The Mystery of R.Della Powers

Born in about 1867, in Colesville NY, except for one brightly spotlit chapter, much of Della's life is shrouded in mystery. It is not even certain if her parents - young divorcee Sarah Reed and possible Sing Sing inmate William A Morgan - were married. Even Dell's name is in question; she has been variously called "R.Della", "Della Rose", "Dell" -even "Ardella" on one census entry. (As she mentioned in a later letter back to Colesville searching for her roots, even she didn't know what the "R" was for).

Sarah's death in 1868 left infant Dell without a mother. Dell and William moved to Rochester NY in 1870. There, he quickly married Emma Redding and found employment as a saloon keeper. He was apparently his own best customer. On August 2 1877, William was found unconscious on the street in an alcoholic stupor. He died the next day and young Dell's last connection to her roots was severed.

Emma kept a roof over their heads and kept young Dell fed and clothed by running a boarding house.

By 1883, young Dell - by all accounts now a striking young lady, with dark, almost Spanish features - found work in Huyler's candy shop. To someone of her humble origins, the fabulous Powers Building where the candy shop was, must have seemed like something from a dream. D.W. Powers, owner and builder of the building that still bears his name, was one of the most wealthy, powerful and influential men of Rochester.


One day, D.W's son William happened to stop in the candy shop. There, he found something far sweeter on the other side of the counter than the wares in the glass cases. As often happens, romance, with no regard for class or status, blossomed. I can imagine handsome young William developing a sudden sweet tooth and becoming a frequent buyer of candy he probably didn't even want, lingering long in the selection process.

Talk of marriage began to fill the air.

The ever status conscious Powers family was mortified, with Will's mother vowing that her son would never marry "that candy store girl". Mrs.Powers tried to scuttle the marriage by offering to send Dell to Europe for two years to be educated, no doubt hoping Will would forget her in the interim. Plucky Dell agreed to the educational trip - after the wedding. (The offer subsequently vanished).

Denied the fairy-tale wedding she undoubtedly envisioned, Della and William were married in Emma's living room. No society columns trumpeted the event; it rated barely a paragraph in the July 17, 1883 Rochester Union and Advertiser.

The couple moved into the charming Victorian home that D.W. had had constructed for his son around the corner from his mansion, no doubt envisioning his own little dynastic empire on East Ave.


The tension in the air between Dell and her new in-laws was no doubt almost visible.

Employment for Dell was found in D.W.'s monument to himself, where she worked as a clerk in his pretentious art gallery on the top floor of the Powers Building. On paper I suppose it seemed like she'd literally risen to the top -from the ground floor candy shop where she'd started- but her employment there was no doubt not a happy interval.

A son, Daniel, was born in 1886.

Rather than accept their daughter-in-law, D.W. and Mrs. Powers set about using their wealth and influence to undermine the union. D.W. sent Will off to Europe. At the mercy of his father, who was holding the purse strings and being somewhat of a slacker, Will dutifully obeyed his father. While in England, Will must have taken his father's advice and forgot Dell - he was sued for breach of promise by an Irish barmaid he'd asked to marry him. He apparently also forgot he was already married. He made several trips to New York City and "hunting in the North Woods"He was rumoured to have been involved with Rose Phelps, a Rochester minister's daughter. At one point, Dell went after him, to NYC, even going so far as to disguise herself to try and catch him with her.

D.W. sent Will off to Dakota - which in those days was apparently the Las Vegas of divorce. Will stayed the 90 days required for residency and the divorce was granted. It took 12 years, but Mr. And Mrs. Powers finally got their wish.

Having stripped Dell of her marriage to William, D.W. now set about trying to rid himself of her any way he could, with offers of cash settlement, offers to pay for her accomodations, take Dan in and educate him. Dell, either through stubborness or her firm belief that she was entitled to more, held out. He had her literally thrown out into the street. After D.W's lackey Sherriff Davy forcibly removed them from their home, Dell, Emma and Dan spent the night of October 26 1892 on the curb with the few belongings they were allowed to take.

Not one to roll over to even someone as wealthy and powerful as D.W. Powers, Dell sought recourse through the courts. Suit followed countersuit, charge followed countercharge and the papers of Rochester relished in the scandal.

