Woven In Time

Woven In Time

By John R. Greenwood

Click Here:
Window of the Dubois House on Huguenot Street, New Paltz 

my stories come to me

sometimes

I go to them

they weave themselves into my day

and night

always forming something more grand

than the last

I carry them with me 

gently

my stories come from 

other stories

other places

other beings

like antique baskets 

faded

yet strong enough to 

support the past

each life entwined  

touches another

hand in hand
arm in arm

in towns

thru villages 

along a river's edge 

the time has come

to return there

quietly 

to witness those 

who never left 

Dina Dubois: Found By Phone (Part Two)

Dina Dubois: Found By Phone (Part Two) 

By John R. Greenwood

Click here: The Dubois House on Huguenot Street 

 Google provided the number. Experience and a passion for story telling and writing provided the courage. It was a good thing I had taken a couple of extra days off this week because this story couldn’t wait. If you read my last post you will enjoy this one more. If you are new to the blog you may want to go there, then come back. Either way it’s an interesting package that continues to provide joy to the author. 

So, I find a Dina Dubois listing and phone number in Vermont. This must be the person I'm looking for. Dina was referenced in a book called The Hudson River by Jack Lewis. He self published the book in 1964. The story that mentions Dina was written in 1962. My hope was to find Dina and ask her if she recalled the meeting with Jack and see if she may have any related material on it. He mentions painting a picture of her wrapped in an sari. My thought was maybe, just maybe, she might have that painting? I was close but no cigar. 

Port holes as described on the sign

I mustered up the courage and dialed the phone. A male voice acknowledged I did indeed have the home of Dina Dubois. He was gracious and friendly. He said that Dina was out for a walk with friends and that if I could call back in about 45 minutes, he was sure Dina would like to speak to me. I had briefly explained the reason for my call and when I mentioned Huguenot Street and the Bevier-Elting house he assured me she would want me to call back. It was like a teaser on the nightly news, I was riveted to the phone. When I told my wife I had actually made contact she said the polite thing to do was give her at least an hour so as not to be a pest or intrusive. I complied but before the hour was up my phone rang and I recognized the number to be the one I had just dialed. I nervously fumbled with the handset. 

“Hello”, I said, loud with anticipation and little boy excitement. 

“Yes, is this John?”

“Yes, Dina Dubois?” 

“Yes, I’m Dina Dubois and my grandfather Jesse did live on Huguenot Street.” 

Bingo! The connection was complete. 

After politely correcting my mispronunciations of the names Dubois, Bevier, and Elting we took off on an hour long conversation that I’m sure could have continued into the wee hours of the morning had we not both been so tired and drained from the excitement of relaying both of our stories to each other. She was a delight to speak with and her interest in history and the stories that help keep it alive only made our phone time more special.

Dina was surprised by how I found her. She couldn't believe she'd never heard of Jack’s book and that he'd written about her specifically. As we talked more about the time frame and the one paragraph in the book that spoke of a woman from New Paltz College arriving to instruct others on painting she became silent. You could sense that she was rewinding a fifty year movie in her head. I was reading the passage to her over the phone and when I got to the part where Jack describes the instructor from India wrapping Dina in, “yards and yards of the loveliest of colored cloths.”, she uttered an “Oh my.” She went on say that she was certain she had a picture from around that time period that shows her wrapped in an Indian sari--a colorful one. She said she was tempted to start looking for it right then and there because she was so taken by the passage. She also recalled attempting a couple of paintings using a palette knife at the time. She couldn’t recall if those paintings of hers still existed but she wasn’t counting out the possibility. After reading the text and hearing her describe her extroverted father being there, we came to the conclusion that maybe he mentioned his daughter's paintings and asked Jack if he might take a look at her work. It’s pure speculation but when you put all the pieces together that scenario seemed to make perfect sense. She admitted that she was consumed with many things at the time and probably didn’t pay much attention to the visiting watercolor artist. 

Dina was quite curious about the book. She wondered how I discovered it and what connection I had to the Hudson River. She was surprised she had never heard of Jack Lewis. I explained that Jack Lewis was from Delaware and that he had done a similar book on the Delaware River. Eleanor Roosevelt was so impressed by his book of that river that she invited him to their home. It was there that she asked him to do a similar book on the Hudson. When a former First Lady asks you to compile a book of writing and painting about ‘her river’ you don’t ask questions, you simply say, “Why of course.” and so he did. I told her the story about me finding the book in the Lyrical Ballad Bookstore, a used book store in Saratoga Springs. I told her how I walked in the door and it was the first book I pulled from a stuffed shelf full of musty gold. The book changed my life in some ways I told her. It has given me a path to follow. 

