Stories and Essays by Skip Barshied

  By Willis Barshied, Jr.  In the summer of 1954 when members of the Tryon County Muzzle Loaders first began to clear the brush and debris from the Fort Klock property, old Fort Klock School stood silent, shuttered, and overgrown. The building had been last used for classes in the mid-1930s. Alex Don, owner of Fort Klock, had stopped the central school system from selling the building on the strength of the statement his grandfather, Amos Klock, made that the property under the school was to revert to the Klock family if it was not used for school purposes. No deed was found by lawyer, William Crangle, Jr., who represented Alex. After that, Alex felt he owned the property. He allowed Lew MacWethey to use the building as a bookstore for a period of time. Thus we come to a sunny Sunday and a sad day for the old school.                                               ...

  Time is an unusual commodity. It slips by so casually that the passed portion is not always easily measured. That is the case with this story. How many years ago was it that I first met the friend of this story? All I can say is that it was quite a few. Let me trace my footsteps and recall a treasured memory. Having succumbed to a disease called Collecting many years ago, I like flea markets and antique shows. Someone told me about one being held in Brookfield, New York on a certain weekend. To get the jump on the crowd I was told to go on Thursday. Unfortunately, when I arrived no one was there but me because the show did not start until Friday. It was early in the morning and the question was what I should do for the remainder of the day. About then I remembered an old-time gun collector and dealer that I had met just after World War II ended. His name was Glade Keith. I had met him and his friend Ralph Holdridge at gun shows many times through the years, but had never been at ...

  At 87 years of age, I am not willing to apologize for every step or misstep I have taken in any endeavor. Yes, I am one of those sometimes-despised collectors. However, in collecting the material possessions of bygone eras, I've tried to amass accurate knowledge regarding them. My education does not go past high school. Does this discount the years of searching beneath my feet for that which was lost or cast off by those who have gone before me? Does it negate that which was derived from a lifetime of searching the structures many of which are now long gone? Can it disregard that which was gleaned from the memories of those who actually lived in an age before we were born? Through the years, professionals in many fields looked down on amateur collectors to some extent. Thankfully, that trend has begun to change. Good, accurate information is valuable regardless of where it is derived. Disregard collectors of their collections and valuable information is forever lost. The foregoin...

  I know I have written that collecting is a disease. However, it might be well to take a deeper view. Those artifacts some call junk can open doors closed for centuries. They can take their possessors on voyages that can only be conjured up in an inquisitive mind. With the stone tool once the property of the Native Americans, we might find ourselves in a bark longhouse. We watch as the smoke rises toward the sky from the fire pit and man’s old ally fire warms the content of a pottery vessel. We are oblivious to those around us but we are there at least in our imaginations. Are we now in a frame of mind to guide us into more journeys into yesterday? Some of those journeys will be triumphs and others tragedies. Let’s now examine some of those leftovers from yesterday called collectibles. The iron axes, Jewish harps, glass beads, and brass kettle fragments in the case over there conjure up a period in time possibly in the 1600s when European traders brought different utensils to the ...

  Why is it that upon these things we seize? Can it be that collecting is a disease? ​ We search from nook to cranny For things that belonged to gramps or granny The years roll by As piles of things grow high Some call it junk And others treasure The space it takes is hard to measure Just as there comes a time When it’s hard to get these lines to rhyme The time approaches when things must go To some, it matters not, if fast or slow When that time draws near we say Let it keep these treasures for yet another day ​ Skip Barshied, Stone Arabia, August 25, 2013

  Most of those from a generation or two ago would refer to my mother’s brother as Junior Garlock. Actually, his name was not the same as his father’s with a Jr. in it. He was Benjamin O Garlock instead of Benjamin J Garlock. Uncle Junie was one of those people whose stories were remembered far into the future. Sometimes I refer to him as my drinking uncle. He liked beer, something my mother and father did not partake of. They were possessed to see that I also did not. Further in my story, I’ll tell something of the dark side of this habit. Now I want to reminisce about how fond I was of Uncle Junie when I was a boy. Benjamin O Garlock 1903 to 1958 It seemed everybody liked him. Sometimes it is strange what a small boy will remember. When Uncle would tell this small boy to do this or that the resulting question would be: “What for Uncle Junie?” His reply would be “Cat fur to make kitten britches.” At this point in this story, I must go back long before my birth in 1930. Benjamin O ...

  The traditional Memorial Day, or Decoration Day that used to be celebrated on May 30 is fast approaching. It is time to plant the garden with the hope that very late frost will not cut short the life of the small plants as they emerge from the ground. I cannot consider myself a good gardener, but somewhere within me, there resides a tradition from my forbearers that were. My wife Ethel was the real gardener from my immediate family. Sometimes I was allowed to drop the corn or pumpkin seeds or even to cover them, but she had a certain exacting ritual which I was not included in beyond a certain point. All had to be absolutely perfect with the goal of producing the best vegetables and flowers for her many customers and to help feed us for the months ahead. Since Ethel’s passing in 2006, my gardening has emerged but not to as great an extent or as practical. The gladiolas remained to be given to the nursing homes and the other friends who enjoyed them. The zinnias still thrive from ...

  We all know that most livestock have tails at least to some degree. In this instance I’m not writing about those appendages but handsome pieces of printed paper: stock certificates. Sometimes some of these come our way and can in time be useful only as collectibles or to paper the bathroom wall. My great-grandfather V. O. Garlock had some of those pretty pieces of paper when he died in 1925 five years before I was born. They constituted some of his worldly wealth which in total would not be considered extensive. V.O. was a traveler who appeared to have enjoyed his life. Yes, he was a publican at Fort Plain, NY starting in 1882. As a traveler in a day and age when railroads were in their prime, it was quite natural that he held some railroad stock. There was only $21,257.00 value in all his stock holdings. Railroads were the lions share. There was New York Central which ran through his native Mohawk Valley. Three other railroads which doubtless carried him on his ventures to visit...