CT – 223                CORNERSTONE TRAVELER                                                 NOV.  26 ‘13

 

Hi to all my readers of this bi-weekly newsletter, The CORNERSTONE TRAVELER  both on paper and on the web at www.cornerstonetraveler.com

 

mid-Hudson Valley news:  In Newburyport Mass., where I lived for near 25 years, there was an event held a Friday night before Christmas called First Night.  Essentially this was a village wide party celebrating the days before Christmas.  Many stores and shops stayed open past their regular closing hours selling their wares (clothing, books and pastries among others).  Usually everything was on sale, but the stores also gave away Christmas treats Such as pastry and chocolates.  They also gave away glasses of wine, brandy and eggnog.  It was always a Grand Old Time and all the shops did very well in sales.

I mention this because I think the shops in the village of New Paltz should do the same.  I know in Newburyport, the people who attended the village wide party were not only from Newburyport, but also from surrounding towns.  They came from as far away as Boston, Portsmouth NH, and Portland Maine.  It was so well received by people who attended that many other towns, villages and cities did the same.

You had to be careful if you were a patron because of all the booze given away (mostly eggnog) unless you walked.

Thanksgiving is two days away and I wish everyone a happy and safe Thanksgiving.

I personally am volunteering at a food pantry in Woodstock to serve Thanksgiving dinners to the less fortunate in our area.  I can do this because both of my children will be in Florida having Thanksgiving with my ex-wife and her mother.

 

observations:

I admit I sometimes watch the O’Reilly Factor on Fox News, who claims his show is the No Spin Zone which in reality is a lie.  He spins everything to the right.

On Tuesday night last week he brought up a new and dangerous activity of youths in some cities called Knock Out, where youths will go up to an innocent person on the street and try to hit that person hard enough that the person loses consciousness (knocked out).  He claimed as did his guest that the major media did not report on this activity because it involved black youths attacking whites.  This in itself is a lie by both O’Reilly and his guest because I saw CBS New York report on this very same activity three hours before O’Reilly lied to his audience.

Was I surprised?  No.  Because O’Reilly lies continually on his No Spin Zone piece of “journalism”?

A regular on O’Reillys.’s show is Charles Krauthammer.  Krauthammer has a syndicated column where he lies regularly. I know this because I have read his column in the Times Herald Record that is delivered to my home daily.

My favorite Krauthammer lie is when he reported that President Obama had pictures of people in his hands that the President thought should be killed by drones.  Krauthammer, the idiot that he is, obviously didn’t work out the logistics of this procedure.  Afghanistan and Iraq are eight hours ahead of Washington.  So a drone seeking a possible terrorist threat in that region at 9:00 a.m. mid-east time, it would be 1:00 a.m. in Washington.  Just think about these logistics and you will learn that Krauthammer lied to his readers.  How he became syndicated with these stories, lies, is beyond me.

sports:

Last weekend was sad for the Jets and Giants the Jets lost to the Ravens 3-19 giving them a 5-6 record.

The Giants 4 game in streak was shattered by the Cowboys hen they lost to the Cowboys by a score of 21-24.

The Knicks have a record of 3-9 in the Atlantic Division of the NBA and the Nets are about the same with a record of 3-10 in the same division.

The Rangers are 6 points back in the NHL Atlantic Division.  The Islanders are 11 points back in the same division.

The nicks are  – in the Atlantic Division of the NBA.  And the Nets are  – in the same Division.

The Rangers are  – . In the Atlantic Division of the NHL

That’s about it for sports.

other:

As with all previous issues of this newsletter, everything printed here is either copyright protected or copyright pending.

The history of P&G’s follows this newsletter from about the mid 1930’s to almost the present.

Following the history of P&G’s is a short story called Trevor Morgan as it appeared in my book of short stories, COSMIC WHISPERER available on amazon.com and barnesand noble.com.  I hope you like it.

 

Thank-you  – Rik McGuire

History of P&G’s continued to the present

 

From 1925 – 1945 a number of diverse businesses occupied the building.  These included Carols Clothing Store, Atkins Drug Store,  Schaffert Real Estate Office, Marie Shop and Dicks Bar and Grill among others.

In 1947 Dicks Bar and Grill was purchased by two Lake Mohonk employees, Pat Cafferty and George Jayne.  Legend has it that neither told their wives of their intention to purchase the business.  They immediately changed the Grills name to Pat and Georges.  Among it’s loyal customers it was simply P&G’s.

One of the best things to happen to P&G’s occurred in 1961.  An ex Dodger player named Stormer Nickerson became a bartender.  Stormy as he was affectionately known became something of a legend.  His heart, quiet good humor and generous spirit made P&G’s the one place that welcomed all from the harsher outside world into a refuge for college students, business people, local characters and even for a while, in the 1960’s, bikers.  According to one source.  “They weren’t as rowdy a crew as you might expect because although he was quiet, Stormy commanded and got respect.”  His professional baseball background made him a natural to pitch batting practice for the New Paltz College teams and he did so for a number of seasons.  One college fraternity considered P&G’s their private domain.  The scene of everything important, news, views, camaraderie and especially humor was always evident at P&G’s.

