Taking Our Water for the City: The Archaeology of New York City’s Watershed Communities 9781800738157

Citation preview

Taking Our Water for the City

Taking Our Water for the City The Archaeology of New York City’s Watershed Communities

2 By April M. Beisaw

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2023 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2023 April M. Beisaw

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A C.I.P. cataloging record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Control Number: 2022027928

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-80073-814-0 hardback ISBN 978-1-80073-815-7 ebook https://doi.org/10.3167/9781800738140

Dedicated to the past, present, and future communities of Olive and Kent, New York

2

Contents

Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgments

xii

Abbreviations

xiii

Introduction Urban Water as an (Un)natural Resource Archaeology’s Unique Perspective 6 Book Outline 11

1 1

Chapter 1. Archaeology and the Contemporary Past Past, Present, Future 13 Archaeological Method and Theory 15 Archaeologists as Activists 22 Connections and Conclusions 25

13

Chapter 2. New York City’s Water System Starting on Manhattan Island 26 Reaching Off-Island 31 Acquiring More Distant Lands 33 Connections and Conclusions 38

26

Chapter 3. Kent: A Town Repurposed History 42 Archaeology of Kent’s City-Owned Lands 49 Connections and Conclusions 64

40

viii

◆

Contents

Chapter 4. Olive: A Town Traumatized History 68 Archaeology of Olive’s City-Owned Lands 79 Connections and Conclusions 93

66

Chapter 5. Water Pasts for Water Futures An Archaeology of Watershed Communities 97 Archaeologists as Effective Activists? 103 Conclusion 105

97

References

106

2

Illustrations

Figures Figure 0.1. General map. Overview of the New York City water system showing the location of Olive and Kent. © Neil Curri, reproduced with permission.

xiv

Figure 0.2. Growth of New York City’s population (1790–1990) and corresponding water system expansions (New York City, 2022). © April M. Beisaw.

2

Figure 0.3. “Former Site of ” sign at the Ashokan Reservoir. Without accompanying interpretive material, visitors gaze into the waters looking for the ruins of lost communities. There are more ruins of the New York City water system on the lands around the reservoir than within the water line. © April M. Beisaw.

9

Figure 0.4. An example of a ruin on what is now New York City-owned land, approximately eighty-five miles (136.8 km) north of Manhattan. This was once a farmhouse perched on the slopes high above the Ashokan Reservoir. Construction of the reservoir destroyed most of the flat and fertile valley floor. © Alec Ferretti, reproduced with permission.

10

Figure 1.1. Example of a Land Acquisition Program recreation unit map. The Oak Ridge unit is labeled “Public Access,” but there is no way to access it without crossing private property or hiking through the larger Slide Mountain Wilderness. © New York City Department of Environmental Protection, reproduced with permission.

21

Figure 3.1. Digitized version of 1867 Beers atlas map of Kent showing named hamlets and pre-reservoir water bodies. The future location of the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir is indicated here as it was on the original. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

41

x

◆

Illustrations

Figure 3.2. Digitized close-up views of Cole’s Mills and Farmer’s Mills from the 1867 Beers atlas. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

43

Figure 3.3. Material remains of David Kent’s farm showing stone walls and metal gates for the dairy farm. © Drew Leventhal, reproduced with permission.

52

Figure 3.4. Material remains of current land use at the Kent Hills recreation unit. “No Trespassing” signs are vandalized, large fire pits have been constructed, and beer cans litter the ground. © Drew Leventhal, reproduced with permission.

54

Figure 3.5. Foundation on the Boyd’s Corner North recreation unit, at the location of Mrs. E. Parker’s house from the 1867 Beers atlas. The photo board is at the top of concrete stairs and a metal frying pan is adjacent to it. © Cayla Neipris, Reproduced with permission.

57

Figure 3.6. Water pump and stone chamber adjacent to other farm features at Boyd’s Corner North. © April M. Beisaw.

60

Figure 4.1. Digitized version of 1875 Beers atlas map of Olive showing named hamlets and pre-reservoir water bodies. The future location of the Ashokan Reservoir is indicated here but was not shown on the original, as plans for it came together in 1905. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

67

Figure 4.2. Pre-reservoir route (circa 1901) of the Ulster and Delaware Railroad line through Olive. Public domain.

71

Figure 4.3. Analysis of “Former Site of ” signs that ring the Ashokan Reservoir. The current location of each sign is depicted along with the historic map locations of each hamlet, from pre-reservoir maps, and the current hamlet location from the NYS Office of Information Technology Services GIS Program. Note how hamlets farthest from the reservoir have moved much less than those closer to the reservoir. © April M. Beisaw.

81

Figure 4.4. Digitized 1906 parcel map of the Olive land taken by the Board of Water Supply. The woman-owned parcels are highlighted with hashing. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

84

Figure 4.5. Postcard of Elwyn Davis’s new home (right) after the city land takings displaced the Davis family. Courtesy of the Olive Free Library.

87

Figure 4.6. Digitized map of city-owned DEP lands around the Ashokan Reservoir showing the acquisition priority levels for each area during the LAP. The boundaries of adjacent DEC-owned forests are also included. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

91

Illustrations

◆

xi

Tables Table 0.1. Growth of New York City’s Population (1790-1990). Source: NYC.gov.

2

Table 0.2. Completion dates and current capacities of New York City reservoirs. The New Croton Reservoir was replaced by the original Croton Reservoir.

3

Table 0.3. Demolition and removal caused by seven of New York City’s nineteen reservoirs and controlled lakes. Data compiled from the New York Board of Water Supply report (1950: 35, 76) and Finnegan (1997: 608). 4

2

Acknowledgments

This research was undertaken with the assistance of more than one hundred Vassar College students, with funding provided by the college. The director (Chrissy Lawlor) and librarians of the Olive Free Library allowed us access to their local history museum and archives when neither were open to the public. Their enthusiasm for the Ashokan area communities helped me make connections that would have otherwise been impossible. Members of the Kent Historical Society hiked town lands with me and provided feedback that helped shape this work. Individuals and families of both towns took time out of their busy lives to speak with me, including Delia Adams, Leanne Avery, Jeff Benjamin, Jack Bierhorst, Alicia Briley, Anne Campbell, Linda Champanier, Helen Chase, Charles Cole, Cindy Cole-Briley, Jac Conaway, Patrick Conaway, Richard Feldman, Mark Heidelberg, Polly Howells, Ed Illiano, Janette Kahil, Aliza Kelly, Marty Lynch, Molly Mason, Kate McGloughlin, Ruth Ann Muller, Cynthia Niktin, Julia and Eric Powell, Jackie Rohrig, Sylvia Rozzelle, Jim Sofranko, and Jay Unger. Others who provided specialized assistance or feedback include Neil Curri, Rebecca Graff, Joan Hoffman, Jill R. Hughes, Sarah Johnson, Anne Marie Lee, Bob Steuding, Mark Zdepski, and an anonymous reviewer. Editor Jenny Gavacas helped me work out the main themes that would be of general interest. My family and friends put up with years of stories about reservoirs and their unintended impacts. My husband, James C. Beisaw, has kept me sane.

2

Abbreviations

CRM = cultural resource management DEC = Department of Environmental Conservation DEP = Department of Environmental Protection EPA = United States Environmental Protection Agency FERC = Federal Energy and Regulatory Commission FONSI = Finding of No Significant Impact GIS = geographic information system GPS = Global Positioning System LAP = Land Acquisition Program LiDAR = Light Detection and Ranging NEPA = National Environmental Policy Act NHPA = National Historic Preservation Act NYC = New York City NYSDEC = New York State Department of Environmental Conservation NYCDEP = New York City Department of Environmental Protection NYCFFBO = New York City-Funded Flood Buyout NYHS = New-York Historical Society SHPO = State Historic Preservation Office SWTR = Surface Water Treatment Rule U&D = Ulster and Delaware Railroad USGS = United States Geological Survey WHO = World Health Organization

xiv

◆

Illustrations

Figure 0.1. General map. Overview of the New York City water system showing the location of Olive and Kent. © Neil Curri, reproduced with permission.

2

Introduction

Urban Water as an (Un)natural Resource New York City is sustained by a water infrastructure that few users understand. As long as clean water flows through taps on demand, the source seems to be of little concern. After all, the city’s water is often labeled “the champagne of tap water,” and the source of this bubbly is simply the distant mountains. What else is there to know? To start, thousands of people have been removed from their homes and businesses to create the artificial lakes that feed the system. The city owns and controls lands all around its nineteen reservoirs and controlled lakes. The land is managed by the New York City Department of Environmental Protection (hereafter, NYCDEP or DEP). There is no agency dedicated to protecting and preserving the associated human communities and their ways of life. Their histories are denied and erased to naturalize the system and clear additional land for the city’s eternal water needs. Like most human communities, New York City began in a place that had a supply of fresh water, mainly springs and small ponds fed by reliable rainfall. But as the population increased, so did water consumption and water pollution. The city began with the Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam in 1626 (Burrows and Wallace 1998: 23). By 1790, the population had grown to 33,131 residents (see table 0.1). The city’s local supply had become so putrid that even horses considered it undrinkable (Koeppel 2000: 27). The stagnant and foul water also helped spread cholera and other diseases. The 1832 cholera outbreak killed 3,500 and caused 100,000 residents, a third of the city’s population, to flee (Koeppel 2000: 146; New York City 2022). The city needed a clean and safe water supply to grow, and that required the construction of reservoirs, pumping stations, and aqueducts to move water over great distances because Manhattan Island is surrounded by saltwater. Politicians, architects, and engineers worked behind the scenes to direct the water from distant sources onto Manhattan, in ways that naturalized the unnatural water system. Whenever the supply seemed plentiful, city residents were assured they need not concern themselves with the problems of water. Any notice of the costs rural residents were asked to pay was dismissed as for the “greater good” of a prosperous

2

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Table 0.1. Growth of New York City’s Population (1790–1990).

city. Villages were demolished. Cemeteries were dug up. Roads were rerouted. But perhaps worst of all, thousands of rural Year Population people were left behind on scarred land1790 33,131 scapes, without rights to the same water 1840 312,710 that had fueled their lives and without the 1890 1,515,301 community infrastructure around which daily life once revolved. Those people and 1940 7,454,995 their landscapes are the central focus of 1990 7,332,564 this book. What happened, and is still Source: NYC.gov. happening, in New York is important because it is not unique. The creation and maintenance of urban water systems usually necessitates destruction of the peoples and places that water is taken from. These sacrifices need to be acknowledged and understood now as new waves of infrastructure development are being planned and executed in response to climate change. A similar wave of infrastructure development occurred in the early twentieth century. At that time many American cities were building municipal water systems to keep up with the growing demand spurred by industrialization. New York City’s period of reservoir construction lasted from the 1830s to the 1960s (see table 0.2). As soon as one reservoir was complete, the added supply enabled population

Figure 0.2. Growth of New York City’s population (1790–1990) and corresponding water system expansions (New York City 2022). © April M. Beisaw.

Introduction

◆

3

Table 0.2. Completion dates and current capacities of New York City reservoirs. The New Croton Reservoir replaced the original Croton Reservoir. Service Year

Reservoir

1842

Croton Receiving & Croton Distributing Reservoirs

Watershed

N/A

Volume (billion gallons)

1873

Boyds Corner

Croton

1.7

1878

Middle Branch

Croton

4.1

1891

East Branch

Croton

5.2

1892

Bog Brook

Croton

4.4

1893

Titicus

Croton

7.2

1895

West Branch

Croton

8.0

1897

Amawalk

Croton

6.7

1905

Muscoot

Croton

4.9

1905

New Croton

Croton

19.0

1908

Cross River

Croton

10.3

1911

Croton Falls

Croton

14.2

1911

Diverting

Croton

0.9

1915

Ashokan

Catskill

122.9

1915

Kensico

All

30.6

1926

Schoharie

Catskill

17.6

1950

Rondout

Delaware

49.6

1954

Neversink

Delaware

34.9

1955

Pepacton

Delaware

140.2

1964

Cannonsville

Delaware

95.7

Source: NYC.gov.

growth and a new reservoir was needed. Once one city solved its water problems, others needed to do so too or risk losing their social and economic power. In 1927, Boston, Massachusetts, dismantled four towns to create the Quabbin Reservoir, displacing 2,500 people (Nesson 1983). In 1936, construction of the Kinzua Dam for the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, water supply displaced more than 550 Seneca and submerged a large part of their reservation (Bilharz 1998; Forbes, Heron, and the Seneca Nation 1994; Spewack 2016). In 1938, the last residents of Saint Thomas, Nevada, were evacuated before the homes of 500 people were lost to the filling of Lake Mead (National Park Service n.d.). No comprehensive scholarly or governmental list of communities lost to water infrastructure projects exists. Historian Bob H. Reinhardt’s growing Atlas of Drowned Towns includes eighty

4

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

inundated by water projects, just in the American West (Reinhardt 2020). Wikipedia (2020) lists sixty-eight communities throughout the United States that were destroyed to create lakes and reservoirs. While that list is certainly incomplete, the longest list of destroyed communities is attributed to New York State. One of New York City’s own engineering reports contains the following totals (table 0.3) for just seven of their nineteen reservoirs and controlled lakes: seventeen villages destroyed; 4,464 people homeless; and 8,093 bodies removed from cemeteries. Not tabulated are the losses that were suffered to create the earlier dams and reservoirs and the long-term impacts to those who were not forced to move. Without their neighbors, schools, churches, cemeteries, or free access to what was once their own water source, many watershed residents struggled to remain, and few who did were able to prosper. This book focuses on the long-term effects of two New York City reservoirs, Boyd’s Corner (1867–1873) and Ashokan (1907–1915), on the towns where they were constructed. The destruction, I argue, did not end when the reservoirs were functional. It continues today. One difficulty in telling water histories is that the system is always changing in response to natural and cultural pressures. After 150 years of the city taking lands and water far from its own political boundaries, the New York State government passed legislation preventing the construction of additional reservoirs (Soll 2013: 122). Then the city had to refocus on protecting the existing reservoirs by ensuring that a sufficient supply of clean water flowed into them. The need to comply with the 1974 Safe Water Drinking Act (42 U.S.C. §§ 300f–300j–26) and associated regulations such as the 1989 Safe Water Treatment Rule (40 C.F.R. § 141.71) posed additional challenges. The United States Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) requirements for clean drinking water include filtration of urban water. Table 0.3. Demolition and removal caused by seven of New York City’s nineteen reservoirs and controlled lakes. Reservoir

Construction Communities Population Bodies Land Taken Years Destroyed Homeless Reburied (sq. mi.)

