About Connections: Love it or hate it, history is a map. Those who hate history think it irrelevant; many who love history think it escapism. In truth, history is the clearest road map to how we got here: America in the 21st century.
Assumptions are never good. Take for example the assumption that outlanders, summer folk — you know, city dwellers — are smarter than country folk. In Pittsfield, there was a cautionary tale that locals identified as “The Case of Joe Keiler’s Farm.”
A city feller was looking for a place to buy and build his summer house. He liked the look of Joe Keiler’s farm. Keiler wasn’t willing to sell, and was tired of being pestered. It was winter in Berkshire County, snow thick on the ground. In fact, snow covered Pontoosuc Lake adjacent to Joe’s farm, and that gave him an idea. What the heck! Joe sold him Pontoosuc.
The outlander was thrilled. It was a nice sized piece of land very well-situated amid the Berkshire Hills. Even if he had been smart enough to stick a shovel in the “ground,” he would have hit ice and thought it was rock. Of course, if he would have plowed the snow…
The papers were drawn up and signed, but never filed. Those on the “smart city folk” side of the argument say the buyer discovered the hoax and would not proceed. Folks who prize country wit say Keiler had his fun, enjoyed it, but would not go so far as cheating another man. The truth is lost in the mist of history — you are free to decide.
Back in the days when disagreement was not dangerous, there was a dispute between Giraud Foster at Bellefontaine and a Lenox man in a small way of business. It was well-known and appreciated that Foster allowed townsfolk on his grounds. It was understood that this was generosity not to be abused.
That is, it was understood by all but one. This local saw a way to turn a profit. He loaded his wagon with visitors, hitched up his horse, and toured the grounds. He might have gotten away with it except he ran the “tours” frequently and at least one coincided with Foster’s teatime on the south portico. Foster’s quiet enjoyment was disturbed, and he asked the man to stop all tours.
Well, never mess with another’s man rice bowl. The fellow was angry. He loaded his wagon one last time, waited for teatime precisely, and drove within earshot.
“There sits a man who made all his money in one day,” the tour guide shouted.
His wagonload murmured in amazement.
“He married it.”
Thus ended the tours.
There was a to-do at Ventfort between the local fishmonger and Cottager George Morgan. It had to do with oysters.
Sarah and George Morgan planned a dinner party at their new Berkshire Cottage. Oysters were on the proposed menu. They contacted the local fishmonger and placed their order for 48 oysters.
The dinner went well, but soon after, the fishmonger filed suit for nonpayment of his bill. The bill, given to me by local historian and collector Ed Darrin, was very interesting. It listed one shucking knife, destroyed in the onerous task, and the shucking of oysters listed in this way:
One oyster shucked 10 cents
One oyster shucked 10 cents
One oyster shucked 10 cents
Etc.
I always wondered why he didn’t present the bill totaled: 48 oysters shucked @ 10 cents each = $4.80. Until I realized that perhaps he could not add or multiply, or he could add if he created a column but could not multiply.
Surprisingly, for so slight a bill to so rich a man, Morgan fought the claim. Therefore, we have a record. One witness was the cook at Ventfort who testified the man was a scoundrel who would not leave the kitchen maid alone. He insisted on shucking in the Ventfort kitchen and borrowed a knife to do it. He was then so busy chasing the girl that, in fact, she and the cook had to do the shucking after they had shooed the fishmonger out. And his knife? He gave it to the kitchen maid (I guess) in lieu of flowers. Cook, on her own behalf and the kitchen maid’s, complained to Madam. Sarah brought the matter to her husband. Thus, the legal battle and the losing fishmonger.
In Richmond, 120 years ago, there was a street they called Wall Street because of the many rich people who lived there in summer. Many were thought to be stockbrokers and members of the stock exchange. There was a local man who opened a store in 1880. He wore a stovepipe hat to work every day and never took it off. Patrons said it was where he kept his money. Well, the business did not flourish, and one day he approached a rich summer resident. With great sadness, the former shopkeeper invited the man from Wall Street (Richmond) to his farm to see his dead sheep.
“Eaten by your dog, Sir.”
The man looked, and impressed by the man’s sense of loss, offered to pay for the animal.
The following week, the shopkeeper approached another man who lived on Wall Street with the same story and the same invitation. This time, however, the story had gotten around. The circumstance was strangely familiar.
The man said, “I will pay you for your loss if you will bring me a shovel and an ax.”
When the local did so, the wealthy man cut up the sheep and buried it. As he paid the local, the man cried out, “You have deprived me of my only means of earning an honest living.”
We will end with this: no fraud, no frills, no victim, no vying for first place. An old vagabond who included Richmond in what he called his “beat” (the roads he tramped), was caught fishing illegally. When dragged into court, he told the judge, “I weren’t fishing, I was jes’ trying to drown that worm.”
