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Presenting the winner of Adirondack Life's profile–writing contest 2007
John Breen
A daughter recalls her father, a beloved physician
By Ann Breen Metcalfe
The glittering dining room at the Scaroon Manor Hotel was full of people. Out the windows, Schroon Lake's waters shimmered in the light of lanterns along the shore. The next year that same room would host movie stars Natalie Wood and Gene Kelly, there to film Marjorie Morningstar. But on this pleasant May evening in 1956 the focus was more local: townspeople had turned out to honor John Breen on his 50th anniversary as a physician.
All the guests who had been delivered by the doctor wore ribbons, pink for the women and blue for the men. A Mr. Fish, from Pottersville, whose first name is gone from my memory, sported eight ribbons representing his children. I wore a pink ribbon and had to assure some guests that I too had been delivered by my father. Dad, deeply affected by the tribute, spoke movingly about the opportunities available to young people and the privilege of serving the region's residents. The people in the community gave him a financial gift, which he contributed to help buy Schroon Lake's first ambulance. He died at age 79 the following year.
John Breen was a doctor in the southeastern Adirondacks from 1907 to 1957. He graduated from Albany Medical College in 1906 and interned at St. Peter's Hospital, having first worked as a teacher to earn tuition money. He practiced in Minerva and Port Henry before moving to Schroon Lake.
My physician friends of today comment on how much they have to work with, compared to what my father had. He practiced nearly 40 years before penicillin was developed. He lived in a world without MRIs, stents, hip replacements, organ transplants and chemotherapy. He lost two close friends during the influenza epidemic of 1918; he could do nothing to help them. He grieved with the families of lost patients, but he hated to attend funerals.
Picture the eastern Adirondacks during his years: Routes 8, 9, 22, 28, 73 and 74 were two–lane roads covered with pitted blacktop. Most county and town roads were unpaved. The Adirondack Northway would not be completed until 1967. Snowbanks were huge. Mud Week lasted a month. A trip to Glens Falls was a day's event. The ride to Ticonderoga down Chilson Hill was treacherous year–round. No one would lightly consider a winter drive to Keene and Lake Placid; the Chapel Pond and Cascade roads were simply too dangerous.
Dad's career happened at a time when house calls were the norm. He had an office in town but routinely visited homes if patients could not reach him. That meant long rides to Hoffman and even Minerva, to North Hudson, Severance and Paradox and down to South Schroon. Trips to the lumber camps around Elk Lake were especially grueling. He delivered many hundreds of babies in local homes, sometimes being away for several days on "confinement cases."
In the early years he used a team of horses with a sleigh in winter and a carriage in other seasons. Our barn, still standing in Schroon Lake, had a hayloft upstairs and a stable below. He grew up with his parents and seven siblings on a farm in Wevertown, so he was used to handling horses but remarked in later years that they took up a lot of time. When automobiles reached the Adirondacks around 1915 Dad made the plunge and bought one. He put hard miles on his cars and, not gifted mechanically, solved the maintenance problem by trading in the Ford and buying a new one each year.
In Schroon Lake Dad found his wife of 40 years. Marie Cheney came from old Adirondack stock. She was the granddaughter of a Schroon Lake steamboat captain and her Grandma Locke's family operated the Leland House hotel. Her Grandpa Talbot ran a hotel on the Raquette River and her great–uncle guided the first recorded ascent of Mount Marcy. She was a pretty young woman who learned cooking, baking and sewing at school in Glens Falls. She loved the lake. I don't think my father ever got into a boat except to be taken to see a patient on the east shore, but Mother came from a childhood of fishing, swimming and sailing.
The Breens married late and were slow to have children. My father was 53 when I was born, my mother 40. My older sister was born in the Ticonderoga hospital, but I came too quickly for that long trip, arriving at home on April 2, 1932. Or was it April 1? Suspicious that I might be an April Fool, I sometimes requested specifics but got vague answers. With no one present except the two parents, the possibility of a faked birth certificate is strong.
Memorable events of my young life were the arrivals of "drug drummers," traveling salesmen representing pharmaceutical companies, who visited North Country doctors to sell their pills. Unlike the taciturn Adirondack men I knew, these were outgoing types, joking with the doctor, respectful to his wife and playful with the children. They liked to describe their adventurous trips "around the horn," through Newcomb, Long Lake, Blue Mountain Lake, Indian Lake and east to North Creek. Dad was always interested in road and weather conditions; he kept diaries recording the daily weather. Occasionally he wrote something personal, as when my sister and I were in college: "Ruth got home safely, thank God." "Ann here from Syracuse, a blessing."