Ashokan

1907–1915

7

2,000

2,800

Kensico

1913–1917

1

500

0

Schoharie

1919–1927

1

350

1,300

3.7

Neversink

1941–1953

1

342

0

9.6

Pepacton

1947–1954

4

943

2371

18.8

Roundout

23.8

1937–1954

3

329

1,622

5.5

Cannonsville 1955–1967

5

941

0

31.1

Total

17

4,464

8,093

92.5

Data compiled from the New York Board of Water Supply report (1950: 35, 76) and Finnegan (1997: 608).

Introduction

◆

5

New York City’s is the largest unfiltered urban water system in the United States. The city filed a filtration avoidance plan with the EPA that “required the City to show that it could avoid pollution in the drinking water supply by controlling the activities of those who lived in the watershed” (Church 2009: 398, emphasis added). In response, the city designed a Land Acquisition Program (LAP) to control activities in watershed communities by purchasing thousands of additional acres around reservoirs and along streams that feed them (NYCDEP 2010). By 2019, more than 150,000 acres of watershed land had been acquired through the LAP, further altering reservoir communities. In comparison, the landmass of Manhattan Island is just under 15,000 acres. The logic of the LAP, as reported by the city (NYCDEP 2009: 1), is as follows: The Land Acquisition Program grew out of the City’s response to the Federal Safe Drinking Water Act Amendments (1986) and Surface Water Treatment Rule (SWTR, 1989). As a result of increased awareness of the threat posed by micro-organisms in unfiltered surface water systems, the SWTR required such public water supplies to either filter their supply or meet specific “filtration avoidance criteria.” The City, through its Department of Environmental Protection, sought to meet those criteria and avoid filtration through the development of a comprehensive Watershed Protection Plan . . . Under the SWTR, an applicant for filtration avoidance needs to “demonstrate through ownership and/or written agreements with landowners within the watershed that it can control all human activities which may have an adverse impact on the microbiological quality of the source water.” Ownership of watershed lands is a key component of the City’s ability to meet this condition.

With their filtration avoidance plan in place, the city’s attention has shifted toward ensuring its reservoirs can withstand climate change. Alterations like raising dams to hold back the floods of stronger storms may also bring new threats to surrounding communities. New York is not the only city having to plan for the double threat of increasing populations and unpredictable climate changes. The planet has never had so many people; the global population is predicted to hit 9 billion people in the near future (United Nations 2019), and each person comes with increased water needs. At the same time, climate change is shifting the planet’s water supplies. Glaciers are melting, reducing the amount of sunlight that is reflected back into the atmosphere and increasing the amount of liquid in the oceans and seas. As water levels rise, coastal cities are more easily flooded by storms. As temperatures rise, some places experience more storms and others experience more droughts. Water systems will need to pull water from farther away or deeper into the earth, lowering the water table and lessening supplies elsewhere. The expectation of readily available clean and inexpensive water will change where and how some of us live. This is less a prediction of the future than a lesson from the past, as this book attempts to show using the stories of two watershed towns.

6

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

One prediction is for a future where clean water is bought and sold like oil, by the barrel and with market prices that shift on a daily basis. If that seems farfetched, recall the recent water crises of two Michigan cities, Flint and Detroit. When jobs disappeared from Detroit, the cost of tap water skyrocketed (Associated Press 2014; Guillen 2014). Abandoned homes and leaky pipes were stressing the distribution system and placing cost burdens on the few residents who remained. When Flint disconnected from the Detroit water system, their new source poured lead-tainted water into homes for years (Associated Press 2017). Activists responded to these cases with the slogan that water is a human right. But the World Health Organization (WHO) standards place that human right at thirteen to twenty-six gallons of water per person per day, the equivalent of a daily shower. That leaves nothing for washing clothes, watering the lawn, power washing the deck, making coffee, and cooking and cleaning tasks. Americans consume more water per day than any other nation (United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs 2015). Residents of New York City currently consume 118 gallons of water per day, down from a high of 213 gallons in 1979 (New York State Office of Information Technology Services 2022), thanks to water conservation efforts. This overconsumption means that US cities will be the most challenged in addressing climate-related changes to water supplies. Just as New York City’s water system was a model for many cities in the early 1900s, it may be so again in the 2000s. Will the model they create mean more destruction of communities outside the city limits?

Archaeology’s Unique Perspective For about a decade now, I have been studying how the New York City water system was created and how it is currently maintained. I do this not from the usual perspective of politics, economics, or engineering but from the deep-time perspective of archaeology: “The word ‘archaeology’ is embedded in commonplace language as a journey to the field, the site of a dig where discoveries are made” ( Joyce and Preucel 2002: 28). But this is not what archaeology is to me. I do not go off to distant lands in search of the oldest or most obscure. Those discoveries make irresistible headlines, but they have little impact on the present. Instead, my archaeology starts with the issues of today and seeks the archaeological explanation of “how we got here.” I look to disrupt the notion that “progress” led us to this place and time, and therefore, the present is better than, or more important than, what came before. In knowing the past, we can critique the present and imagine alternative futures. True progress requires learning from past successes and failures. Archaeology is a powerful way of revealing how the present is entangled with multiple pasts (González-Ruibal 2006), some well known and some easily forgotten. By documenting the things (artifacts) left behind on landscapes (at sites),

Introduction

◆

7

we can show how other ways of engaging with the world once existed. Doing so reinforces that there is no one true account of the past as everyone experienced it. Instead, there are pluralities of experience and interpretation. As an archaeologist of North America, I seek a better understanding of the peoples and places I encounter in my daily life through what has been left behind in cities, towns, and “wild” places across the continent. I particularly want to know the stories behind seemingly empty spaces. Why are certain historic or cultural places preserved and celebrated while others are torn down, built upon, or otherwise forgotten? Often the answer is simply that someone kept the memory of that place alive. The stories that are told about any place depend on both who is speaking and who is listening. Archaeologists listen to the stories of the places where they work and then see which stories are supported by the things left behind. Whether archaeologists dig through the earth of an exotic locale, sift through the contents of a recent suburban landfill (Rathje and Murphy 2001), or examine objects stored in museum collections, their goal is to tell new stories of the past. The past helps define identities, or who we are, and establish trajectories, or where we are going. But the past is neither objective nor neutral. “Like us, past peoples observed and interpreted traces of more distant pasts to serve the needs and interests of their present lives” (Van Dyke and Alcock 2003: 1). Those events we select to remember are usually solidified through the writing of documents or the construction of monuments. Those things we seek to forget are torn down, covered over, and perhaps only recoverable through archaeological analysis. Because archaeology can detect and recall what was intentionally forgotten or unrecorded, it can become political. Those in positions of political power often rely on the selective memory of their subordinates (Crossland 2003) because what we believe to be true about the past is what legitimates the current social order. If we believe that New York City’s water system is natural, or that urban water systems are justified in whatever destruction they cause as they serve the greater good, then rural communities will continue to be sacrificed without question. Several books detail the politics and engineering of the water system, the most recent of which is David Soll’s Empire of Water (2013). But these histories do not reveal how individual property owners and families were impacted by the decisions of politicians, aside from financial compensation paid to those forced to leave. More detailed information on how individuals struggled with the change can be found in David Stradling’s Making Mountains: New York City and the Catskills (2009); Gerard T. Koeppel’s Water for Gotham: A History (2000); Diane Galusha’s Liquid Assets: A History of New York City’s Water System (1999); and Bob Steuding’s The Last of the Handmade Dams: The Story of the Ashokan Reservoir (1989). All of these sources focus on those who were forced off their lands and the compensation, just or not, that they received for it. Under-examined are the stories of those who lost their communities and infrastructure, but not necessarily their own land, when the reservoirs were built near their properties. Towns whose economic centers were

8

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

demolished received no financial compensation and no help rebuilding what was lost. Also, these sources focus on the reservoirs built in the Catskills, yet that is just one place where the city harvests water. The massive Ashokan Reservoir was built in the Catskill towns of Olive and Hurley and was in full operation by 1915. But there are older reservoirs in the Croton region, on the east side of the Hudson River and much closer to dense urban populations. Kent is one of those Croton towns and home to the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir, constructed approximately forty years before the Ashokan. Boyd’s was put into service in 1872. Those books and a wealth of existing documents provide histories of the New York City water system from the legal, political, and engineering perspectives. But ruins and artifacts can provide a new perspective. Archaeology allows us to witness the effects of watershed creation and maintenance on the communities impacted by distant decision makers. Archaeology shows us the longue durée or the historical trends that extend well beyond any one place or time. Archaeological sites around the world have taught us about the urban infrastructure of ancient Greece and Rome, the Angkor civilization of the Khmer empire (Klassen and Evans 2020), the African kingdom of Aksum (Sulas, Madella, and French 2009), the Native American city of Cahokia (Baires 2015), and individual cities of the Maya (Halperin, Le Moine, and Pérez Zambrano 2019), to name but a few. From all of these peoples, places, and time periods, we can see that engineering water systems often solves one crisis while creating others (Fagan 2011; Mithen and Mithen 2012; Solomon 2010). For example, archaeologists Sarah Klassen and Damian Evans (2020: 7) found that the eleventh-century Angkor water system “increased competition for land and increased demand for surplus,” which led to the state-sanctioned “gradual accumulation of land by elites” as they extracted more resources from rural areas. That undermined local autonomy as land rights were transferred to elites. This is exactly what is happening in twenty-first-century New York. The ripple effects of moving water include a predictable shift of power through displacement of non-elites. Archaeology can document displacement through the things left behind by those with less political power, especially adults who might not own the property they inhabit or use. Such people are often erased by official documents that either minimize the impact of community removals using terms like “slum clearance” or disguise them altogether using terms like “wilderness” or “undeveloped land.” For example, many official histories of New York City’s Central Park celebrate it as an environmental conservation success story that also beautified the city. Few describe the forced removal of the communities living there that was necessary in order to build a seemingly natural park (compare Rosenzweig and Blackmar 1992 to Heckscher 2008). Archaeologists Diana diZerega Wall, Nan A. Rothschild, and Cynthia Copeland (2008) have helped bring back some stories of the displaced through excavations of Seneca Village. Settled in the 1820s, this was once the only community of African American property owners in the city (“Seneca Village Project” n.d.). The archaeology of Seneca Village helped inspire the wonderful play The

Introduction

◆

9

People before the Park by Keith Josef Adkins (see Jaworowski 2015 for a review), which tells the story of a Black man and his son who live in their own home and run a small oyster business from it. When they are told they must leave, the father refuses to give up all he has built. They struggle to remain on their land but ultimately lose it all. Places like Seneca Village are everywhere in the archaeological record but are rarely spoken about in the documentary record. My own archaeological research turned to the social memory of urban water after listening to a National Public Radio program about the city’s aversion to building a water filtration plant. I recalled the small brown signs that are posted along many major roadways through New York’s Catskill State Park (figure 0.3), my favorite place to hike while in graduate school at Binghamton University. The signs list the names of communities lost but provide no interpretive information. I knew these places had stories to tell, although I did not realize how enormous an undertaking finding those stories would be. The city’s watershed covers nearly 1.3 million square miles; roughly the size of the state of Delaware (“NYC’s Reservoir System” n.d.). For that reason, I focus on just two towns: Kent in Putnam County, approximately forty-five miles (72.4 km) north of the city, and Olive in Ulster County, approximately eighty-five miles (136.8 km) north of the city. These towns each have their own water history, and my place of employment, Vassar College, sits

Figure 0.3. “Former Site of ” sign at the Ashokan Reservoir. Without accompanying interpretive material, visitors gaze into the waters looking for the ruins of lost communities. There are more ruins of the New York City water system on the lands around the reservoir than within the water line. © April M. Beisaw.

10

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

almost midway between them. This proximity meant that I could include students in my work, and more than one hundred Vassar College students have participated in it. Bringing college students to watershed communities in New York encourages them to consider water histories in the places they call home. Using archaeological techniques of surface survey and map creation, my students and I documented items visible on the ground surface and correlated them to archival records and community knowledge. Doing so records a variety of pasts that have been obscured by the naturalization of the watershed. Our primary focus was the city-owned lands around the Boyd’s and Ashokan reservoirs that are open to public recreation and hiking; many of these lands were recently acquired through the Land Acquisition Program. These city-owned recreation units are considered “vacant” lots that were willingly sold to the city to limit development around reservoirs. Most of these recreational units have no tables or benches; no ballfields or restrooms; and often no trails, parking lots, or even informational signs identifying the property as recreation land. There are only generic signs delineating the boundaries of city lands and often a corresponding set of “No Trespassing” signs put up by adjacent private property owners. The unimproved nature of these lots has helped preserve their archaeological data, the ruins of their past use (figure 0.4). Overall, the archaeology of these lands contradicts claims that these are placed without histories. Development and maintenance of the city water system

Figure 0.4. Example of a ruin on what is now New York City-owned land, approximately eighty-five miles (136.8 km) north of Manhattan. This was once a farmhouse perched on the slopes high above the Ashokan Reservoir. Construction of the reservoir destroyed most of the flat and fertile valley floor. © Alec Ferretti, reproduced with permission.

