Pencils, Pulp, and Paper at Ticonderoga

A Detour in Pencil and Paper Country

I never really thought about where pencils came from. It's not as pressing as, say, the question a five year old asks his or her parents: "Mommy, Daddy, where did I come from?" To which the red-faced parents must come up with a quick response; or, if they are not red-faced, simply tell a fable about seeds or storks or special deliveries from a land far away. No, I never asked my parents "Mommy, Daddy, where do pencils come from?" I'm afraid the answer would have been a bit duller: "well, a little lead seed was planted in a pot of wood chips...and it grew into a pencil." And I'm afraid no child would believe that a stork was flying around some nimbus clouds with a satchel full of "Number 2s". Anyhow, what was ever up with the "Number 2" pencil? I understand there's some softness factor of the lead inside related to the "Number," but it seems so oppressive that we were beholden to that for a dozen years (or more) of primary and secondary education, like prisoners in a penciled Gulag!

So, they have to come from somewhere. And whether or not the "Number 2" was a product of the Ticonderoga folks, or was simply dictated by a secret board or society of educators and principals long ago, in a dark, smokey poker and rum parlor, is left for us to speculate about. Yet here we have a fairly intriguing stop on our consummate bibliotour: the erstwhile center of American paper and pencil making. This little museum was just off the beaten track and not even on the road I was supposed to take to my final destination. But I was intrigued by the town of Ticonderoga itself and, thus drove around the village area, which wasn't under any spell of prosperity, but seemed to suffer the fate of a geriatric mill town. Nonetheless, the fame and curiosity of its historical pencil and paper works have buttressed the tourist economy to some degree. And it was my visit to this fine museum, which proved that something must be working right in their economy!

I won't drown or even douse you with details, as you can see from the images inside the museum far more information than I need to relate. But what you can see is that this was a significant industrial powerhouse in terms of pulp and pencil production. At left you can see the display of the Clayton P. Delano Pulp Mill. Interestingly, in other research I have located "Clayton H. Delano"--note the middle initial difference. But it is not clear whether this is the same person or simply an error on some level. Now, this Delano guy was "the" local industrialist for a long period of this area's history. It is unclear to me at this time, what if any relationship Mr. Delano had with the former US president FDR. Curiously, FDR's two family names are corruptions of early American settlers, colonialists, religious refugees: first Delano, a name I thought was somehow remotely (perhaps) Italian, is actually a corruption of "de la Noye" and is first found on American shores in the person of Philippe de la Noye--the first Huguenot to land on these shores ca. 1621. The second, more famous name "Roosevelt" is from a corruption of the Dutch name "Van Rosenvelt." Needless to say, one might wonder or speculate the chances of FDR's election successes 75 years ago, if he were "Franklin de la Noye van Rosenvelt?" Sounds like the Barack Hussein Obama of 1933!

Here now are a few more images from the museum. This quote of Harvey Yaw on the left strikes me as some lyrical phrase from a 1920s song "If Mobile wanted a papermakkkkkkker!" and just add a little trumpet and swag to that and you've got yourself a perfect Jazz Age piece. Other images below include a display of various colored papers, a workman's desk, and a kitchen and lab for kids (and other visitors) to make paper themselves.

It is rather interesting to see how pencils used to look. Since beginning this posting, I've discovered a bit more of the penciled history, specifically regarding the so-called numbering system. You see, the general characteristics of a pencil's capabilities are based on the "H" and "B" factors, which is why you may often see an "HB" pencil. H = hardness and B = blackness.

The scale appears to range from 9H (the hardest) to 9B (the blackest/softest), with a whole range of H-F-HB-B in the middle. I won't go into the alchemical details of this, for I'm not qualified to do so. But the history and classification does not just stop there. Some scholars have identified the famed yellow color of the pencil with a pencil maker in Austro-Hungary in the 1890s, who may have taken the color from the Austro-Hungarian flag of that time. And the rest, well, may be history.

This is a fine map of Ticonderoga, which looks like it was actually done in pencil. These maps are fairly common in late 19th century America, the so-called "bird's-eye-view," which portrayed just that. And their popularity seems to have increased significantly in the 1870s and 1880s with Orientalist travelers visiting the Holy Land and elsewhere and creating "scenes from the Bible" maps, with the same techniques used in this image of penciled Ticonderoga.

What is a curious thought is how people have utilized the pencil professionally. And not just for drawing maps, but for writers, say...of books like these in the gift and book shop (ah, remember the formula of historic importance: gift and bookshop = really historic!) But back to the point: it is a hard thought to imagine, but how many writers today write with pencils? Very few presumably, yet in the olden days, men like John Steinbeck and Vladimir Nabokov wrote tirelessly with hundreds of pencils. In fact, Nabokov apparently wouldn't use anything else! And Steinbeck is said to have used nearly three hundred pencils on East of Eden alone!

Don't forget that some of the best places of history and book-tourism are in the little, out of the way locations, where history happened sometimes gradually and quietly, but happened nonetheless. So, if you're one who doesn't suffer pulp and paper gladly, or you are addicted to the entrapments of e-texts and the digital cosmos, just remember that there is a whole history of our world, that you and your primary and secondary education were part of, nestled away in a corner of rural upstate New York. Don't blunt that end of your Austro-Hungarian yellow or erase this memory too quickly, or else the Number 2s of the world may unite!