Emma Morgan, the only mother Dell had ever really known died May 4 1895 leaving Dell alone to raise Dan and take on the Powers machine. In her desperation, Dell turned to what little she knew of her roots. She wrote to her grandparents in Colesville NY, who unbeknownst to her, had died several years earlier. Her uncle Eli, being the postmaster there, opened the letter. In the letter, she's desperately searching for someone to help her take on the Powers machine.

The last known echo of Dell is found in a letter from her in NYC in 1896 to her cousin in Colesville. Dan was apparently with her family there, safely hidden from the Powers clan. Dell speaks of being ill with malaria and possibly taking a trip to England and then Buenos Aires.

Then she vanishes.

In 1910, Dan shows up, living with his father in Syracuse NY.

What became of Dell? Did she remarry? Did she find happiness? Die destitute and alone, robbed of what was rightfully hers? The answer to these questions is shrouded in the mists of the past, growing ever fainter with each turn of the calendar, yet I must know.

The players in this little drama are all gone now, gone to a place where one is judged by what's in one's heart, not what's in their bankbook. I'm sure old D.W. was found wanting.

Thou art gone, Dell, but not forgotten.

(Disclaimer: Dell was my second cousin, twice removed)

Ed and Eddie

For some reason, two very different guys named "Ed" from my past have been at the forefront of what passes for my brain, lately.

Ed was a fellow student in Jr. High. He was the textbook definition of the term "nerd". Goofy clothes, heavy rimmed glasses and squeaky voice. The most unpardonable sin of all - Ed was a bit overweight. He had a funny build - his upper body was round, but his legs were slender. He looked as if you'd taken a fork, broken two tines off and used the fork to spear a meatball. In fact, that was what we nicknamed him: "Meatball".

In the brutally cruel way that teens have, we tormented him endlessly. Most probably in an effort to cover our own perceived weaknesses, we descended on him like wolves on a wounded deer. The capper came the day I beat him up. Sounds cold on the face of it, but it was really a huge misunderstanding. Our gym teacher - who viewed himself as "the football coach" - was late for class (as always). A gym full of unsupervised teens is a disaster waiting to happen. I strolled into class a bit late myself and started to climb up to the top row of bleachers. (They were folded, with only the bottom row pulled out). Next thing I know, Ed has ahold of my leg and is pulling me off the bleachers. I came down and he was just sort of clawing and swinging at me, so I popped him - a solid, overhand right, right under the eye. He kept swinging and clawing at me, so I hit him several more times. By then the gym teacher had deigned to show up and I got hauled off to the office. There sat Ed, with a pretty nice mouse under his eye, 'bout half the size of a golf ball. I got whacked with a paddle (this was before the vice principal had to live in fear of lawsuits) and sent back to class. Shortly after that, Ed disappeared. Rumour mill had it that his parents had transferred him to another school district. It wasn't until after all was said and done that I found out someone had spit on him that day, and he'd thought it was me. Hell, I'd have wanted to open a can of whoop-ass on anyone who'd done that to me, too!

From time to time, I think about Ed and wonder what happened to him. From the long perspective, I am now very ashamed of how we treated him and all I can do is hope he's happy and whole now. Ed, wherever you are now, I'm sorry man, I didn't know what we were doing to you.

Eddie, on the other hand, was a buddy of mine. He'd had polio when he was little, so the muscles on the left side of his body were pretty well wasted. (Why any child, born in 1961, long after the advent of the polio vaccine, had to go through that, I often wonder. His parents should probably be boiled in oil ). He had a very unique gait - unmistakable for blocks away.

Eddie was a bit of a character. He was a music nut, so I suppose that's how he and I found each other. I have so many memories of him, and every one brings a smile to my face, because they all involve laughter. Funny, one that I had totally forgotten about, snapped back into focus the other day. Eddie was an Alice Cooper fan, way back in the late '70s. One night, a bunch of us were out in my friend's car, partying. Eddie asked my now ex-wife, who I'd just started dating, for her mascara to do the Alice Cooper makeup to match his long brown wig (Don't ask). Long story short, a cop appeared at the driver's side window and started asking the driver a whole bunch of questions. The cop asked us all to get out of the car and line up on the curb. Eddie was the last one out, and when he stepped out, with the wig and the mascara around his eyes and mouth, the look on the cop's face was just priceless! (The cop ended up confiscating our bottle and cutting us loose).

