Muck Farms: The Pride of Oswego County

In 2013, I wrote my first local history book, Of the Earth: Stories from Oswego County’s Muck Farms. I hadn’t embarked on my writing career intending to focus on local history; I considered myself a poet. But one night at a reading, after sharing poems about growing up in the country, several muck farmers in the audience began telling stories. As I listened, I realized they were describing a unique type of farming, one that few outside of Oswego County have ever experienced.

I began researching muck farming with my own family. I had two uncles, Joe Leotta and Sam Figiera, who owned farms in the Fulton area and I worked for them a few weeks each summer topping onions. Topping required a pair of special farm scissors to clip the ribboned tops off onions and then carefully dropping the pungent bulbs into a wooden crate. Topping used to be done on hands and knees, slowly working the endless onion rows under hot sun. Having such a labor intensive job in my youth turned out to be a gift: Every other job I’ve worked has seemed like a walk in the park.

After talking with my uncles’ families, they referred me to other muck farmers, as well as their neighbors and agricultural experts. With each new story I gained more respect for those who worked the mucks. Of course, every type of farming is to be admired; without them we couldn’t survive. But Oswego County has reason to be especially proud of its muck farms because, within its rich soil, there’s a rich history.

You may not think you know what muck soil is, but if you’ve traveled around Oswego County in spring, before crops are planted, you’ve probably seen those freshly plowed fields of black soil. That’s muck, and what gives it that dark rich color is organic material. (Muck soil is so rich in nutrients that some farmers call it black gold.) Yes, Mother Nature held the secrets of organic farming before it became a food fad—long before.

According to Dale Young, former Cornell Cooperative Extension Agricultural Agent, muck farming is only possible because of something that happened 11,000 years ago, “when the last Ice Age took place and its mammoth glaciers came through this area, scouring sections of our ground and leaving pockets of deep, almost lake-like, formations.”

John DeHollander, whose family operated a muck farm in the town of Oswego, shared more about what happened during the Ice Age: “When the glaciers retreated northward, they periodically stopped for great lengths of time. As the earth’s temperature warmed, the glaciers melted, creating so-called glacier lakes. Organic matter gathered and decomposed in those lakes, becoming ‘locked up’ in their lower levels.”

John also explained why muck farming is unique to Oswego County and Central New York. “Our environmental conditions—the four seasons, the long winters with heavy snow that keep the mucks protected—were very conducive for the development of those rich organic deposits.” In fact, John said, you’d have to follow the same latitude where we live around the world to find similar pockets of land, making Oswego County one of the few places where muck farming is even possible.

Fast forward thousands of years and that organic matter had built up to substantial amounts—some measurements went seventy feet deep—turning those ponds and small lakes into woody swamps or wetlands. For a long time no one thought they had any value, but in a June 1855 New York State Census for the town of Scriba, I found this early reference to a farmer growing crops on muck land:

Mathers and Wellington, 100 acres: “Situated about one mile east from the city of Oswego, [this lot] consists entirely of a Tamarack swamp, almost perfectly level and formally considered almost worthless…R.C. Wellington cut broad, deep ditches and cleaned it of timber; and Henry Mathers is now aiding by his enterprise and his capital to complete the cleaning and the ditching and setting it to different kinds of crops, which all promise a bountiful yield, especially onions and root crops…[Soon it will] become the most valuable land in the town, instead of a dismal swamp and a nuisance.”

By the early 1900s, numerous Oswego County swamp lands were being turned into muck land. Doing the labor intensive work of removing trees and stumps, draining swamps and working the soil were immigrant families. Among those I interviewed were Ben and Gay Musumeci, whose family emigrated from Italy in 1910 and started a muck farm on County Route 6 between Fulton and Phoenix.

Ben remembered hearing stories of how his family created their farm: “The first job my Grandfather Sebastiano had to do was to clear the land. This was initially done with horses and two-man saws. Each year they would clear a little and then farm it. My grandfather’s goal was to double the number of cleared acres every decade.”

