Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Dr. John P. Ayres
Interviewed by: Susan Dobandi
Date of interview: 4 March 1978
Susan: Dr. Ayres, could you start by telling us where you were born, something of your parents and, ah, your early childhood experiences, and then go on with your schooling and how you became a veterinarian?
Dr. Ayres: I was born in, ah, Broome County, in Corbettsville, NY, Snake Creek Road, which in those days was a dirt road, and my father didn't own the farm that I was born on, so I presume that makes me a tenant farmer’s son, which seem to make for great relationships and rapport with some people. However, my father had the determination that someday he would own that farm, and he did own the farm and today I own the farm, which is the story that, ah, goes with the majority of people in this country. Ah, my mother was orphaned at—at sixteen and she had, ah, five younger brothers and sisters and, ah, she went to work and supported them and held her family together in turn, so I was therefore blessed with two people that were ideal for parents, because my father was a strong, steady, determined individual, in a rural atmosphere, and had a—had a very happy boyhood on the farm, perhaps the happiest days of my life, and again I emphasize, as a tenant farmer’s son, because ah, having lived 60-plus years I find out that the biggest asset is not being left with money, but being left with pride and responsibility to this government, that we live and enjoy and have the opportunity to develop ourselves to our maximum, and my parents strongly believed that and in those days the farm we had, ah, was primarily a dairy farm, a small dairy farm of a hundred seventy-five acres.
Our house had at least four if not five bedrooms, as I recall, and we were, had none of the niceties that we reflect on today. We had three stoves that burned wood, that was our only source of heat and therefore, of course they went out at night and it was a question of my father getting up, perhaps at 4:30 in the morning, as I recall, and getting the first stove started, and then the rest of us coming down one by one and, ah, entering into it. Having no heat in the house, obviously we had no running water. The well for the house was thirty feet from the house, and that was partly the responsibility of us children, to bring the water in—in pails, and the warm water was heated on the tank on the side of the stove, as I recall, and that took care of the acid, of getting the water in. The waste material of the body, the toilet was the common standard privy at the time. It was located twenty feet from the rear of the house, and everything that James, ah, Whitcomb Riley, as I recall he wrote a piece of poetry on “The Passing of the Backhouse,” and that is, ah, one that certainly fills the bill and describes it as accurately as any farmer’s son could. We—ah, my brothers and I had—we were blessed with two brothers and two sisters. We all went to the Corbettsville school, which was a two-room schoolhouse—one floor above the other, and it still stands and is now a residence—and I think that was the first time I realized that I was handicapped. I was handicapped in being left-handed and had a schoolteacher who had one thought, that I would become right-handed and it was a question of wills, and I'm still left-handed today, but I well remember her hitting with the ruler, hitting my left hand with the ruler when I'd use it, and I lived long enough to tell her when I was a fairly successful doctor that—that was the only thing I regretted of that period in school, that she had many valuable assets, but her determination to break me was probably only exceeded by my determination that I wouldn't be broken. That was my first handicap, and there came a time, then, when we left there and moved into Binghamton and left the farm behind, and my father went to work because he couldn't buy that farm for another man at a dollar a day. I remember his wages were a dollar a day, and he was considered to work for that a minimum of ten hours each day, so it was about ten cents an hour he got.
Obviously, living in Binghamton and working outside was something couldn't successfully for him, and so he located a job in Kirkwood and operated a feed and coal supply that, ah, took care of the people in the Village of Kirkwood and the farmers throughout there, and it probably was the best thing that period in my life, because again I mention I was blessed with a farmer who could be a businessman, who never thought this country owed him a living. He was grateful for what it offered and he imbued that to us, that we had the opportunity to achieve whatever we wanted. That was a period somewhere between 1925 and 1930 that we were there, and that, in that period, I had many friends there, and I want to emphasize that because I still have, ah, but the outstanding unfortunate thing that happened to me there was in the Kirkwood school, which again was a two room school. I went there and I was the only Catholic boy in eight grades when Al Smith dared to run for President, and I still carry one of the scars over my eye from the beatings I used to take because a Catholic dared to run for President. I laugh now when people tell about minorities and their problems. I don't know what they would do if they were the one in the entire school, ah, but the challenge was there, and today I say, “God Bless it,” because it's the challenges that makes us if we have the guts to rise above them, because of the ones that attacked me in those days, we all lived to forget, though—that period, most of us were kids, we were all kids. We really didn't know what the whole problem was about. It was only what, we were getting it at home and it was through ignorance that we were receiving it, and my side of the question wasn't, of course, was, ah, that someday there was going to be a Catholic President, and I've lived long enough to see one and I'd have to admit that I didn't vote for him when he ran. I—I was one that voted for Richard Nixon [in 1960], so you see, the years have worn off the antagonism that might have developed in my mind so that I would’ve blindly voted for the man of my religion, and instead I voted against him.
And of many of those that perhaps were pretty unfriendly at that period, I lived to do their veterinary work, which I think is a challenge to many of us, to overcome the difficulties that we have in our youth. Then I went on from Kirkwood and my father bought the farm I was born on and we went back, we turned to the farm, and from there I—I gradually formed the opinion I would become a veterinarian those years, even when my father had this feed business.
I was out working and I bought a horse for eighteen dollars—I bought a horse for eighteen dollars—and I agreed to work for the man eighteen days, and when my father looked over the horse he told me, as a good father should, “You got the horse in effect without my advice. It's not worth bringing it home.” The horse lasted a few months, lasted such a short time that I hadn't earned the payment on the farmer’s farm for it, and my father insisted that I go there after the horse was dead and work it out with the farmer. It was a humiliating thing, but it was the best thing happened to me. If you give a man your word, you keep your word. If you buy something, good or bad, you’re stuck with it. There is no whining, no whimpering or crying out, and I look back and I think that was my first real business transaction that was a complete flop, but I had two parents and neither one relented. I had to go there and pick potatoes in the fields in the fall after the horse was dead until I paid for a dead horse, and so I thoroughly understand the expression about buying a dead horse because I bought one almost dead, with that I formed my opinion on there ought to be a better way to do business that I had done, and I—I think it was a beginning of a challenge to me, because I think each one of these, ah, strengthens my determination to do more.
I had dogs in those days, and cats, I always had them as a boy, and ah, we were impoverished, ah, not with the point of pity do I say, but it wasn't considered practical and it wasn't practical to take the dog to a veterinarian in, in those days. So I had a dog with distemper in that town of Kirkwood, and I went and talked with the man about it and he gave me some sulfur to give the dog and he knew it would cure the dog, and well, the dog would throw up, I guess every time I'd push the sulfur down the poor dog, and eventually the dog had fits—he had repeated fits in our home—and the man was corning along that I had talked to, and he was carrying his gun, and I remember as a boy him opening the bedroom window, saying, “That dog has rabies,” and shooting it and splattering the brains over the wall of the bedroom. Of course the dog had distemper and, ah, I guess that again fortified my there must be a better way than this, and—
Then we went back to the farm and I raised rabbits. My brothers and I had, at one time, over a hundred rabbits, and we got into other things that—raising calves, and of course we had dairy cattle, and in that transition on the farm from being born there and then coming back years later, I reflect on what a vast difference, how things were changing—when we left that farm we had no running water, we had no inside toilets in the house. We were cold in the winter, we, ah, we had an old broken down car when we left the farm. It was a used car.
In the winter when we needed water for the cattle we had a stream, there was a little stream, there was a pipe, brought water outside the barn. The cows would go out to drink, and the pipe would freeze in the winter, so you would have to go down to Snake Creek and cut a hole and drive the cows down through the snow, and they'd slide on the ice and I—I just can't remember any of our cattle breaking legs there, but how many, many cattle I saw afterward did break their legs on the ice trying to get out to drink water where the holes had been cut for them—then when we returned to the farm, all that had changed. We put in a heat within the house, got a new well, added inside plumbing so that my poor mother, for the first time on that farm ever, had running water. We had the same thing at the barn, a well, drinking buckets for the cows, metal stanchions, and the biggest thing of all from the standpoint of quality of milk—and even we could detect that—was, for the first time, we really had electricity and we had the means of quick refrigeration of milk so that we had quality milk.
When we left the farm in the summer we had to get ice out of our icehouse that had been put there the previous winter, that we had put there, by cutting it off of the Susquehanna River and hauling it up on big sleighs with the horse. The farmers got together, pooled their efforts and brought this ice home, and then it was covered with sawdust, and then in the summer, piece by piece, it was taken out. It was cleaned off, as best one could, of the sawdust, and put in water to chill the milk down instead—in that period of time of change we had, it was the beginning of quality controlled milk and we had inspectors coming to the farm and the improvement in milk rapidly following.
One of my memories there, however, was again the question of veterinary services and a dog I had that would never stay home. He was probably the stud dog of the town of Conklin, and at my end I guess I was sort of proud of him, ’cause he took on many a dog and whipped them. He also got into a bit of trouble, too, of course, got me in and therefore got my family in, and so my family made arrangements for me to take the dog with my oldest brother to this man—now long since dead, so I guess I could tell the story on how the operation, how that dog was castrated—and he took the dog into the barn and he wrapped a chain around the dog's mouth and he told my brother to hold that, and he took out his jackknife and then he deliberately sharpened while I was watching him, and then he just cut the testicles off. There was no tying off blood vessels or nothing, and that dog lingered along for perhaps three or four days before he finally bled to death at our home, and I watched it each day, and my parents didn't know but they thought there was something wrong, but they thought that man had more experience and he assured them that the bleeding would stop, well, it didn't fix it at all. The dog bled to death. So I think that was the final straw in in that aspect of my thinking there must be a better way to do this, and it sort of convinced me that, ah, I was going to do a little more with that, even though I would talk to people about becoming a lawyer, and in due time I went to Cornell, and then I was trying to get one year in and my father had a stroke. He was confined to a wheelchair from then on.
The Depression was on us and there was no question about, ah, help in those days. There was no tuition assistance program and again I say, “Thank God there was no tuition assistance program.” I have little respect for the present-day college students who whine for extra money when there are jobs available all over the county for them. I was successful in the veterinarian college. I was given a room in the basement to live in, and I worked for 40¢ an hour and I used to have to sit up nights, watch the mares have colts, and I cleaned laboratory equipment and so forth, and I worked my way through college and I—I came home rarely, because as I say, I, my pride had then, I think, equalled my parents’. I wouldn't ask them for a penny, because I knew they had all the struggling they could trying to maintain the homestead, and with my father in a wheelchair and confined. I learned at that point in life when he had this stroke that—it was interesting, that everyone my father owed money to had it well-documented, people who owed my father, and I knew they did even from the days in the feed business, he didn't have it well-tallied, and many of the people I think owed him never paid him. I think, again, it sort of toughened me to realize life was that way. In fact, I remember one man, he said he owed my father and he said he wanted to work it out in plowing, and he came to our farm and he plowed until he thought the bill was square, and at that time, nor until the time he died, no one ever knew how much he owed my father, and he wouldn't tell us and we didn't know, but it was a question. My father was primarily a dairy man and a smalltime, ah, fellow in this market that we call this outside world, and he wasn't able to cope, so financially, we weren't in a good, ah, set of financial circumstances, not because he didn't work, but because he didn't realize that everything had to be documented. He was, at that point, not businesslike enough in case of catastrophe, which we've all learned we have to be, but it did provide a good basis for me to realize that if I was going to make it at Cornell, I was going to make it on my own, and I did, and I remember the high point of my life in that was when I came home and I gave my mother three hundred dollars, besides going through college, and then I went to New York and worked, and in due time I worked in dog and cat hospitals, and then I came back and went to work for the Dairymen's League—[Clock chimes]---which was a milk company, and I worked for them two years until the Army called me up, and I was five years in the Army.
Then I came home and became City Veterinarian of Binghamton, and in that period I had seen the transition, the change that had gone on again, and of course I was then completely on the other side. I was no longer someone from off the farm. I was then a man that had become a doctor of veterinary medicine and served in the ranks of the Army in quality control of foods in general, from the state of Maine to Florida and as far west as Michigan. I served in ranks of Lieutenant and Captain and Major and Lt. Colonel—ah, in fact, when I came home from the Army I was Chief Veterinarian in the First Air Force and I was the youngest veterinarian in it, and the Chief, so I came home with that kind of background to bring about quality control of foods in general in the City of Binghamton and the farms that supplied milk to the city and the milk plants, and found myself pitted to some degree against many of my former acquaintances—I use “acquaintances” rather than “friends” because I, ah—some of them didn't accept change, men who get older, I guess many men don't accept change, especially coming from a younger person—but I remained a city veterinarian for fourteen years before I went with the State. I saw all the changes come about. I saw rabies so bad in Broome County in 1947 that we had over 50 cases of rabies in the city of Binghamton in July of 1947, and I can say in 1977 we didn't have a single case in the city, and the few cases that we do have outside of the city are generally attributed to wildlife, where I'm sure rabies will always exist, but by vaccinations we eliminate that, so that three quarters of the veterinarians in the county have never seen a case of rabies. They talk about it, and we know it's there in wildlife, but we just don't see it. That was accomplished by the use of vaccination, and the same thing is true with the dogs, but I've experienced—in treating my own dog in Kirkwood with distemper and using sulfur, it merely made the dog vomit and had him shot in the head in my bedroom—has changed now by the advent of vaccination, so that no dog need die of distemper, it's a question of, perhaps, our failure to get to the people that can do it. On the other hand, I do think there was a—a stronger character in the people then—if they couldn't afford a veterinarian, they said they couldn't—today many people want the dogs, or want the children, and yet they don't want what goes with them, and so it is part of the work and the responsibility that goes with having pets or having children, you have to have enough responsibility to be willing to sacrifice for them, and sacrifice isn't done by an expression of words, but by acts.
Susan: Let's continue, Dr. Ayres, by telling us something about the women in your life.
Dr. Ayres: Well, the women in my life start with my mother, and my mother was a school teacher, and in those days it took two short winter courses to become a school teacher and one stayed ahead of one’s students, I believe, and therefore she was the one that instilled into us education was the only way to get ahead in this country, that was the, ah, the best and logical course of events. I can remember when I would be losing the rounds while Al Smith ran for President, this mother of mine’d tell me at home how I could overcome them, and that was only one way, by education, and my mother was proud in the sense of real pride, but she knew that success for our family meant being a partner to my father, and she was that, and many a night and many a morning my mother was with us milking the cows, which today might sound degrading, but my mother, she was the best.
Then the next woman in my life was my wife, and my wife, thank God, was a nurse. She was of the generation when the nurse had all the basic training that was needed to inculcate in her mind the willingness to, ah, take care of the patient in all events, so—so it really did never seem to me a difference whether the patient was a human or an animal, and I've been privileged, as a result of having such a partner, to have my practice always contiguous to my house. When I had a heavy practice and my wife could advise the owners of animals as well as I could, and many times, I've had to admit, much better. She had a charm that I didn't have, because I was of the generation that, ah, was pretty practical, and you had to tell someone very bluntly whether the animal would make it or not, and there was an economic value on animals in a large animal practice that there isn't on a small animal practice. My wife had the right background by becoming a nurse, and my wife is first generation from Lithuania. Her father came from Lithuania and crossed over the border and got away from the Russians who had engulfed, ah, Lithuania years ago, as they again did after World War II, and that little country, like the little country that my people immigrated from, Ireland, has stood the mistreatment of a larger power all the time, and my mother dwelt much on history and pride, family loyalty, and knew that her people had come from Nova Scotia and she carefully documented what little knowledge she had, sufficient that even though she never knew her relatives in Nova Scotia, nor did her father before her know the relatives in Nova Scotia, with what she had documented I was able, after a hundred-plus years, to locate relatives in Nova Scotia and develop a genealogy and have composed and written a twelve-page booklet on my relatives from the time that they appeared in Nova Scotia in about the year of 1800.
Last fall my wife and I went to Ireland and tried to establish connections there, but in a country that, ah, 50% were either starved to death or forced into immigration by the horrendous laws of England, ah, it is very hard to establish much on genealogy—however, we are pursuing it and we'll follow along on that. But prior to that time, even before I retired and became, in the present-day terminology, the “double dipper”—because, ah, I did continue my Army career in reserve and I continued my work for New York State until I achieved a pension in both, ah, I have kept my private practice—but I did start with my children and, I have a boy and a girl and I started taking them, first to Puerto Rico, and I went on a group tour and promptly left the tour and took my children down to the most godforsaken areas that existed in old San Juan and so forth, where people were living in tin shacks under lean-tos, et cetera, that they had never seen before, and from there we continued taking various trips to Spain, Mexico and Italy, ah, primarily for the children by that time, and I thought back of, ah, when we stood at Rome—when my mother made one trip, and that was into Canada, she always asked me, sometime before I die, to make a trip to Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré Shrine in Canada, little thinking I'd get to the Vatican first—then, ah, my daughter followed the image of her mother, I think, and was inclined at times to become a nurse, but she went into Languages in the SUNY system and she went through college, and in the summer she has worked, just like my son that's in Pre-Med, he worked the last two summers at General Hospital, and again, thank God he started the first summer in the laundry room and I was pleased when his boss told me that fall—that fall he was through, he told me, that's where every doctor ought to start, down there where the towels came down with the blood and fecal deposits and pieces of bones and everything else that goes with a hospital come down, the laundry room, and I think too many people rise too fast out of the basement of life and not realize what's down there, so I was pleased when he got that job, and then last summer he worked as an orderly in General Hospital, and I think that he has now an awareness of, if he is gonna become a medical doctor, of the basic thing that goes with it, the understanding that goes with it, and of course he had all the years with me, because my practice being next to my home, he was able to render first aid, and both of my children helped me on caesarean sections and so forth—rubbed the little puppies and kittens, ah, from the minute they were brought life on into them, when they were overwhelmed with disease or need patrician or something, so they both had the opportunity to learn, and I look back at my life now and reflect on the terrible situation that so many children come up in—the terrible situation of not knowing how their parents make money—not knowing what makes this country tick—and I think they've have had that opportunity. I thank God that they've had as much as they have had, that they realize how money came in this house and how it went out of this house because the business was, ah, contiguous to it, and in so many lives today the check comes in once or twice a month and it has to do, therefore there is a price paid for it. The price is that while we probably have now the most intelligent people graduating from our schools, they may also be the most immature.
Susan: That about sums it up, doesn't it?
Dr. Ayres: In retirement I enjoy every day, and like any doctor I think I'll probably continue practicing until I cross the divide, if God gives me the strength.
Susan: Well, thank you, Dr. Ayres, it's been nice of you to take time out from your busy life to talk with us. Thank you.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Mrs. Clara Bell
Interviewed by: Susan Dobandi
Date of interview: 1 May 1978
Susan: Mrs. Bell, could you tell us, ah, where you were born, something about your parents, and any work experiences that you've had in the community, and any of your recollections of your childhood?
Mrs. Bell: I was born in Hawleyton, just this side of the Pennsylvania line, the seventh child in the family, born to a mother that was really an invalid that shouldn't have borne a child at that time, and we lived on a farm. I was born in ’88—1888, and ah, we were what would be considered poor—people, we really did have hand-me-downs that would help us. One year I had to be kept from school because there wasn't a proper coat, warm coat, for me to wear, and but, it was a kind home but a very poor home, and I think my father and mother tried always to cover up the poorness of it and dwell on the richness of it, and there was a heap of richness there, when you look over other homes today. And I was a unwanted child and a homely little runt of a child and born to people that had some nice-looking children, but very early in life I began to feel the consciousness of God, and I hope nobody misunderstands that, it's nothing freakish at all, but it was the sense of God and the dependence upon Him, and there was really nothing in the home life that would have made me that way, but I was very conscious of it. I still remember the lay of the land and the spring in the pasture lot and to put things, every contour of that place. It seemed as though God was in it with me, and I think that He must have known that I needed Him so much, because I was naturally a sour disposition child and my mother just could not—she could not feel towards me, and that's a mother’s life, and so—love, and so that has made me think that perhaps that had something to do with the queer child that I was, and ah, when I—I went to Sunday school with neighbors and wanted to join the church, and I told my parents that I—that I wanted to join the church, well, they told me that there would be a time when I was old enough but the time wasn't yet for me to join, so that was all right with me—and I can remember reading the Bible and the scorn of my eighteen-year-old brother because I was reading a Bible, because of course he had no use for such a thing. By the way, I did have five sisters and, uh, one very dear to me like a mother and, uh, it was so beautiful that at the time that I joined the church, which doesn't mean becoming a, a Christian at all, but it does to many people’s mind, but not to mine. My mother had the feeling, well, if one of her children joined the church, and I will say if one of my children accepted the Lord—Mother felt that she should, and I as a child was so ashamed that I didn't love her, and I didn't love her and I had no reason to feel that she loved me, but my mother joined the church, but my mother became a Christian, and if nobody else believes in Christianity I would have to for the change that was in my mother, and she and I, over and over again, have thanked the Lord together that he spared her that time and we had that mother-daughter experience. It was beautiful for quite a few years and she meant so much to me.
My people—because of father's failing health, and mother's, of course—had been, we moved to Binghamton when I was sixteen years old and, ah, my, ah, father was a janitor in the school here, not able to do that work at all, and I fought desperately to get work of some kind. I may have had a foolish pride to be ashamed of, but I—I still know the roots of it. I couldn't bring myself to go into one of the shops. It didn't seem as though it belonged some way to me, and so there was a twitter-twitter—well, my sister told me that her husband would lend me the money, if I wanted it, to go through business college, so I did, and very foolishly, which is up to my way of thinking. When the time was up there was no offer made to me to get a job, so I just simply left without interviewing the man who was head of the thing at all.
Well I—one of the women who had gone through girls with the school with me, she said, “If I find a job at all that you can do,” why, she said, “I will let you know.” She did—she found a job in the, ah—ah, bookkeeping branch of the shoe factory here and she let me know, and at the same time she did, my mother said, found out that my sister in Deposit—her husband was bookkeeper at the Outing Publishing Company—she was ill, and my mother said that was my duty to go there and so I went and, ah, then in three months Outing moved to New York and, ah, many people went with it, but I—I came home then and, ah—was engaged to be married at that time, and so by—I took in washings to earn the money for I couldn't get a job and my mother was too ill to leave, and I was married in April and, ah, in three years and about a half, the Lord blessed our home with a little girl who was so very dear and precious to us, and we had her for forty-two years but the Lord has taken her home, and she was the wife of a pastor who established a camp in Michigan, and then, ah, ten years afterwards, I always said that I'd like to have six little girls but I wouldn't want any boys at all, but the Lord sent me a little boy, and oh, I never knew the treasure that had been withheld from me, and I can say it today, he will be fifty-eight tomorrow. He has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. He is pastor of a church in Cincinnatus and he has—I think that we are compatible, let me say. Life looks funny to us, at times ridiculously so, and yet we love the Lord so dearly.
Well in my life, after my husband died and, ah, twelve years ago I had—we had a home in Port Dickinson, and oh, we had a lovely, lovely lot—extra lot, and lovely flowers and shrubs, I had, and I worked until I was too weary to enjoy it and I so I decided to come here to the Fairview Home, and one of the greatest blessings that I have found since being here, and I have found a heap of them, is: I am not afraid anymore. I was born a coward if there ever was one. There were breakings-in all around me when I was home and there was nothing that gave me that sense of security, even though we put on these aluminum screens, I thought nobody could get in—well, people did get in, so I came to Fairview. There is some people that would say they were false in Fairview and, ah, I don't have to acknowledge it so I'm not going too. I have found great blessing in this home. I have found kindness. I have broken my hip, fractured my hip, and I have broken my wrist and the joint in it and I had to be in the infirmary here, which, many people say they would rather die than go into the infirmary, into the—in the infirmary I found more granddaughters and they were just so good to me, and yet today when I see them, there is just that warmth feeling about it, and while I can say that I can see improvements, I couldn't be critical because I have been treated so kindly and the Lord is with me, and I feel that I am one of the most fortunate people in the world and I praise the Lord for it, because he has gone with me through some pretty deep troubled waters, but He has always been there and led me out and on and it's good—it's good.
