This story was acquired by John R. Waite. It was saved over the years by John B. Horton, a great-grandson of William E. Uptegrove. Thanks to him for making it possible for us to read this story today.
It may be of interest to learn how my father, William E. Uptegrove,
came to write the partial account of his life, which follows.
As will appear, he acquired ownership in 1875 of a Saw Mill on
East 10th Street near East River in New York City. At that time
New York was the headquarters of the Mahogany and fancy woods
business in this country, and remained so until approximately
1900. He and his firm became leading figures in that business,
as well as in the Cigar Box Lumber business, and prosecuted them
both until 1903, when he declared that mahogany in New York was
"a busted proposition." His brother (my Uncle Jerome)
who was the junior partner, thought differently. The business
therefore was divided, my father taking the Cigar Box Lumber,
and my uncle and the chief salesman taking the mahogany and fancy
woods.
Many years later, several of the New York mahogany merchants urged
my father, as dean of the group, to write the history of the mahogany
business in which they had all been so closely, though competitively,
associated.
My own mother died in 1921. In 1923 my father married his business
secretary, Margaret M. Bohen, and being then in semi-retirement
he made a start on his history, dictating it to his erstwhile
secretary somewhere between 1923 and 1926 when she, Margaret,
became a mental invalid. Thus he was deprived of his companion,
and of course his history came to an end. The mahogany merchants
did not get their story, but fortunately our family has the part
which is of most interest to us. What follows is exactly as he
dictated it originally; other words, it is the original draft
as dictated to, and typed by, his wife Margaret, and since copied,
as attached hereto.
In reviewing the experiences of a long and busy life one is
able, I think, to trace a sequence of events more or less clearly
and must conclude that within oneself lies the moving cause.
In early boyhood on the farm at Pine Swamp I was interested in
anything of a business nature, and before finishing school I had
a strong desire to obtain a position in New York. To this end
I persuaded my parents to allow me to take a course at Commercial
School, and two weeks after graduating from that School I secured
the position in New York that I had dreamed of; and the very business
that I entered at that early age is the one that I have followed
without interruption for 55 years; it may be interesting to my
children and later to my grandchildren to know a little history
events commencing with the early period of my life.
During my 74 years there has taken place the greatest material
development of all times, or at least the greatest of which we
have any record including, namely-the telegraph, the laying of
the Atlantic cable, the telephone, wireless communication, electric
lighting and electrical development generally, and the radio;
also the development in the transportation through the great improvement
over the early and crude wood-burning locomotive, the iron steamship,
and the automobile.
I well remember the celebration that marked the completion of
the first transcontinental railroad, during which a gold spike
was driven as the final stroke. In my early business life we had
no typewriting machines and no telephone. When on the farm I recall
the days of candles for lighting purposes, and later the introduction
of "burning fluid", and afterward kerosene.
At the time of my birth, May 6, 1852, my parents were engaged
in farming, and the first thirteen years of my life were spent
on the farm.
The daily duties of a boy on the farm, beginning at a very early
age, I have always looked back upon as of great benefit in inculcating
habits of industry, punctuality and responsibility. I have always
been thankful for my early farm life with its simplicity, plain
living and healthful habits of both mind and body. I never realized
that there was any self-denial or any hardship; it all seemed
perfectly right, and I knew nothing of any other way, and I was
happy.
The name Uptegrove springs from three brothers, Abraham, Dirck
and Herman Op-den-Graef, who emigrated from Holland in 1683 in
one of William Penn's colonizing parties, consisting of thirteen
men and their families. This group founded the town of Germantown,
PA. The Dutch name later became Updegraff, Updegrave, Updegrove
and Uptegrove.
My father was Josiah Pierson Uptegrove, and his father was Richard
Uptegrove. I have very little knowledge of the latter, as he died
before my birth. The Genung genealogy records his name, and simply
mentions that he fought in the American Revolution.
My father's mother was Eunice Genung. The Genungs were French
Huguenots who emigrated to the Netherlands, and later to America.
I have a book in my library on the Genung genealogy. It will be
observed that my father's parents were both of Dutch origin.
My mother was Mary Ann Horton, the daughter of Silas D. Horton
and Ann Purdy. Grandfather Horton died before my birth, bit I
learned from the published genealogy of the Horton family that
the origin of the family in country was traced to two brothers
who emigrated from England and settled 1640 on Long Island. My
mother Horton died August 24, 1886 at the age of 58 years, and
my father died in 1905 at the age of 81.
Our farm was located about five miles north of Middletown, Orange
County NY and on the main highway between Monticello and Middletown.
A stage line passed over this highway daily between these two
towns. Along the route were located the hamlets of Wurtsboro,
Bloomingburg and VanBurenville.
Even in those primitive days the march of progress worked disaster
to some communities; in my childhood a more direct road was built
by the North Plank Road Co., and to this new highway the stage
line was diverted, and thus, VanBurenville having lost the one
activity connecting it with the outside worked, became deserted.
My earliest recollection of it was that it simply consisted of
an unoccupied roadside tavern two dwellings and one or two other
buildings, all in a run-down condition.
The place was just one mile from our farm and on our route to
Middletown. Our district schoolhouse was about one-eighth mile
beyond the little hamlet, and so the place was very familiar to
me in my boyhood days. Today there is nothing left to suggest
to the passerby that there was ever a settlement located there;
the passing of the stage line apparently brought about its ruin.
Our farm consisted of 110 acres, and the one farming industry
of the time was dairying. The farm produced the grain for the
stock cows, horses, sheep, pigs and chickens; the farm also produced
the wheat for the family flour. The milk was used for butter-making,
and as soon as a butter tub was filled with butter which was the
product of several days' work it was taken to the nearest railroad
station for shipment to New York.
At that time there was a grist-mill located in every community
and this brings to mind a little incident which happened when
I was about eleven years old. My father had loaded our farm wagon
with bags of grain and started me with the team to the mill, three
miles distant, to have it ground. He gave me money to pay for
the grinding and cautioned me to tell Mr. Norbury at the time
of unloading at the mill to not "toll it", as I wanted
to pay for the grinding. The custom was that when nothing was
said about the pay, the miller took one-tenth of the product for
his work of grinding. My mind was very much taken up with a fish
hook and line which I had in my pocket, and I was eager to get
to the millpond; so, as soon as the last bag disappeared from
the wagon I whipped up the horses to the shed and tied them, and
was then off on my little fishing excursion. When I thought sufficient
time had elapsed for the grinding of the grist, I came back to
the mill and was told that it was all ready. Bringing my team
up to the platform, the bags of round meal and flour were quickly
loaded on the wagon, whereupon I put my hand in my pocket and
asked Mr. Norbury the amount of his bill. He looked surprised
and said, "Why, you did not tell me you wanted to pay for
the grinding, and I tolled it". Of course the expression
on my face must have revealed that I had made a mistake, and he
good-naturedly smiled, and said: "AH! BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE,
MY BOY!" I have never forgotten that injunction. I do not
remember how I came out with my father when I reported the mistake
I made.
In those early times young boys on a farm were supposed to be
useful and to have their regular daily round of duties, mornings
and evenings before and after school. The firewood was to be carried
in from the wood house, and "kindling wood" to start
the morning fire, the eggs to be "gathered", and by
the time a boy reached the age of ten the art of milking was to
be learned.
My brother Jerome (three years my junior) and I were the only
children. At the age of 11 years I was milking four cows night
and morning. One of the most trying tasks was getting out of bed
early to get the cows from the pasture lot for the morning milking.
When the call came from the foot of the stairs in the morning
waking us from a sound sleep and being told "it's time to
get the cows" we knew better than to loiter or delay. With
the approach of the Fall the mornings grew cold and our attic
room had no heat, so there was no temptation at that point to
linger.
We usually kept 12 to 14 cows, but of course in the Winter season
they were kept in the "barnyard", or, as it is called
in the West, the "corral". Toward the end of the day
the doors to the cow stalls in the barn were thrown open, and
one after another each cow would follow in line entering the stalls
and putting her head in the proper stanchion. They never made
a mistake, each one knew where she belonged and took her place
there, whereupon the stanchion would be fastened and they were
fixed for the night, being given hay and generally a little meal.
The last thing before the family retired for the night my father
would light the lantern and make his pilgrimage to the barn to
see that the stock including the horses were all right. In the
morning the stock was again fed and the cows milked in the stalls,
afterward being let out into the yard for the day, and the long
watering though was brought into immediate requisition. The water
was pumped into it from a well, and I have turned the crank and
pumped water for the cows until my arms were lame.
The nearest neighbors we two boys had were three-quarters of a
mile distant Elmer Godfrey who lived with his uncle, William H.
Carpenter, a prosperous farmer. So my brother Jerome and I were
left to our own resources in the matter of play, and as to playthings,
well, there were none, and we devised our own. Did we want a cart?
We seized upon a box of some sort and sawed out a pair of wheels
as round as we were able. My father had a very good set of tools
and a work-bench with vise, etc., but I was never handy with tools,
nor had I any mechanical bent. In later years if there was anything
to do about the house I have always called a mechanic.
In due time school claimed us from 9 A.M. to 4 P.M., and with
our tin dinner pail we walked the distance of 1-1/8 miles to and
from the old stone schoolhouse, Summers and Winters; in the Winter
through the snow sometimes up to our knees. The schoolhouse stands
yet today and is doing service for its community. As stated on
the carved stone over the door, it was built in 1828. The interior
has been fitted with modern desks, but outwardly there is no change.