Books and Bottles in Ballston Spa

Message in a Bottle or the Study of Something

Pairing books with places is like pairing cheese with wine: there are plenty of varieties of books and innumerable locations to find books. The difference is that not every wine goes well with every cheese. But pretty much any book can be found anywhere, and fit to a greater or lesser degree. Okay, admittedly, this is not the best analogy, but like the pairing of the sommelier or affineur, the task of finding the curiosities of our societies and locating the books in them can and will heighten the experience one has, and bring out a flavor in each particular object, just like the heightened flavor of a bodied wine with birch and blueberries or the textured smoothness of a camembert acting off that intrusive Shiraz. And so, yet another intriguing trip has brought me to the likes of this fine establishment: the National Bottle Museum.

I am one to think and believe that books are, effectively, everywhere. From libraries to dumpsters and every place in between. And so, when I come upon a place that is a designated library, museum, or all-out oddity, I am inclined to think that they must have a vested interest in the specialization of that place and, therefore books about that specialization. Now, the National Bottle Museum has been on my radar for some time, but I had never had the chance to actually go and check the place out. But this summer, I did, and I was pleasantly delighted in its exposition of the historical, the unique, the quaint, and the bizarre. It is, in fact, a great example of how the study of one subject or topic, like glass, can really tell a full bodied story of cultural and social history. I have yet to discover what the technical name of "the study of glass" is--glassology sounds too rudimentary, too...English; gualogy, potairology, ualogy, katoptology, and phakology, all made up words of my doing, come from one root or another from Greek words relating to glass; but my preferred is likely "vetriology," from the Italian word for glass. It just seems to flow quite nicely, and of course has that believability factor that you might want to pass off at the occasional cocktail or holiday party: "oh, yes, I study vetriology...have you heard of it?" Wink, wink.

Of course, though, I made the assumption that all bottles were glass, and made that lovely quantum leap! As you can see from these photos, clearly, that assumption just might be true. So, our search would then be for a study of "bottles" instead of "glass." And in that case, I would vote for returning to the Greeks and concocting (if it hasn't brewed in some ancient's or early modern's mind) the term "vialology," as in the study of vials or bottles. This mustn't be confused at all with "viatology," which is the study of roads. That's a nice word to know too. The study of "ologies" or "Ologyology" (another of my ludicrous neologisms) is less a study than a curiosity and odd interest that I have. It is rather exciting on a certain level to recognize that almost everything has a descriptive term attached to it, and by learning what the study of something is, it helps you to recognize not just an object's latinized roots, but how it relates to other objects in the cosmos. Vexillology anyone? (The study of flags).

Now take this display: artistically, it holds one place in our minds and in value; historically, yet another. And it is this historical aspect that grants the study of bottles in outhouses a very special place in historiographic narratives: so do not ever dismiss the next Vetriprivyologist that comes knocking at your door! In all seriousness, though, despite whatever these glass archeologists are called, they do play an important role in helping us understand our own cultural and social histories. At this point, I ought to recommend (indeed, highly) the main journal for glass studies, aptly called "Journal of Glass Studies," which is published by the Corning Museum of Glass annually. It is a serious and very detailed journal dealing with all (or at least most) aspects of "glassery," its history, sociology, and design, among other things. Here is a link to their website:

http://www.cmog.org/dynamic.aspx?id=274

Surely, before I continue, I ought to send you the link to this interesting museum itself, in the event that any one of you out there is interested in visiting this illustrious place.

http://www.nationalbottlemuseum.org/research-library.htm

One of the most charming aspects of the Bottle Museum is that it is housed in an old storefront in a little town in upstate New York. It has the flavor of old industrial country, with a twist of 19th century apothecary and 1920s soda shop, all whipped into one. But the addition of such magnificent and quirky bottles, such as this collection of "George Washingtoniana," makes one gawk in surprise, delight, or amazement.

Other intrigues include these glassware objects, which I'm not quite sure qualify as "bottles," but are pieces of glass made for more decorative purposes. They look like pipes, but I don't believe that was their use (I don't think chemistry allows for pipes made of glass! But I could be wrong). In fact, I must admit, I don't recall what the well-informed and highly knowledgeable guide told me, as he was speaking much too fast for me to follow. But he knew his glass! Below are bottles in the shape of violins and other stringed instruments.

Now the books! The key pieces in this collection, which were on display were an old pharmaceutical ledger book and a medical text.

Above is a display of medical and other style bottles. And below is the very thing I came to find: the library! It continues to amaze me that there are such fabulous micro-libraries in these specialty museums. But perhaps it should rather fascinate me, since it is only sensible that there would be some sort of informational center or reference collection associated with one's passion, whether maritime or "bottlesque."

The two images below are displays on the historical aspects of "the bottle" in the United States, including not just the bottles themselves, but the tools that were used to make the bottles.

Returning to the micro-library, we find several magazines about bottles and glass, as well as the illustrious reference collection.

Now for those of you who suspect the bottle industry to have been a dull pursuit, something not worth your time to explore, read about, or even blink at, consider the oddities and curiosities of the 19th century, which populate this fine museum. There is some fugitive connection between bottles and the medical arts of that epoch: perhaps the symbol of the local apothecary or sorcerer of alchemical arts. Let's take this thanatological image of skulls and bottles, embodied in some page of an old book, settled neatly behind the ceramic bust of a phrenological sphere. It does not get any more folk-remedyish than this, and yet there are those who still ply its wares and fall into the extracts of garden variety herbals--maybe thinking that parsley can cure migraines ("rub here, left side, above ear...three times a day, when cloudy").