I can't see the advisability of the Lord leaving me here. I thought when I came here I would be able to go to the infirmary and help and bless some lives there, maybe, and I, now I don't do any of those things, I go with a walker, oh, once in a while I get down there, I love the folks there, but I don't see where there is one particle of use of me taking up the place on the earth that I do. I have thought, now it's so near the time, I would like to wait ’til I was ninety, but after that I don't dare to tell the Lord that I think so, I think it's the time for me to be taken, because I am a useless person, really, as far as being a blessing to anybody else—oh, I wanted to do such things. I wanted to go through college. I wanted to write and I wanted—you see, the Lord couldn't trust me with that—I probably would have gotten very cocky and puffed up and all of that—he had to keep me down—but oh, He has been down with me and He has been up with me. The Lord is to be praised.
Susan: Tell us about the poetry that you write.
Mrs. Bell: About—beg your pardon?
Susan: The poetry.
Mrs. Bell: Oh—well, that was a was a happy outlet even in my childhood, and ah—of writing poetry—and then in Binghamton I was—oh, I had a poem published by Lucia Trent and in her western anthology. I don't know how I ever got the idea of sending there. There must have been something in my head or something that made me send it, and that was accepted, which was a real puff to my vanity, and there was a write-up in our paper and a picture of me and another woman who had two anthology poems, well, that had brought me to the notice of our local poetry class that Miss Herrick, a retired English teacher at high school, was established that, and so I went to that and of course I learned a great deal and awaited to write more properly, perhaps, but it was—it was a great pleasure as long as it—I think it just disbanded if I remember, or for some reason I had to give it up, but it has been a pleasure and a few, well, the course and the class, she sent out our work a good deal to colleges, in their books or whatever they call them, and we had quite a few published in them and then I had, I was very fond of Woody Magazine because both of my children went through school, and I had two poems there and—and some other places, some other, mostly Christian magazines they had been, but I think that my writing has tended to be along the line of nature very much—very much and it hasn't been anything sumptuous, but I shall always feel that if it had been the Lord's will for me to have had an education that I could have written for, I had the feeling I have the in and He's blessed me, perhaps, with an appreciation that they don't all people feel. That's just—just splendid to see who has—has, ah, written and who has arrived and can do it, and so I have been wonderfully blessed by them.
Susan: Could we go back to when you were a little girl, uh, and see the changes in the community, uh, as far as transportation, the way you were brought up?
Mrs. Bell: We lived two miles from the school and we lived up a dirt road and, ah, that was real steep over half of the way there and, so that we—when wintertime, often times it would be with great difficulty that we would get to school, and once in a while we would have a hired man that would come for us when it was impossible to get home, and—ah, we—we learned the reading, writing, and arithmetic, and I had dear teachers that helped me, ah, in my desire for more.
Susan: It was probably a one room schoolhouse, wasn't it?
Mrs. Bell: Yes, uh huh, and, ah, so that one teacher very kindly offered to stay on in the school and teach tenth grade, which she didn't have to do, and she did and I was, I had my certificate for having passed that, and then that is the formal education that this poor soul has had, but in Heaven I'm going to be one of the smartest women there, and we did have a—a yoke of oxen in my childhood and, ah, they were larger than any of the others that I saw at the time—very large red steers, I called them red and, ah, but they, my, ah, they seemed to adore my father, and I think he did them, and they'd be so obedient to him, but he would leave me to—to ride them—to sit by them while he went for an errand or to get a drink, and I would be so frightened I can feel it yet, those great oxen would no more have paid attention to that peeping weaning voice than anything under the sun, and most of our neighbors, I think, had more of this world’s goods than we did, but I do think much of our—I can't say “poverty,” because we were not poverty people at all, because there was too much within and people coming and living in our home and coming—coming to us so much, but—there was peace and goodness and joy in our home, and I lost my train of thought that I was on, and that's what ninety years old does to you.
Susan: Well, you're doing very well.
Mrs. Bell: And, ah, so that, ah, we had—we had such a desire for a, what they call a platform wagon, that was a good size larger than a carriage and, ah, but we never had the money to get it, so if we had to be, a need for something like that, we had to use a lumber wagon and, ah, I know that a ride in that lumber wagon and look down on those horses scared the liver right out of me as a kid. It seemed as though I was up as high as Heaven and they were elephants or something, and ah, that was the way we were then, and finally my people were able to get a horse, one horse, and in time my brother came back home and they got two more horses, and things moved more swiftly, but not better—not better at all, I think it was a leading of what was coming to town, and my brother-in-laws got a gramophone—gramophone, I think it was called. Oh, we just swarmed that house, every night we'd go, and we were so thrilled with that, it was so wonderful, and then another brother became affluent enough to, ah, buy a Ford car and that was just—just immense to us. In—I was—I had been a member of Calvary Church for nearly sixty years and through those years from the time I was sixteen until, oh, maybe—maybe I better say ten years ago, don't think it was that long—I taught Sunday school and from every grade onward. I even caught—taught a college choir—class, ignorant as I am, and enjoyed them, and ah, there was so many things in the church you can do and love to do and people to love, and I—that was a dear church and is a dear church, but there is difference in the church I was in, things progress. I learn, everything progresses, but old women, ninety years old, they don't progress, but it's good—it's good. I have no feeling of regret. I had such a desire to be good looking, and I was such a homely child and always had been, and I had some beautiful sisters but it just didn't happen to Mother, the seventh child they tell about as favorite, but this one wasn't much in health, and to think—to think I had so much to thwart my growing up and my strength, and I'm the only one of those other children who are living, and the husbands and wives are gone too. Even now the nieces and nephews are going, some, and still the Lord is having me stay on here. It's His will and His will is good, must be. I would never quite dare to ask him, “Lord, please take me out of my body and take me home.” I just don't quite think it's the thing to do. He has got the program He knows and it's very wise that He doesn't let us know.
Susan: No, it would be very difficult to get through from one day to the next if we knew what was ahead of us.
Mrs. Bell: It surely would—it surely would. I do pray to the Lord, if it's His will, that I shall never have any more broken bones. They are difficult in a way, but you know, the way the Lord went with me through those hard yields is just unbelievable, and even now this sounds boastful, too, dear, but this is the Lord I'm boasting—in the, when I was in this insumary [sic]—infirmary, the—the nurses did praise the progress that I made, they thought it was remarkable and, ah, once in a while a dear one just doesn't try, and that is too bad.
Susan: Well thank you very much, Mrs. Bell, for taking the time to talk with us. Is there anything more that you would like to add to this interview?
Mrs: Bell: No, I don't think so. Only if I may add this—I wish that everyone who might ever hear this would love the Lord and depend on Him as much as He's caused me to depend on Him.
Susan: Thank you.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Miss Anna Borsuk
Interviewed by: Susan Dobandi
Date of interview: 6 March 1978
Susan: This is Susan Dobandi, interviewer, and I'm talking with Miss Anna Borsuk, who lives at 24 Isbell Street, Binghamton, NY. The date is March 6, 1978. Anna, Could you tell us something about your early beginnings, where you were born, any recollections of your childhood?
Anna: Yes, I can—I can remember, oh, from the age of five or six, I guess, I remember.
Susan: Where were you born?
Anna: I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We moved from there to Mayfair, PA, and I was, I guess I must have been eight or nine years old. From there we moved again to Carbondale, PA, and I started to work in a hotel. I was there five years as a waitress and all-around girl. I'm ahead of my story, but let’s see, I got married before I started working at the hotel. I was married when I was sixteen years old and, ah, I had my son, my son, and then when he was a year and a half old I left and went to the hotel. I went to work as a waitress and I was there five years, and I met some good friends there who were salesmen—saw how hard I worked and how much money I was making and they felt sorry for me, and I—in the meantime my mother’s and father’s home burned down and they lost everything, and I felt very badly. While I was working some of the guests noticed me, that I felt badly, and they asked why I was upset, and I told them that we had lost our home—we lost everything—and they said, “Why do you stay here in Carbondale and work in this hotel? You work too hard,” they used to tell me, and ah, I really don't know whether to— “Why don't you move to Lestershire?”
“We'll see.” So, Mr. Bennett, you know, he was a salesman for ladies’ hats and used to come around and show his hats around. In those days the salesmen used to bring their stuff to different hotels. They didn't have it the way they do now, and he traveled by train and then, so I came home and I told my mother the good news, and she was delighted to hear it, and she said, “Oh, Anna, please go to Binghamton. Your sisters are getting older now and they—they could work and help us.” My father was a miner and he wasn't getting any money, you know. So, mother had a garden and she had chickens and she had everything, we lived off that—rather, my family lived, of course I was working—and I came to Binghamton and it was June 15, 1915. I'll never forget that was a rainy one. I came here and I was soaked and, raining very hard that day and I was soakin’ wet, and my sister Julia which was next to me—
“If you come with me I'll find you a job.” So, while I was here—while I was here in Binghamton, I did not know a soul, nobody, and I stopped at the Press building and I looked in the dictionary to find out where the Russian are—I thought, wherever there are Russian Churches, then there are some Russian people and they would help me, and sure enough I—I took a streetcar and, I forget, an old factory, a cigar factory, people were in there and I could smell the odor from cigars, and that was something new—and I got off at the church right on Clinton Street, St. Michael's Church, and across the street I noticed a Russian name and I went in there and I spoke to him in Russian and he answered me, and I asked him that I'm a stranger and I'm looking for a house for my family and, ah, he said, “Well, there is—I don't know anything about it,” he said to me, “I couldn't tell you, but my wife is coming home. If you'll wait, she'll be here any minute,” and sure enough she came in and she said, “Yes, I'll take you to the lady on the corner of Charles and Grace Street, and the lady is giving up her apartment.”
So, I went in there with Mary Driscoll, her name was Driscoll, and she spoke to the lady for me and I told her and she said, “Yes, I'm moving out right now,” but I thought, who owned the property? But I supposed that she was the landlord, and she told me that was Dr. Hutchings on Front Street so I went there, all in one day I did all that. I went there and I met this doctor and I told him my story, my sad story, and he was very kind and very helpful and he said, “Ah, I'll rent you this house as soon as you can get here and I'll help you all I can.” So he, ah, I said, “Well, we have nothing—nothing to bring over, because everything was burned down.” My mother was living with her sister and so I—I stayed here one day and then I went to the shoe factory, Dunn McCarthy's, and ah, I wanted to talk to the foreman or the superintendent, and ah, I met a very nice man and I—I should remember his name because he was, ah, wonderful to me. He talked to me like I was a child. He said, "My dear girl,” he said, “you bring your sisters here and I'll give them a job, and bring your father and I'll give him a job too.” So I felt, I was delighted, and ah, ah, I was on the verge to go back to the hotel because I know my manager there would be displeased that I left, and ah, I said, “Ah, I have to go back to Carbondale to my job and they gave me only one day off,” and ah, so we hurried, we hurried and hurried and I wanted to get off and, anyway, I had everything arranged, and we said, “Dr. Hutchings” —I think that was, ah, his name, Dr. Hutchings—they used to live by up there, it's hard to say up there, you know, from the corner, the third house up there, you know. I think probably it's still there. He said, “I won't charge you any rent, I won't expect anything from you, whatever you can do,” so I—I didn't have to pay any rent any—anyway, I didn't have any money and, ah, see, I don’t know what to say.
Yes—so this neighbor, the next door neighbor from the house that we were going to move into, they were Slavish [Slavic] people—I think their name was Kusmach. I asked them if my sister could stay there all night with them—with them while I go home and break the news and my family would come here right away, and then she stayed there, she began to cry, Julia did. She thought, she's among strangers, you know, and she was, oh, about fifteen years old and, ah, well anyway, Julia, you have a job and there are two girls in the family there and they have supported her too, because they were working too, so then I said goodbye to her and she cried and I cried too. I came to the station. I was on my way to the station in the rain the next day. I had to spend the night over in the neighbors’ house and, ah, the next day I was going to the station, and Mr. Hart and Mr. Bennett, the two salesmen that had told me to come here, I ran into them, or rather they ran into me, and he said, “What are you doing here, Anna?”
And I said, “Well, Mr. Bennett, you told me to go to Lestershire, so I came to Lestershire and I have everything arranged,” and they were very surprised that I did it so quickly, so then I said, ah, and then Mr. Bennett and Mr. Hart said to me, “Well, where are you going? What are you going to do?”
I said, “Well, I'm going back to the American Hotel because Mr. & Mrs. McCann will be cross with me that I'm taking off,” and they took me by the arm and they said, “You're not going back there, you're working like a slave there and it's too much for you. We're going to introduce you to a hotel manager here,” and they took me to the Bennett Hotel. That's the Bennett at that time, and it was a very nice hotel at that time. They introduced me to the manager, I think his name was Mr. Proseman, and his beautiful wife, and ah, Mr. Proseman said that I was a very fine girl and I was supporting my son, and he told them the story and, ah, they gave me the job right away and I was there for about a year, and when some other friends that recognized me in the lobby, some of the people who remembered me from Carbondale saw me there working there and, ah, Mr. Bennett, waiting on the table that I waited on the manager and his wife—I just had one table, just the family, and ah, so I felt kind of proud, you know, that they chose me among all the others, you know, so I felt kind of, well, I was, I was just, ah, very happy about it, that everything, that I had so many friends that were helping me and I was, they just, ah—they were so pleased I’d do whatever they suggested, everything. I and, ah, I, ah, I called, well anyway, I said, “All right, I'll have to go back to Carbondale and give my notice that I'm coming,” and I went back and the manager and his wife didn't want to let me go. They didn't want to pay me, but they said, “You gotta stay here,” and I said, “I can't, I promised I'm going there,” and I said, “My family is going there,” and my little boy was, you know, with my mother, and my son was going to be a year and half old and, ah, I said, “Wherever he's gonna be, I ought to be there too.” So they were very reluctant to let me go. They didn't like it and, ah, so as I said in the—I worked only one year at the Bennett and one of the other guests recognized me and they said, “We can find you a better place than this to work,” so they went to the Arlington Hotel and spoke to Mr. Turney—the old gentleman Turney was in there, you know, there at that time. They spoke to him and told him about me and that I was a hard worker and a very decent girl and all that, and of course they were giving me all that recommendation, I didn't have to tell them all that about myself, but ah, they all felt sorry for me that I had such big responsibilities, and the guests were always very nice to me in every hotel wherever I worked, and ah, finally, ah, I got the job at the Arlington and I left the Bennett, which was not a nice thing to do because they were nice to me, I had no reason to leave to leave, but ah, ah, they thought that I would do better at the Arlington, which I did because they gave me more money and that helped. I had to give so much money to my mother to help her towards my son's support and his clothes and everything, and ah, of course at that time, before that, I was separated from my husband but he wasn't supporting me. He was working on the railroad and he was drinking and he just didn't care about—about the baby or me or anything. He never gave me any money, so I just—I just left him—I couldn't—I didn't want to continue living with him and have any more—-
I stayed at the Arlington for five years, then I went to New York City and I started working at the Statler Hotel, which was only there two years before, and I, ah— I was there only a year at this hotel, and then I noticed they were opening up a beauty parlor on the mezzanine floor and I had an interview myself, I kept thinking about my poor sisters working in the shoe factory and I thought, what a wonderful idea it would be if they would take, ah, beauty parlor work and, ah, go into that kind of work. I couldn't afford to—to work at the salaries that the learners in those days, they didn't have beauty—beauty schools like they have now, ’cause we had to work in the beauty parlor as an apprentice and you only got $12.00 a week. A girl that just took up hair and keep the box filled, and so I got my sister in New York and she got the job at the President, at the, they called it “Pennsylvania,” the Statler Hotel, and she was there for a while, and I had to leave her because my mother had a big twelve-family apartment in Binghamton and she thought that I should be with her, that I, that she couldn't get along without me being there to help her with the, and she wrote me that I'm breaking up her home by taking my sisters away, and I left the Statler Hotel to be with my mother, to help her with that big property she got. And my sister liked New York so well she stayed, and she had been modeling and—and ah, she made good money and she stayed about two years, but while I was here trying to help my mother with that big twelve-family apartment house and she came back—finally she came back and then I said, “Well, I'm going to look around Binghamton and see if we can find a little place where we can start a little beauty parlor.”
Of course my sister took up marcel waving, we were the first people that had that method, you know, when we came here. She took that up in New York, and of course Dorothy, too, was a manicurist and—my second sister—and so the two of them had a little training and so I found a location in a beauty parlor, I ran around Binghamton and asked different people what to do with it. Get a good place and my lawyer, my family lawyer, Mr. Polletta, told me to talk to Mr. Tyler, which was the superintendent of the Press building at the time, and I spoke to Mr. Tyler, rather, Mr. Polletta spoke to him first, and he gave me a little room that had only two chairs and two dryers and two manicuring tables—of course I had to buy my equipment in New York. They didn't have any equipment up here in Binghamton and so I had to order it there, and Mother came to New York and gave me the money for the equipment and begged me to come home with tears in her eyes, and I agreed to come home and bring the girls back home and so they, my sisters wanted to stay away because they found more opportunities, and finally, when I opened the beauty parlor and Martha and I were the first two that were working there.
Susan: Can you recall any of the prices at that time?
Anna: Oh yes, the manicures were 50¢ and our shampoo was 50¢ and of course the only big item, they were the highest, was the permanent wave, which I was doing, that was my specialty—I charged $6.00. I had the beauty parlor where I'd have to go to New York to the hairdressers’ show every six months, take, just take up the Eugene Wave by Mr. Eugene himself, personally gave me the instructions. That was the marcel wave, the permanent wave, they used to call it a Marcel, so then my sister Martha was Miss Martha, she was giving a marcel with an iron, you know, but I was, so we made a big hit in Binghamton, and then we outgrew the beauty parlor, it was too small for the business. It just boomed the first year that we were there. We were there only a year. I spoke to Mr. Tyler that—that I'd like to move into a larger room, and he said that Judge Parson is moving away from—he's giving up his position and he's right on a corner, he has two rooms. Then he said I could take the partition down and you could enlarge it, would be an L-shaped beauty parlor for you, but you could have as many booths as you want, so I said that would be fine, so Mr. Tyler the superintendent was very nice to me. He suggested it and I—I thought, of course, it was a good idea, so I said, “I'd appreciate it very much, I think, if you would do that, because I have two other sisters that are ready to come in with me, and we wouldn't fit in this little room we have here.” They did it in a hurry, and they did special piping for us and also drains from each booth, from the shampooing booth. We had seven shampoo booths and three manicuring tables and one barber chair—hair-cutting chair, and I have some pictures of that and, ah, we did very good business, and, and of course all my sisters were in by that time, they, all four of us—five of us, and I—I was about, I used to give six and seven permanents a day, and I got terribly run down and I got a cold one day, and I just thought, “Well, maybe I need a change, I'll go to New York, maybe I just need a change,” I thought, you know, because I had so much responsibility, so I packed my little bag and I went.
My mother didn't approve, my sisters didn't, nobody approved of me going, but I said, “I'm getting away from everything, I can't take it.” I didn't realize I was sick, although my doctor kept telling me that I'm going to get sick and he threatened me that I'm going to get sick. He told his wife was a customer of mine, his daughter was my customer, and his aunt, and they all saw how hard I worked. I used to work from 8 o'clock until 10 every night and I never had time to eat my lunch, and if I did I—I had indigestion, and the doctor said before I go to lunch, to lay down for a minute before I go—he said, “If you don't be careful you're going to get TB.” Dr. Arfonse said that to me, and I said, “Ah, no,” I said, “I'm not going to get TB. I'll be all right.”
So I just packed my suitcase and I went to New York and I went to Sachs Fifth Avenue, New York, and I talked to the manager there about a job and he gave it to me. I was working there about four months, when one day I had a spell while I was on duty and, ah, there were two—four girls there, they were Russian girls there, they were from Russia, and they were only shampoo girls, they were really, they came, they were refugees from Russia here and they didn't know nothing about hair work, but the only thing they could do was wash the hair, and they saw that I looked sick and then they took me over to the clinic, it was on the ninth floor, and the doctor and the nurse said they had one room, just like a hospital, and they found that I had TB. They sent me away for a year and then I came back home cured, and I couldn't go back to the beauty parlor because there was something about the cosmetics that I would cough and I—I thought, well, I'd sit at the desk and just get the appointments, prepare the customers, and let the girls do the rest. We had thirteen girls working there by that time, colored girls, too, and we were teaching girls beauty work, and I know my uncle came here from Pittsburgh and he'd say, “I don't know why you’re teaching anybody, they're going to take business away from you,” which they did, but it—it didn't hurt us, and ah, because the business kept booming and, ah, so I, ah, was managing it from the house, and the girls would come home and tell my mother that “Anna's coughing too much,” and they were trying to keep my condition secret from my customers, nobody didn't know, so then my mother said, “Why don't you stay home, Anna, and we have a big house, a 22-room house on Court Street there, why don't you do something with this? You seem to know what to do,” so I said the only thing I could think of is start a tourist house now that I'm sick and can't work in the beauty parlor anymore for another year, the doctors say I can't go to the beauty parlor for another year until they pronounce me arrested—my case arrested. I had to go to the doctor every month to be X-rayed and questioned, and so I started the tourist business, and that business boomed, you know, and I ran that for thirteen years.
And talk about, my mother got sick, gallbladder, and she, she didn't get up in time, she got this palsy, you know, so that when she got down here she needed me, so I was a nurse, I was taking care of my mother and I was running the tourist house. I used to have thirty people in my house every night during the summer, and I had to show them the rooms, go run outdoors and show them where to park the cars. I did that for thirteen years and then my mother passed away and then, you know, she passed away, and ah, then I had another breakdown after she died, with pleurisy on my bad lung, and I was in the hospital eleven weeks, and the doctor hollered at my doctor and he shook his finger at me that I'm not being fair to myself, but he pulled me through—I—I—I had a 103 temperature for eleven weeks and he called my daughter-in-law, by that time my son was married, and he told my daughter-in-law the things that that I did, but ah, by that the family wanted to sell the house, they thought it was too much for me and they all wanted to get out and on their own, they were getting married and I didn't want to sell it because I wanted a home, I wanted something, if I knew I was going to live to this age I would have fought it more, I would have kept it, but I thought, “I'm finished,” because my family gave me up so many times, then I had a second breakdown after we sold the house I had another breakdown of my lungs and I was at Chenango Bridge and I'm still here and, but I still didn't give up, I got back on my feet and started working again and, ah, I, ah, the family pressed me so hard to sell, sell, sell, that I finally gave up and I sold it. So then I wasn't welcome anyplace, I—I just didn't know what to do. What am I going to do? I—I—
Susan: So what year did you come to the high rise?