During the Spring and Summer our teacher was always a woman, and
she "boarded around"; that is, she was provided for
by the patrons of the school, and stayed a week with each family.
After completing the rounds of patrons she would commence at the
head of the list again for another circuit. We were always glad
when it came time for the teacher at our house, as we felt we
then enjoyed special privileges.
During Winters, the larger boys of the district having few farm
duties, attended school, and the teacher during the Winter was
a man. The schoolroom was heated in Winter by a wood-burning stove.
It was simply a square horizontal iron box, taking sticks of firewood
about 30" long. On each side of the stove in Wintertime was
a long bench; one side for the girls, the other for the boys,
and upon opening of the morning session, those whose feet were
cold asked permission to sit by the stove so that during the first
morning hour the two benches were well occupied. In those days
Saturday of every other week was a school day; in other words,
we had every other Saturday free. Corporal punishment was quite
in order, and upon a pair of hooks back of the teacher's desk
a stout switch was in evidence. When some unruly boy was called
up and the switch brought into vigorous use, it was a matter of
no small interest to the rest of us. My father was a very stern
man and very much of a disciplinarian. He had a way of asking
me during the evening what had occurred at school each day. Of
course I always related the interesting incident of punishment
that might have been administered to any boy excepting myself
that was never included in my daily narrative to my father.
During the Winter season some of the children would bring their
hand sleighs to school for use during the noon hour on a nearby
hill, and likewise skates for use on a nearby pond, when skating
was good, but my father would never allow us to take either to
school; in fact, our hand sleigh was always one made by our father,
up to the time I was about ten years old, when greatly to the
joy of my brother and me, we had a real "store" sleigh.
At the age of about twelve, I had my first pair of skates.
The farm community which surrounded us was composed of a very
substantial class of native-born Americans, and their homes and
surroundings as well as the farms indicated thrift. They were
good neighbors, always ready to respond in case of sickness or
to help where one had extra work needing assistance.
I recall the serious illness of my father with typhoid. The corn
had been cut and was ready for the husking, so the neighbors got
together, and one day a body of men came uninvited and without
the knowledge of our family and husked the corn and placed it
in the grainery. We were much impressed with the silence this
body of men observed as they passed near the house where my father
lay ill.
The good people of this community planned a cemetery near the
country church, surrounding it with a well-laid wall of stone
and masonry with graveled walks, and every care was given it.
Today they are all laid away in the little cemetery, including
also my father and mother. The cemetery is two miles North of
Middletown, N.Y., and the church that was originally standing
near and which has since been removed was known as the Wallkill
Church. It derived its name from the township in which it was
located - the town of Wallkill, Orange County.
The neighborhood has naturally undergone great changed since I
was a boy, and the general appearance is one of neglect. With
the opening of the great agricultural West, the small farmer of
the East has found it difficult to compete, and so the farms of
the community about which I am writing are now completely occupied
by foreigners.
New York was the magnet that attracted the young men from these
farms, and there are many well known business houses in New York
today that were founded by the young country element of Orange
County, N.Y. The Horton Ice Cream Company, whose history is that
of James M. Horton, the son of a neighbor of ours and whose father
was a brother of my mother's father. Young James M. Horton came
to New York and drove a milk wagon for the Orange County Milk
Association. After a period of years he bought out the Association
and eventually began the manufacture of ice cream. He died several
years ago, and the business he established is a large and thriving
one today.
The section in which our farm was located was originally settled
by two brothers, Silas D., and Barney Horton. The former was my
mother's father, and the latter was the father of James M. Horton
above mentioned. These two brothers, then young men, came into
the section when it was a wild forest. Their first work was to
build a log house. They brought such provision as they could carry
on their backs, felled trees and built a small cabin. I can remember
as a small boy hearing "Uncle Barney", then about eighty
years old, relate how they were obliged to build a fire in front
of the cabin to keep the wolves away, and that as they laid in
their cabin bed at night they could hear the wolves howling lustily
and this is only 70 miles from New York.
In the Fall of 1865 my father sold the farm. I was then 13 years
old. I think my mother prevailed upon my father to give up the
farm in order that their sons might have greater advantages. So,
in January 1866 an auction sale was advertised, and in the one
day's sale our dairy, farming tools and implements were all disposed
of. I have a distinct recollection that the sale of cows averaged
$55.00 per head, and that the auctioneer was jubilant, as that
was considered a high average price.
A neighbor at the sale wanted to buy our Shepherd dog, and my
father referred him to me, telling him that whatever bargain I
made was all right. I sold the dog and the dog-house to this neighbor
for $10.00, and this sum was added to my personal wealth.
Two years previous to this time our community had formed the Rockville
Creamery Association on a purely cooperative basis. A Creamery
was built with a wing, covering a beautiful spring of never-failing
water, around which heavy boxes or vats were built, and in these
the milk was cooled. My father was chosen as President and General
Manager of the Association. He gave his whole time to the business,
going to the Creamery in the morning from the farm, and returning
in the evening. My job was to drive to the Creamery (a distance
of two miles) twice a day with out milk, and it was on a late
afternoon trip that I learned from a neighbor boy of the assassination
of Abraham Lincoln. On April 1st, 1866 following our auction sale
we moved into a house within a half mile of the Creamery, and
here we lived for two years. During the last year my brother and
I attended the Wallkill Academy at Middletown, walking the distance,
about 1-3/4 miles, night and morning. At the expiration of the
two years the Creamery Association decided to close up the business
and sell the property.
The business had consisted of making butter from the cream, and
cheese from the skimmed milk. The cheese from such a product was
of course of low grade. At the beginning it had a good sale in
New York, but the demand gradually slackened, the price fell off,
and it became evident that this commodity was losing favor and
that the business could no longer be predicated upon its successful
sale.
After liquidating the affairs, my father bought a home in Middletown,
N.Y., and upon moving into the new home, bought out a grocery
business, which my brother and I entered as helpers. We did a
successful business, but after two years it was decided to sell
out the store in order that my brother and I might complete our
Course at the Academy, and my father would not consider carrying
on the business with outside help.
Upon completing the Course at the Academy I appealed to my parents
to be allowed to take a course in the Eastman Commercial School
at Poughkeepsie, and finally their consent was gained. On Sept.
5, 1870 I left home, and the next day entered the Eastman School.
With me went George N. Clemson, a son of our next-door neighbor,
and John T. Robertson. Clemson's father was of the firm of Wheeler,
Madden & Clemson, who operated a rolling mill and large saw
works and file factory. Mr. Clemson was the practical man and
of a very inventive mind. Madden became prominent in politics
to the detriment of his business interests, and Mr. Wheeler, then
well along in years, a venerable and most kindly man respected
by all, lost his fortune in promoting the New Jersey Midland Railway,
which in a reorganization became the New York, Susquehanna &
Western Railway. Mr. Clemson become sole owner of the Wheeler,
Madden & Clemson properties. My classmate, George, succeeded
his father and has proved capable. Today he is the rich man of
Middletown.
I completed the course at Eastman's and graduated in thirteen
weeks, with a diploma under my arm, announcing to the world the
important fact that I was given the title of "Master of Accounts".
Two weeks after my return home an uncle of my mother's, Mr. Purdy,
who had retired from New York business life to his farm two miles
North of Middletown, sent for me. When I called in response to
his request he informed me that his brothers-in-law in New York,
who were in the importing wood business had written him that a
firm in their line of business, next door to them, were seeking
a bookkeeper and they suggested that Mr. Purdy send his son down
and that with their introduction he could no doubt secure the
position.
Mr. Purdy said that his son was not at all fitted for such a position,
but "you are, and I am going to give you a letter of introduction
to my brothers-in-law, and you had better go down to New York
at once", and added: "No doubt you can secure that place".
The position in the great City had been my strongest desire from
the time I conceived the idea of going to Eastman's, and the second
day after receiving the letter of introduction I started for New
York.
The morning train for New York left at seven o'clock, and at that
time of year, December 31st, it meant early rising. I recall that
my father had not risen, and when he found that I was already
off to New York he expressed anxiety as to whether I had sufficient
money for the trip.
I now had two letters of introduction with me Mr. Purdy's and
one given me by Mr. Eastman's brother to Lord & Taylor on
Grand Street, New York, an important department store even in
those days. The day before leaving Middletown I had secured a
map to the City, this being my first trip alone, and with this
map as a guide I decided that as Lord & Taylor would be on
my route to Mr. Purdy's friends, I would call at the department
store first. Upon arrival there I presented my letter of introduction
directly to the Manger, Mr. Freeman, whose face I remember perfectly,
of short stature, dark complexion, and very piercing eyes. He
took a quick survey of me and asked what salary I wanted. I replied
$500.00 a year. I was asked to call the following Tuesday, and
then took my departure, proceeding on my way to the office of
Mr. Purdy's friends, Constantine & Company, located corner
of 7th & Lewis Streets on the East River.
I was very much disappointed with my first sight of their premises.
The office was a frame structure, one story, with a peaked roof,
and adjoining this structure was a one-story flat roof, frame
office, a hallway serving as an entrance to the two buildings.
I had fancied large and imposing offices, and the warmth of my
enthusiasm for the position fell several degrees. At this writing,
54 years later, these two buildings are still standing, and the
Constantine offices are occupied by the sons of the former concern,
under the same name of Constantine & Co.
Upon presenting my letter of introduction I was very cordially
received by Mr. John Constantine, a gentleman of courtly bearing.
