Chapter III: Water, In Ice, In Snow, In The Parlor Owl, A Crystal Glass

ON TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN, on the south side of South Orange Avenue, there was a glacial formation called The Devil's Basin. In ages past a glacier had worn a perfect bowl in solid rock, measuring 50-60 feet across its top and 20 feet in depth. The surface of the bowl at the bottom was perfectly smooth with a small stream flowing through, forming a pool of clear cold water. The north and south sides of the bowl had eroded over time to form ledges that gave the appearance of an ancient amphitheater. On the western side the water ran down a gentle slope to Hemlock Falls, a thick stand of trees at the edge of a steep cliff. This is where I learned to swim. The last time I saw it was sometime in the 1920s when we took my son, Third, to Lawrenceville. Third put his hand into that cold water and declared it no sane temperature for a swimming hole.

Both of my grandmothers died before I have any recollection of them—possibly before I was born. My grandfathers were fine men and I loved them dearly. In 1889 Grandfather Brush was killed by a New York Central train in a heavy snow storm as he walked to prayer meeting. This route along the tracks was not his usual, but so much shorter and so tempting on a stormy night.

Grandfather Whitlock was born in 1812 at the old homestead near Pleasant Valley, New Jersey. His grandfather had been a prominent shipmaster and wealthy shipowner, with a small fleet of square-riggeds. He and his son also owned a ship chandlers store on Clark Street in lower Manhattan where they sold spars, rope, sails, pulleys, anchors, etc. At age 15, my grandfather moved to New York to apprentice in this store, which he ran upon his father's retirement, and where he stayed until age 70. In his remaining years he divided his time between Aunt Mamie in Matawan and South Orange, where he told me stories of the sea. One of my favorites concerned a voyage in which a white arctic owl, exhausted from flight, lit in the rigging of their ship. The captain had a sailor capture it, and later he brought it as a gift to grandfather, who promptly had it stuffed and mounted in a glass-covered stand that adorned our parlor as far back as I can remember.

Grandfather had a fine shock of white hair and an itchy scalp. He often asked me to scratch his head, and I would stand by his chair for thirty minutes, scratching constantly, until he gave me a nickel—fast money, in my opinion.

Not far from home, the Essex County Polo Club maintained its playing field. We often went there to watch the contests on Saturday—never on Sunday. Perhaps they were good Presbyterians. Once or twice a year they held an afternoon of competitive horsemanship. The most impressive feat to me involved riding before the judges' stand, dismounting, receiving a full glass of water, remounting and riding once around the field with the glass in hand, held stiff in front like a cross. The riders were rated first, second and third according to the amount of water remaining when they returned to the judges, dismounted and presented their glasses. These were wealthy men and their ponies beautifully trained.


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