After the St. Helens volcano erupted and news reports discussed the possibility of ash fall out across the U.S., Stormy came to work to find the staff dressed in garbage bags and metal kitchen colanders on their heads.  Since no ash was reported on anyone, Stormy reasoned the

attire had been affective by making everyone laugh their ash off.

In June 1991, after 30 years, Stormy retired from P&G’s.  He died in June of 1994.  From his casual humor that lingers, to his Chile recipe that is still served and the kind memories often repeated by his many friends, Stormy is still here.

In 1969 Edwin Beck bought P&G’s.  His first weekend as owner was completely successful.  The following weekend, however, the place was deserted.  A disheartened Beck couldn’t understand what he had done to alienate everyone so quickly.  He was relieved to learn it was simply a matter of poor timing.  Everyone was away and wallowing in a farm in Bethel NY.  A music festival or something.

Ed Beck never spent time worrying.  He looked across Main Street and up Platekill Avenue, seeing thousands of thirsty college students who, for the most part remained on campus.  Taking a good supply of liquid refreshment, Beck went to the campus and gave the students (all legal in those days) a new place to call home.  He transformed P&G’s from a neighborhood bar into a local institution.

The face of Beck’s personality had much to do with the continued success of P&G’s, the place was fun.  One oft quoted story about Beck concerns a young P&G’s enthusiast who wanted to be just like Beck when he grew up.  It is reported that Beck in all humility replied.  “Well you can’t do both.”

The name Pat and Georges was officially changed to P&G’s in the 1980’s by Ed Beck and his son Mike.  In 1985, Mike bought out his fathers interest.  In 1994, he undertook extensive renovations, making the building exterior appear as it did in 1900, when it was the Casino.

 

TREVOR MORGAN

 

It was about 5:00a.m. when I decided I had to get away from the short story I had been working feverishly upon.   I decided to do what I normally do when I am stuck and only spinning my literary tires in a quagmire of mud.  I went for an early morning walk.

I had a small Mobil home on my own property in this small New England coastal town.  The home wasn’t big.  I didn’t have to be.  It was a cheap buy.  I only needed a home of my own that was cheap and provided needed shelter and room for eating, sleeping and writing.

As I walked along this old town road, I rounded a bend and came to the old town burial ground.  It was no longer used by this coastal community, but I knew it contained the graves of people who died in the years between when the town was first settled, 1634 to the mid 1700’s.  As I approached, I saw a man sitting in a chair in front of one grave plot.  It appeared to me he was staring intently at the stone.  I was curious and I walked to the stone.

I approached the stone marker silently and I was not more than five feet from the marker, when his head rose and recognized my presence.

“Hello, my friend.”  He said.  “Do you make it a habit of walking so early in the morning?”

I could not place the accent in his voice and I have heard them all.  From the north to the south to the Midwest to the southwest to the west.  But I knew immediately it was an old accent.  “Yes.”  I said.  “I sometimes walk to clear my thoughts.  And You?”  I asked.  “Why are you sitting here staring at this stone so intently?”

He only smiled and replied.  “I know this man.”

I looked at the marker stone and saw who was buried there.

The name on the stone was Trevor Morgan.  He lived from 1703 to 1728.  The inscription on the stone stated he died on a merchant ship from Africa in 1728 and he was buried at sea.  The family decided that they needed a marker stone to remember his passing.

“How do you know him?”  I asked.  “He died more than two hundred and fifty years ago.”

The man in the chair only smiled.  “I know him, yet I do not know him.”

“I don’t understand.”  I said.

“I know who he was, but I don’t know the present history of him.”

“Is that important?”

“Yes.  It is important that I know how he is known in the present and in the future.”

“Then go to the local library or town hall.  I am sure they have all the records of the early residents of this town.”

“I tried.”  He explained.  “But it was all too tiring for me.  You are a writer?  Are you not?”  He said as he stared at me.  It did not occur to me that he should not have known my occupation, as we only just met and I was not a very well known writer.  I only nodded and said.  “Yes, I am.”

“Then you should be able to research this man, Trevor Morgan.”

“I can only try.  And I will.”  I insisted because I suddenly became intrigued with Trevor Morgan.

“Good.”  The stranger said.  “If you need to see me, come here just before dawn and I will be here.”

Knowing that I regularly walked down the country road in the early morning hours I agreed.  “I’ll do my best.”  I promised as I waved and walked back to my home.