I observed his brother Andrew, a man of quite different type,
but as I afterward found him, a man of kindly nature. Little did
I realize that the short call that morning would mean that I would
be in almost daily contact with these good people for forty years.
I was taken across the hall to the office of Rodman and Hepburn
to whom I was introduced with the remark that I was the young
man his brother-in-law had sent down from Middletown to look after
the position of bookkeeper. Mr. Hepburn immediately presented
me to the gentleman seated at a nearby desk, Mr. Francis W. Houghton,
who took me in hand in a very gentle and pleasant way, and presently
asked what salary I wanted. My ideas of salary had advanced a
little by this time, and I replied $600.00 a year", which
seemed perfectly satisfactory. Mr. Houghton took down one account
book after another and showed me the manner in which they were
kept, and it suddenly dawned upon me that the place was mine,
and that I was expected to start in at once. I explained that
I would have to return to Middletown and pack my trunk, and that
I would appear at the office for business the following Tuesday
morning, as New Year's day, 1871, falling on Sunday was celebrated
on Monday. This was perfectly satisfactory to them, and at that
point Mr. Hepburn came from the private office and gave me advice
and suggestions as to where I could find a convenient boarding
place and how to reach it. I was impressed with the kindliness
of all those I had met and, expressing my thanks, took leave of
them to secure my living quarters.
Acting upon the directions given me I walked up one block to 8th
St., and then West, crossing Avenue D, Avenue C, and at Avenue
B I came upon Tompkins Park, walking straight across to 8th Street
on the opposite side of Avenue A. On this street I secured a single
room on the top floor of a brownstone house, located between 2nd
and 3rd Avenue. The rate for the room was $3.00 per week. I paid
the three dollars and proceeded to cross 3rd Avenue and on 8th
Street to 6th Avenue and so on to Hudson Street near Horatio Street
to call upon two young men from Middletown, Adam and Henry Beakes;
and then after taking lunch I proceeded to the Erie Railroad Station,
Ft. of Chambers St., taking the train for Middletown at 4:30.
This brought me home for a rather late supper, 7:30, and my Father,
Mother and brother eagerly listened to my account of the day's
experience, my Father asking me how I came out in the financing
of my trip, and I disclosed to him that I had arrived home with
just 6 cents in my pocket. I have done some close financing in
my business experience in the years since, but nothing close than
the financing of my first trip to New York.
The next two days, Sunday and Monday, I spent in seeing a few
of my intimate friends, and my Mother helped in getting my things
together in the little trunk and handbag, and then on Tuesday
morning, January 2, 1871, I left the family roof, taking the same
train for New York that I had boarded three days before. I recall
that I had no conception of the importance of the move I was making,
nor did I at all realize what must have been the feelings of my
parents, and especially my Mother, who had always been my most
intimate companion. In fact, I think that I did not fully realize
what a Mother's feelings were on such an occasion until I had
reached mature years.
My first day in the office was very pleasant, but, with night,
extreme loneliness came over me. My little room had no heat whatever,
and after supper, at a restaurant on the corner of 8th St., and
3rd Ave. I took a short walk on Broadway. Returning to my room
the cold forced me to retire at once, and I was not very warm,
even after throwing my overcoat and undercoat both over the bed.
A line of stages at that time ran from South Ferry up Broadway
and East through 8th Street to 10th Street Ferry, and in contrast
to my village home, the noise of these stages seemed terrific.
I was glad to rise early the next morning, and I got to the office
before the office boy had arrived to open up.
That was my first and last night in that little room. I arranged
with my friends, Adam and Henry Beakes, that we should all take
quarters in a boarding house at #11 Perry St., just off Greenwich
Avenue, where we were all very comfortable, and so my feeling
of loneliness was very much relieved, but it took more than a
year to become acclimated to my new environment.
During all this time I felt that if I should have an opportunity
to secure a position in my native town; so that I might live at
home I would grasp the opportunity, and during my second year
in New York I had that opportunity and at increased pay, but upon
deliberation I explained to my Father and Mother that there seemed
to me to be a greater opportunity in New York where I had already
obtained a little foothold.
Here let me say that my Father, back in the days of the farm,
as well as later, had instilled in the minds of his two boys that
all he could do for us would be to give us a good common school
education, and that we would have to make our own way. This did
not seem any hardship to us, and we accepted it as a matter of
fact and without even a thought of regret or that it was any deprivation;
however, it became evident to me in later years that this decision
of my Father's had made an impression upon me and had been the
impelling force, not only in my starting out, but in my earnest
desire to do good work and get ahead; and so when the opportunity
I have spoken of came, by which I might enjoy my home life again,
I did now allow my personal feelings to enter into my decision
- the only question in my mind was as to which would be the most
advantageous in a business way. I have learned that if a young
man cannot do the work he would like to do, it is wise to learn
to like the thing he has to do.
I have since observed that I was fortunate in my position in being
with men of high character, who were good business men and required
that everything should be done in a businesslike way. I also consider
I was fortunate that it was not a large business where advancement
might come more slowly. In the office there were the two members
of the firm, Mr. Houghton, of whom I have spoken, and myself.
Mr. Houghton and I occupied opposite chairs of a high top desk.
Mr. Houghton was a member of an old, aristocratic family that
had become somewhat reduced in circumstances. He was a bright,
quick, active man, a thorough gentleman, and I looked up to him
and naturally fell to taking him as a model; so, this man, all
unconsciously, greatly influence the early years of my business
life. He was the correspondent, and in those days it was all done
at the point of the pen, for there were no typewriting machines.
The letters were copied in a press-copy book, and from the first
I made it a point each day to read carefully the letters written
the previous day. In this way I acquired quite an education in
good business correspondence, and it also gave me the run of the
business and an understanding of it which was to become valuable
to me.
Mr. Houghton was occasionally required to make trips of a few
days at a time, and I took that opportunity to step around to
his desk and take up the correspondence, writing the letters and
submitting them to the firm, just as he always did. It was seldom
that corrections were made in my letters, and the firm become
aware that I was capable of doing that work.
During my second year (1872) one of the firm asked me if I could
get a young man from Eastman's to take my place on the books as
they were going to send Mr. Houghton to Mexico for an indefinite
time, and they wanted me to take his place. I secured a young
man, and I became the correspondent, and in fact had charge of
the office.
We were doing an Import and Export business in logs to and from
England, France and Germany, and our business was done through
a single firm in Paris, another in London, and still another in
Bremen. It fell to me as correspondent to write a rather full
account of what importations had arrived in our market, what had
been sold, and the prices they had brought; in short, to give
quite a resume of the market. The sales in our market were at
auction once a week, and whichever of our firm attended a sale,
would always mark his catalogue showing the price each item had
brought. These catalogues came into use in reporting to our correspondents
abroad, as I have stated. I hardly think the firm expected me
to write those market letters, but I never gave them the opportunity
to take that work out of my hands. From the first, I wrote them
and submitted them, and as the proved satisfactory, it became
the regular routing and a part of my work. Little did they know
the effort it cost me or the "midnight oil" I burned
in re-writing those letters in pencil in my room until they suited
me, and it was only after working on them tediously that I wrote
them in ink at the office. I sought information from Constantine
& Company's office through the man in charge, George Duncan.
I would quiz them and jot down the reply. These two men were both
past middle age and they seemed very glad to give me any information
I needed; but, as I have said, the firm knew nothing about when
or where I acquired the information that I boldly transmitted
to our foreign correspondents.
As near as I can remember, it was about the middle of the year
1873 that I was promoted to the aforementioned position, and,
along with the correspondence I gradually took on other duties
that were intermittent. I always seemed to do something more than
the work allotted to me or expected of me. I was thoroughly interested
in my work, and had the feeling that my firm was a model one in
every respect. My work was really a pleasure to me.
On one occasion I was asked to go to a Connecticut town to adjust
what a customer claimed was an overcharge of weight on a shipment
of box wood. I went into the matter thoroughly before going, and
had a number of pieces weighed in order to work out the average
weight per stick and then applied it to the shipment. I finally
satisfied myself that our customer was correct, and I told him
so, and promised that the credit would be made. The customer was
very much pleased with the earnestness that I displayed and the
fairness that seemed to actuate me, and he complimented me as
I was leaving. One might say that he might well afford to do so.
The firm accepted my report and sent the customer credit. They
always made it a point to be back of their representatives.
It was one of my duties to draw the Saturday check for the payroll
of the Saw Mill in East 10th Street, in which there were probably
40 men employed. On a certain Saturday Mr. Rodman went downtown
quite early in the afternoon, and evidently expected that Mr.
Hepburn would be at the office to sign the payroll check; but
something occurred which required Mr. Hepburn's attention downtown,
and he left the office hurriedly, assuming that Mr. Rodman would
return in time to sign the check. The result was that neither
of them arrived until after the bank had closed, and they reached
the office at exactly the same moment, each being quite amazed,
and entered the office with looks of anxious inquiry as to how
matters stood about the payroll check. I gave them a wave of the
hand, and said, "IT'S ALL RIGHT" before they had time
to ask the question and they smilingly asked, "WHAT DID YOU
DO?" I explained that I had gone to the inner compartment
of our safe and had taken negotiable notes to the amount of about
twice the payroll, and had gone to the Cashier of the bank and
explained the situation, handed him the notes and asked for the
amount of the payroll, promising to bring the check and take up
the notes as soon as I could have the check signed. My employers
were quite relived and pleased.
