Winter 1884

I've neglected the blog for several weeks while catching up on non-book related activities.  We put up a tree for the first time in more than a decade, got our Christmas newsletter ready, cooked a Thanksgiving dinner for ten all by myself (something else I have not done in many years) and enjoyed the lovely fall weather.  But the high here yesterday was 32 so I am inspired to stay inside by the wood stove and get back to work on VERMONT CLIPPINGS.  Here are a few clippings from December 1884.

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The relatives of Carrie J. Welton, a Waterbury, Conn., girl, who was frozen to death on Pike’s Peak, have determined to contest her will on the ground of mental unsoundness.  [Author’s Note:  The relatives lost.  Carrie lived for a while in Colorado Springs. It was there she discovered a love for climbing mountains and she was one of the first women to climb several of the higher peaks in the area.  She was stranded by a snowstorm on Long’s Peak, not Pike’s Peak, and was the first fatality on that peak. In her will she left $7000 for a statue of her horse, Knight, to be placed on Waterbury Green and $100,000 to the ASPCA.]

Lake Champlain is frozen over from Whitehall to Port Henry.  There is good skating at Rouses Point.

The choirs are busily practicing Christmas music.

A regular old-fashioned snow storm, Wednesday afternoon and evening, giving excellent sleighing.  The thermometer descended to 22 degrees below zero downtown and 26 on the hill, Saturday morning.  Through the day the mercury steadily rose and Sunday morning it was 20 above zero.

Some rules for winter:  Never lean with the back upon anything that is cold.

Never take warm drinks and then immediately go out in the cold.

Keep the back, especially between the shoulder blades, well covered; also, the chest well protected.

In sleeping in a cold room establish the habit of breathing through the nose and never with the mouth open.

Never go to bed with cold feet.

Never omit regular bathing.  The cold will close the pores and favor congestion or other diseases.

Merely warm the back by the fire only until it has become comfortably warm.  To do otherwise is debilitating.

Never stand still in cold weather and always avoid standing on ice or snow or where exposed to a cold wind.

Meow

I came across this heartwarming story about a mother cat and her kitten this morning in a November 1884 Vermont newspaper.  There were no black cat stories in the October 31, issue of the paper.  In fact, there wasn't a single word written about Halloween, so we'll have to make do without a spooky black cat story.

There were three cats in a Williams street family and the lady of the house concluded that one was sufficient to do all the business and an edict of death was passed on the old cat and her kitten.  The question of the manner of death was settled and the chloroform purchased.  Days passed after the chloroform was in the house before the executioner could muster courage to execute the sentence.  To facilitate matters the lady thought that some laudanum, added to the cat’s milk, would make chloroforming more easy.  The drug was put in the milk and tendered the old cat.  She tasted the food, cast her eyes suspiciously about her and refused to eat.  The kitten rushed to the dish to partake of the milk and was violently knocked away by the old cat, who took a corner of a mat and covered over the dish to hide it from the kitten and prevent her from taking the “medicine.”  The lady could not believe it possible that the act was intentional on the part of the cat, and uncovered the dish and again tendered the milk to her.  She again knocked the kitten from the dish and covered it over more carefully than before.  This repetition of the protective act gained the good will of the lady and she gave up killing the cats.  She cannot satisfy her mind, however, whether the action of the cat was prompted by instinct or reason.–Norwich Bulletin.

An Eccentric Penny Pincher

We visited family in Loveland, CO, over the weekend.  Drove through Rocky Mountain National Park on the way there and got caught for an hour in a traffic jam on I-25.  The golden aspens in the mountains are beautiful and we had a wonderful visit with Jason, Val and Shep.

Yesterday we went to Salida and had a picnic in the park by the river.  We bought a Shipwreck sandwich at Sweeties in downtown Salida and will be stopping there again.

So, I've been off having a wonderful time instead of tending to my blog but winter will be here soon and we need to take advantage of these perfect days.  There is already snow on some of the 14,000+' peaks to remind us these days are numbered.

Today's story is from the 1884 Burlington FREE PRESS newspaper and is about some serious penny pinching.  Enjoy.

“Brunswick” writes from the Boston Sunday Gazette: I think that there can be but the one opinion of Mr. Ben Richardson, late of One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street, Harlem.  If he is not an eccentric, then no one is.  For a number of years Mr. Richardson has occupied a frame house set back from the sidewalk, and labelled in bold letters “Lincoln Cottage.”  The front yard is filled with chickens, which roost at night upon the most convenient, as well as most conspicuous thing in the yard, the State Coach, late property of His Excellency President George Washington. Though little more than a wreck today, one can still see the remains of grandeur in its gilded ornaments and crimson panels. 
    Those who saw the last Evacuation day procession in this city will remember this coach, which formed an interesting feature of the parade.  From the two small windows under the roof of the cottage the mouths of cannon are projected.  One window is named Fort Sumter and the other Fort Lincoln.  Peeping down the front chimney is the effigy of a chimney sweep, life size, which stands there in all winds and weathers.  The outside of Lincoln Cottage is a fair index of what may be found within.  There is nothing new in the house.  Its owner has a passion for relics, and especially for anything connected with Washington or Lincoln.  He has a number of suits of clothes that were once worn by these historic Presidents, and no end of walking sticks upon which they have leaned.  Some of his relics are of considerable value; others are simply rubbish.  But of all the curious things in Lincoln Cottage, perhaps the most novel is this manifesto, printed in bold letters, which hangs in a frame over the parlor door.  It reads, as near as I can remember, as follows, with the exception of the woman’s name:

THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT AMELIA BROWN IS MY HOUSEKEEPER
AND NOTHING MORE; AND THAT SHE NEVER HAS HELD ANY
OTHER RELATION TO ME, AND HAS NO CLAIM UPON MY PROPERTY,
AND NEED MAKE NONE AFTER MY DEATH.––BENJ. RICHARDSON

