Memoirs
Of
Fred Cary Raynor
b. 1876- d. 1968
Annotated
A Transcription of the
Original Typescript by FCR
With Added notes by Wilfred
L. Raynor, Jr. and S. Gardner
Albert Wisner Public Library
January, 2003
Memoirs of Fred Cary
Raynor
1. Memories of my boyhood days, from 1876
and on
2. Why am I a mountaineer?
3. Memories from the Parrot-Raynor Mines,
1860-1885
4. Memories of the Raynor Mica Mine, 1870
5. Memories of the great blizzard, march
12, 1888
6. Speech at alumni class dinner, Red Swan
Inn, July 3, 1916
7. Speech, “Our Food Supply”, Warwick
Grange, Feb. 13, 1917.
8. Speech, “Who Grows Our Food Supply”,
Warwick Grange Feb. 15, 1918
9. Celebrating 100th
anniversary of L. & H. R. R., June 4, 1960
10. Celebrating the 100th
anniversary of Warwick Methodist Church, May 1966-67
11. My last talk with my death father
before he died, Feb. 10, 1909
12. Down memory lane—twilight dreaming
March 30th,
1963
No. 1
Memories
From My Boyhood Days. March 1950
This is the story of one branch of
the Raynor tree, concerning the members of the Raynor family who lived or are
living in the area of Warwick and Glenmere Lake in Orange County.
I am putting this down as written to me by my grandfather, Fred C.
Raynor (WLR, Jr.)
(By Fred. C. Raynor): My
grandfather, Samuel Raynor(2), was a son of Samuel Raynor, who lived on a farm
back of Glenmere Lake.
He [S.
Raynor(2)]
was born in 1761 and died May 11, 1848 in his 88th year. His father was in sympathy with the English
Tories and helped to smuggle food and supplies to his brothers living on Long Island.
They in turn sold the goods to the Tories. My grandfather would not help them do
this. Being in danger of his life, he
hid in a load of hay that was being delivered to Goshen, N.Y.
There was a suspicion among the
sympathizers that he was hiding in the hayload, so
the men pushed pitchforks into the hay to see if they could locate him. One of the forks found its mark and pierced
his knee, but he uttered no sound and the men, discouraged, went away. Under the cover of darkness, he crept out of
the hay and made his escape. He found
his way to the Delaware
River near Milford, Pa.
There he camped, trapped, nursed his knee wound, but unfortunately it
left him with a stiff leg. He remained
there for several years.
One nice Spring day, while he was
fishing along the river bank, Samuel noticed the bees working and flying from
flower to flower near the water’s edge.
He watched them go into a hold in a tree nearby. After the dark he cut the tree down and found
it filled with honey. The next day he
fashioned a crude hive and eventually got the bees to come in to it. Handling the bees carefully, he managed to
build this up to 8 hives of bees. Later,
a caravan of people traveling westward to the new frontier saw Samuel’s bee
hives. He sold them 5 hives for $2,500.
After the Revolution was over,
Samuel was disowned by his parents, but he returned to Orange County to make his home. After looking over the area of the Warwick Mountain range he decided that this was to be
the spot. Taking his money he made from
the sale of the bee hives, Samuel purchased a tract of land from the Mistucky
tribe of Indiana on the Warwick mountain. The Mistucky tribe had a camp ground just
beyond our (FCR) old home, on a beautiful knoll by the side of a big Ironwood
tree. At the roots of this tree was an
overflowing spring of wonderful water, which is to this day one of the springs
that feeds the Mistucky reservoir which supplies the town of Warwick.
And turning to another scene, “My
great grandfather Sam Raynor(1)’s people all lived on two farms back of
Glenmere Lake, now owned by the Goelet Estate. They were thrifty people, good farmers and
money makers, except for the last generation of 5 sisters and 1 brother, none
of whom married. They all lived together
and eventually died of old age. The last
two remaining women were beaten and robbed by a young man from Florida (NY),
who thought they had a lot of money hidden in the walls of the house. They both died shortly after. They were all buried in the Locust Hill Cemetery, near Wisner, N.Y.
The estate was divided by the court to the remaining relatives, one John
Carpenter of Port Jervis getting the lion’s share. I remember hearing at one time they had so
much money in the Goshen bank that one of the bankers took it to NY City and
purchased a shipload of coral. This
coral was not selling, but nevertheless had to be unloaded. This fellow made a nice profit on it when he
did sell it. They also owned most of the
Chester bank stock and also the Chester, Monroe, and Warwick Building and Loan Stock.”
Now back to the main story:--
Here on the tract of land purchased
from the Indians,
my grandfather married, lived, and raised a family of two children. On, a daughter named Kezia,
who married Jacob Babcock, a farmer, raised a large family. Their farm is now
owned by Mrs. Frank Parker, near the old Acker School house.
My grandfather was 78 years old when my father (Samuel, the third) was
born. When my grandfather’s parents
disowned him, they left him in their will, 5 shillings, so he couldn’t break
the will. But my grandfather never did
call for it at the surrogate’s offices in Goshen, (hence the reason why I am on the
poor side of the Raynor family.)