Anna: Well, I came to the high rise in 1968, when they just opened it. I'm here ten years, and well, well, first I—I traveled with a suitcase, I went all over, you know, and the money that I had from the property, you know, seventeen years I was doing nothing, just traveling with a suitcase, trying to make myself live someplace. I didn't know where I belonged, and ah, as for a job, they said they didn't want anybody at my age, which was around forty, and I was around forty, and ah, I, no matter what I did, I was a telephone operator, I worked on a switchboard, worked at the New York City hotel and I worked at the switchboard in the front here and I had all this experience and they didn't want to give me a job because of my age, so I said, “What am I going to do?” I just retired. Well I lived off the few hundred thousand dollars that I got for seventeen years but then the money was gone, so, I was older and I said, “What am I going to do now?” so I had another good friend at the Bennett Hotel, and he, and I told him my story and he and his wife—and he was Mr. Lamb, I guess everybody in town knows him and about my story—and he says, “Well, I can help you, all I can say is a good work for you to go on welfare,” so I said, “Yes, I will go on welfare,” but I didn't—my family and my son didn't know anything about it, that I was doing that, I was very independent, I never went to any of them for a dollar or a coin—or anything, I'm kind of independent and I was too spunky, you know, my mother and father used to say to me, “I never seen anything like you, if you make up your mind you’rer gonna do it.” I still do, but ah, so then people were very kind to me, the urban renewal people, ah, ah, Margarette, ah, ah, what's her name? She's in the office over here. I can't think of her name now, she was very kind to me and she said I was living at the Arlington, I was on welfare already and of course welfare were giving me only $85.00 a month and I had to pay $50.00 rent, so what did I have left? So I used to do—I used to help a lot of little old ladies take them someplace and they'd buy my meal and, ah, or I used to sew, I could sew. I was a dressmaker for three years and then my eyesight failed—failed me, and I managed that way, but I always meet nice people that were always very helpful to me all the time, not that I—I didn't go to them purposefully to tell them my sad story, but ah, I—I wanted to get along as best I could, so then, ah—ah, well, we were living at the Bennett, you know the place was condemned, the Bennett hotel, and we were living there. There were about twenty of us ladies living there, and ah, I couldn't make—I couldn't make ends meet so I used to take care of another sick lady, but ah, retired from Washington, from the Pentagon, and she—I used to escort her around and she used to buy my lunches for me. I used to escort her around town, and well, after that we had to move out of there. We were there, I was there about six years at the Bennett, and then the Urban Renewal moved us to the Arlington. We were supposed to be there only one year, but instead of that we figured two years waiting for this to be finished, so then, ah, they'd moved me here, they ah, Urban [Renewal] moved my furniture and they bought furniture that I have here. It's from the Arlington, they bought it for me through the welfare, I don't know who paid for it, and some of the odd pieces were given to me that I have, but ah, so I have been here ever since.
Susan: Well, Anna, I think that we can close by saying that you have a very lovely attractive apartment so that you are comfortable.
Anna: Well, a lot of people say that to me, but ah, when, ah, I was running the tourist house, you know, the guests used to come in and say that I had the cleanest house, that I used to have the cleanest rooms of any tourist house that they ever had, and they always came. We used to have a lot of flowers around the house. I had a lot of boxes, and I know I had a hairdresser from New York City stop and he said, he had his family with him and he said, “We went all over Binghamton and my family wanted to go in that house where all the beautiful flowers are,” so they would come in, and they would come in and they saw—I must say so, but I had the flowers, and everybody that came in that had children, they said that it was the cleanest, neatest place, and I had fifteen rooms to rent, sometimes I had thirty people in one night in the house, and I had all that laundry to take care of and I had all those beds to make myself. I was doing it myself, too, and, but then I did break down after my mother died.
Susan: Well, now let's finish the story by telling the people how old you are—you've lived through a great deal.
Anna: Yes, well I—I'm 87 years old now and I don't know how much longer I'm going to live, because everybody tells me I don't look my age.
Susan: You don't look your age, you're a very, very attractive woman.
Anna: But ah, I have this, ah, chest condition—chest pains now, and I don't know, lately it's been kind of, they've been kind of, although I have a very good doctor, he shakes his finger at me.
Susan: Well, let's just hope for the best. Thank you very much for the interview, Mrs. Borsuk.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Dr. Carl S. Benson
Interviewed by: Susan Dobandi
Date of interview: 8 June 1978
Susan: Dr. Benson, could we start this interview by having you tell us where you were born, something about your parents, and any of your recollections of your childhood?
Dr. Benson: That's easy. I was born on 5 King Ave., between Walnut and, ah, and it's on the west side. It's between, ah, Walnut and St. John. My mother and father came from Sweden—my mother from the north of Sweden and my father from the south of Sweden. Mother talked very much about having come from the place where the King used to spend his summers out in the open, and my grandfather, I realize now, was the man that insulated and fortified the iron mines of Sweden so that if anybody attempted to take over, they merely blew up the bridges and they had so much trouble getting the iron ore out that they never did.
They met here in Binghamton, my father being from the south of Sweden and my mother from the north. I always kidded mother about stealing her sister’s girl—boyfriend, but they had a rather happy life together ’til mother overdid and showed herself to me as a medical problem, which I had a lot of fun solving.
As for me, I went to St. John Ave. School. I had only one sister, Ruth, who was five years older than I was and followed the same trail, and the thing I think you would enjoy the most was that I was constantly reminded that I wasn't supposed to be relying on somebody else, I was supposed to dig it out for myself and I was supposed to keep going no matter what happened. My father was a tailor, so-called merchant tailor at a time when there wasn't any such things as ready-made clothes, and part of the fun was that I, in the early grades in school, wore tailor-made clothes, and often got in trouble with the teachers because they couldn't understand why the clothes I had on made so much noise with their corduroy knees banging each other, and actually asked me if I didn't have any other clothes I could wear to school. Today I'd like to have such good clothes back.
Work—I can remember the very funny things that happened, there was the time somebody stole our Thanksgiving dinner that we had carelessly put on top of the refrigerator, on top—on the back porch at 5 King Ave. We didn't get much to eat that day. It was a lot of fun. We had a lot of time trying to find it.
One of the stories that might interest you was that the man on the corner, who was a horse tailor, got after me to prove that he knew more about the things than I did and my father did, and said of course we grew horses and horses’ barns. He said, didn't I realize if I planted a cigar box and watered it regularly every day, in about six weeks it ought to come up and show me a horse barn that I could be proud of? So I tried it, and at the end of four weeks he told me, didn't I know the top from the bottom? So I dug it up and turned it over, and it wasn't ’til the six weeks were well up that—he never admitted, just said I got the wrong kind of cigar box. You see these queer things, for instance his office—his, where he fixed leather and did all this stuff was on State Street behind Sissons, and in front of it was the old canal. My father lives on—worked on the other side in the Bosket Block, and that was the way life was treated. They were both equal—now do we get a rest?
I started school at St. John Ave. School, and I can still see our kindergarten and our first grade where Bill and Ed Keeler and some of the—the rest of the boys were sure that if they took their hands and folded them around the side ways, they could see what was going on the room and it was just as good as having them sit, as well as having them sit on the edge of the stage—of the desk. One of the boys, Doff Kane, just followed one of the girls out of the kindergarten and it wasn't ’til two days later that we found out that he had gone on, and supposed to have been promoted anyway because he was older than the rest of us. Third grade was fine ’cause of the exercises, we got up on the desks. We gathered up books as being bricks, stones, and we went through all the stories of the Iliad, the Romans and their troubles, and threw the books on the floor just with a grand abandon that made it a great life. We really enjoyed Mrs. Tillapough's teachings. I could go on, teach and tell you about each of the other kids, each of the other teachers just as well, of course. Miss Hunt was the principal but we never had any trouble with her, we didn't know enough to. She kept us busy and we kept her busy and that's all that was necessary. ’Course, we had her nephew in the class with us. Maybe that helped us stay out of trouble.
From the sixth grade we moved over to Laurel Ave. under old Professor Johnson for our seventh—seventh grade, and that was when I used to ride a bicycle across to school. It was quite a ways down from where we were over to Laurel Ave. But that was when we had all the fun, nobody knew what to do, nobody cared. Then we went on to high school. We had the eighth, ninth and tenth, eleventh and twelfth over in high school. No, not the high school you people know about, but in the same place until we wore the building out, or they thought we did or said we wouldn't get a new one if they didn't stop using it, and then I remember when they decided to close it up. They put the letters, the colors and the letters of the class on the school. We got up on the fourth floor on the fire hatches, handed two-by-fours to throw down if the other class got in our way or started to come after us. Instead one of the boys got the fire hoses out of the Front Street fire department, and we had a grand time watching them walk up and chop those hoses to stop the water so they could get at us.
Now I got to get back to teaching at our school. It seems to me that I must have been along about the fourth or fifth grade when I started to, to doing some work on the outside. Maybe it was younger, but I was delivering flowers for Oshier up on 148 Court Street. If it was a long shag I got 10¢ for it. If it was a short shag I got 5¢, and he always used to kid me on how much money I took down at the end of the week for a guy that was just riding around on a bicycle. I would almost get, I think, on the average of five dollars, maybe a little less, maybe a little more, depending on how business was. Then he disappeared and I got shipped down to Graham. Graham's Florist Shop was in Wally Webster’s Drug Store, which was 45 Court Street, next door to the corner of Walnut—uh, uh, Washington Street and Court. Wally said the smart thing to do is to buy buildings next to the corners or where, if anybody was going to increase the size of their place, they'd have to take your place in—in that way you'd make money on any enlargement of the town without having too much invested—that was where I learned that if you stole old-time tombstones and you poured a little acid on them, that’d make pretty good soda, and that's what you gave people in place of soda on their ice cream. Ice cream was worth 10¢ or sometimes 5¢, sometimes less. Those were in the days when we used to see these special men come through. The automobile stage was just starting to grow, and there was one man that had a small two-seated or one-seated buggy but he had his wheels on, his pulling wheels on backwards, and therefore the horse was behind you and pushed you forward, and he took—took that, I imagine he'd go pretty fast too, but he was just advertising a new kind of ice cream or a new kind of soft drink. Made quite something to work with.
Then, I got interested in other work. The morning newspaper came along, ’course the business belonged to Carl Legg's father, and then he sold it and that brought it out in the open. When I used to go to dances in high school I'd used to have to get up before two o'clock, and we didn't get home much before that, in order to get over and roll the singles for the old morning paper. I'd roll about fifty of those and then lay down on the bags—the mail bags, then get up and carry the longest route up to the top of Mount Prospect and into the old tavern up Front Street next to Prospect Street. That's where they give you the description of the real early things that happened here in Binghamton.
My father and I used to argue a lot about Court Street bridges, boats, and spent a good many nice days in the summer pushing a rowboat up and down the Chenango River, borrowing it from Mr. Ritz, or renting it, rather, from Mr. Ritz at the corner of Laurel Ave. and the river. You never knew just what you were going to get into. We had one island that we called Violet Island. We had another island that was a little bit tough to get at, but you went out where the Fourth Ward sewer came in. You always got a little bit dirty. You went out, rode up, then down, and landed on an island. Dad and I always called it our island. Then we had to hunt up the other way. There was always something to think about. If you went up the Chenango, and I've tried and took my canoe, later, up to Port Dick and all the way to Lilly Lake and right up the river, right back down. I left it in Port Dick for a whole summer. I had a lot of fun. We'd sneak around behind a barn, loosed up underneath the barn, drop it into the water, then climb in, then go around the landing to show that we were there.
It's a wonderful thing and always we worried about the Chenango River, and then we remembered that there was an old man named Mr. Whittemore that got my interest first in steamboats, because he told me about the steamboat that used to come up the Chenango River—Susquehanna River and Chenango River from Owego every spring, did it for a number of years and the people came up and went down, but in my early days we usually caught the train at about eight o'clock on Saturday night, went down to Owego and then took the boat up as far as Ouaquaga, as Hiawatha Island, or on up further to the endings in Hickory Grove. That was a beautiful stretch in those days. I've heard them talk about it a good many times before my time, but I was too busy working to pay much attention to riding around in it. Then I remembered what Dad had told me about Court Street bridge. It seems that the boats used to come up and stop against those big trees that used to be back of McDevitt’s, so I had to find out about it. Find out what it was, what was happening, and why the end of it there was so little, not big enough, and I did, I stuck my neck in it. Before the bridge was finished or built, there was a ferry that used to come across there, and that tied up just above where the bridge came in and came across the river, almost straight, and stopped about where Main Street or Court Street is, and you could load and unload to catch the bridge, er, to catch the ferry. The next thing that happened was that they commenced to fuss about wanting to do something, and it was because they didn't like the way in which things were done. I know my Dad at that time said he had a chance to buy the old farm that ran all the way down to about where the Lourdes Hospital is and up as far as Leroy Street and down to the river and down to the junction and back up to about Leroy Street. Can't remember the name of the farm right now, but Dad was very seriously interested in buying it and he was going to get that land for $2,000. The people that sold it went over to Quaker Lake. They had a place over there too but I don't remember the name.
Then we had to worry about why all these strange things were set up around Main Street, and when I checked up, Sam Wear said his father had a bar there for years, in fact, he said there were five bars between Front Street and the Chenango River. Maybe that accounts for their going after the law, because I understand that's when they got to work—that's when they got to work and built the church at Wal—at, ah, Front Street and Main Street. It took me a long time to figure it out, then I found the ruling, any territory with a church in it cannot have a saloon or a bar within 125 feet of the front door of the church—now that old rule has been in for a long time and probably accounts for why four of the five things disappeared, unless somebody has forgotten the laws. The thing that counts in remembrance is that when we came to building the Sheraton, the Ramada, and the rest of the new hotels that were wanted to be near the water just across the bridge, they all of a sudden stopped and moved them a block away. I think I know the reason, because I looked up some of the deeds on lower Main Street and over on Front Street, and they all contained this record that no building can be put across south of Main and Front—er, Court Street, unless it's far enough away and unless there is an opening through it left down to the river so that people can take their animals to the ford and across the river. That's why you'll find that big mark in the bottom of the Treadway building. I remember also that we built a very lovely little park on the end of Wall Street, and Wall Street was connected with this other stuff but people all forgot it and it disappeared. I wonder how many people remember its name. It was Carmen Park, and while I'm speaking about parks, we had one over on the south side wherein there was a tree for every man killed in World War II and a nameplate on it, but I was over there the other day, and God, if we can go through big wars like World War II with no more losses than that, we better stick up in the first ranks, because I assure you I couldn't find enough trees or enough plaques to justify our even having been considered as being in World War II.
Now I think we ought to look up and see whether this new business about extending the high school and shutting off the ford, with kids coming from high school and with a parking lot and with some other things like that, can be done any better and any more legally than shutting it off for hotels and places to eat, particularly when the city is kinda short of money.
It was during these times when I was wandering around town that we all got wrapped up in cigar bands, and we used to argue as to whether it was smarter to stop in the cigar factories—which were on Wall Street, Water Street, State Street was solid from Court to Henry—and see if we couldn't buy, beg, or steal a few cigar bands that were out of the ordinary so we could make money. As a matter of fact, there was a lot of them that were so out of the ordinary that if you found the owner and he had a smile on his face, he would give you half a dozen and then your collection would be way, way above your friends. We had as many as 56 cigar factories around here, then they commenced to get into the factory kind where it wasn't made by hand, it was made by machinery, and the last one I remember being here into this part of the country was the General Cigar factory down on Court Street—er, Main Street, down near Johnson City—that worked for a few years. The problem was that we got much poorer tobacco for a while. If you've traveled up through Canada and seen the various shades of tobacco and seen the various kinds, you realize that it's not a bad crop to grow. It's quite nice, and if you've hunted around the old barns down below Owego and seen the openings in the sides of the barns where they drain and let the tobacco leaves dry, you will quickly get established in your own mind what a handy comfortable thing it is, but it requires a lot of work and we had just the people to roll them and not the people to grow them—maybe that’s why we lost it and then we had to get, so many of our women folks had to get tied up in cigarettes and anxious about cigarettes and they could buy them all rolled so they didn't look different, a lot cheaper, or rather a lot more expensively than we could cigars.
High school and schools in Binghamton, it seems funny to talk about them. There was a little girl named Alice VanMoon, and she beat me by half a point when we went up to St. John, er, to Laurel Ave., and on down into high school. I know I could have caught her, but she went and moved away. Oh, so I had to go on, and I graduated as Valedictorian, I think, when I graduated from high school. It was a big problem to remember because I was working all the time on the side, and despite the fact that I worked from 2 o'clock in the morning up ’til school time. I worked after school until 7 or 8 o'clock at night, I thought I was pretty darn lucky when I got in twelve-thirteen dollars a week—as an adult, maybe after I got into college, I realized more about it. I had $285.00 in my pocket when I left for college. If I hadn't been fortunate enough to find some friends up there who knew where the cheap places to eat were—because I remember the chap that went with me, he was a teacher afterwards at Cornell. We paid $1.60 apiece for two rooms—one to study in and one to sleep in—and around the corner we paid $4, and then $4.50, and then $4.60, and then $4.90, for a place to have our three meals a day in comfort. Of course it was the crowd that was there that made it interesting because many of them were inclined to head for the ministry, and many long were the sermons that got preached at us while we sat there waiting to see what was going to happen, but if anybody was hungry they were taken care of, and you could buy a roast beef sandwich for 10¢. You could buy—we were lucky from Binghamton. We could go over to the Candy Kitchen and Jimmy the Greek would say, "I remember you." We'd say, "Yes, and we’re thirsty."
"Wait a minute," and he'd give us an ice cream so we wouldn't feel too bad about it, and we appreciated his kindness. Money wasn't essential. Fifteen cents would take you to the movies. You could always borrow from somebody if you needed to. There wasn't enough girls, but what you had was a good alibi that there wasn't any girls to get so you didn't have one, and I think maybe that's the thing that made life worthwhile, because it certainly made us study a lot more than we would have otherwise. Then we would go on, and I still remember even at my decrepit old age that my first year in Colgate, from the time I left in September to go ’til I came back in June, having finished one year, cost me $496.16. I think maybe that's a record, because I remember my last year in medicine cost me over $1100 or pretty damn close, and I know that's not counting the fact that I worked in the fraternity house and I took care of the animals—the research animals for both physiology, biology. That's why I had to wear a mustache, because one of them got mad and caught me on the upper chin, er, upper lip, and it was a lot better having it covered by hair than not having it covered at all.
There are many stories I could tell you about the faculty of Colgate. It was one of the grandest bunch of men I ever knew despite the fact there were a lot of wonderful queer characters. There was Johnny Green, who always bobbed around at us, flashed his eyes back an’ forth and said that if he exercised his eyes enough, that he wouldn't have to wear glasses, and then he had a man who was his assistant, very big dignified fat man that always put his paws down in front of you as though he was going to bite you, Spencer, but he wouldn't. He'd scare the hell out of you. Then I could go on and talk about the rest. My particular sidekick in these days was Bill Turner, six foot tall, a big bass voice, a bachelor. He took care of his mother and sister and always acted as though something was going to push him around into something. He was so afraid that people would misunderstand him, get him into trouble. He even came to me once and said, "I'm going to quit," and I said, "Well, let me look things over a bit for you." And I says, "No, you're not going to quit. You're going to work a little harder than you have worked and you're gonna do it more this way and you aren't gonna get mixed up with so many people." And when he came to me five years later and said, "I'm gonna quit," I said, "Yep, you’re gonna quit now, but not before. You hadn't finished your job." It's a wonderful feeling to be able to say I helped a professor as much as they helped me, but I didn't, because he and his mother and his sister fed me Sunday night’s dinner for a good many years. God knows I couldn't sing, I couldn't do anything else, but I traveled with the Glee Club with the sublime feeling that I didn't have to worry because he told me, "Make your mouth go big, smile good, and for God's sakes, if anybody’s out of tune, shut up.”
Now let’s stop a minute. It seems that along about my sophomore year in Colgate I got on the pan, and I never blamed them. I suddenly decided, figuring closely that they were going to let me have my degree in three years, why couldn't I do three years’ work in two and a half—get the degree? And to go on, I made the mistake that so many young fellows do, and old fellows maybe, of thinking that rubber stamping something and throwing it over your shoulder makes it get in your head. It doesn't, and I remember when Dr. McGregory and Dr. Bryant and Cookie Cutter and a few of the others, Brigham, looked at me point blank when I said I wanted to get through in three years, and they argued that it wasn't for my benefit to get through in three years—I'd do better if I stayed four—and I decided that eating those last year was kind of important and much more important than just getting through, so when Hog said that he wouldn't allow for it and he was objecting to it, I said, "OK, Dr. McGregory, just for that, I'll major in your subjects and give you every opportunity to flunk me you can get." He tried to talk me out of taking a couple of subjects instead. But I got through in three years, and they were probably the happiest three years I have ever spent, because Colgate is a beautiful, wonderful institution. I'm glad Craig went there.
Afterwards I was tempted or persuaded and almost sure that I was going to go to Cornell in order to get my medicine, but I looked around and I saw that Cornell started a class at Ithaca and a class in New York, and at the end of the year without saying anything you just became half out and half as big as you were before, so I didn't think that was very good, and then Sukie Higgerman said I was nuts. And I started for Buffalo where John, Dr. John Lappious, had helped me get registered. Well, I arrived out there on the train, then went up the street to High Street. I went in, they were very nice to me but I still don't know who saw me—who had anything to do about it, what happened to me, and I think maybe it was the fact that my class, instead of being seventy-six, succeeded in rounding up nineteen for our first year. So, you see, if they do raise the requirements there is a very definite reason for it. Then I had to snoop around and see if I could get a job. Didn't get anywheres on that ’til somethin’ happened down in the so-called jail and the Erie County Penitentiary because of the flu, because of the—because of the, and in came the flu—a most gorgeous mess. So, I had to eat and live, so John took me down to the penitentiary, and they looked at me and took off my soft hat—my, ah, cap, insisted I wear a soft hat—and I was fully signed in as a doctor in the Erie County Penitentiary, which became famous afterwards—after having had three weeks of medicine. Well the first thing I did was told I oughta clean up the drug room—so I started to, and got some nice little country boy. Didn't know why he was in jail, but he did the cleaning with me and helped me, and he'd light my cigars and gave me his tobacco. God, it was awful—couldn't touch it—but he was very proud of being an associate of mine. That was when I had my funny time, when I met the Diamond Lill fame—when I met a lot of other unusual people. Diamond Lill was an operator in a carnival, and in her teeth she had two diamonds—above and one below, so that she could smile as she did the loop the loop on a bicycle and hoped that she was sober to keep on the track. I always remember when they—Dr. Frost, who was in charge, said, "Why hello—when did you—how long you've been back?" and she says, "Why, Doctor—why, you know—I haven't been out yet." This was the kind of stories we would hear.
Then we found out if somebody got into a mess that they were more afraid than we were, so we went on and enjoyed it, and that's when I made a reputation, because the waiter, who was a prisoner, leaned over my shoulder one night and wanted to know if I had any good cathartics. I said, "Yes," and rolled him off a half dozen of C.C. pills, asked if he knew how to take them and he said, "Yeah," so I went on back to quarters. The next day I didn't have anybody waiting on me as a waiter, and the day after I didn't have anybody waiting on me as a waiter, but on the third day, when I sat down in my chair, I noticed that I was taken care of when the chief wasn't, and over my shoulder came a faint whisper saying, "You sure do handle powerful drugs, sir.”
Buffalo—that's the place where I was supposed to learn medicine. I guess I did. Leastwise I'm still studying it to find out if I didn't. It's hard to understand the study of medicine. My sidekick, the first one, had been a chemist in Canada, got chased down by the police, so on and so forth, so he taught me chemistry and I was supposed to teach him, well, I guess the rest of the stuff. Another chap took the anatomy. I took physiology, pharmacology, and that's the way we divided up our work, so we all had the chance to pile in as much as we wanted to and learn from each other. My class in medicine started out as nineteen. We lost a bunch and brought a bunch up from Fordham University our sophomore year, and then we stayed about the same and only lost one, making it twenty-five instead of twenty-six our senior year, but then the fight came for internships, and what an interesting story it was. They wanted me to go to the Edward Meyer Memorial [Hospital] in Buffalo and I said "No.” I wanted the General, and if I couldn't have The General, I was going down to Blockley in Philadelphia—of course I didn't know anybody in Blockley—I never did get there—I never saw the inside of the place, but Dr. Ryman from our class, from the class ahead of me, went down.
[End of Tape I]
[Tape II]
Dr. Benson: They gave me a royal ride also on internship, because they handed me a fraternity pin when I was already wearing a fraternity pin and asked me if I had lost that in the nurses’ home and would I please tell them which room it belonged in, for sarcasm. Oh, the full money that we were to receive for one year of work, starting at about 8:30 or 8 o'clock every morning and maybe getting one or two evenings after seven out, but otherwise knowing that we were on call all night long, was a very valuable swapping proposition. We got three suits of white clothes. I don't imagine they would be, would be worth something today. I think they were linen, but in those days we didn't think much of them. No socks, no underwear—we had to find that from someplace else—and four meal—three meals and a lunch, and we went on pretty well living but it was damned embarrassing. You didn't have any money to spend.