   This must be pleasant reading for Amelia Brown, who passes under it a dozen times a day.
   Benjamin Richardson is a man somewhere between 60 and 70 years of age, who dresses like a tramp, and wears a beard – or did until within the past few weeks – that reached from his chin to his feet.  He did not display this unpleasant appendage on all occasions but buttoned it under his coat, leaving an ordinary amount on the outside.  If you should happen to meet Mr. Richardson standing on the corner of a street, cooling his grizzled locks by holding his hat in his hand, you would, if charitably inclined, be sure to drop a penny into it.  If you did, you would be carrying coals to Newcastle.  Mr. Benjamin Richardson is worth, in round numbers, $8,500,000!  All well invested, too, some in solid railroad bonds, some in California vineyards, and the rest, where he made it, in Harlem real estate.
  Richardson began his career, as did his townsman, John Kelly, as a grate setter.  He had a frugal turn of mind and spent all the time not engaged in grate setting picking up bricks in vacant lots or from among such ruins as might be found about the vicinity of New York.  These he used in his business; and by such practices of economy he got a little money ahead, with which he bought lots in Harlem, then the remote suburbs of the city.  Every dollar he made he shrewdly invested in this manner, until he was the largest real estate owner in the now flourishing annexation.  Of course, the value of his property quadrupled and more.  Then he turned his attention to California, where he has several prosperous vineyards and makes quantities of wine.
    Notwithstanding his wealth, Old Ben, as his neighbors call him, practices the same economies resorted to in those days when he gathered bricks to set grates.  He has been married and has a granddaughter living with him.  His son left home long ago because he didn’t care to follow the occupation insisted upon by his father, that of a nail gatherer.  His father made him knock the nails out of all the old boards he could find along the streets, bring them home, and spend his leisure in hammering them straight.  This did not seem to the son a very useful of remunerative profession, so he said, “good morning” to his father, and one day went forth to seek his fortune in some more promising channel.  The old man took up the nail gathering business himself, to which he adds his old trade of brick collecting.
    It would be impossible to imagine anyone practicing more rigid economies than this millionaire. One evening a friend of mine was at his house, and the granddaughter came into the parlor to light the gas. One burner was lighted, but for some reason it was necessary to have more light, and she scratched a match for lighting purposes. The head broke off, and she took another. Old Ben heaved a sigh.  “Is this all you have learned with my careful upbringing – to take two matches too light two burners? Why didn't you light the broken stem in the gas and use that? Such waste!  Such waste!” he said, with a melancholy shake of the head.
    A short time ago it occurred to Mr. Richardson that the place he was occupying is too valuable for living purposes, so he concluded to rent it. He did not intend, however, that any real estate dealer should make anything out of the transaction, so he fastened little signs all over the outside of the house, and even tied them to the shrubbery. “This place for rent; inquire within.” Finally an inquirer applied within, and the lease was made out.  Lincoln College will henceforth be a summer garden for the sale of beer and the performance of a wheezy orchestra. So Old Ben spiked his guns, packed his relics, and wheeled Washington’s State Coach down to an equally dilapidated old house, with more grounds around it, at the foot of 128th street, on the East river.  But I have not told you the most singular thing about Mr. Richardson.  He has founded and pays for the entire running expenses of a School of Mines in a Western State, where any one desiring to be educated for an engineer may get his education free.

A dilemma, a divorce, and a spool of thread.

Yesterday didn't feel at all like Monday so therefore the blog didn't even cross my mind.  This is one of the hazards of being retired but a small price to pay.  What did we do on a day that felt more like Wednesday or Friday than Monday?  We went to the pool only to discover two school buses of kids there so we walked past the pool and  into the spa, where no children are allowed, sat in the hot tub and in the sauna, floated around in the lap pool, and took a nap.  Small price to pay.  :-)

I have been spending most of my time finding goodies in the Burlington, Vermont FREE PRESS - 1884.  Here are a few clippings I found yesterday that made me laugh:

The season is furnishing novelties in horrors.  It was found one day last week by the relatives of Horace Baldwin, who had died at Oak Creek, Wis., that the coffin provided was quite too short for the remains, and a nephew proceeded to sever the legs of the dead man, using a common saw.  While at this ghastly work he imagined that the corpse moved, whereupon he fainted.  At this juncture another stalwart relative finished the job and the funeral was proceeded with.  Soon after the occurrence the neighbors threatened to mob the nephew, though why the other guilty man should escape their criticism is a matter that can hardly be understood outside of a community where such occurrences as misfits in coffins and their remedies are tolerated.

The wife of a western undertaker applies for a divorce on the ground that her husband is a sleep walker and annoys her very much by getting up in the night and attempting to lay her out for burial.  We should think this might disturb her sleep a little.

 A certain pretentious shopper, after teasing the clerks of a dry goods store beyond the forbearance limit, pompously ordered a spool of thread to be sent to her house.  It was agreed that she should be made an example of and a warning to her kind.  She was surprised, and her neighbors were intensely interested, shortly after she arrived at home.  A common dray, drawn by four horses, proceeded slowly up to her door.  On the dray, with bare arms, were a number of stalwart laborers.  They were holding on vigorously to some object which she could not see.  It was a most puzzling affair.  The neighbors stared.  After a great deal of whip cracking and other impressive ceremonies the dray was backed against the curb.  There, reposing calmly, end up, was the identical spool of thread which she had “ordered.”  With the aid of a plank it was finally rolled, barrel fashion, safely to the sidewalk.  After a mortal struggle it was finally “up ended” on the purchaser’s doorstep.  The fact that the purchaser came out a minute later and kicked her own property into the gutter detracted nothing from the scene.