Introduction

◆

11

led to their abandonment. In the ruins left behind are stories of imperialism, resistance, continuity, and transition.

Book Outline What follows is an archaeological exploration of 150 years of New York City’s watershed creation and maintenance. I will take you to some of the forgotten places that were destroyed to create the artificial lakes that have fed the city’s growth. Together we will bear witness to what has happened, and continues to happen, in order to predict what is yet to come. We will meet some descendants of those who lost so much and re-create the connections that help us remember what has been forgotten. As climate change and population growth work together to stress the earth’s water supplies, we need to ask who, not where, we will take water from to sustain our cities. Alternatively, cities can adopt technological solutions like water filtration, desalination, and recycling, which might not produce the “champagne of tap water” but would distribute the costs of clean water to consumers rather than placing the burden squarely on the watershed communities. The main lesson of this book is that taking water also means taking control of the land through which that water flows. A parasitic relationship develops between those who want water and those who have it. The dominant power naturalizes their actions through labels like “environmental protection” when what is being protected is the human population of a distant city. Realizing and remembering the sacrifices of rural communities allows us to consider the future impacts of newly proposed infrastructure projects. Instead of speculating on where water-poor cities like Las Vegas, or states like California, can get much-needed water from, we should be wondering who they will be taking water from to ensure their own survival. A secondary lesson of this book is that the past is rife with cautionary tales that can help us imagine futures that are more just. Where the written record is inherently biased toward those in power, archaeology provides a means of recalling those onto which that power was enacted. As this book demonstrates, the water that flows to New York City comes not from natural lakes but from an engineered watershed that is now a landscape strewn with ruins. Such ruins are evidence of traumatic events, not of progress (Stoler 2008), as this book will demonstrate. Chapter 1 presents the method and theory for an archaeology of the contemporary past. Archaeologists use theories about how human cultures interact with objects and landscapes to interpret the sites and artifacts they find during fieldwork. For this project, lessons learned from the archaeology of landscape clearance and community removal elsewhere provide additional interpretive power. When archaeologists record sites and artifacts in what governments claim to be wilderness, we give a presence to what was erased or deemed absent. Because such work can be used to critique local politics, the role of archaeologists as activists is also reviewed.

12

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Chapter 2 provides archaeological and historical context for the creation of New York City’s water system and how it is linked to political and cultural power. The erasure of communities began on-island with the African and African American communities that lived around the Collect Pond, near Wall Street, and in Seneca Village, now a part of Central Park. Clearance occurred when communities of living or dead were deemed less important than the greater good that would be served by their removal. This continued off-island with the creation of the Croton Dam and then the build-out of reservoirs in what were agricultural communities before agriculture was deemed a pollution risk for city water. Chapters 3 and 4 present the history and contemporary archaeology of Kent and Olive. Chapter 3 covers Kent and the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir. This small reservoir was constructed in the 1870s. New York City now owns and controls 16 percent of the town lands as part of their DEP recreation area program. Chapter 4 presents similar information for the Ashokan Reservoir and the town of Olive. This massive reservoir was constructed between 1907 and 1913. New York City now owns and controls 15 percent of the Olive lands as part of their DEP recreation area program. Where the two towns differ is that Kent has become a bedroom community for New York City residents who have few ties to the town’s history. Olive is still home to descendants of the original Euro-American settlers and the survivors of the reservoir land takings in their community. The trauma here is palpable but so is the sense that the city is all-powerful. Chapter 5 summarizes main themes about the pasts of urban water systems in order to help us imagine better alternatives for the future. Throughout this book, the line between past and present is often blurred. The ruins of Kent and Olive are not so different from those created by the water systems of cities around the world, past and present. Because water is about wealth and power, moving water brings ruination to non-elites, especially those forced to exist on the outskirts of a city. The destruction does not end when the reservoirs and aqueducts are built. It continues as long as water is being extracted. As archaeologist Alfredo GonzálezRuibal (2006) has said, the past is part of the present, it is not over and certainly not done.

CHAPTER

2

1 Archaeology and the Contemporary Past

Past, Present, Future Archaeology is no longer only about the distant past. The same methods and theories that allow us to understand ancient cultures are now routinely applied to the peoples and places of yesterday and today. Contemporary material culture can be mapped across space and time, wherever it is found, and then used to piece together the contexts in which it was created and used. Despite the overabundance of information that the twenty-first century is generating, there are still peoples and places whose experiences are being intentionally or unintentionally ignored or denied. Publication of Archaeologies of the Contemporary Past (Buchli and Lucas 2001b) helped to galvanize such approaches and reaffirm their importance. The materiality of the here and now, the authors affirm, can challenge us to reconsider how we are constructing the future. Are we on course to become the peoples and cultures we aspire to be? To answer that question, we can look at the debris we are creating now. What are we choosing to discard or preserve, demolish or rebuild, pay attention to or ignore? The answers can provide unexpected evidence of who we have become. When what might have been absent from our awareness suddenly becomes present, we can become haunted by what is happening (Buchli and Lucas 2001a: 11–12). In the United States, archaeologists are routinely involved in decisions as to whether or not a place should be protected from destruction. This is often done within the framework of cultural resource management (CRM). When a road is widened, a bridge replaced, or a subdivision proposed, archaeologists are sent out during the project proposal stage to assess what exists there now and how it may be destroyed or adversely impacted. What is found might be labeled “historic” and worthy of preservation, such as through nomination to the National Register of Historic Places. CRM archaeologists find sites and artifacts associated with the peoples and places that history has failed to record because construction projects

14

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

are rarely proposed for well-known historic sites, such as the battlefields of the American Civil War. And when they are, the knowledge of what may be lost does not have to come from archaeology. Archaeologists are more likely to be called in when the project has already been planned around sites considered to be of national importance. Therefore, we are often assessing the material remains of disenfranchised peoples (Scham 2001), documenting their places and the material remains of their lives. We then have an opportunity to argue for preservation, with decisions made by governing bodies like the State Historic Preservation Office (SHPO). Regardless of the final decision, our submitted reports are added to CRM files, preserving at least some evidence of otherwise “obscured silences” (Buchli and Lucas 2001a: 14). A similar process occurs when we place objects in a museum, or remove them from a museum to return them to the cultures from which they were taken, or when we write articles and books about what we believe is worthy of remembering. Archaeologists give the past a future. But what is and is not deemed worthy of protection is often more about the present than it is about the past. In this book I will tell you about the people and places that are irrevocably harmed by our seemingly insatiable consumption of tap water for all sorts of uses that may not be necessary, such as power-washing sidewalks. I will ask you to decide if these communities from which urban water is taken are worthy of greater protection. My ability to preserve watershed communities does not extend much beyond the pages on which I describe them. I neither own the land nor possess the objects, but I can record their historic and archaeological sites and share that information with community members, the SHPO, and with all those who read this book. With this information, we may be able to consider alternative ways that urban places can receive the water they need without sacrificing watershed communities in the process. Before showing you the historical and archaeological record of watershed communities displaced and dispossessed by urban water, I present an overview of how archaeology works to interpret landscapes, sites, and artifacts. The public perception of archaeology is that it is all about finding rare and valuable objects at best and finding old garbage at worst. Within the world of professional and academic archaeology, the objects we find are actually important only in what they can tell us that we did not already know. Artifacts are data points, not treasures to covet. That said, some artifacts are amazingly beautiful. But even objects that look like garbage, and literally were garbage, can provide important information when we consider their presence within the larger context. This is done through comparisons with what is found at other sites and with the interpretive power of archaeological theory. Theory helps archaeologists read into the culture that is behind a site or an artifact. For example, the ruin of a family home may not be evidence of “progress” in the sense that the family moved on for a better future. A ruin is more often an indicator of a shift in social power that individuals became caught up in.

Archaeology and the Contemporary Past

◆

15

Archaeological Method and Theory In their book Archaeological Theory in the New Millennium: Introducing Current Perspectives (2017), Oliver J. T. Harris and Craig N. Cipolla describe theory like this: “What theory does is grab the assumptions you hold dearest and shake them until they fall apart. It makes you look at yourself and the world around you in new ways, and it also challenges you to embrace what you would otherwise dismiss and reflect critically on your most fundamental truths. ‘Common sense is not enough’ . . . theory forces us to ask different kinds of questions of our material, and to define our material in new and interesting ways” (2017: 3). Archaeological theory has changed over time, along with the discipline itself. At the turn of the twentieth century, archaeology was mainly a descriptive undertaking. What was found was illustrated with measurements of size and weight but little interpretation other than speculation as to who the peoples or cultures were that had created the objects, when the site was occupied, and where the inhabitants may have gone. As that sort of descriptive undertaking generated more and more knowledge, efforts to order archaeological cultures across space and time created regional culture histories. The development of radiocarbon dating then allowed archaeologists to assign calendar dates to sites and to specific stratigraphic levels within them. Dating helped to reveal the complexity of sites, which were often used and reused over longer spans of time than originally thought. This challenged the origins of and relationships between the cultures that archaeologists thought were bounded entities progressing through time from simple to complex social and political orders. That is when archaeologists really began to need theory in order to disentangle the complexity of the past from the overly simplistic assumptions of culture history. Culture history emphasized the when, where, and what of humanity with a focus on describing types (typology) of objects and charting the spread of those types over time and space (Harris and Cipolla 2017: 3). What came next was called “processual archaeology,” which focused on answering the questions of why and how cultures changed. Processual interpretations are usually rooted in a scientific approach to living in certain environments, such as how far from a water source a village could reasonably be situated. Here the theory is that human cultures would seek to maximize efficiency and use reason to choose where to live. But as archaeology sought to explain the past with scientific rules, it became clear that we needed to develop other theories that acknowledge the humanity of past people. The choice to live somewhere is not necessarily about the most rational location. People have emotional ties to landscapes that consider, among other things, scenic beauty, ancestral ties, and proximity to other peoples. “Postprocessual archaeology” is the catchall term for archaeology that looks for that sort of agency through sites and artifacts that have multiple meanings, which include symbolic actions and overlapping identities. In the twenty-first century, archaeologists still use culture history to make general assumptions about when a site was occupied or where an artifact came from.

16

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

We still use processual archaeology to evaluate whether efficiency of time or resource use dictated activities occurring at a site or on a landscape. But we also rely on a whole toolkit of postprocessual theories to try to understand the lived experiences and possibly “irrational” decisions made by generations of people. Archaeologists want to find out how the present came to be, using sites and artifacts as clues and theories as the framework for interpretation. There is no archaeological knowledge without theory (Harris and Cipolla 2017: 11). Archaeology, informed by theory, is essentially critical thinking with places and things. The theories most relevant to watershed communities are those that speak to agency and entanglement, the ruination of occupied landscapes, the clearance of communities and landscapes through forced removal, and value-laden concepts of wilderness. Together these interpretive frameworks allow us to see sites and artifacts throughout the watershed as evidence of long-term conflict. That conflict is otherwise obscured by the naturalization of the water system and the re-creation of wilderness where vibrant communities once operated. The material remains of their removal are literally hidden behind “No Trespassing” signs, shielded from view by trees and their fallen leaves and denied their existence in the creation of property maps that depict the land as devoid of human history.

Agency and Entanglements Harris and Cipolla define agency as an agent’s ability to “challenge the limitations placed upon them by other social actors” (2017: 46). People can exert agency through the use or abuse of signs or symbols, including artwork and artifacts. As such, the material world contains stand-ins for human agents (Harris and Cipolla 2017: 76). For example, when we see a “No Trespassing” sign, we may abide by it or ignore it depending on our relationship to both those who erected the sign and to the land itself. Such signs are an absent agent’s attempt to limit a present person’s agency. The sign, and its corresponding agent, can exert control only if it is both seen and obeyed. My professional ethics prevent me from disobeying such signs, regardless of my feelings toward those who are attempting to control access. I allow absent agents to exert control over my behavior as I endeavor to do no harm. However, I can and do exert agency that challenges those limitations in ways that may be unexpected. Satellite imagery, like that of Light Detection and Ranging (LiDAR), allows me to survey inaccessible lands and assess the presence of ruins there ( Johnson et al. 2021). LiDAR imagery is more powerful than traditional aerial photography because it captures ground surface features visible beneath tree foliage and as small as a stone wall. Speaking with people who have access to lands that I do not also helps me to document what they have observed. In summary, my agency is impacted by “No Trespassing” signs but not entirely controlled. Agents work both within and against social structures and each other. We see this on city-owned lands around the watershed where DEP-approved land-use

Archaeology and the Contemporary Past

◆

17

rules are often ignored. The material evidence of such behavior includes fire pits and trash dumps where they are not allowed and the vandalism of city-posted signs that demarcate the land as not belonging to those who reside around it. Material remains can reveal alternative ways lands are used that those in power may not be aware of. These places are simultaneously devoid of people and used by people, left to nature and altered by culture, places of exclusion and places of challenging expulsion. It all depends on whose perspective is being applied. When “No Trespassing” signs are installed by an absent agent to restrict access to something important, such as a community swimming hole or a family cemetery, the community is likely to resist that social structure. If not, a loss will occur. The “mundane aspects of everyday life” is where cultural reproduction takes place (Harris and Cipolla 2017: 41). We teach the next generation how to live with the things in our homes, schools, and communities. As a result, people become entangled (Hodder 2012) with the places and objects that they interact with. Those entanglements affect our perceptions of the world as we move across the landscapes upon which we dwell. Watershed communities have become entangled with the city reservoirs that are now massive and beautiful components of their landscapes. But memories of what was lost to create the reservoirs allow for emotions to be inscribed on these places and the things they contain. Recall the discussion of processual archaeology above, where distance to water is believed to dictate where a village was established. How do we explain sites that seem “out of place”? Family cemeteries in the woods are a common feature of the watershed, but it is the forest that is out of place. Similarly, decaying farmhouses may be all that is left of once prosperous farms that were put out of business when their normal operations were labeled a source of pollution for a distant city. The reservoir is what does not belong. Harris and Cipolla say that “feelings and memories are not located in the human body alone but rather in our relationships with the world around us” (2017: 104). In the example of the decaying farmhouse, the agency of the individual who owns it is limited by their emotional connection to the things that surround them and the memories connected to buildings and landscapes. When an outsider claims that the owner would be better off to sell the land and go elsewhere, they are not respecting the entanglements people have with their home places or otherwise special landscapes. Archaeologists can also become entangled with the landscapes and people they study. I have spent almost a decade exploring the watershed communities about which this book is written. My connections to those places began even earlier, when I would watch the same landscapes go by from the back of my parents’ station wagon during family vacations. There are certain spots that form the backdrop to my earliest childhood memories. When I have been away too long, those places are the ones I return to first to see how they are today. The people, places, and things of the watershed helped to make me into an archaeologist, and I see not only their present but also their past and possible futures in ways that are inherently different from how others see them.

