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David John Hersey's Flood Run Part IV

4/27/2016

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Rainy Day Bridge
"Rainy Day Painting" by Jeff Rowland, contemporary artist

 22 Feb 1878

Standing at the foot of the Princess Street bridge, David John Hersey (1846 –1900 or so), an able and very talented book-keeper, was about to face another challenge.  It was dark, almost 5:00 P.M. on a stormy Friday. He had been running through the mud soaked streets of
Kingston, Ontario for near an hour and had suffered several slips and falls, ripping and muddying his clothes.  Compelled to check on all various members of The Family, he had left his office early to trek through the rainy city.  He had already satisfied himself that his and his sister's residences, which were on relatively high ground, were secure.  The structures had not sustained any physical damage.   He had, as he had expected, found his wife, Elizabeth Kells Hersey (1845–1931), in a state of panic.  She had a great fear of loud thunder storms.  After calming down his family, he had made it up Barrie Street to Princess, and had stopped at the brick bridge.  Below, Williamsville Valley was in full view.   This was low ground where all run-offs headed.  And this was where the city had not built adequate infrastructure to compensate for drainage.   It was worse than he had anticipated.
Street Flood
Unknown flood, Unknown place.
The bridge proved to be a disaster.  The bricks were slimy, slick, with no traction for footing.   David fell forward into a somersault.  Having little acrobatic ability, this proved to be a bruising and scraping fall.   He rolled from the apex of the bridge to the base of the street, cutting and bashing the front as well as the back of his head.  He lay in the mud for several moments, dazed.  Soon he realized his French made silk shirt was becoming blood soaked.  This put David in a state of fright.  He hated blood.  He could not feel his injuries, but he knew they surely must be severe.  Realizing the blood was originating from the area of his anatomy that should house his hat, he removed his blue silk scarf and tied it around his head, hoping to stop the flow.  What was left of the hat had blown into a soggy ditch at the side of the road. 

David John gathered his wits; he needed to check on the remainder of The Family.  With thunder blaring, rain pouring, and wind at his back he continued east on Princess Street and turned north into the flood on Chatham Street.  His brother's home, Thomas Albert's (1839–1910), was three blocks up.  Just as he turned off Princess Street a jet of water swept him off his feet and he slid almost ninety feet, as it were, home, the rest of the way to his brother's residence. 
 
He made it up the porch but did not knock.  He threw open the door and stood at the threshold for all to see; bloodied shirt, ripped trousers, collar hanging loose, blue neckerchief  tied around his head, waistcoat and suspenders falling to his hips; he was a water-monster sight.  Lightning struck and his terrifying condition was revealed.  His sister-in-law, Elizabeth Evans Hersey (1842–1933), dropped the pail of rain water she was holding, spilling it onto the floor.  The six older children froze in their tracks, gaping at him.  The younger four, two sets of twins, started bawling. 
 
It took five minutes to calm the twins and gather order. 

"Great Heavens, David? What happened to you?  Is everything alright in town?"
"Yes, yes, yes, everyone uphill is safe.  I came to check on you, Thomas, and Father and Mother."
 
Clear to Elizabeth was the fact that it was David John who needed to be checked on and given care. 
 
Repeated lightning strikes allowed him a look around the house.  He gazed in amazement into the parlor.   He was accustomed to Thomas's house being…untidy…perhaps chaotic.  After all, there were ten children of all ages running amuck.   But this sight was a calamity.  Every carpentry tool used by his brother and their father was thrown, willy-nilly, about the room.  The piano seemed to be housing the longer saws.  Chairs were filled with hammers, compasses, and wrenches of every sort.  Another lightning strike revealed a floor piled with miter boxes, clamps, axes, hatchets, every tool imaginable. 
 
Elizabeth tried to explain.  "The tool chests were too heavy to carry upstairs so they're bringing everything up one at a time." 
 
This was an especially annoying turn of events.   It had been David John, himself, who had carefully decluttered and systematized Thomas's and father's basement workshop.  In David's opinion, the two of them had little sense of order.  They had needed his expertise.  Before David's intervention it had seemed to take the two an inordinate amount of searching through the hodgepodge to find a tool.   There were two sets of most items.  Decades before, while still a Yankee, father's Uncle Jonathan had purchased father's tools and arranged for his carpentry apprenticeship in Boston.  Nostalgia, coupled with father's tendency to resent sharing, had caused some minor squabbles.   In order to maintain peace father had solved the problem by graciously purchasing Thomas his own separate set of modern tools.  A few of the tools were unique for Thomas, who was left-handed.  It was necessary for there to be several sets of scissors.   For the same reason, Thomas had made his own tape measures with all numbers and marks reading right-to-left.   After David had finished, the basement was a well-ordered work shop; Thomas's tools hung on the north wall and most of father's on the east; every nail, screw, and bolt was sorted by type and size in labeled boxes.   It had been an enormous and time consuming undertaking. 
 
