When We Heated Our Homes with Coal...

Some of our radiators
were quite ornate

I don't suppose many people nowadays are familiar with the concept of heating our homes with coal.  But when I was born, in 1940, almost all homes in cities in the North were heated using coal as a fuel.  My family converted from coal to oil heat in the late 1940's, but I have a fairly detailed recollection of how the system of heating with coal worked.  I'd like to share what I remember.

In most homes where I grew up, in upstate New York, each room had one or more cast iron radiators.  These were usually located on the floor in front of windows.  Steam or hot water flowed through pipes that came up from the floor and fed the radiator to heat it,  A second pipe on the opposite side of the radiator carried the return water or condensate back down to the furnace, located in a basement below the ground floor.  Growing up, I didn't know of any houses that didn't have basements.

A coal-fired water heating boiler with stoker to supply fuel

A hot water boiler of the type
we had in our basement

Our house used hot water for heating, and there was a fairly large boiler in our basement that looked almost identical to the picture here.  Every year, my father would have it inspected and sometimes they had to repair either the internal brick work of the firebox or the outside insulation of asbestos and some kind of cement.  It was an annual ritual to clean and service the furnace.

Alongside the boiler was a metal tubular housing that extended about 6 feet to a metal bin.  This tube contained a motor-driven corkscrew device that transported lumps of coal about the size of walnuts from the bin into a cast iron grate that formed the "table" on which the coal burned.  The ash formed by the burning coal simply fell through the slots in this grate to collect in an ash container.  We always burned anthracite coal, which was more expensive than the more common bituminous coal.  The anthracite burned cleaner with less smell and formed very little ash compared with other coals.

A coal door

On one side of our large basement was the "coal bin."  This was a room about 10 feet by 12 feet into which coal was delivered from a truck outside of the house.  Some houses had a cast iron coal door in their basement walls through which a metal coal chute was inserted.  Our coal bin had a window in the basement wall that swung up on a hinge and hooked in place when coal was being delivered.

The coal trucks that I remember were low bed stake trucks.  The beds were filled with pre-measured canvas bags of coal, each weighing 40 or 50 pounds and having two heavy canvas loop handles.  The coal truck would pull up and park in the driveway alongside our home fairly close to the coal bin's hinged window.  One of the deliverymen would go into our basement to open the window and check the pile of coal still in place.  Then they would place a shiny steel trough that extended from the side of the truck through that open window.  Once it was in place, the team of two men would alternate dumping those heavy bags of coal into the  chute.  It was a noisy operation as the coal slid and rolled down the metal chute into the basement.  After five or ten minutes, the delivery was complete.  I recall that we got deliveries every three or four weeks.

We purchased coal by the ton.  Today, a ton of Pennsylvania bituminous coal will set you back a little over $50.00.  Anthracite will run close to $100.00 per ton.  My dad thought the world was coming to an end when anthracite broke through the $10.00/ton mark in 1946 or '47.  Today, comparing coal with fuel oil, coal is about half the cost per BTU of heat.  But that doesn't tell the whole story.  Let me fill in some details.

Once the coal was delivered to our basement, it was still a good 30-40 feet away from the stoker that fed the furnace..  On cold winter days, my father would have to go to the basement, shovel coal into a wheelbarrow, wheel it into the furnace room, and shovel that coal into the bin that supplied the stoker.  And he usually did this twice a day, morning and evening, and most of the time he did all this in a white, starched shirt.

Then about once a week, the homeowner had to shovel the ash from the bottom of the furnace and haul it outside to be collected by the city.  That was a particularly messy job because it created such a cloud of dust.  In fact, burning coal to heat one's home is a pretty messy proposition.  My mother complained all winter about how often she had to dust the furniture.

I remember the day they installed our oil burner.  It was a big deal.  Kalteux Brothers had a crew at our house at 7:00 AM on one warm spring day.  They emptied out the small pile of coal that was left in the coal bin and swept and mopped the concrete floor.  Then they began dismantling and removing the stoker mechanism that fed the boiler.  Soon, they were pouring a small concrete pad where a shiny new oil burner would be mounted in front of the firebox.  

They lugged a 275-gallon fuel tank down the external access stairs to the basement and firmly mounted it where only a few hours before had been a pile of coal.  Then they ran some copper supply line up from the fuel tank, across the unfinished ceiling of our basement, and down the side of a post they had installed next to the oil burner.  This was a simple affair that sprayed a jet of heating oil into a turbulent flow of forced air.  It had an electric igniter and was equipped with safety interlocks to shut off the flow of oil if for some reason the flame went out.

The whole installation was done in a day.  We were summoned to witness this new furnace in action.  There was a satisfying "click" when the foreman threw a switch.  A motor in the metal housing began to whir, a blower fan came on, and there was the faint "whoosh" of a flame being ignited inside the furnace.  No shovel, no wheelbarrow, no broom, no dust, no daily trips to the basement for my father.  We had entered a new era, never to look back.

Even More Genealogical Ramblings...