All that effort was worthwhile. The vegetables muck farmers grew—lettuce, carrots, celery and onions—were highly regarded in markets along the east coast of the United States. One example of that respect is a vivid memory I have of my Uncle Sam’s farm. His family was visiting from New York City and the first thing they wanted to do was see the mucks, where my uncle’s iceberg lettuce was ready for harvest. He cut a few heads and without bothering to wash away the muck, his relatives broke the lettuce into chunks and ate it, declaring it the best they’d ever tasted.

In Oswego County, over 150 families once operated muck farms. But, for economic reasons, doing so has become increasingly difficult. One problem, though, has nothing to do with finances. It’s because the muck land providing us with delicious produce all these years is not endless. Those Ice Age ponds were not bottomless, so muck soil is not endless. Each year, through cultivation and weather conditions, farmers lose about an inch of soil. Now, after decades of farming, some mucks have come to the end of their rich depths.

If you’re lucky, you can still find muck-raised heads of lettuce and pungent onions at a farmers market. When purchasing their produce, why not take a moment to thank our muck farmers.

Photo: The Stancampiano and Tesorario mucks, located in New Haven, New York

The Oswego County Sanatorium

I’m currently working on a book that will cover the history of Camp Hollis, the children’s camp located on Lake Ontario, in the town of Oswego. I’m researching the camp back to its earliest years, before it was known as Camp Hollis, when it operated as a Health Camp from 1928 until 1943. The founder of that camp was Dr. LeRoy Hollis, of Sandy Creek, and before he created the recreational haven devoted to children’s health, he was responsible for another facility devoted to the medical needs of the severely ill. It was known as the Oswego County Sanatorium.

Dr. Hollis’ sanatorium, located in the town of Orwell, was founded to battle a dreaded health concern in the early 1900s: tuberculosis. An infectious disease that primarily attacked the lungs, TB earned the nickname “The White Plague,” and mention of it still sends a chill up the spines of those who remember when tuberculosis had no cure. While it’s been a health threat as far back as recorded history stretches, it was during the Industrial Revolution, when overpopulated cities forced people into tight living quarters, that tuberculosis exploded into a major crisis.

Medical researchers were working toward a cure for TB, but in the early twentieth century, when Dr. Hollis had a well-established medical practice, effective treatment was still in its exploratory stages. As was true with other contagious diseases, the only “remedy” Hollis could offer his patients was prevention. At the first sign of the disease’s symptoms—a persistent cough, difficulty breathing and walking, or an unexplained loss of weight—doctors prescribed fresh air, good nutrition and plenty of rest in hopes of building up weakened immune systems.

To prevent further spread of tuberculosis, those suffering from it were placed in isolation, in facilities first known as “resorts,” though that term is misleading. Imagine, rather, something of a maximum security prison, where the diseased were quarantined and their daily activities restricted. As cruel as those conditions sound, people saw it as their only hope for recovery. To express their faith in this health regimen, doctors gave these institutions a name derived from the Latin word sano, “to heal.” Sanatoriums, medical professionals determined, were the best remedy for people living with TB.

Though not a cure for tuberculosis, doctors nationwide noted improvements for those isolated in sanatoriums. As the number of cases rose, the need for them increased and new sanatoriums opened, including a popular one in Saranac Lake, New York, in the heart of the fresh air-filled Adirondack Mountains. One hundred and fifty miles from Saranac Lake, at his office in Sandy Creek, Dr. Hollis studied the encouraging reports from the Adirondack sanatorium and knew that Oswego County residents with TB could benefit from such a facility closer to home.

