Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond – Didie Chapter 2


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond – Didie
Chapter 2

"We raced through those dirt roads like the wind, and when we came to a jolting stop at Ellen's father's house my bones were aching; there were no shocks at all on those chariots, Moose. Mendy blew a snort on his trumpet and there, coming towards me was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She didn't run but flowed towards me. I felt a chill surge up my back and my eyes widened at the approaching radiance."
       "Take it easy, Unk,” I warned. But with a dazed look in his eyes he exclaimed:

She was dressed in silks of pink and white,
A gorgeous phantom of delight.
              Her hair of gold so sweetly flowed
              About a face that fairly glowed.

       "I was captured by her, Moose—couldn't help myself. I was in the back seat of the chariot. Mendy had sent the slave packing, and as he held taut the reins to control the snorting, stamping horses, his face beamed as Ellen alighted next to him. 'This is Ernie,' he told her, gesturing to me. As Ellen tossed her head around to greet me, fine strands of golden hair brushed lightly against my face, implanting forever her incredible scent in my mind."
       "Horse manure!"
       "Aw no, Moose, you had to be there. When she looked at me, smiled, and said, 'Hello Ernie,' I blurted out words that until then had no meaning to me: 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Beauty, thy name is Ellen.' She took the compliments well. Flicking the hair out of her eyes and flashing me an ornery grin, she said, 'You're a funny man, Ern; keep it up.' Her speech was expressive, lilting and musical, the voice of an opera singer.
       "Then the horses sped off, making speech impossible. So I sat back and watched her hair flow towards me in the breeze—a cascade of gold, resplendent in the sun. We arrived at the races, which were held in a coliseum, not what I expected at all. Instead of horse races it was a track meet. People had assembled to see who would be the 100-meter champion for that year. It was the big event in Sparka, and some people had traveled hundreds of miles to witness it.
       "I found out that they ran ten heats, and the winner of each ran for the championship. As it turned out, Moose, the runner for Sparka had pulled a hamstring, so Mendy asked me if I'd race in his place. I had been a sprinter for Wilmington High School so I told him I would. I didn't have running shoes so I rolled up my fatigues to my knees and ran in my bare feet. And, you know, I didn't have any problem—beat that bunch easily by about five meters. The weirdest thing, Moose, was that everybody ran naked. They all laughed at me for wearing clothes.
       "But the final race was harder. I had to race the best group of sprinters in the whole country. Before the race I went over to talk to Mendy and Ellen, who were sitting in the stands. They had been clapping and cheering me on. I took one of Ellen's scarves, tied it around my neck, and told her, 'I'll win this one for you, beauty.' She pulled me close, smiled, and gave me a nice kiss. So, Moose, I had to win that race no matter what."
       "I'll bet you lost it, Unk. Right?" I said, sort of dejected.
       Then I noticed that Uncle Ernest's glass was empty and, sure enough, he stood up, winked, and told me: "Sit tight. I'll be back in a jiffy." So I sat there alone, Nina, spread out on the wooden chair under our maple tree. It was shady but still hot, and as I gazed up into the array of crisscrossing limbs a breeze trembled the leaves ever so gently. And, off and on, it would intensify, shaking harder the leaves and swaying the limbs as it flowed across my body, caressing me with its coolness. [To be continued Friday, 6/01/2012]

