The Conversion of John Humphrey Noyes

Early on I realized that if I wanted to understand the Oneida Community I had to learn what I could about its visionary leader, John Humphrey Noyes. Older community descendants that I met generally had a favorable impression of him. I assumed their impressions were mostly influenced by their parents, but their parents' generation, if they had known him, had known him only as young children. Some of their grandparents knew Noyes quite well, but the details of that knowledge seemed to me not to have been well preserved.

At the top of the main staircase in the Mansion House hang two portraits in oils: JHN and Harriet Holton, whom he married in 1838, ten years before the Oneida Community was founded. They stare out impassively, formally, not revealing much of themselves.

How then can anyone today understand the character of John Humphrey Noyes? He left an extensive record of his religious beliefs: books, articles, tracts, and pamphlets. He frequently gave lectures and “Home Talks.” As I read through this immense record I kept expecting to encounter something that would clearly reveal his motives or his personality. Noyes wrote about his beliefs in great detail, but he was not often self-reflective. Accordingly, much of what I know of him is conjecture based on his writing and the writings of those who knew him. Today's post focuses on how he came to adopt the core beliefs that ultimately led to the founding of the Oneida Community.

John Humphrey Noyes was born September 3, 1811 in Brattleboro, Vermont. His was a fairly well-to-do family. His father, also named John, owned a general store in Brattleboro called Noyes & Mann and served a term in the US House of Representatives. He was a cousin of Rutherford B. Hayes who would later become President. His mother, Polly Hayes, was sixteen years younger than his father. By all accounts she was a deeply religious woman. She claimed to have prayed before John Humphrey's birth that someday he might become a minister.

Young John H. Noyes apparently did not share his mother's religious devotion. He entered Dartmouth College in 1826 intending to become a lawyer, graduating in 1830. He then apprenticed himself to Larkin G. Mead, Esq. of Chesterfield NH, the husband of Noyes' oldest sister, Mary. As was the custom in those days before the advent of law schools, aspiring lawyers would “read” law for a few years with a practicing lawyer, then start to practice.

The first three decades of the 19^th century was a time of profound social change in America. The population exploded from five to thirty million. The Louisiana Purchase vastly expanded the geographic reach of the nation. The early phases of industrialization began in the northeast. People were on the move. Canals, roads and then railroads crisscrossed the land. Towns and cities grew. Great numbers of people started to migrate west. The course of our relatively new nation had not yet been firmly set. Anything seemed possible.

One result of the uncertainty created by these massive social changes was a new religious fervor. In my view the rise of a new evangelical christianity, generally labeled “perfectionism,” was a response to a new American spirit of optimism and openness to possibility. The dark Congregationalist view of sinners in the hands of an angry God was supplanted by the idea that salvation can be achieved by living a righteous life. Historians call this religious movement, based on the idea of the perfectibility of the individual believer, the Second Great Awakening.

At his mother's urging, Noyes attended a four-day revival meeting in Putney, Vermont, under the ministry of the most famous perfectionist preacher of the time, Charles Grandison Finney. He was just 20 years old when he converted to evangelical Christianity on Sept. 18, 1831. Within the month he had enrolled in the Andover Theological Seminary. Then in August 1832 he transferred to the Yale Theological Seminary, arguably the leading school for religious training in the country. He finished the basic course of study for the ministry in August 1833 and received his license to preach.

While at Yale, Noyes began to question the basic Congregationalist doctrine that everyone is essentially sinful and can only be saved from damnation by the unknowable grace of God. Instead he adopted Finney's view that salvation from sin is accomplished at conversion. Noyes came to believe that God would not expect the impossible from believers, and that the moral perfection God demanded could be accomplished by living a righteous life. Perhaps one of the reasons Noyes adopted this doctrine was the fact that he never could summon up from within himself any genuine feeling of deep guilt or despair that he felt must accompany the reality of original sin.

As part of his Bible studies at Yale, Noyes also reached the conclusion that the second coming of Christ and the final judgment day predicted in the Bible had actually arrived without fanfare in 70 A.D. This conclusion was based on his interpretation of Christ's prediction that the millennium would arrive within one generation. Deriving the date of the millennium from Bible sources was a recurrent theme in revivalist preaching in the early 19^th Century, most famously with the Millerites (the original Seventh Day Adventists). The significance of the belief that the millennium had already occurred was that some part of the population unknowingly had their original sin absolved, and thus they were now spiritually capable of leading lives free from sin.

Noyes had been attending services at the perfectionist-influenced Free Church of New Haven. At the evening service on Feb. 20, 1834 Noyes announced his perfectionist views to the congregation. He confessed that at his conversion he knew he had truly been saved from sin, and that he knew it was possible for persons so converted to lead a life free from sin. In memory of the day Noyes publicly embraced the doctrine of perfectionism, members of the Oneida Community marked February 20 with a celebration called the "high tide of the spirit."

News of Noyes's statements immediately became known throughout the Seminary. In April 1834 he was summoned for questioning. When Noyes would not recant or admit any error, the church authorities revoked his license to preach and expelled him. This prompted Noyes' famous saying, "I have taken away their license to sin and they keep on sinning. They have taken away my license to preach and I keep on preaching."

Between 1834 and 1838 Noyes traveled, preached and wrote extensively. The manner in which he assembled the practical elements of his own version of perfectionism will be the subject of another post.

OC - First Visit

My first visit to the Oneida Community Mansion House was in June 1988. I had arrived in Central New York only a few weeks earlier to seek my fortune as a small town lawyer. I was thirty nine years old. I tried law practice for two years in Vermont, but it turned out not to be right for me. A close friend, EveAnn Shwartz, was the law partner of Paul V. Noyes. She convinced me (and her partners) that it made sense for me to join their three-person law firm on a part-time basis. I moved to Hamilton to help EveAnn operate the satellite office there. Paul ran the main office in Sherrill with Randy Schaal. The second time I met with Paul, he took me to the Mansion House for lunch.

