As one who has had the good fortune
to be associated with this rather huge and extended family for nearly
half a century, it occurred to me after having attended the Robertson
Family Reunion at Wanakena, New York on July 1,2001, that it might
not be such a bad idea to write down a few episodes that this writer
experienced first hand with various members of the family. Many
stories, of course, cannot be told in polite company, but I would
like to share others with you.
I remember clearly being introduced to the patriarch of the
Robertsons in those days, Clyde Robertson. He was told my name,
of course, and for the rest of his life, he would refer to me
to others as the 'spaghetti bender' when I wasn't around. He didn't
know that I eventually found out about this, and of course, I
took it in good humor. Clyde was a very wise man and very comfortable
to be with. His philosophy in life was probably best stated in
the poem his was so fond of: "Our ingress
to this world is naked and bare. Our progress through it is trouble
and care. Our egress from it we know not where, but if we're alright
here, we'll be alright there."
He was in a way a father figure to me, and he and I would on
many occasions, sit and have a relaxed conversation, many of which
in no small way were beneficial to me. I was attending the New
York State Ranger School at the time, and since it was close to
the end of the year when some important school projects were due,
I thought it necessary to bring along a typewriter on the weekend
of my honeymoon. I have since heard that Clyde, with his dry but
funny sense of humor had stated that I probably had brought the
typewriter along in case I ran out of lead in my pencil. Well,
let it be known right here and now that the pencil I used was
a 4H, so there was actually no need to bring along the typewriter
after all.
Unfortunately Clyde suffered from severe asthma, and because
of the difficulty he had in breathing, he would spend many a night
sitting up in a chair to relieve his breathing. This, however,
did not stop his desire to do a little deer hunting in his later
years. Venison had become a very important source for food, especially
during the depression in the thirties when feeding this large
family was difficult, at best. So hunting had become a way of
life, which although in the Fifties, probably had become more
of a sport than the need to put food on the table. One deer season
in the middle fifties the "boys", this included Clyde, Ward and
I believe Don and Clare and possibly Roy Bradley, invited me to
come along to their hunting Camp. As I recall, the only way to
reach the camp, was via the railroad tracks which ran past the
camp. The mode of transportation was by using the "Town Car",
an older model from the early thirties, I believe. We would drive
the "Town Car" along the tracks, bumpety bump, until we reached
the camp. After the hunting was over, and if the hunt had been
successful, Clyde would drive the "Town Car" now loaded with venison
that wasn't always necessarily legal. If the first car, (no venison
there) was by chance stopped by the game warden, Clyde trailing
behind in the Town Car, would quickly jettison the "camp meat",
thusly avoiding an embarrassing situation. It should be mentioned
here that Clyde happened to be the Justice of the Peace in the
area.
The first night we stayed at the camp, there were probably about
five or so of us there. We had finally settled down after having
had a late supper containing, among other things, onions. Onions
were one of Ward's favorite things to eat. I believe heaven sprinkled
his icecream with onions. Anyway, in the quiet of the room, about
midnight, we suddenly heard Ward yell out: "FIRE
ONE" (Ward had been in the Navy during the war, don't you
know) followed by the sound of a thunderous blast from one of
the lower bunks. We all knew what was coming next, and to be sure,
we weren't disappointed. The stench was, true to tradition, unbelievable!!
Four of us scrambled out the door. It goes without saying, Ward
was not one of us. There we were, ten degrees outside and not
dressed properly. Some of us cursing Ward, others saying something
like; "JEEESUS" It took about ten minutes before the 'all
clear' was sounded. Ward promised not to "FIRE TWO" that night.
Ward was really a gem of a guy in many ways. Later in life he
would travel to and from Florida, and would always stop where
we lived at the Arnot Forest, south of lthaca, N.Y. On his way
back from Florida, he would bring us fresh oranges and grapefruit.
Very thoughtful of him. Our kids really enjoyed him. He would
always have some funny stories to tell them and they looked forward
lo his visits. He was also full of all kinds of jokes which he
would tell us grownups. Never a dull moment with Ward around,
that's for sure.