So that was my first attempt at financing. I became more and more
intimate with the firm, and Mr. Rodman would occasionally ask
me to his house for dinner on Sunday, and I enjoyed not only his
company and dinner but his good cigars. On such occasions we would
generally go to Church in the evening together. When he was called
out of town on business he would invite me to stay at his house
with the family, which consisted of Mrs. Rodman and the two young
children and the Mother of Mrs. Rodman. They made me very welcome,
and at dinner would seat me at the head of the table to do the
serving; and so many acquaintance with them broadened as well
as my work.
From the time of my coming to New York I had gone home to Middletown
about once a month for the week-end. I could not afford to make
more frequent visits, for the expense was about $3.50. I finally
became very much interested in a young lady in Middletown who
had been one of my schoolmates, but I could not see my way clear,
financially, to say to her what was in my mind. My salary at the
time about which I am writing was $1,000.00 per year. The business
of the firm was not as profitable as it should have been, and
that disturbed me, because I felt that my future depended upon
their success. I was not more anxious to make more money, and
for a year or so I had looked up advertisements of business opportunities
and thought over all sorts of plans in order to get ahead.
In the midst of this, and about May, 1875, Mr. Rodman mentioned
to me that they had concluded it would be well for them to give
up their saw mill business if they could find a buyer for it,
as they wanted to give their entire attention to importing and
exporting logs. The idea at once flitted across my mind that there
was an opportunity for me if I only had the capital, and I set
about to think of some practical way of securing financial help.
An Uncle and Aunt of my Mother's, Mr. And Mrs. William H. Gedney
lived at 67 Horatio Street, New York, with their family, which
consisted of two sons and two daughters, and of course, that was
the one family in New York with whom I was on intimate footing.
Uncle William, as I called him, was a successful builder and was
more or less in public life. He had been Alderman of his Ward
and a member of Assembly at Albany. The older son was in business
with him. The younger son, about four years my senior, had never
had any business experience; he was a professional baseball player,
playing at that time with the Atlantics, and I knew he had saved
a good part of his earnings. In those days in baseball the winning
team received the receipts for admission, and it was divided among
the team. So I called at my Uncle's house, interviewed this young
man, my cousin Alfred, asking him how much money he had. He informed
me he had $3,000.00 in three savings banks, whereupon I unfolded
my plan, which was that I thought I could raise $3,000.00, and
then if his father would loan us $6,000.00 it would give us a
capital of $12,000.00 and enable us to take over the lease of
the Saw Mill of my firm and start in business for ourselves.
My cousin thought very favorably of this plan and asked me to
talk to his father who was seated in the next room reading his
evening paper. I did not hesitate, for I was very much in earnest
and at once approached Uncle William, saying that I had a business
matter I wished to take up with him. He listened attentively to
all I had to say, and suggested that I make up a statement that
would show the volume of business I expected we would do; also
showing the expenses and the estimated profits. I left my Uncle's
house with the feeling that I had made good progress for the first
interview, and the next evening I was promptly on hand again with
the statement. He looked it over at once, and I well remember
his response, which was simply: "Well, if you think it's
a good thing you better go into it". I asked him if that
meant that he was willing to loan us as a firm the $6,000.00 and
he said "YES".
My roommate, Albert H. Schoudel, had agreed to loan me $1,200
from his savings, and my father had agreed to mortgage his home
in Middletown for $1,500 for me. So, upon leaving my Uncle's home
after the second interview I felt that the capital was arranged
for, and the one remaining thing to do now was to take the matter
up with my firm.
The next morning I walked into the private office where they were
sitting, and opened the subject by saying "You told me recently
you would like to dispose of the sawmill, and I would like to
know how you would feel about disposing of it to me". I clearly
discerned their surprise, but the answer came promptly "We
would rather dispose of it to you than anyone else."
I told them that I had been making plans and believed that I was
ready to take it if we could make terms that would be mutually
satisfactory. With very little delay I think it was the next day
it was agreed between us that they would assign to us their lease
of the mill for which they were paying $3,500.00 per annum, and
also lease to us the additional machinery which they themselves
had installed to the amount of $4,000.00. On this they would make
the rental 10%, or $400.00 per annum.
The mill was being operated as a custom sawmill, with the exception
of Spanish Cedar Cigar Box Lumber, which whey sawed and sold on
their own account. We agreed upon the price to be paid by us for
the manufactured lumber in stock. We also agreed upon terms of
payment, and about two weeks thereafter, on June 1, 1875, we painted
out the big sign RODMAN & HEPBURN and painted in UPTEGROVE
& GEDNEY, and we were a going concern.
Gedney had already signed up with his Ball Club for the season,
and it was agreed between him and me that he should carry out
his contract and to turn over his receipts to the business, which
was done. The great panic of 1873 had caused a business depression
which had affected practically all lines of business, but up to
that time of our taking over the mill it had really affected the
mill business very little. In about three months, however, we
began to feel the depression, and it finally necessitated our
putting the mill on for half time. We rang along as best we could
for 14 months, and then on August 1, 1876 we took an inventory,
closed our books and ascertained that we had made a small loss.
Added to my share of the loss there were sums that I had withdrawn
from time to time for living expenses, so that our balance sheet
showed that I had remaining $800.00 of the $3,000.00 I had invested.
To go back a little, after launching this business enterprise,
on June 1, 1875, and being imbued with the idea of success, I
assumed other responsibilities, for on November 10, 1875, the
young lady back in Middletown, Miss Minnie Mills, and I were married.
Until the Spring of 1876 we boarded with Mrs. U's cousins, Mr.
And Mrs. Henry R. Mayette in South Fourth Street, Williamsburg,
when we took a second floor at #55 Christopher Street, New York,
and commenced housekeeping.
Mrs. U's Mother, Mrs. Mills, sold her house in Middletown and
came to live with us, and it was there that I passed many a sleepless
night because of the dull business and the thought of my indebtedness
to my father and my roommate, as well as to my Uncle William.
In the Fall of 1877, however, there was a business boom, and it
seemed as though everyone had awakened to the fact that there
were very small stocks of goods to be had and everyone wanted
to buy. Prices advanced rapidly. Our stock of lumber doubled in
price, and by the end of the year we had made good our loss and
something more. For the next ten years we did a steady, profitable
business.
In the late Summer of 1877 I bought a new two-story and basement
frame house at 215-1/2 Lee Avenue, Brooklyn, N.Y., into which
we moved and we lived there until 1880. I paid $3,200 for the
house.
In the Fall of 1878 I bought out my partner, Gedney, paying him
cash, and assuming our indebtedness to his Father, which I paid
in installments within the next six months. The sign was again
painted out and WM. E. UPTEGROVE painted in.
The History of our sawmill, known as "Tenth Street Mill"
is worth recounting. A Frenchman named George Guetal engaged in
the pianoforte hardware business in New York had become interested
in the development of an entirely new Saw for reducing logs to
lumber. This saw had been invented, or brought out, in France,
and in 1868 he determined to build a mill in New York to demonstrate
this bandsaw. Mr. Guetal was so impressed with the wonderful future
of this new invention, the bandsaw, that he erected a mill on
East 10th Street, with the idea of installing nothing but this
wonderful machine which, according to his estimation, was of such
capacity as to produce all the Mahogany lumber required in the
United States.
In seeking an experience millman to supervise the erection of
this mill, William H. Jones was recommended to Guetal and was
engaged for the work of erecting the mill, afterward acting as
superintendent of its operation. Mr. Jones had operated the Monroe
Street mill, which had gone out of existence prior to my time.
Jones finally prevailed upon Guetal to install veneer saws along
with his wonderful bandsaw. It required much persuasion to get
Guetal to make this concession, but it of course proved to be
a very wise one.
Guetal operated the mill for a year or so, and it was then rented
to my early employers, Rodman & Hepburn, in 1870. While the
bandsaw had proven fairly successful so far in producing well
manufactured lumber was concerned, it produced only a small fraction
that Guetal had estimated to be its capacity. He recognized this,
and was no doubt glad to unload the whole proposition; so they
had operated the mill about a year before I entered their employ.
I well remember the iron pillars of the bandsaw with the inscription
cast in them "PERRIN & CO., PARIS". So, the foregoing
is the history of the introduction of the bandsaw into the United
States.
The band mill of today, while on exactly the same principal, has
developed into gigantic size as compared with the early one, and
has developed a capacity of many times the original one. As is
well known, it has become the standard sawmill of the country
in all lumber operations of importance.
Early in 1879 my lease of the mill would expire. A few months
previous to renewing the lease, I paid a visit to the owner, George
Guetal, for that purpose. He very promptly announced to me that
of course he could not rent the property at any such low figure
as I had been paying. I seemed to be successful in convincing
him that the business would not stand any increase, having pointed
out to him that we had very recently been running at only half
time, etc. I was rather surprised to finally get him to agree
to an advance in the rental of only $400.00 making it $3,900,
and thereupon I asked for a pen and paper to draw a short agreement
in duplicate, that we each might sign. The agreement which I drew,
as I later found, opened up a point of law with which I was not
familiar, the agreement recited that: "The party of the first
part (Guetal) hereby agrees to lease William E. Uptegrove, &
C...."
And then followed a description of the property, We each signed,
and I pocketed my copy with great inward satisfaction, which I
am sure, however was not made evident to Guetal. It was verbally
understood between us that he would have the lease drawn in full,
when he would notify me, and we would execute it at his office.