As we drove through the little city of Sherrill, Paul made occasional obscure references to “the Company,” “the CAC” and “the Community.” Since I am something of a history buff, I had a vague recollection of the Oneida Community as one of the more successful 19^th century religious utopian communities that sprung up everywhere just prior to the Civil War. It had not occurred to me that there would be any remnant of this religious community a hundred and fifty years later or that Community buildings were actually located near-by.

We crossed a little bridge. Paul announced we had entered “Kenwood.” He pointed out a little side street curiously called “The Orchard” and the shingled house where he grew up. A grand brick building that looked as though it had been air lifted in from Harvard was identified as “the Sales Office” of Oneida, Ltd, the famous silverware manufacturer. We turned right into a little lane passing woods on the left and a few houses backed by a golf course on the right. We soon drew up behind a very large brick building and entered by the back door. The large room we entered was mostly empty of furniture except for a couple of round tables and built-in benches along two sides under the windows. Paul tossed his hat and coat on a bench and walked over to some pigeon-holes along the inside wall. He checked his slot in the bank of old-fashioned mail boxes next to the bulletin board. Some living room furniture was arranged around a stone fireplace at the far end of the room. Paul gestured at the formal portrait over the mantel and said, “That's old PB, he saved the company.”

We passed through an arch on the right and crossed a small dining room. A couple of older women sat with their lunch at one of the tables. Paul took me over and introduced me to Betty Wayland-Smith and Barb Smith. I don't exactly remember now everyone he introduced me to that day but I seem to remember also meeting Jane Rich and Prue Wayland-Smith. Over the next few years these four lively Community descendents would prove to be valuable guides to me. The day after Thanksgiving this year (2010) I attended the memorial service of Jane Rich, the last of them to pass away.

We pushed through a swinging door and entered the kitchen. We took cafeteria trays and helped ourselves to a hearty salad bar. Behind a counter a cook pointed out what was on offer that day, simple, basic comfort food. As we ate in an alcove off the main dining room, Paul filled me in on some of the basics. He said he was a direct descendant of the founder, John Humphrey Noyes, or JHN as he familiarly referred to him as though he were still lurking about. After lunch Paul took me on a whirlwind walking tour of the house, winding through halls, past a beautiful library, up a wide staircase, past a glass Victorian “curiosity cabinet” and emerging in the Big Hall still set up for meetings as in the old days.

I was truly amazed. At the time I had no idea I would soon meet another community descendant, Merry Leonard, who is now my wife. I had no idea I would live for a decade in a house in the Orchard built close by the Mansion House grounds by Merry's grandparents. I had no idea I would one day be conducting tours of the Mansion House for visitors, or that I would for a time play a role in the effort to tell the history of the Community. All of this was still in the future.

What I did know on that day was that I had closely encountered an important piece of living American history. This was no re-creation or re-enactment. This was no museum display. Almost nothing was explained. It just was. I was astounded at the potent melding of past and present.

That day marked one of the most important turning points in my life, although I did not realize it at the time. Over time I've learned a lot about the Oneida Community. I'm still deeply fascinated by the sheer audacity of this particular utopian experiment and what it reveals about the human condition.

Over the next months I'll be posting the brief history of what I've learned.

Brainpower

The culture of Upstate New York is centered in its six largest cities. Five are strung along the Thruway as it cuts west from Albany to Buffalo following the track of the Erie Canal. Albany, the capital, has always benefited from a large number of state employees. Utica benefited from nearby giant Griffiss Air Base, breweries and numerous manufacturing jobs in small factories filled by hard working immigrants, mostly Italian. Syracuse was a transportation hub and center of manufacturing with Carrier air conditioners, Crucible Steel and General Electric. Rochester still remembers the heyday of Kodak. Buffalo has a deep history of manufacturing, shipping and electricity generation. Binghamton, the only major upstate city not on the Thruway, had IBM, Endicott-Johnson shoes as well as a host of other manufacturing giants. At one time Upstate was a very good place for a person with a high-school diploma and a good work ethic.

In the twenty or so years I've lived in central New York all of this manufacturing has been radically scaled back or just shut down. Griffiss Air Base closed in 1995. The cities that were built on manufacturing and transportation now survive on retail, education, prisons, health care and social services. The population has slowly declined as young people look for better opportunities elsewhere. Central cities have generally emptied out. Suburbs sprawl. Almost all the major local retailers moved to malls, only to be displaced by chain stores filled with merchandise made elsewhere. A small core of middle class people continue to live in the better urban neighborhoods, but significant parts of all six cities are steadily deteriorating. A high-school diploma no longer assures steady well-paid work.

All this is not news to anyone living Upstate.

Merry, Joli and I have lived in Strathmore, a stable old residential neighborhood on the west side of Syracuse, since the spring of 1999. Our early 1900s vintage home was inexpensive compared to similar space in the suburbs while being architecturally distinctive. We like our neighborhood a lot. It's only a mile from downtown where I work. On fine days I can easily walk home if I choose to. There is a bus stop right across the street, so we function well with just one car. We have a beautiful park with a big lake only a block way. It's convenient to attend the Symphony, Syracuse Stage and numerous other cultural events. Restaurants are plentiful, dozens within a few minutes drive. We shop at a near-by family-owned grocery and buy local produce at the giant year-round regional farmer's market. High quality health care is nearby. City services such as street cleaning and garbage pick-up are free. Sounds great, right?

