BEER BURLOCKS AND WHISKEY CHASERS (eBook)

8

Graves Siblings at Keeler Bay

By 1902 Harmon had established a largely corporate law
practice in Manhattan. His compact athletic stature made him appear taller than he was, and his rich baritone voice was commanding in the courtroom and corporate boardrooms. An easy smile broke his otherwise stern demeanor, disarming those who opposed him and relaxing friends and acquaintances.

His five brothers, sisters, and spouses were located in Vermont and Connecticut enjoying satisfying careers as bankers, public school teachers, and in spousal supporting roles—two of which took them far from the New England enclave. Marie married John Henry Hopkins, an Episcopal minister devoted to his congregation in Chicago. Charlotte devoted herself to Lincoln Andrews—a West Point graduate. She and “Linc” had enjoyed some overseas tours of duty including the island of Leyte in the Philippines. With Linc’s anticipated assignment to Fort Ethan Allen in Vermont, Charlotte was anxious to return to the Champlain Valley where she and all her siblings were raised.

They were a congenial group and had agreed to meet each year in July for two weeks in Vermont—first at Shelburne Harbor, then Mallets Bay, and the following year in South Hero.

Seated on the deck of the Iodine Springs Hotel in the town of South Hero, overlooking Keeler Bay of Grand Isle in July 1902, Harmon and his brothers and sisters were close to reaching a common conclusion.

“Can’t beat the view, the food is great, the morning sunrise is glorious, but, you know, I’d like to be on the water and watch the sun go down, rather than up,” Harmon said, speaking to no one directly.

“What do you have in mind?” his brother Dudley asked. “I like the idea of no cooking duties, but while I have enjoyed these annual outings with all of you, I haven’t hit a tennis ball in so long Lily could whip me!”

“Well, I can whip up some enthusiasm about finding a place of our own even without a tennis court. Come on, Dudley, does everything have to be so…athletic?” his sister Lily countered, while pouring a fresh cup of coffee from the candle-heated urn on the sideboard.

“You know, Lily, the body is the temple of the soul and if the temple weakens, the soul is at risk.”

Marie, the eldest of the Graves siblings and sensing the developing dispute, moved to the back of her husband John Henry’s wicker chair.

“I suspect that comment was directed to me for confirmation,” John Henry muttered, “but having left my Chicago congregation in a slump with too many of our congregants moving to the suburbs, at the moment I’m more concerned with the body of our modest parish in the heart of the city.”

With a hand gently on his shoulder, Marie somewhat wistfully offered, “It would be much more inspiring to have morning prayer in a place of our own, yet open to all.” Pausing only briefly, she continued, “And our dad, now retired from the active ministry could be encouraged to take at least a day trip from Burlington to administer the Eucharist on Sundays.”

“Ok, I like where this discussion is going,” her sister Charlotte added, “and although Linc and I are subject to the whims of the U.S. Army, we’ve managed regular ‘leave time’ so far and we’re willing to commit to a more permanent summer place.”

Lincoln Andrews, now a Major, dressed in shorts, tropical shirt and sandals, yet always ramrod straight, nodded in agreement.

Lily, ruefully stirring the last of her coffee, added, “My dear husband Charles, sweltering in Boston at the moment, wants you to know that he will support a decision of this kind, and provide his share of the wherewithal to do so.”

“Excellent, and we sorely miss him,” her brother George said.

Their conversation drifted off. Each was lost for a moment, contemplating a place where their family could reestablish their roots in the Champlain Valley and on this island in particular.

“Well, let’s do this,” Harmon proposed interrupting this rare silence among them, “I’ll crank up the car and let’s head for the west side of the island and see if anything is posted for sale. Anyone who is up for a bumpy ride is welcome to join me.”

George, Dudley and Lincoln agreed to go, the ladies attended to some minor clean-up as the sole guests in the hotel, and John Henry made brief notes for his homily to be delivered at vespers that evening out on the hotel lawn. John Henry knew how to meld the beauty of his surroundings with a gospel reading and all of his in-laws and siblings eagerly awaited his comments on the events of the day or the beauty of the world around them and how they were mirrored in the word of the Lord. Lively discussions often followed.