Friday, May 25, 2012

Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond – Didie Chapter 1


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond – Didie
Chapter 1

It was one warm summer day, Nina, about mid-morning, I believe, when I was at our well, pumping water into the wooden trough, yanking away at our long pump handle. Once I got the water flowing I kept pumping to get it fresh and, ignoring the communal tin cup, I knelt down quickly with cupped hands and slurped up the cool, pure water. Several times I did it, pumped that handle hard to get a strong flow, and then jumped quickly down to collect the last surge, slurping quickly before it ran out between my fingers.
       Just then I looked to see Uncle Ernest push open the screen door and step out of the house. He was headed for the chair in the shade of our maple tree, so I ran over and sat next to him. He had arrived the night before while I was asleep. He was thinner, Nina, and his face was ashen, but he winked and said, "What's cookin', Moose the Goose?" Then he reached over and, after trying in vain to get his squirming nephew in a headlock, poked a finger in my ribs and laughed his head off as I struggled to escape. My, I was glad to see him, and when I caught my breath I asked, "Where've you been, Unk?"
       "Vacationing, Moose. Something everybody needs now and then."
       "I guess so, but, Unk, I've been thinking about that magic sub you were telling me about. You said it was taking you somewhere. Where did you end up?"
       "Which sub was that, Moose?"
       "Oh crap! The one that witch put you in. The one that was speeding you somewhere underwater."
       "OK. Now I remember. Well, I had fallen asleep, if you recall, and when I woke up the sub had surfaced next to a strange land. So I threw anchor and went ashore. I scouted around until I came across a well-managed grape arbor. And, Moose, I must have gorged a bucketful of those large purple beauties. Then, in a small alcove underneath an overhanging cliff, I found a spring. I had a nice, cool drink and then noticed something really strange. In a wooded area not far from the spring was a bearded man wearing a goofy-looking golden bathrobe. He wore scandals and crosshatched leather straps up his calves, and was seated on a bench with his lion-like head in his hands. 'Howdy, buddy!' I said, patting him on the shoulder. 'Are you all right?'
       " 'Ah, my friend,' he replied, tilting his head up to meet my gaze. 'I must tell you that everything has gone wrong for me lately.' Moose, he looked like crap, staring up at me with dark circles under tired eyes. He spoke with an accent, a language that would have been Greek to me if Didie hadn't given me special powers."
       "Who in the heck is Didie?" I asked.
       "You know, Moose, Afrodidie, the beauty who gave me the magic sub."
       "Oh, OK, Unk," I said, shaking my head.
       "Anyway, Moose, this guy stood up, gave a little bow, and said, 'I'm Mendelus, and I run this part of the country. You're in the realm of Sparka.' "
       " 'I'm Ernie, and I'm just visiting,' I told him, ignoring his bragging comment. 'What's going on that makes you feel so lousy?'
       " 'Everything! Take you the foxes, the little foxes that spoil the vines,' he said, gesturing towards his arbor. Well, I thought the guy was nuts, Moose, because when I looked over there the only thing I saw were birds flying in and out as they sucked the juice out of those giant grapes. But, wow, they did make a mess of those vines, though. Anyway, then, in a sad voice, he told me that the girl he loved didn't want to marry him, even though her father had promised her to him. 'She's the prettiest girl in the world, Ernie, and I really love her. But another problem is this awful headache I've had for a week. I can't get rid of it, can't stand it!' He sure was in a pickle, Moose, so I clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Hold on a minute, Mendy.' Then I went over, got a cup of water, and gave him a couple aspirins to take. He didn't want to swallow the 'white pebbles' as he called them, but I talked him into it and in about five minutes he was feeling great."
       " 'You're a lifesaver, Ernie,' giving me a rough bear hug, and with that he blew a blast on a trumpet and in no time two majestic, white horses pulling a chariot thundered to a stop right next to us. Mendy grabbed my hand and pulled me into the chariot with him. He told the driver, who was a slave and the 'best daggone chariot racer in the world,' to go pick up Ellen, his girlfriend. 'We'll take her to the races, Ernie,' he yelled, as those horses galloped off in a cloud of dust that made me gasp for breath.” [To be continued Tuesday, 5/29/2012]

Tuesday, May 22, 2012


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill
Chapter 6

"So, Bill, when did our canal finally get dug?"
       "You know, boy, if you'd been paying attention you'd know that it was opened for traffic in1829," he growled, pushing the poster into my hands again. "You read it once. Here, read it again for God's sake, if you can," he said, not hiding the contempt in his voice. So I read part of it again, sounding out the words slowly.
       "Huh … wow, the thing was just a ditch running through. Yeah, Bill, it says that the boats couldn't draw more than seven feet of water."
       "By God, you can read, and that's what you'll have to do to find out the particulars about it. It's all in the history books, pretty near. I'll give you some more that I know and then I need to feed Babe and the other livestock. By that time they'll be wanting you at home anyway. Now, don't you know that mostly Irishmen dug the canal? They did it all by manual labor, using mules and horses, of course. Some of the workers stayed at the Hole-in-the Wall, which was new at the time, actually the first building in Bohemia Village, the old name of our town. There was a gang of those Irish, so a priest came down to preach to them. And he was sorely needed, too, because they had a devil of a time getting the job done.
       "The swampy area at the Delaware River side caused great problems. It was almost like digging through quicksand. Much of what was dug out one day would have to be repeated the next because it would cave back in overnight. And digging through the Deep Cut at Summit was a monstrous job. Men worked constantly to cut through the upper layer of boulders and gravel. Once they got deep enough they had to deal with water-bearing sand and black, stinking clay. That stuff allowed the sides of the trench to slide in and cover what was dug. Efficient earth-moving machinery hadn't been invented, so the work had to be repeated over and over again. But they finally got it dug through, and in 1829 the water from both ends met at the Deep Cut and the canal was officially open for traffic. The 14-mile short cut required three sets of locks to raise the vessels above sea level. They were located at Chesapeake City, Saint Georges, and Delaware City. Road level pivot bridges were built, and a huge covered bridge was built high above the canal at Summit.
       "In 1919 the federal government bought out the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal Company, and by 1926 had deepened it to sea level. The rest you can see, boy, because just about the time you were born—the mid-thirties—the canal was deepened and widened again. So that now, when you swim in it, you'll be going 250 feet to make it across, and in the channel you'll be treading water with 27 feet below you."
       "You bet I'll be swimming in it, Bill, when I get old enough." Just then, Nina, I heard Granny's call resounding across the countryside. 'Baa-beeeeeee,' it rang. Then again she called, louder and even more drawn out than the first time. "Bye, Bill," I said, jumping off the steps. Bill grunted something that I didn't hear because I ran out his lane, down the black-topped road, and up my long lane to the house. About half-way up the lane I heard Bill calling Babe, so I knew he would be feeding his animals and doing whatever chores that were needed. So, Nina, that ended the longest time I ever spent with Bill. Oh, I would talk with him often in the years to come, but never again would I get such an elaborate history lesson.
       What happened to Uncle Ernest? I thought you'd be asking that, Nina. I told you before that he had to go away for a long time. I heard Mom telling someone that they sent him away so he could get better. So for a good part of that summer I just moped around. I went down to see Bill a few times and watched him and his brother, Doc, till the fields with Babe. Pop took me fishing at the Burnt House once or twice. And I played on the farm, catching frogs and digging crayfish in the streams of our woods. But later on that summer Uncle Ernest would visit again, and he would continue his crazy stories of adventure.  [To be continued Friday, 5/25/2012]