Almost all our friends live in the suburbs or in the country. They say they need good schools. They want to avoid poverty and crime. They want their kids to be safe. They spend a lot of time commuting, but they say it's worth it. They get depressed driving through blighted city neighborhoods. I don't blame them at all for these views. Unfortunately, urban flight makes the city's problems worse. With less people there is less money for city services, parks, and schools. As higher earners leave, overall prosperity in the city declines. The city's problems become self-perpetuating.

This pattern exists in all six upstate cities to a greater or lesser degree. Nonetheless some cities seem to be doing quite a bit better than others in holding off and even reversing urban decay. Albany always seems prosperous to me except for the very heart of downtown. Rochester, Syracuse and Buffalo all have partly deserted old downtowns but have thriving center city cultural institutions that seem to be keeping the heart of those cities alive. Binghamton seems to be struggling mightily. Utica has a few remaining bright spots but seems to be sinking.

An interesting snapshot of the health of America's cities was recently published by the financial website Portfolio.com. They used the latest census data to compare the combined education and income of residents age 25 and older for the 200 largest metropolitan areas. They derived a “brainpower” index that allowed ranking based on deviation from the national average, i.e. the top 100 cities were above the national average. Index scores ranged from plus 3.941 for Boulder, Colorado, to minus 2.558 for Merced, California.

I extracted the data for the six Upstate cities. This is the result:

National                    Grad/Prof    College  Some college  High School No

Rank        Index        Degree       Degree    up to Asso.     Degree       Degree  Pop 25+

28 Albany       0.939    14.83%   18.33%     28.89%        28.33%        9.62%     574,255

49 Rochester  0.632   13.05%   18.61%    29.08%         27.90%       11.37%    686,413

72 Syracuse   0.342    12.13%   16.44%   30.28%         30.45%       10.70%     427,645

77 Buffalo       0.299    12.52%   15.69%   29.65%         30.91%       11.23%    771,830

87 Binghamtn 0.096   11.26%   14.66%    31.59%          32.35%       10.13%    166,467

171 Utica        -0.909   07.56%   11.24%   32.23%          35.07%      13.90%     201,014

The entire list can be found at http://www.portfolio.com/graphics/BrainiestBastions.pdf

Read more at: http://www.portfolio.com/special-reports/2010/12/01/methodology-of-portfolio-2010-survey-of-smartest-places#ixzz176L9h3ka

I found it interesting that five of the six Upstate cities ranked above average. Otherwise the index confirms my own impressions. Syracuse and Buffalo are doing a bit better than average probably due to colleges, hospitals and government services, but not nearly as well as Rochester and Albany. Binghamton is pretty close to the national average and Utica falls near the bottom.

When measuring quality of life, brainpower is not everything, but it does measure relative prosperity very well. Upstate has plentiful natural beauty and outdoor recreation. It has productive farmland. It has a rich and interesting cultural heritage. Nonetheless, I find these numbers tell a compelling story.

Joli in the Morning

It’s morning. Dark. Got to go out.

Toenails click on hardwood as I get him.

I smell his warm breath. I sense he has heard me.

Soft nose poke. Poke. His hand gropes for my head. Ah, he’s awake.

Joli, go lie down. Lie down. I’ll get up in a minute.

I return to my warm spot. I lie down and wait.

I can’t really go back to sleep.

Got to go out. I click over to him again. I stand still and stare. Soft poke. His hand, again.

OK, I’ll get up.

I trot to the top of the stairs and peer out the window to the darkened street. I hear him get out of bed and walk down the hall behind me. He enters the bathroom and turns on the light. I trot in as he sits down. He scratches me behind the ears. I move closer.

Good morning, my dog. Are you the best dog in the world? Come here, my dog.

More head scratches, then a full back scratch as he pees.

I turn around and he scratches right above my tail. Good. Goood. I wiggle my butt back and forth so he gets all the right spots.

Got to go out. I trot back to the top of the stairs. I hear him putting on his clothes.

I go back to check. He’s putting on his shoes. Got to go out.

Soft whine.

OK, I’m coming.

I run to the stairs and down. He follows. He turns on the lights, puts on his coat and stands by the stairs. I run up two steps to the landing and give him my head so he can fasten my leash. I jump down and race him to the door. He opens the door and we are out in the cold.

The morning smells and the fresh air bring me to full alertness. I raise my tail and trot to the sidewalk ahead of him. I smell Shepard tracks in the snow at the sidewalk. Male. Old.

Paw prints in the snow. Is it a cat? A skunk? I sniff carefully. I female dog I don’t recognize. I pee on the track.

I trot leisurely up the street. Is that a stick in the snow over there? I check. Yes. I grab it and tug it out. A stick. My stick. I show it to him.

Got a stick? Give me that stick.

He pretends to chase me. I pretend to run away. Small play growl. We trot up the street as he pretends to grab my stick.

He can’t get it. I run ahead with my stick. At the corner is a fireplug. A lot of dog sign here. I smell five other dog neighbors. Male Golden. Male Pit Bull. Male Boston Terrier. Female Pharaoh Hound. Female Pit Bull. I know them all. I pee by the plug as he catches up.

WAIT.

I stop and sit on the curb. I look down the street. There are never any cars out this early.

OK.

We cross. I stop at a street drain. I smell prey, small. Always here. I never see it.

A nearby large bush is a hiding place. More dog signs. The Shepard again. I drop my stick and pee.

We head back down the street. We approach the house with the cats. I slow.

Any cats today?

I stop and peer into the dark. There are many cat-sized shapes to watch. Any movement?

OK, let’s go.

I’m pretty sure that’s a cat on the porch. I stand completely still and look.

I don’t see any cats. Let’s go.

I think it moved. He tugs gently. I want to look some more. That’s a cat, I’m sure.

Come on, Joli. There are no cats today.

He starts down the sidewalk, reaches the end of my leash and pulls me firmly. That’s a cat, I know it. I don’t want to give it up, but he’s pulling me. That cat is watching. I’ve got to get it.