William Hersey, the oldest son (1863–1938), appeared up the steps balancing three boxes of nails.  These he tossed on the settee and they immediately spilled onto the floor in a mixed mess. 
 
"Is Thomas in the basement?"
 
A screaming torrent of explicitly non-Methodist language coming from below answered David's question. 
 
"Thomas!!" Elizabeth yelled as they ran down the stairs.  The un-Christian epithets became louder and coarser.  Near the base of the stairs David gazed on the second scrambled scene of the residence.  The floor was covered with three feet of rapid flowing water.  An oil lamp sitting on a bench revealed the disaster.   All small and loose items were washed up and clinging to the east wall.  Most of the benched tools had been removed.  Both doors had been broken open by the flood waters and the chairs and stools were hanging for life against the jams.  Thomas stood by the south wall, cradling his right arm, bent over in pain.  Blood was running heavily from his hand.  The culprit, a large crosscut saw, lay underwater at his feet. 
 
William hurried back down the stairs declaring, "Uncle, we are going to have a cave-in!"  He was pointing at a small, two inch hole in the plaster of the north wall which was spewing a small fountain of water.  The hole was clearly getting larger. 
 
While Elizabeth flew into action to examine Thomas's hand (he was reticent to both let go of his arm and stop swearing) David scanned the premises for a solution to the growing hole. 
 
"We have to stuff it with something," William yelled. 
 
Rags?  A hammer?  A piece of wood (there was nothing small enough)?  A hand-full of nails?  His shirt? 
 
Fast action was in need.  The hole had grown to a triangular shape of about three inches and was getting larger.  David, thinking "triangle, triangle" tore off his right boot and jammed it  into the hole, toe first. It held.  The Prussian blue mud stained silk stocking dangling over the boot heel made a colorful touch.

 
At this point Freddie, the youngest boy (1875–1959), appeared at the top of the stairs.
 
"Pa, you can stop yelling at God 'bout the flood.  Grandpa's doin' it for us."
 
This hushed Thomas's words and all eyes went to Freddie.
 
"What are you saying, Freddie?" Thomas asked with trepidation.
 
"Grandpa is getting' God's and Noah's 'ttention.  He's yelling 'bout some misery Holy Ones, and Lamb an' Tations an' Wicked Men.  He's up on his roof." 
 
A stunned moment of silence was followed by Thomas clicking into operation.
 
"Elizabeth, wrap this thumb up.  William, Junior (Thomas Albert Jr. 1864 - 1956) save what you can of the tools.  David, you're coming with me."
 
That's just what David John needed to round out the day.  A climb up a slick roof to tackle a God-fearing and (to put it nicely) fragile-minded octogenarian.


On the Roof
Taken from a design by David Occhino

I must add a few notes.  You should be able to tell that I am very fond and partial to my great, great, great uncle David John.  This story is, of course, fiction.   But the people, their dates, and occupations are accurate.  There was a flood on Thomas Hersey's property in February 1878 as you can read  in Ducks in a Millpond.  The particulars of each person's personality are out of my imagination.  However Thomas Albert and David John Hersey both had distinctive scars, as you can see below.  The scars on David John's head seem unusual for a book-keeper.  I am guessing that Thomas Albert was left handed because of his rather upright signature and his scar on his right thumb. 
David John Hersey Description
David John Hersey Description
David John Hersey text above:
"Small round scar bear left crown of head of back.  Small angle shape scar on top near back of head...Scar in outer part of left eyebrow.  Small scar near outer corner of right eye."

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David John Hersey's Flood Run Part III

4/16/2016

1 Comment

 
Man in Rain"Man in Rain" by Mick Wright
The rain had begun to come down the previous evening, Thursday February 21, 1878.  It rained hard all night and into the morning.  David John Hersey,  meticulously debonair thirty-two year old family man, outstandingly gifted book-keeper,  youngest of Daniel Hersey's (1797–1879) eleven children, and de-facto self-appointed head-of-the-family (now that Daniel was slipping into senility), had no doubts the storm would cause problems.   Even with the ominous promise of all-day rain, David John's forceful sense of duty had compelled him that Friday morning to schlep to his office at the harbour lumber yard (owned by his brother-in-law, William McRossie, 1839–1896).  Common sense would have kept him in his warm dressing gown by his stone fireplace in his recently purchased elegant brownstone.  Or perhaps in his new velvet smoking jacket, ordered from London, England along with the Prince Albert slippers, all for just under $100.  Of course, common sense would have kept David from purchasing the brownstone, the jacket, and the myriad of other luxuries. 