18

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Clearance and Ruination Archaeologists are experts in the movement and migration of human beings across landscapes, as our sites are generally considered to be abandoned places (Smith 2008: 13). But before the twenty-first century, archaeologists had not yet explored the processes of coerced or forced abandonment on peoples and landscapes. The edited volumes Landscapes of Clearance: Archaeological and Anthropological Perspectives (Smith and Gazin-Schwartz 2008) and The Archaeology of Removal in North America (Weik 2019a) provide methods and theories for understanding how removal has impacted people across the globe. For example, archaeologist Amy Gazin-Schwartz (2008: 29–31) proposed that there are just three categories of empty landscapes: abandoned, avoided, or expelled. Abandonment is defined as the choice to leave one place for another that may provide a better situation. The decision-making is done by those leaving, not by outsiders, even though the impetus for abandonment may be external environmental, economic, political, or social changes. Avoidance is defined as a decision-making process rooted in ideology, memory, and beliefs about what is safe or proper. Those who have authority control access and ensure that the place remains empty. Finally, expulsion is defined as when outsiders coerce or force the emptying of a landscape by warfare or colonization. Expulsion leaves displaced people with little choice but to leave or die. The typology of abandonment, avoidance, and expulsion allows for the classification of watershed clearance for reservoir creation as a form of expulsion. Afterward, maintenance of the system, especially newly created land-use rules to ensure the quantity and quality of water flowing into reservoirs, instigates additional abandonment. Eminent domain, the taking of land by government entities, is a form of expulsion that may masquerade as abandonment or avoidance. Financial compensation can be used to coerce landowners or occupiers into thinking that leaving will provide a better situation, but if they do not have the option of refusing payment and remaining on their land, it is not abandonment. When governments declare that land and its resources are being misused, mismanaged, or wasted by the local community, it can seem to justify expulsion. Charles Orser, an archaeologist of the Irish potato famine, says that “removal is despair” (2019: 216). This is because it is often used by those in power “to rid themselves of individuals they have designated ‘undesirable,’ . . . for whatever reason” by making them seem invisible (Orser 2019: 219). Empty landscapes are rarely untouched nature; they are usually places of meaning where past events created present absences, accompanied by strong emotions that should not go unacknowledged. The evidence of expulsions “forever rests in landscapes” (Orser 2019: 221), whether or not there is evidence for it in the archives. Although there are universal commonalities to how peoples are removed from landscapes, each case is unique in its pace, totality, and lingering trauma. There is always lingering trauma because “landscapes are made by the people that engage with them, and in making landscapes, the people

Archaeology and the Contemporary Past

◆

19

themselves are made: their sense of place, belonging, and their social identity is constructed alongside the construction of the landscape” (Smith 2008: 14). Forcing people from their landscape causes a rupture in their identity and in the social landscape of which they were a part. They can no longer interact with the places and things with which their culture was taught to them, through cultural reproduction. Each individual person will have their own experiences of these changes, but no one on the landscape is spared an impact. Archaeologist Terrance Weik places removal at the “nexus of power, violence, and place” through processes termed “involuntary migration, clearance, dislocation, forced resettlement, displacement, exile, uprooting, deportation, and expulsion” (2019b: 2). The root cause may be war or armed conflict, landowner evictions or property sales, factory or business closings, disasters or diseases, or eminent domain takings (Weik 2019b: 1). Those forced out are often labeled “better off ” having left, yet the process of expulsion is very different from that of abandonment for greater career prospects, to be closer or farther from family members, or to enjoy retirement. Wherever there is expulsion, archaeologists find evidence of resistance to the changes or attempts to recapture what was lost. Some places depicted on maps and in government documents as abandoned or avoided land actually contain sites and artifacts that reveal a continuity of use, if not habitation. Few of today’s empty landscapes were historically empty or devoid of cultural meaning (Gazin-Schwartz 2008: 25). They seem empty only in comparison to today’s tendency to intensively occupy land. It was not that long ago that rural American homes were surrounded by “undeveloped” land to enable daily existence. Wood lots supplied fuel for heating and cooking. Pastures and cropland provided space for plants and animals that supplied food and income. Water for cooking and cleaning came into the home from a well or an adjacent stream. Places in between were hunting, fishing, and gathering lands. The material remains of such uses can be found on just about every New York City-owned watershed property. They take the form of stone walls and rock-lined building foundations (if not concrete pad foundations), decaying well pumps and hunting stands, barbed wire embedded into trees that grew up through it, and trash piles from before municipal trash pickup was commonplace. All of this remains as a testament to the removal process that enabled the growth of a distant city. Cultural anthropologist Ann Laura Stoler developed a theory of ruination that is useful for the interpretation of landscapes altered by eminent domain. Ruination acknowledges the “connective tissue that continues to bind human potentials to degraded environments, and degraded personhoods to the material refuse of imperial projects” (Stoler 2008: 193). In this framework, ruins created directly or indirectly by government projects have a political life as “imperial debris.” To outsiders the ruins can be viewed as nostalgic signs of progress, but to insiders, ruins are reminders of the political order that led to expulsion. Like “No Trespassing” signs, ruins reassert the agency of a distant government over local peoples and places. Attempts to disentangle from the ruination around them can be costly.

20

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

The ruins of watershed communities can be categorized as imperial debris because they are intentionally left behind as part of a process of “decimation, displacement, and reclamation,” all of which are “relations of force” (Stoler 2008: 193). The differential rights of people and communities can be seen in the ruins, and that shift in power is usually justified “in the name of humanitarian works” (2008: 193). This is especially true when it comes to demolition justified as necessary to supply a distant city with inexpensive tap water. The connective tissue between the political action that creates the ruins and the ruins themselves, Stoler says, is usually denied by the “imperial architects”—in this case, first the New York City Board of Water Supply and then the city’s Department of Environmental Protection. That disavowal disconnects the ruins from their histories and disassociates them from present circumstances. Using archaeology, the connective tissue can be documented. These ruins are evidence of “unfinished histories, not of victimized pasts” (2008: 195). This is where theories of ruination overlap with those of landscape clearance and forced removals.

Wilderness and Posthumanism The city’s labeling of watershed landscapes as “wilderness” is reflective of the ongoing legacy of colonialism that declared unoccupied or uncultivated land as open for settlement and use by European newcomers (Guernsey 2008: 112). The colonial ideal behind wilderness is that land must be used to its greatest benefit, usually economic growth through exploitation of natural resources or through settlement of the land (2008: 117). Archaeologist Sarah Kurnick found that even governmental designations of wilderness areas, such as protected reserves or nature sanctuaries, “often result in a perceived need to provide protection for plants and animals” after eviction and land dispossession of the people who have previously interacted with them (2019: 378). Designating certain places as primarily for plants and animals creates a divide between people and nature that can be labeled “ecological colonization,” which legitimizes the political control of nature (Wakeham 2008: 44). Recently, archaeologists have used the theory of posthumanism to intentionally decenter people from our narratives, but the results usually reaffirm the interconnectedness of people and nature. For example, anthropologist Jason De León (2015) shows how the Sonoran Desert is enlisted by the United States government to do the work of limiting human migration across the border with Mexico. Posthumanism helps us to critique the assumption that people are above nature, somehow separate from it, but people and nature (plants, animals, land, water, etc.) bring each other into being (Harris and Cipolla 2017: 149) . For an archaeological study of an agricultural landscape, posthumanism encourages us to think about relationships, like those between a farmer and their cows but also between the cows and their pasture. There is material evidence of the relationships between people to the plants and

Archaeology and the Contemporary Past

◆

21

animals they cultivated; the irrigation channels and natural streams that fed them; and even to the enormous old pasture tree that provided shade to plants, animals, and humans alike. A non-archaeologist may see no archaeology in an agricultural field, but even the soil contains evidence of lives lived by a variety of beings who enabled each other’s existence. When governments seek to disconnect a landscape from the people who use it, the newly designated wilderness area is mapped and physical markers or barriers are installed (signs, fences, etc.). Distribution of such maps is a form of “colonial cartography” that draws new boundaries on the physical, social, and conceptual landscapes (Guernsey 2008: 118). A process of colonial cartography is employed throughout New York City’s watershed. The Department of Environmental Protection, a city agency, produces maps of the watershed lands they acquire. These maps identify what activities are permissible on the property without much concern for what is actually possible. Hiking properties usually have no parking areas and no trails. Fishing properties do not always have a source of water within which to fish. Public access lands may be completely surrounded by privately owned lands (figure 1.1). Until one attempts to use these maps, it seems like the local environ-

Figure 1.1. Example of a Land Acquisition Program recreation unit map. The Oak Ridge unit is labeled “Public Access,” but there is no way to access it without crossing private property or hiking through the larger Slide Mountain Wilderness. © New York City Department of Environmental Protection, reproduced with permission.

22

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

ment is being protected for the free and enjoyable use of all. After a systematic survey of these city-owned lands, it is clear that the maps are little more than a tally of what lands are now devoted to enabling water extraction by the distant government. In summary, contemporary archaeologists are not employed in the search for lost treasures or rare objects. Instead, they document the human and nonhuman lives lived on landscapes. Those data allow us to see how people have responded to challenges over long stretches of time, as continuity always goes hand in hand with change. Nothing ever stays exactly the same. But some things change through the daily choices of communities, while other changes are thrust upon peoples and places through disasters or decisions of outside entities, which are often governmental in origin. The justification offered by such entities is that the change is being made for some greater good. Archaeological sites and artifacts provide evidence to evaluate those claims and open up discussion as to whether or not there is a better way forward. This application of archaeological knowledge can be seen as a form of activism.

Archaeologists as Activists Several edited volumes have addressed the variety of ways that archaeology can be intentionally designed and used for social change. The 2010 edited volume Archaeologists as Activists: Can Archaeologists Change the World? (Stottman 2010) came out early enough to have a significant influence on my watershed work. The authors provide examples of various “activist archaeology” projects undertaken in collaboration with a community that may benefit from increased knowledge of their own past. When community members are in the lead, archaeologists do what they do best: gather historical information, provide expertise regarding preservation regulations, and facilitate what might otherwise be unexpected discussions. Throughout my time working within the New York City watershed, I have attempted to apply the principles of activist archaeology by being useful to the community. The archaeology is non-extractive in that we neither dig into the soil nor collect artifacts. We take only photographs and GPS coordinates of the archaeological sites and artifacts we encounter, and leave behind only footprints on the lands we survey. I share the information I have gathered with the State Historic Preservation Office, local governments and organizations, and with community members whenever the opportunity arises. I welcome feedback and criticism regarding the work that I do. I accept all invitations to speak to community groups and participate in community events when invited. I do not insert myself into local politics but do offer input when asked to. When a hydroelectric power plant proposal threatened communities around the Ashokan Reservoir, I wrote a letter to the Federal Energy and Regulatory Commission (FERC) during the public com-

Archaeology and the Contemporary Past

◆

23

ment period. Vassar students and I have volunteered time and expertise to assist in the revival of Olive’s local history museum. In short, I attempt to be a resource not a nuisance. Being useful to the community extends beyond sharing expertise and knowledge. Every time I visit these communities I spend money at their restaurants and shops. Activist archaeologists who work with communities to correlate past and present struggles, draw attention to just how the past lingers in the present (Gadsby and Barnes 2010). This can challenge what is often taken for granted (Christensen 2010: 28). In this way, activist archaeology can be defined as the application of archaeological expertise as an agent for change. A few examples from other activist archaeology projects demonstrate the applicability of this approach to issues of environmental justice and land-use ethics. One chapter from Archaeologists as Activists (Stottman 2010) explores the governmental clearance necessary to create wilderness areas in the state of Virginia (Gadsby and Barnes 2010). The authors of the chapters say: Places such as national parks and hiking trails are often celebrated as wilderness and escapes from the problems of the modern world. Yet these parks and forests are products of the twentieth century. The wilderness landscape has a history that tends to be erased. . . As “wilderness” the area is assumed to be natural and without history. Yet it is the “clearance” of the history of African American landownership and displacement that demonstrates how the legacy of the choices people have made to talk about the environment shapes contemporary environmental policy. (Gadsby and Barnes 2010: 56)