How well I remember the house that
my grandfather built. A study building
with one large living room and a huge stone fireplace, with the big heavy
handmade crane with its old tea kettle, stew pans and broilers. Kettles all made from the old black iron. You could put 3 and 4 foot logs in the
fireplace. One large dish closet on one
side at the right—on the left one a small closet for jellies and jams, with an
outside stairway to go up to the two room bedroom. My son, Wilfred L. Raynor (1), now has the
old fireplace equipment over 200 years old and still in good condition. The
floors were made from hand hewn oak timbers from the farm, 1 ½ inches thick and
12 inches wide. When torn down in 1938
it was still in as good shape as when it was built.
How well I remember seeing that old
sheepskin deed telling how England granted the land to the Indians. It was over 150 years old. Had my father held the land for 6 months
longer, it would have been in the Raynor family for 100 years. I remember seeing my grandfather’s will
dividing the oxen, farm tools, chairs, furniture, dishes, pans, etc., to his
wife, then on to my father and his sister.
My father paying his sister half value for the land.
My grandfather, grandmother, 2-3
children and other kinfolks are buried up on the hill back of where the house
used to be in the old family burial ground. Still some stone markers there.
My grandfather drove to Newburg to
see the demonstration of the first stoves for sale by a firm from Albany, N.Y.
The salesman who demonstrated the stove told how a person would only use
half the amount of wood that people used to cook with in the fireplace. My grandfather said, If that is true, I will
buy 2 stoves, thereby saving all the wood.”
So he bought 2 stoves, one he gave to his daughter and the other he kept
for family use. My father continued to
use it until better and newer stoves came along. How well I remember that old stove. The baking was done on the hearth in front by
opening 2 doors (sliding), to let the heat out on the pans. Very different way from the way used
today.—But let me say here and now, our food today is nothing compared to what
it was when I was a boy, for flavor and nourishment. Those homemade canned fruits, dried
vegetables, apples, berries and corn, jellies and jams. The good homemade bread from flour direct from
the farm. The home killed pigs, hams,
salt port and sausage. Why shucks,
people today don’t even know what real sausage should be—no water, no cracker
meal, no potato flour. No wonder people
have indigestion, etc. such foods as they eat today—it is a disgrace to the
jaybirds.
While my father had very little
education still he was a smart man. Many
people came to him for advice on mathematical problems, such as how many feet
to a cord of wood in either 4 or 8 foot lengths, the size to build wood racks
for the wagons to haul either ½, ¾, 1 cord of wood per load, or build wagon
bodies to hold 20, 30, 40, 60 bushels of apples, potatoes, or corn wheat, oats,
rye etc. Or how to load or unload heavy
timbers and machinery, or how many cubic feet to move or to dig a celler or foundation for a building. It is very easy to solve these problems
nowadays with all the schools and canned education one gets, as compared to 150
years ago. My father, when he was 10
year old, ran away rather than go to school.
He did this one day when his mother had sent him across the road to get
some wood to cook dinner. He ended up in
the western part of New York State—now known as Big Flats, NY, and
remained there several years.
There he bought a colt from an old
colored man for 50 dollars, and he kept it on the farm where he worked until it
was old enough to drive. He stayed in
Big Flats for seven years and he earned a hundred dollars there by racing his
colt. The he decided he wanted to come
home. He rigged up an old two high wheel
sulky, tied his clothes in a bag under the seat and headed his horse towards Warwick.
When he arrived home his folks were very surprised to see him again, as
they though he was dead, for they had no word from him all the while he was
away. Soon after his return the horsemen
of the valley found out that he had a fast colt for those days. On the Fowler Flat outside of Warwick, he outraced them all. After winning several hundred dollars with
his horse, he sold him for $500 to a farmer and horseman named Lewis or John
Sutton. Sutton had a race track on the
Joel Henry Crissey farm, now owned by Astorino. Sutton
finally sold the horse to a New York City man for $1,500, who took it to Long Island for racing there. When a boy, I remember going to the Sutton
farm. The race track was located in the back fields.
Having a fair sum saved, my father
took the money and bought the land adjoining his farm from the old pioneer
named Ezra Sanford, the great granddaddy of all the Sanfords in Warwick.
He had a habit of walking around the table at mealtime with a big loaf
of homemade bread under his arm. Using a
big knife he’d cut off slices and toss them to the children at the table,
saying, “Now, son, as soon as you’re able you pitch out for yourself and get a
farm.” And they all did. Sanford’s house was a queer looking building
housing as many as 3-4 families at a time.
We nicknamed it the “County House” because so many different families
moved in and out of it, many working for my father, others in the iron
mine. The mines adjoined by father’s
farm and were opened up about 1868, or early 1870. My father took the contract to haul all
supplies and ores by the ton from the mines to Warwick and back, and all machinery, etc., for
the mines. They loaded the ore on
freight cars in Warwick.
Soon he rebuilt the old house into an up-to-date 12 room house, very
stylish for a farmer of those times.
My father, a very progressive
farmer, planted one of the first apple orchards in Warwick.
