Annie Sullivan, On Genesee Hill

[dgriffin]

Marie "Somebody." An actress, I think. I didn't copy down the particulars.


I like this one, too, and she definitely has dark hair.





Artist: Frederick Arthur Bridgeman
Title: Aicha, a Woman of Morocco 1883
Medium: Oil on canvas
Size: 21.5x10.5 in (54.61x26.67 cm)
Location: Newark Museum
American Orientalist

[dgriffin]

Nov 3, 2009 0:02:19 GMT -5 fiona said:

Dave: Who is this exotic woman above who wants to meet us and live in our novel? About the dark haired woman: she keeps coming back again and again. I am not sure who she is yet, she's very mysterious. But, I'll give you a hint: She knows Latcher and she's not who Sarah thinks she is.

I'm sure the woman is Latcher's "Life Coach."

[dgriffin]

A Thought: (not edited or expanded)

Metettseh had spent the entire afternoon at his end of the longhouse, concealed behind the large curtain of sewn skins hung there by his son. Privacy was unusual among the Iroquois, but a chief was beyond reproach for small peccadilloes concerning custom, especially in this time of crisis. His middle-aged wife painstakingly applied the pigments from his forehead to his toes, as he stood naked and patient for two hours. No male Indian would admit it, but the best of body painting was done by the women, and Metettseh's wife was indeed meticulous as she mixed and then applied each color to the chief's dark skin. Everyone tonight would know this was her work. No one would mention it.

And now as he sat through the ceremonial dancing which invoked the Great Sprit, Metettseh eyed his braves assembled around the sacred fire, looking for any telltale signs of stress or fear. Even by the fire, their breaths showed in the cold air of the early March evening. He would need to rouse their courage and focus their hate on the visitors. He knew some of his brothers would welcome the white men, but he had seen in a dream that these pasty faced explorers would be followed by herds of similar men and women who, if not stopped, would completely push his tribe from the valley.

When the drumming ceased, Metettseh slowly rose from behind the fire pit so each of the braves could see him. He was quite proud of the ceremonial paints and of his wife's work, even if it could not be mentioned. The red paints sucked up the color of flames from the fire and made the chief look as if he were made of fire. The green pigments in the firelight made the blackest of dark shadows, and were applied carefully on his face to make his features appear deeply carved and stone like. Every ounce of effort spent on the meticulous application of each design painted on his back, chest, arms and face helped create the impression he wanted to make on his warriors. White men would later conclude that the Indians really believed their leaders changed themselves during these rituals. But white men had a shallow understanding of human emotions, and white mens' souls could barely fathom even one dimension of existence.

"This is our land," he said to the group. "The white men we have seen on the waters say they want only enough game to survive their trips to the west, but soon they will want more. They will want our land. Their sons and wives and animals will arrive and push us away from our river."

Metettseh let his words settle on the men. He waited for the grunting assents to quiesce, and then he continued.

"We will go now in the night to their camp and kill them! Every one of them! We will take our sharp knives and flint spears and cut them up. We will set the pieces of their bodies in the canoes and float them back to the fort of soldiers at Wee-sug-sa-ha."

By the time the moon was about to show itself in the sky, the Indians had traveled down from what today is called Genesee Hill, their home from time out of mind. The white men they meant to kill that night were accompanied by soldiers, each with a gun, an instrument of death the Indians had never seen. Sharp reports and the flash of gun powder ripped through the early March night, killing many of the tribe just as the braves reached the white men's camp.

Routed, the surviving Iroquois beat a fast retreat back up the hill to their wives and families. The soldiers could be heard tramping up the hill in pursuit, shooting wounded Indians who had fallen on the trail. The tribe wanted to leave immediately, but Metettseh knew they could not travel as fast as the soldiers. The chief told his people to stand and fight, every man, women and child. This was their land. Here on the slight rise off the downward slope of Genesee Hill was their ancestral and sacred fire, which had burned perpetually for as long as anyone could remember.