LET’S GO, JOLI.

He gives a sharp pull on my leash and my head comes around. I follow. I catch up.

There is more dog sign at the small garden wall. The same neighborhood dogs. I pee again.

We’re almost back. I grab a new, smaller stick. I turn to the street right across from home.

WAIT.

I sit and look up the street. Still no cars.

OK.

I gallop into the street with my stick. He chases after. Play growl, shake, louder play growl. He chases, hand out to grab my stick

GIVE ME THAT STICK.

I gallop. I shake the stick and gallop. He can’t catch me. We run into my yard.

I smell my own scent everywhere. I need to check for new smells. By the bird feeder I smell a strong scent of squirrels. Many squirrels. I look toward the trees, but nothing moves in the dark. I smell a neighbor cat, wait, two cats. More cat sign at the edge of the back deck.

We move back down the yard into the darkness. Snow crunches under paw.

Hop in, Joli. Go to the bathroom. Hop in.

I carefully walk into the garden. I sniff until I find a clean spot. I squat and poop.

Good dog. Take your time.

I’m finished and circle away. We run slowly back to the house and onto the porch. I turn and survey my street. Nothing is moving. I hear a car. I don’t see anything. He stands quietly next to me. We listen. Nothing. The breeze. Nothing. A small sound. Nothing. A cold brush of clean air. Listening.

OK, sweetie.

I turn and push my head against his leg. He unfastens my leash and opens the door. Warm air and my home smells pour out on us. We go in and he closes the door. Home.

Thanksgiving 2010

Dawn

The coldest morning so far this season

Across the valley directly east the Dome is silhouetted by a band of bright orange sky

Joli, my morning companion these many years trots jauntily up our block at my side

As the sky turns pink, the crisp air fills with thousands of crows

A light is on in our neighbor's kitchen

She's up early working on another festive family meal

I recall the many years my mother would rise at dawn to put the turkey in the oven

Her preferred way to express her love for her family

Last night near midnight I was wakened by the sound of heavy equipment

City workers removing the piles of leaves the neighbors have been stockpiling

I know as I drift back to sleep the season is turning inexorably to winter

Now the snow can come

I miss those long ago childhood Thanksgivings

My brothers and I no longer gather, now that our parents have passed on

I'm sure they will be reminded too, as they sit down today

We give thanks for what we have and what we have become

Electing Guardians

When I'm getting ready to vote, especially when there are numerous local, state and national candidates up for election, I turn to the League of Women Voters for help. Our local papers publish the “Voter's Guide” and post an easy to use electronic version on their web sites. I find it very helpful. For each candidate the Guide includes a picture, lists party affiliations, age, address, email, web site, birthplace, family, education with degrees earned, professional, political, military experience and community involvement. There is also a list of group endorsements. Each candidate is asked to provide short answers to three questions pertinent to their potential position.

This information helps me understand which candidates best share my interests, experiences and political views, but I fear it is too unwieldy for the average voter. For example in my Congressional District (NY 25^th) Dan Maffei [Democrat/Working Families, incumbent] is running against Ann Mary Buerkle [Republican/Conservative]. One's a lawyer with a degree from Syracuse Law, the other has a Master's Degree from Harvard's Kennedy School of Government. One's young, married with no children; the other is older, divorced with six children and 11 grandchildren. They are both Catholics. One was a Congressional staffer and on the Board of the Spanish Action League; the other is a Right to Life organizer and volunteers at a domestic violence shelter. While this information helps paint a fairly detailed picture of each candidate, it takes a lot of time to review, especially for all the candidates. In many cases it's pretty hard to compare candidates, kind of an apples and oranges problem. What is needed is a quick and reliable way to judge the basic competence of candidates.

Personally, I always prefer smarter candidates over those more intellectually challenged. Therefore, I suggest the League start to list every candidate's IQ in the Guide. I'd love to hear a candidate casually point out they are smarter than their opponent. “Vote Smart” could become a watchword. The League could offer free and reliable IQ testing. If a candidate refused to list their IQ, it would be taken as a sign that they are not particularly proud of it. I grant that not every Mensa member would necessarily be a good legislator, but at least I'd feel they have the potential to absorb information and make rational decisions.

Statements by certain candidates this year also have made me wonder if we ought to require all candidates pass the same US Citizenship test as is administered to immigrants. The questions are not all that hard and it would be a comfort to know that every legislator knew the basics of civics.

Finally, it occurred to me that any candidate for office ought to take a sort of civil service exam that would be scored by a non-partisan government agency like the Office of Personnel Management (OPM). OPM tests tens of thousands of civil servants every year. Everybody who takes a test for a particular position gets a score, then government employees are hired from the top score down. I'm sure a fair “legislative service exam” could be devised. Scores would be reported by the League and the voters could decide on who gets hired. No one would be disqualified by getting a low score on such a test. I'm guessing most voters would vote for the candidate with the higher score.

As I was mulling this over, I was reminded of Socrates' reflections on the education of legislators (he called them guardians) in The Republic. Plato believed that good government can only be achieved when legislators shared certain basic personality traits and knowledge. Without such a common background, they could not be expected to govern well and society would descend into a chaotic state where everyone fought simply to advance their own narrow self interest. Sound familiar?

I don't think members of Congress will ever be mistaken for philosopher-kings, but I maintain a faint hope that many actually are trying to do the public good. On Tuesday, please go out and vote. Until the League adopts my suggestions, do your best to pick the smarter candidate.

Fancy paper doilies

On a back street in Oneida, NY sits the shuttered Smith-Lee factory. The company was founded in 1898 by Charles A. Lee in nearby Canastota. Its original product was paper milk bottle caps. In 1899, Monroe C. Smith and Hurlburt W. Smith joined as partners and the name changed to Smith-Lee. Home delivery of milk in reusable glass bottles was growing fast in those days. Business boomed. Growth was so rapid that in 1900, the factory was relocated to Oneida, where a larger work force could be maintained.

