The curious tale of a history book finding its way home

For two great teachers:

Arthur Willis and Lydia Tobler
 

Dictionaries of the English language say “provenance” refers to the mapping of the ownership of a work of art — such as a book or painting — from its origin through different owners to the present day.

While a work of art has intrinsic value, oftentimes those who owned the object over the years, because of their importance, raise its market value, sometimes significantly. Regular viewers of the “Antiques Roadshow” on PBS know how it works.

I have a story about the provenance of a work of art that I think is as good a local-history-provenance story as you’ll find.

And it has to do with a book by a New Scotlander, Anna Hendrick Newhart, titled “Relations, Recollections and Reflections of the Hendrick Family,” which appeared in a severely-limited privately-printed edition in October 1936. That is, there may be only one copy alive.

I first heard of the work in 1985 when I began researching the history of the town of New Scotland’s prize agricultural gem, the Bender Melon Farm, which was located where New York State Route 85A joins Route 85 at the Stonewell Plaza. The properties of Fred the Butcher and Stonewell Plaza were once part of the farm.

Our paper, The Altamont Enterprise, published the findings of my research, half of the text in the August 28, 1986 issue and the rest a week later — all under the supervision and enthusiasm of our esteemed then-publisher, Jim Gardner.

At the time, I was told both issues sold out. I don’t know if that’s true but I do know there were a lot of people alive then who were familiar with the farm and who were interested in the history of the town they lived in: They knew of the farm’s fame.

Recognizing the value of the work, the New Scotland Historical Association asked to publish the text that appeared in The Enterprise and did so in a 40-page monograph called “Charles Bender and The Bender Melon Farm: A Local History” (1990).

When striving to find out all there was to know about the farm, I talked to agèd locals Jane Blessing and Sam Youmans and others, one of whom said — I no longer remember who, my memory offers a mea culpa — that Charlie Bender started his seedlings in the greenhouses at Font Grove Farm on Font Grove Road overseen by the renowned Colonel James Hendrick since the mid-19th Century. He had 21 large greenhouses known as “Font Grove Nurseries.”

And either that person or someone later said that the information about Charlie Bender’s seedlings came from a family history book written by Anna Hendrick Newhart, the daughter of the Colonel of Font Grove Farm who knew about her father’s relationship with Bender.

I no longer remember who told me about the book but somebody — again mea culpa — said the tome was in the possession of an antiques dealer in New Salem by the name of George Matuszek.

I got George’s number and called right away. I told him about my research and that I heard he had a book that included information about Charlie Bender starting his seedlings in the greenhouses at Font Grove Farm.

He knew what I was talking about, said he did own the book but no longer had it in his possession — my heart sunk.

He said he had loaned the book to the famed writer William Kennedy who had just come out with “O, Albany! An Urban Tapestry” (1983), a series of essays about the historical goings-on in the city of Albany way back when.

George told me he figured that, since Kennedy did something on the locals in Albany, he might want to do the same for New Scotland, an “O, New Scotland!”

I said, “George, have you lost your mind! Nothing happened in New Scotland!”

But he did say that, when Kennedy returned the book, I could use it.

I told him I knew Bill Kennedy since the early ’80s when a group of writers, journalists, college profs, etc. used to meet every Thursday at the Marketplace restaurant on Grand Street in Albany to drink and chat and share work, and that I had been blessed to be among them.

I told George that, if it was OK with him, I’d contact Bill and see if I could get the book back sooner.  He said: No prob.

I called Bill’s daughter and she said her father would meet me in a few days — I no longer remember the timeframe — at the famous Legs Diamond house at 67 Dove Street in the city of Albany that Bill bought during his rabid research to write his classic “Legs,” which came out in 1975 (Coward McCann and Geoghegan).

George said, “Well, if you’re going to meet the guy, how about getting me a signed copy of one of his books?” I said: No prob.

Straightaway, I went to The Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza and bought a paperback copy of Kennedy’s lyrical “Billy Phelan’s Greatest Game” (1978, Viking).

I met Bill as scheduled at the Legs house — we chatted for a half hour or so — I got the book and before leaving said, “Bill, would you sign this copy of Billy Phelan” and told him who it was for; and he wrote something like “Best Wishes George Matuszek; Cordially; William Kennedy” in a pretty clear hand.

If one of George’s daughters has the copy, she can say exactly what the wording is.

And with respect to what I started out to find, the Hendrick-Newhart book, on page 46, says, “For a year or two he [Charlie Bender] tested his seeds in the Font Grove greenhouses.”

So my original sources on the matter were correct, not only about where Bender started his seeds but where the information came from.