It was 3:15 PM.  Due to his meticulous habits it had taken him over an hour to wrap up his work.  David stood for a brief moment on the wooden porch that surrounded the yard offices, peering through the rain.  He had forgone with his usual walking cane in favor of the new push-button umbrella.  His first step was to make his way south to the McRossie residence.  He set off in a run.  Unfortunately his third step slicked his left foot off the wood step, threw his legs into the air, and landed his posterior on the mud road below.    Unabashed, pain and concern for his well-manicured apparel was not relevant.  He was in full-force duty mode.  Only Family mattered.  David John was undeterred. 
 
The horse-drawn city-owned street cars were not in operation and with no horses or any other living beings in sight, David's next decision was to make his way three blocks to City Hall and Market Square in search of a carriage for hire.  Going south in a run on Ontario Street should have taken him only one minute.  But running and mud was not proving to be an expedient combination.  He fell five times on the way.  At the square he found a small cluster of waiting cabbies and made his way towards them.  He hailed the nearest driver.
 
"What is your cost to take me to West Street?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?  That's very Godly of you this afternoon," David replied, reaching for the carriage door knob.
"Nay. Nothing.  Ye'r not gettin’ in and muckin' up me cab."  And the driver rode to the opposite side of the street. 

On the third try David procured his ride. The fare was twice the usual amount, easing his doubt over his earlier decision to "borrow" money from McRossie petty cash.  Seven city blocks took him to the McRossie residence
In pain from his earlier falls he was careful to not slip as he climbed up the brick portico. 
The maid answered the door with his sister, Elthea Annie Hersey McRossie (1843–1904) just behind her.  Elthea was a heart-shaped beauty; she had married a wealthy lumber merchant.  Little Mary, age four, was on her left hip and the other two children (Allen, age eight, and Hattie, age eleven) came running down the main staircase to greet him.  A huge peal of thunder with accompanying lightning hitting a mega-second behind flashed the air.  Hattie ran screaming back up the stairs but Allan tried to run straight through the door to the outside.  His mother grabbed his gravely protruding right ear with her free hand. 
 
Elthea, not surprised that her brother would be the first to check on her family, noted his soaked coat and mud-caked trousers.  

"Oh David, your clothes are ruined! Are you hurt?"
"Never mind that," he retorted impatiently.  "Is everything in order here?" Another thunder peal rolled. 
"Yes, yes, where is William?"
"He's in the yard trying to tarp over the lumber stacks."
 
Elthea stared at David, taking in his words amd musing over the practicality of this feat. 
 
"Well...he knows best, I'm sure," she stated with dubious hesitancy.
"Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, of course he does.  Are you sure all is secure with you?"
 
Being assured that Elthea and her children were safe, he descended the porch and headed up West Street, towards Court and over to his new brick home (almost as grand as the McRossie mansion) at 164 Barrie Street, a half-mile trek.   
 
After several minutes struggling against sleet David John began to flounder.  The streets, usually packed dirt, were mud flows.  The wind was howling.  Terrifying lightening kept flashing, the rain continued pouring down in torrents, and night had finally taken hold.  It was not quite cold enough to snow.  But his chesterfield overcoat was soaked through and he was losing body heat.  It took him ten minutes to forge the distance, with the brash wind blowing north from the St. Lawrence River.  At about the Court Street curve his suspenders began to slip off his shoulders, catching on his waistcoat.  Refusing to lose his beaver hat, he held on to it with a gloved hand.  The gloves were soaked, his fingers cold and numb. 
 
Upon turning the final corner and viewing his house, he spotted what he had feared.  His two sons, Walter, age five, and little Herbie, age three, were in the street, in the rain, in the mud playing tag.   Obviously, things were out of control. 
 
"Get in the house!!" He yelled from ten yards away.
The boys saw, heard, feared, and ran.  Inside the house they stared at their father, who was glaring angrily.  Should he punish them then and there?  A few seconds passed.  The boys were shaking in fear.  David still had his umbrella opened and his now crushed hat in hand.  He was also shaking, but with cold.   The umbrella was flipping water onto the entryway.  The boys suspected an imminent whipping.
 
This was not the time for exact parenting.  Changing his demeanor he said:
 
"I knew you both would be up to something inappropriate.  Where is your mother?" 
 
He didn't need an answer; he heard the crying upstairs.  David's wife, Elizabeth Kells Hersey (1845–1931) had severe reactions to loud storms.  He ran up the stairs to their bedroom, leaving mud prints along the way.  Elizabeth was on the floor in a corner in fetal position.  She was wailing.  Minnie, aged nine, was holding baby Eliza and Harriet, aged seven, was petting her mother, cooing, trying to calm her.   David lifted Elizabeth from the floor and carried her to the bed.
 
