Historic Photos of North Chesapeake City

Historic Photos of North Chesapeake City

1830 sketch of Back Creek & canal – note Back Creek at East end, no Basin at that time but Back Creek was marshy and much wider.

Very old photo (1840?) of the lock and Back Creek – looking west. Note lack of trees, just bare ground. Joseph Schaefer’s ships’ chandlery was to be at the area at top right.

Steam tug, Startle, headed East through High Bridge – North Side at right. It was the most active tug servicing the Chesapeake City segment of the canal.

Steamboat Days on the C&D Canal

Steamboat Days on the C&D Canal

The General I. J. Wister, a wooden, steam-powered tug owned by the Back Creek Towing Co. Inset: Capt. Jacob Isaac Truss, master of the Wister.

The Startle, emerging from the Chesapeake City lock with a schooner in tow. Note Masonic Hall in distance, circa 1910. Inset left: The steam whistle off the Startle, courtesy of Harold Lee.  Inset right: Capt. Ed Sheridan, master of any craft on the water.

The Lord Baltimore, the most popular day boat of Ericsson Line fleet.  Inset: John Sager, about the age when he sailed on the steamer to Baltimore.

It was the mistake of my life that I was born too late to have enjoyed the escapades aboard the various steamboats that puffed their way through Chesapeake City’s canal. But I’ve been blessed over the last several years by being able to talk with folks who were born early enough to remember the glory of those extraordinary times. I do recall seeing the old Wilson Liners, and even sailed aboard the City of Wilmington on its voyage to the great Riverview Amusement Park on the Jersey side of the bay. I also talked with Jim Peaper, who ran a concession stand aboard the Wilson Line steamer, Mount Vernon. Edna, Jim’s widow, remembered putting her three-year-old daughter, Susan, up on a table so she could sing for the admiring passengers.

But I like to think that living during the earlier days of the steam vessels—the days of the tugs and Ericsson Liners—would have been even more delightful. With this in mind, let me take you back to those days via the memories of those chosen ones who talked with sparking eyes as they relived in words those youthful, enthusiastic times. And, by the way, hand over your TV remote and iPhone. I promise to return them after the steamboats glide by, trailing their pitch-black smoke, phantom-like, in the distance . . . until the air clears and returns us to the sanitized year of 2013.

“My father was master of the steamboats.” That’s what my grandmother used to exclaim with pride when I was a boy in the forties. She told about Capt. Jacob Truss, pilot of the General D. J. Wister, one of five wooden tugboats powered by steam. The tugs worked the waters of the Chesapeake and Delaware bays and their tributaries. My grandmother told me that Capt. Truss sometimes saw Civil War battles in the distance when he steamed along on the Potomac River. Capt. Ed Sheridan explained further: “My great-grandfather, Capt. Jacob Truss, moved to Chesapeake City in 1852 when he was 18 years old. He became captain of the old side-wheel tug boats, towing barges down the bay, then up the Potomac River. It was while he was going up the Potomac toward the end of the Civil War that he had a four-legged stool shot out from under him.”

          The most popular and most recently-seen steam tug in the canal was the Startle, which can be identified by a statue of a horse on the bow. Capt. Stanley Benson was its pilot, Nobe Benson its engineer, Groom Benson its fireman, and John Sager its cook and deck hand. I believe it was the Startle that was pulling a barge through the canal when the barge sank.  John Loveless remembered: “The barge was loaded with a 65-foot whale, weighing 75 tons. They had the whale’s mouth propped open, which was about eight feet long, and inside the whale they had laid a floor with a carpet, a small table, and four chairs. When the barge sank, the whale was loaded onto another barge and taken to Tolchester and displayed for sightseers. After that it was made into fertilizer.”

          The other very popular steam vessels were the ones in the Ericsson Line fleet. Capt. Ed Sheridan remembered them well. He explained: “The route to Philly is the same that was taken by the Lord Baltimore and the Penn, which have long since been turned into scrap. Those steamers used to make stops in Chesapeake City when the lock was operating, before 1927. When I was a boy I used to go to the lock at noontime to meet the two steamboats as they stopped on their way to Philadelphia and Baltimore. There were dining rooms for their use on both boats. A pianist and often a band played waltzes and fox trots for dancing during the trip.”