The soldiers killed them all. As Metettseh lay dieing near the sacred fire, feeling his life flow out of his wounds onto the cold ground, he reached his hand into the dieing embers, hoping to grab the fire's life to prolong his own for just a few more moments. The burning pain mattered little. He cursed the white man for all time and asked the Great Spirit to have Fire forever protect this grove on the small level spot of ground. Metettseh remembered becoming a brave on this spot, marrying his wife here in the ancient ceremonial tradition and saying goodbye to the spirits of fellow warriors lost in battle. The chief rolled himself into the burning pit. He would choose his death rather than die from the holes the sticks had fired into his body. He would sacrifice himself to Fire. He would join Fire.

Fire would forever rule this piece of ground. Fire would seldom make a frontal attack, as Metettseh had. Fire was subtle. It no longer could live and dance in the sacred pit, lighting up the night and those who honored it. A new race had come to take over the land and they honored nothing but themselves. And though one day fire would burst forth to consume anything and everything, including itself in an act of self glorification, for now it comforted itself beneath the ground, burning and crackling down one fissure and then another, around a pipe, along a wire, under a tank.

Fire waited for opportunity, as do most of the gods and demons. Fire knew it would come. Fire had all the time in the world.

[dgriffin]

(unedited)

When morning came in the winter and the men fired up the coal furnaces, the sulfur would burn off the top of each fire, and for an hour the neighborhood smelled like a cesspool. When the hundreds of horses that traversed the city during the week and left their droppings behind them were added, the air would fill with a strong foul odor that was sure to increase on warmer days. It hadn't been so, thought Sarah, growing up as a girl at the top of John Street, where there was always a breeze to carry away the smells of life. But here on Genesee Hill, houses continued to go up and each night trolley cars brought hundreds of new residents up from the downtown section of the city. Genesee Flats had increased the Hill's population dramatically, as an additional 200(?) men and women and a few children were stuffed into the seven floors, as if in a giant birdhouse. When Sarah and John and Mary had first moved into the Flats, Sarah's father had playfully climbed the ladder to the large multi-story birdhouse in his back yard and with India Ink written "Genesee Flats" across the face of the aviary. Sarah didn't think that was funny. Mary, of course, did. Mary was the only person in the entire family who thought Grandpa was funny.

Seven floors above Genesee Street, Sarah sat in the tiny living room and looked out over the bleak February landscape of Utica. It was early morning and in a heavy robe she held her tea close, so that she could feel its warmth against her chest and breathe in the sweet vapors bathing her face. Looking out the window through the balcony's railing, Sarah's eyes averted the rows of the homes below her that belonged to the workers and common people of the city, preferring to gaze at a distance upon the Marcy hills on the horizon off to the right. Then her her vision turned to the Lunatic Asylum, sitting straight ahead on a rise over in West Utica. Viewed from the side, the tall pillars of the main building caught the glow of early sunlight on winter mornings as it warmed the Greek architecture with reddish tones, a harbinger of spring for Sarah, a slender woman who felt cold all through the winter. And who noticed that her winters seemed to be lasting longer. Like many Uticans, Sarah seldom thought of the occupants of the Asylum. To her the hospital was a beautiful building set on a hill overlooking a valley quickly filling with people.

Behind her, down the hallway, she could hear Mary stir and call out in her sleep, in the throes of another night time adventure the girl seemed disposed to. Sarah didn't remember dreaming very often as a girl, nor her sister, Blandina. Mary's predilection for dreams therefore might come from her father's side of the family, except John always slept like a log, with no fuss and no surprises. John always did everything with no fuss and no surprises, especially in bed. Sarah's gaze caught on something and her breathing stopped for a moment, followed by an almost inaudible sigh.

She turned her thoughts back to Mary, who would have to be wakened in fifteen minutes. Mary, the girl she wished was her sister, but who instead she bore the responsibility to mother. Mary, with the ethereal look in her eye, her always surprising and wonderful reactions to life, the loving aura about her, and the different drummer marching behind her instead of in the lead. The girl bordered on strange, without going there. As a woman Mary would be strong and unique and well suited to the new century, thought Sarah. Getting her there safely would be the problem.

