At best our little town was just a whistle stop for a few of the trains that passed by on their way to and from New York City–some 60 miles south of this rural community.
Over a fifteen-year period starting in the late 1950s the area surrounding our town would change from a collection of dairy farms and apple orchards into an upscale bedroom community full of residents whose roots and needs were urban by nature but whose heart and soul had been drawn to the idea of a less complicated time and a life conjured up in their minds that appeared both simple yet satisfying. The notion that a simple country life could be found somewhere not far away from city lights was supported for more than 25 years by Norman Rockwell and his weekly illustrations that appeared on the cover and in the pages of the Saturday Evening Post. Pictures of kids with dogs, pot belly stoves in country stores and insightful illustrations of the dreaded annual visit to the dentist office in small town America seemed to both document and enhance a life that never was and never would be. The children of a generation that had survived a depression and won a world war began a search for the peaceful, tranquil, serene life that was said to exist in small town rural America.
The hunt began in the farming communities surrounding major cities. New roads and better cars made it possible for urban pioneers to explore the countryside looking for an environment suitable to raise a family. One essential criterion required to lure urban dwellers from their walkup flats and high-rise apartments was that a new home had to be within commuting distance to the urban sprawl they worked in and were both accustomed and remained drawn to, much like bees to a hive. These “out of the way places,” thought to be holdouts and hideouts from the relentless march of time and 20th Century modernization would, during the late 1950s, 60s and 70s, be invaded by those who had recently acquired a taste for martinis, scotch and white wine. Stereotyping replaced common sense as “city slickers,” inflicted with a second and third generation cosmopolitan inspired sense of superior intellect, described to friends over cocktails the apple cider and corn liquor swilling hicks who inhabited (without appreciation was the implication) the pristine environmental enclaves these urban explorers had recently discovered and planned to “civilize as well as liberate from the backward farmers” and other long time citizens who had for generations found both a home and happiness there. Soon after their arrival the invaders, began the process of civilizing their surroundings by requiring expensive services that were a harbinger of the suburban revolution that would end the rural way of life they had originally found so quaint and charming. The cost of the additional government necessary to operate and maintain new and expanded services became staggering, and over time forced the less affluent long time locals to sell out and move on to new territory much like the frontiersmen of old.
Born in 1852, old man Monahan had lived all of his life in the town by the railroad tracks. Too young for the Civil War and too old for the charge up San Juan Hill, old man Monahan never had a reason to venture more than 25 miles from his place of birth. He had never been to a movie house, concert or Broadway play. Almost stone deaf he would don his huge awkward hearing aid and turn the radio up full blast to hear the evening news, leaving everyone in the neighborhood with no choice but to be well informed, whether it was their intention or not!
He had for most of his life worked as a carpenter and maintenance man, picking apple’s in the fall for the local orchards to earn a few extra dollars to support himself and his family. He and his wife shared a retirement that was not work-free, renting space in a portion of their house for the town’s only beauty shop while operating a boarding house in the rooms above the shop. His wife tended to their garden, canned vegetables and fruit for the winter and stored them in a hand-dug cold cellar located below ground in the basement of their home. Old man Monahan also worked in the garden, and in addition tended to the beautiful flowers in beds that surrounded their house as well as some special flowering plants that were growing in pots that filled a horse drawn wagon permanently parked near the back of the property–a wagon he no longer had any other use for. This routine would continue each year until winter brought a pause to gardening. Stored neatly in the small shed that had once housed the horse that pulled the wagon now full of flowers, were the picks, shovels, wheelbarrows and other tools he and his wife of more than seventy years used almost daily.
Old man Monahan had an additional side job that he maintained until the time of his death in 1949. Twice a day, early morning and late afternoon, he would cross the tracks from his home, go to the U.S. Post Office and pick up a canvas mailbag, then follow the rail tracks out of town for a bit and hang the mail pouch on a big swinging C clamp located near the railroad tracks. An express train driven by a coal-fired steam engine flying by at a high rate of speed would extend a metal arm and retrieve the mail bag from the “C” clamp while a conductor would throw a weighted bag full of mail out of the train door near a spot where the old man could retrieve it and carry it back to the Post Office. And so it was that for nearly a hundred years mail made its way to and from New York City and our little out of the way town. No one, not even the current Post Master, knew for certain how long old man Monahan had been handling the mail and no one ever remembered seeing anyone else ever taking his place so the assumption was that he never took a vacation or a sick day while tending to the mail delivery. It seemed the old rain, snow, sleet and hail motto associated with the delivery of U.S. mail was patterned after or at least exemplified by the work ethic of this old man.