          Other residents who were lucky enough to have sailed on those luxury liners remembered: John Sager: “I remember riding from here to Baltimore on the Lord Baltimore. I went with my mother; we boarded just below the Pivot Bridge, near the Pumping Station, at the Ericsson Line Wharf on the North Side. I recall how much smoke those steamers put out, and how narrow they were—about 20 feet wide. Sometimes we'd sail on the day boats and sometimes on the night boats. If we were going down at night we'd get on in the evening at 8 or 9 o'clock. We went to see my aunts in South Baltimore and stayed about a week before returning on another steamer. The steamboat docked at Pratt and Light Streets, in the last berth up in the harbor. At the stern of the Ericsson Line Berth was an area where the banana boats used to come in from South America. They were boarded-up high. I remember that if you wanted to be brave you could go down and throw a pack of cigarettes up there and they'd throw down all the bananas you wanted.”

Bill Briscoe: “When I was a kid we owned the farm that went right down to Hollywood Beach. I remember when the Ericsson Line steamers used to stop at the Town Point Wharf. In fact, we used to ship tomatoes from that wharf. Yes, I watched those steamers run up and down the river. We used to go to Philadelphia on the Night Boat. We'd board at the wharf in Chesapeake City at 10:30 and get to Philly real early in the morning. I wasn't tired when we got there because we always got a berth.” Bob Nichol: “I used to ride up on the Chesapeake City lift bridge. On Saturday evenings the steamer, John Cadwalader, would pass under and many people would sometimes ride up so they could look down on it and all of the passengers aboard. Sometimes there would be so many people on the bridge that the tender would come out and chase some of them off. Two of the bridge tenders were Friday Rhodes and George Knott, the boss. They didn’t care if we rode the bridge.”

          Edna Gorman: “I still remember when the steamers stopped at the Ericsson Line Building to load and unload freight and a few passengers. I remember when they closed the lock. I used to swim down there. I never rode the boats, but in the evenings I used to go down there and watch them. The smoke used to just pour out of them.” John Reynolds: “I remember the steamer, John Cadwalader. My grandmother and aunts used to come up from Baltimore on those steamboats. They'd get off at Schaefer's in the morning to visit us, and then get back on board in the evening to return. I never rode the boats, but I used to ride up on the old Lift Bridge and look down on them as they passed under. That was in 1934 or 1935.”

Walter Cooling: “I recall the steamboats that used to come through here. As a kid I used to jump off them into Back Creek. You see, we kids used to swim off the V, which was a wharf area at the entrance to the Chesapeake City Lock. The lock was next to Schaefer's old store. Well, if we saw the Penn or the Lord Baltimore in the lock, ready to drop into Back Creek, we would run up there, climb aboard, ride it a short distance, and then dive off into the water. Nobody on the boats ever objected.” Lucy Titter: “Miriam Watson told me that when she and Helen Titter were teenagers they rode with Mrs. Titter to Philadelphia on the steamer, Penn. Miriam recalls getting a bloody nose when the upper bunk collapsed onto Mrs. Titter, who was sleeping below.”

The steam vessels are gone, as are the locks, the lift bridges, and the pivot bridges. The canal is now a 450-foot wide, sea-level waterway. But older residents whom I talked with took great pleasure in reminiscing about the lost days of the steamboats.

Return of the Chesapeake City Snakeheads

Return of the Chesapeake City Snakeheads

Mules ready to pull schooner through lock. Inset: Harry “Hat” Borger, one of the last mule drivers to work the canal’s towpath

Lift bridge that connected George St. with Lock St. Note Rio Theater at left and part of Shine’s Gulf service station at right. Inset: Kaky and Shine Crawford.

Early, wooden pilot boat alongside of tanker to exchange pilots. Note pilot climbing ladder to assume command, circa 1943. Inset L: Marty Poore, one of the operators of the early pilot boats. Inset R: John Schaefer, owner and principal operator.

I’ve been concerned recently about a report describing an undesirable creature called the snakehead fish. It seems that they have been seen and sometimes caught in certain streams and ponds on the East Coast. They were brought here from another country and have the potential for rapid reproduction and thus could threaten the native fish. They are especially resilient, even having the ability to navigate on land with their flippers. These facts are upsetting because they remind me of a story told to me by my reliable Uncle Ernest when I was nine years old. Apparently these resourceful snakeheads have returned and again could cause big problems. That’s right; I said “returned,” because back in the early 1900s, according to Unk, there were many, many more of them and they were a force to reckon with.