Not always conventional, he was a Democrat in Republican territory. He was elected Essex County coroner several times, appearing in 1914 at the bottom of a Democratic slate headed by Woodrow Wilson. Raised by Irish immigrants, he was a Roman Catholic married to a Protestant, unusual in the Adirondacks in those days. When my sister and I were too young to attend midnight Mass with him we would ask if he had seen Santa Claus. He had not, he said, but he did hear what probably were sleigh bells.
Patients brought gifts to the doctor, and as I grew I understood these were in lieu of payments. During the Depression and World War II we ate such Adirondack staples as lake trout, venison and maple syrup. His account books show charges of $1 and $5, seldom getting above $15. The Town of Schroon paid a modest salary, a common practice in rural villages. He recalled the Wevertown farm fondly, and in spare moments he liked to hoe the vegetable garden. Mother insisted on having the front lawn mowed, but Dad preferred cutting the back yard with a scythe, which he sharpened on a grindstone. During the war we bought crates of cheeping chicks, which arrived through the mail, and harvested enough eggs to sell some around town.
Like many Adirondack residents, Dad became even busier when the summer people arrived. As hotels and cottages filled up, the cases of sunburn, boating accidents and cut feet increased. Mother believed the broken glass on Schroon's beaches came from Prohibition, when state troopers smashed confiscated liquor bottles on rocks at the head of the lake.
Polio was a frightening scourge in summer resorts, sweeping through towns to destroy children's muscles and condemn some to lives in iron lungs or wheelchairs. My father was one of many health officers forced to close the beaches during epidemics, bringing economic devastation to resort operators who made the bulk of their living during the summer months. The vaccine against polio was developed in 1955, two years before his death.
Dad had a cordial relationship with the guests at the summer hotels, but his strongest feeling was for Adirondack people who, like him, were born and raised in the mountains. He never discussed the living but did have his favorite tales from the past. One was about a severe and demanding teacher named Murphy in his one–room schoolhouse. He was so intimidated that he grew up, as he told the story, thinking the line from the 23rd Psalm went: "and surely good Miss Murphy will follow me all the days of my life."
Like so many children educated in the late 19th century, he memorized his McGuffey Readers and could quote from them late in his life. He appreciated the poetry and expressions of his youth. "Robin the Bobbin the Big Bouncing Ben!" he would exclaim each spring when the robins returned to the Adirondacks. He loved birds and on summer evenings would drive the family around back roads in a futile effort to hear whip–poor–wills.
He was a Civil War buff and an ardent admirer of the heroes of Ireland. When Father Daniel Lyddy, a popular priest who served Schroon Lake many years, first came to town he paid a call on the Breen family. He mentioned that his mother's maiden name was Collins and, when Dad inquired if he was related to the revolutionary patriot Michael Collins and Father Lyddy asked "Who's he?," Dad was flabbergasted. He liked poker and enjoyed his games behind the drugstore on Main Street. Sometimes, disappointingly, he was called away to attend to a patient.
Mother had to buy our first television set with her own money; Dad was opposed to it. But he soon came to love Ed Sullivan, Jimmy Durante and other early stars. He was a boxing fan who faithfully started watching each match but often got too excited to sit before the TV, retreating to the kitchen and peering around the door to see what was happening.
In a professional life full of death from childbirth, fatal auto accidents, drownings and diseases that had no cure, one early horror seared my father's memory. In 1914 four convicted murderers were to be executed at Sing Sing prison. Having been invited by a colleague to be a medical witness, Dad made his way south to Ossining. Although he was 35 years old he naively had no idea how the experience would affect him. He had seen death already, of course, but the sight of four living men being fried in the electric chair, the smell of burned flesh and his role as an official at the killings troubled him profoundly. Like many veterans of dreadful occurrences he seldom spoke of it, but sometimes when the memory bubbled up he would tell the story.
Dad suffered from pulmonary diseases through the years. In the 1930s, recovering from a hard bout of pneumonia, he went to Warren's Hotel to recuperate. The hotel was in Loch Muller hamlet, and hikers leaving the south end of Hoffman Notch can see a remnant of it even today. He was no more than eight miles from home, but his letters from Warren's read as if written from a great distance, which, in those days, it was.
In the years since his death people around our town have wanted to express their feelings about Dad. Nowadays it's their children who approach me. "He came to our house in a blizzard when Joe was sick . . ." "He helped Ma when Lucy was born, and she never forgot . . ." Some simply put a hand on my arm and start, "Your father . . ." but can't continue.
Ann Breen Metcalfe lives in Mamaroneck and Schroon Lake. Her story was selected from more than two dozen submissions as the first–place winner of Adirondack Life's profile–writing contest.