Dr. Hollis found support for his sanatorium from New York state. By 1909, the state had taken action to assist in eradicating TB, passing a law to provide funding for county tuberculosis hospitals. A year later, Dr. Thomas Carrington, of the National Association of the Study and Prevention of Tuberculosis, visited Oswego County, urging officials to form a committee to oversee a county-run sanatorium. Dr. Hollis pledged to lead the local effort and then recruited physicians and several elected lawmakers from Oswego County’s Board of Supervisors. (Today the Supervisors are known as Legislators.) Together they formed the Oswego County Committee on Tuberculosis and Public Health.

The committee’s work was fruitful and in October of 1913, at a 160-acre farm on the western edge of the town of Orwell, seven residents were admitted to the Oswego County Sanatorium. By the end of its second year of operation, they were joined by nearly 100 TB sufferers.

For all the good being attempted at the Sanatorium, some carry haunting memories of seeing their loved ones housed there in isolation. Sandy Creek resident Margaret Kastler recalled what it meant to have a parent living there. As she rode with her family to Orwell, Kastler, a young child, was hoping to spend time with her mother, but “we had to talk to her through a screen door.”

Fultonian Bob Green’s memories are equally grim. When he was a teenager, Bob and his family traveled from Fulton to visit his older sister. “She took to shaking terribly and my father had taken her to the Sanatorium. After supper one night, she died of a heart attack. She was 21.”

By 1917, Dr. Hollis had been appointed superintendent of the Oswego County Sanatorium, which required him to give up his Sandy Creek medical practice. But LeRoy’s townspeople needn’t have been concerned that they were losing their doctor. When he began his new position, Hollis’ son, Harwood, who’d recently graduated from Syracuse Medical College, became the second Dr. Hollis to keep Sandy Creekers healthy. A third member of the Hollis family, LeRoy’s grandson Warren, would also serve as Sandy Creek’s loyal physician.

Though Dr. Hollis was pleased with the sanatorium’s expanding level of care, he had a special concern for one group of patients: children. While the disease threatened all ages, it was youngsters’ still-developing lungs that made them especially vulnerable. The Orwell Sanatorium provided children the same treatment—fresh air, clean water and plenty of nutritious food—as it did for adults, but the facility lacked the playfulness a growing child needs.

With that in mind, Dr. Hollis shifted his attention to finding a facility that could serve children at risk of contracting tuberculosis by combining healthy regimens with plenty of recreation. He began looking for the perfect spot for a children’s health camp, ending his search on the shores of Lake Ontario, where he led the development of a new program dedicated to children’s health. In 1946, after the Health Camp had been dormant during the World War II years, it became a recreational haven for all children. That same year, Dr. Hollis died and those leading the efforts to reopen the facility named it Camp Hollis, honoring the man who had devoted his life to Oswego County health.

Dr. LeRoy Hollis (far left) standing in front of the Oswego County Sanatorium, the institution he founded in 1913 to treat patients suffering from tuberculosis.

Remembering a Fulton Chocolate Maker

One of the most interesting things I learned while writing a book about Fulton’s Nestlé factory was how it created and produced all those yummy chocolate products. It was fun researching the steps of making chocolate and learning about the former employees who labored long hours to satisfy my sweet tooth. One Nestlé worker who was mentioned several times during my interviews was Christian Klaiss.

Chris was born in Switzerland, where the Nestlé Company was founded. There he learned how to make chocolate and by the time he came to Fulton, in 1969, he was considered a true craftsman in the art of confections. Chris worked at the Nestlé factory until 1991, training Fultonians, as well as people across the United States, in chocolate making. He also helped develop new products, including the O’Henry, Chunky, Alpine and $100,000 bars. While here, Chris became part of the Fulton community. So did his family.

Recently, I was contacted by Chris’ daughter, Jacqueline Klaiss Brons. Jackie read my book and emailed to thank me for including her dad’s contributions to Fulton’s chocolate history. She moved to Switzerland in 2000 and through the wonders of the internet and a surprisingly clear phone line, she shared memories of her time in Fulton, starting with how many people still remember that city:

“When I read the opening of your book, where you describe the city smelling like chocolate, well, that’s exactly the way I remember Fulton. We lived on Forest Ave, on the west side of the Oswego River, about equidistant from Nestlé and the Miller Brewery, so some days we got a combined smell of chocolate and malt.”