The company prospered. In 1932 it stayed competitive by merging with a competitor, the Kleen Seal Corporation of Liverpool, NY, but retained the Smith-Lee name. After the end of World War II, with the introduction of the paper milk carton, the milkman and thus the milk bottle began to disappear. Smith-Lee knew it needed to diversify to survive. Its first new successful product was the disposable paper plate. Then in 1971 it acquired the Milwaukee Lace Paper Co., a leading manufacturer of paper lace doilies.

Over the next few years it became one of the preeminent providers of high end paper napkins, lace doilies, place mats and paper tablecloths for restaurants and country clubs across the nation. Finally in the spring of 2009 after 111 years of continuous operation it was acquired by a larger competitor, Hoffmaster Group of Oshkosh, Wis., and immediately closed. All 70 employees lost their jobs. Products bearing the Smith-Lee name are now manufactured by Hoffmaster. http://www.hoffmaster.com/AboutHoffmaster/History.aspx

I had quite a few Smith-Lee employees as clients during the 20 years I represented injured workers. Many of them had upper extremity injuries sustained in the process of making lace doilies, simply called “lace” by employees. Paper doilies are made using a punch press with a sharp die to cut stacks of paper into the desired patterns. Multiple large sheets of paper are positioned on the press, then BANG, they are cut into intricate designs. The machine operators then separate the resulting doilies by pulling the stack of paper to the edge of the machine surface and breaking them apart by pushing down all around the edges. The stack of separated doilies is then shaken to remove the small chad, then packed for shipping. Boxes of 1,000 doilies wholesale for between $50 to $150 depending on design. One operator can produce many thousands of fancy doilies per shift.

This process requires frequent and fairly violent use of the shoulders. After a few years of doing this job, operators tend to develop a problem called thoracic outlet syndrome. Thoracic outlet syndrome is a relatively rare condition caused by compression of a narrow space near the arm pit. Blood vessels and nerves coming from the spine pass through this small space below the collarbone and above the ribs. Frequent compression of this space from overuse of the shoulders pushing downward results in numbness and tingling of the hands, neck and arm pain, poor circulation in the arms and arm weakness.

The first client with thoracic outlet I had from Smith-Lee was a young woman in her 30s. She found a surgeon who promised her he could widen her thoracic outlet by removing part of her top rib. It didn't work. After several painful years during which she tried to recover, she retrained as a phlebotomist. Her arm and neck pain never went away. While I was still representing her, a second young woman from Smith-Lee came in with the same problem. She was also on “lace.” She didn't have the surgery and eventually got better with physical therapy. She also didn't go back to work at Smith-Lee. Next a middle aged man came in. He had worked at Smith-Lee for years making paper plates. When he hurt his back doing that, they put him in “lace” as his light duty job. He also developed thoracic outlet. He never worked again.

The pattern seemed compelling to me. I contacted the union steward at the plant and told him I felt that the “lace” job needed to be redesigned to be safer. He agreed but never got back to me. I called the adjuster at Smith-Lee's insurance company and told her the story. She agreed it seemed compelling. She got the company to agree to an inspection by an occupational safety expert. When the inspection showed “lace” to be causing the injuries, the insurance company required the factory to make changes as a condition of policy renewal. The factory changed insurance companies instead.

Now the factory is closed. Fancy paper doilies are made elsewhere, probably using the same process, causing the same inevitable, but avoidable injuries. It's something I think about every time I see one of those damn doilies. I can't help it. I know some of the victims.

Making Chocolate

I met a man this week who worked for years at the Nestlés chocolate factory in Fulton, NY. He started as a laborer in the “Liquor and Flavor” department right out of high school. Over the years he worked his way up to inspector in the same department. He was happy there and was good at his job. Then in 2003, Nestlés closed the plant.

In the world of chocolate, “liquor” is 100% cacao. It's the starting point for all chocolate products. To make liquor, the seed pod of the cocoa tree is harvested from plantations in the tropics. Each pod contains from 20 to 50 seeds. It takes about 400 seeds to make a pound of finished chocolate. After harvest, the fresh seeds are fermented for three to nine days to develop flavor, then the beans are dried for about a week. Dried beans are shipped to a factory where they are roasted for 30 minutes to two hours at high temperature, then the outer shells are cracked and removed. The kernel of pure chocolate that remains is called a “nib.” Some high end manufacturers further roast the nib to achieve a darker color and flavor. The nibs are then milled and pressed to liquify the cocoa butter and produce chocolate liquor (also called unsweetened). The remaining solid, “cocoa cake” is ground to make cocoa powders. Chocolate liquor is blended with sugar, butter, milk and other ingredients to produce the various types of chocolate: semi-sweet, bittersweet, milk chocolate, etc. Here is a good definition of each type: http://www.ghirardelli.com/chocopedia/varieties.aspx

At Nestlés in Fulton, chocolate liquor and many other ingredients arrived at the factory by rail and truck. The first part of the manufacturing process was “Liquor and Flavor” where the fellow I met worked. Here the raw materials were blended to make a paste. Chocolate refiners, a set of big rollers, crushed the paste into tiny flakes that determine the smoothness of the final product. The result is poured into giant vats (called a conch) to be heated and “conched.” Each batch of chocolate is constantly stirred for hours or even days. Conching reduces moisture, drives off any lingering acidic flavors, and coats each miniscule solid particle of chocolate with a layer of cocoa butter. Finally, the finished chocolate undergoes tempering, a heating and cooling process, that stabilizes the product. http://www.ghirardelli.com/chocopedia/making_manufacturing.aspx

As an inspector in liquor and flavor my informant used to test batches being conched for proper viscosity. He would scoop a sample out with a spatula and spread it on a glass plate. The number of thick lines that formed on the plate was used to determine moisture content. He would also test individual chocolate batches in a lab to be sure the percentages of the mixtures were right. He told me that the amount of flavoring was generally determined by weighing. For example, if vanilla needed to be added, large buckets of extract would be precisely weighted before being dumped into the mixture.

