Fulton's Founder of Camp Hollis

I’m currently working on a book that will cover the history of Camp Hollis, the children’s residential camp located on Lake Ontario, in the town of Oswego. My personal history is intimately woven with the camp’s, stretching all the way back to the 1930s, when my dad attended the Health Camp located there. By the 1960s, I was a camper at Hollis and then worked my way through college as one of its counselors in the 1970s. Most of my adult career was with the county of Oswego’s Youth Bureau, which owns and operates the camp. Writing Camp Hollis’s history will not only be an honor, but also personally fulfilling.

I’m researching the camp back to its earliest years, including details about Dr. LeRoy Hollis, of Sandy Creek, who oversaw the Health Camp from 1928 until it closed in 1943. But today I want to tell you how, three years later, one man put forth great effort to reopen the camp for children in Oswego County. That man was Judge Eugene Sullivan.

Born in New York City in 1899, Eugene made occasional visits to Fulton because his father, Richard Sullivan, ran our city’s Hotel Fulton. By the time Eugene had graduated from Albany Law School, he and his wife Ruth had settled in Fulton. Here he practiced law, became active in politics and in several community organizations.

A new job Sullivan began in 1944 set the stage for the founding of Camp Hollis. Appointed to be Oswego County’s Children’s Court Judge, Sullivan met many youngsters who’d already endured great struggles in their life. “My father oversaw cases involving families who didn’t even have the basic necessities,” Eugene’s son, Mike, told me. “Things like running water for bathing or fresh milk for meals. Dad thought those children needed something special in their lives. ‘If they could receive some kind of reward, we might not see them back in the courts,’ he’d say.”

What the Judge imagined for children came true a thousand times over throughout Camp Hollis’s nearly 75-year history. When the camp officially opened in 1946, some of the first children to attend were those whose family lives were so troubled that they ended up in an Oswego County orphanage. A few years before I retired, one of those former orphans, Frank Fisher, stopped by to visit the camp that had given him many fond memories.

“I was nine years old when my brothers, sister and I were sent to the Oswego Children’s Orphanage,” Frank explained. “But two weeks each year, the college-age counselors at Camp Hollis won our hearts. They noticed when a child was having difficulty and would throw an arm around a shoulder, give a hug or an encouraging word. The counselors had no special training, but they cared and we children knew it without being told it was so.”

Judge’s son Mike was one of those Camp Hollis counselors and he told me a little about what working there in its earliest years was like:

“I started off as a handyman to the cook. Later, Dad sent me to a Red Cross Aquatic School and we lifeguards had the important job of making sure the children swimming in the sometimes rough Lake Ontario waters were safe. We taught a lot of kids how to swim who’d never been near water.”

As I research Camp Hollis’s history I’ve learned how the Judge struggled to financially support the camp. Sullivan spoke at Oswego County Legislative meetings, convincing them in the camp’s first year of the need for healthy recreational activities for children. He spoke to the orphanages’ staff, school nurses, police departments—anyone who might support his idea of creating a camp for children in need.

Convincing those influential people wasn’t easy, as Mike explained. “I’m still not sure how my father managed in those early years to supply the camp with food, needed supplies and pay for the staff. The camp started when I was nine years old and I often rode out to Hollis with my father so he could check on how it was running. My job was to make sure he did not fall asleep on the way home. I also remember attending dinners where he gave the Camp Hollis pitch for funding.  Money ran out the last two weeks of that first summer and Dad covered the paychecks for everyone.”

Sullivan didn’t just look for support at the local level; he also sought it from state officials. He’d learned that Governor Thomas Dewey had started a committee to study juvenile delinquency that became known as the New York State Youth Commission. Judge pitched them the idea that a summer camp for needy children could be a method of curtailing a youngster’s wrongdoing and the newly-formed committee agreed. In the camp’s inaugural year, New York State agreed to provide funding, making Camp Hollis the first such recreational program to receive support from the state.

Sullivan put state and local money to good use. The camp’s original building was repaired, playground equipment was installed and a staff was hired to prepare meals, provide medical care and supervise children. In July of 1946, 27 boys and 27 girls from local orphanages and all over Oswego County climbed off a school bus onto the campgrounds, ready for three weeks of fun, food and friendship. Over the years, Camp Hollis would evolve into a camp that’s open to all Oswego County children. This summer, hundreds of boys and girls will step foot on the campgrounds for the first time, looking to enjoy the life-changing experience of going away to camp.

What a joy it will be to write Camp Hollis’ full history, with stories from former staff and campers like Mike and Frank  helping me preserve the memory of Judge Eugene Sullivan, who saw children in great need and found a way to make their lives a little happier.

Judge Eugene Sullivan, founder of Camp Hollis, and his wife, Ruth, shown enjoying the festivities at the camp in the summer  of 1958.

Judge Eugene Sullivan, founder of Camp Hollis, and his wife, Ruth, shown enjoying the festivities at the camp in the summer of 1958.