A home in Coxsackie, New York, built in 1860.  This is probably
Similar to my ancestors' home in this town

Before my Aunt Ethel (my father's sister) passed away, I tried to pick her brain for genealogical information.  She was sort of a self-appointed keeper of the Mead family history, especially because she had traced our lineage back to my fourth great-grandfather, David Mead (1762-1836), a soldier of the revolution.  She had put forth a lot of effort to qualify for membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution, in which she remained active for many years.

By the time I was interested in the family history, Aunt Ethel was well into her dotage and some of what she passed to me was so romantic or serendipitous that it seemed highly unlikely.  Nonetheless, I wrote it all down, hoping that in time I would be able to segregate fact from fiction.

One such seemingly far-fetched tale was that I had an ancestor who had been the captain of a whaling vessel.  Not only that, he had married a girl who died quite young and subsequently had married her twin sister.  Quite a yarn, but I had trouble believing it.  Until today it remained nothing more than a family fantasy.

This morning I was working on the genealogy and trying to fill in some details on my great grandfather, Richard Henry Mead.  I knew that he had been born in 1837 in Greene County, New York.  My notes informed me that he had married a woman, Margaret Elizabeth Mosher, around 1863.  This would have made him about 26 at the time of his wedding.  I decided to use census records to pinpoint his whereabouts every five or ten years (The federal census is conducted on the 10-year cycle 1850-1860-1870, etc, whereas the New York State census was conducted in 1865-1875-1885 etc,).

The Roscoe II was almost identical in design and displacement
to the Charles W. Morgan, shown here at Mystic Seaport, CT

In the course of my searching, I discovered a whaling ship crew roster with a "Richard Henry Mead" as a crew member.  This was part of a digital database housed at the New Bedford Whaling Museum in Massachusetts.  The record lists his full name and his home town of Coxsackie, New York, his age (17).  This was certainly my Richard Henry Mead!  The listing includes the fact that he is a blacksmith.  He left New Bedford in 1853 aboard a whaling bark, the Roscoe II.  A little further research revealed that the Roscoe II, displacing a little over 300 tons, made voyages in 1842, 1846, 1849, 1853, and 1856.  She carried a crew of 24 men.  These whalers made long voyages, typically 2-3 years, so this was quite a commitment for a young man.

On this 1853 departure, the Master was a gentleman named Asa R. Gifford, whose age is not given.  I located Asa Gifford's genealogical information on Ancestry.com and determined that he was 40 years old in 1853 when young Richard Mead embarked on his seagoing adventure.  I did discover an article dated July 2, 1869, in the Martha's Vinyard Gazette, published in Edgartown, stating, "Capt. Asa R. Gifford, of this town has built a fine grocery store just opposite the Picture Gallery of Shute & Sun. He has not yet occupied it but will soon have a choice assortment of Camp Meeting articles."  This is very likely the same individual.

The crew of the Roscoe II on its 1853 voyage ranges in age from 17 (Richard Mead) to 36 (Weston Briggs, the First Mate).  This was a young man's game.  In addition to a 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Mate, ratings included Greenhand, Seaman, Boatsteerer, Cook, Carpenter, and Blacksmith (my ancestor).  The crew came from all over Massachusetts, Vermont, Maine, Connecticut, and New York.  On these 2-3-year voyages, the crews must have gotten to know each other most intimately.  They must have become the closest of friends or the most bitter enemies after being cooped up on a small sailing vessel for months at a time.  Having learned this information, I concluded that Aunt Ethel had been partly right.  My direct ancestor had been aboard a whaling ship, but he was the ship's blacksmith rather than its Master.

Coxsackie in the 1870s

Next, I turned my attention to the legend of marrying a twin sister -- almost too far-fetched to be believable.  I began examining census data surrounding Richard Henry Mead for every five years beginning in 1850, when he's a 13-year old living with his parents.  In 1863, when he registers for the Civil War draft, he's still single and living in Coxsackie.  Soon thereafter, he marries Margaret Elizabeth Mosher and they begin a family.  In the 1865 State Census, we find Richard and his wife and a 6-month old baby, Rachel, living with her parents, Robert and Rachel Mosher.  Richard's occupation is shown as "butcher."

In 1870, the Meads continue to live in the Mosher household, but now they have a second child, William (8 months old) who is to become my grandfather.  Another daughter, Edith, is born in 1872.  Then tragedy strikes.  Richard's wife Margaret Elizabeth Mosher dies on 1 November, 1873, at the age of 29 years, 2 months, 28 days, according to her tombstone.  I have been unable to find her death record, but I would speculate that either influenza or smallpox or some other infectious disease took her life.

1875 Census entries show that the widower Richard and the three children,
Rachael (age 11), William M. (age 5) and Edith (age 3), are all living with
Grandfather Robert, Grandmother Rachael, and Sister-in-Law Mary Ann.

In 1875, Richard is still living with his in-laws.  But we note that his sister-in-law, Mary Ann Mosher, age 25, is also part of the household.  And then the story unfolds.  By the 1880 census, Richard and Mary Ann have gotten married and she is expecting.  They are soon blessed with a son, John Bogardus Mead, born 4 August, 1880.  So the myth about Richard marrying a twin sister was mistaken, but he did marry his first wife's younger sister.  And that's the rest of the story!