You didn't have any cigars unless you inherited them or somebody gave them to you. Cigarettes were out of question and the nurses got more money than we did, but it was fun. I always remember that at 10 o'clock at night they came around with lunch, usually big pieces of chocolate cake, and after Mary Storm, the night superintendent, had gotten in wrong, the second time we posted ourselves in very advantageous positions, and when we saw her coming, somebody yelled and we all ran out in the hall looking back—looking the other way—and turn around suddenly, and we actually hit her broadside with no less than nine out of the twelve pieces of chocolate cake. Nice treatment for a supervising nurse. I got the blame for the whole thing and rightly so.
Then we had to have some parties. ’Course we were learning a lot, and at the parties we took, yes, we took the big machine TV—we took it upstairs to the private operating room and we had a dance and a lovely concert and a lovely time. We pushed the thing out on the roof to hide it, and the only thing they got mad at was, they were afraid we were trying to start a fire to roast some hot dogs on the roof and they couldn't see the sense that we could stake the fire out. Then I got caught riding down the aisle with so and so on my shoulder when I walked into Mary Storm, the night superintendent—of course the fact that we had stolen the liquor from the training school office the day before didn't make any difference. She wanted to talk to the girl, so I put her down in front of her and let her talk. When I heard she was sending the girl home the next day, I went to the training school office and said, “Don’t blame the girl, blame me—she had nothing to do, she was just sitting on my shoulder.” So, it was fun.
The next year—my second year I went out to Meyer Memorial, and what a glorious time I had. I was supposed to have three months of contagion, three months of TB, and six months of medicine, especially cardiology. What did I end up with? I ended up with one month added on, of venereal diseases. I ended up with two months off from contagious diseases. I ended up with particular care on pediatrics, which is a whole lot of kids, and I ended up with most of the rest of my time on cardiology and doing it all, oh, yes, one month I was in Boston. It was a lot of fun but you never knew what was gonna happen to you the next day, and then I finished and the big scramble came. Dr. Green said I was getting hospitalized. I was having too good a time in hospitals, and time I got out and earned a living. The rest of them didn't dare disagree with him because he was the chief, so I did, and the first thing I knew, I was running a sanitarium in Dansville that belonged to doctors. That was when they looked at me and said that anybody [who] could vault over the cushions and seats and chairs and couches in a fashionable place, or turn somersaults over them, certainly couldn't know medicine. Of course I lost those patients, but I made up for it, and travel I did, back and forth, all around, and finally I came back to Binghamton. That’s when I had my big surprises—even my father seemed to think it was time I went to work, and Mother couldn't understand why I took two weeks of sitting on the hills around the town thinking, figuring out what I wanted to do and how I wanted to do it and how I was going to do this and how I was going to do that. I started to set up an office on 104 Oak Street, I well remember to this day. My mother decided that, ah, in as much as they had helped educate me and do things for me, that I was going to supply her with amusements for the rest of her life because she was going to sit and watch me work—of course, that didn't work. She got mad at me because I tried.
Then Harry came down from Buffalo, tried to give me a check for $50,000 to set up the kind of an office I wanted. I could easily have spent the money but I didn't think I should, because after all, so far all I had received from running the sanitarium was a couple of, three, four blank checks asking me to please put my amount—they were all signed down—and tell them how much I wanted for my work. Nobody ever raised any questions about it and I went over the stuff in the kitchen every day to see if there was anything better I could eat. Didn't do much good, though, ’cause Dr. Goodell's wife was with me as superintendent or something, and then W. George left me and the fellow that come in his place [who] was supposed to be trained as a hotel man happened to be a Christian Scientist, and I've heard that I had the ability to drive anybody nuts, but the next day, when I watched him plunge from a six-story building down onto the ground and splatter around the floor, I wasn't too happy. I hated to think it was my fault. It really wasn't, but it's something I'll never forget by the fact in that time I had an all—all-American swimming instructor. She didn't like me and I didn't care very much for her, but I had one, and I had a staff that was quite remarkable. The old place had established the Boulaire Baths. I had a training school office of about twelve, and I was supposed to teach physiotherapy massage and the various things, I don't know—I think it was just something to keep me from being lonesome, but then I went on home just because they were unkind enough to try to move my folks up to the sanitarium and give them private quarters just to be with me.
Now we ready to start the practice of medicine. My God, when you start to think about it, I remember the first thing I did was to talk to the man at Norwich Pharmacal, and he came up and he said, "Well you'll need a lot of this and a lot of that and a lot of this and a lot of that." He said, "I've got a wife that's sick. I want you to take care of her." And I did, and we both fared pretty good. I fared better than he did. His wife died, and I still found some medicine from there the other day when I shut the place up and my office died.
Then I became fascinated in studying the various things that happened. I never did find out where I got all the degrees I got after my name. I know there are two others I can't even think of, but somebody told me if you got enough of the alphabet dearranged, never had to know any of it because you'd say, "Yeah, I think so,” and that would be more important than trying to be smart. Yes, I've spent a lot of time hanging around Rochester trying to learn somethin’, and even when I was out in the west, out to Ann Arbor, and when the man that was supposed to have this nice course in electrocardiography looked at me and said, "What the hell do you want to take it for? You know more about it than I do now," I didn't agree with him, or it made me feel awful good to hear him say it.
Money—they tell me I've made a lot of it, lost a lot of it. I think the funniest thing was in World War II—er, World War I—when I got back from World War I, Uncle Sam wrote me a letter and said, "We don't think you're able to afford to put as much of your money into insurance as you are doing." I never argued with them. I think he was right but the funny part is that insurance has all disappeared and then the other batch that I had, that's disappeared, so maybe someday somebody will find a way to have me put away insurance as they say I can't now. Nobody ever had more fun in medicine than I did. Nobody ever worked any harder. It's not a plaything. It's a real honest-to-God tough job, but the satisfaction of knowing that you're doing something for other people to help them is the greatest satisfaction in the world. Yes, here in town I had the cardiology at the Binghamton General Hospital. I was on cardiology at Lourdes. I was offered the job of laboratory man at Wilson and at the General. I was a cardiologist at Hancock, but the fun was in trying to diagnose and make up the things when nobody else knew what to do and how to do it. What you did for the cases was easy, but trying to understand them was difficult. I don't know, if I had it to do over again I think I’d probably do the same damn fool thing. Thank you.
Oh, by the way, I have had a couple things that have kept me busy, one of them for the last nineteen years. I took care of the blind for the Lions Club, yeah, for the club—
Susan: —Lions Club—
Dr. Benson: —Lions Club, or rather I took care of Mrs. DeWitt, because I started back in the beginning when she lived downstairs under me in my home. Then we had a disagreement, not Mrs. DeWitt, but I and the Lion's Club, so I disappeared, and after that, out of a clear sky, after having spent some time in the Masons and gotten up into the Shrine back around in 1928, I was suddenly got told that I was no longer Medical Director, but I was in charge of the Charities, and what a surprise that was for me—that meant that I had to hunt up the kids that might be damaged by burns, and believe it or not, one of the hospitals that I represent is the only hospital in the world that ever brought back a child 91% burned. The rest of them think they're damn lucky if they can bring back 50% or 35%. I've made many trips to Boston and to some of the other hospitals and I've had them all do work for me on the burn kids, and then before
that we had nineteen orthopedic hospitals. That didn't seem enough to me, anyway, no matter what I found that was wrong, I usually was able to decide it was orthopedic, and you'd be surprised how much my training taught me to make the other fellow think twice. I haven't made as many trips this year, but a little while ago I kept track of them. I think I've gotten stuck in the snow down around Boston at least six times. I think I've been down through over the Hudson when it was frozen solid four or five times, and I get to the clinic once a year, and most people can't understand why my hobby is helping to spend forty-nine million dollars a year and I don't think it keeps me busy. I'm willing to have some help, but the thing that interests me is that very few people understand that this isn't just, ah, patch-me-up stuff. This is a thing of building people, kids, and trying to make them live happy and enjoy things. Sure, it takes longer than it does if you're going to just give them a kick up and let them startle them, but I think it's the greatest charity in the world. What do you think about it?
Susan: Well, I think it's remarkable what you've done, and I think you oughta mention that you have several awards for your work and that you were Man of the Year in 1973—was it?
Dr. Benson: All right, if it will make you any happier.
Susan: Well, you deserve some credit.
Dr. Benson:They're urging me to talk about awards. I don't know whether I told you, I have 21-22 letters dearranged after my name. It isn't enough to make an alphabet, but some of the letters I've got so many of I don't know what to do with. The other thing they kid me about is brass plaques. Yes, I've got a bunch of them. When you're young they're important, when you’re old you wonder if you're worth it. I've, yes, this last year I received the award from the American Legion—Man of the Year—then found out that on ‘73 I had the Shriner of the Year from Kalurah, then I got a whole lot more of them, but the thing I think you ought to get is to come along and see the fun and find out how much fun work is when you do it right.
Susan: Well, thank you very much, Dr. Benson. It's been very enjoyable talking with you.
Dr. Benson: Well, now, there is a lot more if you want it, so if you get stuck just call me.
Susan: Fine.
Dr. Benson: And we’ll try and see if they’re—because, I don't know, ah, for instance, somebody might get somewheres, like taking a film like this—why I enjoyed being a doctor—
Susan:That's right.
Dr. Benson: Why I don't want to be a lawyer, do you see what I mean?
Susan: Right.
Dr. Benson: And I think you might get further ahead with such ideas. Put down a list and then half a dozen of us go through what we can add or take off of it on each one, and then go ahead and get it dictated by someone that you can pick out as being the person that will do the best job, because that's what you gotta do.
Susan: Well, certainly if I know someone in trouble, you’re the man to call, Dr. Benson. Thank you again.
Dr. Benson: You’re entirely welcome.
Susan: This is Susan Dobandi, interviewer, and I have been talking with Dr. Carl S. Benson, who lives at 109 Murray Street, Binghamton, NY. The date is June 8, 1978.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Marjorie Bower
Interviewed by: Wanda Wood
Date of interview: 21 April, 1978
Wanda: This is Wanda Wood, interviewing Marjorie Bower of Highover Road, Chenango Bridge. The date is the 21st of April, 1978. Marge, you've recently retired from, ah, the nursing profession, and we'd like to know something about your early years of nursing and, ah, on up through until your retirement.
Marge: Well, nursing has been—ah—was my choice of professions from the time I was a little girl—ah—having had a mother who was, ah, chronically ill, and I had some knowledge of the medical profession through, ah, the doctor who took care of her, and through taking care of her myself at home. So I was rather anxious to become a nurse and, ah, to do it in a professional manner. So I was able to, ah, get in training at, ah, Binghamton General Hospital.
Wanda: Where did you—what was your early schooling, before that?
Marge: I graduated from Union-Endicott High School and, ah, I graduated in 1934 and went—ah—I was only 18 then, or 18 shortly after I graduated, so then I went immediately into training. And training was quite different in those days than it is today. We, ah, planned on, ah—our first six months of training was what we called the probationary period, and we were hazed, ah, quite a bit by the upperclassmen, and—ah—
Wanda: Do you remember any incidents about that?
Marge: Well, we were—I can't remember specific instances except being told to go get a—different kinds of instruments which, of course, didn't exist. And everybody always got a big charge out of the “probies” coming and asking for these strange instruments that were nonexistent. So they had quite a few laughs on us, but of course when—when we got to be juniors and seniors we did likewise to the probies. But, ah, it was a very strenuous training. We had to be up and have our breakfast by six—by six o'clock, and then by six-thirty we had inspection. We wore big black ties and white aprons and starched uniforms, black stockings and black shoes. And if everything wasn't perfect, we were sent back to our rooms to make it perfect—that is, our bow tied right and our apron exactly, ah, pristine white, and if—if it wasn't in that condition we—we were sent back, and we were still expected to be on the ward at five of seven where we had transfer. And during the day, we were supposed to have two hours off during the day. We were very fortunate if we got it, because the head nurse always seemed to—it seemed to us—to delight at finding some extra duty for us to do. That extra duty could be cleaning medical cabinets, cleaning up utility rooms, straightening up, ah, bath trays. I might say that the bath tray—that every patient had a bed bath because patients stayed in bed a long time. In my early period we had, ah—that was before penicillin and before the antibiotic drugs, so nursing care was extremely important for medical patients and for surgical patients too, because we had nothing really to combat, ah, infections. And some of it was sad times because we saw many people die, that today would have been back working in ten days, from pneumonia or from a post-op infection. But we lived through it and—ah—
Wanda: What were the hours?
Marge: The hours were, ah, seven to seven, with supposedly two hours off during the day. Now we had class time, and if our supervisor on the floor could arrange it, she made sure that our two hours off was our class time. But sometimes she couldn't do that, so we might have an extra hour when we could sit comfortably in class. And in class we—had a—nurse's training had advanced to the point where we had a great deal of Anatomy and Chemistry. We had laboratory work. We had Nursing Ethics and—ah, I'd like to say something about nursing ethics in those days, because that was the day when—ah, if you were on a ward and a doctor came anyplace within your presence, you stood, and although you didn't salute, you were at attention. And you stayed that way until the doctor left the floor, and—ah, I was quite surprised several years later to, ah, be accompanying a physician friend on a floor and have her, ah, looking at a chart and see a student nurse come over and say, "I am sorry, Doctor, but I need this chart," and remove the chart from the doctor's hands. And I—I was astounded because—ah, we—ah, couldn't think of that in our time, if we had to stay on duty an extra hour to do our chart, we would have stayed and not dared to even approach the doctor who was reading a medical record. But, ah, that's a change in the times, and when I think sometimes back to—ah, the way—when we were, felt that we were so subservient, that I, I, I’m glad of the progress, really.
Wanda: And that's just been a few short years, really.
Marge: That's just been a short—it seems like a few short years—I suppose it's been quite a few, really. But—I graduated from training in, ah, 1937 and went immediately to work as a night nurse at General Hospital. And the hours then were—ah, twelve hours, seven to seven. My pay was—ah—eighty-five dollars a month. If you worked days it was eighty, but because I worked nights it was, it was eighty-five. They gave us a stipend of five dollars for working the night shift.
Wanda: And did you live—did you live in the hospital?
Marge: We lived in—we lived in the, what we called the dorm, and had a—had a small room. It, it was, it was adequate and—ah, the living conditions were good, but we were still under the strict supervision of, ah, nursing ethics, and in those, you didn't go overtown unless you, ah,
wore gloves and a hat—at all times. And I remember distinctly, one time, my mother had bought me a—a quite expensive hat. It was real nice, and I was coming back from overtown across the Washington Street bridge, and the wind came up and my beautiful hat blew into the river.
Wanda: Oh no.
Marge: I got back to the nursing home and one of the supervisors saw me walk in without a hat on. And this was the time when I was a graduate nurse, but I was still called on the carpet for having been overtown in unladylike apparel, because I lacked a hat. And no explanation that my hat, which had cost so much, had blown into the river, would suffice. So I, ah, of course, was a little bit beyond the area where they could dole out punishment, but I did feel reprimanded and made sure I wore a hat for the next few years.
Wanda: With a hat-pin!
Marge: Well, I—I never got one with a wide brim after that. Or else took it off going across the bridge. And then my mother became quite ill because—ah—so I quit, ah, nursing at the hospital and took care of her for a year. And after her death I went back into public—into private duty. And I found that quite satisfying, I—through all of this period I really—there is a great deal of satisfaction in nursing because—ah, during my—during my night period of nursing I—I really would like to mention some of that because, ah, I think some of the nurses today perhaps don’t see it because it is gone, become such a technical field, but it was—ah—a real great, ah, feeling to have somebody who had come in in the middle of the night in a bad accident and then have them several days later, ah, tell you that it was your presence and your smile that really helped see them through a difficult period of life when they had no family around for a few hours and things were so rough. And with the roads the way they were, General Hospital was in the area where we saw many tragic accidents coming down Conklin Avenue and Vestal Avenue, and of course they were admitted at General. And the comfort you could give parents and relatives when they came in after somebody was hurt—and I don’t think there’s any other field—professional field—where you really have this satisfaction of really being close to a person in their hour of need and fulfilling that need. And no matter what the other circumstances of nursing were, you did have that special and personal satisfaction, even though the pay was low. And I—I did private duty for about three years and then I decided to go on into an area of specialization, so I went to Syracuse University and, ah, did work in Public Health. And I worked for a year and a half in Public Health in Onondaga County. And that, too, had its special compensations in going into homes and dealing with families as a whole unit, from childhood to the old-aged.
Wanda: How did it differ in Syracuse? Were you connected with a hospital up there?
Marge: No. I was not connected with a hospital. I was in—
Wanda: —an agency?
Marge: No. I was in Syracuse University and after I finished my special preparation for Public Health, ah, we had student experience there. I worked in schools for a bit—for school—for student experience as a Student Public Health Nurse and then I worked with, ah—what they called the VNA. That was a Visiting Nurse Association in Syracuse who did home nursing, where in that period of time we went into homes and—ah, gave—ah, maybe gave a bath and taught parents and family to take care of elderly people who were bed-ridden and might go in for shots. And this was during the War and doctors were very scarce, so our services were in great demand. And it was a very busy time for me—both as a student and then when I finished my training I worked for the Onondaga County Nursing Association. Worked out of the Town of Marcellus and the Town of Tully. And the—of course the War was still going on, so that we really were very—we were very busy and yet it was very satisfying to, ah, do this, and of course it was much different. You didn't have the close supervision that you'd had in the hospital. And because of the lack of doctors, nurses were called upon to do a great deal more. We did a lot in pre-natal work, and checking the parents and in instructions. It was—Public Health is mainly a preventative and a teaching program. And it was interesting.
Then I came back—my Dad was sick and I had to resign from that position and I spent a year at home with him. And after that—ah, I decided to go in—I had an opportunity to do school nursing for the Broome County—ah, is it County Board of—the Broome County Board of, ah, Services [Broome County Board of Extension Services]. Anyway, they provided school nurses for the schools in Broome County who did not have their own school nurse-teacher. Then, because after I’d worked for them a while, I could see that this required further specialization, I went back to school and took nurse—courses in school nursing—school nurse-teaching.
Wanda: At Syracuse?
Marge: I took some at Syracuse, but I started with—a Syracuse Extension at Harpur, and I took some at Harpur and through the next—ah—because I stayed in school nurse-teaching from then until my time of retirement three years ago, I, ah, took courses at Cortland and Oneonta and, ah, did get my Bachelor's degree from Oneonta. So that I would be fully qualified for doing school nurse-teaching.
Wanda: That must have been quite a new branch of nursing at that time, wasn’t it?
Marge: It—it really wasn’t a new branch of nursing. There had been the school nurse-teachers, but just a few, but—ah, during the next few years from 1947 on, school nurse-teaching grew because there was a need for it in the schools. There was a need for people—nurse-teachers who understood and could put the nursing profession really into the teaching situation, where you had children and you could teach Health along with giving the necessary care and preventative medicine. It was—it was a combination of public health and teaching in a—almost a captive, ah, audience group.
Wanda: Was this with young—ah—all ages?
Marge: This was with all ages. When I started, I was covering Broome County. I was doing school nurse-teaching in the Town of Binghamton, and Chenango Forks, and in Harpursville and in Port Dickinson. I covered all of those areas at, ah, various times. And of course this—this cut your time—it was a lot of travel time. We did immunization clinics in all of the schools. We did hearing tests and vision tests and tried to cover all the children in all of these schools. And although we didn't have the time for teaching then, as we would have liked to, I—I think we fulfilled a great need because many of these areas, I—for instance, areas like the Harpursville area, they only had one doctor in the town and, ah, that was Dr. Torrence and he was a wonderful man to work with. He was a G.P. and did general surgery. And also there—he was Health Officer, so all in all we—ah, between the school doctor and yourself, you did a great deal of medical work and preventative work among the children.
Wanda: Now how many other teachers—what was the staff in this—ah—?
Marge: Four. There were four of us in this, ah, when we started. Then that was phased out in 1950, ah, 1 [1951], and I went to Harpursville for a year and after going to Harpursville I, ah, had the opportunity to come to Chenango Valley Central Schools—they had just centralized and I spent the rest of my, ah, working days as school nurse-teacher at Chenango Valley. And this saw—it—it’s a great deal of satisfaction. There isn’t any area of nursing, whether it’s specialization or general practice, that there isn’t—ah, satisfaction there. It has its, ah, shortcomings, or had times when—ah, when things don't go right, or, ah, you—you can’t get something corrected that you know needs to be, because of perhaps the financial situation of the parents, they’re not able to have the child’s eyes corrected or surgery that the child may need, but by working through various agencies in the county you usually can help the parents get some help. And, ah, it—ah, I—I think it fills a need and I hate to see the trend now where school nurse-teachers are being phased out, because it is an area of specialization and you can’t put—ah, I saw the need when I went into it, that I needed more education to—to do the job, but at the present time, school nurse-teachers are being phased out and either R.N.s or clerks being hired to take their place and they, ah, put in—children of our county are being—or of our state or maybe across the nation—are being short-changed because of this. They’re not getting counseling to help counsel them in their need and—ah, also the—the mental health counseling that, ah, a school nurse-teacher can give. And I really would like to—put in a plug for that. That—ah, it's the wrong direction to take, which many of our schools are taking. Our school boards and our school administrations are, ah, not being far-sighted enough. And I realize it's because of financial reasons that—
Wanda: Is that a fact, really?
Marge: This, this, this is a real fact—that so many schools have phased out their school nurse-teaching programs and have hired R.N.s. Legally the R.N. cannot do as much and it is because we are living in a technical age, in an age of specialization. Unless the people who are fulfilling their job have the know-how, the job is not going to be done as it should be done. And in the end it's the student who is, ah, short-changed. And the student is the future parent and the future citizen of our country. And we are not doing enough in the area of, ah, sex education; we’re not doing enough in the areas of drug education in the way that it should be done; we're not doing enough in just plain health education, consumer education. Our students are being bombarded with all of these—ah, aspirin ads and medical ads on television where they’re not getting, really, the health education in school to, ah, combat this trend. And I think—ah, too many people are still saying education should just be the three Rs and feeling, because of the financial reason, that they are going back to that, and that's not preparing our children—our future parents—for the world it is. Because they’re coming up into this world, as it is.
Wanda: Do you think—do you feel that parents are bowing out of their responsibilities in that way? In educating their children on these problems that you mention?
Marge: Well I—I feel that in—in some ways parents are bowing out, but let’s face it, the parents haven't had the education themselves. What—ah, unless they have some help, how are they going to educate their children? I mean, it, it’s, it's a fast race and it's—it's just as hard for parents to keep up with it as it is for teachers. That's why we need, ah, people who are really specialized in this field. We had—ah, the State has mandated health education teachers in the schools, but, ah, some boards are getting around that by trying to have a school nurse-teacher do a school nurse-teaching job and go in the classroom too, and, ah, some are bowing out of it because, ah, they get one or two parents who, ah, object to the—the health education in the schools, and when I say health education, I mean, we know that venereal disease is, ah, on the uprise in our nation, and we, ah, conveniently may say that it's being covered in our health education classes, but ah, I think if somebody went in and observed some of the health education classes, they would find the teachers are afraid—to teach about it. Be—because of parents—a few parents' repercussions. They really feel that this isn't the thing for the school to do, but where are the boys and girls going to learn about it?
Wanda: On the streets, right?