I told her that I learned to swim and fish in the Hudson. My friends and I would camp along it’s banks in damp sleeping bags under the stars. We’d free float the waters above Luzerne with no boat or tubes, just a half dozen teenagers clad in cut-off Levis, heads bobbing in the water, free-spirits drifting down the Hudson. That’s why I fell in love with Jack’s book, his stories and his paintings. 

When Dina and I were done reminiscing and comparing notes we exchanged contact information. She provided a couple artist’s names she thought might like to learn more about Jack’s book and his work. I can’t wait to meet her in person so I can thank her face to face for responding to my phone call. 

Today, I found Dina Dubois, and we both found so much 

more. 

Here is an added surprise for Dina. I did not notice this before but as I was finishing up this piece I opened Jack's book and looked at the Acknowledgements in the back. There I found one more thank you, one more piece to a fifty year old puzzle. 

The Bevier-Elting House or Finding Dina Dubois

The Bevier-Elting House or Finding Dina Dubois
By John R. Greenwood

New Paltz, New York 

I’ve found myself entwined in another curious Jack Lewis, Hudson River connection. 

My job is in transportation. I work in the Hauling Department of a local convenience store chain with locations throughout New York State. Many of them can be found in the small cities, towns, and villages along both sides of the Hudson River, from Lake Placid, which is within a few miles of the source of the Hudson, to Newburgh just a few miles north of it’s final destination New York City. Since my initial discovery of Jack Lewis’ “The Hudson River”, I have found and documented many of the same places Jack included in his 1960’s journeys. Some of them are actually visible from the parking lot of places I’ve delivered to hundreds of times. 

On August 22, 2014 I visited Historic Huguenot Street in New Paltz, New York. Twelve Huguenot families settled here in the late 1600’s. By the 1700’s many of them had built stone homes. Many of those homes remain today. They are well maintained and beautiful to behold. Although these homes are along the Wallkill River and not the Hudson, they were of special interest to Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. Franklin’s childhood home, Springwood Estate in Hyde Park, is just a few miles south on the banks of the Hudson. Since Eleanor Roosevelt is responsible for asking Jack Lewis to do his Hudson River book of paintings documenting places along the Hudson, I’m certain she felt it was important to include some references to the stone homes on Huguenot Street. It’s well documented that the Roosevelt’s had a special love for the stone homes in the area. 

On this day I planned to ride with one of my drivers on his route in the New Paltz area. When researching the location of Huguenot Street I “Googled” it. It was then that I realized that Historic Huguenot Street is only a block away from the New Paltz location where we would be making a delivery. I made sure I had my Jack Lewis book and my camera tucked away in my day pack. I met my driver at the Distribution Plant at 3:30am. The only thing left was to pray for the rain to stop and for the sun to come up early enough for me to catch a glimpse of one of the historic homes Jack painted in his book. 

When we exited the NYS Thruway at New Paltz the rain had stopped and it was beginning to get light out. I’d been on this route dozens if not hundreds of times. This store was actually on my route back in the 90’s when I was still driving and making deliveries but today had a special feel to it. 

I was like a little kid about to pull into the parking lot at Disney. It’s funny how something as simple as finding places another man painted fifty years ago could give you such an adrenaline rush. As we turned onto Route #32 I saw a sign I had passed one hundred times before and never noticed. Historical Huguenot Street was within my grasp. I asked my driver Pete to pull over to the side of now quiet Route #32.  I jumped out before he realized what I was doing. I yelled back to him, “I’ll meet you at the store!” I was grinning from ear to ear. 

My legs and joints were as stiff as a dry board from our two and a half hour ride, I hobbled down the street like an injured Harrison Ford with the Lost Ark in view. In less than 100 yards all I could see was historical markers and stone houses--some dating back to the late 1600’s. In the morning light I’d found my Holy Grail for the day. The Bevier-Elting House stood there with open arms welcoming me and my camera. She stood there strong and proud, in all her grace, staring back at me as if to say,”Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you!”

I was so excited that when I tried to pull Jack’s book out of my pack, I dropped my camera and it bounced across the pavement. I wanted the book out so I could compare the 1962 painting to the 2014 version that I was looking at. When the camera skidded to a stop, my heart did the same. If my camera had broken at that moment I may never have been heard from again. I lifted her gently, said a Hail Mary, and checked her vital signs. She's a tough little SONY. I patted her scratchy viewfinder and began clicking away.  I was in writer-photographer-historian-artist-heaven for awhile. The street was eerily silent, I was screaming for joy.

In this post I included various shots I took that morning comparing the book’s black and white photographs of Jack’s watercolor paintings done in 1962 to the photographs I was taking at 6:30 in the morning in 2014. 

I would tell you that discovering Huguenot Street and the Bevier-Elting House made my day but that would be lying. As if finding another connection to Jack’s Hudson River book wasn’t enough I later found yet one more that has me ready to set out on another story-mining expedition. In Jack’s book he speaks of a young girl whose painting he’s asked to critique. 