But, let us be clear: stay far away from anything that shares a resemblance with "Aunt Hannah's Liquid Death." You see, no matter how hard we try to establish some sense of composure and professionalism, no matter how hard we try to maintain a website that hopes to introduce readers to the wide world of bibliotourism and biblioflaneury, there is no doubt that we will come into the realm of not just the "curious," the "comical," and the "odd," but the all-out bizarre and heretical.

So here is to that poor, long-expired and withered soul, whose name was used to sell "Liquid Death." Even if it were for bugs, poor dear old Aunt Hannah's mellifluous liquid of doom (sold by most grocers and druggists!) is a gruesome sign of a past: one that doesn't seem to be found in either book or bottle today.

The Books and Library of Mt. Saint Alphonsus: A Quiet Good-Bye

Remembrance of Things Past

There is something both striking and awe inspiring in the architectural splendors of prewar Catholic architecture, which humbles the viewer, participant seeker, and regular flaneur. By "prewar," I mean anything before the Second World War. And the magnificently palatial glory of the Mount Saint Alphonsus retreat house is no exception. It had been a seminary for some time, but those days dwindled into all too few and unsustainable numbers, that it no longer exists. The seminary closed in 1985 and students were then sent to Washington, D.C. to continue their studies. Built and dedicated 101 years ago by the Redemptorists, seminarians were trained in these rooms and hallways (some of which are longer than a football field!). It was a self-sufficient community, which (according to the website) produced even their own wine on the property (though it is not clear if they grew the grapes on the property or just made the wine!) The colossal structure is a formidable sight, which you may view in the last photo of this blog and/or at the Mt. Saint Alphonsus website provided here:

http://www.mountsaintalphonsus.org/about.htm

I recently declared (of course, tongue-in-cheek) that the real mark of history was determined by whether or not an historical locale had a "book" shop or "gift" shop to mark its historicity. Well, surely then, Mt. Saint Alphonsus would be a great historical winner, because it has both! As you can see above in the first photo, when I entered the side of the 100+ room castle, there was a "gift and book shop." It had closed just minutes before I arrived, but I knocked anyway, because I'd glimpsed a subtle light emitting its glow from an interior office behind the shop. A woman came out and I introduced myself and we had a pleasant exchange for about ten minutes. I'd told her about my interest in Mt. Saint Alphonsus (MSA, from now on), and asked her about the history, seminary, library (of course!), and present residents. The truth is that this was not my first visit to MSA, but a return trip to a place I'd visited many years ago. And I'd wanted for some time to recapture a bit of that past with a visit in recent years. It was only on this rainy afternoon in August that I'd managed to steal away and find myself in the town of Esopus, NY, right near the MSA estate. (Note: the photo above was taken of an image hanging in the hallways of MSA; and below, of presumably, the namesake of the institution).

Sixteen years ago, I was a fresh little collegiate sprout, finding my way around the world of St. Lawrence University. I'd recently been an avid reader and fan of Thomas Merton, the Buddhaphilic monastic, who wrote like a spiritual beat poet, holed himself up in a rural Kentucky monastery called the Abbey of Gethsemane, and eventually died of accidental electrocution in a bathtub. His autobiography about his early life, the famed Seven Storey Mountain, gave a characteristically romantic (though not completely) portrait of the monastic life. It was, though, enough to seduce me into searching for answers about this idea of monasticism and priesthood. Considering my childhood interests in religiosity and liturgical music, it came as a simple sequence of events. If I had the time these days, I'd still be listening to LPs of E. Power Biggs or Albert Schweitzer playing Bach! But I was just a novice collegian at St. Lawrence, thrown into first year projects. One of them had been a study of a cultural group in society, and I had decided to study "monks and monasticism."

I had known about some monastic communities in the Hudson River Valley, and when I had returned home for a break from St. Lawrence, I drove down to a couple of them. The first was the Episcopal Benedictine Holy Cross Monastery, not far from MSA. It was a delightful place, though rather active, where the monks wore heavy brown garb, shared meals, directed Elder Hostels, prayed, drove a Lexus, and went to movies (I think the fellows were off to watch Schindler's List at the time). Holy Cross apparently was, as the locals note, the rendezvous site of former NJ Governor Jim McGreevey and his lover. Of course, this was a more recent event in history. And an interesting footnote to monastic living! Still, one might see that as a young college student in the early 1990s, my perception of monasticism was beginning to be shattered by the idea of temporal and earthly enjoyment being had in these sacred halls. It wasn't quite what I had imagined from reading Merton. Nonetheless, after hearing about the monastic Lexus, I went on to MSA. There I met a Father Brinkmann, whom I interviewed about monasticism and Gregorian chant.

Father Brinkmann, if my faded memory serves me right, studied music and organ playing at Boston University, and had agreed to speak to me about my project. Then, as now, I came across the same accoutrements of MSA: the open liturgical tomes, grandfather clocks, and busts of the thorn-crowned Jesus. On my most recent visit this summer, it was exceedingly dark inside, the hallways being almost difficult to navigate it was so unlit! But nearly two decades ago, I remember waiting in these hallways for my meeting with Father Brinkmann. There was a very old priest, bent nigh to the ground in his antiquity, and skinny as a pole, walking the halls in silence. I went up to the library to wait and look around. It was, as I recall, one of the most startlingly magnificent libraries I'd ever been in. It was one big room, a whole wing of the fortress, with multi-tiered balconies of shelves jutting out, and ornate banisters carved into curved staircases. It was truly remarkable. And the books themselves were ancient tomes peeling into rust and blood colored dust.

