Dr. Andrew Jackson Sherwood and the Stone Quarry Road
The stone quarries of Erie County and the Atlantic & Great Western Railroad have a combined history. LeBoeuf and Union Townships have had the services of two railroads-the Philadelphia and Erie and the Atlantic and Great Western. The Philadelphia & Erie extends across the northeastern part of the townships for about three miles and the Atlantic and Great Western follows French Creek nearly to the center of the township where it deviates to flow through Mill Village and then returns to the valley further south.
Le Boeuf Station on the Philadelphia & Erie Railroad, consisted of some tenement houses for the railroad men, a number of farm houses and a long platform for hauling lumber and stone. Great qualities of stone were shipped from the nearby quarries.
The History of Erie County Pennsylvania, 1884, talks about several stone quarries. There was one called Wellman's Quarry which was located in the Carroll settlement near the old Le Boeuf Line. According to this history, the three operating quarries were Sengers, Henderson & Cautyis, and the Atlantic & Great Western.
Nelson's Biographical states that Le Boeuf possessed the largest and best quarries of building stone in Erie County. The bluff from which the stone was taken extended along French Creek from the old Dunlap place to opposite the farm of A.L. Tilden, a distance of about a mile. it averaged some forty feet in height. The stone was a blue sandstone of fine quality, more durable than the Berea Stone, but saturated with oil, which spoiled it for the highest class of work.
This history says that three quarries were opened. They were known as Sengers, Pasketts, and the Atlantic & Great Western. The Atlantic and Great Western Quarry yielded much of the stone used in the construction work by the Erie Railroad.
The Twentieth Century History of Erie County, Pennsylvania, says that quarrying has been engaged in for many years, but while the stone, a fine sandstone of good texture, is itself of excellent quality, it is impregnated with petroleum to such a degree that it can't be used for special projects. Instead, it is used for bridges and rough masonry. Most of the time it is used for foundation walls. The stone is taken from a bluff about forty feet high that extends along French Creek for a mile or so.
Dr. Andrew Jackson Sherwood of Union City sheds some interesting light on who quarried the stone and worked on the railroad cut in three articles that were published in the Union City Times. They are an eye witness account of the way things were at the quarry in the early Twentieth Century.
The Old Stone Quarry Road
by A.J. Sherwood
"About eight miles down the Stone Quarry Road, and for heaven's sake, hurry Doc!"
Although I involuntarily winced at the "Doc," the night phone call did not cause in me that acute suffering which usually accompanied such a summons. The words "Stone Quarry Road," acted as a soothing balm, and after a reassuring message to my unseen patient, I prepared for an immediate visit to the suffer's bedside.
It had been a trying day. probably no more so than many others I could recall, but still trying. In the first place, I had planned to spend a few hours on a favorite stream as the bass season was in, and reports had come, via the sportman's wireless, that the big ones were biting flies with gay abandon on nearby waters.
Accordingly, I had risen early. Oh, the vast difference between the sunrise hour with the prospect of fishing and the same hour when called from bed to make a professional call! Just as I was gulping down the second cup of scalding coffee the phone rang, and I nearly betrayed myself by answering immediately.
Instead, I delayed long enough to give a fair imitation of a fatigue drugged doctor just aroused from an honest slumber. I answered the call with a growling, "Well?" by which I hoped to convey a convincing impression of out-thrust chin and a chip on each shoulder, as well as a reasonable doubt as to the caller's mental and financial responsibility.
"This is the Hospital. Miss X insisted that I call you. She can't sleep and thinks she has gas in her colon." Miss X was an elderly neurotic, whose chief delight and sole occupation was the finding of new symptoms.
When these failed, she could always be relied upon to fall back on her old faithful, "gas in the colon," of which she had plenty, but unhappily not of a quality or quantity to be of commercial value.
"Tell her so have I, so have you, so has everybody," and I slammed down the phone, knowing that the message would not be relayed as with all her faults, the old lady was a valued contributor to the hospital.
Also, I must see her, as she was entirely solvent and seemed to enjoy paying for her eccentricities. Perhaps it was her only pleasure. So, after calming her fears and assuring her that no explosion was imminent, I looked in on another case or two, rebandaged a fractured skull, and reached home in time for a second breakfast with the family.
The day was warm and overcast, and although the mystic morning hours on the stream were already lost, I still had hopes of wetting a line, and had for the second time donned boots and fishing regalia, when again the phone clamored for attention.