Instead of that, I received a letter from him a week later, stating
that after deliberating further he decided that he could not rent
the mill at such a low figure. This was rather a shock to me,
and I lost no time in taking the written agreement and his letter
to my lawyer, Thomas H. Rodman, who was a nephew of one of my
employers, and a very able lawyer he was. Lawyer Rodman smiled
as he handed the agreement back to me, and said "You cannot
hold the mill on that agreement," and that was another shock
to me. I asked him, "What is it good for, then?" "Why",
he said, you can bring suit for damages for default of the contract."
I replied that I did not want "damages". "I want
the mill and you tell me I cannot hold him". He replied:
"Well, I am only telling you the law on the subject and you
will have to get a lease.". "But", said I, "I
cannot sit in that man's office by the hour and draw a voluminous
lease with all the recitals and have him sign it then and there."
I soon realized that it was my problem to utilize the legal information
I had obtained and work out my own salvation. I stepped out of
his office, 59 Liberty Street, and walked up Nassau Street to
take the street car back to my office, and, in passing a stationery
store there was a sign out "LAW BLANKS", I went in and
bought two blank copies of a lease, and as I sat down in the car
for the thirty minutes ride to my office a plan had fully developed
in my mind, and I took one of those blank Leases out of my pocket
and proceeded to memorize the legal verbiage, which read something
like this:" ...party of the first part does hereby lease
and to farm let unto ____ party of the second part, "etc.".
I devoted my spare time to getting the further details firmly
in mind, and then I again called on Mr. Guetal to express my disappointment
that he had not kept his agreement. He finally consented to the
small increase of an additional $400.00 per year, and I again
asked for pen and paper and proceeded to write what I had learned
from the blank lease I had bought, This time it read: "I
do hereby lease and to farm let unto William E. Uptegrove..."
and instead of enumerating all the property and conditions, I
made reference to the old lease, mentioning the date, so that
the old lease really became part of this document which I drew;
and the document I drew was a little greater length than the former
repudiated agreement. The old gentleman put on his spectacles,
glanced over the agreement I had drawn, and promptly signed. This
time when I put it in my picket I concluded that I had something
that would hold the mill. I again referred to his having the regular
lease drawn, and he agreed to advise me when it was ready.
The document I put in my pocket this time proved of great value
to me and really saved my business and future. In about three
weeks, and while waiting for Guetal's announcement to me that
the lease was ready, I read in the morning paper that George Guetal
had made an assignment for the benefit of creditors to one Lewis.
Again I repaired to my lawyer's office, this time submitting the
new agreement and wanting to know where I stood in the matter.
He smiled a very broad smile as he handed the paper back to me,
and said: "That is a good enough lease for us. That will
hold the mill."
A short time after that I was served with papers in a foreclosure
suit by George Law, the then multi-millionaire residing at 259
Fifth Avenue, a double house, in the basement of which he had
an office, with his secretary, Mr. Affleck. Mr. Law's mortgage
on the property was past due, with interest in arrears, as well
as taxes, and his mortgage having been given prior to my lease,
I had no rights that he was bound to respect. So, here was a new
situation for me and one that gave me much anxiety. I felt that
I must call on Mr. Law and discuss matters, and I tried to think
of some person whose name would have some influence with Mr. Law,
from whom I might get a letter of introduction. My Superintendent,
Mr. Jones, reminded me that Mr. John English, the then President
of the 11th Ward Bank, only one block from our office, was George
Law's most intimate friend. I had no more than a speaking acquaintance
with Mr. English, but was quite well acquainted with Mr. Brown,
the Cashier. I besought Mr. Brown, and told him that I would like
to get a letter of introduction to George Law from Mr. English.
The latter was not in the Bank, but Mr. Brown promised to speak
to him about it and let me know. Within an hour or so he sent
his brother to my office to say to me that Mr. English suggested
that I write such a letter to Mr. Law as I would like to have,
and send it up to him and he would sign it. This placed me in
a position where I felt I must be modest in proclaiming my virtues,
and so I simply wrote about as follows: "This will introduce
to you Mr. WM. E. Uptegrove whom I have known well and favorably
for several years past. Mr. Uptegrove is also a patron of our
Bank, and any favor you may be able to show him will be much appreciated
by me."
I promptly presented this letter to Mr. Law at his office, and
realizing that as I had actually no legal rights, that I must
approach Mr. Law from another angle; so I explained to him that
I had only just got my business nicely established that it had
been through struggle and hard work, and that I now felt very
anxious lest the mill might pass into other hands and my work
go for naught. I well remember his reply, which was: "Young
man, I do not want to harm you or your business and if I am obliged
to bid in this property at the sale, I will either rent it to
you at a fair rate, or I well sell you the property for just what
it cost me, which would be the amount of my loan, plus back interest
and taxes and the cost of the foreclosure."
I at once acknowledged that it was a most fair offer and relieved
my mind greatly, and I further stated that at the moment I would
be very glad to buy the property, and thought I might be able
to do so, and stated that I would let him know about this in a
short time. A little later I called and stated to him that I would
arrange to purchase the property, and we agreed upon terms which,
as I remember it, were that I would pay on delivery of the deed
$6000.00, the balance to remain on mortgage.
For the time being I felt relieved, because I concluded that no
outsider would care to purchase a sawmill. However, my relief
was rather short-lived, for within thirty days the Assignee of
George Guetal entered a defense to the foreclosure on the ground
that the mortgage covered only the land and building, and did
not cover the machinery; so, until the case was reached in court
and a decision made on this point I had to endure uncertainty.
Finally, after some months, the case was tried, and the point
of law was, whether the building was erected to receive the special
machinery. Testimony was taken as to the special construction
of the building and the special features of the machinery to be
installed, and the testimony of my superintendent, Mr. Jones,
who had designed and superintended the erection of the plant was
probably the deciding factor. The decision of the court was that
the building was especially construction for the purpose, and
that the machinery formed a vital part of the structure and thus
became a part of the real estate; hence the mortgage included
not only the ground and building, but the machinery as well. This
was all in my favor thus far, and it then remained to await the
day when the auction would take place. The auction was held in
the real estate salesroom, then #111 Broadway, New York, and the
first bid was Mr. Law's, and for the exact amount that the property
would owe him, which included the loan, back taxes and interest,
and a close estimate of the foreclosure costs.
However, during all the proceedings I have described, Mr. Law
petitioned the Court to appoint a Receiver for the rent of the
property which I was paying during the proceedings. The Receiver
was appointed and Mr. Law deducted the amount I had paid as rent,
so I thus received the benefit of my own rentals, as Mr. Law deducted
this from the sum.
After Mr. Law's bid there was but one other, which was $1000.00
above his. Standing beside Mr. Law I remarked to him that I would
be willing to pay a higher price than that bid, but he demurred
and said: "There may be some 'Peter Funk" about this"
and smiled.
The property was knocked down to the second bidder, and he was
asked to step up to the desk and conform to the terms. Then it
was that I felt as though my wife and children had been sold out
from under me and it was a trying five minutes.
There was some discussion between the bidder and the clerk at
the desk, and down came the gavel of the auctioneer, who stated
that there seemed to be some misunderstanding, and that he would
put up the property again. Mr. Law looked at me and smiled, and
said: "I TOLD YOU SO!" This time there was but one bid,
and the property was knocked down to George Law, much to my relief.
As Mr. Law and I walked out, I asked him if he wanted any writing
from me, which was my left-handed way of trying to get a writing
from him, but he said: "No, I will have the Deed prepared
and let you know when it is ready". He did so, and he fulfilled
his promise to the letter, and in due time the transaction with
him was closed, and I was the owner of the Tenth Street Mill property.
The auction sale took place in the Fall of 1879, and the previous
nine months had been a time of great uncertainty and anxiety.
During this period I had celebrated my 27th birthday. Long years
afterward I saw a letter from General Grant written in his own
hand to one of his former classmates at West Point, and the letter
was written when Grant was President, and there was one paragraph
which I have never forgotten. It was this: "My life has been
one of toil, anxiety and care, but I have borne it, I trust, with
fortitude."
I might have written much the same of my business experience upon
the closing events which culminated in my possession of the Mill;
but my business prospered, so that the next year, 1880, my net
profits were $30,000.00. During that year I ran the Mill day and
night with two gangs of men. When the day gang retired a compete
night gang took their place.
During that Summer my superintendent, Mr. Jones, died, and this
threw added responsibility upon me, which I felt keenly. Mr. Jones
had been an optimist, cheerful and sympathetic helper, and as
he was a middle-aged man I depended much upon him. Some four years
previous to the death of Mr. Jones, I had brought from the country
a young man who had been a playmate in my childhood days and with
whom I had always kept in touch. Edward L. Sinsabaugh. He commenced
with me as shipping clerk, but he very wisely made himself generally
useful, so that upon the death of Mr. Jones I naturally turned
to him as an assistant in the operation of the Mill. He finally
became my superintendent. It may well be noted that he gained
promotion by having done more than he was paid for.
The business was uniformly successful for fifteen years following.
During that period we gradually dropped custom-sawing and became
dealers in Mahogany, finally selling the entire product of the
mill ourselves.
New York had always been and continued to be, the most exclusive
market for Mahogany in this country. The storage yards of the
trade were those of Constantine & Co., and had extended so
that they covered the three blocks from 4th to 7th Streets, and
from Lewis Street to East River. Logs were consigned from the
producing countries, largely from Mexico, to commission merchants
in New York, and the vessels were discharged at these yards. After
a cargo of logs had been measured and piled they were offered
for sale.