He was the first man in Orange County to have running water in his house,
cow barn and horse stable, spring house and water trough in the barn yard. He used a lead pipe laid four feet under
ground and this carried the water from a spring in the meadow near the
mountainside it (the spring) never froze and ran continuously. Hundreds of people from all over the county,
some as far away as Pennsylvania and New Jersey, came to see my father’s plumbing
system. The pipe still lies there under
the ground over 150 years old.
The water was cold enough so that my
father, even though shipping milk as far away as New York City, never had to use ice to cool the
milk. This milk was considered the very
best quality.
The farm was located on very fertile
soil, and we always had great crops of grain, hay, corn, apples, potatoes,
plums and honey, lambs, hogs, goose, ducks, turkeys, chickens, were all raised
in quantity.
While hauling out ores and supplies,
my father had 8 teams of big horses, one team of large mules for hauling, and
one yoke of immense, big, red oxen. He
built a large cow barn, horse barn, granary, using the best materials. He kept about 30 head of milk cows. But they were bringing so much ore out the
mines at that time he had to hire other teams from neighboring farmers and teamsters
to help haul the ore to Warwick.
Our house sat in the little valley floor beside a grand stream of
water. The road running by and over it
had about an eight of a mile of steep grade.
Here is where those big, red oxen worked helping the teams get up the
grade. My first job—I was strapped on
the back of the near ox. When a team hauling
a loaded wagon would come along, the driver would hook the ox chain to the end
of the wagon pole (it had..).
Then the driver would call out for the oxen and horses to pull. My, what powerful beasts those oxen
were. Sometimes, a new horse would balk
when they came to the hill, but once the oxen were hitched to the load and told
to start, nothing stopped them- balky horse and all had to follow. Many a balky horse got badly skinned because
they would throw themselves on the ground, but it made no difference to the
plodding oxen. They just dragged the
horse along with the load until they reached the top of the hill, and were told
to stop. After a couple of those treatments
the horse soon learned to stay on his feet.
Soon as they heard that old chain rattle, and the hook drop into that
wagon pole hook, they were ready to go.
At the top of the hill, the driver
would unhook the ox chain, fasten it to the ox-yoke and turn the oxen around in
the road. Then it was my job to drive
the oxen back down to the bottom of the hill and wait for the next team to
come. All day long, I would sit up on that
ox every day, for years until I finally outgrew the job. What a help to those faithful old horses were
those faithful old oxen.
There always was a hum of activity
around our home. I can remember the time
when there were more people centered around the mines that there was in the Village of Warwick.
The mines closed down in the first decade of the 1800’s, and left my
father with many teams and men.
For several Thanksgiving and
Christmas seasons, my father would buy hundreds of turkeys, chickens, ducks,
and goose, kill and dress them and with 3 team loads of dressed poultry they’d
start for Paterson, New Jersey.
They left home about 12 noon and would arrive in Paterson about 6 in the morning. I was always driving the team in the middle,
so as not to get lost on the way if I fell asleep. My, how scared I used to be to get into Paterson and see all those dirty streets and
alleys.
After feeding the horses, and
getting some breakfast, we would drive the wagons up to the center of the city
and stand and sell the poultry on the sidewalks. Sometimes a woman would want me to carry her
bird home for her. That used to scare
me. Believe me, there’s no place like
the country for the country boy to live in.
One of the drivers, Jacob Stalter, always by
the time we reached home, would have a least a dozen ducks, goose, and turkeys,
and no end of chickens all alive.”
* * *
“There was a very steep bank back of
our house, also a nice two-story and attic wood house. The first floor space of this wood house was
for wood and coal, the back cellar in the bank used for apples, potatoes, buckwheat,
caniallo (sp?
Graham flour) and corn meal. In
fall would kill hogs and hang spare ribs, pork tenderloins, hams, etc. in this
room and well they would keep until used.
We needed such a storage room for food in order to feed seven or eight
hired men in addition to the family.
Mother baked 32 very large loaves of bread every week besides making
pies and cakes. All this in addition to
the enormously large washings to be done on Mondays. With so much work I wonder now how she lived
as long as she did, no wonder she died so young. She was a wonderful mother and her death left
us four lonely children to ourselves. I
am sure God felt he needed her in his vineyard.
My father, like most men in those
days would have a spree for a day and night (24hrs.) about every six weeks, but
no one could get him to take a drink at any place or price in between
times. He was a great pipe smoker using
three pounds of Blue Line or While Line smoking tobacco every two weeks. He never chewed tobacco and how he would condemn
anyone who did, and would say, that it was a darn foolish habit. He was a good mixer and had a great many
friends. Was a Republican and could get
elected to office any time he wanted regardless of who was his opponent,
Democrat or Republican. I often wonder
what he would say if he was alive today to see how the women smoke and
drink. Father was married twice. The first family was four girls and one boy
by Mary Louise Montros Raynor. Second family by my mother, Mary Monell Raynor, was three boys and two girls. When a boy of 6, 8, 10 years old there was 24
of us girls and boys, sisters, half-sisters, brothers, half-brothers and
cousins who used to play and visit together.