It was 1945, and Uncle Ernest was visiting our farm, and as usual he brought along his best friend, Jack Daniels. I remember the evening well; it was dusk, after a warm day for early November, and as we watched the darkness squeeze out the last filament of light beyond Dave Herman’s immense oak tree, and as we eyed a mated pair of bluebirds flitting back and forth to snag bugs from mid-air, Unk told me his incredible tale. I had just brought home an ugly catfish I had caught in the canal, and that was what reminded him of the ugly fish that besieged Chesapeake City in the early 1900s.

Back then our canal was not sea-level; it was a long, narrow pond that ran from Chesapeake City to Delaware City. It required locks to raise and lower vessels as they entered and exited the canal. There was a pump house (now part of the Canal Museum) with a forty-foot water wheel that transferred water from back creek into the canal when it needed replenishment. Back then the tugboats and Ericsson liners were steam-driven. Large sailboats and barges had to be pulled through the canal by mules. Operations were much different back then before the Corps of Engineers bought the canal in 1919 and eventually widened and deepened it, thus making it sea-level.

But now, let me take you back to 1945, when I was a boy and thrilled to Uncle Ernest’s snakehead story. Here is what he told me in his own special way: “Well, Moose the Goose,” he said, swirling and clicking the ice cubes against his glass, “what I’m about to tell you I’ve remembered from the account your grandfather, Harper Hazel, told me when I was about your age. You see, he lived here on the farm in the early 1900s and had a clear recollection of the shenanigans that went on back then. Here is his story as I remember it: ‘You know, Sonny,’ Grandfather Harper began, ‘Chesapeake City was a quiet fishing town in 1915. The area was surrounded by farmers who came to town for supplies and for church and other activities. It was right about then that weird things started happening. Repulsive part-fish, part-snake creatures called snakeheads got into our canal and evolved at rapid speed. These crafty critters did it all practically overnight.

“ ‘That’s right, in a short time they undulated up the canal banks and began walking on their flippers all around the streets, especially the South Sides’ legendary Bohemia Avenue. Their numbers multiplied and they matured early, enabling them to establish institutions of all kinds. They had their own schools (underwater of course) not far from the Canal Museum. They even started their own church on the grounds by the old High Bridge. I recall being in the area one time and being touched when I heard the congregation singing their favorite hymn: Slithering to the Sweet Bye and Bye. Their nasal, out of tune voices brought tears to my eyes.

“ ‘Also remarkable was what they accomplished as individuals. One brave, young snakehead attached a line to the pilot boat and could be seen tubing back and forth in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. Another learned to ride a motorcycle up and down the streets. It was so neat to see how he gripped the seat with his little back flippers as he worked the accelerator with his front ones. Soon many other young snakeheads took to riding motorcycles and even formed a club. And they all let their head scales grow long so that they could tie them into attractive pony tails. Yeah, it sure was heartwarming to watch them speeding along with those scaly pony tails flopping in the breeze.

“ ‘Some of them tied camouflaged bandanas to their heads, which made them even more appealing. And my but it was entertaining to watch and listen to them roaring down George Street—past Foard’s Hardware Store, past the Church of the Good Shepherd, past Beiswanger’s Ice Cream Parlor, past Shine Crawford’s gas station, and eventually across the lift bridge to Lock Street. But, of course, the sensible folks of the North Side always got together to drive them back across the bridge, where they could frolic as they pleased. Most of the townspeople, besides me, were delighted by the spectacle while others were unexplainably disgusted by it.

“ ‘Some of the other equally flamboyant snakeheads used to frequent the famous Hole-in-the-Wall bar to entertain and be entertained by Birdy-the-Bartender. One especially large one, named Allen, used to sidle in and bite the customers on the tops of their heads. Sometimes Birdy had to throw certain over-zealous revelers out the screen door, which meant that Birdy’s brother had to fix it the next day. Anyway, this snakehead named Allen, who had grown to the height of 6’8’’ and, by the way, walked on the tips of his tail like a clown on stilts and whose voice reminded me of John Wayne, sometimes threw Birdy out the screen door. This same Allen used to bite the beer glasses to pieces, and over the Christmas holidays would always eat the red Christmas lights as they hung on the tree. One time, and I witnessed this, Sonny, Allen removed one of Ralphy’s new boots.

