The following cautionary tale was published in the November 24, 1881 issue of the Hillsdale Harbinger.
A THANKSGIVING STORY
“The Badgerleys coming here to spend Thanksgiving?” said Mrs. Nettingley. “Not if I know it.”
Mrs. Nettingley was a close-fisted and calculating matron, who lived in a handsome house in a stylish neighborhood in New York and was one of those who, as her maid-of-all-work expressed it, “would skin a flea to save the hide and tallow.” Mrs. Nettingley liked to make a show, but she had a deep-rooted aversion to spending money. And entertaining company on Thanksgiving day was one of the things that could not be accomplished without the latter concomitant.
Mr. Nettingley, a little, weak-minded man, who viewed his big wife with respectful admiration, looked dubiously at her. “But, my dear,” he said, “how are you going to help it? They’ve sent word they are coming.”
“I’ll go to your sister Belinda’s up in Saugatuck County,” she replied.
Mr. Nettingley felt of his chin. “They haven’t invited us,” said he – “That is, not especially.”
“Oh fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Nettingley. “Belinda’s always glad to see me and the children. And as for staying at home to gorge Mrs. Badgerley and her six children, and Mr. Badgerely’s two sisters, I won’t do it. Why, such a turkey as they would expect would cost three dollars, at the very least. Get me a timetable, Nettingley. Send word to Mrs. Badgerley that I’ve gone away to spend Thanksgiving.”
Mr. Nettingley, who never dreamed of opposing his wife’s will in this or any other matter, wrote the letter accordingly and put it in his coat-tail pocket, where it remained. For he forgot all about it. Mrs. Nettingley packed her own things and the things of the four little Nettingleys, and took the afternoon train to Scrag Hollow, in Saugatuck County.
“Mamma,” said Theodora Nettingley – the juvenile scions of the house of Nettingley all had high-sounding appellations – “it looks all shut up and lonely. I don’t believe anyone is at home.”
“Pshaw!” said Mrs. Nettingley. “People in the country always live in the back of the house.”
And carrying a heavy carpet-bag in her hand she trudged around to the rear door, followed by Theodora, Lavinia, Evangeline and Gervase, each lugging a similar bag.
Nobody responded to her repeated volley of knocks, but presently a little old woman, who had come from a neighboring cottage to the well for water, was made to understand what was wanted. “Mrs. Peckfield? Said the little old woman, in a high-pitched, shrill voice, which so often accompanies deafness. “You’re her cousin from the city, come to spend Thanksgiving? Well, if that ain’t too bad! Mrs. Peckfield started this very afternoon for Ladd’s Depot; got some relations as lives there.”
“That’s very strange,” said Mrs. Nettingley. “I telegraphed her that I was coming.”
“Couldn’t a gotten the telegram, I guess,” said the little old woman.
But Mrs. Nettingley knew better than that, for under the corner of the piazza there lay a torn envelope of the Western Union Telegraph! And she knew that Mrs. Peckfield had fled from her, just as she, Mrs. Nettingley, had fled before the Badgerley family.
“But I’ll be even with her!” said Mrs. Nettingley, grinding her false teeth. “I’ll go to Ladd’s Depot. What are the names of her relations there?”
The little old woman, after some meditation, said that it was Jones. At least, she thought it was Jones. She wasn’t quite certain. It might be Smith. Or it might be Thompson. But she believed it was Jones. And she believed they lived on Thorn Street.
It was a long walk back to the railroad depot, and the four little Nettingley’s were tired and cross, but they fortunately succeeded in reaching it before the last northward train started. But it was an express and didn’t stop at small places like Ladd’s Depot, as Mrs. Nettingley found to her cost when she paid five dollars for a hack to take her back to Ladd’s Depot.
On inquiry, it was found that there were about a half dozen families of the name of Jones at Ladd’s Depot. The first place to which they drove on Thorn Street was a tenement house, where they all had scarlet fever.
“Oh my!” said Mrs. Nettingley. “Drive on, quick! This isn’t the place.”
The next was a clergyman’s house, where a full-fledged prayer meeting was going briskly on.
“This isn’t the place either,” said poor Mrs. Nettingley, waxing more and more in despair.
And the third was a vinegar-faced old maid, who lived with her married sister and had never heard the name Peckfield in her life.
“What shall I do? Said Mrs. Nettingley
“Better go to a hotel,” said the hackman, who himself was beginning to get out of patience.
“But it costs so much,” said Mrs. Nettingley. And tomorrow is Thanksgiving day. Is there a train back tonight?
“Tonight?” said the hackman. “Why, it’s past eleven already! And my horse has got the epizootic, and I couldn’t keep him out no longer, not for nobody. But I s’pose I could take you to the 12:30 night express for a little extra.”
And this moderate specimen of the tribe of hackmen consented to be satisfied with eight dollars.
“Ma,” whispered Gervase. “Where are we going?”
“Home!” said Mrs. Nettingley, pronouncing the word as if it were a peanut shell she was cracking. There was one comfort though – the Badgerley family would have been repulsed by that time; and, after all, cold beef was cheaper than turkey at thirty cents a pound.
It was one or two o’clock the next day when she reached her own door, having paid in hack and car fare enough to buy half a dozen ten-pound turkeys, and with jaded and fretful children, a violent headache on her own score, and one of her traveling-bags lost.
“I’ll stay home after this,” said Mrs. Nettingley to herself. “Eh? Parlor window-blinds open? People talking! I do believe Nettingley’s got company for Thanksgiving after all!”