Today, March 30th 1948 my 72nd birthday, I am the
only boy still living and a sister, Grayce 70 years
old still lives at Berkeley, California.
The other 22 with their mothers and fathers have all passed on into the
Great Beyond.
How well I remember that little old
wooden school house way back yonder on the mountain top when I was a boy of
school age. Never any paint on it and
the desks fastened to the wall all around the one room. Seats made of split logs with wooden pegs
driven in for legs. We all had to sit
with our backs to the teacher and great big wood burning stove standing the
middle of the floor. On cold snowy or
rainy days at recess or noon hour we all circled around the stove
singing “The Farmer in the Dell.” The
farmer takes a wife, the farmer kisses his wife, etc., etc. Well it was really some good old fashioned
kissing game, with no lip stick, not tobacco or beer taste. Just good sweet lips. Yum, um, and the good looking girls and
teachers, they enjoyed it too. There
were four classes a day. Reading, writing, arithmetic and
spelling. Writing was the last lesson of
the day and I was always so far behind that I had to hurry with this writing or
get locked in the school house all night.
I would think of the bears and wild cats and My O My would I hurry to
get out with the rest, so hence the reason for my good penmanship.
Sitting here in the Sunny Southland,
enjoying the nice warm sunshine, listening to the mocking birds, looking at the
beautiful flowers nature brings forth—My O My what a pleasure to recall those
good old days, the memories of those childhood days. Yes, some hard ones, but Oh so many happy
ones. So many wonderful happy ones all
along my life’s journey. God alone knows
how thankful I am, having had such wonderful Mother and Father. Hoping and trusting these boyhood memories
will linger on till the journey’s end, the sun goeth
down. Then may the name Raynor live on
forever and forever.
Fred
Cary Raynor
Grand
Pa and Great Grand Pa.
March
30, 1951
P.
S. My father purchased the second lot in the Warwick Cemetery.
There father and mother are buried.
In the early 90’s I personally hauled all the stones, from our old farm,
that are laid up at the entrance to the Warwick Cemetery.
These stones came from near the old izen glass
or mica mine holes shown on the farm map.
Mary Monell
Raynor, my mother, was a daughter of Samuel Monell
and Hannah Bennett (see birth, marriage and death record in the old family
Bible) What a darling woman she was—a school teacher at the little old school
house on the hill. She was such a
beautiful down eyed girl with grant erect figure and very soft voice. No wonder father fell in love with and
married her. What a change it must have
been for her to be step-mothering for six children and have five of her
own. No wonder her health broke down in early
life. At about the age of 41 years in
early June she had a bad cold. Our old
family doctor, Dr. Cary would some times drive up to the farm t get fresh eggs. How well I remember that fatal day for my
mother. I had just come home from Warwick after taking a violin lesson from an
excellent violinist, George McElroy.
Arriving home, I found Dr. Cary sitting the house talking to my
mother. He took my violin, looked it
over and said it was a nice one and that (last line missing from photocopied
page)… said for me to change my clothes and go hunt eggs as Doc wanted some
fresh ones. When I came in the eggs
doctor was just laying on the table four very large capsules of medicine. He told mother to take one before breakfast,
another after supper. After taking the
capsule before supper she became very sick and unconscious—vomiting greenish
stuff. The school teacher got some raw
eggs down her but they came up cooked like they had been fried in green
paint. I drove the horse as fast as it
would go to town to tell Dr. Cary about mother.
He told me she would be o.k. soon and gave me some medicine to settle
her stomach. I was not loosing any time
returning home when about half a mile from the house the doctor came running
his horse for all it was worth and yelling for me to get out of his way. I let him pass by, his bay horse looking more
like a white horse than a bay. He had run it till it was all lather. He rushed in, made strong black coffee and
poured it down my mother’s throat, but it came back up, still steaming and
greenish. What suffering and agony for
two weeks with mother unconscious all of the time. Finally doctor said he had been taking dope
himself and had given mother wrong medicine by mistake. The dose he gave her was for a man 300 lbs.
in weight. It was a month before we
could get mother to allow a doctor to come see her. Finally she had a Dr. Jayne, an old man in
his 80’s from Florida drive to see her, and he said, nothing
could be done for her. He sent one of
the capsules to the state to find out what Dr. Cary had given mother and the
report came back that there was enough strychnine in it to kill three ordinary
men and if mother had taken after supper as the doctor said to, she would have
died during the night. As it was, it
acted quickly on her empty stomach and she thru so much of it up. Dr. Cary soon shot himself as he lost all
his patients. It was at this time that
Drs. Frank and Seeley Cummins came to Warwick.
Dr. Frank Cummins took mother’s case and did all he could for her. It was a great feather in his cap to treat
her, but she lived for eight years on nothing but sour lopped milk and old
dried bread grated off and the two beat together with an egg beater. He stomach was gone, and she was paralyzed
from her knees down. No feeling at all
and had to walk on crutches but could not walk up the least grade at all. My, what suffering, what suffering for one so
young, so beautiful and so much to live for.