Among their examples of how this has played out on the Virginia landscape is the creation of the Lynchburg, Virginia, water supply in the Blue Ridge Mountains. There, “visions of how to protect the water supply—or conserve nature—favored some groups of people over others . . . The people who had depended on such lands for food and livelihoods were shoved to the side” (Gadsby and Barnes 2010: 57). Documenting some of the watershed clearance became part of the Appalachian Trail Archaeological Heritage Project. The goal was to use archaeology to address community concerns about their environment. While archaeologists were quite interested in the ways the erasure of African American land ownership could be used to demonstrate the legacy of “contemporary environmental policy” (Gadsby and Barnes 2010: 56), some community members were more interested in whether or not archaeology could help protect trails from future logging (Gadsby and Barnes 2010: 58). Collaboration led to a research design that would combine both interests to show how archaeological method and theory “draws connections between the natural world and cultural heritage, and takes direct action towards environmental and social justice” (Gadsby and Barnes 2010: 59). The previously mentioned edited volume The Archaeology of Removal in North America (Weik 2019a) contains a similar chapter on the archaeology of wilderness

24

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

creation in Virginia. Archaeologist Audrey Horning writes about her investigations into residents displaced for the creation of the Shenandoah National Park, which is also in the Blue Ridge Mountains. She says, “When the 190,000-acre park was established in 1936 as the second national park in the eastern United States, much of the land had recently been under cultivation” (Horning 2019: 127). The expulsion claimed four thousand tracts of lands, including the residences of five hundred families who were “people cast as inferior and understood as being in the wrong place” (Horning 2019: 128). Horning’s archaeology included the compilation of documentary and historical evidence for sixty-one sites in three hollows, which directly contradicts the portrayals of residents as “less-than” and “better off ” having been forcibly removed: “In short, the ‘hollow folk’ . . . owned the same types of goods that are routinely found on archaeological sites of the same era throughout the United States, many of which no doubt originated from the Sears, Roebuck and Company catalog. Hollow residents clearly participated in the same milieu according to their own needs and constraints and on their own terms, which were dictated not so much by environment or regional identity as by disparate local and household economies” (Horning 2019: 130–31). The activism in this work occurs when it is placed within the context of the 1990s reinterpretation of Shenandoah National Park history that was spurred by a descendant’s organization, the Children of Shenandoah. New archaeological surveys documented Indigenous sites within the park and revealed the extent to which those white settlers who had been removed had themselves benefited from “a preexisting Native American landscape of fields and trails” (Horning 2019: 147). There is also an African American history to the mountains that has been explored by others, including Jodi Barnes (2011). Most recently, the edited volume Trowels in the Trenches: Archaeology as Social Activism (Barton 2021b) provides many examples of the application of archaeology to contemporary social issues. In the volume’s introduction, archaeologist Christopher P. Barton writes, “Activist archaeologists understand that we have a responsibility to the communities we serve to use our craft for their betterment and not to perpetuate systems of repression that have marginalized and hurt people” (Barton 2021a: 2). One chapter from that volume is particularly relevant to a discussion of the New York City watershed: archaeologist Christopher N. Matthews’s “‘Free for the Taking’: Archaeology and Environmental Justice in Setauket, New York.” The chapter addresses urbanization, water pollution, “No Trespassing” signs posted by the state’s Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC), and the Setauket community, which “can no longer use the bay and its resources for food” (Matthews 2021: 186). Before suburbanization and gentrification of the area, “undeveloped lands” provided residents with places to acquire plants and shellfish that were “free for the taking.” New developments not only removed access to those resources but also changed the water table, which flooded older homes and increased environmental pollution. Matthews’s activism is described here:

Archaeology and the Contemporary Past

◆

25

The research I have presented is designed to illuminate the long history of struggle of the community of color in Setauket to survive, I hope in a way that will show that food security, drainage, and pollution are concerns that we all share and are all responsible for. It is easy to miss the point that there are environmental consequences to fertilizing a lawn or failing picking up after a pet. It is also likely that most Setauket residents today do not realize that these environmental losses are unevenly distributed depending on the history, status, and race of a community. That is the premise of environmental justice activism—that corruption of the environment often has an uneven impact on different people and groups. (Matthews 2021: 207)

Connections and Conclusions Theory is part of what makes archaeology valuable to non-archaeologists, because it places local finds within larger frameworks and understandings of how the world functions. For example, we all make assumptions about the places where we live and whether a new development is good or bad for the community. At the most basic level, archaeologists can go into the area to be developed and see what roles the land serves today (through surface collection), served in the recent past (through archival research and subsurface excavation), and served in the distant past (through deep subsurface excavation). Once the archaeologists have time to examine their finds in the lab, compare it to historical data and oral history interviews, and compile the results, a new understanding may be revealed. What seemed like unused land is often land set aside to serve some purpose that is incompatible with development. Archaeology can show how places frequently have multiple meanings to different groups within the larger community, and by doing so, it provides a way of recognizing what may be lost. Archaeology can instigate new discussions as to what should be preserved and protected and therefore is part of making informed decisions about our communal future.

CHAPTER

2

2 New York City’s Water System

This chapter presents an archaeological history of the New York City water system. Instead of focusing on names of politicians and engineers and dates of decisions made by those in power, the focus here is on the sites where decisions were enacted and the lives of those who were affected by them. The presentation is diachronic rather than synchronic, showing changes at each place through time rather than creating a linear timeline. The strength of this approach is that it illustrates how the city’s water history lingers on today’s landscape. It can be seen and critiqued without a shovel or trowel. Armed only with the archaeological mind-set, sites and artifacts tell stories that all water consumers should know.

Starting on Manhattan Island The Collect Pond and Its Neighborhoods New York City was doomed from the start. The Dutch, then British, settlers used Manhattan Island as a market to move and sell goods. By 1680, Manhattan had “plenty of money” and more than four hundred buildings (Burrows and Wallace 1998: 88). But there are better places to build a metropolis than the southern tip of an island that is surrounded by saltwater. By 1832, the city government was tasked with solving their water problem (1998: 594). Manhattan Island’s only reliable source of freshwater was the Collect Pond and the underground channels that fed it (Koeppel 2000: 11). The pond, along with collected rain and well water, sustained the island’s population throughout the eighteenth century. Once the city grew beyond its original protective palisade, the “wall” of Wall Street, the pond became polluted with sewage and other discharges of the residences and businesses around it. Journalist Gerard T. Koeppel’s Water for Gotham (2000) provides a detailed history of the pond and its water quality woes. Both the pond, and the African community that lived around it, were on the outskirts of the main city.

New York City’s Water System

◆

27

Urban outskirts are where those who are marginalized often congregate. Economically, they might not be able to afford to live within the city. Culturally, they might not fit in with its dominant social groupings. Those with similar situations form their own communities in response to the exclusionary nature of the city. In this case, the south side of Wall Street was home to prosperous urban settlements, while the north side contained rural neighborhoods of African and European laborers, poorhouses, and the Collect Pond (Yamin 2001). Where history provides little details on the lives of the city’s outsiders, archaeology shows us where and how they lived. Used until 1795, the African Burial Ground contained the graves of people who had been enslaved or indentured and those who were free. This graveyard was on the western shore of the pond. Eight African churches and two African Free Schools stood near the pond during the early 1800s. Yet the people who attended and supported these establishments are often overlooked by historians because they were “relatively invisible in census roles, tax assessments, and city directories” (Milne 2002: 129). Emancipation came to New York in 1827 and was followed by efforts to clear “the slums” near Wall Street in 1829. Both the pond and the burial ground were condemned and covered with more than fifteen feet of fill. The city was expanding northward, which necessitated land for development. More than 150 years later, the African Burial Ground was rediscovered during building construction. Archaeological excavation uncovered the remains of 419 people in varying states of preservation. These bodies are just a fraction of the estimated 15,000 people who were buried in this cemetery over 150 years. Biological anthropologist Michael Blakey, of Howard University, led a research team of Africanist and African American scholars to undertake the care and interpretation of the remains. The main research questions were as follows: What are the origins of the burial population? What was their physical quality of life? What can the burial ground reveal about the biological and cultural transition from African to African American identities? What were their modes of resistance? (LaRoche and Blakey 1997: 87–88). Public education and community involvement were major components of the project. It provided abundant and tangible evidence of “the people omitted from the city’s deficient school curricula,” whose omission enabled denial of northern slavery and racism (LaRoche and Blakey 1997: 90). Years of research went into compiling a lengthy report titled The New York African Burial Ground: Unearthing the African Presence in Colonial New York (Blakey and Rankin-Hill 2009). That report begins with the following passage: In a remote part of colonial Manhattan that would later become the center of bustling New York City, African people, though enslaved, maintained their dignity by celebrating the links between the living and the dead at the African Burial Ground. In so doing, they made the plot of ground designated for their internment a deeply sacred place. We will probably never know the names and

28

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

identities of the men, women, and children buried in the graveyard. By studying the bones and materials recovered from their burial ground, however, we now know much more about their lives.

The National Park Service now runs a national monument on a small portion of the original cemetery. If you visit the national monument, you can see photographs showing how imperceptible some of the graves were. Slow, careful, and respectful excavation techniques allowed for the removal of those bodies that otherwise would have been destroyed by construction. The city’s filling in of the Collect Pond and its covering of the African Burial Ground created relatively stable land for new development. What they built there, especially atop the spring-fed pond, would always be unstable and prone to mold and other moisture-related problems. This included the notorious Five Points neighborhood, fictionalized in the movie The Gangs of New York, and the prison once known officially as the Halls of Justice and unofficially as “the Tombs.” Archaeologists have excavated both (AKRF 2012; Milne 2002; Wall 2001; Yamin 1998, 2001). What is left of the Collect Pond is now a city park that is almost entirely covered by oftcracked pavement, given the unstable ground it was built upon (AKRF 2012). In summary, the area of the Collect Pond had always been a place for those who did not necessarily fit in with the city’s emerging cosmopolitan life. Stories of these marginalized people and their places were either ignored or sensationalized by most historical accounts, because they do not fit with narratives that naturalize the structures of their discrimination. But the things unintentionally left behind give archaeologists opportunities to remind us all that Africans, immigrants, and prisoners are part of New York’s history too, and that history is not always what we think it was. As the city grew, those on the outskirts were pushed into new areas or left to live in substandard conditions. With each expansion, rural places became urban and their water needs grew. With the Collect Pond filled in and built over, city residents relied on a combination of rain-filled cisterns, wells, and powered pumps to serve their water needs (Koeppel 2000). Those who could afford it paid for water to be brought in on carts. The pros and cons of public and private water systems were debated. William Weston, an English canal engineer, studied New York City’s water needs and the available freshwater sources and determined that the water would have to come from a source off of Manhattan Island and along a course that would allow gravity to feed the system. The water would be held in and distributed by an on-island reservoir surrounded by a park (Koeppel 2000: 79). He believed the creation of such a water system could not be done quickly. Meanwhile, a city lawyer named Aaron Burr formed the private Manhattan Company, which operated on the island. Horse- and steam-powered pumps pulled water up from the island’s depths, and pipes carried the water to paying customers (Koeppel 2000: 96). In 1801, a storage reservoir was built on Chambers Street.

New York City’s Water System

◆

29

By 1830, the Manhattan Company had failed (Koeppel 2000: 142), and the city focused on the off-island Croton Watershed, which was believed to have enough water for the area’s present and future needs. The people who lived there were described as a mixture of farmers who “scratched out their existence in rugged terrain” and city residents who “played seasonal country squire” on estates (Koeppel 2000: 163). Some of their land would be taken from them for the water project to move forward. Landowners filed protests and petitions (Koeppel 2000: 180–81). They argued that the city should not be allowed to develop past the limits of its natural water supply (Koeppel 2000: 198). But the State of New York granted the power necessary for the city to take possession of occupied lands far outside of its boundaries. New York is known as the Empire State, and its laws gave the city empire-like control over land, water, and people in the Croton Watershed.