The road from South Hero to the west shore of Grand Isle wound through some thinly wooded areas, then at the brow of a modest hill leading to the shore, the traveler was presented with a sweeping panorama of Lake Champlain, with the purple serenity of the Adirondack Mountains as a backdrop.

“Christ Almighty, that’s beautiful!” George exclaimed, leaning out of the window for an unobstructed look. “Slow ‘er down a bit,” he urged.

Harmon pulled the car to the side of the road near the old schoolhouse and they all stepped out for a look. Lincoln was soaking it all in through his binoculars which he passed around to the Graves brothers. Occasional white caps lazily raised by a modest southwest wind sparkled in the brilliant sunshine. The only sound was the caw of a crow strutting on the ridge of the nearby schoolhouse expressing his concern that his solitude had been interrupted.

From this point they could see Cumberland Head projecting from the New York shore, behind which Commandant Thomas Macdonough of the American fleet, on Sunday, September 11, 1814, had awaited arrival of the British armada heading south in the main channel. The Brits, repeating their efforts of October, 1776, planned to decimate the American warships here, then to proceed on with their land forces to capture New York City in a decisive thrust to quickly end this latest insurrection.

All students of the lake’s naval battle history, they easily imagined the thunderous sounds from the New York side two and a half miles across the way as the feuding ships tore into each other. Then Macdonough’s surprise maneuver in bringing his flagship about so as to expose the British flagship to a fresh broadside, blasting its cannons from their mounts and piercing its gunners with two-foot splinters as shot tore through the bulwarks.

Lost in their personal recollection of this spectacular and brutal battle that brought unexpected victory to the Americans, Lincoln and the Graves’ brothers found it difficult to accept that this beautiful setting could have hosted such a fearful conflict.

Harmon broke this moment of reflection, returning to the driver’s seat and said, “The road forks to the right and left at the bottom of the hill. Any direction preference?”

George didn’t hesitate. “Let’s head north. If nothing is posted for sale, we can stop in at Vantine’s place on the shore. Van Vantine knows everybody and is likely to know what’s available.”

They headed north. West Shore Road hugged the shoreline in many places, but about a third of a mile to the south of Vantine’s the shoreline stretched out to a modest point and gracefully fed back into a shale shore to the north and south. Harmon slowed the car, and finding an opening through the maze of cedars, brought the car to a stop.

“That’s about as pretty as it gets,” Dudley said, not directing his comments to anyone in particular. “I bet Van either owns it or knows who does.” They noticed a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn of a small farm on the east side of the road but assumed it had no connection with the west side.

Hearing no objection, Harmon continued north and soon encountered “Vantine’s,” a sprawling farmhouse with a lengthy front porch facing the lake. It had over twenty rooms—one of the first of the island’s summer inns—and offered meals to its guests, many travelling from New York and Boston.

Walking through the expansive porch that could comfortably seat a dozen, or so, and entering the informal reception area, the Graves/Andrews coterie was informed that Van was out back attending to his large vegetable garden—a chore that he generally left to his wife, yet he took pride in assuring his guests that all vegetables that were served in his establishment came from this patch of greenery.

Proceeding out the backdoor of the inn they found him in the garden holding a handful of carrots. “Good afternoon, Van,” Harmon said, then proceeded to introduce his family. Van needed no introductions—remembering clearly the Graves clan’s summer visits—and said, “Lunch is about over, but I can set up some refreshments on the porch or in the dining room and listen to what’s been going on—since what, two years ago?”

“Good memory, Van,” Dudley said, “and apart from your usually good hospitality, we need your guidance regarding some island property.”

“Happy to help. Let me finish pulling these magnificent carrots for dinner and I’ll be right with you.”

Harmon led his family to a comfortable table in a corner in the dining room. Harmon found a seat next to a wall. Above him hung a colorful reproduction of John Steeple’s painting of Ethan Allen, bearing a sword, demanding in October 1776 the surrender of Fort Ticonderoga, “In the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!”...