Friday, May 18, 2012

Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill Chapter 5


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill
Chapter 5

Then, Nina, that old Bill started rummaging around in his box of junk, so I ran over to the fence to watch Babe as she grazed. She had a buzzing flock of flies and gnats pestering her, and all of a sudden a black horse fly about two inches long and as thick as a man's thumb landed on her shank. Babe kept grazing but quivered and rippled her skin just where that ugly fly was. The shiver didn't do any good so she swished her tail with a quick slash and knocked the bugger off. He wasn't fazed though, because he landed on her again, forward, just out of the tail's reach. Babe shivered again and again and stamped her hooves hard a few times—no good. That thing had dug in, clung tight, and buried its head into Babe's hide. So I slid under the fence rail, ran over, and smacked the sucker as hard as I could. Babe jumped and moved ahead a little, and I saw the smashed fly embedded into her side. Then I looked at my hand. The palm was sopped with rich, bright blood—sticky and glistening in the sun—an oozing mess extending even in between my fingers.
"Come away from that horse now, boy, and get over here," Bill shouted, so I ran on over to his pump trough, washed off the mess, dried my hands in the grass, and sat down next to Bill again. "Think of the craftsmanship it took to build this arch, boy," he said, showing me the photo. "Why, she'll be there till doomsday. But, you know, they stopped building those arches, even though they had hundreds of stones that they got from the quarry and dressed them for use. They ended up using the stones to build the iron railroad bridge over the Big Elk Creek in 1876."
"But what happened to the old feeder canal?"
"Well, they ran out of money, and there was still a lot of bellyaching about where to locate the main canal. But they did run water into the feeder and test it with some small barges. The feeder went from the Elk Mills forge to an area about a mile west of Glasgow, to the reservoir I told you about earlier. The feeder actually passed within two miles of Elkton. Parts of it can still be seen near the Maryland-Delaware line, on both sides of Old Baltimore Pike. Now, Boy, the real reason why that whole project didn't work is this. This is what an old timer told me about it when I was a young'n about your age. This is the real story that most people have never heard.
       "They dug that feeder with shovels, picks, and scoops. Most of the workers were Irishmen—good workers but a hard, rowdy tribe. The feeder was pretty near completed when this incident took place, and this happening killed the feeder scheme for good. There was an ugly riot between the Irish laborers and some colored men in the area. And, boy, they started killing each other. Several lives were lost—colored and Irish."
       "Geez, Bill, right here in Cecil County? How did it happen?"
       "Well, boy, the villain was whiskey, mostly. The men were gulping it down like water that day. Some merchants had a license to sell the booze that day when the workers were off, probably on a Sunday. Horse racing was as popular then as it is now, but it was not such a big deal—just a few horses galloping around a dirt track and men wagering on them. Anyhow, the track was in a field near Gilpin Bridge, southwest of the Big Elk River, and a lot of the Irish who were digging the feeder were there—drinking and betting on the horses. Well, a colored man was there, and he was running a gambling game called treeket the loop."
       "What the heck is that, Bill?" I said, swatting at a cattle fly that was buzzing around my head. "Did you ever play the game?"
       "Nonsense, boy, do you want to hear what happened, or should I send you home so I can get some work done around here?"
       "Aw, tell me about the riot," I whined
       "Now, treeket the loop was a game of chance that the colored man ran to make himself some money. He drove a stake in the ground in the center of a small pit that was about a foot and a half in diameter. The colored man put a nickel on top of the stake, and the person playing the game would stand several yards away and try to knock the coin off with a small club. If he knocked it off and out of the pit he got to keep it. But if he missed the stake or if the coin fell into the pit—which happened almost all the time—he had to give the colored man a nickel."
       "Could we try doing that sometime, Bill? I mean, just for fun?"
       "Hush!" Bill hissed, spitting juice off to the side with contempt. "One of the Irishmen, all liquored up, began playing the game, and for some reason a heated argument started. Then a fistfight broke out and the colored man killed the Irishman—fractured his skull. That started the riot. The Irish went after the colored men who were at the racetrack—beating them up, trying to kill them for revenge. The Irishmen chased them back to Elkton, where they killed several colored people. The riot lasted for a good while, until a respected doctor named Evans was somehow able to control the furious Irishmen."
       "Golly, Elkton has been pretty quiet ever since. Most of the good fights happen in the Hole-in-the-Wall, right here in Chesapeake City."
       "That's right, boy, but we don't have the killing that took place that day in 1803. That riot, as well as financial problems, ended the attempt to dig a canal from Welsh's Point to the Christina River." [To be continued Tuesday, 5/22/2012]

Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill Chapter 5


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill
Chapter 5

Then, Nina, that old Bill started rummaging around in his box of junk, so I ran over to the fence to watch Babe as she grazed. She had a buzzing flock of flies and gnats pestering her, and all of a sudden a black horse fly about two inches long and as thick as a man's thumb landed on her shank. Babe kept grazing but quivered and rippled her skin just where that ugly fly was. The shiver didn't do any good so she swished her tail with a quick slash and knocked the bugger off. He wasn't fazed though, because he landed on her again, forward, just out of the tail's reach. Babe shivered again and again and stamped her hooves hard a few times—no good. That thing had dug in, clung tight, and buried its head into Babe's hide. So I slid under the fence rail, ran over, and smacked the sucker as hard as I could. Babe jumped and moved ahead a little, and I saw the smashed fly embedded into her side. Then I looked at my hand. The palm was sopped with rich, bright blood—sticky and glistening in the sun—an oozing mess extending even in between my fingers.
"Come away from that horse now, boy, and get over here," Bill shouted, so I ran on over to his pump trough, washed off the mess, dried my hands in the grass, and sat down next to Bill again. "Think of the craftsmanship it took to build this arch, boy," he said, showing me the photo. "Why, she'll be there till doomsday. But, you know, they stopped building those arches, even though they had hundreds of stones that they got from the quarry and dressed them for use. They ended up using the stones to build the iron railroad bridge over the Big Elk Creek in 1876."
"But what happened to the old feeder canal?"
"Well, they ran out of money, and there was still a lot of bellyaching about where to locate the main canal. But they did run water into the feeder and test it with some small barges. The feeder went from the Elk Mills forge to an area about a mile west of Glasgow, to the reservoir I 