I should mention as well that, when I visited George’s home to present him with the autographed copy of the book, he said something surprising, “Hey, Kennedy didn’t sign this! You did!” That kind of logic.

I took a deep breath until my better angels showed to say what George really meant was he could not believe he actually had a signed copy — to him — of a William Kennedy classic.

But I found George even in his most businessman-like moments a most congenial fellow and we got along fine.

When the results of my research appeared in The Enterprise, the mayor and trustees of the village of Voorheesville asked if I might like to take on the official duties of the historian of their village, an invitation I gladly accepted.

Locals know that in 1989 I came out with a serious history of Voorheesville, published by the village — thanks to Mayor Ed Clark and trustees Susan Rockmore and Dan Rey — called “Voorheesville, New York: A Sketch of the Beginnings of a Nineteenth Century Railroad Town.” It reads like the Sunday paper.

And that book came about because, when I was interviewing the likes of Jane Blessing and Sam Youmans and Madelon Pound for the Bender project, I was often told I should have spoken to so-and-so but, when I asked where so-and-so was, I was told, oh, he died, which happened so often I came to the conclusion that, if I did not start working on the history of Voorheesville that very moment, much of its past would be lost to death.

Thus, once I finished with Bender, I started on Voorheesville. The tome is now in its fourth printing and receives high marks. I can describe its structure inside out.

When I took over as village historian, each year the mayor and board of trustees provided the office of the historian with a budget to purchase artifacts and the like related to the municipality’s history.

Now, with a few dollars in my saddle bag, I went to visit George and told him I wanted to buy the Hendrick book.

He hesitated saying, “I don’t think so; that book is worth a lot of money.”

On the spot I said, “I agree, the book is important, George; therefore I will give you $200 for it.” He came back with a sharp No.

I thought for a second then said, “OK, how about $300?” Again, a firm No and I figured that was the end of my relationship with a treasure from our commonwealth.

I had not seen George for years and forgot all about the book until late one winter afternoon on the way back from the post office, in the face of a wind-driven sleet, I saw George pumping gas at the Stewart’s Shop located diagonally across from the village hall in Voorheesville.

I asked how he was doing because his wife, Shirley, had died in November 1993. He said he was faring well enough and I offered my condolences.

And then, turning to go, I said, “Oh, George, what about the book!”

With no hesitation, he came back with another No, saying something like, “Someday the book will find its rightful owner.” 

So, for all intents and purposes, I closed my book on the book and the possibility of our community ever having an important piece of its history.

Then, seven or eight years later, while driving on Route 9H to Poughkeepsie to catch the Metro North to New York City, my bladder started whining for help.

I recalled there was a large brick barn near the Kinderhook exit that had been turned into an antiques emporium with many stalls (dolls, glass, old tools, postcards, etc.).

I pulled into the barn lot and inside hurriedly approached an elderly woman at the check-out desk, and asked if they had a restroom I might use.

She said shortly, “We have no restroom here.”

A bit miffed, I shot back, “You mean to say no one working here ever has to go to the bathroom during the workday?”

She shot back, annoyed, “We have no bathroom.”

I said, “Well, do you have a bathroom for customers?” figuring I would buy some trifle and quickly end my agony.

With emphasis: “We have no bathroom.”

As I headed to the door in search of relief, my eye caught some tables to the left with books spread across the top and, because I have a bumper sticker implanted in my brain that says I BREAK FOR BOOKS, I went over and quickly assayed the layout and, as I turned to go, my eye — mirabile dictu — saw it! The book! “Relations, Recollections and of the Hendrick Family!” My source for Charlie Bender!

I picked it up in radical disbelief, especially when I saw a price card sticking out from the top of its pages that read: $60.

More than slightly shaken, I took the blue hard-board-bound copy and hurried to the elderly woman at check-out, paid her the $60 fast to take my leave but did slip in that I had been looking for a copy of the book for some time.

She said, “Well, you’re lucky; the stall belonged to a man who died recently named George Matuszek, from New Scotland, we’re trying to get his family to come and get the books.”

I thought: George was right, the rightful person did come along to take possession of a work of art meant for him and for his community, and then whispered a Catullan-like prayer, “Ave atque vale, amice Georgi.”

From that day until today, the book has been part of the archives of the village of Voorheesville, which are now housed, and being catalogued, in the Voorheesville Public Library.

And for those interested in the outcome of my strained bladder that day, well, the back wall of the barn shared the joy of me finding a long-lost treasure as it got rained upon super-fluous-ly.

That is my story of provenance as I keep seeking to know if New Scotland’s citizens of today — which includes Voorheesville of course — care at all about the shoulders of the giants they now stand on.

No hay más que hablar.