More Genealogical Stuff...

The Wyckoff House, Brooklyn, NY, 1934

As I have been digging deeper (delving further back in time), I'm learning that my Mead side of the family is a lot more Dutch than I had ever realized.  Names like Hallenbeck, Pruyn, Reynersche, Spoor, Van Oblinus, Van Patten, Van Schouwen, Van Woggelum, and Vetter are just part of the evidence.  The quest is fascinating.  One branch of my tree had the surname Williams.  I assumed they were of English origin.  It turns out they were all Dutch, having anglicized the name Willems early in the nineteenth century.  Today, I ran across a home that was built by an ancestor of mixed Swedish and Dutch origins named Hendrick Pieterse Claesen Wyckoff.  He was born in 1625 Boda on the Swedish island of Oland.  After migrating to America, he eventually settled in Brooklyn (Remember, Brooklyn was originally Breuckelen, a Dutch settlement.) and built a house on Canarsie Lane.

During the great depression, the U.S. Government had a program, the Historic American Buildings Survey, that documented historical buildings.  In 1934, one of those buildings was the "Peter Wyckoff House" built by my ancestor (9th Great-uncle).  I've included some of the images and drawings done during that effort.  Quite frankly, the artistry of the draftsmen is almost as fascinating as the subjects they were trying to document.

Wyckoff House in 1934

The attention to detail in these renderings is magnificent!

I initially thought that the Wyckoff House had been torn down at some point to make way for progress.  I have learned however, that I was mistaken.  A Website,
https://wyckoffmuseum.org/,  informs me that "The Wyckoff House Museum preserves, interprets, and operates New York City’s oldest building and the surrounding one-and-a-half acres of park. Through innovative educational and farm-based programs we build cultural and agricultural connections within our community, emphasizing immigration, family, food, and community through history."

Wyckoff House today

The site also informed me of details that I likely would never have known about my 9th Great-uncle: "In April of 1637, a young man named Pieter Claesen arrived in what was then the Dutch-controlled colony of New Netherland. Like most of New Netherland’s immigrants, Pieter’s native language and culture were not Dutch. Pieter grew up in Norden, an area in what is now Germany, where the population spoke Frisian. Dialects of this language can still be heard in coastal areas of Denmark, northwestern Germany and the northeastern Netherlands. Pieter’s parentage and his impetus for immigration remain unknown. We do know, however, that upon his arrival Pieter was contracted as an indentured farm hand for a fellow Frisian tenant farmer named Symon Walichsz, on a vast estate, or patroonship, called Rensselaerswyck, situated near present-day Albany.

Rennsselaerswyck, which consisted of approximately one million acres, had been granted by the Dutch government to the wealthy van Rensselaer family of Amsterdam. After a period of six years, Pieter’s contract of servitude expired and he became a tenant farmer himself. He soon married a Dutch-born young woman, Grietje van Nes, and they began the family that would eventually number 11 children."

About the house, I'm informed, "In 1650, upriver farmers started to move south toward New Amsterdam, the seat of government, to purchase land that had been recently made available for purchase by independent farmers by the colonial government, the Dutch West India Company. By 1652, Pieter and Grietje had acquired a farm in the newly established community of Nieuw Amersfoort, in what would eventually comprise the city, and later the borough, of Brooklyn. The house they occupied was a simple one room structure with a packed earth floor and unglazed windows, with doors at both ends and a large jambless (or open) hearth.  Miraculously, it still stands today.

Over the centuries, the house has been reconfigured, expanded, and modernized to eventually encompass 6 rooms with three fireplaces, a walk-up attic above, and root cellar below. The Wyckoff family occupied the site for eight successive generations, until 1901 when the land and house were sold to developers.

After more than a half century of disrepair and a devastating fire, the house was restored in 1982 and opened to the public as a museum."

In 1967, the house was placed on the National Register of Historic Places, providing certain protections based on its historic significance.  The narrative of the petition for that recognition tells a lot about the home: "The Wyckoff House was probably constructed in 1652. This date is determined by certain structural evidence and the first year of Wyckoff's residence of the property which is around 1652. The original house was a single room with lean-to shed on the north side and an attic above. The east end had a stone wall and chimney, the west wall had one small window and the south side had a door and casement window.

The first addition was a new kitchen on the west, with connecting doors replacing the casement window, which contained an integral lean-to shed for additional rooms on the north side. The second addition , which occurred in the second quarter of the 18th century, doubled the original structure on the east. This is supported by the fact that the original cellar, oldest attic beams, and floor partitions all extend to only three-fifths the depth of the present house. At this time the jambless Dutch fireplace was converted to the English style
with a paneled wall with cupboard and closet.

Around 1815, a third addition was added, replacing the rooms on the north with larger rooms and introducing a center hall in the main wing. A new symmetrical roof was raised overall with curved eaves and a wide overhang. Then in 1850, the rear kitchen was further extended.