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill Chapter 4


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill
Chapter 4

And then, Nina, the calm was broken by a shrill whinny. Over at the fence stood Bill's mare, with her shoulders up against the top rail and her head thrust towards us as far as it would stretch. "Ho there, Babe," Bill called out." Babe's ears twitched and she whinnied louder, sputtering her lips in a razz, as kids do for scorn but horses do for fun. While Bill limped over to his orchard for an apple, I scratched the white patch on her forehead, patted her broad, flat cheeks, and ran my hands up and down between her ears, which twitched and rolled—collapsing in response to my touch.
       "Here, boy," Bill said, handing me an apple. Holding it in my flat palm, I offered it to Babe, who enveloped it with groping, rubbery lips, which tickled the daylights out of my hand until she finally lifted it, exposing large, yellowed teeth that scraped my fingers in the process.
       "Do you give her sugar cubes sometimes too, Bill?" I asked.
       "Never give a horse sugar, boy; it makes 'em go blind."
       "Well, I sure wouldn't want a blind horse. But don't they put blinders on horses anyway? How come?"
        "Course they put 'em on horses that frighten easily, young ones especially. Blinders keep the animal looking straight ahead. They ought to put them on some people I know. You know, boy, most people don't know why they build covered bridges. You've seen pictures of the enormous one that spanned the canal at Summit haven't you?"
       "Yeah, oh sure, and I think I know why they built them. They protect the people and the roadbed from rain and snow and stuff."
       "Now boy," Bill said, one-eyeing me as only he could do, "that's partly right, but I thought you'd see the main reason, which is to keep animals from spooking when they crossed over that water."
       "All right, Bill, OK. They were big horse blinders!"
     So, Nina, after the fun with Babe, we went back and sat down again on the weathered boards of his porch steps, next to his box of old maps and other junk. "How come they dug the canal through Chesapeake City, Bill? Was that the shortest route?"
       "Well Booyeee, Bill drawled, slicing off another chunk of tobacco from his plug and spitting the used-up glob over in the grass."It pretty near didn't get dug here. The politicians fought like bandy roosters over where to put the thing. They all wanted the money it would bring, don't you see. But some people didn't want it at all. People from Pennsylvania—Philly especially—pushed the canal idea pretty hard. The bigwigs and rich birds knew about the timber and other resources all along the Susquehanna River. The canal would make possible a total water route from Western Pennsylvania to Philly, a town that was growing like wild fire. And, sure enough, during the 1800s the trade from the Susquehanna and the success of the canal company went hand in hand."
       "But, Bill," I said, "didn't the people in Chesapeake City want a canal too?"
       "What people, boy?" Bill asked, punctuating his question with a juicy squirt of tobacco into the grass. "The canal brought the people—built the town. There were only two buildings here in 1800—the tavern, which is now Bill Herriot's hotel and the Bristow House, which is now across from Ralph Bungard's store. And, Boy, there were damned few roads. They were more like cart paths, no roadbed at all—full of muddy potholes after a rain. Why, the wagons would sink in up to their axles, and you'd spend half a day digging 'em out. The first cart road was built by Augustine Herman from here to the Delaware River."
       "You mean our road here, Bill, Saint Augustine Road?"
       "That's right. It was called 'Manor Road' for a while, and after that 'Old Man's Trail,' meaning old man Herman's cart path."
       "Was he your grandfather or somethin', Bill?"
       "Oh, we're related all right but, my God, boy, that was way back in the late 1600s."
       "I got it, Bill. But, tell me, why did it take 'em so long to dig that short cut?"
       "Because Delaware and Maryland dragged their feet on it; they didn't want Philly to get one up on them. But they finally came to their senses and saw the value. The Baltimore port needed the canal especially, so vessels could have a quicker and safer route to the Atlantic Ocean than the Chesapeake Bay. So, boy, finally just about everybody supported the short cut. Why shoot, boy, anybody with a brain in his head knew a canal was important. Even the first European settlers in the area—the Swedes in the Delaware Valley and the Dutch along the Delaware River—wanted an all water route for trade with Northern Virginia and Maryland. Suppose they had a lot of goods to haul from Philly to Baltimore or Washington. How would they do it, short of sailing all the way around Cape Charles?"
       "Horses and wagons, Bill," I answered, "just the way you do when you take me to a sale with you. You hook Babe up to the wagon and bring home what you need." He had been fairly patient with me up to a point, but when I said that he cut loose. Stomping his good foot on the splintered, rickety steps, he glared at me for a long time, so I just hung my head and hummed."
       "Boy, your brain is about as good as the sorry politicians around here. The pack of them isn't worth the powder it would take to blow them to hell. You know there weren't any decent roads for a horse and buggy, let alone wagonloads of goods. Here's what they had to do, boy. Now let it sink in that hard head of yours. The merchants would hire haulers who would transport their goods somewhere across the narrow neck of the Delmarva Peninsula, say between Saint Georges Creek and Back Creek. The sloops would go as far as they could through the creek, and then the men would load the goods on a big sled drawn by a team of oxen. Another big sled and team would carry the sloop to the other creek to where it was deep enough to float. Then they'd reload the goods and away they'd sail."
       "Is a sloop a type of barge, Bill?"
       "It's like a big canoe, boy, with a single mast. Some of them weighed thirty tons. It got the job done all right, but the whole process was a muddy, sloppy mess for sure, so you can see why the merchants wanted a canal so badly. They all got a belly-full of that nonsense. Why, boy, before the commerce made possible by the canal, this was a nothing town, just a tiny shipping terminal called Bohemia Village. In the late 1700s and very early 1800s there were only eight houses, a gristmill, and a tanning yard. A company called the Old Dominion Line from Baltimore and other southern ports unloaded their vessels here. The roads were still terrible so they would load their cargoes on large wagons with huge wheels and lug them to Port Penn where they'd load their boats bound for northern ports.
       "So, as I told you, everybody eventually supported the digging of the canal. But it wasn't until the 1760s that someone pushed hard to get the job started. The guy's name was Thomas Gilpin of Pennsylvania. He helped convince everybody that here—the upper Delmarva Peninsula- was the natural place to cut 'er through. Look at it, boy," Bill emphasized, waving his finger across the area on the map. "It's a short distance; it's fairly flat except for the deep cut at Summit here, which is only eighty feet or so above sea level. And look at these streams that run towards each other from the Chesapeake Bay to the Delaware Bay."
       "So why the problem, Bill? Even you and I can see the best place to dig 'er through; right here from Broad Creek to Saint Georges Creek," I said, tracing my finger across the map.
       "Money was the problem, boy, money. Everybody had his ax to grind. For instance, Thomas Gilpin and his family owned a bunch of land down here, at the head of the Chester River, so he wanted the canal to run from there to Duck Creek in Delaware. Notice how much more digging would have to be done this far south? But Gilpin wasn't dead set on this particular route because he was responsible for the surveying of several others. He also pushed the canal idea in all kinds of other ways: submitting numerous newspaper ads and articles, pestering the politicians, and getting the American Philosophical Society on his side. All kinds of surveys, studies, and estimates were done.
       "Look at all of the different routes, boy. Now, pay attention," Bill demanded, shifting his weight as he pointed out each proposed route from left to right across the map. "Here at the head of the Sassafras River, east of Georgetown, was one; it was to go up to Appoquinimink Creek, near Cantwell's Bridge. Another was to run from the Bohemia River, here at the Maryland-Delaware line, over to Appoquinimink Creek. And another, starting all the way up here at Frenchtown on the Elk River and running across to Hamburg on the Delaware River. Still another was to begin at the head of the Elk near Elkton and go northeast up next to Christina Bridge on the Christina River."
       "Geez, Bill," I said, "these all seem dumb to me, a lot more digging."
       "That's right, boy, but look at the route they actually started digging; talk about being dumb. In 1799 the Maryland legislature finally passed a law incorporating the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal Company. Pennsylvania and Delaware soon followed suit and in 1803 they started selling stock to raise money. The company hired a guy named Latrobe to do the surveying, decide where to put the canal, and start digging. He had to put up with all kinds of bickering and nonsense. He almost quit because of all the selfish buggers. But he kept at it until finally they decided where to dig the thing.
       "The plan was to start here, at Welsh's Point where Back Creek branches off from the Elk River, and dig towards the northeast to the Delaware line a little northwest of Glasgow, then east to Bear, and then north all the way to the Christina River, almost to Wilmington."
       "That's really stupid, Bill. A big waste of time and money."
       "Course it was, but they thought they had it figured out. You see, they were going to run a feeder canal, or a branch ditch, from the Big Elk Creek at the Elk Forge Company, where Elk Mills is now. The upper Elk area was high and had enough water, they thought, to supply the main canal at the highest level to fill the locks so the vessels could come through. The feeder was to flow southeast and empty into a huge reservoir near Glasgow. The reservoir was to cover about a hundred acres. They figured they'd always have plenty of water from it to lock in the vessels."
       "Do you mean they were going to dig a branch canal before they dug the main canal?"
       "That's right; don't you listen, boy?" The canal company bought the water rights from the forge company and the land rights from people along the way and started digging in May of 1804. They had plans to build fourteen locks along the way to get the vessels through."
       "Geez, that's an awful lot of locks."
       "Aw, that's nothing, boy; in England on one canal those limeys have 180 some locks. Why, shoot, by the time you took your boat through you'd be too tired to eat, even if the queen herself invited you up to the palace for dinner."
       "Who would want to eat with a queen anyway, Bill. You'd have to dress up like church-time and wear shoes and all."
"Hush up, boy. If you go to Elk Mills even now you can see the arches they built above the streams. There's one large one there that had a road across it at one time."
[To be continued Friday, 5/18/2012]