“ ‘Ralphy was a whimsical Hole-in-the-Wall fixture who was known for his beer-drinking marathons. Most people drank their beer from a mug, but Ralphy drank his from an oft-filled pitcher. Anyway, Allen snatched off one of Ralphy’s boots, filled it with beer, and made everybody take a swig from it. Ralphy had just bought the boots that day, so they were brand new, and the comical part was that the beer began leaking out of the one like a sieve. Another time when I was there Allen came swaggering in with a 20-pound large-mouth bass. He made Birdy open its mouth and fill it with beer. And, you guessed it; everybody had to take a drink from it, including me. What a nasty-tasting mixture! Take my advice, Sonny, and don’t ever try it.

“ ‘But listen, I don’t mean to give the impression that the snakeheads were all playboys without respectability. Certain groups were inspired by cultural refinement. Why, some performed in the town’s minstrel shows (being naturally dark made charcoal application unnecessary). Others participated in the annual Chautauqua presentations. Oh yes, some were extremely bright. I became personal friends with a bright one named Oscar, and I know for a fact that he used to help Birdy’s son, Chuck, with his homework, which improved the lad’s grades considerably. Oscar became so respected that he even ran for mayor. He ran under the slogan, “A Flounder in Every Pot,” and he was only five votes shy of winning. My word, Sonny, imagine how different things would be if he had won.

“ ‘Eventually, though, despite the good intentions of the conscientious ones, the snakehead episode turned sour, because when the young, male snakeheads started dating the eligible daughters of  the town, the influential leaders had all of them rounded up and banished to a swampy compound somewhere in the wilds of Southwestern Cecil County.’ And that, Moose, is the end of Grandfather Harper’s story as I remember it. And now I have some serious partying tonight at Dolph Wharton’s tavern.”

So off he trudged, and as I watched him descend our field towards town, fantastic images of humanized snakeheads cavorted in my brain. And even now, 68 years later, snakeheads are on my mind. You can understand, concerned reader, the seriousness of our situation today, because somehow some of those dreaded buggers have apparently escaped captivity after nearly a hundred years and may be headed for our canal and town again. And we certainly don’t want a return of the problems cited by my grandfather’s historic, eye-witness account.

Model A Memories—A Love Story

Model A Memories—A Love Story

The Milk Bar (now site of Baker’s Restaurant) on Rt.213 at Brantwood, circa 1950.

Hanging Deer at Schaefer’s Wharf, with well-liked bartender, Uncle Frank Smith—circa 1950.

The John Schaefer House, designed by architect, Armond Carroll, and built by Harry Pensel in 1953. Inset: Master Carpenter, Harry Pensel in circa 1950.

“Fifty dollars,” he said. “I’ll let it go for just fifty.” That’s what I heard Nip Pierce say in Foard Brothers’ Hardware Store back in the Chesapeake City of 1950. Nip worked on the widening of the C&D Canal in the 1930s, and he was one of several older men who gathered at Foard’s to reminisce about their lives in the water-divided town. I was a skinny 14-year-old and worked in the store for a couple of summers. I soon found out that it was Nip’s 1929 Model A Ford that he had for sale, and right away I told him I wanted it.

Oh yes, 1950—It was something special. So sit back, put your feet up, and let me return you to those days, those days of hard work, hard play, and memories hard to forget. In the news, North Korea invaded South Korea (which led to war), President Truman approved the production of the hydrogen bomb, the first credit card was introduced, and we laughed at the first “Peanuts” comic strip. In the movies, Gloria Swanson and William Holding entertained us in “Sunset Boulevard.” In pop music, Bill Haley energized us with “Rock Around the Clock” and Elvis pulsated to “All Shook Up.” In sports, golfing great, Ben Hogan, won the U.S. Open and Boston’s Ted Williams became the highest paid baseball player at $125,000 a year. And in the World Series the Yankees beat the “Whiz Kids” of Philly in four straight.

Anyway, returning to my impatient, adolescent yearnings, I just had to have Nip’s Model A and, despite Pop’s objection (“Just too much for that worn-out jalopy”), I bought it with a combination of my money and his. I swayed him by whining that I had worked hard for that car. With Clint Foard as my boss I took care of the gas pumps as well as the whole general store. And, believe me, Foard Brothers’ sold practically everything: gasoline, kerosene, motor oil, linseed oil, farm implements, pen knives, boots, candy bars, sodas, and chewing tobacco—to name just a fraction of the merchandise.