Nice home and four nice children of her own. I being the eldest, she would coax me to stay
home to try and look after my sister and two younger brothers. She was a fine Christian woman, always
patient and loving as she possibly could be.
How well I remember I wanted to be a surveyor so badly so I could get a
government job and be sent around the U. S.
I wanted to see the country so badly.
I wrote to Eastman Business School at Poughkeepsie to get the desired information and
cost. The reply came on a day my father
was on a spree. He opened the letter,
read its contents, came home from his spree and Oh what a licking and kicking
he gave me about it. My surveyor’s
career ended right then. How badly my
mother felt about it. Calling me to sit
down by her knees and talking to me in a motherly way. How sad and how disappointing it was for me
and how deeply it hurt her also. Talking
so nice and telling me not to let it discourage me as God would help me in some
way. Oh, what a dear mother. How I have wished I could only have her back
to visit. What I would give. I’d be so happy I’d start over again.
Father seemed to drink more and
times did get bad. How I wished I could
get something mother could eat, but nothing, nothing but lopped milk and dry
bread. How she wanted to live to see her
children grow up, but it was not to be.
She would talk to each one of us how she thought we would do and grow up
to be. She began to grow worse and worse
and the last 30 days of her suffering is too terrifying to write about. I hope never to see any animal suffer like my
dear mother did. It was all so terrible
for us four children to see. After she
passed on we had some hard struggling times.
It would be a long story to tell how and what happened to each one of us
children but thank God we all grew up to be good citizens and real hard workers
with the desire to have and own our own homes.
How mother would have loved to have seen and visited us. I am sure God must have let her look down on
us and that she was there to meet my two brothers and my dear son Hubert, who
have passed to the Great Beyond.
Fred C. Raynor: My father, Samuel Raynor sure was a smart
man. He had very little education—just
enough to read and write, but how he could figure out things. How well I remember, when a small boy, about
a monumental man who furnished the P. E. Sanford monument, now standing near
the south west gate of the Warwick Cemetery.
It arrived in town on railroad flat cars with a very large heavy truck
made for such heavy work. The monument
weighted twelve tons. When they loaded
the monument on the truck it settled 18 inches deep in the road bed. It stood in the street along side the
railroad switch opposite the Hynard Bros. store. There were six or eight teams of horses
standing around waiting to move it to the cemetery. As soon as Dad saw it he laughed and offered
to bet $300.00 they could not move it 3,000 feet. Eventually the Supt. Came to Dad for advice
and Dad offered to deliver it to the Cemetery for $300.00 provided no persons
were allowed within talking distance along the way. Finally they agreed. Next morning Dad took one team of big gray
horses—Jacob Stalter driver, one team of big black
mules—Ben White driver, (Gabby Hayes of the movies remind me of Don White), and
a yoke of big red Durham oxen.
I had driven those oxen for the past two or three years, having been
strapped on the back of the near ox.
They would help the teams pull those heavy ore wagons up the hill at our
farm house. Well it sure was the talk of
the town, Sam Raynor going to try to move the monument to the cemetery with
only three teams. Dad had plenty of
heavy chains so he ran these chains around the entire load, truck and monument
all chained together, then chain to whiffle tree of
horses then to whiffle tree of mules then to the oxen
yoke. He had three extra men dig down in
front of each wheel, put a six inch plank twelve inches wide and six foot long
under each wheel to give it a start.
Jacob Stalter spoke to his team of horses—When
White same to his mules in a soft voice and I said to oxen, Gee up Reds, here
we go. That load started to roll out to
and up Oakland
Ave. Every four or five hundred feet stopped for a
few minutes rest or blow as they called it in those days. When the word was given to go it sure did go. At the cemetery gate the oxen and mules were
unhitched and left for the horses to handle down grade. In the cemetery on the flat the load began to
settle 8-10 inches deep. Dad hustled the
extra men and team to the railroad yards to borrow some planks, six inched
thick, twelve inches wide and 18 ft. long to use again under the wheels till
they came to a rise in the road leading up to the side for the monument. The Supt. Gave Dad $300 agreed on and offered
him, his teams and drivers a permanent job, set his own price to go with the
company just to move monuments. In those
days rich people showed off their wealth in big homes and large monuments. Dad refused the offer—rather be his own boss
on his own farm. The Supt. Then asked
Dad why it was hose six or eight teams could not move the monument. Dad said, well you started all wrong. First they were all strange teams and drivers
to one another. I knew when the order
was given nothing would move and those teams would see saw back and forth, the
drivers begin to cuss and holler and that was what happened. Dad said, that was why I could not make the
offer unless all persons were out to talking distance all along the way. My horses and mules and oxen all knew what
was expected of them when the word to go was given and none were use to strange
voices. It shows you how animal instinct
works out—horses do not like mules – mules do not like oxen, hence either one
sulks or the one behind nips the one ahead on the rump to get out of the way
and it was no mild nip either. Animals
like people soon learn. Dad knew exactly
what his teams could pull and how far without a stop to blow. He never allowed a driver to abuse them,
hence the unison at the same moment.