The Fulton plant is shuttered and empty now. Nestlés decided it was obsolete after over 100 years of production. The Swiss food giant opened its very first American factory here in 1899. When it closed, the last 467 employees had no other local place to work. All but one of the other factories in town, including a giant, nearly new, Miller Brewing plant, had already closed. http://www.nytimes.com/2003/05/02/nyregion/when-the-chocolate-melted-nestle-factory-closing-leaves-town-reeling.html?pagewanted=all My informant had to drive 35 miles to Syracuse every day to work making concrete blocks. He was back to working as an “unskilled” laborer at age 45.

Standing in front of the bank of abandoned loading docks last weekend vividly reminded me of another hot summer day back in the mid-1990s when Merry and I and friends toured the plant on what turned out to be the last open house factory tour. Even outside the giant plant the air was saturated with chocolate. Inside the oldest section of the plant every piece of woodwork had absorbed so much cocoa butter from the air that the wood was dark and oily. Signs warned the steps to the second level might be slippery.

Upstairs we marveled at the completely automated chocolate morsel machine. At one end a plate with a hundred or more tiny nozzles dipped to almost touch a wide moving conveyer. When the plate rose it left behind a hundred perfectly formed warm chocolate chips. The plate rose and fell about once every ten seconds. Thousands of small bits marched down the line passing through one giant refrigerator after another, each a few degrees cooler. The entire apparatus was at least a block long. At the far end the conveyer passed under a sharp edge freeing the morsels. Inertia carried them into a huge funnel. An endless river of cold chocolate chips poured through the floor around the clock to be bagged downstairs. Millions of chocolate chip cookies would be made with those morsels.

The entire place was spotless. The employees we encountered obviously took great pride in their work. This was the home of Toll House® chocolate chips. This was the birth place of the Crunch® candy bar way back in 1938. Now it's empty, another victim of mega-corporate efficiency. Before they decided to close it, here's what Nestlés had to say about the proud history of their Fulton operation.

http://www.sotherden.net/nestles/Nestles.htm

The little town of Fulton looks pretty ragged these days. Its largely working class population commutes or left town forever. This is the story of faceless capitalism all over America. I'm powerless to do anything about it. It makes me sad.

Watertown NY 7/22/10

The thumping, undistinguished rock music was almost loud enough to drown out the howling child seated with her large family at the table behind mine. It was Thursday at TGI Fridays. I felt dislocated. The décor contributed to my mood with its smash-up of Cracker Barrel and Hard Rock: a faded orange motorcycle seat, a fake road sign for Rock and Roll Avenue, a reproduction album cover from Abbey Road, tons of other detritus of popular culture from two or more decades ago hung haphazardly on a rough brick wall.

My waitress appeared. Drinks? I asked for draft beer. What size? What do you have? A small one and a big one. What's the difference? The big one is only a dollar more. I mean, how big is the big one? She didn't know. Her black tee-shirt advertizing the featured faux-Caribbean meals currently on the menu was accented with three Miller Beer caps with winking red LED lights.

Seated immediately in front of me was a young guy with very short brown hair dressed in Army fatigues. The current “dress” uniform is faded camouflage with the pants tucked into dust-colored boots. The patch on his sleeve marked him as a member of the 10^th Mountain Division stationed at nearby Ft. Drum. His round, clean shaven face suggested Iowa to me. A patch bearing his name, “Miller,” was sewn over his right breast pocket. When he got up to go to the men's room I could see he was tall, probably about 200 pounds and in good shape; every inch the soldier the Army wants staring out of its recruiting posters.

Specialist Miller was accompanied by a young, dark-haired woman who sat with her back to me. I never saw her face. She fiddled with her hair, restyled it into a fancy twisted pony tail and ordered a fruit drink off the Caribbean menu. Shortly after it came, her soldier sent it back. They had forgotten the banana. When the soldier came back from the restroom he playfully put his hand on his companion's head. She didn't flinch. The two of them seemed so comfortable in each other's presence I strained to look at their left hands to catch a glimpse of a wedding band. Nope. I wasn't surprised when the soldier complained to the waitress that their bill was wrong.

My food arrived. As I dug into grilled salmon with spicy kung pao sauce, I glimpsed a guy crossing my field of vision outside the window. Was he actually wearing a three piece suit to eat at Fridays?

My question was answered a moment later when this very slim young fellow and a slightly chubby woman friend were seated just across the room from me. She was causally dressed with a simple white blouse, tan capri pants and pink flip-flops. He, on the other hand, seemed straight out of Pee Wee's Big Adventure, absent the red bow tie. He was wearing tight, apparently brand new, dark jeans short enough to show light gray socks and shiny black pointed Italian loafers. On top he wore a jet black dress shirt with a silver tie and dark gray vest. A perfectly tailored gray shark skin suit coat with silver pocket handkerchief completed his ensemble. His black hair was as short as the soldier's but included a little flip at the right temple gelled in place. Horn rim glasses drew attention to his narrow face.

This couple fiddled with their menus. When their waitress approached, the young woman handed her a “Stripes” membership card entitling them to a free appetizer. I knew this only because my waitress had tried unsuccessfully to recruit me for a Stripes card a few moments earlier. While they waited for their food they fell into a highly animated conversation. He languidly waved his long fingers to emphasize points. Several silver rings accented each hand. His wide smile and perfect teeth flashed continuously. She seemed entranced by him, but not in a sexual way, more as a valued friend.