And her heart sank down into the soles of her boots. It was quite true. Abby the servant-maid, with red and flurried face, opened the door.
“Abby!” said Mrs. Nettingley. “Who’s here?”
“Lots of people, Ma’am,” said Abby, looking guiltily over her shoulder.
“Where are they?” demanded her mistress.
“In the dining-room, ma’am.”
And Abby threw open the door, thereby disclosing a long table with three huge turkeys well browned and savory, a chicken pie that was a small mountain itself, and a glass reservoir of cranberry sauce, that set Mrs. Nettingley calculating at once as to the probable amount of dollars sunk in its crimson bellows; while seated in hospitable array around the board were Mr. and Mrs. Badgerley, the two sisters, and six children, Mr. and Mrs. Smithers and seven little Smitherses and six Leonards of Maine, second cousins of her husband – twenty-six in all – including her husband.
Mrs. Nettingley and her children sat down and ate their Thanksgiving dinner with what appetite they might.
“My dear,” said the sacrificed lamb, “what was I to do? They didn’t get the letter. They said they had come to spend Thanksgiving and I of course ordered dinner. What else could I do?
“Do?” repeated Mrs. Nettingley in the bitterest of scorn. “Couldn’t you close all the blinds and lock the front door and go down cellar and pretend not to be home? I’ve no patience with you.”
Three days afterward the three youngest Nettingleys broke out with scarlet fever. The seven little Smitherses took it of them – the maid took it to the Smitherses, and Mrs. Nettingley had her winter’s work before her.
“I wish to goodness I had remained at home,” thought Mrs. Nettingey.
And the amount of thankfulness she felt that year was not oppressive, in spite of the Governor’s proclamation.
James Agee was a commanding literary voice in mid-20th-century America: an extraordinarily versatile writer who in his lifetime won acclaim as a novelist, poet, and screenwriter. He is buried on a farm in Hillsdale.
That’s not big news. But we’ve also been told for years that he never actually lived in Hillsdale. That seemed odd. Why would a person who never lived in Hillsdale decide to be buried here?
We set out to see if we could verify that one way or another.
James Rufus Agee was born in Knoxville, Tennessee in 1909. He adored his warm, nurturing, hard-drinking father, who was killed in an alcohol-fueled car crash when Agee was just 6. Raised by his emotionally distant, deeply religious mother, Agee was enrolled in 1919 at St. Andrew’s, an Episcopalian boarding school for boys on the remote Cumberland Plateau of south-central Tennessee. Although Agee was at best a middling student, it soon became evident to his teachers that he possessed an extraordinary aptitude for language and he was given the run of the school’s library, a rare privilege.
In 1925 Agee left Tennessee for Philips Exeter Academy. Despite his otherwise lackluster grades, Agee excelled in English, earning straight A’s. The strength of his writing was enough to win him a scholarship to Harvard College. At Harvard, Agee began smoking and drinking heavily, habits that became addictions he could never shake, and that would ultimately kill him. While placed on academic probation several times, he still managed to be named both class poet and president of the Advocate, Harvard’s literary journal.
After graduation Agee landed a position as a staff writer at the fledgling Fortune magazine. His poetic gifts and ambitions as a writer clashed with the conventions of business reporting and he lapsed into depression, flirting with thoughts of suicide. In search of a topic to match his literary ambitions, he arranged for a six-month leave of absence from Fortune to report on the lives of destitute sharecroppers in Alabama. He was paired with the photographer Walker Evans, whose work documenting the hard times of Depression-era farmers had made him one of the foremost chroniclers of the era.
During Agee’s long leave in Alabama, the political winds at Fortune shifted rather dramatically from pro-New Deal to conservative right. When the magazine declined to publish the essays it had commissioned, Agee assembled the drafts into the book he had long anticipated writing, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, published in 1941. America, poised on the brink of war, was ill-prepared for such a demanding and provocative work, and it was a commercial and critical failure. It wasn’t until 1960 that critics hailed Let Us Now Praise Famous Men as an American classic.
Agee left Fortune to join Time magazine as book reviewer and film critic. In 1942 he moved to The Nation where his film criticism found a growing circle of intellectual admirers, including W.H. Auden, who wrote “In my opinion, [Agee’s] column is the most remarkable regular event in American journalism today.” As a film reviewer, he brought a level of perceptiveness and curiosity to the analysis of cinema in the 1940s that championed everything from mainstream Hollywood hits to B horror movies to slapstick comedy and eccentric, auteur-driven masterpieces. His film criticism for Time and The Nation was collected posthumously in Agee on Film, which is studied by film students and scholars to this day.
Intent on earning money as a screenwriter, Agee used his status as a film critic to ingratiate himself with Hollywood directors he most admired, such as John Huston and Charlie Chaplin. He eventually wrote screenplays for (among others) The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky, The Night of the Hunter and, most famously, The African Queen.
Agee lived at 172 Bleecker St. in Greenwich Village in the 1940’s and 50’s but in 1948, he and his third wife, Mia, purchased a 130-acre farm on Rodman Road in Hillsdale (the property is now listed as 19 acres). It was in dreadful condition: the roof leaked and the farmhouse had neither electricity nor running water. But to Agee the landscape was reminiscent of the hills of Tennessee, which he had always loved.
Agee did indeed spend time at the farm, beginning in the late summer of 1948 and for several months almost every summer until his death in 1955. During these stays Agee was usually battling deadlines and attempting to stop drinking. He worked furiously on many projects, including articles for Life magazine, two novels (including A Death in the Family, about his father’s demise, for which he was posthumously awarded a Pulitzer Prize) and a bizarre screenplay about nuclear war that he wrote for his good friend Charlie Chaplin, which never saw the light of day.