[Clipper]

Excellent Dave. Very well written and it holds a person's interest from one paragraph to the next, enveloping one's mind and taking me to Genessee Hill, to feel the cold of the March night with Metettseh, as well as to feel the warmth of Sarah's tea cup, and to smell the vapors rising from her cup.

As a young boy, I remember the crisp cold mornings and the smell of coal gas as people brought their fires to life after having banked the coals for the night.

The greatest thing about your writing is that it "snatches me right out of my chair", transports me through time, and plops me down right in the middle of the story to feel and see the events "first hand". You truly are a great writer Dave. I hope that doesn't make you blush, but your talents are bountiful and your writing is one of your greatest attributes.

[dgriffin]

Hey, thanks. But you (and others) should also write a snippet, or more. How about a short piece from the point of view of one of the firemen who responded to the fire?

[fiona]

Thanks, Dave for your great piece of work. The charactarization of Sarah opens a lot of questions, such as: We get the sense, as she does, that Utica is now a brash city, she is somewhat befuddled by it all and feels that the old order, the old social structures and networks are breaking down. The very physicality of the GF and the Kanatenah changed the social structure of the Hill forever. This is obvious even unto today. She is left to deal with this as best she can. We must ask this question of her: Is she a harbinger of things to come, as was the GF, and can she exercise some modicum of control over her life and the life of her family; or is she simply being swept along with the changes and control has become an illusion ( something she is beginning to vaguely realize) ? I think the latter will be obvious, as here is a family caught like flies in the web of the times. Now, about the view from the 7th floor: You are so correct, I myself have stood in that selfsame spot and looked west, to see the great pillars of the Psych Center all aflame in the sunset and found it an awsome sight. And the smells of the time were much different from what we have today - people don't realize it - and a side bit - Latcher, the owner of the GF was arrested many times for 'burning cheap coal" in the powerhouse. I have read articals in the Olbiston research stating that " the neighborhood was up in arms as the soot blacked everything." I would also like to point out that the Gf had a large barn in the yard as well as a stable adding to the odor.

[fiona]

I like the charactarization of John and the one line about his being predicatble- especially in bed. We have to recall that Sarah is alone with her thoughts and has ideas about things that she could never share with any other women - especially her sisters Margret, Helen and Blandina. Certainly she was not ignorant about sexuality, as she came from a family of nine bothers and sisters. I have calculated from the date that her parents were married, that the mother was continually pregnant for about a period of 18 years. Also, the Woods had nine children, so they both came from large families. Sarah and John married late, he was very much the late 19th century Rennisance Man, involved in his work and as such typical of his social station and the times. I would also like to know just what caught the corner of Sarah's eye and made her catch her breath for a moment...

[fiona]

perhaps that moment when she caught her breath and then sighed was a memory of the most fleeting kind, a stirring of sorts for that which was beyond her . The box on the center table. They had carried it across the continent twice. She was intimatley familar with the contents, yet there were secrets there, things to unfold in the sureness of time. The box... sometimes it's mere presence frightened her, as if it held the key to her future. She averted her gaze back to the window, the heavy lace curtains, the shutters and the scene beyond... blue sky and white snow, so much cold. When would it ever end...?

[dgriffin]

That's very good, Fiona! those associations are really helpful and informative. I took a chance on the Psych Center looking like that with the sunrise, after viewing the area with the google maps "terrain" feature. It appeared that in winter the sun would rise behind the GF and hit the Psych Center directly with low angle red sunlight. So I'm glad you've seen it do that. I guessed only the end pillar would be visible from the GF, but allowed myself artistic license to word it more loosely.

What caught her eye? Nothing, really. I was trying to portray, and didn't do it very well, that her mind stopped on the John/bed/log thought, the thought causing Sarah a moment of sorrow, maybe longing, and then a sigh. Possibly better might be, " Sarah's eyes suddenly closed. She breathed in and a moment later breathed out with a small sigh." Nah, I don't think that tells the story very well, either.