Of course, I eventually had my meeting with Father Brinkmann, and he was very accommodating and generous with his time and knowledge of monastic living. A good old fashioned priest, devoted to his vocation, his order, his music, and of course, MSA. So, upon returning to MSA this summer, and wandering around the cavernous hallways, I was struck by the grandeur that still remained here. By the open liturgical books, breviaries, or Bibles that seemed to situate themselves in the most inviting and auspicious locations around the premises of MSA. When I inquired at the Book Shop about Father Brinkmann, the woman told me that he was around sometime, but that she wasn't sure where he was or what his hours were, or even if he would be on the MSA site that rainy afternoon. Though, later, as I was walking through the halls, I met up with another old gentleman, who was a priest visiting from the Boston area, and was on retreat at MSA. He told me that Father Brinkmann would in fact be there that very evening, as they were to share a meal together in just a few hours.

I never did find the good Father; nor did I really have the time to wait around and see if I could glimpse an apparition of him at the feeding grounds, which I'm sure would have been a pleasant event--I've always been a fan of communal meals and the understanding of the roots of words like "companion" (lit. one whom you "eat bread with" = cum + panis) and "symposium" (one whom you "drink with" = syn + ponen in Greek). Nonetheless, I could only dream about a sumptuous meal this afternoon. The rain pittered and pattered as the clouds rolled from the mountains west of New Paltz (the famed "Gunks") over the rivulets, hills, and folds in the earth, above MSA and across the Hudson heading toward Massachusetts. I continued wandering about, finding more books, statues, and nooks in this massive building.

Above, you will see, a sign for a Reading Room, which I discovered. They surely love their reading! What is interesting is that at a retreat center like MSA, there is so much space for contemplation AND reading. For if you wished to do a study on this idea of reflection and thought, there would surely be a question of what the role of reading is or plays into our understanding of contemplation. But it was clear from this sojourn, that there are plenty of places to find peace, quiet, and a little comfort in reading and resting. Outside of the building, outside of the reading room, you can see the fine grounds of the MSA estate: balconies, porches, manicured lawns, oak and maple trees, and piney bushes that are topiary-style gems that make the place look like you're in the Pamphilij Gardens in Rome. Perhaps that is what they had in mind!

Reflecting on the Library

The saddest moment of my visit this summer was when I asked the woman in the book shop about the library. She replied quite frankly, saying: "Oh, they got rid of the library. They packed it up and shipped it off to Africa." Now whatever the merits or truth of that statement were, it was bittersweet. Partly, because of the idea of dismantling any library to me is a shocking disruption to my bibliophilic soul; the idea of breaking down the cultured history of a library is, to me, a hamartiological rupture, but then too, it seems like a necessary evil and unfortunate result of time. On the upside, the "sweet" end of this situation, is the fact that the library, once a jewel of the MSA seminary, was being redistributed to those needy seminarians and theological students in Africa, or wherever these books would eventually wend their ways to. The library was closed. But it was not boarded up, as the good woman in the book shop had suggested. She'd also said that one of the priests had done substantial work on the library before redistributing it. And it turns out that Father Brinkmann may have been one of, if not the individual responsible for the safekeeping of this project. As you can see from this photo, it was dark. The lights were off, but the skeletal image of dark and light contrast to present an impressive structure. Admittedly, it didn't look exactly like what my fading memory had preserved from 16 years before. It seemed a bit too modern. I remembered something more wooden, carved, and out of another era. Perhaps they did some renovations? But more likely, the only renovations were in my slightly abnormal memory!

Sindonology: A Study for Everything!

Leaving the best for last, I must retreat into the epical and comical limits of theological preservation: I could not help but laugh a good chuckle, while desiring such a piece of branded Roman Catholicity and non-liturgically touristic hardware when I saw this. That's right: a replica of the Vatican and St. Peter's in Rome! What a delight! It sat there, quiet, squarely, behaving its own business, until I walked up and gave it a glare. "Awwh, poor thing! It needs a home!" But then I realized, it was home. It was among its friends and visitors. As you read your book of Psalms, or paused to reflect about your station in the world, or about the tasks of Catholic preservation in post-modern society, you will be reminded of many things by this constant window sill companion: Rome, the Church, the Pope (whom I recently was told is affectionately called "B-16"--like an illustrious doctrinal super-bomber with a 24,000 mile flight radius), and the Christian Cosmos. For all you BMV aficionados, this would be a perfect time for your rosary and an Ave Maria.