By 1955, Agee’s health had declined such that he discussed with Mia his wishes for a burial at the farm. He told Mia that he only wanted a simple stone, with an engraving of a bird, the Egyptian symbol of the afterlife.
Agee died of heart attack on May 16, 1955 in a taxi on his way to see his doctor in Manhattan. He was 45 years old. After his funeral in Manhattan three days later, a group of mourners drove to the farm in Hillsdale where the burial took place in the afternoon. The burial site, located a hundred yards behind the farmhouse, overlooks the rolling hills and is marked with a simple stone, which lacks the bird carving he had requested. May 19, 1955 was a beautiful spring day in Hillsdale. Agee’s favorite flower, the lilac, bloomed everywhere, filling the soft air with its sweet scent. His children snipped some of the lilacs and tossed them onto the coffin.
James Agee: A Life, Bergreen, Laurence, 1984, E.P. Dutton, New York
Remembering James Agee, Maddon, David, 1974, Louisiana State University Press, Baton Rouge, LA
Americans will soon be celebrating Labor Day, so it’s a good time to look back on the history of work in Hillsdale.
From Hillsdale’s earliest days, farming was a major occupation, although not an easy one to pursue. The rocky, thin soil and the hilly contours of the land made Hillsdale a less-than-perfect spot to grow crops. In fact, the steep population decline Hillsdale experienced in the latter years of the 19th century and early 20th century was in some part due to soil erosion. Heeding the words of Horace Greeley, young men and their families pulled up stakes and “went west” to the more fertile fields of Pennsylvania, Ohio and beyond. During that time, there were few newcomers moving in to stabilize the population. Hillsdale’s population — which had been at an all-time high of 4,700 in 1800 — hit rock bottom in 1930, when the Federal census recorded only 968 residents.
Many farmers who did stay turned to dairying, for which our hills and dales are much better suited. Butter production became a major force in the town’s economic development, all the more so when the railroad came through in 1852. Prior to that, dairying had been mainly a local business, with each dairy serving a radius of only a few miles due to the perishable nature of milk. With the arrival of refrigerated rail cars in the late 1860s, Hillsdale’s dairymen could serve markets as far south as New York City. Fresh milk replaced butter as the predominant dairy product as production grew substantially through the 1880s and 1890s.
In his 1883 “History of Hillsdale,” Capt. John Collin notes that a variety of mills operated along the Green River and Roeliff Jansen Kill in the early 19th century. Collin’s grandfather, also John, was born in Milford, CT and relocated to Hillsdale from Dutchess County probably in the years immediately following the Revolution. He is believed to have erected one of the earliest mills in Hillsdale in 1788 when he built a dam on a small Roeliff Jansen tributary near Route 23 (then known as the Sheffield Rd.) in East Hillsdale. Collin bought a second mill site in 1791 from Robert Van Rensselaer, upstream from the first on what is today Collins Street. There he constructed saw and grist mills, and what became the Collin homestead. A fulling mill was already operating on the site.
Fulling mills were used in the production of wool. Hand-sheared wool would be brought to the mill, where it was soaked in water and fed through a water-powered hammering device that cleaned the wool and made it thicker, or “fuller.” (Incidentally, this process originated in Europe, where the wool was soaked in a tub of animal urine, which dissolved the lanolin to which the dirt and soil adhered. Boys would then jump in and stomp on the wool to clean and full it. This method was eventually abandoned after mechanical advances, and presumably because it was disgusting and the pay was piss-poor.)
The fulling mills also carded the wool, at first by hand with spiked paddles (think of a pair of oversized dog combs) and then by the use of a carding machine. Carding was like combing; it straightened the fibers and further cleaned them. Once processed, the wool would be spun into yarn and used for myriad purposes. A worker in a fulling mill was referred to as a “fuller,” the origin of that surname.
By 1875, Hillsdale’s sheep farmers were producing some 17,000 pounds of wool per year. Several textiles mills were built. One, operated by just two men, produced 600 pounds of flannel and cloth annually.
Iron ore was discovered in Hillsdale as early as 1800, although mining was never a big business here. But the furnace at the Copake Iron Works required a huge amount of charcoal and while it’s hard to imagine today, the hills around Green River and North Hillsdale were denuded of their trees. Several charcoal pits sprang up in Green River, their product shipped by cart to Copake Falls.
Hillsdale had several blacksmiths, making everything from horseshoes to hinges. The first is thought to have been Jared Winslow, whose shop was in Green River.
Where there are cows, there is leather and there were several tanneries in town. The first, in the western part of the town, was built by Refine Latting. Latting also built and operated an inn that is still around more than 200 years later: The Hillsdale House.
Tourism also played a big role, particularly in the years following the Civil War. Hillsdale became a prime summer resort, and sustained several hotels, most notably the Mt. Washington House. The observation tower erected on White’s Hill, from which one could gaze upon four states, was an immensely popular spot. (See our post about it here.)
Over time, a number of retail establishments sprang up to serve Hillsdale residents as well as folks passing through. One of the earliest was opened in 1784 by Daniel Penfield, a Connecticut native who saw an opportunity to serve the growing traffic on the “Old Sheffield Road,” the precursor of the Columbia Turnpike. Unfortunately for Penfield, the store only lasted a short time, having been burned down by an angry mob during Shays’ Rebellion. (Worry not about the Penfields. They moved to New York City and made a fortune, and then founded the city of Penfield, NY, near Rochester.)
