For National Textiles Day: A Voyage Home

 

May 3 is National Textiles Day. 

To say that this topic is outside of my ordinary beat is to put it mildly. But I had a very insightful experience while vacationing with my son last year, kicking around old haunts. Admittedly, it was the farthest thing from an original revelation. It was more like being a fish in an aquarium and suddenly noticing the water for the first time. Or, rather, a fish who emerged from the aquarium and noticed the water he used to live in. 

Like many (I hope) I'd certainly been taught about the importance of the textile industry to New England, America and the World when I was in school. But let's be real: that was really so much educational spinach. If you're Bart Simpson, you want to visit the CHOCOLATE museum on a field trip, not look at loom contraptions. On the other hand, at the stage I'm at now, something else "looms" as well, and that's senior citizenship. This stage of life feels very much like having attained a higher peak so you can a better look down in the valley. And as my son and I visited all of these places connected with my childhood, the truth sank in that most of these towns wouldn't even have existed without the textiles that were manufactured there and kept people employed. Every town had a mill without which there mightn't have been a town. It was one of those moments where you realize that something you thought has nothing to do with you...has EVERYTHING to do with you. 

As it happens we did this little junket (fittingly) last Labor Day Weekend. When I realized that a sort of theme had emerged, I decided to sit on the photos 'til today. Happy National Textiles Day.

We were staying with friends in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, which happens to be the home of Slater Mill, which I first (and last) visited on a school field trip when I was about six years old. Its founder Samuel Slater (1768-1835) is often credited with jump-starting the Industrial Revolution in America by memorizing some plans for a mill he had seen in England, smuggling the information back to the United States. This is more like craftiness...or guile...or theft...than it is like, oh, invention, but Yankees take a weird pride in that kind of sharp practice. It's what P.T. Barnum was all about. Back then mills were built next to rivers and and powered by water wheels. At the instigation of merchant Moses Brown (a distant relative of mine) Slater built his mill on the Blackstone River in 1793. 

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Slater Mill was the site of America's first industrial labor strike -- precisely two centuries ago, in 1824. Most of the workers at that time were females, for they had been the ones who used domestic looms in the home. At any rate...as AI puts the fear of God into us all, I've thought a lot about the early days of the labor movement. Machines have been replacing humans in the workplace on a large scale for over two centuries now. Conceivably it's going to continue and become even worse. We've almost reached the point where there'll be no striking workers...because there will be no work. It's going to be 8 billion people twiddling their thumbs, I guess? Or going insane, maybe? Maybe not. 

Nearby Providence contains enough historic mills to fill a book, though on this particular trip, the only one we spent any time in particularly was just over the border in Cranston. We enjoyed a couple of manly mugs at the Buttonwoods Brewery, located in former headquarters of the United Lace and Braid Company Factory, est. 1912. Same year, one notes, as the "Bread and Roses" strike of Lawrence, Massachusetts. Such strikes are what drove a lot of immigrant workers (Italians, French Canadians) to my hometown. It's a little outside our timeline but does reinforce the industrial narrative!

Due west of Providence is my mom's hometown of Putnam, Connecticut. That's where you will find the Cargill Falls Mill, built 1806. 

Another digression, but a rewarding one. In a 2019 post, I recorded my visit to the grave of my 5th Great Grandfather Jonathan Bugbee in western New York, near Chautauqua. He was originally from the area around Putnam, of course. I am descended from his daughter, who remained in Connecticut. Anyway, on this recent visit, I was delighted to come across this on the main drag:

Howdy, cousin! 

In the 1940s, my mom moved from Putnam to South County, Rhode Island, where her favorite cousins lived, and settled in the twin villages of Peace Dale and Wakefield, which is where I grew up. 

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Yep! That's the son! 

The Peace Dale Mill was built by the town founders the Hazard Family circa 1802, and it kept growing and evolving. For most of the town's existence, everyone who lived there worked in the mill, and in the old noblesse oblige tradition The Hazards built amenities for them, mostly constructed out of granite from local quarries: 

Hazard School (the middle school when I attended, although it was originally the high school)...

...the Peace Dale Library (where I spent a downright sick amount of time in my late teens)...

...the Neighborhood Guild, which is the town's recreation center. And many others along similar lines. 

I was delighted to discover that Whaler's Beer, which I had enjoyed on recent trips to Newport, is brewed at the Peace Dale Mill complex. 