I was among the last in a long line of kids who from time to time over his more than half a century part time career with the mail would walk up the tracks with old man Monahan and watch him climb the half dozen steps to the “C” clamp and fasten the mail pouch to the device then swing it out toward the tracks where it would be locked in place. Then, like the many boys before me, he and I would sit on the tracks of a siding near the mail stand and wait for the express train to roar by, snatching the outgoing mail sack from the “C” clamp as a conductor threw a pouch full of mail out of the mail car door. Being nearly deaf there was nothing subtle about communicating with old man Monahan; it was necessary to face his side, cup your hands and yell into his ear as the old man, with eyes squinted, cupped his ears with his hands in an effort to hear–all the time encouraging you to speak (or yell) louder if possible. After a while he and I seemed to get into a rhythm that made two-way conversation both possible and bearable. From 1943 until his death sometime in the fall of 1949 once or twice a week I would walk with old man Monahan up the tracks and sit and listen to his tales of the past as he outlined in detail the history of our little community and the people in it.
In his nineties the old man was thin to the point of being frail and it took all of his strength and energy to do the simple things that were required to hang the mail bag. Winter and summer he dressed the same, wearing a fedora hat that became a part of his being–a hat that prominently displayed all the signs of daily use including stains from sweat, weather and fingerprints on the brim and peak of the hat from years of hard work and wear. His shirt was always a long sleeve flannel type ironed smooth, loose hanging and buttoned neatly up to the neck, the long sleeves of the shirt somehow maintaining crisp creases and buttoned down around his very thin wrists. Blue farmer type overalls and ankle high work boots with four metal eyes on each side of the boot for the top laces and white wool socks completed the old man’s daily ensemble.
Being a creature of habit in dress and manner, old man Monahan was recognizable from any angle or distance at any time of the day or night. I remember from time to time helping the old man carry things in or out of his root cellar and smelling the wonderful aroma of apples he had stored there for winter use. But it was the time we spent sitting side by side on the railroad tracks waiting for the mail train to race by that I remember most of all. After securing the mail bag we would sit on a siding track and he would begin the conversation by asking me what kind of day I had. Shouting into the pile of plastic and metal that made up his hearing aid, I would avoid going into detail in an effort to save my voice as I gave him a short version of my day. When he was satisfied that I had nothing else worthy of discussion he would lean back and reach into his pocket retrieving his pocket knife and the Cortland apple he would bring daily from his root cellar. Finding the spot on his blue overalls that had the least amount of dirt and coal dust on it, he would put a shine on the apple before cutting it into small slices–one for him and because he was generous, two for me. As I would watch him slice the apple I was always amazed at the still powerful and steady grip of his nearly century old hands, hands that had dirt permanently ground into the callous skin and under the nails, leaving no doubt these hands had never been idle. After we each had a few slices of the apple he would pause and with the point of his knife push the rim of his fedora hat up and back then leaning forward and concentrating as if precision were now required he would continue slicing the apple and begin a story from the past.
As a boy he watched as Irish immigrants laid track rails in 16 foot sections and build huge sheds meant to house the coal required for the coming steam engines. His father an immigrant from Ireland was part of those crews and when the building of the railroad was done the Monahan’s made their home alongside the railroad tracks in our small town. Not yet a teenager when the Civil War was fought old man Monahan remembers the sight of Civil War veterans returning home and how impressed they were that the town had a newly acquired railroad station. He knew and remembered the names of the town’s families and each member who had left to fight in the Civil War including those who never returned.
He told a story about “the old Leather Man” who traveled about the area in the 1880’s and 1890’s, dressed summer and winter in trappings made of leather. The Leather Man as he was known became a fixture of sorts in the area and old man Monahan knew the names and circumstances of local people that would leave plates of food on their porches for the Leather Man to eat as he traveled on foot from town to town. The rumors were that the leather man once was rich and had come to America from France. After arriving in New York he lost his fortune and was jilted by a lover; the strain was so much that he spent the rest of his life wandering from town to town on both a schedule and a route accepting handouts in order to survive. After 20 years he just disappeared one day never to be seen again. The mystery of his disappearance was never solved leaving an opportunity for many endings to the mysterious story of this mystery man. As part of our 8th grade education we would learn more of the Leather Man. Most of it was the recounting of stories old man Monahan had told local historians–me and all the boys who over the years sat with him waiting for the mail train.
For a man who seldom left his home town old man Monahan seemed to also have a great sense of world geography. Sitting on the tracks the conversation and the old man’s stories would turn to the war taking place in Europe and Asia. He had many stories about the boys who had sat on the tracks over the years with him and were now fighting overseas like the Dooley brothers–both Army Air Force fighter pilots who were killed in action one was shot down over Germany and the other shot down in the Solomon Islands.