Harlemville and Green River each had several stores, but these establishments have either disappeared completely or the buildings have been converted to other uses. But many of the stores located in the center of Hillsdale hamlet are still there, anchored by the Hillsdale General Store. That building was originally Dimmick’s, a general merchandise emporium. The Hillsdale Mercantile appeared in the mid-19th century on White Hill Lane along with a number of shops, hotels and boarding houses. It remained in business under several owners until 1987. (It’s now being converted into the Roe Jan Brewing Company. See our post about the history of the building here.)
John Collin’s son, also John, was a cabinetmaker. Collin’s “History” helpfully lists the occupation of every Hillsdale adult male (and one female whose occupation is listed as “widow”). The list, as of 1883, includes:
• Farmer (401)
• School Commissioner
• Horse dealer
• Shoemaker (4)
• Miller (3)
• Cigar Dealer
• Blacksmith (4)
• Scythe Maker
• Hay dealer
• Collier (5)
• Mason (3)
• Carpenter (10)
• Railroad agent
• Station agent
• Baggage master
• Laborer (167)
• Painter (4)
• Attorney (3)
• Butcher (6)
• Hotelier (5)
• Real Estate agent
• Harness maker
• Clergyman (2)
• Teacher (3)
• Physician (4)
• Justice of the Peace
• Deputy Sheriff
• Iron manufacturer
• Wagon maker (6)
• Tailor (2)
• Tinsmith (2)
What’s surprising is how many of these occupations still exist today in and around Hillsdale. As to the others, the advent of the automobile, electric power and mass production in the early 20th century doomed them to obsolescence. There isn’t much call for wagon and harness makers anymore, and we haven’t had the need of a railroad agent since 1972.
Dairying has all but disappeared in Hillsdale. Dairy farms that once stayed in the same family for generations were sold off as children of the farmers pursued college or less physically demanding, more lucrative employment. On the other hand, the abundant cornfields now lining our country roads show how modern farm equipment allows today’s farmers to plow through the glacial rock that was so difficult to till two centuries ago.
Not surprisingly, the “buggy whip factories” of the past have been replaced with new businesses. The arrival of broadband in Hillsdale is attracting web designers, software engineers and a growing number of professionals who now have the infrastructure to work for firms throughout the world from their homes in Hillsdale.
In whatever way you make your living today, the Historians of Hillsdale wish you a happy Labor Day.
“Looking for Work: Industrial Archeology in Columbia County, New York,” Stott, Peter H., 2007, Columbia County Historical Society, Kinderhook, NY. We were greatly aided by this book. Peter Stott spent 20 years researching every farm, factory and mill in the county. The book’s 19 chapters detail his findings for every town in Columbia County and the City of Hudson.
“A History of Hillsdale, Columbia County, NY”, Collin, John Francis, 1883, E.J. Beardsley, Philmont, NY
“History of Columbia County, New York,” Ellis, Franklin, 1878, Everts and Ensign, Philadelphia
At the southeast corner of Routes 22 and 23 stands Hillsdale’s Revolutionary War memorial, which was erected in 1977. Compared to the imposing Soldiers and Sailors monument in the town square, it is modest in size and design. It’s likely that many people drive by without ever noticing it. Many who pass it regularly may have forgotten it’s there.
But Hillsdale played a dynamic role in the country’s transition from the colonial era to the Republic. In the town’s 15 known cemeteries lie the remains of 61 American Revolutionary War (ARW) veterans. There are likely more, whose stones have been lost to time and neglect. Austerlitz, formed in 1818 from a chunk of Hillsdale and smaller parts of Chatham and Canaan, has another 52 ARW interments, bringing the total to 113. Columbia County records 588 ARW veteran burials, meaning that almost 20 percent of all known ARW veterans in the county are buried in what was once Hillsdale.
Why did Hillsdale send so many men to war? One reason may have to do with the area’s pre-revolutionary history.
Back in January 2018, we wrote about the history of Nobletown, the forerunner of Hillsdale. In that post we noted that for many years the boundary between New York and Massachusetts had been in dispute. While the English-ruled Bay Colony contended that its western boundary was more than a mile west of today’s state line, the wealthy and powerful Van Rensselaers claimed that their New York manor lands included the thousands of acres of Rensselaer County and the land between the Hudson River and the Housatonic River (today’s Columbia County, extending into what is now Berkshire County). Much of this disputed territory had been acquired from the Mohican Indians through opaque land deeds that only further muddied ownership claims. The dispute lasted well over a century. (For an excellent history of the land disputes and border wars that followed, see Gary Leveille, Eye of Shawenon: A Berkshire History of North Egremont, Prospect Lake, and the Green River Valley, 2011)
The Van Rensselaers ruled their feudal-like patent by renting land to tenant farmers (leaseholders), quite different from the concept of individual land ownership (freeholders) prevalent in New England. The Van Rensselaers had little luck convincing their tenant farmers to settle in the hill country borderlands. The land was hilly and less attractive for farming, unlike the richer soil closer to the Hudson River. Also, the “distance from the Hudson River appeared to make commercial farming unfeasible and …[several years later] because potential settlers … were afraid of controversy with the New England colony over the land.” (Sung Bok Kim, Landlord and Tenant in Colonial New York, University of North Carolina Press, 1978, p. 283) Thinly populated, the area became a takeover target for Massachusetts, which was eager to push its border westward and encouraged its citizens to settle in the region. “Boston officials welcomed New York Dutch farmers if they supported Massachusetts’ territorial aspirations. It was a win-win situation for both the Bay Colony and for New York tenant farmers looking to escape the feudal system and enjoy actual land ownership.” (Gary Leveille, Eye of Shawenon, p. 71)
The Van Rensselaers (and the Livingstons to the south) resisted the encroachment vigorously, attempting to subdue the rebel tenants and Yankee squatters with force. In January 1755 the Nobletown rebels declared publicly that they owned their land under the authority of Massachusetts, provoking Van Rensselaer to form a posse to capture the rebellious tenants. Instead, they found themselves surrounded by the tenant militia and beat a hasty retreat. In May 1755 Van Rensselaer tried again, unleashing a company of armed men to clear out the Nobletown squatters. Robert Noble wrote “…our Houses have been torn down about our Ears, burnt before our Eyes, our Fences thrown Down, our Corn Fields laid waste we have sown but others have reaped, Husbands and heads of Families Carried to Gaol [jail] without Law …Wives and children left in the Wilderness unprovided for as the Ostrich’s young … You Don’t wonder If our hearts faint…” (Massachusetts Archives, Volume 6, pp. 615)
Hostilities intensified with retaliation on both sides. Finally, in June of 1766, Van Rensselaer assembled a band of about 140 experienced British soldiers led by the Albany sheriff to drive the interlopers out. Nobletown went up in flames and its residents fled to Egremont and Great Barrington.