The Wakefield Mill, a ten minute walk from my childhood home, is much newer than the one in Peace Dale, dating to 1845. Today, Wakefield is the much more vibrant of the two villages, but it is quite a bit younger than Peace Dale. As the sign above the door tells, the mill in Wakefield now houses Hera, a feminist art gallery that's existed in my town for about a half century. Wakefield has a theatre, too! Your correspondent was a very lucky scout to be born where he was. 

Which prompts another brief detour. While it is my mother to whom I owe the lineage that puts me near these towns and their mills, my father's story is just as relevant. He grew up on a cotton farm in Tennessee near the Alabama border. When his dad enlisted in the Navy during World War Two he was stationed in Quonset, Rhode Island, and just decided to settle there with his wife and five children. They lived in the mill village of Shannock, which is on the Pawcatuck River (sic--confusingly, the region has both a Pawcatuck and a Pawtucket). There had been mills in Shannock since the early 19th century but the factory complex where my dad's whole family worked had been built in 1901, and was still owned by the same family, the Clarks. Ironically, my dad's family had left the South, as so many did, for what politicians call "good paying factory jobs" up North...but meanwhile back home, after the war, dad's part of the South became a textile manufacturing center, making use of local cotton. In other words, my family could have just stayed home and gotten very similar work without the displacement. But of course, in that case I never would have been born.

We return you now to the Wakefield walking tour with my son. In this photo he stands in front of what used to be the town's only department store, until national chains like Woolworth's at the local mall drove them out in the 1970s. The Kenyons are one of the area's principal families. Why, there's even a historic Kenyon Mill (though it's a grist mill). I have many Kenyon relatives. Hi, Kenyons! Anway, nowadays this old store houses....wait for it...The Rhode Island Weaving Center. 

We popped in to have a looksee when I was there in the hopes we might run into my new daughter-in-law's grandmother, who runs the joint. Like my wife and my niece, she is a Carolyn, and I always feel you can't have too many Carolyns. Anyway...you see how the textile theme kind of knit (ha! I said "knit!") the whole trip together. It was nothing I intended. It was just...there. 

In Utopia, of course, activities like weaving or a million other options are what the human race will be doing in the post-AI world: peaceful past-times that provide satisfaction and pleasure. Life was kind of like that prior to the Industrial Revolution. Yes, it could be harrowing and even deadly before the coming of the machines. But, so are, oh assembly lines and 16 hour work days and low pay and soul-deadening repetition. Who wouldn't rather be a craftsperson than a cog in a machine? I'm pretty sure that's what people hoped the 21st century would look like. Something to aspire to, anyway. 

I dedicate this post to my family, of course -- including my new in-laws. Okay, that about sews up this post. 

Viva Verrazzano!

 

April 17, 2024 marks the quincentennial (500 year anniversary) of Giovanni da Verrazzano's entry into New York harbor. The Florentine navigator was exploring North America on assignment for King Francis I of France at the time. He mapped the entire east coast from Florida to New Brunswick, Canada. 

Verrazzano is doubly important to this correspondent for in addition to the New York City geographical landmarks he also discovered Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island, the region where I'm from. There is a Jamestown Verrazzano Bridge there, just as there is a Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge connecting Brooklyn  and Staten Island. The name get used quite a bit. I took this down the street from my house: 

These belated efforts to honor the explorer occurred in part to address a historical wrong. Compared with Henry Hudson (who arrived here in 1609, nearly a century later), and Christopher Columbus, who arrived in the Caribbean in 1492 and paved the way for the exploration of what became Latin America, Verrazzano is little recognized. Columbus receives the bulk of the annual celebration, though these days many wish he didn't, as he was responsible for the enslavement, torture and death of many of the Native People he encountered. Italian Americans glommed on to Columbus as their big national hero in the late 19th century. Verrazzano was a lesser known figure at the time, whereas Columbus had opened a door to the Americas. Verrazzano's voyage also had the bad fortune to take place at the same time as two other historic events: Magellan's circumnavigation of the globe, and the Spanish conquest of Mexico. It gets lost in the shuffle. 

But those explorers had not visited the part of North America that became the United States. Verrazzano did. Furthermore, Verrazzano's encounters with Native Americans appear to have been cordial and diplomatic. To my delight, he cited the Narragansett and Wampanoag people of my home state to have been his favorite of all the tribes he met. Heartbreakingly, the continent was highly populated at the time of Verrazzano's visit. But by the time settlers arrived in Jamestown and Plymouth a century later, only a small fraction of that population remained, due to the diseases that had been brought by trappers, traders, and fisherman. (Undeniably true fact seldom cited by any commentators: something like 90% of the Native Americans who died after the arrival of Europeans were lost to disease. The genocide that is often spoken and written about was inflicted on the surviving population, who were no longer numerous enough to defend themselves, as they once had been). No one is certain what became of Verrazzano; some believe he was killed by local Caribs on the island of Guadeloupe in 1528, during his third voyage. 