I finished my meal. I looked around the rest of the dining room. Most of the other people were dressed in casual clothes, a scattering of NASCAR shirts, shorts and jeans. None seemed to take any particular notice of Specialist Miller or Pee Wee. As I headed back to my hotel I wondered what these two very different men talked about with their women friends. What was the nature of each relationship? How was it possible that two young men with so many apparent differences could inhabit the same space-time continuum?

Never assume a place is not culturally diverse just because it's far from the center of the universe.

Gaspésie #4 – Reford Gardens and home

Merry and I love visiting gardens. Our long-standing desire to visit the historic Reford Gardens was part of the reason we decided to vacation in Gaspésie this year. We learned of this garden some years ago on our first visit to Frank Cabot's amazing garden, Les Quatre Vents, on the north shore of the St. Lawrence. You can get an idea of just how wonderful Cabot's private garden is at: http://www.northerngardening.com/public_gardens/les_quatre_vents.htm Les Quatre Vents is far and away the most beautiful and most interesting garden I have ever visited. When we found there was also an important garden on the south shore, we wanted to visit, but since it is much further down the river we had to save it for a separate trip. It took us almost ten years to return.

Day 7 - To Métis-sur-Mer

After hiking in the morning and a nice seafood (what else?) lunch we finally headed west on Route 132. I had settled on Métis-sur-Mer as a promising destination. In the nineteenth century this village was a favorite vacation spot for Scottish families from Montreal. The village is still composed of mostly English-style cottages with high privacy hedges. The village spreads along a large bay on the River with a picturesque lighthouse at the western end. We looked at an inn in the village center, but decided instead to stay in a very private small cottage right on the river at Auberge Métis-sur-mer www.aubergemetissurmer.qc.ca/bienvenue_en.htm. From our porch we could see some small rocky islands and the lighthouse. Seals occupied the rocks further out. We were the only diners at the superb restaurant maintained by the Auberge: poached salmon with baby shrimp. The meal was perhaps the best we've had on this trip of very good fish dinners. We fell blissfully asleep despite the bright green light that flashed across the bedroom, three flashes in an row, six times a minute, warning sailors along this rocky coast.

Day 8 - Reford Gardens at Grand Métis

After a nice breakfast at the Auberge, we drove about 5 minutes west to Reford Gardens http://www.jardinsdemetis.com/english/. A giant Adirondack-style chair marks the entrance. This is largely a woodland garden built along the banks of a stream. Because of the compressed late spring this far north almost every conceivable spring flower was in full bloom when we visited. There is an impressive azalea garden. I was also impressed by the gentian garden as well as a nice collection of primulas in full bloom. Of course, we saw the famous Himalayan blue poppy that is the garden's trademark. At the heart of the garden, on a lawn with a belvedere overlooking the River, is the summer home of Elsie Reford, the original designer of the gardens. An extensive exhibit in the house shows how 19^th century robber baron wealth was used to transform this place into a pleasure ground for wealthy Anglophones from Montreal.

The garden is now a non-profit directed by Elsie Reford's grandson, Alexander. In recent years the garden has hosted an international garden design festival that, unfortunately, was not yet open when we visited. One piece from an earlier festival was set up on the main lawn. It consists of a dense group of blue stakes of various heights painted different shades of blue and orange on each side and set up to walk through. The effect is hypnotic and fun. I had to laugh as I heard some folks from a bus tour walk up and remark, “It's just sticks.” One serious fellow heard me laughing and noted, “some people are easily amused.” We wandered through a collection of other more traditional contemporary sculpture. We both agreed sculptures made of rounded boulders tightly contained in rusted steel by Jean Brillant were especially wonderful. Finally, we relaxed with some nice salads in the garden gazebo (green beans and onion for me, smoked mackerel and potato for Mer).

We both liked this garden. It has charm, is nicely laid out and very well maintained, yet we agreed that it does not qualify as one of the great gardens of the world. It aspires to this greatness, and may someday achieve it. It was a very pleasant way to spend part of our day.

Back at the Auberge I indulged myself with an hour massage by Lise, then a light supper of fresh baked bread, salad and a savory mushroom soup. We watched the tide come in one last time.

Day 9/10 – Home again

We reluctantly leave the Auberge after breakfast. We need to make miles today. We hope to get at least to Montreal by nightfall. We stop briefly near the village of St. Denis to look at the long dike built to recover marshy fields. On to the small town of La Pocatiere where we have a very nice lunch at Cafe Azimut. Merry visited her sister, Nora, in small this town with a major agricultural college back in 1971 while Nora was attending French language Peace Corps training before being posted to Africa. We get back on the highway and after some hairy driving in a thunderstorm we pull into the Comfort Inn at Boucherville, a suburb of Montreal, about 4:30. We're up early the next day and make it to the bridge at Ogdensburg before lunch. Because of our long trip through Quebec we expect problems at customs, but this doesn't happen. When I say we are bringing back some smoked salmon, the customs agent helpfully does the math to show we have well less than the 50 pounds allowed. We pass the time traveling south on I-81 trying to imagine a utopian novel that would include all our progressive values. Home at last, we meet our dog sitter, Mary, as she is just finishing her last visit. Joli is happy to see us. Ah!

Gaspésie #3 – the National Parks

One of the primary goals of this trip was to visit the three amazing Canadian National Parks located on or near the peninsula: Ile Bonaveture, Forillon and Gaspésie.