Friday, May 11, 2012


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill
Chapter 3

"Things sure were different then, Bill; the canal runs right up Broad Creek and all the way to the Delaware River, and there's no dam near Bethel."
"You can't dam the canal, boy. Those tankers that steam through here might not like it. They'd be damned impolite about it," Bill said in that iron-hard voice, not smiling at all.
"All right then, where else could those Indians have paddled?" I asked, pointing to the Basin area on the map.
"Well, they'd go west, past Borger's Wharf. They'd pass Rees' Wharf and glide through the area over which Long Bridge would be constructed. Farther still, they'd pass by Herriot's Hotel, close to where the Showboat was to tie up. Close to that was the warehouse where farmers would store their wheat for the bugeyes to load and transport. Paddling on, they'd pass on the right the area where the locks would be placed, and next to the locks was where Joseph Schaefer would build his store."
"Hold on, Bill. Is that where you can buy the good crab cakes?"
"That's right, boy. Joe started selling crab cakes to folks across his fence. Then he built the store right on Back Creek and put up a sign that read: 'Joseph Schaefer, Sr. Ship Chandlery and Grocery Store.' The stuff he sold back then was good, and a bargain, too. Now, if you go there for food you have to have more money than brains."
"Right, Bill, but where would those Indians go next?"
"Why, they'd keep paddling west, and on Back Creek's south side, across from Schaefer's, they'd pass the area where timbermen would store their logs before they shoved them through the locks on their way east. The logs came in the form of big rafts from Pennsylvania, down the Susquehanna River, and they had to be broken apart so they'd fit through the locks, which were only 22 feet wide. Anyhow, next to that area there on the South Side was Diebert's Dry Dock, where the murder took place."
"What murder, Bill? Tell me about it."
"It happened long before you were born, and maybe I'll tell you about it sometime, when you've grown a bit. But look here, boy, at this map again." He said, still tracing it with his knifepoint. "Those Indians keep heading west on Back Creek, past Titter's farm where the suicide would take place, past where the Chesapeake Boat Company would be laid out, past where the Burnt House swimming spot would be, and farther down on the right where the Southern Transportation Company would be established on Long Creek. It would go on to build wooden barges that could just fit through the locks, barges that mules—and later steam tugs—would pull through the canal. That shipyard employed many men from this town, including your uncles, Clarence and Warren Truss.
"Now, those Indians could have paddled up Long Creek too, because the hunting and trapping were so good. There were plenty of deer, ducks, beaver, and muskrats in that area at that time. All kinds of eagles, hawks, and other fish-eating birds nested there also. Long Creek runs north east for a short spell and then swings east and runs far into Delaware before dying out."
"Did the Indians stop there, Bill?"
"Nope," Bill answered, cutting himself another chaw. "They kept heading west, swerving far to the right away from Sandy Point, the spot where John Randall built a long wharf and placed a huge coal oil light to warn pilots."
"Who in the world was John Randall?"
"Why, I'm surprised your father didn't tell you about him. For a while he was the chief engineer in charge of digging the canal; he was the one who dug the Erie Canal. He thought an awful lot of himself for sure, because he bought a vast area of land along Back Creek and Herring Creek and named it after himself, Randalia. Boy, he would sue anybody who disagreed with him—and he'd win, too. See, he expected the locks would be built near Sandy Point, and if he owned all of the land he'd stand to make a fortune."
"OK, but where would the Indians have paddled next? Would they have gone past Welsh's Point and out into the Elk River?"
"Indians are territorial, like lions. They would not have wanted anything to do with the Elk River or Chesapeake Bay tribes. But they controlled Herring Island and congregated there, don't you know."
"Herring Island? Where's that?"
"Before my time it was called 'Fish Island,' and here's how you get there if you're headed west out of Back Creek. At Welch's Point you turn left, across to the mouth of Herring Creek, and it's right there, pretty close to the shore. Boy, I mind the time when I was a youngster—not much older than you—when I used to row to that island and swim and fish all around it. It's getting smaller and smaller by the way. The heavy shipping traffic through Back Creek is eating it away. And when the Indians were there it was much bigger. Different tribes controlled the island through the years until about 1600 AD. Why, I found all kinds of Indian stuff when I dived around there as a boy. I don't have an idea where they are now, but I toted home lots of Indian pottery of all sizes."
"What else did you find, Bill? Any spears or arrowheads?"
"Course I did, boy. Those Redskins used the ironstone on Herring Island to make their tools and weapons. See for yourself," he said, opening the lid of a small wooden box.
"Geez!" I said, fingering them, "These are great!"
"Certainly," he grunted. Herring Island was the main source of ironstone in this whole area. And the Indians in our general area were mostly branches of the Iroquois tribe. The ones along the Susquehanna River were Susquehannocks, and they were big, about seven feet tall, and as strong as oxen. Northeast of us, near Iron Hill, Delaware, was a quarry of jasper, a hard, red rock that the Leni Lenape Indians used to make their weapons and tools."
"Well, Bill," I said, tired of his boring lecture, "what were the Indians called who lived where we are, along Back Creek?"
"Now, boy, nobody knows, exactly, what they called themselves, so you can call them Backcreekanocks if you want to." Bill tapped his knifepoint on the map at the mouth of Back Creek, opposite Welsh's Point. "Come to think of it," he said, as he tapped in thought, "those birds may have paddled across here to Herring Island to spear the fish and maybe dig up some clams around the island. Then they could have gone up Herring Creek. It's full of wildlife and winds almost all the way back to Chesapeake City, don't you know."
"So they stayed pretty much in our Chesapeake City area?" I asked, circling my finger around the section on the map."
"You got it, boy. They hunted, fished, and tended their crops right here, where Broad Creek branched off Back Creek, near where the Corps is now. They harvested the marine life from the east, the end of Broad Creek at Bethel, to the west at Welsh's Point." Making it clear, Bill waved that dirty, worn knife back and forth across the map, from the east at Turner's Mill—which is now Bethel Cemetery—to the west at Welsh's Point, the entrance to the Canal.  [To be continued Tuesday, 5/15/2012]