Old habits die hard but still Verrazzano still seems more worth celebrating than Columbus. Today's benchmark is being observed at noon with a gathering of folks at the Verrazzano memorial in Battery Park. The 1909 sculpture (pictured above) features a bust of Verrazzano, with a second female figure designed to represent the spirit of discovery. I wish I'd known about this event yesterday. I would have attended! If you're in NYC you still have time to get over there. 

The Rocky Coast of Southern Maine

 

I visited son and his wife in Portland, Maine this past weekend and they took me to the beautiful area South of the city, including Higgins Beach, Cape Elizabeth, Two Lights and the Portland Head Light lighthouse, which I can now add to my survey of favorite lighthouses. Many believe that Longfellow, who grew up in Portland and spent a lot of time at these sites, was thinking of it when he wrote his 1849 poem "The Lighthouse". I've included the text of the poem beneath the photos. 

THE LIGHTHOUSE by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
  And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
  A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
  Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
  In the white lip and tremor of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
  Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
  With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare! 

Not one alone; from each projecting cape
  And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
  Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands
  Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
  The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and return,
  Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
  They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
  Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
  Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child,
  On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
  He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
  Year after year, through all the silent night
Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame,
  Shines on that inextinguishable light! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
  The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
  And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it; the storm
  Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form
  Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
  Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
  Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
  Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
  But hails the mariner with words of love. 

"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!
  And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
  Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!"

A Peek Inside the General Theological Seminary

Most New Yorkers have walked the perimeter of the General Theological Seminary in Chelsea and wondered what was inside. Occupying the entire block between 20th and 21st Streets, 9th and 10th Avenues, the imposing complex is not open to the public, and has the look of a cloister. That look is intentional, of course, as it’s where the Episcopal Church has trained clerics for nearly two centuries. On December 5 (Krampusnacht, no less) your intrepid reporter had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the interior on a special tour sponsored by the GTS and Untapped Cities, and jointly led by the Dean of the School Michael W. DeLashmutt and Clement Clarke Moore expert Pamela McColl.

DeLashmutt center, McColl Speaking 

The occasion for this rare tour is the upcoming bicentennial of the publications of Moore’s poem, usually known by the title “’Twas the Night Before Christmas”. What’s the connection? you may wonder. The entire neighborhood of Chelsea was once the Moore family’s farm; the area now occupied by the GTS was the apple orchard. Moore’s father was a Bishop in the church and for a time President of King’s College, which later became Columbia. The seminary opened at its present location in 1827. Clement Clark Moore taught there for many years.

The Close

In 1878, Dean Eugene Augustus Hoffman expanded the campus, with a grand design that arranged building around a quadrangle in the manner of the Quad at Oxford. The impressive Chapel of the Good Shepherd opened to worshippers a decade later. 

Chapel Interior 

New construction and expansion continued throughout the 20th century. The present era finds the institution on a time of consolidation and retrenchment, the most obvious illustration of which is the High Line Hotel, which is in a building sold by the GTS in 2010. 

Benediction and Dismissal

A Visit to the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy

Thanks to the Great Neck Historical Society and the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy Museum for participating in Open House New York this weekend, allowing me a sneak peek into the confines of the Academy, which I have been wanting to do since moving to the community five years ago. My agenda was multiple of course -- I was hoping to catch a glimpse of some of the Jazz Age celebrity homes I believed to have been swallowed up by the campus over the decades. No soap there, but I was just as grateful for a glimpse of what they were offering, which was a tour of the Museum, located in the former mansion of millionaire inventor William Slocum Barstow, and a tour of the administration building, formerly the estate of Henri Willis Bendel, founder of the eponymous department store, later, of automobile magnate Walter P. Chrysler. Coming from Rhode Island as I do, I am a major nautical buff, and (as reported here) had even previously toured the inside of a Liberty Ship, which is just the kind of thing one learns about in the museum (the Merchant Marine in wartime, as well as the history of shipping in general). There will be more on this theme in a few days on my primary blog Travalanche. Til then, some snaps I took on my tour, which was led jointly by the Academy's Dr. Joshua Smith and architectural historian Andrew Cronson. 

Some pile o' bricks, huh?