A Memorable Fulton Doctor

You never know where surprising information about Fulton history might show up. It doesn’t always come by digging through piles of old newspapers or interviews with eyewitnesses. Sometimes it only takes a suggestion from a friend.

A few months ago, I got a call from a high school classmate, Tim Carroll, who said he had some paperwork about a prominent doctor from Fulton’s early 1900s. He wondered if I might be interested in reviewing it. When we met, Tim explained how he’d acquired the large box of newspaper articles, photos and personal correspondence. His mother, Natalie, was a next door neighbor and good friend with this doctor’s daughter, and when the woman passed away, Natalie helped close up her home.  While doing so, she found the box of paperwork, and from reviewing its contents, I have been able to learn about an extraordinary Fulton doctor: Albert Llewellyn Hall.

Dr. Hall was born in 1855 on a farm outside Central Square. He attended local schools and graduated from Cazenovia Seminary, which functioned like a prep school for high-schoolers. Later, Hall taught school for several years and then served as principal for Parish, Cleveland and Constantia schools. But his purposeful life was just beginning.

In 1874, Hall, who had a growing interest in the health field, won a Cornell University scholarship to study medicine there. Four years later, he continued his studies at Syracuse University, graduating in 1879. The new doctor opened a practice in Fair Haven, where he served 20 years as a general practitioner. By this time, Dr. Hall had developed a specific medical interest which would earn him a measure of fame.

Hall’s area of concentration, forensic ballistics, wasn’t something I was familiar with, but a quick Google search revealed the doctor’s specialty as the science of analyzing firearms used to harm or kill people. Much like actors on detective shows trying to crack cold cases, Hall became an expert in identifying firearms that factored into murder trials. A few of them sound like plots for those TV shows: the 1897 case of Charles Allen, charged with murdering two women in Sackets Harbor; and the 1898 trial of George H. Smith, charged with his wife’s murder in Churchville, New York.

During Hall’s groundbreaking work in forensics, he and his family moved to Fulton, where he began to turn his medical attention from brutal deaths to improved health. He became an active member of our community, including his offer to advise Fulton’s municipal leaders in their creation of a water purification system, an important matter for a new city in the early 1900s.

In May 1904, Dr. Hall earned his place in Fulton’s history by serving as the first doctor at our city’s new hospital. The medical facility, actually a house on West Fifth Street, was so new, in fact, that it was not yet fully furnished or officially “open for business.” Nonetheless, when its first patient arrived – a man who’d suffered a near fatal injury at a local mill – it was Dr. Hall who amputated the man’s arm, saving his life.

Twenty-five years later, Dr. Hall was still researching ways to ease pain and save lives. Local papers heralded his development of a less-complicated procedure for removing fish hooks from unlucky anglers, which doesn’t sound life-threatening until you consider how serious a bad infection was before the discovery of antibiotics. Hall developed his method while working on a Fulton boy, spraying the boy’s finger with ether to numb his pain, forcing the hook until the barb was in view, snipping it off and then pulling the remains of the hook back and out of the skin. The “operation” could be performed in a doctor’s office, eliminating the need for hospitalization to monitor for signs of infection.

All of Dr. Hall’s accomplishments are noteworthy, but there was one in particular that I found inspiring. While working to fight disease and illness, Hall was also professing theories for a long life. Among the paperwork I reviewed was this medical essay: “When Are We Old? When Should We Be Old?” An early Fulton newspaper, The Observer, covered his 1914 presentation of the paper to our city’s social club, Borrowed Time. The club, for men who’d lived “three score and ten years,” would have been particularly interested in Hall’s longevity theories.

In the early 1900s, while Hall was promoting his theories, the average human life spanned 55 years. At the time, there were about 5,000 known cases of a person living to be 100, which Hall considered “a remarkable fact.” He compared “the growing years” of a human (from birth until age 18) to the growing years of animals, some that lived five times as long as their growing years. If humans could be more like animals, Hall theorized, they would be able to live to age 125 or even 150.

Here’s how Hall justified his “prescription” for a long life: “By the close of the present century [the year 1999], man will not be regarded as being old at 70 years, but on the contrary, he will be active and energetic…He will conserve his energies, regulate his working hours, improve his living conditions and, above all, he will find time for a proper amount of recreation. He will live with the hope of being active at 80 years of age and not old until the century mark of his life has been reached.”