This passage, from John L. Brooke’s Columbia Rising: Civil Life on the Upper Hudson from the Revolution to the Age of Jackson, describes the enduring impact of that event on the people in the border districts that included today’s Hillsdale:
“The peoples of the disputed hill districts north of Livingston Manor and east of Claverack were staunchly whig, and in their story lay a great lesson in the Revolutionary balance of consent and civil society. The inhabitants of Nobletown and Spencertown were still in contest with the Van Rensselaer family over the title to their land, and, since the Van Rensselaers supported the patriot cause, this struggle could well have drawn the hill people to tory allegiances. But the people of the east Claverack hills were the least touched by loyalism in the region and the most militant and united supporters of American Independence. In the summer of 1766 the settlers at Nobletown had lost everything at the hands of British troops called in by the … Van Rensselaers … Their accounts of the violence in 1766 must have underlain the militancy of the … hill town settlers against both the British and the claims of the Van Rensselaers to regional authority. The Nobletown-area militia regiment, the Ninth Albany, was clearly one of the most dependable in the county and was called up time and again to march to Kinderhook, to the Manor, across the river to the Helderberg hills, and up the Mohawk Valley to overawe suspected tories and to defend the state’s western frontier.”
After the war, many of these veterans settled in Hillsdale, accounting for the town’s high percentage of AWR graves. The veterans became leading citizens of the town, opening stores and businesses and serving in local government. Town fathers Parla Foster and Ambrose Latting were veterans, as were others whose names are now commemorated by town road signs: Collin, Hunt, and Rodman.
The relatively small Revolutionary War memorial belies the outsized role that Hillsdale residents played in our nation’s fight for independence. We owe them a debt of gratitude, on July 4th and every day.
(For a list of known ARW veterans buried in Hillsdale and Columbia County, see DAR Volumes I & II in the Roeliff Jansen Community Library Reference Room.)
Over the years, a number of celebrities have lived in or visited Hillsdale. Some were not famous when they lived here but achieved celeb status elsewhere. But Hillsdale was always “home.” A case in point was Hudson River School painter John Bunyan Bristol, who was born in Hillsdale but achieved prominence in New York City. Even after he achieved worldwide recognition, he still spent summers at the Mt. Washington House. We wrote about Bristol in this post.
Some believe that one of Hillsdale’s celebrities was Elsie the Cow, the famous mascot and logo of the Borden Milk Company. We’re sorry to report that the real Elsie the Cow never made her way to Hillsdale, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some Elsie history here in town.
Our story begins in Norwich, NY, where Gail Borden was born in 1801.
After a few years, the family moved to Kentucky, and then to Indiana. In his early 20s, Gail followed his brothers south, eventually working as a surveyor in Mississippi. By 1835, Borden – now married – had settled in Texas, working first as a surveyor and then as a newspaper editor, which is interesting since his only formal education took place during his two years in Indiana, and that was spent learning to be a surveyor. How he ended up editing a newspaper is still a mystery.
Borden was an inventor, although not always successful. One of his inventions was a “terraqueous machine,” a kind of sail-powered amphibious wagon that could both thunder across the plains and glide into the waters of the Texas coast. Accounts of his first – and only – journey are not kind.
In 1849, Borden turned his attention to meat. Specifically, he created a meat biscuit similar to Native American pemmican. The meat biscuits were immensely popular during the California Gold Rush because the 49ers needed compact, lightweight, non-perishable supplies and Borden’s meat biscuits fit the bill. Borden actually travelled to the 1851 London World’s Fair, where his biscuits were well received despite the fact that they looked like an old pop tart and from all reports tasted like the box the pop tart came in.
Doesn’t this look yummy?
(A lot has been written about Borden and we commend our readers to the library or Internet for more comprehensive study.)
Sailing back from London, Borden was horrified to see that several children aboard the ship had died from drinking tainted milk. He wondered if there was a way to preserve milk indefinitely, and found inspiration from the Shakers with whom he had spent some time, possibly in Kentucky. He recalled that the Shakers had developed a process of evaporating fruit juice by vacuum and making it “shelf-stable,” as we would say today. Borden used a similar process and invented condensed milk. In short order, he founded the New York Condensed Milk Company.