Supt. Asked Dad why Dad was so particular about how the chains were put
around the entire load. He said, Mr. you
had a big heavy truck and an enormous load of 12 tons to move and I wanted it
fixed that when all those three teams pulled nothing about the truck would
break or give way to fool those teams. I
wanted everything to move and keep on moving.
Now do you think Dad was a smart
man? I do. Can you imagine how proud I was sitting on
the back of that old red ox. (Buck was his name) and see the people looking at
us move along. That was a great day for
me and that was a long long time ago and it was the
talk of the town for many years. I wish
I could remember all those old fellows, Fleet Demerest,
Thomas Demerest, Mannington TenEyeck,
Thomas Randall—all hotel men. How often
I have heard Pierson Sanford say to Dad, Come on Sam, let’s go have a drink on
that monument you moved in the cemetery for the benefit of the Sanford tribe.
I wonder how many left in Warwick
know that after the mines closed down my Dad used his teams to haul flag stones
and curbing for the Village of Warwick side talks and the large flag stones for
bridges for the Township. How well I
remember those long trips over to Quarryville—(See if you can find this place on the map). Leaving home at 3 A.M. with three or four teams via Edenville, Pine Island.
Boy, those old dirt roads this side of Pine Island would hake and quiver and scare me
half to deal for fear of sinking out of sight.
You can imagine a small boy scared at such things. Get to the quarry, load up and get back to Warwick about 9-10 P.M. then unload and drive back to the farm
all in one day. Wonder what the New
Dealers, left Wingers, and what have you Unions would think of such things
today? Well that was the way our Grand
America was made and how happy people were in those days. Wonderful friendship and neighbors, the kind
God wanted us all to be—how different to-day, March 30, 1850.
Well those trips were long and cold ones a s such trucking was done only
in the Fall after the farm work was all done.
I can still see those flag stone piles down back of John Classons feed mill, now Conklin & Strong. All the stone walks in Warwick at the same
huge flag stone we hauled from Quarryville on Main Street, West Street, Oakland
Avenue, South Street, Railroad Avenue and all the intervening streets, especially
where you now find uneven walks are the results of Samuel Raynor’s ambition and
energy to do his share of hard work to help make a better village for all of us
to live in. I remember in the early 80’s
how he leveled off the gravel banks on Oakland Ave., making building lots where M. V. (?)
Kane, Harry Hynard, Hiram Tate, Wm. Drumgould, James Lawrence, Harvey Van Duzer
(Stage), James Ogden, Elihue Taylor—all homes built
after he did the grading. They were fine
people, so different from our new crop of civilization. In a few years more Warwick will be lost to another race. Like the good old fashioned work horses,
faithful unto death, we old Americans will have vanished with them, but it has
been fun working and looking back on what an industrious generation had done.
*
* *
This
probably should have been put in an early part of story.
My grandfather Raynor brought five
skips of bees with him from the Delaware River region when he bought the farm at Warwick.
When my dad was a real small boy he saw grandfather shoot a big black
bear who was carrying off one of his skips of bees and honey across the road
and brook, under those big hemlock trees.
He had missed several skips but never any more after he killed that
bear. When I was 10 or 12 years old I
use to peddle honey in Warwick and Bellvale at 10 cents a pound, three pounds
for 25 cents. All nice white comb honey
in big pieces fifteen inches square.
Carried it in a big milk pan and cut off as sold.
* * *
Another
interesting thing—the brook ran along the foot of the hill. The road ran across
the door yard close to the house and then crossed brook. No bridge in that day. Drove right through the water. As Dad wanted to rebuild the old house into a
modern one he got permission from the County to change both the road and brook
and build a bridge across the brook. He
also built a big stone wall along the bank in the relocated brook some six feet
high and two feet wide and filled in all ground in front of the house, making a
beautiful lawn with many rose bushes, flower gardens, pear quince, peach, plum
and cherry trees. Also planted red and
blue grape vines. The house had a four
foot wide porch, then two large spruce trees with walk between down to brook
band between two nice arborvitus trees then down 4 or
5 steps to water edge. A very pretty
setting. In center of lawn was a large
mill stone – hole in center out of which grew a beautiful little white rose. Hundreds of blossoms each year. Around the stone under the rose bush was many
kinds of rare stones, pierces of ore and mica.
Also some very queer shaped stones that I wish I had moved away to my
home. Now at age of 74 I look back on
that grand old farm home – what memories of the joys and sorrows come back to
me. How I wish I could write a book of it
all, including the many good neighbors, some real funny old fellows, the old
black witch and aunt Abbie Decker. All the big hearted wholesome people. Get me some of those buckwheat pancakes with
home made butter, sausage and pure maple syrup and boy you had a treat never to
be forgotten.
God bless me and my sister, who now
lives in Berkeley, California and at evening tide of life, may we all meet
again and be the one big family we were, and may this grand old world be better
for our having lived in it and enjoyed its many wonderful blessings.
God Bless all my children and kin
folks and may they have the great pleasures and blessings in life that I have
enjoyed.
Mon. Oct. 1, ‘64
Times Window
Now
I
am looking out of the window
Through
the twilight of closing years
And
life appears as a drama
With
trials and laughter and tears
As
integral parts of its pattern,
Interwoven
with triumphs and fears.