Here is an excerpt from the book where he describes the meeting:

"The Hudson River" - Jack Lewis 

I said to myself,”What are the odds of finding Dina Dubois, that young women from 1962?” It seemed reasonable. Google, now being man’s second best friend might provide some assistance. I sat down at computer, took a shovel full of dirt, tossed it over my shoulder, and began digging once again. Look out Dina Dubois where ever you are! 

 "The Hudson River" - Jack Lewis

One day later, the male voice on the phone responded to my question, “Is there a Dina Dubois who lives at this number who might have a connection to Huguenot Street?” 

The man said, “Why yes there is, but she’s out for a walk with friends right now.” 

He said, “She loves talking about her history with Huguenot Street so if you could call back in about forty-five minutes I’m sure she would enjoying speaking with you.”

As an old timer once said to me, “Wouldn’t that dunk yer hat in the creek!”

Did you ever notice how time drags when Dina’s out for a walk.

Tick tock

Tick tock

Tick tock

To be continued... 

Man In Hiding

Man In Hiding

By John R. Greenwood

I feel like I’ve been on the lam, peering out from the tallest corn, trying not to be seen, wondering what’s next, what on the horizon. In all honesty I think I just need a day off, a day with no problems to fix, nobody to worry about. Stress and worry can sneak up and kick the legs out from under you. I don’t think it’s anything serious but it always shows up when I am least prepared. I’d been writing about watercolor artist Jack Lewis and his book The Hudson River. I was on a roll and on the trail of a documentary about the man I have become somewhat obsessed with learning more about. I was excited about the people I’d found and the possibilities their stories might provide. Then, like life often does, I got mired down in work and some health concerns. No matter how hard I try not to let age touch me it won’t leave me alone. Just when I feel safe from it’s grasp, it shows up on the porch and tries to sell me a bill of goods. I tell it to go away and to leave me alone but It seems to find some joy in antagonizing me with unexplained aches and mysterious pains. I’m not complaining--just observing. 

So while riding the backroads of Washington County I caught sight of this old building hiding from the world. 

It spoke to me. 

It said, “Hey, I know what you’re going through. Don’t let it get to you. The world is a beautiful place. Some days it just looks different. That’s when you have to stand on your head and see what it looks like with your feet in the wind and your ear to the ground.”

So that’s where I am today. I’m refueling, refreshing and rethinking. It’s a necessary process that never stops. You can’t see what you want if you can’t see what you have. 

You can’t see anything if you’re hiding in the tall corn.  

A Little Boost

A Little Boost

By John R. Greenwood

Author Jenna Woginrich surrounded by fans and friends
Cathy and Tim Hoff 

I was in need of a little boost today. What better place to find one than a visit to a bookstore. Don’t laugh, Saratoga’s Northshire Bookstore’s Saturday evening guest author Jenna Woginrich is the queen of inspiration. She can lift the spirits of anyone within 100 feet with her with her eight cylinder, high performance personality. Her life’s story is enough to inspire anyone who has ever faced adversity or the unknown. I first met Jenna at Battenkill Books when her book Barnheart came out a few years ago. The strength she exudes with her unwavering resolve to live her life on her terms is enough to make this 6’, 250lb man look like a 6 year-old who just missed the turtle bus. The moment Jenna begins talking about Cold Antler Farm, her animals, and her dream, she has your admiration and respect. You can’t help but cheer for her every time she overcomes another spike-strip in her path. 

Most mentors and teachers are older with decades of life experiences under their belt. Jenna is the young exception. She must have been born reading the directions for self-reliance and courage. Even if she whispers just a hint of trepidation today, tomorrow she bounces back like an over-inflated basketball. As I proceed into the fall of my life I am drawn to these personalities. They recharge my batteries when my ambition begins to ‘whine’ down. I feel privileged to have access to personalities like Jenna. That is one reason I am infatuated with the internet. Not only can I read about people with high octane spirits I can actually read their work with just the click of a mouse and a visit to the land of Google. 

People who follow their dreams out past the edge of town give me hope that my own story still has possibilities. I approach every day with the thought of seeing what it brings me. I have made decisions that dictate that I can’t just jump off the tracks and go searching blindly on my own. The choices I’ve made to this point have consequences and involve more than one person. At this stage of the game it’s a chess game of action based on priorities. You do what you can, when you can, in your journey to personal satisfaction and reaching your life's goals. It would be irresponsible to approach it any other way. It’s a tight-wire act balancing priorities with the clock ticking much faster than it used to. 

Snake Draped Men and Seven Foot Rabbits
The New Broadway 

For now I focus on accumulating a list of people and places to visit when I need answers and inspiration. Sitting in a bookstore with a dozen other curious and peaceful souls on a Saturday evening in August, in Saratoga, while the circus act of “look at me” takes place out front on Broadway, works for me. It stirs my own resolve and sets me a sail to the next chapter knowing I would rather be here than there. For now, I’ll keep jotting down and snapping the shudder whenever something worthwhile whispers in my ear. 