Day 4 – Parc National de L'Ile-Bonaventure-et-du-Rocher-Percé

We wake up briefly at 3:15 am to see the first light of dawn on the Rocher Percé. At 6:00 we wake again to watch lobstermen pulling pots right in front of our room. We have coffee, croissants and home-made strawberry jam at our motel, then walk to the town wharf to board a boat. First, we circle the Rock then head out and around Ile Bonaventure, a wedge shaped island just a couple of miles off shore. I briefly spot two minke whales in the distance. As we approach the cliffs on the ocean side of Ile Bonaventure we see grey seals hauled up on the rocks exposed at low tide. The air is filled with large numbers of pelagic birds: common murre, razorbill, and black-legged kitiwake but mostly thousands of northern gannet. The high red cliffs on the ocean side of the island are literally covered with nesting gannets for about a mile. These beautiful large white sea birds with black wingtips are graceful in the air. In the latest bird census it was estimated that there are more than 60,000 breeding pairs of gannets here, plus scores of unmated juveniles. We land at the restored historic fishing village on the bay side of the island. After a ranger orientation we get lunch at the snack bar built in the 19^th century fish station. Barrels of salt cod used to be stored here waiting for shipment to Europe. After touring the restored offices of the cod company, we hike across the island to the cliff-top gannet colony. The trail exits the woods right in the middle of the colony. The sound of thousands of big sea birds is incredible. We can stand within 5-10 feet of the birds. They don't appear to notice our presence. Standing on the observation deck right in the middle of thousands of nesting gannets is an experience I'll never forget. We hurry back to the dock, but miss the boat. I relax in the sun while Merry explores the old fishing village. A modest seafood dinner back in Percé at Surcouf ends a perfect day. I strongly recommend everyone take a look at Merry's fabulous photographs from this day found at http://merryatsyracuse.blogspot.com

Day 5 – Forillon National Park of Canada

The day dawns clear, but quickly clouds up. By 7:00 the wind comes up and small, hard rain storms blow through. By 8:00 the showers end but the wind increases to 30-40 mph. We head north up the coast, pass the small city of Gaspé and enter Forillon National Park. We reflect on just how far it is by road to Forillon from Percé. They look close together on a map, but the road circles two large bays making the trip at least an hour. Next time we plan to stay nearer the Park. Our original plan for today was to take a whale watch from Forillon out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. When we reach the nearly deserted boat dock at 9:30 we discover the tours are canceled due to rough seas. By this time the skies have cleared but the wind continues to pick up. We drive out to where the road ends on Cap Gaspé then tour the restored Anse-Blanchette homestead. Three interpreters in the colorful seaside fisherman's house dressed in costume from the 1920s are eager to help us sink into the atmosphere. The small barn against the cliff has some chickens, three cow milking stalls and old farm equipment. Another outbuilding houses and explains a cod salting operation, even offering a sample. Down in the rocky cove it is easy to imagine setting off in a small boat into the crashing waves for cod fishing.

A little ways on at a cove called Petit-Gaspé we stop to watch seals playing in the surf only a few yards off the beach. Then we drive through the forest to the north shore visitor center to take in the natural history exhibits there. Finally we drive to Cap-Bon-Ami, an overlook from which we can see the cliffs at the end of Cap Gaspé. There are small seabird colonies in the cliffs here, mostly black-legged kitiwake with a few cormorants, some razorbills, black guillemots and harlequin ducks. Gusts of wind literally strong enough to knock me off my feet cause little trouble for the birds. We hike a ways down the beach then back to the shelter of the car. The wind truncates our exploration of this spectacular park. Back in Percé I hit the grocery store to stock up on local smoked salmon and local beer to bring home. We have dinner at Table de Roland. Mer opts for Cod a la Gaspésie (broiled with onions and bacon). I have good poached salmon with tomato cream sauce. Tomorrow we head inland to explore the Chic-Chocs.

Days 6/7 – Parc National de la Gaspésie

After a last croissant at the Motel Fleur de Lys we check out and drive down the south coast for about 100 miles to New Richmond. We gas up, then stop at the local information center. The kind woman at info center tries to help us get a reservation at Gite du Mont-Albert, but no luck with either internet or phone. She does correct my pronunciation of “Gite.” These small holiday accommodations are everywhere in Quebec. To be understood you have to say “jit.” She also tells me that we should ask about “forfait” at the Gite. We drive inland right along the Cascapedia River, one of the premier salmon fishing streams in Canada. Several times we catch a glimpse of people using large green, wood and canvas canoes, with three or four occupants, for fly fishing. We see one such boat anchored in a small rapid with two men as paddlers, one guide in a suit, vest and fedora, and one fly fisherman. We reach the Gite about noon. This is no simple holiday cottage. It's a magnificent wilderness lodge. The only comparison I can think of are the historic lodges at the Grand Canyon and Zion. It's located right at the foot of 2^nd highest peak in the Chic-Chocs, Mont Albert. The highest peak, Mont Jacques-Cartier, is nearby. When booking our room I ask about forfait. It turns out forfait means “all inclusive.” For about $250 [compared with $125 for the room only] we got a large room overlooking the mountain, a four course gourmet dinner and a hugh breakfast buffet.

We spend the afternoon wandering around, taking in the mountain atmosphere and checking out the visitor's center. Dinner at the lodge is wonderful. After a good night's sleep we decide to take a short morning hike. We drive a dusty dirt road to the trailhead for Lac aux Américains, a crystalline lake in glacial cirque. This trail climbs quite steeply for about 1.8 km, but has been so well maintained that it's not really a hard hike. There are few other hikers. When we reach the top we find a pile of still unmelted snow right by the trail. The lake is surrounded by a crescent of jagged mountain ridges. We are quite close to Mont Jacques-Cartier but the trail there is closed to protect the small herd of woodland caribou that live on the plateau near its peak. We stop to view the chutes (waterfalls) de St. Anne then descend to the village of St. Anne des Monts. We pull up for lunch at Poissoniere de Quay, a combined fish market and resto. I finally get to try a homard club sandwich; just an ordinary club sandwich but with lobster instead of ham or turkey. Yum.