Now there was need enough for hurry as a baby had investigated the possibilities of a basin full of hot water and had succeeded in parboiling a generous portion of its south polar region. After dressing the burn, lecturing the mother, and casting a despairing glance heavenward, I came once more to the office, determined to salvage what remained of the day for myself.
However, two accident cases were awaiting first aid, and by the time they were disposed of, with a few minor interruptions, lunch time was at hand and things piscatorial had vanished with the morning mist.
The stone quarries of Erie County and the Atlantic & Great Western Railroad have a combined history. LeBoeuf and Union Townships have had the services of two railroads-the Philadelphia and Erie and the Atlantic and Great Western. The Philadelphia & Erie extends across the northeastern part of the townships for about three miles and the Atlantic and Great Western follows French Creek nearly to the center of the township where it deviates to flow through Mill Village and then returns to the valley further south.
Le Boeuf Station on the Philadelphia & Erie Railroad, consisted of some tenement houses for the railroad men, a number of farm houses and a long platform for hauling lumber and stone. Great qualities of stone were shipped from the nearby quarries.
The History of Erie County Pennsylvania, 1884, talks about several stone quarries. There was one called Wellman's Quarry which was located in the Carroll settlement near the old Le Boeuf Line. According to this history, the three operating quarries were Sengers, Henderson & Cautyis, and the Atlantic & Great Western.
Nelson's Biographical states that Le Boeuf possessed the largest and best quarries of building stone in Erie County. The bluff from which the stone was taken extended along French Creek from the old Dunlap place to opposite the farm of A.L. Tilden, a distance of about a mile. it averaged some forty feet in height. The stone was a blue sandstone of fine quality, more durable than the Berea Stone, but saturated with oil, which spoiled it for the highest class of work.
This history says that three quarries were opened. They were known as Sengers, Pasketts, and the Atlantic & Great Western. The Atlantic and Great Western Quarry yielded much of the stone used in the construction work by the Erie Railroad.
The Twentieth Century History of Erie County, Pennsylvania, says that quarrying has been engaged in for many years, but while the stone, a fine sandstone of good texture, is itself of excellent quality, it is impregnated with petroleum to such a degree that it can't be used for special projects. Instead, it is used for bridges and rough masonry. Most of the time it is used for foundation walls. The stone is taken from a bluff about forty feet high that extends along French Creek for a mile or so.
Dr. Andrew Jackson Sherwood of Union City sheds some interesting light on who quarried the stone and worked on the railroad cut in three articles that were published in the Union City Times. They are an eye witness account of the way things were at the quarry in the early Twentieth Century.
The Old Stone Quarry Road
by A.J. Sherwood
"About eight miles down the Stone Quarry Road, and for heaven's sake, hurry Doc!"
Although I involuntarily winced at the "Doc," the night phone call did not cause in me that acute suffering which usually accompanied such a summons. The words "Stone Quarry Road," acted as a soothing balm, and after a reassuring message to my unseen patient, I prepared for an immediate visit to the suffer's bedside.
It had been a trying day. probably no more so than many others I could recall, but still trying. In the first place, I had planned to spend a few hours on a favorite stream as the bass season was in, and reports had come, via the sportman's wireless, that the big ones were biting flies with gay abandon on nearby waters.
Accordingly, I had risen early. Oh, the vast difference between the sunrise hour with the prospect of fishing and the same hour when called from bed to make a professional call! Just as I was gulping down the second cup of scalding coffee the phone rang, and I nearly betrayed myself by answering immediately.
Instead, I delayed long enough to give a fair imitation of a fatigue drugged doctor just aroused from an honest slumber. I answered the call with a growling, "Well?" by which I hoped to convey a convincing impression of out-thrust chin and a chip on each shoulder, as well as a reasonable doubt as to the caller's mental and financial responsibility.
"This is the Hospital. Miss X insisted that I call you. She can't sleep and thinks she has gas in her colon." Miss X was an elderly neurotic, whose chief delight and sole occupation was the finding of new symptoms.
When these failed, she could always be relied upon to fall back on her old faithful, "gas in the colon," of which she had plenty, but unhappily not of a quality or quantity to be of commercial value.
"Tell her so have I, so have you, so has everybody," and I slammed down the phone, knowing that the message would not be relayed as with all her faults, the old lady was a valued contributor to the hospital.