I researched the local newspaper with issues dating back to almost this small town’s

establishment.  I found in one dated and yellowed copy that I had to be extra careful with as the paper almost crumbled with my touch.  This issue reported that Trevor Morgan died aboard the trading ship, Wyanda.  It was reported that Mr. Morgan died of a sudden illness and to stem the possibility of contagion to the other crew members.  He was buried at sea.

I could sense from the way the reporter wrote this story, this obituary, that the reporter knew more than he was writing and I decided to probe deeper into the death of Trevor Morgan.  I learned that the Morgan family continued to live in this small coastal town until the mid 1960’s and they sold the family estate for a princely sum to an advertising executive who worked in Boston and was now deceased.  Though the house was sold and remodeled many times in the thirty plus years, I did learn the names of all the occupants.

I naturally started with the surviving family of the deceased advertising executive.  When I found the surviving family, I learned that the executive found several boxes of old books and letters dating back to the founding of the town in the 1600’s.  He automatically donated these boxes to the local town museum.

I went to the local museum that in fact was a local family home.  The house had been built shortly after the founding of the town and well maintained during the ensuing three hundred fifty years.

I talked to a Mr. Carl Matthews, the current owner of the home.  He informed me that his family has owned the home since it was originally built those many years ago.  It was immaculately maintained as I witnessed when I talked to Mr. Matthews.  If I leaned with my hand against a door jam, Mr. Matthews would wipe the place where my hand  had been when we moved to another location in the house.

I told him I was interested in the story behind Trevor Morgan.

And his words and I quote.  “Yes.  It was tragic.  His death.”

“How so?”  I asked.

He led me to the basement.  Though the basement had a concrete floor, I could see it was the original foundation.  I saw the foundation was composed of hand placed and hand sculpted local rock.  There were shelves upon shelves of boxes that Mr. Matthews informed me were filled with old newspapers and correspondence between the early families.  Without thinking he went directly to one shelf and pulled a rather bulky  box down and handed it to me.  He directed me to a table at the far end of the basement

I read through the letters between Trevor and his family.  I read in Trevor’s last letters to the family while a shipmate aboard the Wyanda.  He was upset that this merchant ships total cargo were African men to be sold into slavery.  He wrote how he thought the idea of slavery was wrong and immoral.  He also wrote how he told the captain and the crew of the Wyanda his feelings toward slavery and the treatment of the men to be sold into slavery.  They were crammed into unhealthy quarters below decks

I read and reread everything in that bulky box.  It became apparent to me that Trevor thought his life to be in danger by the captain and the first mate.  Then all correspondence stopped in the early days of 1728.

There were letters to the family from former shipmates expressing sympathy that Trevor

had died so tragically.  Many were sympathetic to Trevor’s views of slavery, though they were not as vocal about it as Trevor was.

After spending hours reading everything in the box, I came away thinking, did Trevor die of an illness or was he murdered and buried at sea to cover the murder.  The total time I spent in the basement reading the letters and newspapers surrounding Trevor Morgans death was more than six hours.  I neatly replaced everything I had read and climbed the stairs to find Mr. Matthews sitting in the front room waiting for me.

“What did you learn?”  He asked.

“I learned that Trevor Morgan was most likely killed aboard the Wyanda by the captain or the first mate.  I am pretty well convinced he didn’t die of an illness.  They buried him at sea because they had to hide the fact that he was murdered.”

“Very good.  You read correctly of the history of Mr. Morgan.  Now what do you intend to do with what you have learned?”

“I’m not sure.”  I answered.  “I thought briefly of maybe writing an article about Trevor Morgan and submitting it to maybe Yankee Magazine or the Boston Sunday Globe Magazine or maybe even the New Yorker.  I am a writer.”

“I know.”  Mr. Matthews replied.  “I have read all of your stories.  You do much research before you write a story and I am impressed.”

“Thank-you.”  I said.  “What do you think of my idea to submit an article to the magazines I mentioned?”

Mr. Matthews nodded.  “Before you do that, maybe you should research the Howard and

Nelson families in this town.  They are both directly descended from Captain Howard and First Mate Nelson of the Wyanda.”

“Of course!”  I exclaimed, slapping my head.  “Why didn’t I make the connection?”

“They are the most wealthy families in this town and how do you think they amassed their wealth?”  Mr. Matthews said.  “Captain Howard made much money with the Wyanda, shipping slaves to this country and Nelson was made a captain of another slave ship called the Northbound.”

I nodded.  “I guess my work is only partly completed.  I know I have a great deal more work to do.”

Mr.  Matthews nodded and pointed to the door to the basement.  “Everything you need to know is most likely down there.  And you are welcome to do all the research you feel is necessary.”

“Thank-you.”  I answered.  “But not today.  My eyes are tired and I have to get back to my place and make sense of my notes.”  I bid Mr. Matthews goodbye with the assurance that I was welcome to continue my research at his home/museum any time I desired.