The house is built on a foundation of rubble stone. The walls are of braced wooden frame construction filled with wattle and daub in the earliest part and brick in the later additions. The exterior covering is wooden shingles which were also used for the roof. Double doors with decorative leaded glass transoms date from around 1815, replacing earlier doors.
Some of the circa 1815 six-over-six sash windows still survive, with wooden paneled shutters of the same date and old, if not original hardware. The three chimneys are all largely rebuilt in the 19th century.

Interior of the Wyckoff House today

On the interior there are nine rooms on the first floor including three in the wing, and four in the attic including one in the wing. The one staircase dates from circa 1815 additions. The floor is constructed of wide pine boards and the walls are whitewashed plaster. One good wooden paneled fireplace wall remains dating about 1750. All doors were replaced in the 1815 renovation with the exception of a board door between the kitchen and the original main room. The main portion of the house is in fair condition structurally, but suffering
from years of neglect and resulting deterioration. The kitchen wing of the original part of the house is in extreme deterioration, requiring replacement and repair of the main structural members as well as walls, plaster, and almost the total section. The oldest surviving shingles are located on the southeast front of the main house. These hand-hewn cypress shakes are 42 inches long with rounded edges, and are laid with 14 inches exposed to the weather."

  

Christmas Past at 901 Union Street...

901 Union Street (Now renumbered to 847 Union Street), Schenectady, NY --
The house where I grew up

The imposing house, about which I have written before, stands on the northeast corner of the intersection of Union Street (County Road 146) and Gillespie Street in Schenectady, New York.  It was a large enough home to contain both our family (3 children, 2 parents, and my maternal grandmother) as well as my father's dental offices and, waiting room, and laboratory.  My brother and I shared a bedroom, my sister Ann had her own room on the third floor, my parents had a bedroom, and my grandmother had a bedroom.  And there were enough bathrooms to handle the needs of 6 people.

Whenever Christmas rolls around, and especially when I see the movie "A Christmas Story," I recall the many rituals and traditions that made Christmas so special in that home that I dwelled in for my first 18 years.  I'd like to share some of those recollections.

Decorating the house was a big deal.  We lived in a neighborhood dominated by doctors and dentists.  It was important to "keep up with the Jones's."  So the decorating started a little before Thanksgiving.  We wrapped the front porch columns with evergreen garlands, framed windows with lights, and had a small lighted tree on the porch to greet the patients unfortunate enough to have scheduled dental work around the holidays.

The "big" tree always occupied the same location -- in the center of the dining room bay window.  These 3 windows had window seats covered with dark crimson corduroy tufted cushions.  Under the seats, in cubbies protected with a grille of ornate spindles resided three cast iron radiators that kept those seats toasty warm.  The tree had to be kept far enough away from those heaters to prevent it from drying out too quickly.  Thus, we could walk (or crawl) around the back side of the tree to keep track of any new gift boxes that might appear in the weeks leading up to Christmas.

The circle encloses the bay widow where our tree always stood.

There was always the ritual of watching our father arrive with the tree strapped to the top of our 1940 Chevrolet, untying it and cutting the base of the trunk just so, and mounting it in its stand ever so carefully to ensure it would not lean one way or another.  Then we'd all help get it through the kitchen door and take it through the butler's pantry to the dining room, shedding needles all the way.  We kids would all help put water in the base to keep the tree alive.  And my father always dissolved aspirin in the water because he had read somewhere that it extended the life of the tree.

A 1940 Chevrolet, similar to
my father's "tree hauling  car

After Mom vacuumed up the debris, we'd all go to the attic to retrieve the several boxes of ornaments to start unwrapping them and reminiscing about their origins or arguing about who got to hang the "best" ones.  Dad would have strung the lights while we were retrieving the ornaments.  Last, of course, was the hanging of tissue-thin strips of lead tinsel (Yes, tinsel was lead before it was aluminum before it was plastic.).  We were admonished to drape the individual strands, never to toss them. 

After the tree doily was placed around the base came my favorite activity.  We set up my brother's Lionel electric train in an oval around the base of the tree.  He had received his train on his first birthday in September 1937.  My dad wanted to make sure he was raised understanding the importance of trains (notwithstanding the fact that my father had never owned an electric train when he was a child).  After all, Schenectady was the home of the main plant of the American Locomotive Company, ALCO.  By the time I was growing up, they had produced over 50,000 steam locomotives!

My brother's Lionel set was pulled by
their 1937 Torpedo locomotive

Church played a huge role in our collective lives.  This was a family of Irish Catholics (My mother's maiden name was McLaughlin.).  And we lived within a city block of St. John the Evangelist Church, a daunting edifice that dominated the city's skyline with its 220-ft. central spire, topped with a 14-foot cross.  So it's only natural that the pace of church-related activities picked up around the celebration of Christ's birth.