Marge: Well, on the streets or after they have it. I—I think that, ah, our State is trying. They have passed laws so that, ah, boys and girls who feel they have—might have a venereal disease can go in and be checked for it, and it will be kept confidential. And that's a—a big plus. That's been done by the legislature. And of course they—the legislation has tried to say that we will have these things covered in school, but ah, our school administrations are, ah, reluctant to take the big step. We had a good case of that when Sue Crouse—when she went into, ah, some of the schools and with some of the Girl Scouts, where parents—ah, well, the Letters to the Editor were pretty rife in the papers for quite a few months. And, ah—this is getting maybe off the subject of nursing, but, ah, it’s something that's a community need. And I think the school nurse-teachers have been some of the first ones to see it. To try to, ah, fight for it and arrange for programs in the school. I don't know, maybe this is one of the reasons we're being phased out! But I think the big reason is financial, because I know that all of the people in education are there for the good of the children or there wouldn't be any education, or most of them. But altogether it has been a very satisfying career, and I—ah, there are many specializations in nursing and, ah, allied fields of medicine, so nursing is taking on a new dimension in—ah, the nurse-practitioner now, in which they are becoming a closer doctor's assistant in that they are going away and taking specialization in—ah, examinations. They are doing this in schools where the school pract—school nurse-practitioner will be examining children under the close supervision of the pediatrician or school physician. They are also taking specialization in working in doctors’ offices and doing initial examinations to—ah, shorten—ah, well, to assist the doctor and to maybe give him a little more time on the—ah, the—ah, critical aspects of the patient care.
Wanda: It sounds like a wonderful career for some children that don't want to go into extensive education.
Marge: That’s right. And, and it has taken such a turnabout. I mean, it has become so technical now that even in the hospitals where—ah, where in my period of training we practically stood up and saluted and bowed when the doctor came in, the nurse now is more of a co-worker with the doctor. And, ah—her, ah, place in patient care is being given more recognition, as it should be, because she is doing a great deal more and is much better trained to do it. So it's, it’s a great career and it brings you close to people—if you, if you like people and you want to help them, you want to be close to them and do as much for your community as you can, you can’t go into any better profession than nursing.
Wanda: Well, you certainly have proven that and I know you’re much admired in this community for what you’ve done.
Marge: Well, thank you.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Jeanette Boyd
Interviewed by: Susan Dobandi
Date of interview: 10 February 1978
Susan: This is Susan Dobandi, interviewer, and I'm talking with Mrs. Jeanette Boyd, who lives at 2 Duffey Court, Binghamton, NY. The date is February 10, 1978. Mrs. Boyd, would you please tell us something about your early beginnings: where you were born, something about your parents, any of your recollections of your childhood?
Jeanette: Well, I was born on Prospect Street in Binghamton in 1906, and ah, my father then was, ah, connected with the Broome County Humane Society and Welfare Association, and I went to Jarvis Street School, which is now closed of course, ah, and Laurel Avenue School and then to Helen Street School, which is now Thomas Jefferson. Graduated from high school in 1924 and—
We took street cars wherever we wanted to go, ah—to get to school I walked across, ah—ah, Glenwood Ave., where the trains would be stalled on the—on the crossings, and I would have to crawl through the trains to get to school on time and, ah, but we made it very nicely. I used to go skating down in Endicott. We had to walk to Main Street for a streetcar and go down to where Union Endicott School is now—we'd go skating and get all wet and come home on the streetcar and then walk home all the way in from Main Street. We had no cars then, and these days children would stay home and watch television rather than do all of that. And ah—
When I graduated in ’24, ah, I went into the Humane Society and worked there for three or four years, and ah, my mother didn't think it was the place for an 18 year old, and I really had a very liberal education. I, ah—I learned much about the birds and the bees and how everything, ah, worked or didn't work, but I survived it, and I'm sure lots of other people would too, but ah, we ah, we housed at that time the Girls Club. Ah, in fact my father started the Girls Club in that building and, ah, bought a building on the same corner for the Boys Club, to house that, and ah, we had clinics in the building. We had the first eye, ear and nose clinic that Dr. Roe had there, and Dr. Bolt, and we had a tuberculosis clinic and a heart clinic, all kinds of clinics in—in that building, and doctors volunteered their time, they were not paid for it, and of course the welfare work was done by my father and with a lot of George F. Johnson's money.
Susan: Give his name now.
Jeanette: Ah, Sam Koerbel, and ah, we also had Children's Court in that building and on the top floor we had a children's detention. He would not put the children in the jail, so we made a jail up on the top floor and had delinquent children up there and we had a colored family, a negro couple who ah—who were the attendants up there and, ah, so that the children did not go into the big jails the way they do now with the adults or anything of this kind. They did not go into courts. They went into just their own small Children's Court and the welfare work, as I say, was done there, the ah—ah, people who—the separated couples, ah, the men had, ah, to come in and pay each week, and then the women would come in and get the checks and so that we could know that they were paying their alimony and the people, their families were not going
hungry and—
Down in the basement George F. Johnson had a—had a clothing bank, and the children came in after school with their sizes that the teachers had written, sizes of clothing, and ah, we would give them coats, underwear, at that time they were wearing long underwear, and they would come in so wet and bedraggled, but we'd fit shoes on them. Then at Christmas time, of course, the school sent in many lists of sizes and we would do them up in bundles and deliver them to the houses. We had an English investigator, a lady, Elizabeth, I don't know what her last—Anderson was her name, Andy, and ah, she would go out and check the families that wanted welfare and, ah, if they were dirty she wouldn't give them one thing. She'd come in storming and she'd say, "Don't give that family one thing. I gave them some soap powder and some soap. Those kids have got to be cleaned up, the house has got to be cleaned up. I'm going back tomorrow, and if they're clean they can have some food and clothing, otherwise they can't have a thing.”
So, usually they were cleaned up, and I guess from that I say that families who are on welfare may not have much money, but they can be clean and I have not much use for—for dirty people, and I think maybe that Andy was at the bottom of that and, ah—
Susan: I might say they need an Andy now.
Jeanette: They do, oh, she was a little spitfire. She was English and she told those people what they could do and what they couldn't do, and they were scared to death of her.
[Telephone rings].
I, ah—I don't know just exactly what, ah—what, ah, you'd like to, ah, hear. We, ah, in the office we also did dog licenses. We had to go through the, ah—the books once a year and, ah, we had to send the men out. Of course we—we had the dogs under our jurisdiction too, dogs and cats, and my grandfather was dog catcher at one time. In fact the way my father got started in the Humane Society was to become the dog catcher, for the first time way, way back, and ah, he ran away from home when he was eleven years old in Waterville, NY, and ah, made his way to Binghamton and worked in a grocery store here, then became dog catcher and eventually was the Humane Officer here.
[Telephone rings.]
And another thing that might be interesting, ah, George F. Johnson had an office for my father down in the tannery office in Endicott, and out of that he worked welfare in Endicott. Or he would make arrangements for them to come to Binghamton for welfare work, then along in 1923 or ’24, I just don't remember, George F. Johnson had my father buy the Castle on the Conklin Road, and ah, at that time there was a lot of tuberculosis in the welfare families and, ah, July, for instance, they had girls and in August they had boys from these tubercular families, and ah, this was free, of course, and ah, in fact the first time that they had these, ah, little camps, my mother and an aunt had them right in our farmhouse there, where we used to go in the summertime, and ah, turned two or three rooms into dormitories—had the girls, ten or twelve, in July, and boys, and then out of these groups they, ah, had them stay all winter in this castle that they eventually bought, and the garage was made into a school and they had their own school teacher, and ah, there was an underground passage from the Castle to the garage that the children thought was wonderful, and of course the Castle has now been given by George F. Johnson to the Town of Conklin and it is town offices now, used for town parties and that kind of thing, but ah, it had, oh, a great big stove and, ah, of course they had a dining room with a lot of tables in there. It was a real school, and ah, one of the cooks used to bake angel food cakes on the ledge in the furnace and of course the children thought that that was wonderful. She said it was a nice, even heat, and she would put her cake tin right in there on that ledge and, ah, and then the—the, when the children were well and, ah, had been fed and fattened up a little bit, then they went home and the next summer another group would come in, and out of that they would choose the children that needed it the most and then they would stay a year, and this was all with George F. Johnson's money through the Humane Society and, ah, during the Depression. Oh, there, the Humane Society building was an old hotel and it had what used to be a ballroom and, ah, they had soup lines in there and we used to serve the people soup, mostly men as a rule would come, not families but men, and ah, then they—we would cook big—ah, big pots of pork and sauerkraut and, ah, then, of course as I said, they say, ah—they had the Girl Scouts there. They had showers for the girls, some of them never had baths any other time if they didn't take a shower then, and ah, the Humane Society originated, ah, in the City Hall, so I have been very interested in Alice Wales and her committee working to preserve the City Hall, because the policemen were on the first floor and I knew all of them by name when I was along, eight-nine-ten years old, and ah, the Humane Society offices were on the second floor and I used to stay there while my mother went shopping. I'd much prefer playing in that City Hall building so I have felt, ah, very interested in preserving that—that building, ’cause I think it's worth it regardless of the amount of money. I don't know if there is anything else that you'd like to know or not?
Susan: Well, I think it would be interesting to compare how the people felt about receiving help in the old days?
Jeanette: Well, of course they—they felt ashamed at that point to, ah—to have to go on welfare, although many of them had to during the Depression, but the men did work, uh, and were allowed to work even though they were receiving welfare. They were encouraged to work, which they are not, which doesn't happen these days. They don't encourage them to work at all. If they can get something for free, why, that's just great and, ah, but I think people have lost their—their sense of responsibility towards the public, to ah, they would rather go and collect their welfare checks and their food stamps and, ah, they have big cars and televisions, and in those days they were not allowed to drive up to get welfare with a car, neither did they come in taxis. They came on streetcars and they took their clothing home on the streetcars and, ah, they were given Christmas baskets from Volunteers and Salvation Army and the Humane Society, but they cooperated so that there were not duplicates and I—I think they try these days, but ah, not to have duplicates, but I think that the people are so grabby that they will take two or three baskets if it's handed to them, and I know I have taken, ah, families out just recently to buy things for Christmas, and it's amazing that some women are quite conscious of the price and what she buys for 50¢ or 75¢, while another woman, knowing that it's free, will ah, grab the highest price can of coffee off the shelf until I make her put it back. I don't buy that myself, but let’s buy something else instead of buying the best, you know, but they think they should have the best.
Susan: So many of them buy so much junk food and do not cook good nourishing meals for their children.
Jeanette: That's right, that's right. This family that I'm helping now is a family of twelve children. She never bakes her own cakes. She was getting a frozen pie and a frozen cake, and I said, "That's ridiculous, I don't buy those, they're too expensive. We'll buy a box cake,”—oh no, she wouldn't have anything to do with that, and I said, “Do you have a cake tin?”
“No.” So I said, “Well let’s—let’s buy something cheaper, we'll buy cookies then,” and well, she didn't bake cookies either, and I—I just can't understand this. I—I never went hungry, but I always baked my own cookies and my own cakes and my own pies.
Susan: Well nowadays the popular thing is to go to McDonalds as soon as they get their checks.
Jeanette: Of course, of course.
Susan: Burger King—yes—Kentucky Chicken.
Jeanette: But I just couldn't believe it, that she didn't do any baking with twelve children. I said, “You can bake a cake for 50¢ plus two eggs.”
Susan: Are you still active in—n some form of welfare?
Jeanette: No. I just do—do some through the church.
Susan: Oh, through the church.
Jeanette: We have a used clothing bank there, and we send to four mission churches in the south regularly and help them at Christmastime, but it is also open to people on welfare in Binghamton, so that is, that's the way I became acquainted with this family of twelve children, that they had heard through the grapevine, I suppose, that we had clothing.
Susan: Is she the one you were telling me about the birth control pill?
Jeanette: Yes, yes, and she was quite upset—she wanted clothing too, and I offered her several coats but no, she wanted a short coat. She wanted a pants coat, you know, and I said, “Well, of course this is not a store, we have only, ah, what people bring in to us,” and I offered her some dresses and no, she, she'd rather have blue jeans, so she went away with nothing, and her husband did take some shirts and a coat, but ah, some of the things that I offered her, said, oh well, her children wouldn't like that, and I said, well, if it did keep her warm.
Susan: They' re very choosy.
Jeanette: I think that they should be very happy to have them, but I, they have a car and of course it's the only way that they can get around, I suppose, with twelve children. You do have to buy groceries. They live up on Front Street now, but they've moved four or five times in the two years that I've known them. Now I don't know whether they don't pay their rent or what happened to them. It’s most discouraging when you try to help somebody and, ah, then they—they turn you down with things that would keep them warm, at least.
Susan: They're talking about welfare reform and we certainly need it.
Jeanette: I'd like to sit on that committee, but I'm sure that I won't be asked, ha ha, but I—I do think that, ah—ah, maybe one with gray hair on that might do some good if they could go back to some principles, at least, and not feel that, well, these people have it due them—well, I don't think that they do if they don't work, I—I don't think that work ever hurt anyone, and I think that we should support ourselves as long as we can and as much as we can and, ah, these teenagers that get married and don't have jobs, I—I don’t think that they should be allowed to marry—
Susan: —or live together.
Jeanette: Ha. That's right, that's right, and ah, they go in with these food stamps ahead of me in line, college kids, and ah, I don"t think that's necessary, if ah—if they can't afford to go to college then there are loans, and I'm sure that some of their families, ah, are well to do, and yet the kids come up here and get food stamps, and I—I don't think that's right for our county or state to pay for this kind of thing.
Susan: For out of state students.
Jeanette: That's right, and ah, of course they go around looking like ragamuffins, so maybe that's the way they get their food stamps, but ah—
Susan: I think it's a way of getting a little pocket money.
Jeanette: It's a way of getting something, I'm just not sure what it is, but I—I think it annoys me because these college kids can get a job. They can work in the summertime, my grandchildren do and, ah, but why should they, when they can get food stamps and have it handed to them?
Susan: Is there anything else that you would like to go back over?
Jeanette: Well, I—I really can't think of anything else.
Susan: Oh, they never gave any, ah, cash to the people when in the early days it was just food and clothing?
Jeanette: That's right, we had—we had grocery stores that were available for this kind of thing, and of course they were independent grocery stores then, and food was, or we bought it, wholesale. There were wholesale, well, like Darling & Co., I don't know whether they were, I think they were still in business then, but at least we bought hams and turkeys and all of that kind of thing, wholesale potatoes, wholesale, and ah, then we would make up the baskets ourselves or, I mean at Christmastime, or we would just get an order at a store, and no, the people were not given cash and I don’t give cash to the people who help me—that I am helping. I go with them shopping, and I pay the bill, I—I don't trust them. I'm sorry but I, ha—I just don't. I—I think they would go out and buy beer and cigarettes, all that kind of thing. I don't think that's the way to help people.
Susan: Well, the principle that the system is working under now is that they are trying to teach them how to manage their money, but they do not pay for the things that the money is given to them for.
Jeanette: That's right. That’s right.
Susan: And I would like to see some changes made there.
Jeanette: Yeah. No. They won't, not the people these days.
Susan: The majority of them.
Jeanette: I—I think before, we had a lot of foreigners, a lot of Slavić people over around the first ward, and I know when my husband died I—I sold real estate for a couple of years, and I went up on the hill, ah, back of Glenwood Ave., and there was an old German, I don't think she was German, at any rate she was foreign, and ah, the woman with me introduced me and she said, “I—I think you, ah, probably knew this woman's father, Sam Koerbel.” Oh, then the woman spoke very brokenly and, ah, she said, “Oh, Sam Koerbel, we just couldn't have lived through the Depression without him,” so you see, it was mostly first ward people that, ah, that we helped for some reason or another. We did others, too, but I—I think my memory is, is more of the foreign class that perhaps came over and couldn't get jobs, or couldn't get enough work for their big families, and ah, some of them were E-J workers and if they didn't have the work, why, then of course we helped them out, but ah, we were busy all day long with the people coming to the—to the, ah, windows there and taking their histories, and it would be all through a child's life until they were up to seventeen or eighteen years old. I know a lot of them now that we had on welfare, I see their names and they're in business and they've made names for themselves.
Susan: Made names for themselves, not third and fourth generation welfare—
Jeanette: That's right, that's right.
Susan: —recipients.
Jeanette: Yeah, they were willing to work, and I think, to go back to Andy, maybe her teaching of cleanliness—
Susan: —cleanliness—
Jeanette: You've got to be clean and you've got to help yourself or you don't have any welfare, and I think that just maybe, maybe they were taught the right way, I don't know, and being helped in the clinics and the delinquents. I know one, one in town who is in business now, was definitely a delinquent. He was on parole for, oh, two or three years. He'd come in every week to, ah—to sign in and tell us what he was doing, you know, but he learned his lesson the hard way. Yeah.
Susan: Do you want to comment on the difference in the children in the old days as against the, ah, now generation?
Jeanette: Oh, well, the children were disciplined, and they didn't find fault with their teachers and they didn't talk back to their teachers. If a teacher told you to do something, you did it. You, ah, you didn't question it, and it was the same with your—your parents, of course. The one reason that there was welfare, to talk about discipline, I—I think that the men would get their checks and they would go to the saloon and, ah, down on Glenwood Ave. there was a saloon that my father raided periodically and, ah, he would finally have the women come in, and the men would have to bring their checks in to us and then the women would come in to get them, but ah, the ah, I know my grandmother was helping a family right close to us, and they were Slavić and he was a drunk and didn't have any money for—for food, and my grandmother was so mad she went right down, and he was a little bit of a thing and she just shook him, she just shook him practically off—off the feet, ha ha. She came home laughing about it and she said, “Well, I don't think Pete's going to get drunk right away again because I shook so hard,” and he had been beating up his wife, and you know, I don't know whether it did any good, but I often think about seeing my grandmother shake this man, and you don't do that these days, if you went in and shook anybody and tried to make them behave you'd be taken into court.
Susan: There are too many rights to be—
Jeanette: That's right and that's too bad, that's too bad. I know one night my father had a telephone call around 10 o'clock and they said, “Sam, there is two or three young boys gone up into the cemetery in back of us and they've been trying to get into my house, but I saw them run up in the cemetery,” and my father just casually got out his gun and walked up the road and said, “You fellows come on out, I've got a gun on you,” and they walked out, and you know you wouldn't dare do that these days, you'd get the police force, the FBI, and everybody else out, but he just came down, he called the patrol and they came and got them and took them over to his—his, ah, detention, and the next day he had them in Children's Court. I—I believe they were scared to death of him. “I'm Sam Koerbel, come out, I've got a gun.” Everyone knew him. So they just, ah, they just did it as Sam Koerbel said, and even now my children will say, “Well, I'm sorry that those kids don't have a Sam Koerbel to put them right.” I—I just wish that he was around, I wonder what he'd do. Well, I think he'd put them to work first. I—I don't believe I have anything else.
Susan: Well, I think it's been very enjoyable talking with you. We agree on a good many points, Mrs. Boyd. Thank you very much for the interview.
Jeanette: You’re welcome, you’re welcome.
Susan: Mrs. Boyd, could we go back a little bit and give us a little more information about, ah, after you left your father's office and went on with your own personal life?
Jeanette: Well, I was married in 1927 to a man that I had, ah, grown up with from the sixth grade and, ah, they had been neighbors of ours, and ah, we had two children, ah, Richard and Shirley. Four years apart, and ah, shortly after we were married, six months, we discovered he was a diabetic, so for the thirty-five years that we were married, ah, we battled diabetes, but ah, he was the kind that said, “I've got it and we will not talk about it.” So, we never did, so we just lived with it, and of course we had our two children after that and we lived on Floral Ave. at that time, on the second floor of my father's house. During the Depression, ah, my husband was out of work so we went into the heating contracting business, and ah, we ah, eventually, well, he installed oil burners and stokers at that time, and ah, we eventually through the years had an oil fuel oil delivery service, and I did all of his office work and made all my children's clothes, of course. In those days you didn't go out to the store and buy things, and ah, he finally worked into just industrial work and school work within a hundred miles and, ah, in 1951 my mother sold that house, my father died in 1947 and in ’51 she sold the Floral Ave. house, and we built and we went over on Stone Road on the south side, we built a house and she had her apartment on the second floor, she became an invalid, and my children, ah, graduated from Central High and North High. Dick went on to RPI on a scholarship, and ah, he has been an electrical engineer for Stromberg Carlson in Rochester and, ah, for them went to Denver and worked on some government work and into California and back to Rochester, and then he went in with TRW Systems, and he has six children and he has moved ten times in twenty years and, ah, every time they move I go and babysit, since my husband died fourteen years ago. I go wherever they are and I babysit, and so that I've gotten around the country pretty well, and my daughter, ah, married a electrical engineer in Stromberg, went to Rochester and she still lives there and she has two children, and ah, they both have good jobs now, and he went into the printing business and lost a great deal of money, but we pulled out of there after three or four years, and I’ve—he’s had a sick mother, and I’ve gone up for a week or two at a time and helped take care of her and, ah, we are a very close family. Ah, if I hear of bad weather on the coast we call and if, Dick called me the other morning at a quarter after seven, his time, and of course my first question at that hour of the day is, “What’s wrong? When do you want me?” and ah, so that, ah, he's concerned about us too, and I have done Y.W. work. I was on the board with the, oh, Peg Prentiss, and oh, a lot of the women, you would know if I could name them, for twenty or twenty-five years, ah, on and off the board on all kinds of committees through reorganizations, ah, to conventions. I did Girl Scout work when Shirley was working—I, err, was growing up—I ah, had a Girl Scout troop, she didn't have a leader, so I went to their, ah, training sessions and had thirty-five girls for three or four years while she was growing up, and my husband and father-in-law were in Boy Scouts work, I, they made headdresses, and I had feathers all over my house because the boys would come there and work in the living room and in the kitchen and I, I just wondered if I'd turn into a Boy Scout myself, and of course they all went to Boy Scout and Girl Scout camp. Church work, I've done a little bit of everything in, in church work. I've been an elder and a deaconess in the Presbyterian Church and, ah, when Rick and his wife, ah, were in Rochester, they helped start a Presbyterian Church there in Kenfield and it’s still going, and Horky and I gave them their first Communion set, ah, for the church and ah, oh, I don’t know, we've done so many things and, ah, we did a lot of traveling after our children were grown up. We'd take the month of May and just travel, and then when my husband died I took a course in real estate and sold real estate for two years, but that was a little bit rough for me. I—I couldn't quite manage real estate and I answered an ad—a blind ad, of course, in the Press, and ah, got this job at the Herlihy Trucking Co., and I’ve been there now, well, it will be twelve years in September, and shortly after I was there, about a year after I was there, the only other woman in the office, the bookkeeper and everything, was found dead in bed, so I was sort of thrown into bookkeeping and I am still in it, only two and a half days a week, and I tell them I'm really not needed, but they say, “Who would boss us if you weren't here and who would keep us in line?” So I'm still going.
Susan: At 72.
Jeanette: At 72.
Susan: You're going to be 72.
Jeanette: I will be 72 next week, uh huh.
Susan: Well that's wonderful.
Jeanette: And I drive to Rochester, ah, when I feel like it, winter or summer, and people say, “You drove up?” and ah, when my son was in Virginia I drove down there, it was six hours and I’d just pack up and go. I—it never occurred to me that I couldn’t do it. I'd always done it and it just never occurred to me that I couldn’t do it, and ah, I don't know that there is anything else—my daughter is a busy in church work and she, ah, often says in some of her problems and she’ll write or call up and she'll say, “Well, I pulled a Jeanette Boyd today, I just told them what they were going to do.” (Chuckle.) And so I have a real reputation, I guess, even with the bowlers, ah, we bowl on the grandmothers’ team and, ah, one girl that I—I didn't know that she ever paid any attention to me, and ah, we got up from our coffee break and I said, “All right, let’s get going here, let’s get going,” and she said, “There she goes again on her soap box,” so I—I guess I have a reputation of being a boss, but I—l don't mean to be that way.
Susan: You're a very active person and you can be very, very proud of yourself, Mrs. Boyd.
Jeanette: Well, thank you.