Right To Our Front Door

Have you heard that the latest shopping craze is ordering groceries on your computer and then driving to the store to have them loaded in your car? It sounds convenient, but not nearly as exciting as one of my favorite food-related memories: Seeing a light brown van pulling into the driveway of my childhood home. I’m talking about Charles Chips, and no matter what we kids were getting into, we’d drop everything when “Mr. Charlie” stopped at our house.

The driver wasn’t really named Charlie; in fact, there never was a Charlie or Charles associated with that potato chip company. It was Effie Musser, who, back in 1942, perfected the brand in her Pennsylvania kitchen. Effie sold chips at a local farmers market and their tasty quality hit big. They were picked up by a Baltimore distributor who packed them in tin cans, calling them Charles Chips after the Charles Street of his hometown. Unable to make a profit, the distributor sold his assets back to Effie, who kept the name and expanded her service area until it finally reached Fulton. We baby boomers were ready, as Jody Rinker remembers:

“When Charlie Chips’ truck pulled around our circle drive, we would holler to Mom, then stood around as he pulled out drawers of goodies. That evening, after the news, the seven of us kids would watch ‘Mr. Ed’ or ‘My Mother The Car,’ and right smack in the middle of us was that can of chips.” For Laurie Rupracht’s family, delivery day was also special. “That night, we always had lunchmeat sandwiches and chips for dinner.”

Charles offered more than just regular chips. Sarah Fadden Mackridge loved their sour cream and onion variety and Jody Rinker noted that “for an extra special treat, once in a while we’d get their chocolate chip cookies.” Diane Sokolowski remembered Charles Chips showing up at her grandmother's. “We grandkids got to pick what we wanted. My favorite was the chips, but they had popcorn and pretzels, too.”

After every last chip was consumed, those tins could be lots of fun. Aside from making a good drum, they had other uses. “My grandmother was a seamstress and she made doll clothes for me,” Diane explained. “I stored them in a tin.”

Nancy Jean Keller Horn’s family also bought from Charles Chips—“Paul Halstead was our church friend who had a route.”—but she remembered other food vendors who came to her home. “A frozen food delivery brought us fish and a lady from Palermo area delivered eggs. We also had Gillespie Dairy. Jerry Barton and then Les Green were our milkmen.”

Fulton had lots of dairy farms; Candy Bartlett’s family bought from Roger’s. “They delivered our milk, eight bottles three times a week, but we never had enough for us four kids who drank milk like it was kegs of beer!” Many remember heading out to the porch or front steps to retrieve glass bottles of fresh milk for their breakfast cereal. Eileen Mills knew that “in winter we had to bring them in from the box as soon as they were delivered or the milk would freeze.”

Dairy farmers made all those early morning deliveries by employing teenagers looking to make some money. One of those kids was Tim Rose, who worked for Triangle Dairy throughout his high school years, back in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Tim described his three-times-a-week job:

“My day started at 3:00 am. I’d ride with my neighbor to the dairy, where we loaded the refrigerated truck with glass quarts of pasteurized and homogenized milk, cardboard quarts of chocolate, skim and buttermilk, and cottage cheese and heavy cream. By four, we were on our route. Each home had a specific area to leave deliveries; some had milk doors built into the side of their home, some had a metal insulated box, some were left on the porch or in the garage. There was even one stop where I walked into the house, through living and dining rooms and then into the kitchen, putting their delivery in the refrigerator.”

Tim was known as the delivery’s “runner” because he always “ran from the truck to the house, made my delivery, picked up the empties and ran back to the truck.” Since most families had a regular order, Tim knew who got what, “but you always had to watch, in the dark, for notes requesting more or less milk or additional items.”

Once the route was done, Tim and the driver would head back to the dairy, unload and then reload the truck for the next route. The driver did that route by himself because Tim had to head for school. “The driver dropped me off at the high school before the bell went off at 8:00.” Tim had put in a whole lot of work before most of us were awake, and for his efforts he made $1.25 an hour when he was hired. By graduation day, he was up to $1.70.

Like postal workers, Tim delivered through rain, snow, sleet and hail. “Winter was tough and I took many tumbles, dropping glass bottles and shattering them. I’d pick myself up and head back to the truck for a broom and dustpan.”

But winter also brought Christmas, which Tim described as incredible. “Many customers left us homemade goodies to show their appreciation. Those holiday goodies, along with all the chocolate milk I could drink while jumping truck, and occasionally, on a hot day, an ice cream sundae after we got back from our route delivery, made the job worth every mile I ran to deliver.”

Today’s shoppers can keep their fancy online grocery orders. I’d give anything to have Charles Chips pull into my driveway or wake up to a fresh bottle of milk waiting at my door.

A Charles Chips van, which, along with dairy farmers and other food vendors, made regular deliveries to Fultonians.

A Charles Chips van, which, along with dairy farmers and other food vendors, made regular deliveries to Fultonians.