Dr. Hall’s predictions of a long life weren’t far off from the 2018 norms. Today, the average American female lives to age 81; males to age 77. The 5,000 centenarians who broke records in Hall’s day have grown in number to over 50,000. Though Hall himself only reached the age of 76 when died at his home in Fulton in 1931, his meaningful life, which was devoted to educating and healing people, is a feather in Fulton’s cap. The next time I reach a milestone birthday, I’ll take a moment to remember one of our city’s first doctors.

Dr. Albert Llewellyn Hall, one of Fulton's first doctors, had an intriguing prescription for living a full life.

Dr. Albert Llewellyn Hall, one of Fulton's first doctors, had an intriguing prescription for living a full life.

It's A Sweet Memory

As I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, the Fulton Library is collecting memories of the Dizzy Block, a section of our downtown where people once congregated to shop and socialize. We’re hoping to get enough stories to publish a book about the Dizzy Block’s popularity. We’ll start with the early 1900s, when horse-drawn carriages brought farm families into Fulton to stock up on supplies. We’ll also cover Fulton in the 1930s, when our city’s industries remained strong despite a countrywide Great Depression. We’ll even cover the late-1960s, when urban renewal changed the look, and many say the feel of our unique downtown.

For me, a baby boomer born in the mid-1950s, the Dizzy Block was a place to spend the few dollars I’d earned topping onions on my uncles’ farms or from tips I made on my Herald-American paper route. Maybe it was downstairs to the Montgomery Ward sports section or over to Woolworth’s for just about anything I thought I needed. (That store was the Wal-Mart of my youth.) I may have had serious purchases to make, like new pencils for school or food for my goldfish, but I always made sure to save a few coins for a stop at Foster’s.

Luckily, the library already has some stories about how special Foster’s was for many Fultonians. In 2014, when the library’s Memoir Project was gathering recollections about successful Fulton businesses, I was hoping we could track down some about the original Foster’s, a tiny establishment that sold everything from magazines to hunting equipment. Best of all, they served great ice cream.

It wasn’t just the hot fudge sundaes or milkshakes I wanted to remember about Foster’s. It was also the feel of walking in that store, which in my memory seemed no bigger than an extra-wide hallway. I couldn’t put into words what I was trying to recall, but luckily the library tracked down two people who could tell us exactly what being in Foster’s was like.

I’m talking about Will and Jim Chapman, whose father, William J. Chapman, ran Foster’s for many years. Their father has passed on now, but since the Chapman brothers spent much of their youth working and “hanging out” at “The Store,” as they called it, they agreed to pull together their memories of that establishment, including how they managed to offer customers so much in such a small space. Here are Will and Jim’s memories, which take us back to Foster’s in the 1960s:

“We can remember every inch of the first store at 122 Cayuga Street. (Foster’s moved to the opposite side of Cayuga after urban renewal.) As you entered the store, the comic book rack was to the left of the door. Behind the comics were magazine racks, an ice machine and then the counter and cash register on the right. Behind it was the ice cream freezer, where the cones were made and dispensed.  Next was the long counter on the right – we forget how many stools exactly, but are sure it sat 25 or so.  Behind that counter was the soda fountain equipment, starting with the Coke machine, then ice cream freezers with various syrups over the freezer doors. 

“We would make soft drinks from syrup and charged water. Cherry was the biggest seller, but others preferred vanilla.  It would be interesting to know how many Cokes and cherry Cokes got poured in those years.  Doctors sent their patients in to get pure Coke syrup to calm a bad stomach. Then came the Pepsi machine, and about halfway down the counter was the industrial-sized Bunn coffee machine, with a minimum of two urns working at all times.  As with the Cokes, we wonder how many cups of coffee were served. 

“Adjacent to the coffee machine was the hot dog steamer, with the lemonade or orange drink dispenser on the counter. Across from that, the toaster and then the same ice cream freezer and fountain mixes on the far end.  At the end of each of the fountain mixes was a container of Nestlé hot fudge.  The hot butterscotch and hot marshmallow would be located on the far end. 

“Just after the magazine and newspaper rack (We can still hear Dad saying to some lingerer at the magazine rack, ‘If you want to read, the library is on First Street!’), on the left was the cigar rack, followed by a candy rack, then a register and display cases filled with pipes, Zippo lighters, smoking paraphernalia and gift items, followed by another display case with sporting goods.  Behind the cigar rack and along the wall were cherry storage cabinets that stored extra cigarettes and cigars.