Central Park Displaced Some for the Good of All? Approximately forty miles (64.4 km) due north of the Collect Pond, the Croton Dam was built to create a lake of more than 400 acres. Additional lands would be taken for the construction of an aqueduct to carry the water to the city and for worker housing, stone quarrying, and other support needs. Water would be transported onto Manhattan Island through the aqueduct on the High Bridge, which was modeled after the aqueducts of ancient Rome. From there it would flow to a receiving reservoir at what is now Central Park. This new reservoir was again planned for an area deemed rural and occupied by those with little economic and political power. This included the African and immigrant settlement of York Hill, also known as Yorkville. The receiving reservoir would be surrounded by the new Central Park, which would clear other similar settlements, such as Seneca Village. Another reservoir would be built at Murray Hill, which was much closer to the city’s urban population. This would be known as the Croton Distributing Reservoir. These public works projects again worked to clear the landscape of the disenfranchised and the dead. Murray Hill had been used as a cemetery for the poor from 1822 to 1840, when reservoir construction began. Manhattan has a long history of opening and closing such “potter’s fields” (O’Connell 1975). Sometimes bodies were removed before redevelopment began but not always. Bodies from Murray Hill were temporarily moved about a half a mile north and became part of the approximately one hundred thousand bodies moved to Ward’s Island in 1857. The Waldorf Astoria hotel now stands atop a portion of the temporary cemetery. With the dead gone, the reservoir was built to resemble a temple from another empire—ancient Egypt (Koeppel 2000: 217). The granite enclosure was forty-four feet high and included a promenade where people were permitted to stroll and view the city to the south (Fiske 1898). The Murray Hill Reservoir embodied the city’s cosmopolitan aspirations while invoking its connections to “Egypt and other ancient hydraulic civ-

30

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

ilizations” (Soll 2013: 39). This was an interesting use of the past as a symbol of the city’s future, but the reservoir had a short life (1841–1896). The city was again growing northward. The view from Murray Hill became obstructed and the promenade closed. Fashionable strolling along a city water reservoir would soon become a favorite activity at the new Central Park. The Murray Hill Reservoir was demolished, and the New York Public Library (NYPL) was built on that land. At the time, this was the center of the city (Soll 2013: 31). Now this area (between 5th and 6th Avenue and 40th to 42nd Street) is just one of Manhattan’s many neighborhoods, home to the main branch of the NYPL. Tours of the library still include reference to the old reservoir, and some of its original stonework is still visible at the base of a stairwell. Outside in the popular Bryant Park are some interpretive panels explaining the area’s history, and even more information is available on the websites of both Bryant Park and the NYPL. In contrast, it is difficult to find similar historical information for Central Park’s demolition of York Hill and construction of the Croton Receiving Reservoir. Electronic searches are complicated by the commonality of the words “York,” “Hill,” and “Reservoir” in the city’s historical documents. Published accounts make only passing reference to the community. In 1853, the New York Times reported that the “incipient legal steps” for acquiring 750 acres of land had been taken to create Central Park. The high cost of the acquisitions was justified by the park’s promise to improve the city, partially by “elevating the character of the metropolis” (New York Daily Times 1853). This would be accomplished not just by having a gorgeous public park but also by expelling the less desirable settlements that had grown up once again on the outskirts of the city. A 1923 New York Times article put it like this: “Originally, what we call now Central Park was a squatter town known as Seneca Village. If one wanted to boil bones there, he had but to put up a chimney and boil to his heart’s content and his neighbor’s disgust. Then came along some people with imagination, and they saw with their mind’s eye a marvel of beauty which you and I may see today” (Ingen 1923). Erasing Seneca Village and places like it from the landscape also helped to remove these people from the city’s memory. Historians Roy Rosenzweig and Elizabeth Blackmar summarized much of what could be found in archives for their book The Park and the People: A History of Central Park (1992: 64–66). Seneca Village was the largest pre-park settlement, but the area on the whole was mostly home to Africans, Irish, and Germans. One in ten ran a small business; most of the others were unskilled laborers. Within Seneca Village, half of the African households owned their own lots, while none of the Irish did. Some residents had moved in after York Hill was demolished for the receiving reservoir. The taking of their land was carried out through eminent domain, which was also occurring along the route of the aqueduct that would connect the Croton Receiving Reservoir to the Croton Dam and the areas around the dam. Rosenzweig and Blackmar found documents supporting the claim that uptown

New York City’s Water System

◆

31

landowners saw the park as a way of removing the poor and their associated trades from the region but that official legislative documents and public reports contained “only indirect hints that anyone at all lived on proposed park land” (Rosenzweig and Blackmar 1992: 63). More than two hundred landowners filed objections to their removal and meager compensation, on average just $700 per lot (1992: 81– 82). The displaced had “no power to make or influence policy decisions” (1992: 60). In 1995, the New-York Historical Society (NYHS) sponsored a pilot program to help city students learn about local Black history (Martin 1995). They chose Seneca Village as their focus. Approximately one hundred seventh graders began studying documents for additional clues as to who lived there. This effort uncovered documents that told of a “neat little village” instead of a slum. A student researcher is quoted in the New York Times article saying, “They should have built the park someplace else” (Martin 1995). With two very different stories about Seneca Village emerging, archaeologists Diana diZerega Wall and Nan Rothschild became involved. They worked with their own college students, the NYHS, and local community groups (Wall et al. 2004). The archaeologists brought in geophysical equipment—electronics that can detect the remnants of buildings and other cultural features below the ground surface—and planned to excavate areas that looked least disturbed. But the organizations that administer and run Central Park were not enthusiastic about these plans. There was “a reluctance to acknowledge that [Seneca Village] ever existed” (Wall and Rothschild 2004: 34). It was not part of the park’s 2003 sesquicentennial celebration until after political pressure was applied by a group known as African American New Yorkers. The emerging history and archaeology of Seneca Village inspired playwright Keith Josef Adkins (2015) to write The People before the Park. This story centers on a Black man and his son who live in Seneca Village in their own home. The man, Stephen Van Cleef, works on home repairs and improvements when he is not harvesting and selling oysters. The city hires an Irish neighbor to help evict residents, but Van Cleef refuses to leave. Other friends, neighbors, and his own son believe there is no future in Seneca Village and try to convince him of this. Similar plays could probably be written for what was occurring in the Croton Watershed, from which the receiving reservoir was being filled.

Reaching Off-Island The Croton Watershed As with the on-island clearance projects, there do not seem to be any official numbers of how many people were displaced by construction of the original Croton Dam and its aqueduct. Official reports focus on the engineering feat and comparisons to the city of Rome’s water engineering. There is no discussion of those who were removed or the possible impacts on those who remained. The history of the

32

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Croton Dam, reservoir, and aqueduct is itself complicated by the re-engineering of that system. Construction of the original dam began in 1837. It was in service for only fifty years before a newer and larger dam replaced it in 1892. This led to a second round of land takings. In 1955, the original aqueduct was replaced with a newer and larger one, running deeper underground. The original aqueduct system is now part of a “green corridor” and a walking/biking trail. A nonprofit group called Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct was formed to “protect and preserve” it (Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct 2009), in part by raising awareness of its history. The organization has worked to restore the Keeper’s House, home to the superintendent of the off-island aqueduct. When the Croton system was first developed, clean and pressurized water began flowing into homes and businesses throughout the city. But the new water availability served to only increase demand. Between 1842 and 1894 the consumption of city water expanded from 12 million to 183 million gallons per day (Finnegan 1997: 595), yet the Croton provided a flow of only 20 million gallons per day. A series of new rural reservoirs and aqueducts was needed, with construction of each new phase starting as soon as the previous one ended. The building and rebuilding are never ending. The Croton region now contains twelve city reservoirs and three controlled lakes, which, combined, supply just 10 percent of the city’s water. Much of the city’s water comes from the Catskill and Delaware watersheds, which are about twice as far from Manhattan than the Croton Watershed.

The Catskill and Delaware Watersheds New York City officials turned their attention to the Catskills for water only after the counties where they had been building reservoirs banded together to prevent further takings. By the time the west-of-Hudson reservoirs were being built, engineering reports tallied the numbers of what was lost as if boasting (see table 0.3). Between 1907 and 1967, approximately 4,500 people were made homeless by the construction of seven reservoirs. More than 8,000 of their ancestors were removed from graveyards. Then the building stopped. Cannonsville (1955–1967) became the last of the New York City reservoirs, only because lawsuits were filed to prevent further building on the west side of the Hudson River. For comparison, Manhattan Island consists of 33.77 square miles (87.5 sq km) of land. The six largest reservoirs that provide its water required the taking of twice that: 68.4 square miles (177.2 sq km) of land. The city’s population growth and thirst for clean water did not end in the 1960s, but its ability to build out the reservoir system did. At the same time, Americans were becoming more concerned about the environment and a series of laws and corresponding regulations followed suit: the National Environmental Policy Act of 1969 (NEPA) (42 U.S.C. §§ 4321), the Clean Air Act of 1970 (42 U.S.C. §§ 7401), and the Clean Water Act of 1972 (33 U.S.C. §1251). Governments could

New York City’s Water System

◆

33

no longer plan and approve infrastructure projects without considering how the environment would be affected. “Environment” here means more than bugs and bunnies; it is the totality of those direct and indirect impacts that a project will have on a place. Environment includes buildings, peoples, and jobs. Section 106 of the 1966 National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) also requires consideration of impacts to historic and archaeological sites (54 U.S.C. §§ 300101–307108). In other words, the government cannot destroy history or communities, human or animal, without at least thinking of alternatives first. Projects are most easily approved if environmental reviews lead to a Finding of No Significant Impact, FONSI for short. It is pronounced Fonzie, like the character from the television series Happy Days who always gave a thumbs-up when he liked something.

Acquiring More Distant Lands Clean Water and Filtration Avoidance In 1986, amendments to the Safe Water Drinking Act led the EPA to create new rules on the filtering of public water systems supplied by reservoirs and other surface water sources. Filtration reduces contamination by microbial pathogens and viruses. Implementation of the new rules for New York State would be handled by the State Department of Health. The city had no choice but to construct a filtration system for the reservoirs on the Croton system, east of the Hudson, which are now located in urban and suburban areas due to the growth of New York City and its five boroughs. But the city devised a filtration avoidance plan for the more rural Catskill and Delaware systems, west of the Hudson. That plan identified potential sources of reservoir water pollution and assured that those sources would not pose a contamination threat. Among the EPA’s concerns west of the Hudson was that the city could not control activities of the people living in those watersheds and that without such controls, contamination of the water supply would occur. The May 1997 document “New York City Filtration Avoidance Determination” says: “The total population of the Catskill and Delaware watershed is approximately 77,000 persons. EPA has concerns about potential contamination by Giardia lamblia and viruses that result from activities associated with residential and commercial development” (United States Environmental Protection Agency 1997: 15). One of the mechanisms by which the city proposed to control contamination was through the creation of new rules and regulations for activities throughout the watersheds. The 1997 filtration avoidance plan called for the acquisition of 355,050 acres, or more, of land throughout the Catskill and Delaware watersheds over ten years. That translates to one-third the landmass of the state of Rhode Island. In comparison, the city’s land takings for reservoir construction between 1907 and 1967 had totaled around 60,000 acres. The new land acquisitions would proceed in a different way (requiring a willing seller) from the reservoir construc-

34

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

tion takings, but the sheer volume of land desired could have a disastrous impact on watershed communities if preventative steps were not taken. The city worked with local governments to create a memorandum of agreement that established, among other things, areas within communities that were off-limits to land acquisition, and partnerships for improving wastewater treatment plants so that existing residential and economic properties could reduce pollution at the source.

The Land Acquisition Program The land acquisition and stewardship program (NYCDEP 2009, 2010, 2019) addressed concerns that acquired land should be available for use by converting it into city-owned recreational units. These are lands where activities like hiking, hunting, and fishing would be allowed. At first a city-issued permit was required to access most recreational units. More recently, many have been labeled “public access,” meaning no permit is required. Permits are easily obtained through the DEP website, but there is no way to obtain them at the property itself, so planning ahead is necessary. The permit basically confirms that the rules of access are known (NYCDEP 2021) and that the city is not liable for any injuries or damages that may be incurred by the user. Regulations include the following items that are most relevant to the land use documented by archaeological surveys. No person shall disturb, deface, remove or injure any vegetation, trees, wildlife, soil, stone or other cultural or natural resources located on City Property . . . [16-13(a)] Tents and other temporary or permanent structures, except for temporary tree stands, temporary Hunting blinds . . . are not allowed on City Property . . . [16-13(e)] Trucks, automobiles, all-terrain vehicles, motorcycles, snowmobiles and all other motorized vehicles . . . are prohibited on all City Property unless allowed by NYCDEP on postings . . . [16-13(f )] No person shall in any manner cause any rubbish, garbage, solid waste, hazardous waste, trash, refuse . . . to be placed or left on City Property . . . [16-14(a)] No person shall enter upon and remain on City Property unless participating in a Recreational Use activity as allowed by these Rules. [16-14(c)] The causing, building or maintaining of fires on City Property is prohibited except as otherwise allowed per NYCDEP or NYSDEC signage. [16-14(f )] (NYCDEP 2021)

A main goal of land acquisition is to ensure that hydrologically sensitive lands would not be paved or otherwise built upon. Certain properties were targeted for acquisition based on their topography and proximity to waterways that feed into

New York City’s Water System

◆

35

reservoirs. Landowners were offered full market value and could refuse to sell. This is quite an improvement over the past takings, which were done by eminent domain and without full compensation for property land values and lost income from lost land. Sellers now must be willing; their land cannot be taken by eminent domain. But this may simply be a different way to perform expulsion, sending people away from what remains of their communities as each seller’s decision impacts those who remain. The city met its filtration avoidance goal of soliciting 355,000 acres, but only a small percentage of those solicited were willing to sell. By 2006, the city had acquired around 70,000 acres. By 2009, they had solicited almost 500,000 acres, but acquisition totals reached only 81,000 acres. More time was needed, so a long-term acquisition plan set 2022 as a new target date. The city actively solicited lands throughout the watershed, but the towns of Olive and Kent, the main case studies of this book, were focal points. By a quirk of the aqueduct system, the Boyd’s Corners Reservoir is actually part of the Catskill Watershed. As of 2021, the city owns 10,677 acres in the town of Olive, or 28.5 percent of the town of land. Just over 50 percent of that land (5,485 acres) is operated as city-owned recreation land. In Kent, 4,187 acres are city-owned recreation land. That is 16 percent of the town’s land. Within each town, solicitations focus on lands that would produce the highest water quality benefits. Every inch of Olive around the Ashokan is either a targeted acquisition area or existing state forest. Portions of Olive were now labeled as priority 1A, 1B, or 2. Most of Kent is now labeled priority 1A or 1B, or existing state forest. The Land Acquisition Program’s 2010 report details how 16,375 acres of land would be acquired in Ulster County alone over the next fifteen years. The “remaining lands are largely owned by individuals who have declined to sell in the past” (NYCDEP 2010: ES-15). This report backs up the stories that locals told to me— the city does not always take “no” for an answer. It also provides evidence for the increasing temptation to sell. After the city began the Land Acquisition Program (LAP) purchases, the price per acre for watershed properties in north-central Ulster County rose by 466 percent, but home prices in the same area rose by only 47 percent (NYCDEP 2010: ES-28). The city’s purchasing of vacant land is making it more fruitful to demolish homes than to continue residing in them. A 2009 report on the LAP (NYCDEP 2009) says that of the total Ashokan Basin’s 155,299 acres, the city solicited purchase of 46,716 acres. By the time of the report, they had spent $35 million to purchase 10,905 of those acres. That brings the total percentage of land “protected by” the city, state, and other organizations to 65 percent. Olive, like many of the watershed towns, has negotiated areas where the city may not purchase additional land. In Olive, the 1,333 acres of hamlet expansion are in the areas along Route 28 and in West Shokan. These are areas that already have relatively dense development and suburban feel. The rural properties are now too expensive for most locals to afford, and their prices will only increase with more city land acquisitions.