A man of minimal education the old man’s keen observation of life, times and the people in our town was vivid in detail, skillfully articulate yet poignantly portrayed in a way that even a boy less than ten years old could be made to feel and understand the pain and pride of these ordinary families that had to cope daily with the overwhelming strain of war and peace, life and death, good and evil that had become a part of our daily lives from December 1941 through 1945.
He told the story of a man who was both a widower and the father of the Dooley brothers, a longtime resident and World War I veteran who worked as a railroad engineer and for years held an extra job as a bartender, saving the money he earned to send his sons to college so they might have the opportunities he never had. Shortly after graduation from Columbia University the two boys entered flight training 18 months later both were dead leaving a father that could not be consoled. Mr. Dooley became mean, nasty and a recluse, chasing away anyone and particularly young boys like me who dared to come near his property.
The stories an old man told sitting on the railroad tracks sharing an apple influenced–without seeking sympathy–boys like me to be more understanding of a man and a father whose wartime sacrifice was so great. He spoke of others in our town who had boys fighting overseas but whose stories were not as dramatic. The old man knew a lot about the boys in our town because for fifty years young boys like me with nothing to do and no place to go would from time to time follow the old man up the tracks and sit eating slices of apple while exchanging stories knowing that somehow by the time you parted ways you would not only feel good about yourself but also about the community you lived in.
He spoke of the Collaboletta boy, an ambulance driver killed in France, and Phillip Doyle who was killed on Iowa Jima while his brothers–also members of the Marine Corps–were preparing to invade Okinawa. His stories were always of the accomplishments, sacrifices and character of our townspeople but he never told stories of individual heroism even if he knew them because it wasn’t necessary. You see, the portrait his words painted over the years of the families who worked the farms and small business that made up and surrounded our town left only one conclusion—honor and duty was a natural part of our rural community’s DNA. He made us believe in ourselves and that we could and would rise to any occasion when necessary; his words left no doubt there was a little bit of hero hidden in all of us.
The old man never spoke to me of himself or his family; his stories were always of mothers, fathers and families who lived in our town or of the many boys who over the years had sat with him and were now off serving or had served their country. His stories of times past and how our community evolved were simple short and interesting, instilling as if by osmosis a sense of pride in the community roots of a long line of boys and their families.
Only after the old man’s death did I learn that his son was decorated during World War I while fighting in France. It is 60 years since the old man died and like so many others who grew up in that small rural whistle stop surrounded by dairy farms and apple orchards, my wife and I have traveled the world and moved across the country finally making our home in a gated community known as Bay Point. As much as Bay Point is different than the small town we grew up in our reasons for moving here is similar to the urban invaders who years ago found our town so appealing. The community we grew up in is no more, only the name remains the same. The farms are gone replaced by homes, highways and a suburban sprawl that continues to spread almost out of control. Steam engines that were replaced by diesel have now been replaced by electric and the mail no longer travels by rail but arrives by truck.
The rich history that was so much a part of our home town has been lost to the urban sprawl that passes for progress. And so it is that today the gated community known as Bay Point has more of a small town appeal and feel then the whistle stop where we grew up. Bay Point with its definite boundaries is a place where people are both welcomed and encouraged to assimilate into the community. The glue that binds this community is much the same as that which once held the small town of my youth together. With very few exceptions Bay Pointers are neighbors and friends who share common goals and concerns. We are people who naturally worry about and wish the best for each other. Here, unlike where I grew up, a sense of familiarity is instantly provided through the many associations, clubs, and groups that are a part of this very special community; it is the essence of why people want to live here. The history of such organizations as the Woman’s Club, Book club, Yacht Club, Tennis and Golf Associations, give a sense of stability and longevity to Bay Point that makes our community a sought after destination for those in search of a high quality stable lifestyle. In addition to the many clubs, sports fishing and boating activities are an everyday part of our life. Roads that are patrolled by our own security force makes riding a bicycle, jogging or just walking the dog in relative safety a reality.
We have every reason to be proud of our community and the people in it. Pride in the history and knowledge of the many small accomplishments of people in a little town became the music of a man who with great affection was known to all as “Old Man Monahan.” Like no other, he was able to blend tales of the past with the deeds of the present weaving a magnificent living history that made all who lived in our small out of the way community feel special including a long line of boys who walked the rails and sat on the tracks listening to stories of their town that would stay with them forever.
And so it is I wonder will there ever be a song of Bay Point–one that will sing the praises of our good deeds and good will, a song that will honor our past and tell stories of the many accomplishments of its people, a song that will pass on tales of a rich history and give hope to an optimistic future–a song full of words that are simple, clear and full of meaning. Will there be a voice to sing our praises and tell our story that is so eloquent, dedicated and sincere, as a voice I once knew and would recognize today as that of “Old Man Monahan.”