David addressed the sisters:
 
"Get under the covers with your mother, girls."  They complied.  He sat next to them, on the bed. 
 
"Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!"  He snapped his fingers near her ear.  She looked up at him.

"Elizabeth, you are not in the boat!  You are home.  You are safe; I am here" 
 
Elizabeth, as a small child, had experienced a traumatic Atlantic crossing fleeing the Irish famine.   Decades before in a three-masted sailing ship she and her family had endured a stormy, seven week voyage with several deaths. The ship had run into rocks on the St. Lawrence River and crippled, had made its way to Quebec.   In storms like these Elizabeth often forgot the present and slipped into the past.
(See story here.)


He spoke firmly and directly. "Elizabeth, I am going to get you something to drink.  I'm going down stairs.  I will be back within a minute."
 
David hurried back down the stairs and crossed the dining room to the mahogany buffet.  He reached over a sterling tray and poured out a glass of rosewater from an ornate Baccarat decanter.  He called the boys to follow him upstairs, ordered them to wash and change out of their muddy clothes then return to their mother.  David went to the tallboy dresser and took down the medicine chest, placing it on the vanity.  Inside he found a small packet of laudanum.  This he stirred into the rosewater and walked it to Elizabeth, who was still crying in bed, surrounded by the girls. 
 
"Now drink this down.  Everything is fine.  You are safe at home."  After making sure she had emptied the glass David returned the medicine chest to the top of the tallboy.  Within a half-an-hour Elizabeth was asleep. 

 
With the whole family in the bedroom he gathered the attention of his four children to make his dictum.  Lifting Elizabeth's bible from the end table he said,
 
"Children, I have to go Grandpapa and Oma to check on them.  I need all of you to stay here in the bedroom with your mother.  Each of you.  Can I count on you to help your mother and watch over her?"
 
Each of the four promised.  Thunder peeled and the windows shook.  They could hear the rain pelting the roof. 
 
Shaking the Bible high in the air he said, "Walter, Herbie, do you promise on the Bible, that you will stay here in this room with your sisters and mother?"
 
"Yes Da'!  We swear on the Bible,"  they promised in unison.
 
With a harsh look he declared, "If you do not stay in this room I will whip you when I return."
 
"Yes Da'! We swear on the Bible!!"
 
David John turned to leave.  Just as he began to descend the stairs little Herbie gathered up his courage.
 
"Da, you look silly."
"Thank you, Herbert."
"An' I need to pee."


Ship in the Stormy Sea
"Ship in the Stormy Sea", 1887 by Ivan Aivazovsky
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David John Hersey's Flood Run Part Two...

4/9/2016

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Ward in the Hospital at Arles Vincent van Gogh 1889Ward in the Hospital at Arles Vincent van Gogh 1889
In the late evening of Friday, February 22, 1878 they glumly sat, side by side, in the waiting area of the Kingston General Hospital, waiting for Dr. Fee.  Thomas Albert Hersey (1839 - 1910), carpenter by trade, was feeling faint.  His right hand was wrapped in a tea cloth and was bleeding profusely.  He did not dare peek through the cloth; he might find a severed thumb.  Would he be able to use this hand ever again?

David John Hersey (1846–1900 or so), a truly outstandingly gifted book-keeper, whose injuries were far minor in comparison, was sure he was going to die.  He was going to be deformed.  Bleeding from the crown of his head, the back of his head, as well as around both eyes, he was convinced he would turn blind.  Would he ever be able to read again?
 
Thomas stiffly and painfully turned to look at his brother.  David always dressed like a dandy.  Thomas's eyes began at David's crushed-inward bloodied beaver top hat, briefly noted the few cuts around his brother's eyes, and stopped at the blood-streaked silk handmade shirt.  This was ripped around both armpits, rain and mud soaked, with the trim collar swinging pathetically by one thread.  David's silk blue imperial neck scarf was tied around his head to stop the flow of blood, making him look as if he had the mumps.  Glancing down below David's waist, Thomas noted that the suspenders, which had somehow become wrapped around the left leg, were miraculously towing the brown mud-skewed, previously Prussian blue checkered waistcoat.  Once perfectly fitted, David’s pinstriped trouser outer seams were split apart; fifteen inches on the left leg and the full length of the right.   Thomas could not see the split up the back seam, as they were both seated.  Oh dear, it seemed as if David had lost one of his patent leather boots and a sock.  David's wool chesterfield overcoat was lying in a soggy heap by his bare foot.  Peeking out from beneath the coat, were those two brown rags?  No, those had been David’s button-up white gloves.  Saved, however, was the cherished gold watch and chain, which he had gripped in his right hand. 
 
"Well," Thomas sighed.
"Yes?" replied David.
"Well, at least we got father off the roof."

Picture
After a design by David Occhino
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