36

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

While these land acquisitions may be protecting the city’s water, they also may be causing a new wave of indirect damages to watershed communities—a slow-moving expulsion. Joan Hoffman, an economics professor with John Jay College and resident of nearby Woodstock, has written extensively on the impact that New York City is having on watershed communities (Hoffman 2005, 2008, 2010). Poverty rates increased throughout the 1990s, and approximately 40 percent of renters cannot afford fair market rents in these communities. This has affected the children of current residents who cannot find housing of their own. Enforcement of water regulations is also keeping business out, which negatively impacts their ability to find work. More than 60 percent of Olive’s land is already owned by the state or the city. There is precious little space for people to live, and the tax burden has shifted to fewer and fewer residents. Taxes are based on assessed property values, and because city-owned land is without structures, the city pays little in taxes. In her book The Cooperation Challenge of Economics and the Protection of Water Supplies: A Case Study of the New York City Watershed Collaboration (2010), Hoffman offers the following summary assessment. The land acquisition program may be an example of a lesson to all in the illusion of freedom in the willing buyer and willing seller program. The cumulative impact of the acquisitions may be generating, in some places, a patchwork pattern of city and private ownership of land parcels, which could raise the costs of providing needed services. Isolated parcels can also provide less economic benefit or less environmental protection than adjacent parcels. Application of the precautionary principle would suggest that the city and communities explore the different possible outcomes of the acquisition program in order to see if a mutually preferred future for the program might be possible. It could at least be asked if there is a way to increase environmental protection at a lower cost to the communities in development, and to the city in management. (Hoffman 2010: 250)

Archaeological Survey of Watershed Lands Traversing the city-owned watershed properties provides an opportunity for assessing changes that have come to these towns since the initial reservoir takings. With a general access permit, my students and I have hiked all LAP units in Olive and Kent where hiking is an allowed activity. There we conduct only surface surveys, meaning we walk and document what we see. No excavations have been conducted. Archaeology does not require digging; it only requires the material remains of lives lived. Every LAP recreation unit contains such material remains for which these lands are not “virgin forest.” We document our finds with geo-tagged photographs that preserve images and latitude/longitude coordinates. Everything is left in place for others to see and learn from.

New York City’s Water System

◆

37

When I began this archaeological survey in September 2012, the LAP recreation units were relatively new. The DEP’s website listed the units by town and activities allowed on that land. Each unit’s name was linked to a map showing the boundaries and acreage. Topographic lines showed that the land is usually either very steeply sloped or swampy wetlands, usually a mixture of the two. Otherwise, I was struck by the blank white space within the recreation unit boundaries. There were no labeled parking areas and no trails. I do not mind bushwhacking, but the average tourist is probably not looking for an off-trail hike on properties as small as 45 acres. The maps also depict only a sliver of the surrounding area to identify where it is within the larger landscape. Those unfamiliar with the area would be challenged to find the boundaries of these recreation units. Recently a geographic information system (GIS) has been posted to the internet so that each recreation unit can be located on the landscape and viewed in relation to each other. But poor signage makes finding these properties on the ground a challenge. Luckily, I have a variety of global positioning system (GPS) tools and usually a car full of students to help me navigate. In Olive, none of the recreation units contains signs with its LAP recreation unit name. The only way to find them is to look for small white, blue, and green “Recreation by Permit” signs nailed to trees. As more and more lands are acquired, these signs are everywhere, but none of them say to which recreation unit they correspond. In Kent, most of the recreation units have small wooden plaques nailed to a tree to identify the property by name. This is usually by a parking area that can hold two or three cars. But that parking area is not on the unit map, so it can only be found through exploration of the area. In summary, the amount of effort required to obtain permits and maps and then find the property and a place to park is excessive considering the destination is a small lot with no obvious reason why one might want to go there. After 2019, more recreation units became public access, meaning no permit is needed. Yet some of those are impossible to reach without trespassing on someone else’s property or hiking off-trail through an adjacent state park. To an archaeologist, these maps (see figure 1.1) are artifacts that reveal what is happening. The city is using recreation potential as a rationale for buying lands but is not providing meaningful recreation opportunities there. The inaccessible “public access” properties also reveal the intention that adjacent private properties will eventually belong to the city. For the “public good,” and using taxpayer money, the towns of Olive, and to a lesser extent Kent, are becoming public access wilderness. Over eight years of fieldwork, my students and I found that none of these LAP properties are “virgin forest” or “wilderness” (see chapter 1). Every property has the remnants of domestic or economic uses. There are cut stumps from century-old logging and enormous stone walls from keeping livestock confined in designated areas. There are stone foundations of residences and barns. There are concrete foundations from springhouses and other water control features. Looking up into

38

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

the trees reveals remnants of hunting stands, looking down at their bases reveals decades-old shotgun shells. The forest that hides these sites and artifacts was itself created by the city when it pushed people out. The environmental impact statement for the Land Acquisition Program says that the city is acquiring “vacant land,” but there is not much concern over just how the land was vacated. In this forest it is easy to assume that most of the land is, and has always been, unoccupied. In an email exchange with the DEP’s public relations office, they said, “I can’t imagine there’s going to be much to learn about those parcels, many of which have always been vacant.” I offered to take them hiking on their own lands to refute that hypothesis. Doing so would be another way to do activist archaeology. A problem with my research is that the city is constantly purchasing properties and creating new recreation units. They are also using heavy machinery on some units, to cut timber for a new rail trail and its associated parking lots. This work destroys the archaeology that I am trying to document. In Olive, a new rail trail is a welcome addition that allows residents to engage in recreational activities on cityowned land but the process of creating it needlessly destroyed more community heritage. The next two chapters explore these recreation units and the archaeology that they contained the last time I was there. Although the details vary, similar destruction has occurred throughout the New York City watershed and in watersheds around the world. City water destroys rural communities.

Connections and Conclusions The history of New York City’s public water system has been told before but with a legal or historical lens, not with an archaeological one. Archaeologists focus on the stories told by individual sites and objects or places from the past that linger into the present. An archaeological story of city water started with the Collect Pond of Lower Manhattan and the always-under-repair asphalt park that now covers it. We then moved to the reservoir constructed to look like an Egyptian tomb, a few stones of which are still visible at the city’s public library at Bryant Park that replaced it, then to Central Park, whose reservoir is now covered by a baseball field and the Irish and African community of Seneca Village that was demolished to construct it. Moving off of Manhattan Island, the city’s water history is visible in the High Bridge that was constructed to resemble a Roman aqueduct. It is now a walking trail. Then the city reached farther up the Hudson River, where large land takings and population removals were out of the sight of city residents. Archaeology can take us to those places and compel us to look closely at them. What we can learn from these sites is how eminent domain and more than two centuries of land takings were necessary for an island surrounded by saltwater to grow into one of the world’s greatest cities.

New York City’s Water System

◆

39

The next two chapters present the history and archaeology of two watershed towns: Kent in Putnam County and Olive in Ulster County. Kent became the site of the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir in the 1860s and 1870s. The southern part of Kent was again impacted by creation of the West Branch Reservoir in the 1890s. Olive became the main site of the Ashokan Reservoir in the 1900s and 1910s. The Ashokan also took lands in the adjacent town of Hurley. An exploration of how the Ashokan and Boyd’s Corner Reservoir continue to affect Olive and Kent reveals how urban water is neither natural nor free of cost. Urban water is an extractive industry in need of more socially just practices.

CHAPTER

2

3 Kent: A Town Repurposed

It seemed like Putnam County’s town of Kent would not lose much when New York City began plans to take some land and water from it in the 1860s. Building the Boyd’s Corner Dam and Reservoir would require the demolition of only a few buildings, including two homes, a school, a cemetery, and a church. This, after all, was a widely dispersed town of mills and dairy farms, with small hamlets situated along the banks of three waterways (the West Branch of the Croton River, the Middle Branch of the Croton, and Horse Pound Brook) and the roadway intersections that tended to follow the waterways. Seven named hamlets appear on the 1867 Beers map of Kent (figure 3.1), and Boyd’s Corner was just one of them (Beers 1867). The other communities—Forshay Corners, Hazen Corners, Farmer’s Mills, Cole’s Mills, Dicktown, and Ludingtonville—would surely survive and continue on their own trajectories. Would they not? The town of Kent is a perfect example of how large a footprint urban water needs can have on rural areas. What made Boyd’s Corner the best place for a reservoir—its topography and adjacent waterway along an established direct route to the city—also made it an excellent place for commerce and community. Unfortunately, both can consume and contaminate a water source. Soon after the reservoir was built, the city began taking more land and more water to protect the waters that flowed into it. The city and state started to regulate activities deemed “too close” to water sources; even the private bathroom facilities of certain Kent residences became the city’s responsibility. More than 150 years of city regulations, land and water acquisitions, and reservoir and road construction has essentially repurposed the town of Kent from a rural landscape of mills and dairy farms to densely forested suburbs. “Environmental protection” dictates where and how people live and play. What changed in Kent after the minor taking of Boyd’s Corner? Everything.

Figure 3.1. Digitized version of 1867 Beers atlas map of Kent showing named hamlets and pre-reservoir water bodies. The future location of the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir is indicated here as it was on the original. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

Kent: A Town Repurposed ◆

41

42

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

History Kent’s Founding to 1867 The history books of the United States tend to celebrate white men who fought in wars or worked in government, and that tradition also helped to name towns. Kent was named for James Kent, who resided in Putnam County with his grandfather, the Reverend Elisha Kent, until the age of nine. The elder Kent moved into the area around 1740 (Herring and Longacre 1835). The younger, James, left the county in 1772, but by 1804, he had risen to chief justice of the New York State Supreme Court. The 1817 act of the state legislature that bestowed the Kent name on this place did so without providing any rationale (New York State 1818). Before the renaming, Kent was part of a larger Frederick’s Town, which also included the present-day towns of Carmel and Patterson (Blake 1849). The first Euro-American settlements within Kent were those of Zachariah Merritt and Ebenezer Boyd (Blake 1849). Ebenezer was a captain in the Continental Army. He established his residence in 1781, operating both a farm and a tavern/ hotel. The tavern was certainly the start of Boyd’s Corner, but an 1821 road act adopted by the State of New York suggests that it was slow to develop. This act was “for the purpose of making a good and sufficient turnpike road, to begin at or near the house of Ebenezer Boyd . . . and to run from thence, the most eligible route, to or near the court-house of said county” (New York State 1821: 125). The Ebenezer referenced was the captain’s son. Other areas of Kent had similar anchors for development that were backed by prestigious families. Ludingtonville was developed by Frederick Ludington, whose store benefited from an 1830 resolution by the United States House of Representatives (United States Congress 1830) to establish a post office there. Congress instructed the Committee on the Post Office and Post Roads to look into “a post route from the town of Somers, in the county of West Chester . . . to Ludington’s store, in the town of Kent.” Six years later a New York State act appointed commissioners to “lay out new highways . . . on the route leading from Frederick Ludington’s in the town of Kent . . . by way of the court-house of Putnam county, to the Croton turnpike” (New York State 1836). A similar state act was passed in 1827 to connect Edward Smith’s home in Kent to the same route (New York State 1827). An early history of Putnam County (Blake 1849) describes the industrial and commercial nature of two Kent hamlets: Farmer’s Mills (Milltown), and Cole’s Mills (figure 3.2). Cole’s Mills consisted of a few houses and mills for grinding grain into flour (gristmills), sawing logs into lumber (saw mills), and processing fibers for cloth making (fulling mills). These mills were fueled by the West Branch of the Croton River, along which the businesses were located. Farmer’s Mills contained several mills but also three stores, two taverns, a post office, and a tannery (Blake 1849: 332). The greater success of Farmer’s Mills was attributed to its “constant supply of fresh spring water” (Muscarella n.d.) flowing from White Pond toward the West Branch.

Figure 3.2. Digitized close-up views of Cole’s Mills and Farmer’s Mills from the 1867 Beers atlas. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

Kent: A Town Repurposed ◆

43

44

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

An 1864 article from the Putnam County Courier (1864) draws a clear connection between the success of Farmer’s Mills and its freshwater supply. But this same article may have caught the attention of the New York City water authority and ultimately led to the dismantling of Farmer’s Mills: Farmer’s Mills is situated in the lap of several small hills on the northwestern portion of the Town of Kent and is a village of much notoriety from its moral, physical, political and social surroundings. It has the most beautiful and healthy streams of water running through its centre known in the State of New York, capable of driving the machinery of any manufactory for which the water is used, and yet it is strange to say that its location has never been sought and obtained by capitalists of this go-ahead and prosperous county [emphasis added] . . . White Pond lying a half a mile east of the village . . . is a beautiful sheet of water of about 400 acres—clear, deep and transparent, supported by fresh springs of water and inhabited by the choicest fish.

Kent and its small population of 1,479 residents were in an enviable position with such a reliable supply of freshwater. At the same time, New York City, the most populous place in the United States, was struggling to support a population of 813,669 (Gibson 1998). They needed as much clean and reliable water as they could find. Within a year of the above article’s publication, the city came to Kent.