The auction sales had been discontinued, and the log business
had become concentrated almost entirely into the hands of Peter
M. Dingee, who finally gained the title of "King of the Mahogany
business". He had commenced in the so-called wood trade as
a truck man, and during the auction period had become so well-known
to the distributors of Mahogany Lumber that out-of-town buyers
frequently commissioned him to bid for them at the auction sales.
He was a forceful man and a man of vision, and through this small
beginning he arose to the place in the trade that I have mentioned.
In 1880 my brother Jerome, who had a very good position with the
First National Bank of Middletown, N.Y. resigned his position
and joined me in business. Soon thereafter we incorporated under
the name of WILLIAM E. UPTEGROVE & BRO. Our firm became prominent
in the Mahogany trade and divided honors in that respect with
a firm that had come down through three generations in the business.
At one time when the Pullman Palace Car Co. were expanding their
service and for a number of years were building sleeping cars
and parlor cars at their plant in the town of Pullman, just out
of Chicago, the President of that Company, George M. Pullman caused
an invitation to be sent to the firm I have just mentioned and
to our firm, to visit him in Chicago in order to discuss Mahogany
matters with him.
I responded in person and had a most pleasant interview with Mr.
Pullman, during which he asked many questions, and at the close
inquired of me when I would be returning to New York, and upon
replying that I would take the Pennsylvania Limited that afternoon,
he said he also was taking that train and would see me. It so
happened that my berth was in the car in which Mr. Pullman occupied
the drawing-room. He was very sociable and sat down in the seat
with me and told me the history of the invention of the Pullman
car. He also invited me to dine with him.
The Chicago & Alton Railroad rented him space in one of their
shops, and he with a friend, Mr. Angell, conducted their experiments,
and finally produced a finished car. At that time Mr. Pullman's
means were very limited, and he and Mr. Angell slept in a little
room at one end of the space given them. Objection was made to
the height of his car, and his response was that the day of coaches
would have to come up to his standard of height, and he remarked:
"You will observe that is just what they have done".
He said he well remembered the first night's run of his car when
he himself had taken the first fifty cents for a berth overnight
from Chicago to Alton. Mr. Angel, at the time of which I am writing,
was the purchasing agent of the Pullman Co., and I presume held
that position for life.
Directly across the aisle from my berth sat an elderly man to
whom Mr. Pullman introduced me; he was Mr. Billings, the Chicago
street car magnate, a very conservative man of the old type. Mr.
Pullman joked about his old cars, and said: "Billings, you
ought to scrap those old cars and let me build you a new set for
all of your lines", at which Mr. Billings smiled, and as
Pullman strolled back to his drawing-room, Mr. Billings looked
at me, and remarked: "George was always a great man for gold
leaf and varnish." We did a large business that the Company
for some years afterward.
In 1890 our Spanish Cedar Cigar Box Lumber business was much affected
by the advent of a shaving machine patented by Edward F. Smith
and operated by the firm of Fredericks & Smith. Their product
was sold so much below the price at which we were able to make
our Sawed product that a number of our good customers turned to
the knife-cut lumber; however, the competition was short-lived,
for in about two years the firm of Fredericks & Smith failed.
During their liquidation by Receiver, Mr. Fredericks called upon
me at my office and announced that they were about to form a corporation
to take over and operate the Plant, and asked me to subscribe
to their stock. I promptly replied that I would not consider such
a proposition, and that the only one I would consider would be
a proposition in which I would control the patents and the plant.
He thought that such a plan might be worked out, and in a few
days Mr. Smith called upon me.
It was finally arranged that we take over and operate the plant
on a royalty basis, paying a royalty on each thousand feet produced.
We arranged to employ Fredericks & Smith and also William
T. Sturges, who had been engaged with them in selling and in a
general executive capacity.
In 1897 we concluded to also utilize the shaving machines in producing
Poplar Cigar Box Lumber in the South. After a number of trips
to different localities in Virginia and Tennessee we settled upon
Johnson City, Tennessee, as a location and bought what had formerly
been a furniture factory. We remodeled the plant and installed
our machinery. After we had operated the plant for about two years
we decided to secure timber in advance of our wants instead of
trusting entirely to the purchase of logs. We bought one tract
of 22,000 acres, known as the Scottish tract in Western North
Carolina, also smaller tracts amounting to some 13,000 acres.
By this time we had invested several times the amount we had originally
planned to spend in this branch of the business, and so in 1903
we incorporated the AMERICAN CIGAR BOX LUMBER CO., and transferred
the plant, timberlands and all our holdings to the Company, taking
stock for our investment. The Company then issued $400,000. of
bonds secured by Mortgage on all its properties, which bonds we
sold from time to time until all were disposed of.
The establishing and developing of this business entailed much
hard work. However, the outcome was satisfactory, and it became
permanent in its line. My firm resolution, to not become interested
in the patented shaving machines which really formed the foundation
of the business on any basis other than that we would absolutely
control them, proved to have been sound and correct.
The foregoing was written by my father somewhere between 1923
when he remarried after the death of my mother, and 1926 when
his wife (Margaret) became mentally incapacitated. He never again
saw her in good health. She eventually made a total recovery after
about twenty years in a N.Y. State Hospital, and is living in
reasonably good health today (1954). In the meantime, my father
died June 26, 1935, aged 83.
I shall now take up the story with a few reminiscences of my own
in the course of which I shall include the highlights of his life
from where he left it to the end.
My boyhood was in great contrast to his. I was born Dec. 11, 1883,
and was the youngest of four children, Florence, Edna, William,
Edgar, Jr., and myself. In 1895 my sister Ruth was born, whereupon
my family rank advanced from ultimate to Penultimate.
From 1880 my father had several years of prosperity and before
I began to take notice of or interest in my material surroundings
he had bought and remodeled a large "detached" house
set in spacious grounds on Dean Street, Brooklyn. This house was
my home until 1907 when "the panic" swept it and everything
else out of my father's possession. It was a beautiful home. There
were 14 rooms, each one spacious. In remodeling it selected fancy
woods were drawn from my father's warehouse, both lumber for trim
and veneers for paneling. Those which I remember were Mahogany,
White Mahogany, Quartered English Oak and Walnut. The furniture,
rugs and drapes were in keeping and in excellent taste, according
to the styles or vogue of the period. It was a beautiful home
in the best sense. It was primarily for living, not for show,
and as presided over by my dear matchless mother, it extended
warmth and hospitality. How tragic, it seems to me, that my children
never knew their grandmother. I am happy that they had many years
with their grandfather. Had they had the opportunity they would
have loved their grandmother equally well.
The house was set in large grounds, 114 feet in width, and a full
block in depth. It was shaded by two very large sycamores in front,
and two large elms at the side. The "backyard" was divided
by a long grape arbor. On one side was a lawn which we used for
tennis and/or croquet, and on the other side there were four cherry
trees (sour, white and two Black Oxheart) surrounding a spacious
clothes-drying area. In the rear corner was a stable, in which
we had a team for general purposes, a saddle horse for my father,
and a pony for us children. My father was very fond of horses,
and whether for carriage purposes or for his lumber trucks, they
had to be fine. In fact, he entered some truck horses in the New
York Horse Show at least one year, and took prizes.
At that time, and in that part of Brooklyn there were many homes
of the size of ours, but curiously we boys didn't play in these
yards. There were occasional empty lots, which tho' rough and
with many stones, we used for baseball and football, except on
Saturdays when we would go "to the Park" - meaning the
Parade Grounds just outside Prospect Park. But the Playground
in daily use for more or less of each day was the street where
we played shinny, ring-a-leave-o, hop scotch or "just played".
The girls of the neighborhood didn't play baseball or football
with the boys, but they did play everything else with us. Of course,
our pony played a bit part at that time.
We children took turns with her. That is, we each had her for
a day, but as my sisters didn't use all of their turns, my brother
and I had the most use of her. Though we had a "pony cart"
(two-wheeled carriage) we mostly rose horseback through Prospect
Park with our near neighbors, Rob and Lizzie Gair, each of whom
had ponies. On occasional Saturdays we would use the cart, taking
lunches and friends, and drive down to Bensonhurst for a swim
in New York Harbor opposite Staten Island.
At that time (in the 1890's) Flatbush was neither farm nor city.
It was just a vast expanse of unused land waiting for the City
to "com'n git it". So also was it from Prospect Park
to Cony Island and to Bensonhurst. Only the present Ocean Parkway
from the Park to Cony Island was there in those days. It was a
very wide and very fine road. There was room for two or three
lanes of carriages in each direction, and also a broad space in
the center reserved for the use of fast horses. It was always
an interesting sight to watch a gentleman speeding his horse,
or two owners fast horses having a "brush". A brush
was an impromptu and informal race.
In the summers our family, with the exception of my father, went
off to the country from the closing to the reopening of School.
Transportation then was not what it is now, and a trip of what
we would now consider a short distance consumed a great deal of
time. Saturday was then a regular business day, and we knew no
such thing as our present "week-end" of Saturday and
Sunday, with probably a head start on Friday afternoon. My father
could not "leave early" on Saturday and return late
on Monday, so he remained at home.
The first Summer that I remember was at "Cousin Ed's"
(Mapes) farm north of Middletown, N.Y. in 1890, and again in 1891.
The next Summer was the year of the Columbian Exposition or "World's
Fair" in Chicago. Edgar and I were given our choice of two
weeks at the Fair, or the Summer at Cousin Ed's (my father's cousin).
We didn't even hesitate, but should at once "Cousin Ed's"!