Also, I must see her, as she was entirely solvent and seemed to enjoy paying for her eccentricities. Perhaps it was her only pleasure. So, after calming her fears and assuring her that no explosion was imminent, I looked in on another case or two, rebandaged a fractured skull, and reached home in time for a second breakfast with the family.
The day was warm and overcast, and although the mystic morning hours on the stream were already lost, I still had hopes of wetting a line, and had for the second time donned boots and fishing regalia, when again the phone clamored for attention.
Now there was need enough for hurry as a baby had investigated the possibilities of a basin full of hot water and had succeeded in parboiling a generous portion of its south polar region. After dressing the burn, lecturing the mother, and casting a despairing glance heavenward, I came once more to the office, determined to salvage what remained of the day for myself.
However, two accident cases were awaiting first aid, and by the time they were disposed of, with a few minor interruptions, lunch time was at hand and things piscatorial had vanished with the morning mist.
Continued from last week)
Afternoon and evening were a repetition of the morning. Apparently everyone was doing his or her best to save me from overexertion and the perils of the deep, 'til I searched my soul for the answer to the question as to why I, or anyone of fairly sound mind, should choose the life of a country doctor as means of livelihood.
With the riddle still unsolved, I came at last to bed and just passed into that blissful land where telephones are prohibited and overstuffed bass were fairly quarreling in their efforts to seize my fly, when once more the buzzing bell sent out its SOS.
This time it was from the summer cottage of some city people and the message was to the effect that one of the party was near death's door in the last stages of smallpox.
Tired though I was, I could not repress a smile. City folks were always getting smallpox while on summer vacations. It usually appeared after a day of romping through sylvan dells scantily clad in close proximity to a certain three leafed vine of harmless mien.
After an hour in bed between woolen blankets, an early demise was eagerly awaited. Like seasickness, ivy poising passes through three stages - fear of death, indifference to it, and finally hope for a speedy exit. On inquiring for the way to the cottage, the frantic voice on the phone directed me to "Take the Stone Quarry Road eight miles, turn left at the lane leading to May's Mill, and for Heaven's sake hurry!"
The Old Stone Quarry Road! What memories it recalled! I had always loved it. At first as a child going over its length with father when he made his rounds, and later as a youth or young man on errands of my own.
Hunters and anglers used it, and lovers found in its quiet tree-lined course ideal spots for whatever lovers discuss. The old road meandered with seeming aimlessness in the direction of the setting sun, and seemed to discourage haste as it wove its way in needless curves through a partly wooded back country bordering French Creek.
About midway it led over a cliff at the base of which was the old quarry which gave it its name. Every sidewalk in town was laid with the Quarry's product which had the virtue of splitting into smooth slabs, each possessing a certain individuality which prevented monotonous repetition.
These slabs were known as flagstones and I grew up with the impression that the name derived from some fancied resemblance to a flag seen in their tinted streaks and blotches. Not until years later did I learn that "flage" was an old Norse word for paving stone.
The creek, which roughly paralleled the road, had once been the Redman's highway, and on its banks soldiers of France had built forts in their attempt to win this land from England. Now it was famous as the a haunt of black bass and muskelunge and home made flat boats replaced the war canoes of two centuries ago.
Following the stream on the right, and hidden from the road, wound the westbound track of the railroad, while in the left the eastbound line, built later, took a more direct route, with many cuts and fills.
It was during the building of the latter that there occurred many of the incidents which I always saw reenacted whenever pleasure or business took me along its course.
At intervals of a mile or more had stood the camps where lived the foreign laborers who furnished the man power while this not inconsiderable engineering feat was being accomplished. A husky crew they were - "Hunkies", Slavs, Italians, the camps of each nationality being separated as far as practicable; otherwise, the wars of ancient Europe were quite likely to be resumed on the slightest provocation.
I dressed leisurely for the trip and found myself dreading it not at all, as I glanced into my bag to assure myself that it contained an adequate supply of "smallpox" lotion.
At the first dip west of town, I came to a grove and could almost mark the tree where father tied the horse and with an air of mystery took from underneath the seat a long package which he handed to me with the remark, "It's time you learned how to handle a rifle."
The gun which the ten year old first used that day, still stands in his gun cabinet, and it served his boys when they, too, took their first lessons in marksmanship.