Of course, none of this would be complete--the visit, the contemplation, the whole world of bibliotourist wonder!--without the subtle discovery of something quite miraculous. You see, after departing from MSA, from the entombing darkness of the hallways, from the mystical glow of the golden chapel, I went on my way, driving past the magnificent facade of this regal old seminary turned retreat house. You can see the pines standing as sentinels out front. Not long after, I did a little research on MSA, as I wanted also to contact the good Father Brinkmann. To my great surprise and delight, I discovered that the good Father was one of the preeminent scholars of "Sindonology." Sindonology, a term I had never heard, is the real "study of the Shroud of Turin," coming from the Italian word for shroud, sindone. I will post a link below to the official Sindonology website. It is a very interesting enterprise, no doubt. It is, in some ways metaphorical, as I am now coming to see this whole experience, that the image of the old MSA library, for which I had a distinct memory and understanding, was different when I saw it in person this summer: it was radiant, yet old and majestic in my mind, but had become a less romantic ideal in person, turned into a shredded memory, an actual black and white image, a portrait of what once was. What once was...was a body of knowledge, a body of Christian thinking and a portrait of a message that is still important to a body of people that makes up more than 1/6 of the earth's population. So too, the sindonological event of a mysterious cloth, black and white, decaying under time's duress, conveys an image and effect that is more important than the earthly degradation of ancient fibers.

Whatever the metaphor, the image, the symbol, remember that beyond the surface there will always be something else, something different, and usually more profound. And usually it is a message.

http://www.sindonology.org/index.shtml

Rabbit Stew and Huguenots

Starting off the Day Right

Rabbit is one of those delicacies that I don't attend to often. In fact, it is one of the very few foods that I have a hard time eating, and I'm quite certainly sure that it all has to do with Walt Disney and the Bambification of children's culture in this country. Nonetheless, I'm a person with a fine, ample, and broad appetite, who has traveled the world to taste the likes of grilled gazelle, cooked crocodile, oiled ostrich, zangy zebra, and the raw insides of a Samburu goat on the western plains of Kenya, among other comestibles. So why the aversion to rabbit? Perhaps it would be the same with squirrel, though admittedly, that sounds even worse. And I once worked with a guy many years ago, who froze squirrel in his freezer, and would then stew it in a pot to make soup. But before I get too far off this beaten path, let me settle this: rabbit is not bad. It is good, and tasty, and presumably healthy (or, "healthful"). The last time I had it was at my grandmother's 70th birthday party, more than a decade ago, in a small Frech-style bistro, as a lump of buttered meat, with some green vegetable asking for forgiveness on the side. Of course, that's when I discovered the "Bambi effect."

Well, it came back, all too briefly this summer. But I managed to overcome the power of Bambi and Thumper and all the cute, furry rabbity images in the world (and in my mind). At the start of one of my quotidian bibliotours, I had wanted to try out the fineries of the Mountain Brauhaus German Restaurant in Gardiner, NY, just west of New Paltz. Located in the majestic foothills of the Shawangunk Mountains (affectionately called the "Gunks"--an unfortunate 'mucal' moniker), the Brauhaus is a mecca for those with Teutonic palate tendencies, like myself. So before I was out on the road searching for the next book or library, I thought that a bratwurst and sauerkraut would get my gullet in the right place and my mind in the correct frame, in order to function properly. And on the menu was, of course, this little bowl of rabbit stew. I had to try this little prelude of bunny and beans in broth. There was no question about it.

So I did, haltingly. It was stringy, but tasty. And in the end, it was the perfect preparation for hitting the trails of Huguenot country and the environs of New Paltz, NY. In fact, New Paltz is really the confluence of all things Huguenot. The town got its name from a reworking of the name Rheinpfalz in Germany, where the original French Huguenots were before coming to this country in the early 18th century. The dialect was Pfalzisch (usually with umlaut), and without the "f" you get "Paltz." Nonetheless, whether you use Neue Pfaltz or Nouveau Palatinat, you've got a town with a funky name and a cool history. Downtown New Paltz, like the street in old Hurley, boasts more than just relics of a distant past, but a rich history with architectural gems and curiosities. New Paltz, though, also offers us the claim of "the oldest street in America," which has its doubters, as well as believers. The claim has been qualified with "the longest continually active and inhabited street in America,"--all the way back to 1678!! You can be the judge. For those of you interested in this, though, you can go to the link of the society which now oversees the street and its historic buildings and museums:

http://www.huguenotstreet.org/

As you will see there are some dozen or so homes in stately shape, which are incredibly well tended, each with its own historic marker, like the stone church, the Bevier House, and the Dubois Home. It is rather remarkable to walk around a place like this and see these homes still in formidable shape. This is a true time warp!

It was a dreadfully hot and humid day, when I visited New Paltz, so getting out of the air conditioned car was itself a task! But, getting over this laziness and cheeky attitude, I darted into the DuBois House--the home of the family of one of the original settlers back in 1678. It now served as a visitor's center and bookshop. Again, like the Maritime Museum, you will see some fine examples of Hudsoniana and Catskilliana (that sounds a little harder on the ear), including this fine book on the food, drink, and celebrations of the Hudson Valley Dutch.

The true curiosity of history, though, is how something becomes famous or even if it simply becomes part of the historical narrative itself. And the barometer of this, of course, is whether or not your historical event warrants a book and gift shop; each of these mark different levels of historical validity: gift shop = important; book shop = relatively important; add a museum and you get = super important. Add a light show and some cheesy music = the Mormon Welcome Center in Salt Lake City. The truth is, though, that if you want to do something "historic," make sure it's good, otherwise no one will remember your historic act, and forget ever getting a gift shop or book shop. Though, maybe in 200 years people will be dressing up like us and re-enacting state dinner gate-crashing.

