CHAPTER TWO: TROUBLE IN THE WIGWAM

“The die is about to be cast which will probably determine my future happiness or misery of my life….I have always anticipated the event with a degree of solemnity almost equal to that which will terminate my present existence.”- Howard Zinn quoting “one girl” upon her marriage in 1791.

   An 1892 item in James E. Quinlan’s Monticello Republican Watchman told of Joseph Osterhout “attending the evening services at the church.” He was, as the article noted, in his “usual health” and had been extremely busy throughout the day, working around his little place, putting things in order for the frosts of the coming winter. “After the liturgical exercises, the pastor, Rev. Mr. Phillips, extended a general invitation to speak of the faith they professed. Mr. Osterhout was the first to respond, and spoke for about two minutes. He had uttered the words: “I know that my Redeemer liveth and…”- and sank backward to his seat…..Mr. Osterhout was placed in a recumbent posture in front of the altar. Life was extinct.” Ahhhhh…… if only to die in church ….… and still have two minutes worth of something to say.

   I grew up in the 1950’s and 60’s on the River Road, west of the old red brick mill where my great grandfather Andrew Osterhout worked and fished, across the river from the little village of Montgomery. The old Crabtree worsted mill was hydro-powered by the Wallkill River; that lazy, flat brown “kill,” which flowed north between the two great southern flowing rivers, the Hudson and Delaware. Snaking its way from New Jersey’s “drowned lands,” and fertile black dirt flats of Pine Island, before joining Roundout Creek in Rosendale, then continuing north to where both tributaries finally evacuated into the Hudson at Kingston, the Wallkill was MY river. 

   That dirty, brown ribbon was magic to me. It still is. In a way, our post-war nuclear family was also on the western frontier during a time of heightened 20th century domestic sprawl. Forgoing the familiar comfort of the village, my adventurous father and mother, riding a wave of peacetime euphoria and good economics, built a brand-new two story house in 1955, plopped down in what had always been Indian, then Dutch, then English, and finally, American farm land. 1950’s suburbia was taking root alongside the Van Der Lee’s corn fields and the Hawkins’ barbed wire cow pastures. My parents, who had both grown up in the village of Montgomery, were a part of that aggressive domestic movement. The Winters, Loves, and Osterhouts were settling the River Road. It would never be returned to the farmers or the Indians.

     In Goshen, it was the Teeds participating in the nesting sprawl. Hannah Conkling and James Teed were married in the 1st Presbyterian Church in Goshen, NY on a Sunday. A daughter was born seven months later on a Tuesday. In church (and court), Hannah wore a billowing blue gown that strategically hid her swelling bump. At first the happy couple lived with James' mother Phoebe, right in the village of Sugar Loaf. Phoebe’s late husband,, James Teed senior had died unexpectedly, leaving the family in considerable debt. Son James was doing all he could to clear his young family and elderly mother of his father's financial mess. But, even after James Teed paid off most of the debts through working for wage, cutting and milling timber, raising stock, and distilling as much liquor as he could, they were still set to lose the village house to the tax man. No matter how hard he worked, James Teed couldn’t catch up. 

    But, James had a plan. There was a 50 acre plot outside of the village near Nathanial Knapp’s farm remaining in the Teed estate; free and clear of mortgage, with good timber and pasture, and a little “split” farm house that Phoebe had promised would go to her youngest son upon her death. James had been obsessing over this piece of property. This could be the family's salvation if managed properly. Every evening he’d bend his mother's ear regarding this acreage and every evening Phoebe smiled serenely, nodded, and put the whole thing off. 

  Phoebe Teed loved her youngest, but she was wary when he got too enthusiastic. All his life, James had become obsessive over one thing or another, go at it blindly, then end up worse off than when he started. One year it would be blacksmithing, the next it was a sawmill and still house. Again, Jennings family genetics become all too evident. I can relate. Denial and procrastination joined stubbornness, manic depression, BPD, misanthropy, and alcoholism are inherited traits passed down through both the Jennings and Osterhout family bloodlines. 

  Hannah busied herself with the duties of a young wife and mother, embracing what Howard Zinn refers to as the “cult of domesticity.”  She got along well with her mother-in-law as the two would take turns fussing over the children, tending to all the chores of the household and little village farm. When James wasn't around, the place buzzed and whirled with well-oiled feminine efficiency. Cooking, cleaning, seeing to the kids and the simple mundane burdens of the banal passed the time. No drama. Hannah never could understand why her husband was so obsessed with that Sugar Loaf farm. Living in the village, with her mother-in-law to share the chores, a little garden, a goat and some chickens was just fine with her. She didn’t need any more to be happy.

 James Teed did not enjoy his wife’s easy access to fulfillment, and satisfaction. He was young and ambitious, the hot-wired head of a household, who needed to prove himself in this newly minted republic. James Teed had inherited the same driving force and desire to acquire riches and develop land as his father and uncles, without the benefit of the skill-set required to capitalize on it. And time was running out. Land was getting scarcer and more expensive around Goshen and Sugar Loaf every year. The Indians were no longer a problem, but the large patents of tillable farm land were rapidly being divvied up amongst the rich. The mechanic, woodcutter, and lease-holder were feeling the pressure.