All three children in the Mead family attended St. John's parochial school.  We were taught by Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, a conservative French-Canadian order of nuns.  If you attended St. John's and were a boy, you were expected to be trained as an altar boy and to be a part of the boy's choir.  My brother Bill and I did both.  So at Christmas, our sister Ann would be part of a Christmas pageant while Bill and I were part of an endless series of choir commitments and seasonal Masses ranging from 6:00 AM daily Mass to the Solemn High Midnight Mass that was typically more than 2 hours long.  My mother and grandmother were constantly laundering and ironing our cassocks and surplices that had to be perfect for every service.

It took an army of altar boys for a solemn high Mass in the 1950s

Because we didn't get to bed before about 2:30 on Christmas morning, the opening of presents usually was around 10:00 AM once Bill and I were old enough to be involved in church obligations.  Before that time, we started hounding our parents at the crack of dawn to get up and go downstairs to see what Santa had brought.

The Irish Mail pedal toy I received
shortly after the war

My memory of very special gifts lasts 'til today.  My sister and I each received a brand new 24" Columbia bicycle in 1945 - mine was red, hers was blue.  Electric trains weren't available during World War II, but I received my own Lionel train set in 1946.  I got my own baseball glove in around 1947.  I also received a riding machine called an "Irish Mail" at about the same time.  New shoes (always from Patton & Hall shoes, where my godfather worked) seemed to be a favorite gift.  I almost always wanted something from the A.C. Gilbert catalog.  At various times, I received an Erector set (Size 8-1/2, the ferris wheel set), a chemistry set, and a microscope set.  

The A.C. Gilbert Electric Eye laboratory

In 1949, I received an electric eye set that I played with endlessly.  It was described in the Gilbert catalog that year, "Uncanny! Amazing! Thrilling!  Can you think of anything more uncanny than making a bell ring by striking a match — turning a radio off or on by the flick of a flashlight — making the rising sun operate an alarm? These are only a few of the amazing things you can do with the mysterious Gilbert Electric Eye. By simply waving your hand you can stop and start American Flyer Trains or Erector action models — turn electric lights on and off. Set contains battery box, electric light socket with bulb, RCA Photo-electric tube, RCA Amplifier tube, tube shade, and power unit with variable potentiometer. Operates on 110 volt A.C. only. Packed in blue metal cabinet with illustrated manual of stunts. $13.75. Denver and west, $14.45."  Remember when things cost more in "Denver or West"?

The Lionel diesel locomotives that I
received in 1950 by saving up $21.50

In 1950, Lionel introduced the diesel locomotive Model 2344P, a New York Central twin unit with their latest technology, Magnetraction.  I simply had to get one for Christmas but my parents said that $42.95 for a toy was absolutely out of the question.  My grandmother came to my rescue.  She told me (without my parents' knowledge, I later found out) that if I would save half the cost, she'd pay the other half. I worked for several weeks, washing and waxing cars and washing windows for every neighbor I knew, and finally saved up the $21.50 to give Nana.  I got the locomotive for Christmas.  My parents were furious with my grandmother, but they didn't make me return the locomotive.

A similar thing happened in 1951, when A.C. Gilbert had introduced their Atomic Energy Lab.  I wrote a previous blog entry about my Grandmother's largesse that Christmas.  It had to have been the biggest surprise I ever had on a Christmas morning.

I feel very blessed to have grown up when and where I did.  There was almost always snow at Christmas time.  I always felt secure in a stable (if somewhat dysfunctional) family.  We had lots of friends and relatives to engage in holiday activities.  It was, in retrospect, a pretty magic time.

A Genealogical Breakthrough...

I have indicated in this blog previously that I am fascinated by my family history and occasionally perform research to push the envelope of knowledge further into the past.  My first interest in tracing my ancestry came from my Aunt Ethel, my father's sister.  She had to trace the family's lineage to a Revolutionary War soldier in order to be accepted into the Daughters of the American Revolution.  After she had succeeded in this effort with the help of many librarians and archivists (There was no Internet in the 1940's.), she provided my family with copies of her research.  I became the keeper of the archives by default -- No one else in the family was particularly interested in these useless facts.

The revolutionary soldier that Aunt Ethel had traced as a direct ancestor was David Mead, who lived from 1762 until 1836.  Her notes described him as, "David  Mead, born 1762, died March 22, 1836. A soldier of the revolution: Fourth Regiment of the New York troops, under Colonel James Holmes; later served in the Second Regiment, Dutchess county militia, under Colonel Abraham Brinkerhoff, and in the Fourth Westchester militia, under Colonel Thaddeus Crane. Later lived in Coeymans, Albany County, New York. He married, abt. 1787, Sarah Williams."

Her notes indicated that David had been born in Stanwich, Fairfield County, Connecticut.  The town of Stanwich was eventually absorbed into what we now call Greenwich, CT.  My attempts to find information on David's birth and baptism failed when I was informed many years ago that any records that might still exist are in Connecticut state records that I could only access by going to Hartford.  I simply moved on to other parts of my genealogy.  As a result, this branch of my family tree lay dormant for many years.