PROFILE-WRITING CONTEST SECOND-PLACE WINNER
GERTRUDE AINSWORTH
by Irene Uttendorfsky
In the summer of 1957 Gertrude Ainsworth was well past the prime of life. Still, she bent to her work, smoothing the wrinkles from each crisp, white tablecloth with gnarled, arthritic fingers before she pulled the heavy mangle cover closed. Hot steam mingled with the humid air each time she lifted the lid and adjusted the cloth. Despite the stifling heat she dressed in her usual style, the material of her full-skirted dress, full apron and cotton stockings too heavy for the steamy Adirondack summer. But Gertrude had never expected life to be easy. She accepted what life handed her and quietly set about doing the best she could without complaint.
"That was the first Ainsworth Camp," she said, pointing to a smaller rough-hewn building. A smile creased her weathered face and a lively spirit lighted her eyes as she told how she and her husband came to this place, cleared the land and built their Adirondack camp. And as she spoke, her work-worn hands smoothed the wrinkles from each tablecloth and pressed them out.
Born Gertrude Mulkins, December 14, 1881, in Lewis County, New York, her early life was dramatically changed when her father died before her tenth birthday. Unable to keep the family together, her mother sent all six of her children to live with other families.
Gertrude was taken in by William and Lena Oakley, of nearby White Lake Corners. Unable to have children of their own they took her as their own child, renaming her Gertrude Estella Oakley. They not only gave her their name, they gave her all their devotion as well.
Like an Adirondack wildflower, little Gertrude took root, flourished and bloomed. She attended school for a while but left early, as was the custom in those days, to seek employment as a domestic worker in nearby Boonville.
Both Gertrude and the Adirondack region of northern New York were coming of age at about the same time. The Adirondack Division of the New York Central Railroad had reached the wilderness in 1892, providing easy access to the lush forests, sparkling lakes and majestic Adirondack Mountains. Big Moose Station, one of the earliest stations on the line, had been built about two miles from scenic Big Moose Lake. A village grew up around the station and a road was cut through the forest to the lake. The men who had guided earlier visitors into the area overland for hunting and fishing expeditions quickly saw the need for more lodging. Existing camps were enlarged and refurbished, and new camps appeared along the shores of Big Moose Lake. The business of guiding hunters and fishermen was expanded to provide rest and recreation for families. As the tourist trade increased, so did employment opportunities for local people.
At age 13 Gertrude went to work as waitress and chambermaid for William Dart at his camp on Darts Lake. Later, she found work at Big Moose Lake, working for Henry Covey, builder of Camp Crag at Crag Point, and still later, for James Higby at Higby Camp. She became friends with Harriet "Hattie" Brown who married E. J. Martin. He had purchased several acres of land on the North Shore of Big Moose Lake, and by 1902 had constructed the Main House of the Waldheim, or Home in the Woods. About that same time Gertrude met Danforth Ainsworth Jr. through mutual friends.
Danforth Ainsworth Sr. had erected Ainsworth Camp along the road to Big Moose Lake. Constructed of half spruce logs set vertically, in keeping with the style of the Adirondack Camps, the three-story building was only a short ride by buckboard or carriage from Big Moose Station. The second floor provided comfortable lodging for travelers, with five bedrooms and a bathroom. Meals were taken on the first floor, which also served as the family's living quarters. Ainsworth Camp, along with a lean-to in the woods provided comfortable lodging for the families that flocked to Big Moose. Both Danforth Sr. and his son were experienced Adirondack Guides.
Gertrude Oakley and Danforth Ainsworth Jr. were married in 1904 and soon after purchased the Ainsworth Camp property from his father. Gertrude and Dan cleared the land and expanded the thriving camp, constructing the Mercer Cottage in 1906.
The Ainsworth family expanded as well, with sons Rodney and Richard, born in 1905 and 1906 respectively. A daughter, Lula, arrived in 1908, and another daughter, Dorothy, in 1909.
By 1910 the need for more guest lodging as well as expanded kitchen and dining facilities was met by the building of a new main house and kitchen next to the original camp structure. The Brown Cottage was added at about the same time.
Women today can only imagine the day-to-day life of young Gertrude Ainsworth. In addition to tending to the constant work and worry of mothering her children, she was expected to manage, oversee and complete the numerous tasks required to meet the needs of the guests. Somehow, in between the cooking, cleaning, laundering and serving, she still found time for her husband and children.
Business was booming in 1921. The original camp building was moved back from the road so that the Winter House could be constructed in its place. An addition was put on the dining room, providing seats for 55 to 60 guests at a sitting. Office staff, a chef and five or six waitresses and chambermaids were employed to serve the guests.
As the children grew, they joined the hired help as unpaid workers. The boys were trained as Adirondack guides, and joined their father in conducting hunting and fishing parties into the woods. They also performed odd jobs around the camp, helping to cut wood, keep up the grounds and harvest ice in the winter. Richard worked with the chef, later receiving chef training at the West Point school bakery. He also attended Utica School of Commerce. The girls worked as waitresses and chambermaids as well as helped in the kitchen and on the grounds.