“Behind the display cases on pegboard walls were sporting goods.  This is before the big box stores put the little sporting goods retailers out of business.  Shakespeare fishing rods, reels, Wilson golf clubs, golf balls, bats, balls, ball gloves and even BB guns, 22 rifles or shotguns could be bought at Foster’s. At this register, many a hunting and fishing license was issued…”

If you’re like me, reading those memories by the Chapman brothers felt like I was walking through Foster’s. Thanks to Will and Jim Chapman, a favorite part of the Dizzy Block and of Fulton’s proud past is forever preserved.

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Lessons From a Factory Line

In my last blog, I featured writing by local historian Jeff Gorton, including information about Fulton’s Birds Eye factory. Though today it is known as K & N Foods, USA, and it specializes in processing chicken, those of us who grew up in Fulton in the latter half of the last century well remember when it was a frozen food factory. Much like how Fultonians knew it was going to rain when they smelled Nestlé chocolate in the air, those who walked to school or work could tell what vegetable the plant was processing at its Phillips Street location. I was not a fan of brussel sprouts day.

Despite my displeasure with certain vegetable odors, I worked at Birds Eye while I was in college. After my sophomore year, I’d had a change of heart regarding my career goals and took a semester off to figure myself out. My parents let me stay at home while I rethought my future, but I knew I wasn’t on vacation. I needed a job. When I heard they were hiring at Birds Eye, a five minute walk from my house, I put in my application, hoping to be offered a job on the packaging lines.

Birds Eye’s personnel office noticed I’d already earned a two-year degree, so they offered me a position of weighing trucks delivering produce to the plant. I considered myself lucky; I wouldn’t have to come in contact with those horrid-smelling brussel sprouts and I got to apply my math skills in the real world. Three months later, my college plans back on course, my work at Birds Eye ended without once getting a peek at those processing lines. It was only through the Fulton Library’s Memoir Project that I got to learn about them.

In 2014, the Project was looking for stories about successful Fulton businesses and Birds Eye was certainly in that category. In our search to find people willing to write a memoir about their work in one of Fulton’s many industries, we found Vance Marriner. Though Vance is a research analyst and a part-time faculty member at SUNY Oswego, I know him as a fellow writer. He and I have participated in a number of classes and programs over the years, and when I asked if he’d share his literary talents with the Memoir Project, he readily agreed.

Vance’s memoir focused on his father, Howard Marriner, who was a manager at the Birds Eye plant. But he also wrote about the year he turned sixteen, in 1984, and it was time for him to get his first job. As might be expected, Vance ended up working at Birds Eye, but just because his father was plant manager didn’t mean he was going to get a cushy office job. Here’s how Vance described his entry into the working world:

“I spent that summer as one of the legion of seasonal “casual” workers that swelled the plant’s workforce during the busy months. Technically, my father got me the job, but frankly, no string-pulling was necessary. During peak season in those days, Birds Eye hired almost any person who was willing to work.

“On my first day, I was issued a yellow helmet, a hairnet, a pair of earplugs, and employee badge # 1647. I was then placed on the “inspection line.” Inspection consisted of standing (never sitting!) along with maybe ten or so other people at a conveyor belt and watching beans go by. We were tasked with picking out anything that wasn’t a bean. That might be a branch or a leaf, or it might be a bug or a snake. Sometimes you weren’t quite sure what you pulled out of there, only that it probably wasn’t edible. The job was as boring and generally awful as it sounds, and all the worse as it was often a ten-hour workday, broken up only by lunch and a pair of 15-minute breaks. On the plus side, we were being paid a princely $3.40 per hour.”

Vance worked at Birds Eye for a few summers and eventually got to move beyond the inspection line, advancing to, as he described it, “more glamorous jobs like placing boxes into metal trays, stacking cases onto pallets and loading steaming hot trays of spinach onto a cart. My father later admitted that he made sure that I got assigned the most humble jobs in the place, partially to avoid any suspicion of favoritism, but mostly because he wanted to toughen me up and teach me some life lessons about what hard work was all about.”

Vance’s father’s plan must have worked.  As Vance tells it, over thirty years have passed since he spent his summer job working at Birds Eye. Like many people, he’s never forgotten what it was like to work on a factory line, but also what it did for him as a youngster growing up to be a man. He captured that feeling in a way we can all appreciate:

“The memories of walking home from the plant after a long shift, legs aching, soaking wet from both sweat and steam vapor, clothes stained and stinking of green beans, and faced with more of the same the next day are as vivid as if they had happened yesterday. And that scene has flashed in my mind any time I’ve been tempted to complain about a hard day at one of my subsequent desk jobs…”

Thanks, Vance, for sharing a memory that many in Fulton have had – some for a summer, some for a few years, and some for life.

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