Then there was Margaret Kelly, fondly referred to as Grandma
Kelly. Now there was an interesting ole gal. I want to
say here that Grandma Kelly wasn't above having a little snort
should it be offered. Not more than one, mind you, but I think
she really enjoyed the social aspect of having one with you. It
can be said here that on the way back home, after having put her
to her final rest in Richville, N.Y. , several of her grandsons
and yours truly stopped in at a bar on the way home and had ONE
toast to Grandma Kelly. One episode that comes to mind was shortly
after I had been introduced to the Robertson family, I found myself
in the living room of Hazel and Clyde's home in Newton Falls where
Grandma Kelly was sitting in her favorite chair. It so happened
that during this time, Vicky Bradley, Jeanne and Roy Bradley's
daughter, who at that time must have been around four or five
years old, was also present. I don't know what brought on the
disagreement between these two. As I was sitting in a rather darkened
corner of the room, I heard some verbal bickering going on between
the two. I don't believe either one of them realized I was there.
The next thing I knew, Grandma Kelly delivered a well placed kick
to Vicky's shin along with some incoherent utterings about "...dmm..
kids" etc. Not to be outdone, Vicky replied with a similar kick
in the direction ofG/ma Kelly's leg, only to get one right back.
This continued for several minutes, all the while words, some
unintelligible, others quite surprising, to have come out of an
octogenerian and a four to five year old, as well. I wasn't sure
whether or not to referee or break them apart, but the "battle"
did come to an end, and it was difficult to ascertain which of
the two came out the victor. They had both given their very best.
Hazel Robertson was, as all of us know, quite a human being.
I have known very few who was as gentle and quiet spoken as she.
It was a privilege to have known her. Whenever my family would
visit her in her home in Newton Falls, the first place I would
check, of course, was the pantry adjacent to the kitchen as soon
as one entered from the outside. This pantry contained some of
the most delicious homemade doughnuts one could ever dream of.
I did make quite a few trips to that pantry, of course. My wife
Nancy inherited the very pot that Hazel used to make these, and
somehow the art of making delicious doughnuts must have come along
with this pot. Another one of her specialties was her canned venison.
It's difficult to believe that venison could taste that good,
but she managed to make it so. I would guess that she had a lot
of practice long before I became a member of her family when the
only meat available during the hard times of the depression was
venison. She would visit us at the Arnot Forest when the kids
were growing up, not only in the summer time, but also occasionally
in the winter when we had snow on the ground. We had acquired
a sled made in "Norway that the kids and I would use to slide
down the rather steep hill leading from the house down to the
county road below. When the sliding conditions were optimum, one
could get up quite a speed using this sled, before reaching the
bottom. This sled is constructed such that the person who controls
the speed and direction stands up on the runners behind the handles
which steers the thing. The passenger sits on a seat in front
of the handles. Well, Grandma Robertson, as we called her, was
offered a ride down that hill one time when the conditions were
RREEEAAL good. I thought perhaps she would be scared to death
from the speed we attained that first time. WRONG! I am here to
tell you that Grandma Robertson had ME worn out after God knows
how many trips we took, when she finally let me go. She told me
she hadn't had so much fun since she was a young girl. I almost
expected to hear her cry out: "WHEEEE" as we careened down the
hill. There is also a rumor that she was observed on one occasion
sliding a sled down the steep bank behind Don's house in Star
Lake, all the way down to the cottage there. Go figure!!
Not meaning to leave any member of the Robertsons out, but I
cannot finish this without mentioning Clare R. who I feel has
had the good fortune of inheriting his mother's gentleness and
his father's wisdom. There are, in all probability, many more
stories and anecdotes that can be told, but so many of them have
become somewhat fog shrouded over the decades. I do want to say
that the members of this family that I have had the good fortune
to meet have been very gracious to me, and always made me feel
as though I was a real member of the family. I'm always going
to be grateful for that.