In the summer of 1925 another daughter, Ida, was born. That same year, their married daughter, Dorothy, gave birth to their first granddaughter.
Gertrude's happiness began to crumble in 1926, when Dorothy and her infant daughter died suddenly, poisoned by coal gas fumes as they slept. About that same time, Lula fell ill with tuberculosis and had to be sent to a sanatorium for a long and costly course of treatment. When the prescribed therapy failed to produce a cure, she was sent to another sanatorium. In the end, she came back home with no hope of recovery.
Dan and Gertrude Ainsworth shared a strong faith. They regularly attended church services at various camps and hotels around the lake. Dan and Earl Covey, who had built Covewood in 1925, were leaders of the year-round congregation and both supported the building of a chapel. Earl Covey designed and supervised the building of the chapel, while Dan donated most of the spruce logs used in the interior. Dan and Gertrude became charter members of the Big Moose Chapel. Gertrude served as the first Vice President of the Willing Workers, a women's group organized in 1929 to raise money for the building fund. And, when the first Guides' Supper was held, Dan Ainsworth, along with other men who served as guides, planned, prepared and served the meal to raise money for the chapel.
In 1929 their son Rodney married and moved away. The business continued to prosper and the following summer Dan built the McCotter Cottage.
On September 20, 1930, Dan Ainsworth ate the big breakfast Gertrude set before him and then gathered up supplies to set up hunting camp for a large party expected to arrive by train that afternoon. He loaded two large pack baskets with provisions from the kitchen and secured the guideboat to the roof of his car. He set out for the lake about 4:30 that morning.
Gertrude, busily preparing the main camp for the arrival of the guests, didn't become alarmed until the time came to meet the train and there was still no sign of Dan. She immediately sent for help.
Later, some recalled the fog that blanketed the lake that early fall morning. Perhaps the mist had obscured some half-submerged obstacle that bumped against the boat, upsetting the heavily laden pack baskets. The shifting of the load could have been what caused the boat to overturn. Or maybe the boat capsized when Dan stood up to right the fallen baskets. No one will ever know for certain what happened that fateful morning.
The searchers found his guideboat first. When they located Dan Ainsworth, he was lying on the bottom of Big Moose Lake in 8 feet of water.
Widowed at age 49, Gertrude faced the toughest challenge of her life. Left with one son to help her, and two daughters—one gravely ill and the other too young to understand—she had no time to spare for her own grief.
Gertrude had no experience in running a business, had never had to worry about financial concerns. Dan had seen to that. And he had assured her that they could rebuild their savings after Lula recovered. But the doctor at the last sanatorium said Lula would never get better. And, like Dan, the money was gone.
The unexpected death of her husband thrust Gertrude into a role she never wanted and gave her no choice but to step forward and shoulder the responsibility. She had to keep Ainsworth Camp running in order to provide for her family.
The small amount of life insurance she collected soon went to pay bills. Desperate, Gertrude accepted a loan from her father. When the number of guests at the camp went down seasonally, she sought work at other camps around the lake. She cried when the banker came to collect the mortgage and she didn't have the money. Then she dried her tears and went out to look for more work.
In 1931 Lula succumbed to her illness. Like fine gold, Gertrude strengthened each time she was tested. She labored on and with the help of her son, Richard, kept Ainsworth Camp open. In the process she earned respect as a businesswoman and a member of the community, in her own right.
In 1955 Ida and her husband, Robert Winter, took over the business, changing the name to Ainsworth Lodge. "Mother was highly regarded," her daughter, Ida, recalls. "Except for a few very close friends, no one ever called her Gertrude. She was always Mrs. Ainsworth to everyone else."
When asked what kept her mother going in the face of adversity, Ida replied simply, "Her faith." She smiled, her eyes moist with tears, when asked what qualities made her mother an exceptional and admirable woman. "Oh, there are so many," she said. "She was the salt of the earth. Just an honest down-to-earth, plain, hard-working Adirondack woman who loved it here and would not have been happy anywhere else. She was strong, and she never complained. She held her feelings in and worked through the bad times. But at the same time she was kind. There wasn't a mean bone in her body."
Gertrude continued to work alongside her daughter for several years, peeling vegetables, polishing silverware and laundering and pressing the linen tablecloths and napkins. She died August 9, 1971 and is buried next to her husband in the Booneville cemetery.
Looking back, her life was a lot like those tablecloths, full of wrinkles that twisted and sometimes broke the threads. And as long as she lived she did her best to smooth the fabric of her life and press the wrinkles out.
Stories posted here were finalists in our 2007 profile-writing contest. The winner was published in the November/December 2007 issue. Guidelines for future writing contests will be announced on this page.
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