Fulton's Medal of Honor Hero

I like the phrase, “It Takes a Village to Raise a Child” and I think it applies to the preservation of our history, too. Here in Fulton we’re lucky to have mainstays like the Friends of Fulton History and The Fulton Public Library that work to preserve our proud past. Along with those organizations we also have individuals who are keeping our history alive. One of them is teacher Bill Cahill.

I got to know Bill when he invited me into his Volney sixth grade classroom to discuss the history of Fulton’s Nestlé plant. While he and I were planning how best to inform his students about our former chocolate factory, Bill told me about a history project that he’s been involved with for years: the story of  World War II hero Carlton Barrett.

I’d never heard of Barrett, but after learning his story I understand Bill’s interest in keeping alive this Fultonian’s contributions to our country. Bill explained how he first learned about Mr. Barrett: “My fellow teacher at Fairgrieve, Rick Bush, had heard about Barrett’s actions during WWII battles and that he had earned the Medal of Honor.”

I had to be reminded of the rare circumstances in which someone receives a Medal of Honor. Established in 1861, this highest of tributes is reserved for those who served in our military “in action against an enemy force” and includes a presentation by the President. Among the millions of men and women who served our country in war, only 3,500 have received the Medal of Honor. One of them is Fultonian Carlton Barrett and here is his story:

In 1940, before graduating high school, Barrett enlisted in the Army. Following four years of training and just shy of his twenty-first birthday, Private Barrett found himself in what many consider the longest day of an American war, June 6, 1944. D-Day.

Stationed in France, in the middle of the Normandy Invasion, Barrett was working as a field guide, a soldier who helps coordinate troops and communications. Though his assigned duties sound somewhat removed from the throes of battle, what Barrett experienced on that day was anything but routine. The citation given when Barrett received his Medal of Honor explained:

“On the morning of D-Day, Pvt. Barrett, landing in the face of extremely heavy enemy fire, was forced to wade ashore through neck-deep water. Disregarding the personal danger, he returned to the surf again and again to assist his floundering comrades and save them from drowning. Refusing to remain pinned down by the intense barrage of small-arms and mortar fire poured at the landing points, Pvt. Barrett, working with fierce determination, saved many lives by carrying casualties to an evacuation boat lying offshore.

“In addition to his assigned mission as guide, he carried dispatches the length of the fire-swept beach; he assisted the wounded; he calmed the shocked; he arose as a leader in the stress of the occasion. His coolness and his dauntless daring courage while constantly risking his life during a period of many hours had an inestimable effect on his comrades and is in keeping with the highest traditions of the U.S. Army.”

Certainly Barrett’s achievements on that day are worthy of honor, but what the citation did not mention was that he accomplished all this while he was wounded. Though shot or hit with shrapnel in both hips and a left leg, it wasn’t until a fourth bullet hit his foot and shattered bones that he finally agreed to be evacuated off the beach.

Out of over 150,000 soldiers who were involved in the D-Day efforts, Barrett was one of four Medal of Honor recipients. Of the four, he was the lone survivor, though his recovery was delayed by two bouts of malaria and a five-month hospital stay. Anyone would have understood had Barrett then retired from military service, but he continued to serve our country for another 19 years, retiring in 1963.

Like many soldiers who endured the horrors of wartime, Barrett never wanted to talk about his D-Day experiences. He also never thought of himself as any more of a hero than the soldiers he fought alongside. “It was after [D-Day] that I knew what a hero really is,” Barrett once stated. “They are all heroes just for being there—especially those that never came back.”

Barrett’s dedication and Medal of Honor worthiness may have all been forgotten when he died in 1986, but that’s where teachers like Bill Cahill can make a difference. Once he heard Barrett’s story, Cahill pledged to make sure his students would know of their fellow Fultonian’s heroic behavior.

Each spring, since 2016, Bill and Lanigan sixth grade teacher and US Air Force Veteran Holly Rhoads utilize a DVD series from the Medal of Honor Society that includes lesson plans about Medal recipients. Students learn that a Fultonian is among those who earned the medal by reading an essay about Barrett written by Cahill and based on research by Volney school parent Carolyn Zimmerman. They are then asked to write their own essay using this first sentence starter: “As a fellow Fultonian, I am proud of Carlton W. Barrett’s actions on June 6th, 1944, because…”

The students’ essays are collected and reviewed by their teachers, with several selected to represent the opinions of these youngsters. They then ride on a float in our city’s Memorial Day parade to Recreation Park and read their essays to an audience.

When asked why he puts the effort into this project, Bill said, “It’s important for our students to realize their city has a proud history and, as active citizens, they will be agents of change that brings back that pride.”

Yes, it takes a village to raise a child, and here in our village we have teachers like Bill Cahill, Holly Rhoads and Rick Bush to accomplish that. We are fortunate.

The memory of Medal of Honor recipient Carlton Barrett is being kept alive by some Fulton teachers.

The memory of Medal of Honor recipient Carlton Barrett is being kept alive by some Fulton teachers.