Eddie also had a bad habit of falling down when he was drunk. It got to be a joke. One time, he and I left a party to go listen to a tape in my car. As we were walking back to the party, I told him to be careful of the icy sidewalk, since he'd been drinking. He insisted he was fine. He got all the way back to the house where the party was, put his hand on the stair rail, when -ZIP! CRASH!- on his back he went! He lay there laughing "Man, you know me like a book!" was all he could get out.

Funny thing was, later on in Eddie's life, he used to make a killing in bars, arm wrestling for money. People would make the mistake that they could make some easy money wrestling the gimp...... SURPRISE, SUCKERS! Since he did everything with his right arm, he was strong as HELL on that side! That was always deeply gratifiying to watch!

Eddie died young, a couple of years ago, and, while it was sort of a sad thing, part of me is glad he's free of that cursed body. Eddie, man, wherever you are, I raise a beer for ya'!

That was then, this is now.

The year was 1979. I was fresh out of school and had been working my first "real" job for a while. I finally saved up enough money to buy my first "good" bike. (It was only my second new bike). After reading all the magazine reviews, I decided on a Windsor International. Problem was, I couldn't find one anywhere. One day I happened upon a Lotus Unique in a now-defunct bike shop. For $350 (a princely sum then) I got a real sweet lugged chromoly frame, aluminum wheels, a full Shimano 600EX gruppo and that cool blue/purple color. It was my pride and joy for 20 some-odd years.

The year is 2006 and I had been working my second job in a bike shop and finally earned enough store credits to but my first "top shelf" bike - a Felt F1C. For $5799 (a princely sum now) I got a sweet carbon frame, Mavic Kyserium ES wheels, full Shimano Dura-Ace gruppo and that badass Stealth Bomber black.

The Felt is my current "baby". Every time I ride it, I'm amazed at the smooth ride, snappy handling and responsive acceleration. Too bad the motor's not worthy!

So why blog?

Why indeed? As I try to find my... rhythm?... niche?.... style?... here I've been asking myself "Well, why do it"? If I can find the answer to that riddle, maybe I can write something worth reading.

Part of it stems, I'm sure from my geneological hobby. I have a database with about 2000 names...and that's all they are is names and dates. I wonder "Who were they"? "What were they like"? and I get no answers. Maybe I have some sort of delusion that some of me will live on, so that 2000 years from now, when someone uncovers this electronic relic, they'll say "Wow, he was a cool guy...." (This, of course implies that I actually stick with this long enough to say so...)

Part of it stems from my love for writing. I love to be able to write something just so and really nail what I'm trying to say. Someday when it actually happens, I'm sure I'll get great satisfaction from it.

The other part of it is an extension of the writing bit - I like discourse. I like the give and take of written communication, which is why I spend quite a bit of time on message boards.[sarcasm] All the replies and emails I've gotten on here are just mind- boggling. [/sarcasm ] Oddly enough, in person, I'm a person of very few words.... I suppose that says something Freudian about me.

Ok, the gauntlet has been thrown down....

I'm at 1580 miles on my bike for the year. To make 2000 by the end of the year, I've got to put in 416 more miles, probably indoors....(grrrrr). I sure as hell don't want to be doing a century ride on the trainer on New Year's Eve, so I guess I better get my ass in gear, huh? Maybe if I can accomplish this, I can think about my other goal of being in the 155lb range by April?

Oof. One of thooooose days....

Weather was so crappy, the dog decided she could wait to go out, after sticking her head out the door and neither cat decided they wanted to have an escape when I opened the door for the dog.

Woke up plenty early enough but somehow - probably through my waffling over what to bring for lunch - I ended up running a bit late. No cash on me, and probably no time to hit the ATM. Driving through town, I hit EVERY friggin' light - even the ones that aren't normally red because they're "demand only". I decide to pass on hitting the ATM in town, and, if I had enough time when I got to work, hit the one in the Quickie Mart near work. Don't I get behind every slowpoke, with 27 cars backed up behind them? According to the clock in the car I still had about 2 minutes when I got here, so I stopped at the ATM..... Guess what's out of order? Guess who's going without caffeine this AM? (And I ended up being late, to boot).
SIGH