Last week, I decided to revisit my Revolutionary War hero.  Aunt Ethel had theorized that we were descendants of a Mead (Perhaps Oliver?) who had arrived from England in 1698.  I always remembered that date because it coincided with the year that the Iroquois massacred the occupants of my home town, Schenectady, when it was little more than a frontier outpost in the Mohawk Valley.

I entered "David Mead Sarah Williams, Coeymans" in Google and searched.  One thing that popped up was the text of a speech that had been delivered in 1903 before the Tarrytown [New York] Historical Society by a Mr. Marcus D. Raymond, entitled "David Williams and the Capture of Andre."  It sounded kind of interesting, but seemed to be unrelated to my search until I read this, "Then David Williams had a sister, Sarah, who married David Mead..."  Could this possibly be my David Mead?  I have learned that when doing genealogical research, it's dangerous to make any assumptions, so I filed this little anecdotal evidence away.

Another statement in this speech inclined me away from believing that this person was my ancestor.  The speaker described that David Williams had a son, Moses, who was baptized in 1769, for whom Sarah Williams was a sponsor.  The Sarah Williams who is my great-great-great grandmother would only have been 9 years old at the time.  It seemed somewhat strange to me that a 9-year-old child would be a baptismal sponsor.  Again, I simply filed this information away.

My Google search yielded another treasure, and this one is significant.  In the New York Genealogical and Biographical Records, Volumes 31-32, is contained the records of the Church of Christ in Salem, Westchester County, New York.  On December 21, 1786, is recorded the marriage of David Mead to Sarah Williams.  My David Mead would have been 24 years old and Sarah 26 years old.  They were both probably living in Westchester County.  I felt that this marriage record probably involved my two relatives of interest.

Then my search hit upon a mother lode of relevant information -- one of those "breakthrough" moments that genealogists wait for.  It is part of the Schenectady Digital History Archive.  The foreword to the document reads as follows, "This information is from Vol. II, pp. 617-618 of Hudson-Mohawk Genealogical and Family Memoirs, edited by Cuyler Reynolds (New York: Lewis Historical Publishing Company, 1911). It is in the Reference collection of the Schenectady County Public Library at R 929.1 R45. Some of the formatting of the original, especially in lists of descendants, may have been altered slightly for ease of reading."  

The opening paragraphs certainly elicited my interest:
"The earliest traces of the Mead family are to be found in a history of "The Norman people and their existing descendants in the British Dominions and the United States of America," published in London, England, 1874. From that volume, it appears that the name Mead is the English form of the Norman "de Poato," which, translated into the English, is Mead, Meade, Mede and Meads. In 1635 there arrived in Massachusetts many ships from England, and among those arrivals is found the name of "Goodman" Mead (called Gabriel Mead). He is the ancestor of the Massachusetts branch. The most recent discoveries strongly indicate that he was accompanied by his brother, William Mead, ancestor of the Greenwich, Connecticut, Meads, from whom the family in Troy descend.

The Elizabeth

William and "Goodman" Mead sailed from Lydd county, Kent, England, in the ship "Elizabeth" in April, 1635. The Mead coat-of-arms, to which it is believed they were entitled, is thus described: Sable, a chevron between three pelicans, or vuln, gules crest; an eagle displayed; motto, "Semper peratus" — always ready. Goodman Mead remained in Massachusetts. William, however, followed the tide of emigration, which at that time was toward the Connecticut valley. The first English settlement was made at Windsor in 1633, and another settlement was made about the same time at Wethersfield, where William Mead settled first, and in 1641 he removed to Stamford with others from Wethersfield. December 7, 1641, "William Mayd (Mead) received from the town of Stamford a homelot and five acres of land." This William is the ancestor of the Fairfield county, Connecticut, family, although family tradition declares that John Mead was also one of those of eastern New York, western Vermont and Meadville, Pennsylvania. He was born about 1600. He married in 1625, and died in Stamford, Connecticut, about 1663. There is no record of his wife, but there is of his three children."

The format of the document beyond this point is a more traditional genealogical layout of generations following one another.  I began scanning down, looking for a David Mead who might coincide with my ancestor.  Then I saw this, "(VI) David (2), son of David (1) and Isabella (Knapp) Mead, was born in 1762, died March 22, 1836. He was a soldier of the revolution, enlisting in the Fourth Regiment of the New York troops, under Colonel James Holmes; also served in the Second Regiment, Dutchess county militia, Colonel Abraham Brinkerhoff, and in the Fourth Westchester militia, Colonel Thaddeus Crane. After the war he settled in the town of Coeymans, Albany county, New York. He married, in 1787, Sarah Williams, born 1760, died June 2, 1849. She was a sister of David Williams, one of the captors of Major Andre, the British spy, so closely connected with Benedict Arnold and his treasure. Five children."  (Emphasis mine)

In addition to the thrill of having extended my family tree back by several generations and knowing when and how my first Mead ancestors arrived -- in 1635, not 1698 as I had believed, I also wondered about that last sentence.  Who was this Major Andre, the British spy?  This had the makings of family lore.