Oh, by the way. In the middle of Jenna’s book reading she was asked about her Kickstarter Project to raise $12,000.00 to write a book that would include input from her readers. She just smiled and said that moments before she left for Saratoga, she not only reached her goal, but she had exceeded it with five more days to go. 

That was the best bet of the day you could have made in Saratoga. 

Write on Jenna...

Stalled

Stalled
By John R. Greenwood

I keep starting
I keep stopping
Starting
Stopping 
Start
Stop
Star
Sto
St
S
St
Sto
Star
Stop
Start
Stopping
Starting
I keep stopping
I keep starting

THE END        

The day after I wrote this poem about my inability to motivate my writing, a story came flying in the door and landed on our phone via a voice message. That story will soon follow. Right now it's time to go to work.  

To be continued...

Free Haircuts

Free Haircuts

By John R. Greenwood

My father Ralph Greenwood

As my father’s health declined in the last years of his life, it became more and more difficult for him to get around. He always took great pride in keeping up his appearance. He shaved every morning regardless of how poorly he felt. Even during his many stays in the hospital his toiletry kit was his first request. He hated to go more than a couple weeks without a haircut. One day he suggested I purchase a pair of electric hair trimmers so I could trim his hair at home. His long time barber had also found himself with failing health and finally retired his scissors for good. I found my father’s request to be a vote of confidence on my ability in helping him through that difficult period of his life. Of course he would rather get out of the apartment, go to a real barber, and get a professional haircut, but he was realistic about the situation. He knew how difficult it was for me to juggle my work schedule, our biweekly visits to see mom in the respiratory hospital, shopping, cleaning, and all the other necessary responsibilities associated with his care. If he was brave enough, I was game. Besides, dad was a generous tipper. If I didn’t draw blood or take off any body parts I might just earn a five spot. 

I have to admit our bimonthly hair appointments did cause me a little stress. I wasn’t the most coordinated amateur barber. It looks easy, but when it’s a sometimes judgmental father in his 80’s, the task takes on a elevated feeling of fear. He pretended to be brave and unconcerned about the outcome. I knew better. I knew him too well. I wanted him to be pleased with the result more than I let on. I knew even in his 80’s he wanted to look good. 

Here’s how the haircut went. Dad would set up an old metal stool in the miniature bathroom of his apartment hours before I got there. To add interest to the scene visualize a tangle of oxygen hose, a father and son set of two hundred pounders, a floor covered in cheap slippery linoleum, dad in his boxers with one of mom’s 30 year-old blue faded and frayed Montgomery Ward bath towels draped around his shoulders, and me wishing I was home having dinner with my heaven sent and patient wife. I’d tell you it was hell, but I’d be lying because I smile every time I think of it. Once we were all set up I would try to visualize the training video that came with the Wahl Home Hair Trimmer set. It looks so easy when the pros do it! 

When I was a kid growing up in the 60’s I would get my haircuts from a bus driver. Let me explain. There was a bus driver/barber who lived a few doors up the road from our house. He had a fully stocked and furnished barber shop set up on the front porch of his house. He delivered kids to school during the day and cut their hair and their father’s hair after school, summers and on Saturday’s. He was a meticulously groomed and polite man. His name was Jack. My mother would send me up the street after dinner and I would knock on the front door of Jack and Tessie’s house. Tessie would come to the door and welcome me in. She would politely explain that Jack was finishing his dinner and that if I wanted to wait in the barber chair he would be in shortly. I would shake my head, “Okay” and wait five or ten minutes for Jack to come in. During that time I always tried to muster the courage to ask if I could buy a 10 cent comb with the change from the dollar mom gave me for a 90 cent haircut. One day I think I actually did follow through. When I got home I think mom smiled lovingly and said, “That’s fine dear.” 

Jack was a talker and if he got on a roll you never knew how short your hair might end up. The best course of action was to stay quiet, sit statue-still, and not ask any unnecessary questions. I remember coming home a few times with my mother assuring me the bare spots would fill in, in a few days. 

That memory kept tapping me on the shoulder as I buzzed up the back of dad’s neck. Every once in a while I would stub my toe on the stool and catch a little clump of hair follicles that I didn’t plan on. Dad teased me and labeled me “Jack The Pipe Cutter” the endearing name our old barber earned from his occasional misguided sheers. We would laugh and reminisce, it was a simple Hallmark moment for a tired son and his failing father. It was probably one of the most lovingly memories I have of dad during that difficult time. Although he sometimes walked away a little lopsided on top he never once complained about my inadequacies as a wanna-be barber. I miss dad. I miss our free haircuts. I guess that’s not really true, they weren’t free, they were priceless.