My
window is clouded this evening,
Yet
the valley seems very near,
My
heart ever longs for the loved ones
Whose
presence gave courage and cheery,
And
dim through the deepening shadows,
Like
a play on a moving stage,
The
race goes steadily forward
Ever
changing from age to age.
And
again I see at this hour,
Dear
friends of long ago,
Whose
footsteps once tripped lightly,
Uncertain
now, measured, and slow.
The
twilight deepens to darkness
And
for many I look in vain;
Yet
I’m sure on a brighter to-morrow
I
shall see them once again.
Fred Car Raynor
March
30, 1951
(autographed March
30, 1963)
Handwritten note added on
Oct 1964: “Now after 4 more years and 9 months still wonderful memories…(line
off page)”
No. 2
Why I am
a Mountaineer
Why am I a mountaineer? To me it is funny. As I turn around in the path of life and look
squarely at that mountaineer it brings a smile as well as some deep
thinking. Most every community in those
early days had one “Old Granny” who delivered the babies to their future
homes. She always carried an old covered
basket on her arm and move everyone far and near had use for “Old Granny”.
(Aunt Jane Smith). She lived near the
old Black Pulpit Rock on the highway near the Simon Van Ness Inn. It was “Old Granny” that took me out of her
covered basket and dropped me off along the little old Mistucky water stream,
which still flows on to fill the Mistucky Reservoir, the present water supply
for the Queen Village of Warwick. This
Stream is named after the Mistucky tribe of Indians who had their campingrounds less than one eighth of a mile from my
birthplace, in fact the deed
to my fathers farm was made on a sheepskin with quill pen from a grant given to
this tribe of Indians by the English government. Had my father held it six months longer it
would have been in the Samuel Raynor family 100 years.
Southeast of my home I could look on
the old Gore Mountain tract.
To the North the old Birdsall (handwritten
correction from Birdseye, by Wilfred L. Raynor, Jr.)
or Old Hickory Hill Mountain and about the first story I can
remember is about these red-skin Indians who lived so close to my house. As I grew older the more I hear about the
Indians being driven West and the more I grew the stronger the desire within me
to go West to get first hand information about the Indians and the great
western country. The more I would read
the more the desire grew within me and believe you me between the teachers iron
wood whips and Dad’s old leather boots I kept growing. I decided I would like to go to Eastman’s Business College at Poughkeepsie to study to be a civil engineer then get
a position with Uncle Sam and be sent around the U.S.A. and particularly to the West to
work. I thought the West was just a
small county beyond Pochuck Mt.
I had the idea all the land east of Pochuck Creek was Eastern U.S. and West of Pochuck was West of the Mississippi.
You see I had never been further away from home that to a Village they
called Warwick, then to Stone Bridge, to Bellvale, to Andrew Houston Farm,
Walt Quackenbush, Jonas Lockwood Farm, Granny Hall Farm, to Samuel Raynor Farm,
my home. This was sort of a circular
trip about twelve miles and that was a long trip especially walking and
barefooted at that.
Andrew Houston by the way was a man
with great experience with rod and chain (not ball and chain). He used the iron rod as a stake and the chain
of links to measure the land with. Those
days most everyone owned land. Some one
piece and some half a dozen or more.
Hitler now reminds me of the people of my early boyhood days with their
quarreling with neighbors over line fines.
Especially two old duffers. One
Jonas Lockwood, the other Grinnell Burt.
Grinnell decided to build a railroad from Warwick to Greycourt. He has to have railroad ties and bridge
timbers. Jonas had a lot of mountain
land with timber to make ties. Well
after arguing about the price Grinnell agreed to pay Jonas five cents per each
railroad tie. Think of it boys—In those
days it was work or go to bed hungry. No
C. P. A., no C. I. O., no A. F. L., no F.D.R., no Jessie James, no Ickies,
no New Dealers. I’ll bet today that
railroad ties cost near five dollars each.
Jonas had several boys and girls and they all worked cutting trees down
day and night by lantern light. Score,
hew, and dress the ties and bridge timbers day time, deliver them to Warwick by the hundreds, was work for
all. Finally Grinnell thought Jonas was
making money too fast so Grinnell started to buy up wood lots around Jonas
property on the mountain side. At night Jonas would cut down Grinnell’s trees
by mistake of course. Grinnell found out
about this and would not pay the price for his own trees, which Jonas had cut
into ties. So Andrew Houston with his
iron rod, red flannels and chain was called to survey the lines. As I have said, Andrew Houston was a man of
great experience, and especially with such quarrelsome fellows, so he would
tell Jonas to take the iron rods and red flannels. About a hundred or more to carry and stake
the line as he directed. Then he would
give that long heavy link chain to poor old Grinnell to drag along through the
bushes while he, Andrew, looked through the key-hold or needle eye of his three
poled instrument. Not one person in the
whole country-side could read, see nor guess what Andrew saw. After about three-quarters of a day both
Jonas and Grinnell being tired out, would cuss each other unmercifully. Finally Grinnell would say, Begad Jonas you old Mossback
you can have the land if you will take the trees off and deliver them to me in Warwick.