Susan: Thanks again, this gives us a better idea of the kind of person I have been interviewing. Thank you. Bye bye.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Leonard Brotzman
Interviewed by: Wanda Wood
Date of interview: 5 January 1978
Wanda: This is Wanda Wood, interviewing Leonard Brotzman of Brotzman Hill Road in the Town of Chenango. The date is the fifth of January, 1978. Mr. Brotzman, why don’t we start out with the beginning and—ah—can you tell me something about what life was like on the farm when you were a little boy?
Leonard: Well, when I came here it was all farms. You'd be amazed if you could see today the number of the farms there was o'er these hills—
Grace Brotzman [Leonard’s wife]: On Front Street, too.
Leonard: —and—
Grace: It was all farms on Front Street.
Leonard: Oh, well, she don't want two or three of us talkin’ at once. See, she has to transcribe this, and if you talk it balls it up.
Grace: Well, I'll keep my jaw straight. (Laughter).
Wanda: No, no—
Leonard: Well, if you want to say something—heh—hold up your finger, she says. (Laughter.) And in those days it was what we’d call “sustaining farming” now. The farmer's figures could be as near—live off from the farm as they could. So, because money was very scarce—ah—some farmers, especially the small dairies, didn't have enough for them to make a livin’ and so they kept chickens, and every farm that I can remember had an orchard, at least an orchard of apples, and the big crop, outside of hay and grain to support their livestock, was potatoes. Nearly everyone with any size farm raised from three to ten acres of potatoes. And they drew them in to Binghamton with horses—drew them mostly in the fall, because after it got cold, you couldn't take them in or they'd freeze, and the stores, they were mostly independent groceries. The chain stores hadn't come in as we know them today. The A&P was here, but they bought off the local farmers. It was before the days of trucks. And, also buckwheat was quite a crop. And o’er the hills they—I presume there was more farms was run by renters than they was by owners. And they'd raise some potatoes, some buckwheat, and a hog and some beans, and they'd have maybe a team and a cow or two. And they took—they took off. They didn't put anything back. Then the farm got so poor it wouldn’t support them, why, they’d move on and another one would try. That's why we've got so many abandoned farms. And the families were large, and the children would have to look for work elsewhere—and soon that—when we came here in 1906, Binghamton, the cigar factories was the big industry. And then the Endicott Johnson came, and they became gradually built up, and then when World War I came, why, they really expanded. Seems to me about 20,000 workers. And everyone rushed in there to work.
Wanda: Do you remember much about the cigar industry?
Leonard: No I don’t. I know before my time they used to raise tobacco around here. Down Front Street, on what's now the Quinn place and Ruth Wolfe's—they were tobacco farms. They were a high narrow barn and they had boards on them, hinged so they could open it for ventilation, and o'er on what's 369 then—I don't know who owns the place now—the last I knew, it was Dr. Allerton’s. Hull’s owned it years ago, and they said they grew a lot of tobacco.
Wanda: Where the big stone barn is?
Leonard: Yeah.
Wanda: And the canal was right there,too, wasn't it? Right near by—
Leonard: Yeah. And when I was a boy, quite a lot of old canallers left. We used to like to get them telling canal stories. In fact, Grace is a descendant of the canallers. Her grandparents were on the canal.
Wanda: Well, maybe we can get her to talk about that?
Leonard: She didn't hear you—
Grace: I don’t know much about it.
Wanda: Don’t remember your grandparents?
Grace: All I know is it was the last end of the canallin’ when my grandfather was steerage and my grandmother was cook.
Wanda: What were their names?
Grace: What? Ah, Palmer.
Wanda: Oh—yeah. Connected with the—the family there—the Thomas family. Weren't they relatives of the Thomas family down on Chenango Bridge Road?
Grace: I don't know.
Wanda: Well, that's—
Grace: They might have been. Or, ah—unless she means the Palmers that used to live here, maybe.
Wanda: No—ah—it's a—well, that's another story. But she was a cook on the canal?
Grace: Yeah, my grandmother was.
Wanda: And your grandfather?
Grace: She was an Ackerman before she was married.
Wanda: Do you remember any stories they told you about it?
Grace: No. All I know is every time the Port Crane men and the Chenango Forks men met, they had a fight.
Leonard: (Laughter.) Well, what—one question was, “What was the amusement?” That was amusement to the canallers. This isn’t being recorded, is it?
Wanda: Oh yes.
Leonard: Well, this Palmer that you speak of married John Thomas’s sister, was raised right here. He lived here when we come on the hill. That was Charley, and I understand they were distant relatives of Grace's folks.
Grace: Well, my grandfather and their grandfather was cousins, I guess. Something like that.
Wanda: Well, I wish some of those canallers were still around.
Leonard: There was one, Dick Shaw. When they put the hard road in between the corners—
Grace: They was hard people. I mean they were real fighters, some of them.
Leonard: I guess all of 'em in the old days were.
Grace: Tough, they’s tough.
Leonard: Dick was an old canaller, and Stento put this piece of hard road in on Front Street, and Dick drove team for someone and he boarded with a Mrs. Webb—she kept three or four cows, and then he stayed there and done her chores until he died. And he used to tell us great stories about the canal.
Wanda: I'm sorry he's gone, aren't you? Well, where were we then?
Leonard: We'd got up to where people went to town to work. And that was one thing—that I think changed the face of farming. Well, when I was a boy, it was my father and brother and I at home, and except in haying and such things, we wasn't all needed. And when we was out of school and I worked at whatever I could find, I worked for other farmers. I worked in the ice-houses up to the 'Forks on the railroad. I worked on the road and I worked in the sawmills. And all of us boys done that. We worked at whatever we could get to do. And as the hill farms got poorer, why, it was a poorer living, and then people—they'd see that others in other occupations was making more money—had an easier time—so they drifted away to the cities. And then they has modern machinery come in. One man could do more, why, they begin to buy up the smaller farms. Maybe one man would get four or five of them and work them with the machinery, where it’d give employment to a lot of people before. And another thing that changed farming, I presume, there was as much land used to grow horse feed as there was to feed the people. Well, when the horses was gone, why, there was no market for oats and hay, and that was another thing that caused farming to change. And it gradually went into this trend for bigger farms on the better soils.
Wanda: But you stuck right here, didn't you?
Leonard: What?
Wanda: You stuck right here?
Leonard: Yeah. (Laughs.) In those days you took what come along. I dropped out of high school in my fourth year. I had eye trouble. I was going back. Wages got up to three dollars a day—what would I need of an education when I could make all that money like that? (Chuckles.)
Wanda: Three dollars a day, oh my.
Leonard: Well, I got a Grange scholarship to Cornell one winter for a short course, and when I came back, this farm, fellow that owned it died. His father was over on the “hill”—the State grabbed it and sold it at auction. And my father bid it off and took part of it and I bought the rest.
Wanda: How many acres?
Leonard: Well, at that time I think—think I had a hundred and nineteen. I’ve bought land since then—got more land, and I’ve sold it and I'm still stuck here. But I won’t be if I ever find a customer with any money. There’s no use having a farm you can’t work yourself, and the house is too big for us. We’d like to sell out here and get a small house and lot, kind of near civilization.
Wanda: Well, how—how have your crops changed over the years? Have there been a lot of changes there, except for the things you've said? You—you've always been a dairy farmer?
Leonard: Well, when I was at home, my people were market gardeners. They came from Pennsylvania with the idea of raising a truck for the Binghamton market. And they had to cut the cloth according to what they could. They bought here on the hills. Land was cheaper. And the trouble up here was, we was about a month later than they was down on the river. By the time our produce got on the market, why, the other price for early stuff was gone. And I remember when from Chenango Bridge—
[Interruption while a neighbor comes to call.]
Wanda: Can you remember where we left off?
Leonard: No.
Wanda: Doesn't matter. Well, I wonder if you could tell us something about the Grange? I know you’ve been connected with it for many years, haven't you?
Leonard: Well, to get back to the beginning, the Grange—after the Civil War the farmers were in pretty bad shape, and the Commissioner of Agriculture sent a man by the name of Albert Kelly to the South to look the situation o'er. Well, he was a Mason. He got the idea that the farmers ought to have an organization like the Masons, so he went ahead and organized one. And the first Grange, Number One in the United States, was organized at Fredonia in 1868. I think it's still going, for everything I know of. And o’er the years there was a good many Granges been organized and disbanded, and then there will be others organized. I presume in Broome County, let’s see, I think the first Grange here was at Kirkwood in 1874. And I think Binghamton was organized a few years after that, and then that disbanded and reorganized in 1906. Well, the first I knew about the Granges, the big drawing card was that they got feed and groceries at a discount, and some places there were Grange stores. Well, then after GLF was organized, they kinda dropped the feed business and went out of the merchandise business. It was more a social organ.
Wanda: Was it sort of a cooperative venture, you mean, when they had the stores?
Leonard: As I understand it.
Wanda: Well, there was quite a bit of social life combined with that, wasn't there?
Leonard: Yes. It was really—I think—a poor man's organization. It always seemed to flourish best in—ah—Depression times. But it was a farmer's organization, and I think the big trouble with the farm—the Grange in Broome County—is there isn't many farmers left. And I don't know. Us old ones are, ah, passing on, and there's so many other things that the young people don't seem to be interested. One thing, the centralized schools have so much on and then people would rather stay at home and watch television than to go out. I understand that in the states where they're farther away from the big cities the Grange is doing better ‘n it is in the more populous areas. Although Binghamton Grange, I think, is doing good. Sanitaria Springs. A boy from Binghamton Grange—they have a contest, and and one of them was in music. I think he plays the piano, and he must’ve won—been the winner in Broome County and at the State contest, and he went to National Grange down in the Carolinas and won. I think his name is Bob Hall from Port Crane.
Wanda: Was this a scholarship thing, or—?
Leonard: No. Not that.
Wanda: Oh, just a contest.
Leonard: Ayuh. I don't know, there’s a lot of prizes for the winners, what he got. And Missie—what'd Missie Acroni win that time? Do you remember, Grace? That was national, wasn’t it?
Grace: Well, yes, sure it—
Leonard: Her Afri—how d’you pronounce it? Something—African or something they knit?
Grace: Ayuh.
Leonard: And I think she got a thousand dollars and her Grange, she’s a member of Sherwood Valley, got five hundred and—
Wanda: Do you mean “Afghan”?
Leonard: Yeah.
Wanda: Yeah, yeah. Well, that's pretty good.
Leonard: Well, I’ve heard a lot say that the Grange was the greatest force for good next to the Church. Probably everybody wouldn't agree… Well, here’s something about farm machinery. Well, only the most prosperous farmers in those days—the bigger farmers might have a reaper and binder, and then there was what they called the drop reaper. It cut the grain and deposited it in a bundle on the ground, but couldn't tie it. But the small farmers used the old-fashioned cradle, and then we raked it up with a hand rake and tied it up in a bundle. And believe me, in those days there wasn't a spear of grain or hay wasted. They waste more today on the big farms than we used to have. And then the tractors begin to come in. About the first ones was the old Fordson. An’ I never see a thing I hated like them. You could crank your head off and still they wouldn’t start unless they felt like it. But they were used in those days mainly as a belt power. The tractors didn't really get out in the fields ’til they got them with rubber tires. An’ the way we sprayed, we were about the first ones around to spray an orchard. We had a force pump in a barrel with a rubber hose and a nozzle. One of us pumped and the other one sprayed.
Wanda: Was that horse-powered?
Leonard: It was man-powered. We drawed it with horses. And we’d spray the apples once or twice. Get nice apples. But now they spray continually, and—
Wanda: That was on your father's farm, right?
Leonard: Ayup. And there was some equipment here or orchard here when I got the farm. I sprayed that and I bought an orchard on the adjoining farm, but they're all pretty well gone. And we probably set a couple hundred new trees, and the deer killed every one of them. We raise them and then the State sells them to hunters. There was a neighbor, Mose Hatch, was raised in a log cabin. When I was a boy, he'd tell me how his father killed the last deer fifty years before that. Then in 1920 there was a pair up here—people come for miles to see them. Well, I wish that one that Old Man Hatch killed, it had been the last one. I think any farmer will—about, will agree with me on that.
Wanda: They say there are more now than there ever were in this country.
Leonard: Ayuh, and I think it's because there's so much abandoned land grew up to second growth. Up in the Adirondacks where they used to go to hunt, why, it’s all big timber, nothing for them to eat. And we stored the apples in the cellar, mostly in barrels and crates. You could keep bees. I never did. My brother was a great hand for bees. He didn't care any more about bees stinging him than a fly lighting on him. A mosquito buzzing'd drive him crazy.
Wanda: Well, he probably had to have them for the apples, didn't he?
Leonard: Well, yes—and we kept 'em. When he was a boy he'd worked where they kept hundreds of colonies. I always thought I'd like to keep bees, but they didn't like me. They say they'll sting anybody that's afraid of them, and they sure knew I was afraid of 'em. But—and that's another thing that's changed—in those days, we got white clover and buckwheat honey. Well, 'bout all you get now is a mixture, mostly of weeds. Back when there was all these cattle o'er these hills—ah—pastures were chewed right down an’ come in to white clover. And everyone raised buckwheat. But we'd plow 'er and put in to potatoes—they winter. I remember when I paid $4.50 school tax on this farm. This year it was o'er six hundred. But the teacher got—I remember six or seven dollars a week, an’ was glad to get a school at that.
Wanda: Where'd you go to school?
Leonard: Well, there was a district school right at the foot of the hill. It’s a house now.
Wanda: Oh, yes—I remember that—yes.
Leonard: And then Chenango Forks was what they called the union school—it was three-year high school—and Grace and I both went there, and then she went to Greene for the last year and graduated. And I started at Whitney Point. But as they say, I “quituated” instead of graduating.
Wanda: How'd you go to school? Did you have to board up there?
Leonard: Well, I boarded in the winter and the rest of the time I walked to Chenango Forks—went up on the nine o'clock train. And then they came back on the—what they called the “freight and accommodation”—old freight train, a passenger car on it. And that came alone, down anytime it felt like it, sometimes eight or nine o'clock at night. And this was a mud road then, down Front Street and up the hill, and we didn't even have a flashlight in them days. And boy, I was late at home until I sure was a man. And then I got a Grange scholarship and went to Cornell one winter—only vacation I ever had. And that was the last year they gave scholarships. Then they started what they called the revolving scholarship fund. They established the fund and would lend it to the students. And I think they're still doing it. Well—the last complaint I heard was they'd only lend so many hundred to each student a year. And the way expenses went up, they had to look for more money.
Wanda: What did you study that—when you went to Cornell? What were your subjects then?
Leonard: Well, we all, as I remember, we had to take a course in chemistry and soils, and one or two other basic things. And then I went in more for fruit growing and poultry raising, and took a course in forestry which was, I think, was the most interesting of any I took. And then I came home and bought this farm and this was more adapted to—in cattle than fruit growing.
Wanda: So you—did you go into the poultry business too, or—?
Leonard: Well, we used to keep a few hundred. But now it's all specialization. It's all poultry or all dairy, or something of the kind, and mainly because it's, probably one of the biggest things was, the farmers can't afford to hire help to compete with industry. 'Cause of minimum wage laws. So they, they've mechanized. One man produces as much as a lot did in the old days, doing it the way we used to. And about milk—there were all these small dairies. They had a half a dozen or more put together and buy a wagon and put a rack on it. Milk went to Binghamton. One man'd take it one day and one the next, and then they'd go it around again. We done that for years.
Wanda: You mean it was peddled in Binghamton that way?
Leonard: No, we took it to the milk companies.
Wanda: Oh—Crowley's—
Leonard: We'd draw it from eight to ten dairies on one load. They were all small dairies. And then when they got trucks, why, they went to hiring a truckman to take it in. Today—the can—I don't know of a place that buys canned milk anymore. It's all bulk tanks. And that put a good many small farmers outta business, because on the backroads the bulk truck won't go in unless they produce enough milk to pay 'em for their trouble. There we used to—well, take our canned milk to the main road for them to pick it up. And I don't know whether there's anyone in Binghamton taking milk in for the Crowley’s—whether their bulk tanks empty in Binghamton or not. There's a bulk tank, goes up through here every morning—or I see it every day or two. I don't know as it's every day. Picks up Haskell's, and then it goes up to Bob Walker's, and farther up's George Perry's. I think his goes to the Lea [Dairy Lea] and Eddy Smith go to Crowley's. Now there's four dairies where there used to be twenty-five or thirty. Probably as many cows in the four as there was in all of 'em.
Wanda: Well, do you think it's better or worse?
Leonard: Well—(Laughs)—I kinda think I like the old way best, but I know that it wouldn't be very practical, the way conditions are today.
Wanda: Especially for the wages, right?
Leonard: But I will say that those small farmers, the ones that owned their farms, the government didn't have a mortgage on them for more'n they was worth. Some of my friends hear that remark, they'll grate their teeth. (Laughter.) We didn't have much in those days, but what we had was ours. One question in here about apple varieties—do we want to go into—?
Wanda: Oh yes, I'd love to pick up that—do you remember?
Leonard: On the place where I was born, they were—the fences were stone walls. There was apple trees all around it—I think the biggest apple trees I ever seen, and was as nice apples. We never heard of spraying. We—ah—gathered what we wanted, and the rest fell off and laid there. And some of the bigger orchards a little later, the buyers come in and buy them and hire a gang to pack 'em in barrels and send them somewhere, to cities. And then we got all kinds of insects and diseases, and they had to spray.
Wanda: Do you remember some of the names of those old varieties that you can't find anymore?
Leonard: Well, back in the old days, those old varieties were seedlings—came up themselves and happened to be a good apple, then somebody discovered them and went to propagating them. Today, most of the new varieties are a manmade variety. They cross two or three varieties with—ah—to get the kind of apple they want. O'er to Geneva, they have an orchard with a thousand varieties they use for show and in this business, creating new apples. The old-fashioned apples—I can remember the Yellow Transparent come first and the Red Astrakan, then there was Sweet and Sour Harvest—they're not too well known around here—and Tompkins County King. They were an awful good apple. I don't know where they let 'em slip, but nobody has 'em. One time the Baldwin, there was more of them raised than anything else. And the Northern Spy for years was a main apple. Then there was the Rhode Island and the Northwestern Greenings—they were more cooking apples—and the Roxbury Russet, that used to keep 'til the next summer. And I don't know of where there's hardly a tree or any of them anymore, except the Northern Spy, and they're used more for processing. And we had the Pound Sweet and the Talman Sweet and the Rambo and the Hubbardson Nonesuch. Lord Nelson, the Spitzenburg, Jonathan, Grime's Golden. I think quite a lot of those varieties came from England and Europe.
Wanda: The names sound that way.
Leonard: And they, ah—the apple, I understand, is a native of the Near East. They were brought to this country. But today—why, the statistics show Red Delicious—there's more of them raised. But in the stores everybody wants McIntosh. They know the name—and I—
Wanda: That's about the only two names you hear anymore.
Leonard: And I've seen a lot of things sold for McIntosh that didn't even faintly resemble 'em. I was reading the other day, a list of apples that they've developed o'er to Geneva. Some of them I don't know and never seen. But one of the first ones they developed was the Cortland. That's a cross between the—ah—I think the McIntosh an’ the Ben Davis. Cortland's a wonderful apple. An’ the Ben Davis—(Laughter)—oh boy. I'd as soon eat a chip any day. (Chuckles.) But at one time when I was a boy they set out a lot of them. That was the days before refrigeration, and they would keep to send across the ocean.
Wanda: (Laughs.) I can imagine so.
Leonard: They was too poor to rot!
Wanda: Did you ever cook them, Mrs.—ah—Brotzman?
Grace: What—the Ben Davis? Yeah, I cooked 'em.
Wanda: How did you do it?
Grace: I think we—I think we've even baked them, didn't we, Leonard?
Leonard: Seems though.
Wanda: That's the only way I've ever heard that you could get 'em soft, was to bake them.
Leonard: We used to use them when we was short of other apples.
Grace: My mother—sometimes the frost would get the other apples and we had just the Ben Davis. We used 'em. There isn't a Ben Davis tree left, is there?
Leonard: Why, up on that Hatch orchard there's one that had a few left—last year. And we had a white apple. And the Stood orchard was set for Spitzenburg, but they turned out to be this white apple with the red cheek—I think they called 'em the Belmont—and we sold hundreds of bushels of those. Today, you couldn't get people to look at 'em. But fruit is somethin’ that's particular about the ground. This place is quite clay-ey, and apples don't do good in that. And also the west wind hits in here. I never had too much luck with cane berries. I think because the wind's so cold. Across the road where it's sheltered and in shale soil, fruit done wonders and we raised acres of berries. We used to pick berries—be five or six of us every day, and my brother drawed them to Binghamton with the horses.
Wanda: How did he sell them? House to house?
Leonard: No. mostly to stores. We never did do too much retail business—took too much time. But we did used to have customers in the fall of the year. They'd put in potatoes an’ apples an’ onions an’ everything like that. They'd last all winter. Where if you'd unload a whole load, why, it paid. But our—most of our customers would be what was called independent grocers. We'd supplied them wholesale an’ then they'd retail 'em. And then—I think the first chain store in Binghamton, the American store came in Washington Street. Potatoes, I know, was $1.75 an’ they brought 'em in on trucks from somewhere. They'd evidently bought 'em cheaper—dollar and a quarter. And that pretty well ended growing the many potatoes around here. Why, in the old days they used to car 'em. Load aft—carload after carload. Chenango Bridge. Whitney Point. You remember Mart Foote?
Wanda: Oh—I do.
Leonard: Why, Mart was a buyer for some company—potatoes and apples.
Wanda: Is that right?
Leonard: He used to go out in the lake country and buy a whole orchard of apples an’ hire men to pick 'em and car them.
Wanda: Well—
Leonard: I guess that about runs out of questions here.
Wanda: Well, we've got a little time left.
Leonard: Well—asking about the Grange—and the Farm Bureau—that was organized here in 1911. The first one in the United States—the Chamber of Commerce and the Delaware-Lackawanna, and I forgot what else sponsored it.
Wanda: The Farm Bureau, you mean?
Leonard: Well, what was Farm Bureau then's the Extension Service now. It was the Farm Bureau for a good many years. John Baron was the first agent. He had Broome County, part of Susquehanna, and he had a horse and buggy. And then it was Ed Minns—he’d been a professor at Cornell, and they did get him a car. He'd bought a place down to Nimmonsburg—I think Carl St. John owned it later. And Baron—he went on. He was a professor at Cornell later, and then there was—Eastman—I think an Eastman. I've known every one of the Farm Bureau men. I was a committeeman for about fifty years. We used to go out and solicit people to join. I think the dues at first were a dollar, and then they worked up—seems to me to five—and then they dropped back to three. And one thing we discovered—the people that could’ve benefited from it most was the ones it was the hardest to get to join. And I think that the Farm Bureau was—well, they brought what—the new things to the farmers. And the better farmers today are the ones that went along with them. And the others are—huh—like the buffalo and the passenger pigeon.
Wanda: (Laughs). That's a good comparison.
Leonard: And then they got the bright idea of calling that the Extension Service and organizing the Farm Bureau, because it was being supported by public money and there'd be bills come up that they wanted to work for, and they couldn't do that as long as they was supported by public money. So—they called that part of it “Extension Service” and then they organized the Farm Bureau, which could not receive any public money. Although they work for different things. I've always been with the Extension. I belonged to the Farm Bureau for a few years, but when I sold the dairy I dropped out.
Wanda: So you have no dairy now?
Leonard: Well, I've got one cow and four or five heavy young cattle. The neighbor's got beef cattle here and does the haying.
Wanda: Well—that's good.
Leonard: I was going to send the old cow to the auction on a Monday, but she freshened on Friday. She wasn't in very good shape to send to the auction, so I've still got her. I tied the calf 'side of her and told him to go to it, but he's lazy—he makes me help.
Wanda: Well, you're lucky to have a—one cow, even.
Leonard: Well—one cow ties you down as tight as that whole barnful.
Wanda: Does it?
Leonard: And that's really why I was getting rid of her, too, but—if I can't be here to milk her—Grace’s got past it, and where do you get someone to milk her?