And so, with the fifty bucks hot in my hand, I gave it to Nip for the jalopy, and I report with pleasure that over the next three years I derived a thousand dollars worth of fun from it. I still recall what it was like to sit at the wheel of the ancient buggy. One’s senses were overwhelmed with an emanation of rust, grease, stale gasoline, mildew, and fragrant, damaged upholstery that must have been comfortable lodgings in which field mice had set up housekeeping. But to me it was as good as a new Cadillac, because it took me wherever I wanted to go—over roads, fields, and through the woods. It even started sometimes without having to crank it. And if you ever have to crank a car, concerned reader, you’d better hope it doesn’t back-fire and break your arm the way my Model A almost broke mine. But once started I was able to travel to see things and talk to folks I had not known before. I wish I could report that I sputtered down the roads legally, but you must know that I had no driver’s licenses and the heap was not tagged. I’m counting on you, faithful reader, to keep my recklessness under your hat and not hold it against me.

My first journey was to pick up Cousin Dick Sheridan and buck and backfire over the bridge to visit Mayor Harry Griffin, who was standing outside Chesapeake City’s first firehouse with Johnny Walter, a respected waterman who worked on the canal. The old firehouse served as our town hall since it had been replaced by a larger, more modern firehouse located on Lock Street. Then we drove up Biddle Street to talk to master carpenter, Harry Pensel, who showed us the unique house he had build for John Schaefer. After that we chugged around to Schaefer’s wharf to see a hanging deer bagged by avid sportsman, John Schaefer, as it swam along his pilings. Frank Smith, John’s uncle, said that venison would be on the restaurant’s menu for the next two weeks. On one of my last Model A jaunts (I drove around in it for about three years before it broke down), I took my girlfriend to talk to Capt. Ed Sheridan, the competent former pilot of the Gotham ferry. At the time, “The Captain” was master of the luxury-liner, Port of Baltimore. He delighted in telling stories about his incredible career on the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries.

But now let me take you forward in time to 1952, when our over-head bridge was three years old and I had my driver’s licenses. In those times most families had only one car and our family was no exception. So, when I borrowed our 1948 Ford, my folks stayed home and watched Milton Berle, Arthur Godfrey or some such on our 12-inch, black and white TV. I begged the keys from Pop often for many outings, but mainly to speed over to Cecil Street on the North Side to pick up my girlfriend. And I have a clear memory of one hapless evening during that humid-hot summer of 1952.

We watched a horror movie at the drive-in, cooled off at Brantwood with a milkshake from the Milk Bar (now Baker’s Restaurant) and, nestled as one driver, cruised down Route 213 towards home. Little did we know that it would be quite a while before we reached our respective houses. I, of course, was anxious to get home, but my girlfriend pleaded for parking at the gravel pit on Knights’ Corner Road. Once settled we turned on the radio and deployed our air conditioning by opening all the windows. We watched mesmerized while the plump moon panned leisurely overhead on its nightly journey, as midnight gave way to the next early day.

By now, gentle reader, you must suspect how hard this was on me because, naturally, I was concerned with the grandeur of the stars and that intriguing moon, never mind the glory of those soothing, early-fifties’ songs flowing softly from the radio. But when Jo Stafford sang “You Belong to Me” and Tony Bennett crooned “Because of You,” well . . . how could I enjoy those sensuous wonders with all of the kissing going on? As distracting as it was, however, I endured the smothering until well into the night, at which time I switched on the starter only to hear a click and a buzzing noise. Oh yeah, the battery was dead all right! And, unable to crank the newer car, we walked hand-in-hand all the way down 213 to Cecil Street and her doorstep. Then I jogged across Sisters’ field, up the long bridge steps, and eventually to my farmhouse. I woke up Pop and we borrowed a neighbor’s truck to jump start the battery and bring home the family car. As you might imagine, I couldn’t borrow it for quite a while after that.

        Since that nocturnal excitement, my girlfriend has kept me around for the last 61 years, and in late summer we take mini-vacations to the Ocean City area. Even now, when the time of night is right, she still pleads to park . . . but this time at the ocean’s edge to watch the moon puncture the distance darkness, and rise to color the glistening waves with breathtaking shades of gold. And, reclined there, it’s then that I secretly thank whoever invented those snuggle-restricting bucket seats, because regular breathing is important at my age. Now our embraces make up in contentment for what they lack in fervor. After a while, when the splendor wanes and I switch on the ignition to leave, the car never fails to start, so that we miss the dubious adventure of a long, exhausting walk in the dark.