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill Chapter 2


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill
Chapter 2

"What was it like around here, Bill, before the canal was dug?"
"Boy, I'm not that old, but old timers in my day told me about it, and I've got the old maps. But don't you know there were Indians all around here before the English came? They camped along Back Creek and Broad Creek; they fished, hunted, and even planted crops all around. Here," he said, searching around in the bottom of the box until he found and placed in my hand the neatest arrowhead I'd ever seen. "And look at this," he said, turning his head to release another tobacco spurt. "See how they made their canoes; they'd fell a big tree, cut 'er to size, and burn out the middle." The sketch showed Indians burning out the center of a log. "Why, they paddled those things up and down Back Creek and Broad Creek, spearing fish, catching crabs, snaring ducks, and gigging snapping turtles."
Bill then unrolled a tattered map and traced with his knifepoint along where they used to travel. "Now, if you take this point on the map, where the old Hudson Farm was and where they probably had some teepees, you can see where they could paddle. They could go southeast along this Back Creek stream till they got to where the Back Creek Millpond is now, and they could keep going till it petered out up here into Delaware.
       "If they went west, towards the bay, they'd paddle through this swampy area here, which we now call the Basin. The Corps of Engineers dredged it out in the thirties so they'd have a place to moor their barges and tugs and other crafts. See here," he said, tapping the spot with his knife blade, "this is where the Pump House is now and here across the stream is where James Adams would build his house. He owned the Floating Theater, don't you know."
"What's a floating theater?" I asked and right away I was sorry I did, for he glared at me in disgust for a few seconds with that one eye. Then he shook his head and said that talking to me was like talking to that fence post over there. "Where else could they paddle, Bill?" I asked, imagining those canoes cutting swiftly through the water.
"Well boy, you can see that from this point they had three choices. They could swing south and head up this stream here, Wolf Creek. It would have been wider and deeper in those days. They'd paddle on past what's now Bohemia Avenue, past what was once the town dump, past the Arley Hague's Spa Springs Bottling Company, over what is now Saint Augustine Road, and pull their canoes up on the grass and bed of leaves of what was once a grand spa. And, boy, the Indians would have enjoyed this wonderful spot as much as the townspeople of Bohemia Village would have in later years. When I was your age folks called it the Campgrounds."
"Well, ah, what's so special about that place, Bill? There's nothing now but a big old white house on a bank and some other houses. I ride past it all the time on my bike."
"It was the grandest spot in the whole area, boy," he said, and his normally scornful eye seemed to gleam with remembrance of something special, as he lost for a moment his natural cynicism. "Even in the hottest, most humid time of the summer it was always cool there, boy. Dozens of giant oak trees spread high above the area and swayed with the breeze high overhead. But most enjoyable were the unspoiled mineral springs that spotted the grounds. Families from all around would picnic there on evenings and weekends. They would fill their pitchers full of the delicious, cool spring water and have a fine time."
"Did the Indians fill their pitchers too, Bill?" This broke his trance, for he spat a brown stream of juice over his shoulder, pursed his toothless mouth and glared at me, causing me to hang my head and swing my feet back and forth under the bench.
"Fool!" he snarled finally, dropping his head to make slurping sounds. "They knelt down and lapped it up like dogs. You see too many picture shows, boy. Indians were Stone Age; they couldn't even distill alcohol, and they didn't even have the wheel, don't you know."
"They smoked pipes didn't they … peace pipes, that is," I added.
"Course they did, boy, and they taught the White Man to smoke—heap big. Nowadays smoking is as common as breathing. Even women are starting it now."
"But you chew tobacco, Bill. Did the Indians chew?"
"Certainly, Boy, they weren't totally ignorant. Now, look back at this map, here at Back Creek by the Adams' house. Notice this broad stream branching north east off Back Creek, and notice that it runs east and narrows before it reaches what is now the Methodist Church and cemetery at Bethel. Well, it's another place the Indians could have paddled if they wanted to, and I'm sure they did because large white perch were plentiful there when I was a boy.
“I used to ice skate there for hours with other youngsters from town. We'd race, play hockey, and build enormous bonfires to warm our toes. The smell of smoke would fill the air, and the entire area was aglow with golden light. The Indians would not have paddled too far up Broad Creek, for after passing the area which later would become Turner's Mill, at the pond near Bethel, they would hit shallow water where the creek meandered into Delaware and eventually disappeared, leaving nothing but marshland."  [To be continued Friday, 5/11/2012]