Wanda: Well—if you didn't gad so much, you wouldn't have to worry about those problems.
Leonard: It ain’t the gadding that worries me, it's trips to the hospital.
Wanda: Well, I want to thank you. Have you got anything else you want to put on here?
Leonard: No. I've probably put on too much now.
Wanda: How about it, Mrs. Brotzman?
Grace: I haven't got anything.
Wanda: Well, I guess we're kinda talked out, aren’t we? But I do thank you, and I thank you for your hospitality. It's been a pleasure.
Leonard: Well, it's been a pleasure to talk with you.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Sarah Burbank
Interviewed by: Susan Dobandi
Date of interview: 12 July 1978
Susan: Mrs. Burbank, could we begin this interview by having you tell us something about your early beginnings? Where you were born? Something about your parents, what they did, and your early life in the community?
Sarah: Well, let’s go back a little further to my mother. Ah, Mother was ah, one of twelve children, Welsh, all Welsh, and ah, she went to, ah, Bloominburgh to a school to be a teacher and ah, my grandfather and grandmother were very interested in the Church, Congregational Church, and they used to entertain the, ah, minister, you know. Well, one day they had him at the house for dinner and, ah, he said to my grandfather, he said, "Oh, Mr. Jones, you have a wonderful family,” and my grandfather said, "But you haven't seen our Gertie." That was my mother, and as soon as Gertie came home he married her—I mean, not as soon, but they—they fell in love and he married her.
Well, he was a Minister from Wales. He, ah, got his degree from Yale and ah, he got very sick. He died before I was born, and so mother of course went back to my grandmother's and, ah, she taught school and so my grandmother raised me. So that was the beginning, of course, of a spoil, because there were a lot of aunts and uncles and, ah, I loved my grandmother. I didn't like my mother much because she did discipline me. She wouldn't have me spoiled when she was home but grandma used to teach me things, and one thing—this table, which is a marble top table, she taught me how to dust it. I was dusting it, you know, just back and forth any old way and she said, "Oh look, you must go into those little holes there and dust it thoroughly,” that's one thing, and then she let me iron but I had to get the—the handkerchief straight and iron them straight, fold them perfectly straight, and I remember those things and I think they've stuck by me. Maybe made me a little prissy, I don't know, but I don't see the youngsters doing it nowadays, but ah, anyway mother married again and took me away from my grandmother, and at the time I didn't like it one bit but I can see now that it was better for me, and so ah, my father—I called him “Father”—stepfather was as good and better than some fathers I know. He was a wonderful man but, ah, Mother took out an insurance policy for me to go to school ’cause she had gone to school, and if I remember what she told me, it cost her $500 to go at her time. You're smiling. It doesn't seem possible, and then when I went she took out this policy for $1,000, which would come due when I was of age to go, and I went down to Drexel when I went to school.
Susan: Drexel.
Sarah: Drexel, Philadelphia to take Home Economics. At that time, I went in ’18 and I think—1918—that was a new course, and it wasn't thought too much of right then, cooking and sewing, you know, you could learn that at home. Well anyway I went there, and ah, I don't know whether I got through, ah, for a thousand dollars or not, but I know I helped to wait on table, ah, to make a little more money, and in those days I made $4.00 a week but it seemed like a fortune to me and, ah, well, that was in 1919. I had two years and then I went to teach in Pennsylvania, and Cockinville was the name of the place, down there near Philadelphia, and ah, I went for $1,000 a year, that's what I was paid, nine months, and then I moved up to, ah, Brooklyn, Pennsylvania, which was another little small, but then I taught this Home Economics, that was three years, and then I came to Binghamton, and I taught one year here, but then I was married and our daughter was born and I stayed home.
Susan: What did Mr. Burbank do?
Sarah: He was an insurance man for Prudential and ah, I, ah—I stayed home about five years, I think, until one day Mr. Maston, who was manager of WNBF here, the only radio station we had then, ah, called and asked me if I'd be interested in doing a cooking school of the air. I didn't know what it was all about, but you know youth, well I say, they're brash but they don't have any nerves and they're not afraid of anything. I wasn't then, but I said, "Well we'll try it," and we had to go through voice tests and reading tests and things like that, and finally we started.
I thought it would be for, oh, a few weeks, because they had cooking schools in the schools. I mean they would have a woman come—Home Economics, and she would do it for two or three days, I don't know if you knew that or not, but then ah, I started and went on for a year and, ah, then they decided to just have it radio, and so from then on, well, I think I was doing that for twenty-one years.
Susan: That long?
Sarah: I thought it would be for about two years, but in the meantime of course my daughter was growing, but I was very fortunate to have a woman come in and take care of her when I was gone, you know, and I was able to do the work, ah, for the week. I mean, she would come clean through, you know, and if Rachel, my daughter, was sick, why, she would come over and stay with her while I was gone, but I wasn't gone too long doing radio, you know. Ah, well, the Cooking School of the Air finally went into television, and I didn't want to do that. I'd had—that's a lot of work. (Chuckle.) I don't want to do a lot of work, but you know—- Well, did you ever do any?
Susan: No.
Sarah: Well, you know what you have to do. I did it because I wanted everything to come out right. I had a girl helping me on the cooking school, and she'd help me here. We'd make something what we were going to do that day. We'd do it, oh, quite a few weeks ahead, because ah, we made a recipe folder to give out and they had to be printed and I had to try them first, then ah, we'd go down there the morning of the school—go down to the store. It was in McLean's Silver Salon up on the fifth floor. I'll bet you don't remember that either?
Susan: No.
Sarah: Well, they had their fashion shows and all sorts of things there, and then we'd do that in the morning again so the women could have it to taste, and then in the afternoon we'd do it in front of everybody, so it was too much work for the few of us who were doing it, you know, but of course we had sponsors, too, and we had to, well, we had to give them quite a bit of time. I think some days I'd have as many as seven or eight.
Susan: You did your own commercials?
Sarah: Yes, yes, and they would send them to me, the material, and then I could do it whichever way I wanted to, and that went through all the time I was on radio, but ah, it was very interesting. I enjoyed it very much meeting the people, you know, and I had guests on the—on the air, I had them on the cooking school, too, but it was a lot of fun.
Susan: What was the name of your program?
Sarah: The Sarah Burbank Show. Well, Mr. Maston thought that was best. I left it all up to them, I just did what they thought would be better, and that was, I can see now that was better, because we changed time, sometimes it would be fifteen minutes, and again they'd make it twenty minutes and change the format a little bit, but during that time my daughter, ah, grew up, graduated and from high school and from college. She went to St. Lawrence and then she married.
Susan: What did she study?
Sarah: Well, she studied business—business administration, but, but never did work at it, she got married, ah, she graduated in June and was married the next February, and ah, has two children, and I enjoy them so much, the grandchildren, they’re wonderful. We've had a very full life, my husband and I—we, ah, didn't do extensive traveling, but we went to Florida after we both retired, out to California, Canada, and just have a cottage, and so it's been a very full life—very enjoyable, and it's been wonderful.
Susan: Are you active with any of the local clubs?
Sarah: Not now, I was, ah—I was on the board of the YWCA for a while, and on the board of the Civic Club, too, and of course PTA when Rachel was in school, but ah, no others and not now, not too much now. Well, you know, you give over to the younger people and let them do the work now. It's only fair.
Susan: True.
Sarah: Yes, I think so, and ah, I don't feel as though I could do very much, that is, to keep on, you know, like I used to for the different clubs.
Susan: Mrs. Burbank, it's been very nice chatting with you, and if you don't have anything more to add to this, why, I think we'll close the interview.
Sarah: Fine.
Susan: Thank you very much.
Sarah: Thank you for coming.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Dr. John B. Burns
Interviewed by: Dan O’Neil
Date of interview: 16 June 1978
Dan: Doctor, why don't we start out with the—you tell me your date and place of birth and the reason that you came to Binghamton and your life and experiences in the community.
Dr. Burns: OK let’s see, I was born on June 9th 1903 in Elmira, New York and ah my Mother died 3 weeks after I was born and the reason I mention that is because she died with an embolism which is quite unusual at this day and age to have that happen. Ah I went to the schools in Elmira and graduated from Elmira Free Academy in 1922 and then I went from there I went to the University of Buffalo in the College of Arts and Science and the Medical College and I graduated from there in 1928 with an M.D. Degree and a Bachelor of Science in Medicine. Ah I interned at the Myer Memorial Hospital which at that time was called Buffalo City Hospital and ah after leaving there, I went to New York to the New York Nursery and Child's Hospital which is the oldest children’s hospital in America and it was Cornell's Pediatric Department and that’s where I did my pediatric training and after I left New York I went to Baltimore to Johns Hopkins and finished my pediatric training there at Hopkins and it was from there that I came to Binghamton in 1931. Ah you wondered why I came to Binghamton—well when I was in high school at Elmira Free Academy I used to come here to Binghamton to play football and basketball against Binghamton Central and ah I always, when every time I was at Binghamton, I always was quite impressed with the city. Ah at that time the big rivalry was between Elmira and Binghamton—ah Endicott, Vestal and Johnson City, of those weren't in it at all—it was between Binghamton Central and Elmira Free Academy.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And as I say that's the reason that I happened to come here or to think about it. When I was finishing at Hopkins, Dr. Park, who was the Professor of Pediatrics there asked me where I was going to practice and I told him I was thinking of Binghamton and he knew a Dr. Chittenden here ah who had taught him when he was a medical student at P. and S. in New York so he said, "Well I'll write to him and see what the prospects are." Of course this was at the bottom of the Depression.
Dan: Uh huh
Dr. Burns: And he wrote to Dr. Chittenden and I think it was Chittenden who suggested that I come up and see him and talk with him—so I came up one holiday I, I can't remember whether it was the 4th of July or Memorial Day or when it was and ah visited with him and he ah referred me to four different doctors here that I should go around and see and I went around to each one of the four of them but I didn't get any encouragement from any of them—not one. They all said, "Well if you can wait 6 years why you can probably make a go of it or not," but anyway ah I decided to come here to try it out anyway and we had some exciting times at that particular period. I tried to borrow some money from a bank in Elmira and they wouldn't loan me any and ah I finally borrowed $1500 from an uncle of mine and I went to the bank in Elmira to deposit it before transferring it to Binghamton and ah I asked them about what bank I should go to here and they said, "They're all all right, go to any of them," so the man that we rented the apartment from here at 124 Murray Street said the bank, I think it was called the Citizens Trust ah was a bank that would give you a loan easier than anybody else—so I figured that's for me, that's what I want—so I, I went down to the Citizens Trust and made arrangements to have the money transferred from Elmira and then we went to visit Marion's brother over the weekend and came back on Tuesday—was a notice on the bank that it had failed—it had gone under and ah so it's a wonder I didn't have a heart attack right there. Anyway I called Elmira and ah Elmira said that ah that they had gotten wind of it and they had held it up. We, as I mentioned, we lived at 124 Murray Street—rented an apartment there, we paid $55.00 a month and that included a garage and ah all the utilities and everything and ah Mrs. Burns finally got them to cut the rent down to $50 a month because our money was going pretty fast. At that time that I started here in Binghamton, you couldn't put an announcement in the paper that you were opening an office—it was unethical to do it nor could you—that you were moving your office anywhere I mean.
Dan: Is that right?
Dr. Burns: And now of course you can put it in which they should have allowed it anyway but you couldn't then and also we had another ah bad situation and that was that the ah telephone book had just come out so I couldn't get my name in the telephone book and of course it was ah as I said, the bottom of the Depression ah anyway I opened an office on the 25th of September 1931 and I never had a patient for the first 6 weeks and the interesting thing is that the first patient that I had came from Hancock—didn't come from from Binghamton at all. I never had more than one patient a day until the first of April, 1932 and on that day, I had four patients call me in the morning and from there on it began to break and to build up. Ah there are several interesting things about Binghamton at the time that I came here—as a matter of fact there were very few specialists—there was no one who did pediatrics exclusively—there were 3 or 4 doctors who were general practitioners who did a lot of pediatrics but none of them that just did it exclusively and other than the nose and throat men and ah the surgeons, although a great many of the surgeons ah did general practice too ah there were no specialists—they had a dermatologist here before I came but he died just before I came here.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: We had no urologist and no neurosurgeon, no dermatologist at all and no child had ever been cystoscoped here before I came here and I finally got one of the young surgeons to buy a child cystoscope and that was the first one that was ever cysticoped in this area.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns : Now of course we've got lots of urologists and ah the specialty that you need. Ah we, they had a situation at the City Hospital at that time when if you had a patient with say meningitis or scarlet fever or polio, you send it into the hospital, you lost control of it completely because this one doctor, who was a General Practitioner ah had charge of that contagious hospital.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And that irritated me quite badly because I mean I didn't see any reason why I shouldn’t be able to take care of my own ah patients with contagious disease because I’d had special training in it—so after I had been here about a year, I got ahold of this doctor one morning and I told him that ah I was going to get a lawyer and if necessary, I was going to go to court to see why it was that I couldn't go in and take care of my own patients. I think that upset him a little bit because he said, "Now if you ah just don’t say anything about it, I’ll let you take care of your patients when they go in.” Well of course it was just a question of time when the other doctors saw that I was going in, that they went in too.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And the arrangements that they had was that they had—the door was locked and the nurse had the key to it and she was the only one that could let you in or out so she knew those that had permission to go in, see, and ah but that, that was overcome. Had another interesting situation in Binghamton and that was ah the it was a great center for certified raw milk, which was ah a very excellent milk but it was raw.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And of course I had been ah brought up in the hospitals where I was in using pasteurized milk.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: Ah I was even accused of using dirty milk in my patients ah when using pasteurized milk—anyway eventually this dairy who did the, made the certified milk did pasteurize their milk too so that they finally had a certified pasteurized milk and then of course eventually why pasteurization took over completely but ah, ah, ah let’s see here—Oh I one ah factor that was ah helped me quite a lot when I came here was that I did have an opportunity to give some anesthetics for ah nose and throat men and for surgical patients ah I fortunately had had some experience at that at Nursery and Child’s so while I never enjoyed giving anesthesia, I mean it did help to keep me going.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: I also used to do quite a little lab work here ah for example if a doctor thought he had a child with an appendix and wanted a blood count done why I would go out and do the blood count for him of if they thought a child has polio, I would go out and do the lumbar puncture and examine the spinal fluid and call him back and give him the report on it.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: And I remember one very interesting ah ah day—I don't know whether this was would be interesting or not but ah there was either the 4th of July or Memorial Day ah that one of the doctors had a little girl in Lourdes that had a bloodstream infection and of course in those days you didn't have any sulfa or penicillin or any of those things, see and she had to be transfused or rather they tried to transfuse her but they didn't have anyone apparently available at that time that could do typing and crossmatching so I don't know how many hours I spent typing and crossmatching ah donors until finally we got one that they could use on the girl but it didn't do any good, she, she didn't survive anyway.
Dan: Umum—would that be the what they call the RH factor?
Dr. Burns: No—that one was not RH. This was a septicemia bloodstream infection with a strep infection. No, the RH factor of course when I started we didn't know that RH factor—we used to call it Icterus Gravis in the newborn. We knew that it was a very serious condition and a lot of them were deaf afterwards and a lot of them were mentally defective afterwards and a number of them died.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: And it wasn't until the RD factor was discovered that we could really do something and Dr. Vitanza and I did the first exchange transfusion on one of her patients here in the city ah whether it was done, others done in the area or not, I do not know but ah it took us 7 hours to do the first exchange transfusion—now after that we got so that each individual could do it in an hour or hour and a half.
Dan: Yeah.
Dr. Burns: But this child survived anyway even though it took that length of time to do it ah it was interesting in being able to practice before the advent of sulfa and penicillin because practice of medicine is entirely different after the advent of those drugs—it just made it entirely different.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: Let’s see what else—in 19, I spent even three years in the service from 1942 to 1945 and ah then when I came back, there was already another pediatrician that had come in.
Dan: But you were the first pediatrician in the area.
Dr. Burns: I was the first ah pediatrician first one that did it exclusively and first one that was certified by the American Board of Pediatrics.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: Especially ah as you probably know, because you had to have it done when you were young, had to be vaccinated against smallpox before you could go to school—you also had to be protected against diphtheria, whooping cough and tetanus and I think one of the most interesting things today is the fact that it's no longer—you do not have to be vaccinated against smallpox—smallpox has been eradicated throughout the world.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: And the same thing will probably happen with polio if they can only get the people to cooperate well enough. Now of course you not only have to be inoculated against whooping cough and diphtheria and tetanus but you also have to be immunized against measles and rubella, that's 3 day measles ah mumps ah those three. Yes, measles, mumps and rubella ah they have to be done before they could go to school now. So there’s been a big advance in the immunization ah let’s see what else is there?
Dan: Now you spoke it took you almost a year to get ah started.
Dr. Burns: That's right.
Dan: You went from what, 6 patients or something like that you had at the end of the year.
Dr. Burns: Well, I don't, I had after my first patient, I say I never had more than one a day until April Fools Day—the last day of April.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And then I had four and from then on I didn't keep track of them. I—know one thing that when I filed my first income tax return that the Federal Government got after me and wanted to know why it was I hadn't previously filed it—they thought that there was something funny about it.
Dan: Yeah.
Dr. Burns: When they found out that I had just started in practice I mean why it turned out to be all right.
Dan: Uh huh—Now when you retired, how many, how many patients did you have approximately, Doctor, that is in a year?
Dr. Burns: Oh gee I haven't any idea how many I had.
Dan: Can you figure just a guess?
Dr. Burns: In a year—in the course of a year?
Dan: Yeah in the course of a year when you knew—just, just round figures. Just give you an idea how you built up your practice from nothing.
Dr. Burns: Well I know I used to work ah in the morning from—I’d give anesthetics from eight o'clock, from seven o'clock until about 8:30 and then start in the office at nine and work in the office all day and then go out and make house calls from about 8 o'clock at night ‘til midnight but I can't remember the ah when I look back now I don't see how I did it.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: Gee I—Marion?
Marion: Yeah.
Dr. Burns: Do you have any idea—what do you mean a day how many I saw in a day or—
Dan: No about—you know how many patients you had in about a year’s time, you know.
Marion: I don't have any idea.
Dr. Burns: Do you have any idea how many patients I had a year before I had to retire.
Marion: Oh Lord no—how are you this morning?
Dan: Good, Mrs. Burns.
Marion: Did you have a nice trip?
Dan: Very nice.
Marion: No, John, I haven't to be honest.
Dan: How many patients did you see on the average a day, Doctor?
Marion: Oh—
Dan: Would you know that?
Marion: Get out one of your books and I'll count them up just for fun.
Dan: No, no, just, just a guess.
Dr. Burns: Well we'd see them every fifteen minutes from 9 o’clock in the morning and take about a half hour out for lunch and finish up at 6 o'clock at night.
Marion: If you were lucky—it usually was later than 6 o'clock at night.
Dan: You saw one every fifteen minutes?
Dr. Burns: Yes but we worked others in between—emergencies we would have to bring in between too and inoculations I mean that we gave in between, see, so even with that, we figured 15 minutes but we had others coming in also.
Dan: Yeah—I know you were awfully busy—your office, your waiting room was packed—we used to try and ask for the first appointment after lunch so we could get in a halfway decent hour, otherwise we had to wait 2 or 3 hours.
Marion: (laughter) Sit there and wait—how true.
Dr. Burns: Well.
Dan: Now the—I think Doctor there's something that you ah left out—we'll see. Ah polio vaccination program, immunization program when they introduced the Salk vaccine—you participated in that program—could you tell me a little about that?
Dr. Burns: Well ah it was just the fact it was ah it was a killed vaccine and it was given by injection.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: In contradistinction to the Sabin vaccine which was given by mouth and ah course when the Salk vaccine first came out as I remember correctly, I think we discontinued our regular practice for several days and did nothing but immunize the children against polio.
Dan: Yes, I know that Alice, our oldest daughter participated in that program and in other words in administering that in order to see how effective it is was or get a control on it, why you kept either they didn't know whether they were getting the real vaccine or else a placebo.
Dr. Burns: Oh we, that must have been done experimentally because we always gave the regular vaccine.
Dan: Yeah but this was when it was first introduced.
Dr. Burns: Yeah.
Dan: To see how effective it was.
Dr. Burns: Yeah.
Dan: But Sabin—there was a Sabin vaccine but that was a live virus wasn’t it?
Dr. Burns: Sabin is still live and it's a live vaccine and is given by mouth and ah of course they're both two good vaccines.
Dan: Yeah.
Dr. Burns: But the Sabin is probably a little superior and much easier to administer too.
Dan: The Sabin is.
Dr. Burns: Yes, of course just given by mouth.
Dan: Yeah.
Dr. Burns: But there have been some cases of polio resulting from the Sabin vaccine.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: They're rare but there have been cases discovered and there's been just recently a case of a father who picked up polio from after his child was immunized with Sabin vaccine.
Dan: Umum, yeah, so ah you of course didn't always make house calls did you—you had to terminate those as your practice advanced didn't you?
Dr. Burns: Well I made house calls right up until after I came back from the service and of course when I came back from the service, the practice of medicine had changed considerably because the doctors weren't able to make house calls and people got in the habit of going to the doctor' s office.
Dan: Yeah.
Dr. Burns: So I continued to make house calls up until I quit practice on certain instances. I mean sometimes I mean just obligated.
Dan: Yeah.
Dr. Burns: But ah ah before I went into service I mean, I'd make house calls from the NOB down in Endicott up to Chenango Bridge and I've been even to Sayre, Pennsylvania to make a house call.
Dan: Gee.
Dr. Burns: Ah but I remember one down near Chemung one Sunday, of course we used to tie these up going out for a ride or something on Sunday too—we thought, “kill two birds with one stone.”
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: But Bingharnton has been very good to me ah I'm glad that I came here to practice—I've enjoyed it—I think Binghamton is an excellent city.
Dan: That's good.
Dr. Burns: And ah I think I would do over again. As I say I'm certified by the American Board of Pediatrics; member of the American Academy of Pediatrics; Central New York Pediatric Club; of course the Broome County Medical Society and the State Society and the AMA. Happen to be a life member of those—also the Academy of Pediatrics ah I don't know much else that ah.
Dan: Now when you retired didn't they honor you by over to Lourdes Hospital by the Maternity section over there?
Dr. Burns: Yeah, they donated ah ah incubator in my name over there it's one of the latest incubators and not only that but they gave Mrs. Sabini a pearl necklace and then they gave me this (pointing to mantle piece) over here which is worth over $300—that thing, that there.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And in addition to that they had $300 left over and ah they called and wanted to know what to, what to do with that so I suggested that they give that to Lourdes too.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: Which they did—to the pediatric department.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: When I came here of course Lourdes Hospital had no pediatric department at all. It really wasn't until after I came back from the service that Lourdes had any pediatric department to amount to anything and the one at the General is when I came here was very unsatisfactory—I mean it wasn't a good setup at all but I have in the past been head of the Pediatrics Department at both the General and at Lourdes and I did work at the General probably 90% of my 25 years over there. Now they both have excellent pediatric departments—very well run, excellent nurses and everything.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: It’s entirely different from what it used to be.
Dan: Umum. Now of course I have to transcribe this and some of this spelling here I’d like—this Icterus Gravis, how do you spell that?
Dr. Burns: I-C-T-E-R-U-S.
Dan: I-C-T—
Dr. Burns: —E-R-U-S G-R-A-V-I-S.
Dan: Gravis, OK, and in your internship, what ah what school was it in Elmira—you went to some school there in Elmira.
Dr. Burns: Well just the Elmira Free Academy.
Dan: But there was an intern—
Dr. Burns: No—interned in Buffalo.
Dan: In Buffalo.
Dr. Burns: At Myer Memorial Hospital.
Dan: That was it, what was it, Elmira?
Dr. Burns: No no Myer—M-Y-E-R.
Dan: Myer, OK.
Dr. Burns: It was Buffalo City Hospital is what it was then—now it's the Myer Memorial Hospital.
