, twisting plunge, the train rocketed back to the opposite end of the structure for a 600 degree double helix, an angry knot of neck-snapping turns. Yet another steep drop led into the ride’s final element, a figure-eight so intense the track was banked about 75 degrees.” The ride time was about 40 seconds.

On May 31, 1938, a few months before my father took these photos, 22-year-old Amos Weidrich apparently stood up during the ride to take off his suit coat, and was tossed from the second incline, falling 45 feet onto the tracks below; the car he had just left ran over him, cutting off his head and feet.

This, however, did not dissuade thrill seekers to come. My mother’s sister, my aunt Rhea, loved the Cyclone, especially when it began to sprinkle. She would run to the ride just before it was closed for rain. “It was faster when the rails were wet,” she told me, grinning.