Friday, May 4, 2012


Times of Uncle Ernest -
Chesapeake City and Beyond
Chapter 5 - Bill

I was one lonely boy, Nina, without old Uncle Ernest and his antics to break up the monotony. Oh, I had the wonders and beauties of nature—life on our quiet farm of the early forties—and I had Wiggsey to play with. But that wasn't enough, Nina. So, often, I would visit Bill Herman, an old man who lived across the road. I didn't think someone 91 years old could remember so much about the history of our old town, Chesapeake City. But I was wrong. Whenever I went down there he would eventually get around to filling my head with stories about the town, with its bridges, its steamers, its locks, its buildings, its people, and its canal. He spoke especially about the canal, that winding band of swiftly-moving water that split our town in half, that ever-expanding ditch with a life all its own.
One day I saw him in his yard, so I ran barefoot down our dirt lane, up a couple hundred feet of rough, hot blacktop, and into his orchard. It was late summer, and he stood there—tall, erect—and peered down his beak nose at me. Peered, I say, if you can peer with only one eye, for that's all he had, his sightless eye sunken under ravaged, brown-wrinkled skin. "Well boooooyeeeee!" he said, extending the syllable with a high-rising pitch and turning his head to spit a brown stream of tobacco juice, "Come sit down here." He had a large apple, and before moving he cut it into quarters, pared away some of the worm holes, and sticking a piece on the tip of his tobacco-smeared knife shoved it my way with a grunt.
"Booyee, you know I'm a carpenter don't you?"
"Sure."
"I set the keel in the Maine—finest piece of timber I could find. She was a fine ship, too, till those skunks blew 'er up."
"What's a Maine," I asked, trying to figure out what he was talking about.
"My God, there's no sense even talking to you. Don't they teach you anything at all?"
"Bill, you know about boats and rivers and stuff. Could you tell me how come we have a creek running through the middle of our town?"
"The thing's a canal boy," he said shaking his head. "And it wasn't there at all before 1824. That's when they first started messin' with it anyway. The Chesapeake and Delaware Canal Company finally got 'er dug and open for business in 1829. Before that, if you wanted to visit a relative in Philadelphia you had to walk to Frenchtown, catch a coach to Newcastle, and steam up the Delaware River on a side-wheeler. Not only that, boy, but the canal meant more money for merchants and other businessmen. Before the canal was dug, if a Philadelphia manufacturer wanted to transport products to a buyer in Baltimore, he'd have to ship them down the Delaware River, around Cape Charles, and up the Chesapeake Bay, a distance of 392 nautical miles. But Philadelphia to Baltimore through the canal was only 98 nautical miles. And using the canal he wouldn't have to worry about the rough seas of the Delaware and Chesapeake bays, especially around the cape. Time is money, boy, and time is important in war, too. Didn't they teach you how the Union soldiers steamed through our canal to save the Capitol during the Civil War?"
"Nope," I said, hoping he'd stop bringing up the school business.
"God Almighty! Lord help this country," he growled, as he cut a black chunk from his tobacco plug and stuck it in his mouth with his knife hand. "Hold on here, boy," he said as he limped into his house. In a couple of minutes he came out carrying a large box of pictures and papers. He set it down, rummaged through it, and pulled out a weathered poster. "This is the broadside I found stuck on the Herriot Hotel wall." I read the poster, Nina, which told in fancy print that the canal was officially open and that the locks were 100 feet long and 22 feet wide. It also advertised that the new canal was the cheapest and safest route between the two bays.
"So they finished digging it in 1829. Man, that's a long time ago, Bill."
"That's right, boy. It was nothing but a shallow ditch back then.”   [To be continued Tuesday, 5/08/2012]