I have always regarded those Summers at the farm as the actual
origin of the decision I made twelve years later, to leave the
City and business life and take up orcharding in Oregon.
Such was my life in Brooklyn until January 1898, when I went off
to boarding school in Worcester Academy, Worcester Mass, where
I spent 4-1/2 years, graduating in 1902. I was by no means an
outstanding student, but I would have done pretty well if someone
had refrained from discovering Algebra and Geometry. Those studies
gave me great trouble, and today I haven't the slightest idea
of either of them.
I was fond of athletics, was a member of my class track and baseball
teams (to my regret there was no School baseball team) and was
a member of the varsity football team in Junior and Senior years,
I was not good enough for the School track team but next best
to it, I was Assistant Manager and Manager of the team in my last
two years. Worcester excelled in football and track, and our teams
won many New England Championships in each, including my years.
After graduating from Worcester I entered Princeton in the class
of 1906. There I was the only representative of my school in contrast
to large delegations from other and more prominent preparatory
schools. This created an inferiority complex and diffidence, with
the result that I acquired no honors, curricular or extracurricular
in College. But I obtained the distinguished degree of A.B., made
many life-ling friends, and had four very happy years. My graduation
was saddened by the death of my brother Edgar from typhoid, just
three weeks before Commencement. My little sister Ruth had died
of diphtheria in the summer of 1903 at the age of eight.
After graduation I entered my father's business, which brings
me to the point of picking up my father's story where he left
it, with the mention of the American Cigar Box Lumber Company
in 1903. That same year marked another milestone in the Uptegrove
story. On Thanksgiving Day of that year (1903), word came by telephone
in the late afternoon that the Mill was afire. My father, Uncle
Jerome, Edgar and I, started at once for the scene. The trip by
trolley, ferry and horse car took two hours, because the fire
had closed the ferry from Greenpoint to East 10th St., New York,
necessitating our use of the ferry to 23rd St., and also because
horse car lines from 23rd St. downtown were either discontinued
or detoured because of the fire. It was a bitter cold day, and
when we reached there the buildings were sheathed in ice with
huge icicles like Stalactites hanging from every ledge as the
result of the streams of water played upon the buildings. It was
evident from the first glance that the fight was hopeless, and
in less than five minutes my father said to his brother, "There's
nothing we can do here, Jerome. We'd better go home and do some
figuring." I remember my disappointment at that, for it seemed
to me that if we had to have a fire we at least ought to have
the fun of seeing it. Running to fires had been a standard form
of amusement in boyhood days when one occurred near enough to
run to.
The Fire Chief of that time was the son or brother (I don't remember
which) of the famous and infamous Richard Croker of Tamany Hall,
but he was rated highly as a Fire Chief. He stated that this fire
was the toughest he had ever had to fight. The Mill and the Warehouses
were, of course, filled with dry lumber and Veneers. Next to the
Warehouse was a large lumber yard. Adjoining the Mill on the rear
was a Standard Oil storage depot for filled barrels of kerosene
oil. Across the street were three gas tanks of the Consolidated
Gas Co., and their dock was loaded with 400 tons of coal. In addition
to all this, the temperature was way below freezing, causing the
water to freeze on the outside of buildings and in the streets.
The oil in the building caught fire, escaped into the street,
and in some way set fire to the coal on the dock. Every type of
fire apparatus, including fire boats, with many of each, were
called out on five alarms, and the last piece of equipment did
not leave the scene day or night until the tenth day.
The final result of the partners figuring was that the business
was divided. My father wanted to drop Mahogany as a "busted"
proposition and continue only with Cigar Box Lumber. My uncle
did not agree that Mahogany in New York was done for, and he had
never had much liking for the cigar box lumber end of the business.
So it was agreed that a small building for office and veneer warehouse
purposes would be erected in New York, and the Mahogany business
carried on there by my uncle and John Beckwith, the former star
salesman. My father would take the Cigar Box Lumber end of the
business, retaining the name "WM. E. UPTEGROVE & Bro.",
and erect a complete manufacturing plant at water's edge on the
Greenpoint side of the East River.
These plans were carried out, and it was in the Greenpoint office
that I started my business career in the summer of 1906. But it
was not to last long. In the Fall of 1907 came "the Panic".
Money tightened overnight, and Banks suspended their usual "accommodations".
This caught my father, who was financing a business in Tennessee
for the purpose of protecting the American Cigar Box Lumber Company
from the inventor of the slicing machines. Although this man had
sold the patents to my father he nevertheless built and sold some
similar machines to competitors. Instead of resorting to law,
my father to blackmail and enabled that man to start up another
business. From an original outlay of $5,000. It grew to $400,000.
By the time of the Panic, and this necessitated asking for a Receivership
for Wm. E. Uptegrove & Bro. Thus, at an age of 55, my father
lost everything tangible except our home in Brooklyn and country
place in New Canaan, Conn. But the intangibles he did not lose.
He retained the goodwill of his customers, the respect of his
competitors, and the confidence of his former suppliers. In effect
they said "let us know when you are ready to start again".
He had never closed a business because of indebtedness to him,
but on the contrary he had helped the owners to get back on their
feet and out of debt. He had also furnished the capital necessary
for three young furniture salesmen to start in business for themselves.
They prospered and by this time had become the leading furniture
manufacturers in Grand Rapids, which then was the center of the
industry. They now came forward without being asked and said "Count
on us, W.E. for anything you need". They financed the equipment
of a new Mill, and purchased for him at auction the stock of the
American Cigar Box Lumber Company when it was offered for sale
by the Receivers of WM. E. UPTEGROVE & Bro. All moneys supplied
by these men were treated as loans which were later repaid in
full. Thus at age 55 he began a new career from scratch.
The American Cigar Box Lumber Co., which manufactured cigar box
lumber from Yellow Poplar at Johnson City, Tenn. was unaffected
by the Receivership, although the mahogany stock was owned by
the Corporation, WM. E. UPTEGROVE & Bro. To obtain the necessary
Poplar extensive purchases of timberlands had been made, on which
Poplar was only one of many varieties of hardwood timber. These
other hardwoods were manufactured into lumber and marketed by
WM. E . Uptegrove & Bro. in a separate department headed by
my brother Edgar until his death in 1906. Thereupon his Assistant
succeeded him as Manager. When the Receivership occurred in the
Fall of 1907, the Receivers (my father, Charles A. Decker and
John M. Dingee) agreed to a proposal made by my father that the
liquidation of those hardwoods be turned over on a commission
basis to a partnership composed of the Manager of the department
and myself. So a partnership was formed by the name of Uptegrove
& Polhemus. I was to furnish the capital, and he the experience.
I obtained the capital by loans from the father of one of my college
roommates and from the same men who later financed my father's
new start. So from November 1907 to January 1910 I was a hardwood
lumber wholesaler.
In 1910 I fulfilled a dream that had been building up as the result
of early holidays spent on the farms of "Cousin Ed"
Mapes (my father's cousin) and of my Grandfather, both in Orange
Co, N.Y., but perhaps more immediately because of the country
home at New Canaan, Conn, which my father purchased in the Spring
of 1907. My sister Florence was the chief instigator of this purchase.
I only "seconded" the motion. After the purchase we
remodeled the 100 year old house and made a very attractive but
by no means elaborate home of it with 55 acres of hilly, wooded
and rocky land. My father and I commuted daily to N.Y. (1 hr.
20 minutes on the train). I loved this country home and tried
to think how I might take it over as a farm, and at least make
expenses. It was a hopeless proposition, but while toying with
the idea I learned from a former schoolmate about apple orcharding
in the Northwest. To shorten the story, the result was that in
1910 I paid off the last of the loans made to me for the hardwood
lumber business, closed it up, and departed for the West. I had
interested a school friend, Ward I. Cornell and a college friend,
Walter L. Mason in a life in the open, and apple growing in particular.
We three combined as Uptegrove, Cornell and Mason, and in March
1910 moved bag and baggage to the Upper Hood River Valley of Oregon
and began what for me was just short of 12 years of farming life.
I shall always consider them the happiest and in many ways the
most satisfying years of my life - not because of financial rewards,
which were meager, if any, but because I felt that I had a hand
in the growth and development of a new community out of virgin
timber and on virgin soil. But that is another story in itself,
and I must not divert too far.
On a Winter's week-end in 1914 I was invited to a dance at one
of my ranch neighbors. He was holding a house party of five or
six young ladies and chaperones from Portland. My only recollection
of the group is of one of them. (I don't mean a chaperon!). I
fact, even at the time, I seemed to be conscious of only one.
Her name, Mabel Ellen Starbird. Well, Miss Starbird and I were
married in Portland July 26, 1916. Our family began to grow by
the arrival in October 1918 of a daughter Florence Starbird, followed
by a son, William Edgar III in March 1920. In the following December
our little family journeyed East for a visit to "Grandmother"
and "Grandfather".
We remained until March of the following year, and this proved
to be the last time that my mother would see her grandchildren.
She had been partially paralyzed by a stroke. My sister Edna was
also an invalid, for whom no cure or relief could be found. Thus
my father had to invalids and two business to look after, which
seemed to me too much. Before departing for the West I told him
that if he ever wanted me to return he had only to say the word
and I would come. Spring and Summer passed.