Books and Old Dutch Stone Houses

A Hidden Corner of America

It may be a hard sell in our current culture to recognize that the Dutch actually had lived, breathed, worked, and read here on this continent, before there was any United States of America. And their influence still lingers in various parts of our own cultures, from words ("kit and kaboodle!") to architecture. One of the most extraordinary historical tidbits, which has presumably been relegated to the historical dustpan, is the fact that Sojourner Truth, who'd been born not too far from Kingston, NY, and lived here as a slave of Colonel Hardenbergh in the early 19th century, spoke Dutch as her primary language. Though, perhaps more accurately, it was not the Dutch of the Dutch Republic or Netherlands as we now know it, but a colonial and early American dialect; and even more precisely, as some have suggested, the slave dialect of Dutch. But the remnants of these historical kernels are far away now, far into history and non-existent in most people's minds. But what is present are those old stone houses first produced by the Dutch centuries ago. Kingston does have a fine example in its downtown village. Not too far to the south, in the town of Hurley, NY, one will find an extraordinary street, tucked away from most who drive down the adjacent Route 209 highway. The street is extraordinary, because it is lined with old Dutch stone house with incredibly telling histories, which are not simply "local histories," but greater and more influential national histories.

But first, I will start our tour with a visit to the Hurley Public Library, located in what appears to be an old wood-frame house. I first visited this library more than a year ago, when I drove by and found its quaintness to be irresistible. It is a very narrow structure, and inside the library itself, it feels very cramped: public and technical services merge into a space no larger than a large 1980s sedan, while patrons try to negotiate the walking spaces between shelves and desks and computer stations. Of course, as I've mentioned in other reports from the road on my biblio-tours, my favorite part of these off-the-beaten-path libraries is the used book sale. Now, in the case of the Hurley library, I found the most delicious little "used book sale" ever: in fact, it was more than just a book sale, it was its own little "used book shop!" As you can see in the photo here, there were two adjacent sheds (literally!), which served as book shops. In this photo you see the "Fiction Shed." What a delight!

After finding a few gems in the "Book Sheds" outside of the Hurley Public Library, I sauntered down the road. The image here is of the street, where the library is located. I took this photo while standing in the library parking lot, looking northeast. Now what is extraordinary about this street is that there are some dozen plus homes that are colonial Dutch structures all in a row. It is astounding, because of the unlikelihood of their survival into the 21st century, and yet "here they are!"

As I walked up (or down?) the street, I discovered historic marker after historic marker, noting some sort of significant event from the distant past. One of my favorite signs is the one below noting that the state capitol had been moved to this old house after the burning of Kingston by the British in 1777. One can just imagine the statesmen and senators rummaging about with quill pens scribbling and jowls churning out vitriol against the aggressive forces and bellicose arsonists, while supping pewter goblets of rum. Ah, the good ol' days of muskets and politics!

Not too far down the street, one of my other favorite signs (which I did not take a photo of) reads that George Washington "slept in this house." Yes, yes, I know what you are all thinking: it's the joke phrase of all old New England Inns, a mark of fame and distinction that has become all too ridiculous in its declaration. Yet, this was true Washington territory, and not to sound like a 4th grade schoolboy, but "he did, he did, he really did!"

Across the street from the famed Van Deusen House is the Hurley Historical Museum. This is a place, I must admit, that I've tried to visit many times, but have not managed to be in the right place at the right time. It's always closed when I'm around. Perhaps on my next trip to Hurley.

Up the road, near the entrance to this illustrious street is the old Hurley Reformed Church. Though this specific church didn't come into existence until about 1801, its "parent" congregation located just three miles away in Kingston, had had a community dating back to about 1670. The church in Hurley formed shortly after the creation of the Dutch Reformed Church in America, as noted in the fine historical piece on the church's website, which can be read at the following link:

http://hurleyreformedchurch.org/?q=node/19

And for those interested in the general delights of an old church you can take a look at the photos I shot, while visiting the old church. There was an old display case containing some even older books than the display itself: log books, psalters, and vintage photos. The Ulster County Genealogical Society is located in the basement of the church and consists of a little room full of files, or at least that's what it looks like from the little I could see through the window into the darkened room. I returned upstairs and into the main sanctuary area, where a man was practicing his hymns on the organ, presumably either the main organist or an itinerant church musician. I snapped away on my tiny camera and enjoyed the austere beauty of the old Reformed tradition and its interior architecture. I also snapped a few of some hymnals on a shelf in the narthex area.

More books, More Surprises...

I'm continually surprised by books or the presence of books of all varieties no matter where I am or where I go. After leaving the old Dutch street in Hurley, I drove south to Stone Ridge and discovered, among other things, a yard sale bountiful with books, and a library IN an old Dutch home!

I pulled the car over and jumped out to scan the boxes and boxes of old books. As you can see from the photos here (left and below) there were many of them, but unfortunately, the books were not worth much, if anything. And few if any held my interest. Of course, there is that rare gem of a book that might catch my attention and interest. At this sale, it was the multi-volume set of Bibles published in the 1820s, which were torn and raggedy, but had that gloss of intrigue. I am not 100% certain of the imprint and commentator, but I am now fairly certain that this was the work of Alexander Campbell (1788-1866), who was part of the "Seceder Presbyterian Church of Scotland." More can be read about him at the following link: (http://www.bible-researcher.com/campbell.html). It would make certain sense considering the Dutch and Reformed presence in this area, but from where or whose collection it came from, that is another mystery. Nevertheless, venturing forth from our Bible historiography, I ended up not purchasing the various tomes for a mere $5 a volume, because I had neither the cash nor the room nor the desire to cart home a dozen rust-flaked volumes to store indefinitely in my (or my family's) house.