Borden opened factories across New York State, including in Craryville, Copake and Ancram.
By 1858, Eagle Brand Condensed Milk was a trusted brand and selling briskly. During the Civil War, the Union Army supplied the troops with Eagle Brand, an enormous windfall for Borden.
Borden died in Texas in 1874, but the New York Condensed Milk Company lived on and in 1899, the company renamed itself Borden Milk Company in his honor.
Still with us? Here’s the Hillsdale connection:
The cartoon logo of Elsie the Cow was created by Borden’s director of advertising, Stuart Peabody, in 1936.
Peabody was a lifelong Hillsdale weekender with a farm on Taconic Creek Rd., off of West End Rd.
(Some sources credit New York advertising agency maven David William Reid with inventing Elsie. It’s often said that “success has a million fathers; failure is an orphan.” In any case, if Reid did indeed come up with the idea, it most certainly would have been at the direction of his client, Stuart Peabody. So we give Peabody credit, and so does Advertising Age. However, a New York Times obituary states that a Borden illustrator, Walter Oehrle, actually drew the cartoon, again at Peabody’s direction.)
In a few years, Elsie became the most popular company mascot ever. The logo can still be found on Eagle Brand cans in stores across the country, and the Elsie logo is considered to be an icon of advertising history.
In the 1930’s, Borden Milk Company invented a new-fangled milking machine called the “Rotolactor” , which it proudly displayed and operated at the 1939 New York World’s Fair. During one demonstration, it is said, a girl asked the Borden representative, “Which one is Elsie?” Thinking fast, the Borden man looked around for the friendliest looking cow and selected a Jersey named “You’ll Do, Lobelia,” born in Brookfield, MA in 1932. Rechristened and festooned with a necklace of daisies, “Elsie” became the biggest hit of the World’s Fair.
Elsie began making celebrity appearances throughout the Northeast, but demand for Elsie extended throughout the nation, and it soon became clear that there was a need for a few more Elsies, strategically located around the country. Sad to say, “You’ll Do, Lobelia” died in a tragic accident in 1941 and is buried in Plainsboro, NJ. Here’s the headstone.
You can go see it if you happen to be in Plainsboro and find yourself with absolutely nothing else to do.
The remaining ersatz Elsies soldiered on, appearing at War Bond rallies, store openings and fairs across the country.
But did Elsie ever grace Hillsdale with her bovine charm? There is no evidence that she did, although some residents recall visiting “Elsie” at the Peabody farm. Obviously, anyone can name a cow Elsie, and perhaps Stuart Peabody did.
But just like George Washington, the real Elsie the Cow never slept in Hillsdale.
(The Historians of Hillsdale thank Peter Hazzard, Jamie Carano and Peter Cipkowski for providing photos and info for this post.)
If you have passed the intersection of Anthony Street and White Hill Lane in Hillsdale Hamlet, you have probably seen the flurry of activity happening at the old Agway building. Owners Steve and Kathy Bluestone are restoring the three-story structure and plan to open the Roe Jan Brewing Company on the site.
The building dates to about 1851, when it was built by Joshua Bulkeley. Bulkeley was born in Connecticut about 1819 and moved to Hillsdale with his wife, the former Mary Halland. They took up residence in a boarding house owned by Nellie Brown and in 1857, Joshua and Mary had a son, Henry Halland Bulkeley.
In the early 1850s Joshua and other local merchants opened the Hillsdale Mercantile Association which sold, among other things, patent medicines and clothing. Early photographs show mannequins wearing shirts. The mercantile was in business into the 1880s and appears to have been a competitor of Dimmick’s store (today’s Hillsdale General Store), which opened at Cullin Park about 1855.
In 1865, 14-year-old Freeland Pulver was given a dollar by his father and dispatched on the train from Copake Iron Works to Hillsdale to start his first job working for the Mercantile. His first year salary was $75, plus room and board. He boarded at the home of Abram Decker.
In 1983, the Roe Jan Independent published a 1934 recollection written by Freeland Pulver. In it, Freeland noted that on his first day he sold two pounds of “very dark sugar” for 25 cents a pound and one pound of chewing tobacco for $1.25.
Around 1890, Joshua Bulkeley closed the Hillsdale Mercantile Association and Freeland Pulver and fellow clerk Henry Best opened a general store — Pulver and Best — in the building. When Henry retired, Freeland and his brother, Wesley, renamed the operation Pulver Brothers, which sold a variety of goods including food and clothing. When Wesley retired, Freeland simply named the store Freeland Pulver, as you see in the advertisement below:
The original Masonic Temple sat on Cold Water St. Hillsdale High School had no gymnasium, so the basketball team practiced at the Masonic Temple until it burned down in 1927. According to an 1987 article in the Roe Jan Independent, the basketball team thereafter practiced in a gym they constructed on the third floor of Pulver’s store. That must have been pleasant for the customers below.
The boys recalled that there were side rooms adjacent to the basketball court, in which were held meetings of the Modern Woodmen of America, the International Order of Odd Fellows and (it was rumored) the Ku Klux Klan.
Over the years, the multi-purpose old building housed a shirt factory and, interestingly, a beer distribution company. The John Baines Bottling Works bottled beer in the basement (the beer was brought in from elsewhere, as the building had no brewing capacity or, for that matter, plumbing). In the late 1920s, George Steuerwald took over the building and opened GLF Feed and a John Deere dealership. GLF was an acronym for Grange League Federation and there were a number of GLF locations across the state.