Jut beyond the grove lies the Townline Cut. A quarter of a century ago when steam shovels and dump cars were making merry in its depths, a hundred or more Hungarians lived on its rim. To the shack of one of these I was called one stifling day to see a sick baby. (Only the bunk house bosses enjoyed family life).
"Baby he no eat," was the diagnosis and history of the case as given by the father. I found a pale, spindly, two months old temperature, vainly trying to draw from a beer bottle a few calories and vitamins.
Frustration rewarded his efforts, as the once fluid contents had solidified, as milk will during the twenty four hours since the bottle had been filled, with the result that, "Baby, he no eat."
As the parents separately and collectively refused my offer to care for the child in my own home, or deprive him of the font of curdled nourishment, I reluctantly left him to his fate, which I surmised would not be long delayed.
Several years later at another camp, I saw this same baby, now a sturdy youngster, caring for two brothers. "Baby, he no eat." I wonder!
The Townline Camp had been singularly free from fatal industrial accidents, but of stabbing and shooting affray, there had been plenty as was the case in all camps.
At a short distance from it there had been an old farm house which housed a gang of thirty or more men. Here, one night a friendly family altercation resulted in one of the participants parting company without an ear.
On reaching the place a short time later, I was presented with the ear neatly wrapped in a soiled bandana, and was asked to "Sew him back." The victim presented the appearance of a sloop with a single spinnaker, sailing before a stiff breeze, and the "Meester doctor" lost considerable of his professional standing when he confessed that he was unable to restore the shorn off to his former beauty.
The construction company in charge of the work made itself responsible to the doctor for the care of injured employees, whether the injury was caused by the hazards of the job, or by club, gun, or knife.
In the latter case, however, the payment for services was deducted from the paycheck of the employee causing the damage. This resulted in my spending an unpleasant half hour contemplating the prospect of a knife in my personal insides.
The occasion was the aftermath of an epic battle at the Stone Quarry Camp. Several hundred men lived in this, the largest camp of all, and it was inevitable that men of different nationalities were herded together.
The bully of the camp was Jumbo, a gigantic "Hunky", who had on several occasions received an anemic pay check after the piper had been paid, until he suspected that he was the victim of collusion between company and doctor. In the battle alluded to Jumbo was joined in combat with a bantam weight Slav, whom he had early in the festivities caressed with a section of iron pipe with the result that a large area of skull bone was for the first time exposed to public gaze.
In spite of this severe injury, the smaller man had managed to secure a throat hold on his opponent and with commendable zeal, was slowly strangling him.
Before this desirable conclusion could be effected, bystanders separated the men and I was called to do the repair work. When I had finished, the timekeeper said, "Look out for Jumbo. He has a knife and is outside laying for you."
Fortunately, I had made the trip by horseback, my mount being a combination of polo pony, Texas Ranger, and bulldog which would allow no one but his master to approach him. He stood with his head in the door watching the clinic with deep absorption, and there, too, I stood, until Jumbo's sanity had partially returned.
As soon as he had revived far enough to prevent effective knife work, I lost no time in reaching the saddle, and thereby, home.
An urgent call brought me one day to a shack where "woman she have baby." Suspecting some obstetrical difficulty, I crowded in amongst the pigs, chickens, and milling humans to the bedside of a dark skinned madonna with a swathe-bound infant at her side. One hand held a nearly empty whiskey bottle, and she gazed upon the scene with double vision and an air of complete indifference.
Suspecting that I must have missed a detour sign, I was about to leave when from under a blanket at the foot of the bed there came a sound suggestive of gastric unrest. Still puzzled, I probed among the bed coverings, and finally exposed an old woman with a neat slit under he left shoulder blade from which air and blood were issuing in a frothy mixture.
Inquiry elicited the information that she had spent the preceding night at the home of the expectant mother and on returning to her own hearth in the morning, her spouse, suspecting some marital unfaithfulness, had meted out his version of justice.
When explanations had been forthcoming the contrite husband fled to the bush, the woman finally recovered, and the business of life proceeded as usual.
John Pavolitz, at his home in Hungary, had heard glowing reports of the golden opportunities in America. In that land of promise all that was necessary, it seemed, was a strong back and two hands capable of grasping a pick or shovel. so he worked long hours of at whatever offered, and in two or three years, with some financial assistance from an uncle, he accumulated enough for a passage to the United States.