And so they sat, those poor Campbells, to weather another attic's despair and quietude. But not more than a few hundred yards away sat a fine establishment of historic nature: the Stone Ridge Public Library. Unlike the old stone building of the Public Library of Hudson, which I wrote about some time back, the Stone Ridge Library was no mad house or home for orphans. Rather, it was, to the best of my knowledge, an old farm house, which had been converted into a library. I went inside and enjoyed the comfort of its size and "homeyness." It was cozy, with low ceilings, and old wide-planked floor boards, whom the likes of a George Washington or Governor Clinton could have walked upon with colonial foot-ware, oh!-so-long-ago. Today, though, one can go in, pull a fine book off the shelves, and sit by one of the non-active fireplaces, and read for as long as you want.

As you can see from some of these photos,

there are still many elements of the original architectural hardware(s). From wood joints, to locks, to door knobs, and more, you feel like you're still in a bit of a time warp.

But lest you have some sort of anxiety about retrieving that all-too-important "do-it-yourself" book, or favorite "Tex-Mex cookbook," or even the latest and greatest children book for your kids (they have a whole room devoted to children's literature), there is no need to worry about these lamps running out of oil, because they converted them to electric some time ago. So go on and read, read to your heart's content! And don't worry, there are more "cool" old stone houses to come in our next bibliotour.

Books, Archives, and Boats: The Hudson River Maritime Museum

Welcome to Henry's River!

Now to say that I am a person with a curiosity about all things fluvial is a bit of an understatement. Well, truthfully, all things branded in the name and light of Hudsoniana.
Perhaps this inclination comes from the proximity of the Hudson River not just to my place of birth--Kingston, NY--but to the countless hours of childhood I spent combing the cobbled-stone and mud beaches of the Hudson, dodging brambles and wild raspberry pricker bushes, while searching for the ever illusive "Indian" bead stones or other hidden treasures washed up on my grandparents' estate. The sight of the old lighthouse in Saugerties or the oft frozen river in winter, broken apart slightly by the coast guard cutters, like an axe through chopped tinder, all bring back memories of the mighty river. The Hudson holds that special spot in that childhood pudding we call memory.

Not too far from these same shores in Saugerties, looking east across the river toward the Claremont estate of the Livingston clan, one will cast their vision to the very spot where Robert Fulton tested his steam-driven dream two hundred years ago. This summer, I made a pilgrimage to the Hudson River Maritime Museum, shown above and in the following photos. The museum, which I'd heard of over the year, but never visited before, has been a place of interest to me for some time. And finally, I made time to go there. It was a delightful surprise and contained a far greater variety of maritime material and historical artifacts than I'd anticipated. So anyone who is ever in the Kingston area and interested in this sort of history should definitely take an hour to stop by the museum. There is a minimal entrace fee (~$5 for adults), but it is surely worth the money.

As one can glean from the photos, there is a bit of an emphasis on Robert Fulton's role in the river's history. In the past two years, there has been a bit of fanfare over both Fulton and Hudson, being both the 200th anniversary of Fulton's steam-powered boat and Hudson's "discovery" of these waters 400 years ago. When I was traveling through the Erie Canal country (as seen in earlier posts) and up in the Lake Champlain region, there were countless proclamations of the latter celebration. In the Hudson Maritime Museum, there is this focus on Fulton especially, I'd venture to guess, because of his proximal fame to the upper mid-Hudson region. In the images provided here, from the museum, you will see a bust of Fulton, which I believe is a posthumous bust from the centenary celebrations in 1907/9. We also find a blueprint design of Fulton's ship on display.

Now to the meat and potatoes of our bookishness, we find some of the most extraordinary "book-objects" from our travels: journals, day-books, and log-books from various maritime captains, from steam-boaters to tug-boaters and more. It is truly a treasure to have this sort of historical artifact available to us, and the archives of the museum, located on the second floor of the museum and closed to the public, can attest to this multifaceted wealth. Though closed to the public, if you are a researcher in maritime history or Hudsoniana or other related topics, you can make an appointment with the archivist and keepers of the collections for further studies and conversation. I had been introduced to the staff through my own maritime connections, and found the staff to be dedicated and accommodating. So, if you are interested in further searches of Hudsoniana, stop by the museum and archive.

The placard at left details information regarding the dairies and journals shown above.

One of the most extraordinary displays of the museum was the room, which was filled with all sorts of boat-related displays. Below, we see an old catamaran-style ice-boat, which had been used to travel across the Hudson in the days when the Hudson froze more frequently.

One of the great pleasures I find in museum shops is the concentration of books on any given topic, usually (by design) something central to the subject of the museum. And the Maritime Museum in Kingston was no exception. It was ample with Hudsoniana and histories of local flavor.

Now of course, by the end of this bookish adventure, I had to take the helm to make sure everything was running perfectly: I will refrain from any "smooth sailing" jokes, for the benefit of all you kind readers, whom I'm sure I've made weary with my "boat loads" of puns. But just remember, if you're ever in those rough seas, keep your head above water, and ride out the storm.

See how dense our language is with maritime language: it's inescapable. And this is where much of it started for this country, on the waters of this great river. All aboard!

Books of the Berkshires

Have Book, Will Travel...