It turns out that it was a HUGE deal.  Major Andre was in cahoots with Benedict Arnold to turn over the fortress at West Point to the British.  This likely would have enabled the British to divide the colonies, isolating New England from the rest of the colonies and would have ultimately led to the defeat of the Continental Army under George Washington.  Andre was caught by three members of the Continental Army while smuggling secret documents from Benedict Arnold to the British leadership on Long Island.  What followed is described in Wikipedia: "André rode on in safety until 9 a.m. on 23 September, when he came near Tarrytown, New York, where armed militiamen John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams stopped him.

A lithograph of the capture of Major John Andre

André thought that they were Tories because one was wearing a Hessian soldier's overcoat. "Gentlemen," he said, "I hope you belong to our party." "What party?" asked one of the men. "The lower party," replied André, meaning the British. "We do," was the answer. André then told them that he was a British officer who must not be detained, when, to his surprise, they said that they were Americans, and that he was their prisoner. He then told them that he was an American officer and showed them his passport, but the suspicions of his captors were now aroused. They searched him and found Arnold's papers in his stocking. Only Paulding could read and Arnold was not initially suspected. André offered them his horse and watch, if they would let him go, but they did not accept the bribe. André testified at his trial that the men searched his boots for the purpose of robbing him. Paulding realized that he was a spy and took him to Continental Army headquarters in Sands Hill."

Andre was later tried by a military court and found guilty of being behind American lines "under a feigned name and in a disguised habit" and ordered that "Major André, Adjutant-General to the British Army, ought to be considered as a Spy from the enemy, and that agreeable to the law and usage of nations, it is their opinion, he ought to suffer death."  He was hanged as a spy at Tappan, New York on 2 October 1780.

Major Andre's hanging

The three captors became instant national heroes.  A special medallion, known as the Fidelity Medallion, was authorized by the Continental Congress and awarded to each of them.  This is the first recognized military medal in the history of the United States.  It was never awarded again.  Congress also awarded each of them a lifetime pension of $200 per month.  This equates to about $6,500/mo. in current value.  David Williams is buried in the Old Stone Fort Cemetery in Schoharie, NY.  The inscription on his obelisk reads: "He with his compatriots John Paulding and Isaac VanWart on the 22nd of September 1780, arrested Major John Andre and found on his person treasonable papers in the handwriting of Gen. Benedict Arnold, who sought by treachery to surrender the military post of West Point into the hands of the enemy. In resisting the great bribes of their prisoner for his liberty, they showed their incorruptible patriotism; the American army was saved and our beloved Country became free." So with a single search and its results, I extended a branch of my family tree by 5 generations, learned the time and means by which my earliest Mead ancestors arrived on these shores, and discovered that I have a great-great-grand uncle who was a genuine national hero.  What a terrific weekend I had documenting these findings in my genealogical records.

A Tribute to Ron Gray...

Ron and Dorothy Gray at the time I first met them

On September 16, 2007, I wrote an entry in this blog describing a visit to the home of Ron and Dorothy Gray in Bridgehampton, NY.  Later, in February of 2008, I wrote of a visit that Mary Ann and I made to Ron and Dorothy's home while Mary Ann spent a weekend with me in Connecticut.  My friendship with the Grays started when the Navy sent me to Groton, Connecticut, as Engineering Officer of the USS Maloy (DE-791), the last World War II era Buckley-class Destroyer Escort.  Ron Gray was the other half of the engineering department, the Damage Control Assistant.  We were also "roommates" in a tiny 10 ft. by 12 ft. stateroom in which he had the upper bunk and I, the lower.  It's fortunate that we really hit it off and became close friends.

Ron left the navy after we decommissioned the Maloy in 1965 and he and Dorothy and their daughter, Kristin, returned to Long Island.  There, he built a successful contracting and home construction business, Graystone Builders, Inc., in Bridgehampton, NY.

Ron describing some of the features of a home he had built
during my visit in 2007

One of many magnificent homes built by Graystone Builders, Inc.

I was fortunate enough to see some of the homes that he and Dorothy built.  They will remain as a lasting tribute to Ron.  Dorothy called yesterday to let me know that he passed away earlier this month.  He had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease a few years ago and had suffered greatly.

Even though I hadn't seen Ron regularly for many years since we established our friendship, he had a strong influence on me.  From the moment I made his acquaintance in the close confines of a small combatant ship, three things were evident:

• Ron was loyal to a fault.  He never once to my knowledge failed in that trait.  He loved his country, navy ship, crew, family, friends with an undying passion.
• Ron Gray took immense pride in his work.  He was a perfectionist.  He demanded that same attitude from his subordinates.  Sloppy work was not tolerated.
• He was unflappable.  As Damage Control Assistant, Ron was responsible for firefighting and de-flooding, among other things.  When we ran drills or had actual incidents, Ron remained outwardly calm in the presence of danger and turmoil.
• He listened.  More than once, I noticed that he spent much more time eliciting information from others rather than dominating a conversation.  That's a very powerful personal trait.

I learned a lot from Ron and hopefully will not forget the lessons he shared with me.  Rest in peace, my Friend.  And may God comfort Dorothy and Kristin as they move on without your strong presence.