Then Jonas would stomp the ground and roar like one of those big old Durham bulls and roar, “Grinnell you darned old
Mug Wamp
you pay me for what I have already hauled to you for your railroad, to hell
with you and your land. Well Sir, those
two fellows kept poor old Andrew Houston on the road back and forth so much
till the town of Warwick had to build a read honest to goodness highway road
from Bellvale up the valley past Andrew Houston, Walt Quackenbush, Peter
Howell, Jack Squews, Jonas Lockwood, Granny Halls on
down the valley to the Samuel Raynor farm, the home of this wanderer, and then
to Warwick. Grinnell and Thomas, those
two Burt brothers were very smart. They were carpenters by trade and while
working on a barn for Wm. Wheeler they both threw away their hammers, sold
their saws, and took a solemn vow, never to do any more manual labor again as
there was no real money to be made by manual labor anyway. It was a hit and miss proposition as the old
Negro said, he knew it was because he had married four times and every time he
had missed. Grinnell decided to build a
railroad from Warwick to Greycourt
as I have mentioned. Thomas was to build
a Savings Bank in Warwick so that as fast as Grinnell made money
with his railroad he could put the money in his brothers bank. Brother Thomas could then load the money to
the people around Warwick to build homes, raise crops, etc., and
ship them on his brothers railroad to the city markets. Soon after Grinnell got his railroad built he
and old “Mossback” Jonas Lockwood got to be very chummy, so Grinnell to ease
his conscience from worry because he had bought the ties so cheap from Jonas
decided to get for Jonas and his entire family some kind of cut rate ticket to
that wonderful rich farming country of Iowa, also the land of buffalos and
Indians. This appealed to Jonas as he
was tired of the slow hard way of living up on the mountains above Warwick.
Grinnell would grin and laugh when he would tell Sam Raynor about it,
saying, “Be Gad it sure took a lot of figuring and laying awake nights to get
Jonas out of the country.” He was
worried that Jonas would get the idea that he (Jonas) owned the railroad
because Grinnell had only paid Jonas five cents for the candles and kerosene
oil railroad ties. However, the Jonas
family arrived safely in Iowa and it was many years before Jonas
returned to Warwick.
When he did he never batted an eye at his one time enemy and friend, Mug
Wamp Burt.
Time nor space permit me to tell of the many amusing things I have seen
and heart from those two great big noble hearted pioneer men. Yes indeed for
all their faults, the good qualities of both men out weighed their faults.
Most everyone for miles around knew
Walt Quackenbush, a farmer and neighbor of Andrew Houston. Walt was an unusual fellow, good natured,
full of fun, but never would get weighed.
Said it was too much trouble. He
was so large he could not get himself all on the scale at one time. Had to weigh in sections so no one ever knew
how much he did weight but he sure was a big fellow. Walk and John Bradner, who had a general store
at Bellvale had a lot in common. Walt
would make his trips to Warwick along and he was a real load for both
his horse and wagon. All his old friends
in Warwick would coax him into the hotel bar room
for a drink, but Walt would never drink.
He always took a cigar. Told the
fellows he preferred a good smoke to a drink.
Not one of the fellows ever knew Walt never smoked either. He took the cigars back to John Bradner’s in
Bellvale and traded them for salt, sugar or flour thereby keeping the John
Bradner store supplied with first class cigars.
The people who bought the cigars never realized that Walt Quackenbush
was the supplier of the good smoke they were enjoying. One I asked through the Warwick papers if anyone recalled hearing John
Bradner sing the song “Old Zip Coon”, a Walt Quackenbush version. Those who had never heart John Bradner sing
his song missed a treat never to be heard again.
After my father forbid me going to Eastman College my dear good Mother would talk and
sympathize with me not to give up the idea of seeing the great western U.S., its grandeurs and wonders of
nature. So from Walt Quackenbush’s
method I got an idea—why not save pennies?
Getting myself a box nailed together good with a hold in the top I had a
place to put any spare money, thereby started to save for ticket to California and the great West Coast of U.S. I would be ashamed to tell how many years it
has taken to get enough money for the trip.
Mother died, and each year I would hope to go. Living in my hopes year after year, then both
of my brothers died leaving only my sister living at Berkley, Cal., and myself living at Warwick, NY.
Fred
Cary Raynor
March
30, 1963
No. 3
Old
Raynor Mine
After the Civil War, a young man
named Peter Parrott who liked to hike through the countryside and woods
discovered a piece of mineral to be iron ore. Along the boundary line of Samuel Raynor’s
farm the mine was opened and operated by Peter Parrott. Samuel Raynor took and held the contract to
haul all the ore to the Warwick Railroad and loaded it on cars to be sent to a
smelter at Greenwood Iron Works on the Erie R.R. Peter Parrott and E.H.
Harriman—Iron-Ore-Mine’s, recent years referred to the Old Raynor Mine, in the
vicinity of Tuxedo Park, Southfield and Sloatsburg. There the