To save this amount he had scrimped on food, and on the long trip by train and ship he had subsisted mainly on black bread, bologna, and coffee. After several months of odd jobs in and about New York City, a labor recruiting agency had secured his mark on the dotted line and with others he had been dumped at the Stone Quarry Camp.
Hard work, poor food, and other privations had done their worst, and John was in no condition to grasp a shovel. On my introduction to him, I found a pale, anemic husk of a man, scarcely able to stand with swollen blotchy limbs, and saliva dripping incessantly from his pudgy mouth and bleeding gums. He could "no chew."
I had not previously enjoyed even a nodding acquaintance with scurvy, nor had the modest vitamins been flaunted before an enthusiastic public, as now, but some Hippocratic whisper told me to give him scraped raw potato and lemon juice, and John was soon wallowing in the mud with the best of them.
Each mile of the old road recalled its past. Here lay a rock filled gully where rumor had it that at least five men were buried. A drunken orgy, flashing knives, and before dawn a body had been placed under a slab, and next day the steam shovel soon buried the victim still deeper.
Life in the raw, unhampered by due process of law. Primitive life, the survival of the toughest.
What led these men to leave home and country to sever the ties that must have taken deep root through centuries, and migrate to a foreign land? The work was hard, and after living and carousing expenses were deducted, could not have been dazzlingly remunerative, and yet they could later send for their families.
Very few Americans were found doing the heavier labor on these jobs, and where one was seen working with a gang of "Hunkies:, he was invariably on the down grade, while they were looking toward better things-eventually a plot of ground and a home. Hard work and hard living-before the alphabetical monstrosities of a paternal government had made men forget that honest work should go with an honest wage.
Now the path took a wide sweep away from the railroad and followed the edge of the creek for several miles. Here was the scene of a successful battle with a five pound bass.
Close by, our canoe had been wrecked, leaving three of us stranded in a tree top, when we had attempted a trip in the icy flood of early spring.
a little further down a noon time fire had exploded the flat stone on which it had been kindled, heaving lunch, coffee pot, and frying pan into the creek, on the occasion of another canoe trip. The light shining in that window across the fields burns in the home of a man whom surgery has but recently helped back from a trip far down the Valley of the Shadows.
For this next bend I can just make out the outline of a giant maple, a favorite stop of mine. At its foot years go, a girl gave me her "Yes," and even now we never pass it without remembrance.
To those who know them, roads are more than mere highways. They are, rather, pages of life and each one writes his own history upon them; until finally a drive through well known country is like turning the leaves of a diary. comedy, tragedy, victories, defeats, all are found there, and to none are they more clearly marked than to the country doctor.
He sees the pages illustrated with scenes of winter as well as summer, and of night as well as day. Together they picture his life.
Musing on such thoughts as these, I had well nigh forgotten the object of my journey. In a short half hour I had reviewed many of the events of two score years, and it was with somewhat of a shock that I came to the land and "turned left" to May's Mill.
I fear I hadn't hurried, but my leisurely coming was justified when i found that my phone diagnosis had been correct. After my patient had been made comfortable, I arranged for one nurse for her and two for her parents, without the necessity of a smallpox quarantine.
A late moon lighted the return trip and yielding to a sudden impulse, I turned the car into a little used byroad that led down through a heavily wooden ravine and came at last to the quarry.
The silence at first was unbroken except by the faint murmur of the stream. Then from a nearby pool frogs croaked their warning, "Go round," and sleepy birds chirruped in their protest at my intrusion.
No stone had been quarried here for a hundred years; thick trunked trees stood where once men labored with sledge and drill, and leafy vines covered the face of the cliff as though to conceal its scars. At least once every summer I made this little pilgrimage and always as now, it brought me peace and a forgetfulness of the worries and annoyances of the day.
I turned to cross by the old bridge, and saw the gravel bar where years ago a nine year old boy danced in excitement as he called, "Don't lose him, daddy, don't lose him" to a man struggling with a leaping bass.
Daddy didn't lose him. He later formed a larger part of their supper when the sport was over. But before many months he lost the boy, and through the years he made of their picnic ground a shrine, and of his visits, a ritual.
Oh well, it hadn't been such a bad day. To have health, friends, to be of a little service to others, perhaps I had found part of the answer after all.
I do not know if others have found their path to peace along some old country road. Theirs may lead through books, or music, or art. But whatever form it takes it should have character, and must be living, or else they have not lived. And it should lead, as mine, toward home.