Until 1931 the Hillsdale Fire Department, founded in 1918, garaged its Model A fire engine on the first floor in what later would become the “scale room.” Steuerwald installed a huge scale in the floor of the first story, and farmers would drive wagons full of grain to the store to be weighed, ground and bagged. The hopper and conveyor system used in the grinding process are still in place today.
Mr. Steuerwald sold the building to Ralph Burlarley in 1957. Mr. Burlarley then opened Hillsdale Farm Supply. In 1964, after GLF merged with the Eastern States Farmers Exchange to form Agway, Mr. Burlarley stocked Agway products and over time people came to refer to Hillsdale Farm Supply as “the Agway,” although it was never an Agway-owned store.
Hillsdale Farm Supply remained in the building until 1987, when Mr. Burlarley sold a majority share of the business to Robert Edelman. Mr. Edelman subsequently moved Hillsdale Farm Supply to the building that now houses Taconic Valley Lawn & Garden on Route 23. As you can see in this portion of a 1988 Agway ad in the Roe Jan Independent, it was still commonly referred to as the “Hillsdale Agway.”
Hillsdale Farm Supply sold the building to Marilyn Herrington in 1987 and she used it as a storage facility until 2008. In 2009 a group of artists lived and worked in the building. Since then the building, still referred to as “the old Agway building,” has been unoccupied. In 2017, Hillsdale resident and shopkeeper Matthew White purchased the building, eventually selling it to the Bluestones in 2018.
The three-story post and beam building was in rough shape. Thanks to some shoring up by the Herringtons, it remained standing but needed a new foundation.
The Bluestones raised the entire structure by about three feet and built a new foundation. Elevating the structure means that the full first floor will be above grade for the first time in decades; repeated paving of Anthony Street over the years had raised the road surface above the northeast corner of the building.
They also reinforced the structure to keep the building safe and intact.
Steve and Kathy are committed to preserving and restoring the old building’s historic architectural features. For instance, the building originally used traditional board-and-batten siding, which can be seen on the barn’s north and south facades. During the Agway era, the battens on the east and west facades were removed and horizontal “novelty” siding was installed. That siding has been removed and new battens are being installed.
The original roof brackets had rotted and new replicas were made and installed.
The Bluestones rebuilt the long-gone first floor balcony that wrapped around the south and west sides of the original building. About half of the original glass windows were salvageable.
Attractive new stonework and ramps make the building accessible to all.
The bar of the brew pub will wrap around the old grain hopper, and other historic artifacts from the building’s past will be incorporated into the décor.
The brewing operations of the Roe Jan Brewing Company will be in the old building’s basement, while the restaurant/pub will occupy the first floor. The restaurant, featuring an open kitchen, will focus on wood-fired cooking using local and sustainably sourced ingredients. The two upper stories will house several studio and one-bedroom rental apartments.
It’s very exciting to see such an historic building re-imagined and reinvigorated.
Recently, we came upon a 1976 article from the Roe Jan Independent about the origin of some of the more colorful road names in the Roe Jan area. Ironically, the author of the article was Tim Belknap, who was a guest blogger last year.
Also last year, we wrote about how Pill Hill Road got its name. But that’s not the only curiously named road in the area. Cold Water St. is supposedly named after a brook that has since been paved over. Belknap noted that residents of the street said their water was good, “but they have to drill deep to get it.”
Black Grocery Road in Copake is named for the general store that Hezekiah Van Deusen built to sell whiskey, chewing tobacco and rock candy to the Irish railroad workers building the New York and Harlem Railroad in the 1850s. According to legend, lacking his preferred red paint, Van Deusen painted the store with the “black paint” used by the railroad. Actually, it was probably coal tar creosote, which the railroad used to preserve railroad ties (see Susan Bachelder’s comment below). It was called “black paint” because it is black when first applied but over time, it fades to brown. In any case, the store is long gone (along with the railroad) but the name lives on.
Shunpike Road was named after the rutted path that some travelers took to avoid paying the toll at the East Gate toll house. Cakeout Turnpike is the corruption of Kijk-Uit, a Dutch word meaning “a vast, beautiful view,” which is afforded by the nearby Kijk-Uit Mountain. We’re not sure why it is called a turnpike, since it’s only about four miles long and there is no evidence that tolls were ever collected on it.
Whippoorwill Road is named for a poem by Wallace Bruce which first appeared in Harper’s Magazine in November 1887. You have probably seen the historic marker at the location of the farm where Bruce was born. Mr. Bruce was appointed United States consul in Edinburgh, Scotland, July 1, 1889, by President William Henry Harrison. While in Scotland he was instrumental in securing the erection in Edinburgh of a statue of Lincoln to commemorate the service of Scottish-American soldiers in the American civil war.
Even some of the streams in the area have peculiar names. The story goes that a Hudson man was hauling a wagon of whiskey in Ancram, possibly along today’s County Route 3. According to Belknap, he was sampling his wares along the way and managed to upset the wagon. A cask of whiskey shattered on the rocks of the nearby stream, which was ever onward called “Punch Brook.”
Tory Hill Road in Hillsdale sounds like it should have a significant Revolutionary War connection. Alas, according to Belknap, it does not. Someone apparently just thought it was a nice-sounding name.
On the other hand, Orphan Farm Road in Copake does have historical significance. “It was named in the 1940s after a farm there whose income was to be used to provide money for European orphans of World War II,” Belknap reported.
The article noted that there was at the time no explanation for how Texas Hill Road got its name, and we haven’t been able to find one either.
If you know the origin of other interesting area road names, please tell us in the comments section below.