A Stormy Hiking Trip...

Picture of me taken on the Stormy Hiking Trip

It was the Fall of 1977.  I had been dating Margo Burge for only a few weeks after having been introduced by Jim and Linda Schmitt.  The Schmitts and I had known each other for several years and Jim had gone backpacking with me on numerous occasions.  It seemed perfectly fine then, when one evening after the Schmitts had hosted a nice meal for Margo and me, that the four of us decided to do a backpacking adventure together on Thanksgiving weekend.  Thanksgiving would fall on November 24th.  We'd drive to the Nantahala Outdoor Center in Wesser, North Carolina, and get a shuttle to Stecoah Gap on the Appalachian Trail.  Then we'd hike south toward the outdoor center, taking two days, and spending the night at the Sassafras Gap Shelter, about seven miles from our starting point.

A sign on the AT describing the section we hiked

We'd be hiking generally uphill the first day, going from 3,165 ft. elevation at Stecoah Gap to about 4,330 ft. at the shelter, on top of Cheoah Bald.  On the second day, we'd hike generally downhill, through a section that was known to be the steepest part of the AT at the time, the "Jump-Up," before concluding our hike with a hearty meal at the N.O.C. (2,051 ft. elev.)  It would be an easy two-day hike to introduce the girls to backpacking.

The next several weeks were spent planning for the trip, buying boots and packs for the ladies, and deciding what clothes to pack.  I told Margo that the weather in Western North Carolina could be quite dramatic in the Spring and Fall.  We'd need to prepare for balmy weather as well as extreme cold.  We included gloves, long underwear, hat, and a down jacket in our plan, as well as shorts.  Who knew what to expect?

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, the excited hiking party left Pass Christian, Mississippi, in the Schmitt's car.  We arrived in Wesser late that night and stayed in the Motel that was part of the N.O.C.  The next morning we got up and had a hearty breakfast and got hooked up with our shuttle driver.  The weather was spectacular -- clear, sunny skies and temperature in the mid sixties -- perfect hiking weather.  We drove to Stecoah Gap, where the driver dropped us off with all our gear and we watched him disappear back down the two-lane road.  Our car would be waiting for us at our destination.

We were on the trail by 10:00 AM.  It wasn't long before I heard the first jibe, "I'm sure glad I packed a down jacket."  Followed not long after by, "I'm really going to need those warm gloves."  This got old in a hurry, but I kept my mouth shut.  I had seen on the bulletin board at the Outdoor Center that a cold front was coming through along with potential snow flurries and much lower temperatures.  It was good that no matter what, we would be prepared.

The view of Stecoah, NC from Cheoah Bald --
The view we never saw because of snow and fog

Along about 1:00 PM, it began to cloud over and the temperature started to drop.  Not long after that, we felt the first hint of drizzle.  We stopped and added a layer of clothing and put on ponchos.  Soon the drizzle had turned to sleet.  By the time we reached the top of Cheoah Bald, we were in a blinding snow storm.  According to our guidebook, there was a lookout point with a "spectacular view of the town of Stecoah, far below."  We saw snow.

After a short search, we located the shelter.  We tied our tarps across the open front of the structure to defend against the wind and snow.  By now, we had several layers of clothing on and no one was complaining about having brought so much.  

The current Sassafras Gap shelter that has long-since
replaced the one in which we froze

Not long after we arrived at the shelter, we heard voices and soon three men dressed in shorts and t-shirts appeared headed north, the direction from which we had come.  We told them they were still 6 miles from the parking lot where they informed us they had left their car.  We offered to let them stay with us and share clothing, sleeping bags and food, but they insisted on hiking on.  I have often wondered how they ever made it down that sometimes steep trail in the dark so lightly dressed.  It had to have been a miserable experience.

We put our sleeping bags close together so we could benefit from each other's body warmth.  After a very quick dinner of freeze-dried something, we decided to turn in, still talking about the northbound hikers.

As dawn greeted us, it was 17° F.  The wind had died down.  Our tarps had worked fairly well, but Jim and I had failed to put our boots inside our sleeping bags and they were frozen stiff as boards.  I was nominated to get up first and get a fire going in the now snow-filled fire pit.  We had had the foresight to gather some kindling and firewood when we found the shelter, so it wasn't long before we had a fire going.  We got our things thawed out, somewhat dried, and packed after a breakfast cooked on our trusty Svea 123 camp stoves (Do they even make those any more?)

After packing, we began our descent.  I think I made most of it on my fanny.  The rain before the snow had coated the ground with ice which was now snow-covered and treacherous.  It was a case of grabbing trees for stability as one slid down the steep leaf-covered icy incline.  We were too busy trying to remain upright to carry on much of a conversation, but at one point, Jim said to me, "I'm afraid the girls will never do this again."

Three or four hours later, the trail leveled out and before long we were sitting at a table in the warm dining room of the Nantahala Outdoor Center.  We ordered some homemade soup and bread.  Much to Jim's and my surprise Margo and Linda began talking about what equipment they would need for the next trip!  And there were many, many more.