In the early Fall, just after we had begun apple harvest I received
one of my father's usual weekly letters. After reading it my actual
thought was that it was as close as he ever would come to asking
me to return. This was in the afternoon. I took it to the house,
handed it to Ellen without comment, and returned to the day's
work. At supper I asked what she thought of the letter. Her reply
was identical with my thought, namely - "I think it is a
close to asking you to return as he will ever come". I asked
her how she would feel about leaving the West with all that it
meant to her. She very generously and promptly said that if I
decided that I should return East she would willingly go. I thereupon
wrote my father that we could come at the end of the apple harvesting.
The crop was picked and packed, and auction held to dispose of
the household effects, a man left in charge of the ranch and our
little family left it forever in December 1921. Two days before
the actual departure my mother suffered another stroke and passed
away.
During my twelve years in the West I naturally was not in close
touch with my father's business, and so am aware only of the highlights.
The new business was incorporated as the Uptegrove Cigar Box Lumber
Company. When the Mill was completed and ready to operate all
the old customers promptly flocked back for the Cedar needs. In
the meantime, the American Cigar Box Lumber Company had continued
to operate uninterruptedly, to produce and sell Poplar Cigar Box
Lumber.
Then came World War I, which created great difficulties in obtaining
Cedar logs. From the earliest days they had come from Cuba, but
the War created a huge demand for sugar at fantastic prices. To
take advantage of this opportunity in the maximum way, Cuba cut
and burned their forests and planted sugar cane. This ended Cuban
Cedar and necessitated locating a new source of supply.
Also ships and shipping were taken over by the Government for
wartime needs, and it was not possible to charter a vessel without
a Government license. They were issued only if the imported product
could be shown to be an essential need. Cigars were rated essential,
and after many trips to Washington to prove that Cedar was essential
for proper boxing of high-grade cigars, the license was issued.
In the meantime, a new source of supply had been found in Brazil,
and thereafter shipload lots were loaded at Manoas, 1500 miles
up the Amazon River. Some of those logs came from the Eastern
slopes of the Andes Mountains in Peru, 1500 miles further up the
river.
The agent for this business was the General Rubber Co., an American
concern, but whose office at Manoas was staffed by Englishmen.
The reason for this was that Americans stayed in their homeland,
while Englishmen were to be found in all under-developed countries.
The work of these Englishmen, i.e. procuring sufficient logs,
sorting and grading them, handling export matters, etc. was very
satisfactory. Relations with them were very pleasant. I later
stepped into this work, met these men on their visits to New York
and liked them very much.
The War marked the turning point in the cigar box lumber business.
The supply of many commodities, including Cedar Cigar Box Lumber
was not equal to the demand. Consequently, the use of domestic
lumber increased. The cigar manufacturers then found that cigars
would sell even if not packed in a cedar box, and turned more
and more to the use of domestic wood. When my father saw that
this was a permanent trend he sold the Greenpoint Mill to one
of his customers, whose principal customer clung to Cedar.
This is where I came in for my second start of a business career.
This was January 2, 1922, and that was also they day on which
the new owner took over, and my father relinquished the Greenpoint
Mill.
With the exception of the interruptions due to the fire and the
Receivership, this was the first day since June 1, 1875 when he
took over the 10th St. Mill in New York from his employers, that
he had not produced Cedar Cigar Box Lumber. Of course, the swing
to domestic wood increased the business of the American Cigar
Box Lumber Co. and its competitors, of whom there were six.
Now to divert to personal history for a moment. As the office
was then in Brooklyn (32 Court Street) it was natural that upon
our arrival from the ranch we should locate in that city. Our
first home was in Flatbush, which by this time was solidly built
up with homes and apartments. The Flatbush that I had known as
a boy was totally gone and only a memory. We took an apartment
(they were exceedingly hard to find for there was then a housing
shortage just as there was during and after World War II) just
a block from the Parade Grounds where as a boy of 10 years and
thereabouts I played baseball and football on Saturdays. It was
here that our third and last child, Elizabeth Mills, was born
June 4, 1922. Tiring of apartments after six months I bought a
house on (23 Ridgewood Terrace) Glenwood Road. There we lived
for a year and a half before tiring of City life for our children
(and ourselves) and moved to Maplewood, N.J. where we have remained
to this day, although we now have children and grandchildren in
New York State near Connecticut, Ohio and California.
From the moment I stepped into the office my father began to acquaint
me with all his personal affairs and to hand over the reins, both
of those and of the business, as fast as I could take them. It
was not long before he began leaving for the day at about one
o'clock. His home was an apartment on Clinton Avenue with a housekeeper
and maid until in 1923 he married Margaret Bohen, who for many
years had been and still was the office secretary. It was then
that he wrote the memoirs, to which this is an addition, and which
were brought to an end in 1926 by her illness, which out-lasted
his life.
At about this time (circa 1926) DuPont put cellophane on the market
and Cigar manufacturers adopted it for wrapping individual cigars.
This marked the beginning of the decline in the volume of cigar
box lumber, for cellophane had made possible the use of cardboard
as cigar box material. Then came the idea of completely wrapping
the box with lithographed paper imitating cedar grain. This admitted
more cardboard, because it concealed the fact that under it was
cheap cardboard instead of good lumber. This was of course hard
competition, because lumber could not compete with it in price,
and the cigar manufacturers were determined to reduce their costs
of containers. A few of our competitors dropped out of business,
but our volume kept up very well until 1932. In fact, 1931 was
the biggest year we ever had. Then the effects of the market crash
of 1929 hit the cigar industry, and consequently ourselves. There
were fewer cigars, and more cardboard in boxes.
The great depression had now hit us. Cigar manufacturers were
insistent on lower box prices from the "box makers"
(i.e. our customers) and they in turn were pleading for lower
lumber prices. Poplar logs had become very high-priced, and the
idea occurred to my father that possibly we could locate a mill
in the West and use the trim-ends which were waste in those great
mills for the manufacture of cigar box lumber. My father and the
Superintendent of the Johnson City Mill made an exploratory trip
to the West Coast, and later employed one Harold S. Turlay to
make a full investigation. He shipped a few spruce logs to Johnson
City for a try-out on our slicing machines to demonstrate its
suitability for cigar box lumber.
The size of those logs up to 7 or 8 feet in diameter, was a revelation
to the good citizens of Johnson City, and they flocked to our
Railroad siding to see them. We manufactured them into lumber
and secretly sent sample lots to selected customers for them to
try out. We, of course, did not wish it to become generally known
that we had any thought of changing from Poplar. The reports,
though not enthusiastic, were good, and the fact that this Spruce
lumber could be produced at lower cost than Poplar lumber, caused
our customer friends to encourage us to make the change.
Accordingly in the Spring of 1933 the Superintendent, Mr. Spencer,
from Johnson City and I made a trip to the Coast, and with Mr.
Turlay visited several Plants which had been closed by the depression
and were available on exceedingly favorable terms. We settled
upon Astoria, Oregon, where we found a building well suited to
our needs and with both rail and water transportation at our door.
Mr. Spencer laid out a floor plan for the location of our machines
and returned East to begin dismantling the Plant. In the meantime,
Mr. Turlay would carry out the required construction and have
everything in readiness when the machinery arrived. After Mr.
Spencer's departure Mr. Turlay and I spent a couple of weeks investigating
timber, discussing costs and an infinite variety of details involved
in such a (for us) momentous move. We (the Uptegroves) were risking
our capital on a venture that involved (1) the introduction of
an entirely new wood for cigar boxes (2) moving into a territory
in which cigar box lumber was a totally new product, and for which
there was not a single trained worker (3) doing this in the very
depth of the greatest depression of all time.
Before the decision to move the Plant was actually made we discussed
the project with the next largest stockholder of the American
Cigar Box Lumber Company, although it was not necessary since
my father and I owned 73% of the stock, and could have done as
we saw fit. We found that this stockholder did not care to participate
in the venture, preferring that the Company be liquidated and
his stock paid off. This suited us perfectly, as we preferred
to "go it alone". We therefore bought he Company's machinery
and proceeded with its liquidation.
The new Company was incorporated as the Uptegrove Lumber Company,
of which my father and I were the sole owners. Here I should say
that my father was not interested for himself in suggesting and
participating in the creation of a new corporation, relocating
the mill and introducing a new wood for cigar boxes; in other
words, starting a new business. He was then (1933) 81 years of
age and had withdrawn completely from all active management. He
had by now moved to Maplewood, and motored in to the Brooklyn
office only a couple of times a week. His sole idea was to leave
a business for me, and the prospects appeared better with a lower
cost lumber in the West than with the high cost Poplar in Tennessee
and neighboring States. So with the decision to move West he became
an interested observer while the direction of the new Company
and the liquidation of the old one devolved upon me.
In 1934 we moved the office to Newark, N.J. For a while he visited
it more often there, but he was beginning to fail. Early in the
next year he became confined to his bed, and finally passed away
June 26, 1935 at age 83.
Thereupon ended 14 years of as close association between father
and son as I can imagine. We were together in business, and in
the Summers when my family were away on vacations, I moved over
to his apartment in Brooklyn and lived with him there. He was
a frequent visitor in our home where he was loved by all. In business
circles he was admired and respected by all with whom he had dealings.
Never will I forget the first trip I made to visit our customers
and be introduced to them by Mr. Sturges his old and faithful
right hand since 1894. Again and again when I was introduced the
response was "So you are W.E.'s son. Sit down here. I want
to tell you what your father did for me." Then would follow
a recital of aid given to help over hard spots, even up to the
point of saving the speaker's business. This occurred not once,
but often. Altho' he did not realize it, my sole reason for leaving
the ranch and returning to business life was to lighten his load,
if possible, and...