The Internet is amazing. You start out looking for one thing, only to find something else so fascinating it sucks up the hours you were planning to spend on the first thing.
This happens to us a lot. This week we were researching historic buildings in the Hillsdale Hamlet. No sooner had we typed “Dimmick’s” into Google than up popped “Our History & Past Chiefs,” a page from the Hillsdale Fire Company website. The page was compiled from handwritten notes delivered at the fire company’s 75th Anniversary Open House in 1993, which makes 2018 the Hillsdale Fire Company’s centenary. Happy 100th Anniversary, Hillsdale Fire Company!
The Hillsdale Fire Company is an all-volunteer organization and depends on public support to respond to emergencies, 24/7, in Hillsdale, Egremont, Copake, Austerlitz, and other communities in a 43-square-mile area. A big thank you to Richard Briggs and all the Hillsdale volunteer firefighters and auxiliary members for keeping our town safe.
Here is a link to the history page. It’s a delightful read, full of arcane fire engine facts and gossipy asides. A few of our favorites:
• The Hillsdale Fire Company was formed in 1918, the same year the U.S. entered World War I.
• The company’s first fire truck was an Obenchain-Boyer on a Ford chassis. A February 1919 underwriter’s report said the truck had “no pump, no hose and no nozzles.” What the …?
• From 1918-1928 the company’s fire alarm consisted of a railroad locomotive metal tire, split and hung from a tree limb by Dimmick’s Store (today’s Hillsdale General Store). A hammer was left conveniently nearby.
• It’s no small irony that during the first half of the 20th century the company lost significant property and equipment to fire. The Hillsdale Fire Company met at the Masonic Lodge on Cold Water Street until it burned down in 1927. The company’s first fire truck was stored at Conklin’s Garage, which burned down in 1940. A drug store owned by first Fire Chief Harry Cornell burned down in 1983.
• A large siren, which could be heard for miles, was mounted on the roof of the second Masonic Lodge (built 1928) on Cold Water Street. Before direct dial phones arrived in 1952, people reported fires by calling telephone operators at the A.M. Johnson Telephone Office on Anthony St. The operators activated the rooftop alarm and firefighters called “Central” to learn the location and type of call.
• A “new fire house” was built in 1931 (today’s Columbia County Sheriff station). Just like today, there was very little parking in the hamlet and many men had to walk to the calls. The building was heated by a coal-burning furnace, which members took turns tending. Wet coiled fire hose that was stuck in the coal bin started a fire in the coal by spontaneous combustion. The cellar ceiling was charred badly, but no other damage was reported.
• In the summer of 1947 a cargo truck flipped on Route 23 and Molasses Hill at the Massachusetts state line. Bystanders looted the truck’s contents while Massachusetts State Troopers arrested the Hillsdale Fire Chief for having unregistered vehicles (fire trucks!) in the state.
• In 1954 Fire Chief Everett “Stub” Shadic, responding to a call from his home across from the Hillsdale Library (today’s Town Hall), commandeered a bike from a youngster to make better time. The bike had hand brakes, which he did not know how to use, and he sailed past the firehouse and through the ball field, coming to rest in a ditch.
• A wild duck was removed from a chimney on Mitchell St.
• Summer grass fires from lightning strikes were frequent. At one grass fire the owner flailed at the fire with a pine branch, which fanned the flames and set his pants on fire.
• One lady got angry at firefighters who trampled her tulip beds to extinguish a grass fire near her barn.
• In the early to mid-20th century, picking up a wet hose in a manure-covered barnyard after a lightening fire at 3:00am was a rite of passage for young fire company volunteers. This tradition declined, along with the number of active farms in the area, in the second half of the 20th century.
We all depend on our local fire company. Whether abandoning their cozy beds in the wee hours, or taking time of from work in the middle of the day, these men and women put their own lives on the line in some cases to save ours. And they do this not for pay, but because it’s necessary and the right thing to do.
This is the season to make end-of-year charitable contributions. We are making a donation to the fire company and urge you to do so, too. There are never enough volunteers. You don’t have to don a turnout suit and race into a flaming building to be a valued volunteer. Check out the Hillsdale Fire Company Facebook page for ways to help.
Almost 140 years ago the tidy, bright green building at the intersection of Harlemville Rd. and County Route 21C was constructed as a public schoolhouse for the residents of Harlemville, a hamlet in northwest Hillsdale. In 1880 Harlemville numbered 100 people and had two stores and a hotel. Very little evidence of that community remains, except for the schoolhouse.
Today the building houses the Art School of Columbia County (ASCC), a non-profit community group serving more than 1500 Columbia County residents with free and low-cost art programming for all ages.
We’ve always wondered about the the Harlemville Schoolhouse and were delighted to find a lively history of the building in “Columbia County History & Heritage,” the magazine of the Columbia County Historical Society (Spring/Summer 2018). Written by Kathryn Kosto, ASCC’s Executive Director, “Education and Community: The Harlemville Schoolhouse” is illustrated with period photos that were new to us. It’s a well-researched look at public education in a rural New York community circa 1880. Click on the link below to read the full article.
It’s almost unheard of for a building to retain its original purpose after a century and a half, yet the little green schoolhouse continues to educate and serve the community. The ASCC has been offered the donation of the historic 1880 Schoolhouse and the surrounding 0.81 acres. To receive this gift, ASCC must raise $20,000 by year’s end to ensure the structure has funding for future maintenance needs. If you’d like to donate to the Art School’s Capital Campaign, and support its vision of “envisioning art for everyone,” click here.