After I got back to my home I worked until after midnight trying to collect and organize everything I had read about Trevor Morgan.  I finally decided that I needed to sleep so I could be well rested when I went to the graveyard and meet with the Strange man in the morning.

 

I woke that morning feeling somewhat refreshed.  I washed, dressed and left my home for the walk to the old graveyard.

I found the stranger sitting in his chair in front of the same grave marker, as I had before.

He looked up as I walked to the grave marker.  “What have you learned?”  He asked.

“I believe,”  I started.  “That Trevor Morgan didn’t die of an illness on the Wyanda, he was most likely murdered by the captain, the first mate or both.”

“Very good.”  He said.  “You are truly the gifted writer I thought you were when we first met.  So what is your next step?”  He asked.

“I am going to research the Howard and Nelson families in this town.”

“Very good.”  He said as a squirrel started to creep to an acorn that lay on the grave plot.  I watched as the squirrel crept closer and closer to the acorn.  It’s approach would have been within a foot of the man sitting in the chair.  When the squirrel got close to the chair, its head lifted, sniffed and looked around.  Then it turned and sprinted to the closest tree.   The squirrel’s action puzzled me.

The stranger only smiled when he turned his head to watch the squirrel scamper up the tree.  “Animals see and know more than we give them credit for.”  He said turning back to me.

“I worked late into the early morning.”  I said.  “I think I should go back to my place and rest and think about what I have learned.”  I turned and waved.

“I will see you tomorrow morning?”  The stranger asked.

“Count on it.”  I replied.

During the next several weeks I spent most of my days at the Matthews house/museum.

The pages of notes I had accumulated stood at least eight inches tall when stacked together.  I

was confounded at how Captain Howard and later Captain Nelson had accumulated so much wealth and land in this small coastal community without attracting the notice of the residents.  I read all the letters the Morgans sent to friends and relations in this town and surrounding towns.  It was obvious to me that they were very suspicious of the sudden wealth of the Howard’s and the Nelson’s.  They continued to voice their suspicions that Howard and Nelson were directly involved with their son’s death.

As I researched everything about Trevor, the Howard’s and Nelson’s, I met every morning with the stranger at the old graveyard.

I started to become uncomfortable with each meeting.  I saw animals avoid the stranger and sprint away when they come close to his sitting form.

It was dumb on my part that I never felt the need to ask his name and he didn’t offer it. He never once told me where he lived.  I just assumed he lived in town or close by as there was never a vehicle parked near the old burial ground.

One morning we talked longer than any time before and we realized the sun had started to rise above the ocean horizon and the stranger appeared to fade with the gathering light.  He quickly dismissed me and I walked away.

I had just walked around the bend in the road, when I decided I needed to ask one more question of him.  I started to walk back and as I rounded the bend, I looked to the old burial ground.   I stared at the spot where we had met and talked every morning for weeks, the chair was gone and I saw the image of the stranger slowly ease and slip into the grave plot.

I admit I was a little apprehensive when I met him the next morning.  He smiled when I approached and said.  “You saw yesterday how the sun forces my spiritual form to ease back into the ground where I was to be buried.”

I nervously nodded and asked about his existence and I was informed he cannot truly rest until he confronts the reason for his untimely death by violence.  He told me that when he learned of my writing skills and accomplishments, he thought that maybe he could confront this dilemma if I wrote about his death and he thought that I was the ideal writer for his dilemma.

I assured him, my spiritual guide, that I would produce the best written piece that I had ever written and would probably ever write.

The final piece wasn’t published until many months after this early dawn meeting.  It required me to write and edit almost daily for eight to ten hours each day.

I finally managed to get my article published in a very small bimonthly periodical called the Northeast Coastal Review.  I had to edit and cut most of the piece to get within the 8,000 word guidelines that the NEAR required.  Other major magazines wouldn’t touch it because of the fear of lawsuits by the descendants of Captain Howard and Nelson.  I sent the piece to all the major magazines and all I got for my troubles and expense were polite rejections.  Not that the rejections were killers.  Every writer has had to deal with and accept rejections.  With all the money and time spent on sending my article to the magazines all I received from the NEAR was $360 and three complimentary copies of the magazine.

When the article was finally published and in print, I saw Trevor Morgan one last time.

We met as usual at his grave plot.  I had the magazines in my hand when I met his spiritual presence.  “Look.”  I said pointing to the magazine in my hand.  “I finally got it into print.”

Trevor smiled.  “I know.  Now finally I can ascend to the next level now that I have confronted my death.”

“I don’t understand.”  I said.

“You will when your time as a mortal ends and you enter the spiritual realm.”

I have to admit that after the last meeting I was confused and not sure of what he meant.  But I knew he was finally at peace and rest and could ascend like he said to whatever level he referred.