How did you like the parallel old Rutger drew between his Martin house and the GF? That needs a rewrite, too, but I like the concept. (BTW, was Rutger B. Miller alive then?)

[dgriffin]

BTW, hard coal (anthracite) will cause that smell, too. But the cheap soft coal (bituminous) did produce loads of soot, and the heat from a large furnace would literally spew an awful powder of fine particles out the chimney and across the neighborhood. You would go out your front door and leave tracks on your porch.

My ex-sister-in-law grew up near Pittsburgh and told how she washed her hair twice a day, once in the morning before school and again after walking home from school.

Yes, forgot about the barn and the horses out back. Excellent! (unless you lived there in 1896.)

[dgriffin]

Inquest On The Fire

Utica Morning Herald - Wednesday, March 11, 1896

Testimony of William Foley:

"I am a student and work in the Herald office and carry a route; had finished my work and was coming down Clinton Place; was listening for the 5:05 train. Heard women screaming and went down to the driveway; saw a great deal of smoke; Britenburg a driver of No. 1's asked me to see if the glass in the alarm box was broken. It was not and I sent in the alarm. At the time that I saw the fire first, no smoke was coming out of the front. From the time I saw the smoke and heard the screaming until I sent in the alarm was about 5 minutes.


Testimony of Hibbard K. Van Size:

"Mrs. Hughes fell with her back toward the ladder, striking it at the third balcony, and then slid down the ladder to the ground. "



Other reporting from:






If I may take a little license:



Billy Foley's Morning

It’s just so peaceful in the morning. No one is out and about, and all I ever hear are the trains and factories running all night over on the west side, out Whitesboro Street. And in the winter, the swish of tire rims when a hack is pulled past by a weary horse. And, you know, me and Da need the money, so before school I run down to the Herald and get me a bag of papers and sign the slip to pay tomorrow and take the whole shebang up Genesee Street, selling the news to whoever will give me a couple of pennies for the paper. I bring home the coins I earn to Da and he counts them out and gives me the money that’ll go to the Herald. He always has me put it in the old teapot on the window sill for tomorrow.

It’s been a cold winter and if Da didn’t kick me out of bed in the morning, I wouldn’t be out there slogging through the slush and snow, I can tell you. And, Jesus, I got a welt on the back of my shoulders from Brother Barnabas at the ‘cademy, and he keeps hitting me there every time I fall asleep reading the catty-kism.

I most often sell all the papers by the time I get to Court Street, so I don’t always get as far up as Genesee Hill. But that morning I walked all the way to the fountain at Oneida Square, and by that time I could smell the smoke. Then all hell broke loose as the team of horses and men from the No. 1 fire company came pounding by me and headed south down Genesee. Holy Cripes, a real fire engine! I threw down the rest of the papers and I ran like the dickens to catch up. By the time I got to the Flats, and saw the people trying to get off the front of the place, I wished I'd gone home instead. Nobody should ever have to see people dying like that. I still have dreams about it. Yeah, I know, not as many died as I thought were going to. But enough did …. and that poor lady I saw fall. I heard her head crack open. Sometimes when I’m dozing off in school, I’ll hear that crack and my stomach will get queasy if it’s just before lunch.

I’m a good reader, and I’ve read everything in the papers about the fire, at least in the Herald, because that’s the paper I sell. By what’s in print, you’d think everyone got called up by the management and politely told about the fire and pretty please just get dressed and meet across the street for tea. But that’s not what I saw.

When I first came up on the building, all I saw were firemen. They were scurrying around and they didn’t look like anybody had told them the fire was right in front of them and they should be doing something about it. I didn’t see any flames, at first. But I heard this awful sound, people screaming and crying and yelling for help. I lost my bearings for a minute, and wondered where the hell they were. It was dark and there was smoke everywhere. For just a second, I wondered if all the voices were in the trees. Then a trunk of clothes split open about ten feet from where I was standing. Just dropped down right out of the sky! I looked up and saw coats and shoes and a lady’s dress floating down at me. And then, over at the far end, I saw a man drop to the ground clinging to what looked like a string of sheets or clothing. Then I had to laugh, thinking it was funny. I wanted to shout at them to go back inside. There weren’t any flames. I thought this would be just a smoker … like maybe someone’s couch was burning and they’d have it out in the snow in just a bit.