Greetings again, kindest folks! I return once more with good tidings from the Bay State. That's right, ol' Massachusetts. As a youngster, now a couple decades ago, I discovered the wilds of western Massachusetts to hold the key to several mysteries of the world: summer music festivals at Tanglewood, elusive cafes and restaurants with regal names (Red Lion Inn), and the most ornately kept homes on perfectly 18th century symmetrical streets (Stockbridge). Well, it was to this fine place I returned for an afternoon of pleasantries. It was a rather busy afternoon, with the usual busy flocks and gaggles of tourists milling about. But it was good to get back and visit this part of New England, and even better to see the bookish side of things; something which I hadn't really done before. Now, it was quite interesting to see the diversity of this bibliotour this one afternoon, from catching a glimpse of this book-truck from the Western Massachusetts Regional Library System, which looks like it is transporting milk rather than books, to visiting the village library and historical museum (located in the library's basement).

"Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God!" Beware now folks! No, no, no. Just teasing you of course. This is one of my favorite endeavors: the discovery of something rather historic in a given location, or at least something that relates to history in such a way that makes me pause and reflect. It just so happened that in the historical museum and archives of the Stockbridge library was a magnificent collection of the works and personal effects of Jonathan Edward, puritanical sermonlord extraordinaire! In fact, they have his desk in this museum! Now, unfortunately, for the sake or pleasure of you good kind viewers, I was not allowed to take photographs in this museum, so I have nothing to show beyond this fuzzy entry sign. But use your imagination: it was a sun-beam lit basement, whispering New Englanders, collapsible shelving units, oil paintings of sour faced Bostonians, and furniture as old as George Burns, John McCain, and Jeanne Calmet combined (for those of you not keeping up with supercentenarian news, Jeanne was the oldest person ever...older than Moses!). I spoke to the curator of the collection briefly and made a brief "round" around the room, before returning to the New Englandy surface from middle puritan earth.















I came out of the library and met up with my co-travelers, of course, my family, as they were polishing off the last of some home made ice-cream, which we'd purchased just a few shops away. I'd already enjoyed my lick of some ginger-vanilla ice cream, which suited me just fine for such a warm afternoon in these hills. We'd lingered a bit and went in search of Norman Rockwell's old place up the street, before retreating to the cooled serenity and shelter of the air conditioned car.

The images above and below show the magnificent view of the former Hurlbut Papers at Willow Mill and the natural waters that used to power them. The present-day company is part of the Mead Corporation, and as we drove across this bridge, we stopped and asked one of the employees, who was leaving for the day, if he could tell us a bit about this place's history. After five minutes, we'd learned a great deal! In fact, what was perhaps the most telling fact was that the water power here only generated enough energy to run the lights of the operation, and not even all of them! The power was directed from some other locality, and the paper created in this factory was not your run-of-the-mill (ha!-no pun intended there, really) paper, but paper that is used industrially in carburetors. He kept asking what model car we had, "because we probably made that paper filter!" he exclaimed. He was a chemist, and had been with this company for decades. "But," he said, as he left us, "I think they're selling this present company to some other company today..., that's life."

Now returning to the more western hills and pastures of the state, before returning to the New York homeland, we came to the quaintness of Great Barrington. Such a pleasant little town, Great Barrington has much to offer. For instance, there is this delightful and newly renovated public library, named the Mason Library, which I first thought was some sort of library of cultic secrets and proclamations of GAOTU (you masons will get that). The fact, though, was that it was not "masonic," rather it was a gift from a "Mr. and Mrs. Mason." You will see one of their photos below.

The above photo is in the circulating stacks of the Mason Library; below is the regal old history room, or "local history" room. As you can see in one of the photos below, the rows of books on the history of old Great Barrington. Just in case you needed to know anything about old Great Barrington. (You never know!)





























In the image below, we see an old photograph of Mr. Mason himself. I'd wanted to take a photograph of his wife, or a photo of a photo, which was located on the wall to the left of his portrait, but a homeless man was sitting in a chair situated directly under the photograph and I didn't want to invade his space and make it seem like I was taking a picture of him in his misery and unfortunate station in life. So here we have Mr. Mason, alone, solo, with some bronze type statuette.

Another delightful surprise was the discovery of a sign that marked the birthplace of WEB Dubois, here in 1868. Unfortunately, there is nothing left. It is an empty lot, near a little stream and a majestic pine standing guard.

I also came upon this little shop on a small dead-end street in Great Barrington. I was surprised, because the sign was so small, but I had to add it to the bibliotour: North River Press. If you go to their website at "http://www.northriverpress.com/page6.html", you will discover that they are a publisher of manufacturing and marketing information, founded in 1971.

Not a few hundred feet away was this delightful bookshop, which has been in the area for as long as my simple mind can remember. Yellow House Books is a privately owned local establishment, packed to the brim with every aspect of post-Dewey knowledge, which has a quiet New Englandy owner, a sleeping dog, and a continual piping of Mozart sonatas and public radio. In the summer, the owners will pull out their upright and spin off a tune or two themselves, for the pleasure of their reading (or perusing) public.

Finally heading out of Dodge, or Great Barrington, or wherever we were, not far from the New York border, we passed this little gem--off course it was closed! Farshaw's Rare Books and Toys. Quite a combination, I'd say. You can see their own little book-selling/buying wagon, or is it a caravan?

So, whether you're interested in buying books, selling books, looking for books, hiding books, smelling books, eating books, or [fill in your own personal verb and savior] books....remember: don't forget your watch or your wallet, or else you might end up in a predicament like I did below...