Dan: Umum and you retired in what year Doctor?
Dr. Burns: 1942.*
Dan: ‘42.
Dr. Burns: September 13th.
Dan: Umum.
Dr. Burns: Not by choice.
Dan: Not by choice.
Dr. Burns: No.
Dan: Unfortunately—OK well is there anything else that you’d like to add?
Dr. Burns: Well I was just trying to think whether there’s ah I’ll have to admit one thing and that is that I am sure in the 41 years that I was in practice that I saw a few miracles.
Dan: You saw a few miracles.
Dr. Burns: I think, I think most doctors will tell you that they've seen some miracles too.
Dan: Is that right?
Dr. Burns: Yeah.
Dan: Great.
Dr. Burns: Of course we got credit for a lot of things and all that ah the Lord took care of.
Dan: Oh sure, well we know that we got to work together.
Dr. Burns: Yeah.
Dan: OK Doctor, well if there isn't anything else why I’ll turn this off. Would you like me to play it back for you?
Dr. Burns: I can 't—do you have any other questions that ah.
Dan: No I think you've covered it very well.
Dr. Burns: At least I told you all the hard luck that we had (laughter) that you wanted, history, that's history.
Dan: Oh that, that makes it interesting because it gives you an idea in other words most of our interviews why the people starting out you know were making $3.00 a week and when people realize that you try and raise a family on $3.00 a week why they're squeaking on 20 or 30,000 incomes a year why you wonder how they ever made it.
Dr. Burns: Well, I had patients, one I’ll never forget, used to bring me a chicken. Poor old fellow he was a dirt farmer from out near Montrose and he’d bring in the skinniest, scrawniest chicken that there was but his heart was in the right place. Had another one bring in a rabbit—I’d never eaten rabbit before in my life but we were glad to get ‘em.
Dan: Oh sure.
Dr. Burns: Well another thing that we did which, I, I’m kind of sorry it isn’t that way today and that is we took care of the charity patients for nothing—like I would serve 6 months on and 6 months off at the General Hospital and ah I’ll say one thing that those charity patients got just as good care as your wealthiest patients got.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: Wonderful care. See, now with Medicaid and Medicare and all of that, that’s a thing of the past and I think sometimes it's too bad. We never got a penny for taking care of any of the charity patients from the City of Binghamton and the Town of Union used to pay us a dollar a day for the hospital calls that we made and that was the only thing that we ever got.
Dan: Is that right?
Dr. Burns: I think ah sometimes it's just too bad that they didn't, the way it was of course welfare is so—Marion—can she listen to this when you play it back?
Dan: Sure.
Dr. Burns: I think it's too bad the way welfare is today, I mean it’s not like it used to be.
Dan: No, no.
Marion: Well he used to be on call for all the welfare, so-called “welfare patients.”
Dr. Burns: That's what I said.
Marion: There was no pay given at that time a t all.
Dr. Burns: That's just what I told him.
Marion: The doctors took care of them free of charge.
Dan: Yeah, yeah.
Marion: And he used to be on seeing them at a time.
Dr. Burns: 6 months.
Dan: Yeah, yeah.
Marion: Never less than 4 months out of the year.
Dan: Yeah, yeah, well things have changed an awful lot with the Medicare and Medicaid—some of them have gotten rich.
Marion: They sure have.
Dan: Yeah when you read about some of them that are collecting a quarter of a million dollars a year just from Medicare.
Marion: It's ridiculous isn't it?
Dan: Isn't it?
Dr. Burns: I have one other interesting thing that I feel pretty proud of and that is I have the smallest baby that ever lived at Lourdes—she only weighed one pound and 12 oz when she was born and she went down to one pound and 7 oz and she's graduating this June as a Registered Nurse in North Carolina.
Dan: Is that right?
Dr. Burns: I feel pretty, pretty proud of her. Her mother—
Marion: She's a beautiful girl.
Dr. Burns: —was convinced, was convinced she was going to live and I was convinced as much that she wasn't going to make the grade but she did.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And the best part is she is right mentally.
Dan: Uh huh.
Dr. Burns: And that’s the nice part, she writes to me 2 or 3 times a year and she's going to send me an invitation when she graduates.
Dan: Yeah, yeah.
Dr. Burns: But those are things that make the practice of medicine worthwhile. I can't think of anything.
Dan: Well if you can't think of anything else, Doctor, I'll turn this off and play it back for you.
Dr. Burns: OK, maybe I better not listen to it.
[PAUSE]
*Dan: Dr. Burns would like me to make a correction in this interview—he retired in 1972, not 1942 as stated.
Broome County Oral History Project
Interview with: Daniel Celeste
Interviewed by: Dan O’Neil
Date of interview: 11 April 1978
Dan O’Neil: OK, Danny, if you will tell me about your life and working experiences in the community, starting from where you were born.
Daniel Celeste: Where I born, I born in Faeto, it’s in the town of Faeto, Province of Foggio–that’s the province of the, like the state, like you say, the—
O’Neil: In Italy.
Celeste: Yeah, in Italy, and then we—Dad came here because he was here before, and ah, he brought me and my brother with him. We emigrate then from Faeto to Naples, and from Naples we come right into United States.
O’Neil: What year was that, Danny?
Celeste: 19—1908.
O’Neil: 1908.
Celeste: 1908, and we came to Binghamton. We had some relatives here—some cousins and relations, so Dad went, ah, laboring around whatever, he got a job and I went to school for a couple of months that, that year, and then I went, we went on, ah, on, ah, construction work, and took me along with him and I was waterboy there.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: And ah, in Fabius—Fabius, NY, that’s where we—first job, ah, I really worked, and ah, we lived in a shanty, was in the camp, you know what I mean, about a couple hundred people that were in there—Christ, camping outside—and Dad didn’t want to stay in the shanty. We built a little setup there under the tree and, ah, we slept outside. (Laughter.) Well, then as I’d grow older I would come back, and, and he used to take me down to Pennsylvania and he used to work in the mine in the wintertime, had some cousins there, and ah, I used to go to school—I’d go to school for a couple of months of the winter, and ah, in the spring we’d come do the same thing, go construction work, and I was waterboy. Finally I got a job as in a transfer, trucking, freight, things like that. I stayed home with—we lived on Henry Street, we came on Henry Street and, ah, I then went to work in the freighthouse, and trucking, that’s about, oh, about two years I work in the freighthouse.
O’Neil: What freighthouse, Danny?
Celeste: The Lackawanna.
O’Neil: The Lackawanna.
Celeste: Yeah, Lackawanna Transfer, they used to call it. Transfer, Lackawanna Transfer, and ah, from there I went to the, I went to Dunn McCarthy. I got a job in Dunn McCarthy and worked there for a little while, 1914, 1915. I went away for a little time—I went to Chicago—I spent six months there, stayed with a friend of mine. I couldn’t get a job then, then hard times, them days. Came back home, I got a job in a shoe factory afterwards, ah.
O’Neil: E.J. [Endicott Johnson]?
Celeste: No, not E.J.
O’Neil: Dunn McCarthy.
Celeste: Dunn McCarthy. I worked there for about a year, then I went to E.J.’s, got a job in E.J.’s. Then 19—late 1915, I joined the Battery C, National Guard.
O’Neil: Umhm.
Celeste: The following year we got called in the service and went to the Mexican border in 19—1916, and ah, after we come back from the border, we were home for about three or four months, then the War was declared.
O’Neil: This was the First World War.
Celeste: First World War. Then we went on active service in ’17, May ’17. ‘18 we come home, we got home in March, March 12 from overseas duty.
O’Neil: Umhm.
Celeste: After I come home from service, I started the restaurant in, ah, I think it was in June—I opened up that restaurant Henry Street and I spent the rest of my life in the restaurant business.
O’Neil: Now this, what year was it you started up in, ah—?
Celeste: 1919.
O’Neil: 1919, OK.
Celeste: 1919. Then of course we didn’t have no license them days, you know—just the restaurant, but we did bootlegging at first—(laughter)—sold a little wine, a little whiskey.
O’Neil: Did you make your own wine, Danny?
Celeste: Yeah—oh God, yeah.
O’Neil: Was it the “Dago red” wine?
Celeste: “Dago red,” what they called “Dago red.” One year I made 100, 107 barrels of wine.
O’Neil: Is that right? Where did you get the grapes for all that?
Celeste: California.
O’Neil: California.
Celeste: A fella used to, John Morelli, used to bring it in from California, and he was a cousin of mine so I made all this wine, and a short time later, got it made—I put a little here, a little there. They raid me—they took about thirty barrels away from me but I got a lot more left.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: So I followed up that business and stayed right in the business—when the License came back, why, ah, I got the restaurant and liquor license and beer license and got in the right business and was there until 1919-1960 when the State bought Henry Street out, you know, to put that overhead.
O’Neil: Yeah, right, Brandywine.
Celeste: Bought part of Henry Street and they had to take me down.
O’Neil: Right, right.
Celeste: Goddamn thing, my, my poor wife got sick over it.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Then she, ah, we were doing good business.
O’Neil: Oh, you did a fine business down there.
Celeste: Did a good business down there, and I had the whole family—my daughter was married and living upstairs and we live on the second floor—had all the accommodations we want and we lived fine and, ah, no complaint. Came here on Court Street—we bought the place and remodeled.
O’Neil: What was it called then, Danny? The place on Court Street?
Celeste: What was it called?
O’Neil: Yeah, was there a restaurant there before?
Celeste: It was a grocery store.
O’Neil: Oh, a grocery store.
Celeste: It was Buck’s Grocery.
O’Neil: Oh, Buck’s—-yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Celeste: And then, ah, so we torn down everything inside and built it up new and everything. I put in over $100,000 in the goddamn place.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: Why, I wanted to buy my son-in-law a liquor store, but he liked the restaurant business.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: That’s bad today, like the restaurant business. That’s all right—the hell, one thing is as good as the other.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: He liked the work and poor Bill had to get sick.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Of course when Bill give up and I stayed a little while myself—I couldn’t take care of it, know what I mean, then.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Got in trouble with my eyes and started putting me down a little bit. After my wife died in ’68, I hang around the place a little bit with other boys, you know that I—-it wasn’t just right, I didn’t feel just right.
O’Neil: Right.
Celeste: So when I sold the place—the first time I sold it—
O’Neil: What year was that?
Celeste: ’60—1960, sold the restaurant on Court Street.
O’Neil: ’60—1960.
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: OK.
Celeste: And, ah, 1960, and then I stood around town—didn’t do too much. I used to hang around the restaurant, help Jim—-I can’t think of his last name now. Was Jim—oh God almighty, Jim, Jim—
O’Neil: No matter.
Celeste: Just ah, well, he spent, Jim spent about three years in there then and left his son in there, and his son run the business himself and then, ah, somebody else took it over then there.
O’Neil: Was that LaMonica?
Celeste: Jim—no, not LaMonica. He’s from Endicott. Jim, ah, Capullo, Jim Capullo.
O’Neil: Umhm.
Celeste: And he’s in there for about three or four years, and boy did and then they run the place down—then they sold it.
O’Neil: Umhm.
Celeste: And, ah, get started again, and that’s the end of it for me. That’s when these other guys come in, laid around and operated a Greek restaurant.
O’Neil: The Retsina now.
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: Now when did you—now from the time that you were—your place was torn down on Henry Street, didn’t you go to the Community Lounge?
Celeste: Yeah, yeah.
O’Neil: What year, what year did you go there?
Celeste: Oh, I had still run on Henry Street at the time.
O’Neil: Oh, you still had the place on Henry Street.
Celeste: Yeah, yeah, I went in there with Bill Viglione. Remember Bill?
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: And, ah—
O’Neil: What year was that, Danny?
Celeste: ’47.
O’Neil: ’47.
Celeste: I just spent a couple of years there—I didn’t stay there. I went back to Henry Street there, came back to Henry Street and stayed there until after we sold—changed over then, you know.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: ’47 or ’48, ’49, I forgot who, then somebody else went in there—well, they operated, anyway.
O’Neil: Now, who was the prior owner of the Community—he had an Irish name—what was his name? You took it over from him—he died, do you remember his name?
Celeste: Just can’t think of his name now. His brother used to run the place on Water Street.
O’Neil: Umhm.
Celeste: Remember those places—one on Chenango Street, used to run—took Yannuzzi’s place?
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: Oh God, I forget.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Quite a nice fellow.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Yeah, we took it from this fella—I can’t think of his name now.
O’Neil: Why did you, why did you leave the Community, ah, Danny?
Celeste: I, ah, I didn’t like too much confusement with, with other confusement.
O’Neil: Yeah. When you were working there, did Liberace, was he—did he come?
Celeste: Oh yes, yes, Liberace played there. Sure, sure, the Community.
O’Neil: In what year was that, did you recall?
Celeste: Well, I say Liberace played there in ’47, ’48.
O’Neil: ’48—about a year or so after you took over.
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: Any other, ah, ah, big names play there in the Community that you can recall?
Celeste: I can’t just, ah, geez—you remember more than I do. (Laughter.) No, I don’t, to tell you the truth—we always had a band there.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: And, ah, of course, Liberace was quite an entertainer there.
O’Neil: Yeah—do you remember what he was paid a week at that time?
Celeste: Oh, couldn’t have, about $100, not more than $150 a week.
O’Neil: Is that right?
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: He’s a multimillionaire today.
Celeste: Right, yes—well, we passed it.
O’Neil: Now, what were some of the main restaurants in town, Danny, during your era? What would you say were the main restaurants in town? We had quite a few of them.
Celeste: Garvey’s.
O’Neil: That was up on the north side.
Celeste: No, Garvey’s was on Chenango Street.
O’Neil: On Chenango Street, but on the north side, though, wasn’t it?
Celeste: Yeah, towards the—no, not on the north side—right on the, near the bank.
O’Neil: Oh, was he?
Celeste: Yeah, Garvey’s and Hodge.
O’Neil: Steve Hodge.
Celeste: Steve Hodge—on State Street was a nice restaurant.
O’Neil: Pitch’s.
Celeste: Pitch’s.
O’Neil: Pitch’s Oyster House.
Celeste: Well, Pitch’s was on State Street, I think.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Pitch’s on State Street, yeah, I think they got State Street.
O’Neil: And then they had a restaurant in the Bennett Hotel.
Celeste: Oh yeah, the Bennett Hotel, they had a restaurant.
O’Neil: Yeah—San Souci Grill. (Laughter.)
Celeste: You tell me, you remember all those things—I should remember, but anymore.
O’Neil: How old are you, Danny?
Celeste: I’ll be 80 in July.
O’Neil: 80 in July, OK, and how old were you when you emigrated from Italy?
Celeste: I was 10 years old.
O’Neil: 10 years old, uh huh, so your education is—what would you say was the highest grade that you went to?
Celeste: In the third grade in Italy.
O’Neil: Third grade in Italy, and over here you went to school.
Celeste: I went to school about four or five months over the time.
O’Neil: All the time?
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: Is that right?
Celeste: And I went to night school later in the years, you know. I took up a little night school.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: That’s nights I went to school.
O’Neil: Uh huh—now, when you started on Henry Street, ah, did you buy a building to start your restaurant?
Celeste: We lease it first, but I put the business, we bought the building, in 1919 we bought the building.
O’Neil: But you leased it at first.
Celeste: Yeah, we leased it first—we rented from, hooo, geez—a good Irish name, too, Irish family, very nice, ah, the boy’s still walking around—Danny—I can’t think of his last name now.
O’Neil: But you leased it when you came back out of service after World War I?
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: After World War I, so about 1918.
Celeste: 1919.
O’Neil: And started in business for yourself? And you leased the building, is that right?
Celeste: Oh, we used to live there.
O’Neil: Oh, you used to live there.
Celeste: We moved in there in 1911.
O’Neil: Oh, but was it a brick building then or did you remodel it?
Celeste: We remodeled the front.
O’Neil: Oh, I see.
Celeste: I put the—I remodeled the front.
O’Neil: Umhm.
Celeste: It was around 1930, ’31 that I remodeled the front.
O’Neil: I see.
Celeste: Just before, before the beer came back.
O’Neil: Yeah, but from the time you opened up until the repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment, why, you made your own wine, is that right?
Celeste: Yeah, oh yeah, made—Christ, made all kinds of wine. (Laughter.)
O’Neil: Probably made more money on the wine than you did on the spaghetti, huh?
Celeste: Oh God, yes—-well was 25¢ a bottle.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: 25¢ a bottle, $1.00 a gallon.
O’Neil: Uh huh. Well, they raided you when—raided you one year and took thirty barrels?
Celeste: They raided me the year they took thirty barrels away from me.
O’Neil: Left you better than seventy barrels left, huh?
Celeste: That Slocum son of a bitch—they still call him a son of a bitch.
O’Neil: Slocum?
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: What was he, ah—
Celeste: He was, ah, squad, ah, him and, ah, a Polish fella they got—he’s still, ah, retired now. I see him once in a while.
O’Neil: Yeah—it don’t matter.
Celeste: Yeah, ah, Barvinchak.
O’Neil: Barvinchack.
Celeste: Yeah, they come in and said they just wanted to see the place, you know, just, ah—
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: And, ah, they had a party upstairs—well, this was upstairs, well, you know, before had some upstairs and downstairs—ah, they come upstairs, they wanted to see what was in there, and Christ, I had a supply of beer for the night, you know, stuff, wine and things like that—said, “We’ll have to take it, you can’t drink.” They took it all with them, broke it later—I don’t know if they broke it.
O’Neil: Did you make beer too?
Celeste: Oh yeah, oh yeah, Christ, beer. Boy, my wife used to make beer and she made a damn good beer.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: One lady came up to me—show her how to make beer. My God, and she improved every time she made beer.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: She made a damn good brew. Very, a lot of people used to come up for that brew.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: And, ah, up to 1929-30, we had our own beer, our own wine, you know how it is.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: But we got the [inaudible] back of beer, when the regular beer came back, then I took everything out—give it away, most of the stuff was left. Whatever was left I give my, “Why here, here’s a case of beer.” I didn’t want to be implicated in, ah, you know, mean, find fault for coming back and say, “He’s still bootlegging,” and things like that.
O’Neil: Yeah, yeah.
Celeste: So I started to live a very clean life from that time on—nice business.
O’Neil: I know you had a real good business.
Celeste: Had a nice business.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Had a good chef—couple of chefs, used to put on a good feed.
O’Neil: Yeah, yeah.
Celeste: And I helped in the kitchen lots of the time.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: Used to get in the kitchen, and then after my daughter got married and my son-in-law took over, I just hanged around the place—I didn’t have much to do.
O’Neil: Yeah, Yeah.
Celeste: That’s how I happened to go in the Community that time.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: But I was glad to get back home again.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: I had a place on Henry Street right next to the morning Sun—you know there used to be a morning Sun and used to be on the corner of State.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: And just that building next door, there, and ah, on the second floor we had the, we had a restaurant there, had a—
O’Neil: What year was this?
Celeste: In 1928 or ’29.
O’Neil: So you had two of them going at the same time, and ah, how long were you in that business, or how long had you retained that?
Celeste: Oh, was in there—this friend of mine, John, he was quite a card player—he liked to gamble and he used to go out. Well, we broke up—we didn’t. You know, lot’s of times you came in and bought a drink and I took the money, I ring the money, “No sale.”
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: And, and put the money in there, ’cause I didn’t want those people to think marked “Liquor” on the register, and John said, ah, “Why don’t you ring the—?” I say, “John,” I say, “lots of time the inspectors come in—the food inspectors, and they like to check.” I didn’t want to show what we sell because we wasn’t supposed to have any beer.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: But anyway, we broke up—we couldn’t get along no more—I couldn’t trust him no more, he didn’t trust me, and I, I had to quit.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: When a person don’t trust me, I don’t like to be involved, to think that I was gypping him and other things.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: Finally applied for—used to work up up at the tax office in the city—it’ll come to me sometime when I don’t want to—
O’Neil: Hennessy.
Celeste: Not Hennessy, no.
O’Neil: Sheehan.
Celeste: Ah—
O’Neil: What awards have you had in—had any awards at all, Danny? Militarily or in the restaurant business or anything like that?
Celeste: No, no.
O’Neil: Any clubs you belong to?
Celeste: Oh, I belong to the Eagles, belong to the Elks for quite, ah—joined, belonged to the Eagles, the Moose them days—I used to join them and get acquainted with the people.
O’Neil: Right.
Celeste: Used to go down to the Veterans’ Clubs, you know, VFW and Legion.
O’Neil: Uh huh—were you pretty active in the Legion affairs?
Celeste: I was very active, yeah.
O’Neil: Uh huh, did you hold any offices in the Legion?
Celeste: No no, was a Sergeant in the Drum Corps and that’s all when it first started, and then, ah, I done a lot of work that I should have done that I used to go to the Legion a lot.
O’Neil: Yeah, yeah.
Celeste: Help the Legion out that way.
O’Neil: Is there anything else of interest, Danny, you would like to tell me? Can you think of anything else?
Celeste: God, I think I’ve told you everything you wanted to know.
O’Neil: Uh huh.
Celeste: You can ask me, I mean, if I can—
O’Neil: Yeah. Yeah, ah, when you went into service, of course you had already been in the service—you joined up so you weren’t, you didn’t have to go through any Draft Board or anything in World War I?
Celeste: No, no.
O’Neil: Yeah, yeah.
Celeste: No—was in Battery C.
O’Neil: Yeah—in Battery C.
Celeste: I joined them in 1915, just before 1916. Then the War broke out and they organized it—they called the guards out—they shipped us down to the Mexican border there in (McClellan trucks) and we were down there for five or six months and, ah—
O’Neil: Now the Retsina building—you still own it, don’t you now, Danny?
Celeste: Yeah, I still own it.
O’Neil: So you just lease it to the—
Celeste: Lease it.
O’Neil: And it’s a Greek restaurant, I guess, now.
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: And I got that parking lot over on the corner of Pine and Carroll Street.
O’Neil: Oh, do you lease that out to Dietzsch, Dietzsch Pontiac and Cadillac?
Celeste: Yeah.
O’Neil: That’s good, that’s good.
Celeste: Yeah, I want to sell it. I got a little mortgage still going on, but I want to sell the restaurant—get rid of it.
O’Neil: Yeah—Giant made you any offer or anything else, or are they interested at all?
Celeste: Well, I don’t think those boys there got any money. I don’t know who’s backing them up, but, ah—
O’Neil: Well, they’ve got a lot of money. (Laughter.)
Celeste: Think so. I hope so, I hope so.
O’Neil: ’Course, there’s quite a bit of property between you—well, not an awful lot—not an awful lot.
Celeste: I think someday that, that corner will be torn down for a little hotel. You know, that’s a fine sport for a little hotel right in center part of the city.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: And I wish somebody would start it and promote, I mean, I’m not in the real estate business, but I mean, I can see a hotel on that corner better than I can see where the hell, down out of the way where transient is, not, you know, I mean, like on Water Street, where the ah—what’s the hotel there on—the big hotel they got?
O’Neil: You mean the Treadway?
Celeste: Yeah, the Treadway.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: That’s out the way and you can’t even see it. Here’s one in the center of the city where traffic, transient business all, all the way around.
O’Neil: Yeah.
Celeste: And I think that it’d make a swell spot for a hotel.
O’Neil: OK, and what church do you belong to, Danny? Still belong to—
Celeste: St. Mary’s Church.
O’Neil: St. Mary’s—still go there. Yeah, OK, well if there isn’t anything else that you can think of, Danny, why—
Celeste: Just ask me.
O’Neil: Well, we’ll terminate it on this note.
Celeste: Anything, anything that you like to.
O’Neil: Well, I think we’ve covered everything that I, we want to—I mean, I can think to ask you. you’ve been in the restaurant business all your life and been very successful at it. You retired in what year?
Celeste: ’60, ’69—1970.
O’Neil: 1970, OK, well would you like me to play it back for you, Danny?
Celeste: (Laughter.)