During Chris’ career with Nestlé, he was sent to several of its international factories. “He worked in South Africa,” Jackie said, “then in Germany, where I was born, and then the United States. In August of 1969, we flew from Frankfurt to Zurich to New York, and then from JFK to Syracuse.”

Once in Fulton, Chris and Jackie’s mom, Bruni, began searching for a home. While they looked, they stayed at the Chalet, a private residence owned by Nestlé for visiting guests. There they met Bill and Joanne Camp, who became close friends with the Klaisses.

“Bill worked for Nestlé in Connecticut, and he and Joanne moved to Fulton the same time that we arrived,” Jackie explained. “My brother, Christian, Jr. (Chris), was born in Syracuse and since we had no relatives in the U.S., the Camps became our adopted aunt and uncle. They accompanied us during our formative years.”

I thought the Klaisses might have had to adjust to the English language when they moved here, but Jackie corrected me. “Dad already knew English because he had been to England and South Africa, though he had a heavy Swiss-German accent. Mom had learned English when she was in school, though it was different then conversational English.”

Jackie’s family did have to adjust to Oswego County weather. “There’s nothing like a Fulton winter,” she recalled. “One of the first winters I lived in Switzerland, they closed the airport in Geneva because of seven inches of snow. I simply had to chuckle since I remember flying to and from Chicago O’Hare and Syracuse airports in blizzard-like conditions!”

During my Nestlé research, people kept mentioning Chris’ versatility as a chocolate maker. When I mentioned that to Jackie, she offered this about her dad’s approach to his work: “I call it his ‘Three Ps’: Passion, Perfection and Professionalism. Making chocolate was not just a job for Dad; it was his life and his passion. He made cakes for birthdays, truffles for Christmas, and chocolate eggs for Easter. He’d hand-wrap them and give them away. He had high expectations of himself (Perfection), and strove to be and remain an expert in his field (Professionalism).”

The Klaiss children sometimes benefited from their father’s work. “We took piano lessons for many years,” Jackie explained, “and our teacher wanted us to give a piano recital before we left for college. For both parties that followed our performances, Dad made a large cake—mine had musical notes made from chocolate and my brother’s had a grand piano made from chocolate. Each served about 150 people.”

While Jackie was in college, at Notre Dame, she worked at Nestlé during vacations. “That was a wonderful experience,” she said. “I’d be working at Westreco [Nestlé’s research lab] and people would observe me as I tempered chocolate, saying, ‘Oh, you’re Chris Klaiss’ daughter.’ It wasn’t always easy to be my father’s daughter; he was just as good a cook as my mom. If I had any inkling to try to cook or bake something new, I’d have my father telling me how to do it!”

Jackie left Fulton in July 1989, after graduating from college. She started her working career in Chicago and last visited Fulton in spring 2004. “Although I have moved on," she told me, “I still have fond memories of Fulton, and have often said it was a wonderful place to grow up. It was a close-knit community and our family knew several families whose parents worked at Nestlé. I went to school with their children and still keep in touch with my high school classmates, Rose Duver and Carolyn (Guarrera) Volan, whose fathers, like mine, worked at Nestlé.”

When Chris died in December 2007, the Klaisses received many notes of condolence from his Nestlé coworkers, customers and friends. One of his customers, Gary Dinstuhl, wrote this about one of our city’s most memorable chocolate makers: “I’m sure that he will be waiting for all of us with a plate of truffles when we see each other again.”

Learning more about Chris Klaiss’ influence and contributions has reminded me how important it is to preserve the history of Fulton’s chocolate factory and its workers. A group of former employees are currently planning to open a museum to do just that and someday soon we’ll be able to revisit that sweet chapter of our past. I can almost smell the chocolate just thinking about it.