It was getting lighter now, and people were coming down like they’d been on a balloon ride. Some were wailing and shouting and trying to find each other. One lady kept grabbing me and asking if I’d seen her brother. She must’ve asked me ten times. It shook me. I realized I was afraid again. There were still folks hanging from the balconies.

Two firemen ran up to me and started yelling about fire engines. At first, I thought they wanted to tell me something, but they happened to stop where I was standing. They were arguing about whether to call in more engines. One fellow said there was no need, and that he was going to the basement to make sure the fire was out. When he ran off, the other man asked me if I knew how to use the alarm box up the street on the corner. I said I guess you just pull it, and he told me how to break the glass and turn the crank. I must have looked like I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it, because the man put his hand on my shoulder and said I’d be saving lives, son.

When I got to the box, I was so worked up I couldn’t break the glass with my mitten still on my hand. I found a stone and broke the little window. My finger still hurts a little from the cut I gave myself.

I turned back toward the building and if I live to be 90 years old I will never forget what happened next. I was running and watching firemen and people around the bottom of the building, neighbors coming out on their porches in their nightdress, folks still clinging to the balcony railings … and I was beginning to hope no one would get hurt playing acrobat on the balconies, because this might not be a real bad fire …. when the whole place just went wooooosh! It broke out in flames. Brother Barnabas says the word is erupted. Well, that’s what it did … it erupted in flames. One huge sheet of flame shot up from the roof of the building and at the same time flames blew out the windows. Holy Mother Molly, I’ve never heard or seen anything like it!

All the voices hushed for a moment, and then a loud moan went up from the crowd, probably firemen included. I stopped running and almost sat down in the snow. But after a few seconds, I kept going back toward the Flats. Oh, why didn’t I go home?

That poor lady. She was coming down a string of sheets and towels like some others had done, and she was crying all the way. She wore a hat kinda like the one I used to see on my old mother … God rest her soul as she walks with all the saints in Paradise … and she was old. The young man made her get on the “rope” and slide down, I think. He probably thought he was just trying to save her life. I yelled up at her to hold on with both hands, even though one of her arms was hanging kinda useless. I ran up to where she would land and I held out my arms. I’m a strong kid. I shouted up to her, “Just a little farther!” She was half way down, but then she just hung there. That takes a lot of strength, with just one hand. I knew she couldn’t last long.
“C’mon! Slide! I’ll catch ya!” I shouted.
She had been looking up at the young man, but now looked down at me. She looked sick and tired. Brother Barnabas says the word is miserable. Well, miserable is how she looked. Oh, how I wish I had not said what I did next.
“Let go and slide,” I yelled. But she just let go altogether and fell. Right next to me.
On her head. She hit a railing first, bounced off and then banged down right next to me. She came so fast! Honest! I tried, I had my hands up. She was past my arms and on the ground before I could catch her. Next day the Herald said she landed on her shoulder and broke it, not her head. I’ve never before heard either break. But I have to tell ya. If you ever hear a head break, you’ll know it. It sounds like nothing else in the whole world. I don’t feel so good.

[fiona]

Fabulous, Dave, fabulous.

[dgriffin]

Should my "No. x" be No.1? The company the chemical engine came from, the first on the scene? No. 1 is mentioned as being on the scene in the Inquest writeup. They had the best record, but weren't they down on Broadway, whereas there was a closer department on Park between Eagle and Oneida Square?

[fiona]

Yes, Dave, the company that responded was on the corner of Eagle and or Park Ave, behind the library. From the time the alarm went in it was 3 minutes till they were on the scene. I will review the thread and see if there is anything different.