Constructing the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir In the spring of 1865, New York City’s Croton Aqueduct Commission had permission to acquire Kent lands (New York Times 1868). A total of 420 acres were purchased for $100 per acre, and construction of the Boyd’s Dam began at a point where the West Branch passed between two hills. I have not been able to find many details on the dam construction other than passing references to delays caused by an insufficient workforce and not enough stone being quarried from a local hillside. Also, I have not found any official reports detailing the removal of cemeteries, residences, farms, or businesses from the footprint of the reservoir. Interestingly, the 1868 New York Times article describes the hamlet of Boyd’s Corner as if it had been abandoned long before the city moved in: the Baptist church was “in a most fearful and wonderful state of dilapidation,” and the cemetery was “an ancient burying ground, long since disused, and apparently about to slide down the hillside to the road below.” That burial ground certainly contained the remains of Captain Ebenezer Boyd (1735–1792). Given that the last of Kent’s Boyds—Mary Boyd and her husband, Joseph Haight—lived right where the reservoir was being built (Boyd 1912), it seems unlikely that the “ancient burying ground” had been abandoned for too long. It is more likely that the city caused the abandonment of Boyd’s Corner, and this article was part of naturalizing the process. If Boyd’s Corner was depicted as an uninhabited hamlet, there would be less opposition to demolishing it.

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

45

The Boyd’s Corner Reservoir was put into service in 1873. It added 270 million gallons to New York City’s water supply, but the city’s growth had already outpaced it. Between 1860 and 1880, its population grew by almost four hundred thousand residents (Gibson 1998). At the same time, a drought (1876–1877) reduced the water supply and instigated a legislative act that gave the city permanent rights to draw water from any lake within its watershed, not just its reservoirs (White 1913). With unprecedented powers to impact distant places, city officials set their sights on the White Pond of Farmer’s Mills and its reliable spring waters. Through a combination of “condemnation, sale, or absorption,” they drove residents and businesses away (Hursey 1995). Putnam County’s center of commerce shifted out of Kent to the nearby town of Brewster, including the railway once planned to pass straight through Boyd’s Corner and Cole’s Mills. The repurposing of Kent from an agricultural town into a protected watershed had begun. Throughout Kent, public and private ponds were put into service for the city, and some saw this as an opportunity to make money. The city’s board of aldermen reported (New York City Board of Aldermen 1878) payments in the amount of $200 to Kent resident William A. Hopkins for rights to draw water from China Pond and $75 to William H. Brown for “furnishing and drawing of water from Mill Pond.” This notice ran in the Hudson New York Daily: “The annual scare over the water supply has begun in New York. Perhaps some one in Putnam county with a lake to sell like Boss Tweed once had, is working up the alarm” (Hudson New York Daily 1878). The addition of water from White Pond, China Pond, and Mill Pond was still not enough to meet the demand. By 1890, work had begun on another reservoir, Reservoir D, now known as West Branch Reservoir. Most of Reservoir D sits in the adjacent town of Carmel, but it reaches into Kent and its construction led to the clearing of the last of its commercial milling centers, Cole’s Mills. In 1895, N. D. Shaw, trustee of Kent School District 9, received $740 for damage to a schoolhouse and lot (Duane, Allen, and Fteley 1895) sustained by Reservoir D’s construction. Although Kent’s commerce was stunted by the demise of its two milling centers, Farmer’s Mills and Cole’s Mills, dairy farming continued with little interference from the city until 1893. Kent’s ninety-four farms, with 7,952 acres of cultivated land (Robinson 1897), created an idyllic landscape, but those farms also threatened to pollute a vast water system. In 1893 the New York City Department of Public Works was empowered to take any necessary lands or actions to protect the water supply from pollution and “abate all nuisances” (New York City Department of Public Works 1893). Health “nuisances” throughout Kent were targeted for elimination, and Farmer’s Mills had a long list of offenses (New York City Department of Public Works 1893: 39). The monitoring of these private properties was certainly not a long-term solution to the contamination problem. In 1899, the Ninth Annual State Report of the Board of Health of New York illustrated concerns over how close residents were living to the waterline by including several depictions

46

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

of Boyd’s Corner and Cole’s Mills. Boyd’s Corner, it says, deserves special attention to “regulate the place” (New York City Board of Health 1899). And Cole’s Mills is called an example of “the worst case of several here” because a house and mill are in contact with the water. The state health report also enumerates all farms, farmhouses, and outbuildings that are within eight hundred feet of water that flows toward the reservoir. These properties, it says, require special attention to ensure the quality of the water supply. The list included twenty-four of the thirty-four houses and all twenty of the outbuildings of Farmer’s Mills; twelve of the fourteen houses, all ten outbuildings, and one cemetery at Kent Cliffs; and twenty-two of the thirtyone houses and twenty-two of the twenty-three outbuildings at Ludingtonville. There was little within Kent that was not labeled a threat to city water. Most of Kent’s residential farmers could find their properties enumerated on a lengthy table of concern. The property of A. Hyatt was specifically cited for having a barnyard of seventy-five cows, six horses, and seven pigs that drains into a brook. The next largest farm was the Mead property, with seventy cows, two horses, and three pigs within one hundred feet of the coveted White Pond. Eighty-nine other Kent properties were listed, with the average Kent property described as having fifteen cows, two horses, and three pigs within two hundred feet of a named water body. Churches, cemeteries, schools, groceries, a blacksmith shop, sawmills and gristmills, and an apple mill were also cited. The community of Farmer’s Mills was cited in its entirety. Also cited was the Kent Department of Public Works. Just thirty years after construction of the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir began, virtually the entire town of Kent and its way of life was cast as an undesirable source of pollution.

Replacing a Population Once the state government encouraged regulation of land use around the city’s reservoirs, farming was no longer a viable way of life. Land was sold off at prices well below farm value, and developers swooped in to convert what were once quality farms into country homes. This conversion played out differently on each parcel of land, but one parcel in particular has a well-documented history. In 1906, the Kittredge family arrived and purchased 2,100 acres (Oser 1977) of land adjacent to Boyd’s Corner Reservoir. They built a Southern-styled mansion and lived there, with several servants, until the mid-1920s. Their departure coincided with an increase in demand for country homes. The house and land were purchased for conversion into the Carmel Country Club. A 1928 New York Times article, “Putnam County Farms Giving Way to County Estates,” celebrates this shift from rural to suburban status and connects it to the area’s function as an urban watershed. The article states, “Prevailing prices today preclude all possibility of the purchase of farms here for farming purposes . . . Farm land, therefore, is now on the market for development as country estates” (New York Times 1928).

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

47

Between December 1928 and July 1941, the New York Times published twentyeight sales announcements accounting for approximately 2,989 acres, or 11.5 percent, of Kent lands. Buyers included Louis William Max, a psychology professor at New York University; Maude Hall, a socialite once profiled in a New York Times report titled “Frocks of the Season” (Weldon 1905); Hermoine Panken, daughter of the city domestic relations judge Jacob Panken; Maximillian Moss, state supreme court justice; and Mildred Bailey, a blues singer (New York Times 1951). One of Mildred’s hit songs was “It’s So Peaceful in the Country,” recorded in 1941, the same year she moved to Kent. The lyrics speak of how peaceful and quiet country life is, in comparison with the “too much stone, too much telephone” of city life. Mildred sings “Someday you’re bound to try it” and many did just that. The majority of sales reported by the New York Times was attributed to one real estate broker, Herbert J. Gebing, who himself resided in both New York City and the town of Carmel, adjacent to Kent. His first Kent sale appeared in the Times 7 April 1937. He had sold Cargain’s Point, a 50-acre parcel that included a peninsula into Boyd’s Reservoir and a peak of eleven hundred feet. An anonymous buyer purchased the land. Gebing’s next sale was a cabin on Boyd’s Reservoir to Maude (Hall) Waterbury. He also “reports” that “a demand for small farms of from five to thirty acres in Putnam County, N.Y., has resulted from the opening up of the new Eastern State Parkway” and that “many of the purchasers are using these properties for vacation purposes” (New York Times 1938). In the next five months, Gebing sold 546 acres of Kent land along Farmer’s Mills Road and put 100 additional acres under long-term lease. Gebing was then elected president of the Putnam County Realty Board, and this too was reported (New York Times 1939). For those with a bit less wealth, several communities were developed along artificial lakes in order to add to the country-like appeal. In summary, between 1867 and 1977 the city’s incursions into the town of Kent reshaped the physical and cultural landscapes. Farms and mills had once clustered around free-flowing water bodies. Once that water was diverted to the city, the milling stopped, farms and homes were declared sources of pollution, and farmlands were sold at discount rates to urban elites and developers. The former built private estates, and the latter built country clubs and residential communities, each with their own sense of community. Despite the changes that city reservoirs brought to rural communities, it is difficult to deny the aesthetic appeal of expansive and protected bodies of water. The historical record shows that by 1927 at least some Kent residents had grown to appreciate the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir. In that year, an engineering firm calculated that the dam would not survive a significant flood and recommended lowering it immediately (Putnam County Courier 1927). This meant the reservoir had to be drained. Residents of the adjacent community, now known as Kent Cliffs, protested via letter to the New York City Board of Water Supply: “Cutting down the spillway . . . will create a menace to the health of the community, depreciate the value of property, and ruin the beauty of our hamlet”

48

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

(Putnam County Courier 1928). The dam was rebuilt, the reservoir refilled, but another panic was coming.

A Town Reliant on the City On 24 August 1978 a local paper headline declared “Putnam Homes Imperiled by Danger Dam” ( Jones, Nagourney, and McMahon 1978). This time the danger seemed imminent, as residents were urged to evacuate the twelve homes immediately south of the dam. “Security guards armed with police radios were posted throughout the night atop the floodlit dam on the Boyd’s Corners Reservoir in Kent Cliffs, Putnam, watching for signs of a break in the 105-year-old stone structure which engineers say is in danger of collapsing.” The reservoir was drained to relieve pressure and allow for a thorough inspection of the dam and its foundation. This was not only a local crisis. Boyd’s Dam had been inspected as part of a nationwide dam safety effort led by the US Army Corps of Engineers. Across the state of New York, seventy-two dams were inspected, and six Putnam County dams were labeled potentially hazardous to life and property. The Boyd’s Dam was rated “conditionally” to “clearly” dangerous. Within a week, the water level at Boyd’s Dam had been reduced enough to allow evacuees to return. Within a month, the reservoir was almost dry, but dam repairs had not been started or even scheduled. A local newspaper dismissed both the current danger and the future functionality of the Boyd’s Reservoir as a non-story: “They say there is an Indian graveyard here somewhere. Probably deep beneath the muck, there is . . . There are also relics of the farmland that was flooded here a hundred years ago. The reservoir bed is crisscrossed by low stone walls, dividing the once useful land into plots. The walls look a little ridiculous now, jealously guarding nothing . . . From headline to sidebar to feature, a story that almost never was has resulted in a reservoir that may never be again” (Palladium Times 1978). The local government took action. By unanimous vote, the Putnam County Board of Supervisors decided to file a $50 million claim against the city (Putnam County Courier 1978a) over the draining of Boyd’s Reservoir. A decrease in tourism and fishing was hurting the local economy, residential water wells had dried up, and both plants and animals had died from the lack of water. The county supervisors declared that “the area has become an ecological disaster in violation of the Environmental Conservation Law of the State of New York” (Putnam County Courier 1978a). The county treasurer urged a delay in filing a formal lawsuit until after meeting with city officials (Putnam County Courier 1978b). For two years nothing happened, and the Putnam County legislature feared Boyd’s Reservoir might never again be operational. When a city Board of Water engineer finally met with the Kent Community Association, it drew a crowd of approximately one hundred people (Putnam County Courier 1980a). The engineer reassured Kent residents that the city would restore the reservoir

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

49

but warned that it would take a long time. Plans for repairing Boyd’s Dam were released in July of 1988 (Gross 1988), ten years after it was drained. In 1990, the new dam was completed, and the reservoir refilled. As Kent (and Putnam County) became reliant on the city, the city’s swelling population created more demand for new watershed land and waters. By 1990, New York City’s residential population had topped 7 million (Gibson 1998). No other place in the United States had to provide water to so many residents. Intrusion into Kent had begun with one reservoir at Boyd’s Corner, but now the entire town was part of a vital water supply. The city conducted new house-tohouse surveys of Kent properties to identify septic systems that might pollute city water sources (Risinit 2002), just like those detailed in the 1893 Department of Public Works report described previously. As Boyd’s Reservoir was being put back into service, the city developed the LAP plan to purchase 350,000 acres of lands throughout all of its watersheds. Targeted land purchases would reduce pollution of water sources by limiting future development in towns like Kent. Between 1998 and 2010, the DEP purchased 116 Kent parcels totaling more than 4,000 acres. This equates to 15 percent of the town. From these lands, the city created eighteen recreation areas. What started out as 400 acres of land to be taken for Boyd’s Reservoir has grown into thousands of city-owned acres that repurposed Kent to serve the city’s residents and commuting workforce. Kent is routinely profiled in the real estate section of the New York Times (Prevost 1998; Walker 2014). Today a huge draw for the town is the thousands of acres of undevelopable watershed lands, lakes, and ponds. The 1998 article carries the title “If You’re Thinking of Living in Kent, N.Y.; Rustic, Rugged Yet a Workable Commute,” and quotes a real estate broker who says the town is “perfect for a log cabin or a chalet.” There is little difference between this and the 1928 New York Times article that first announced Kent as a destination for city residents. The 2014 New York Times article is another real estate profile. In it, landowners say life in Kent is fabulous “because I get a hundred-some acres behind me forever green,” but they also point out the associated “lack of commerce” and wish for more of a Main Street. Individual residents use the city-owned waters and lands for their own benefit. Some of these uses are in keeping with those advocated by the city; others are not. Archaeological survey has allowed me to document how Kent is a landscape of both conflict and possibilities.

Archaeology of Kent’s City-Owned Lands In the nineteenth century, the town of Kent was part of a farming community with rolling meadows, meandering brooks, and just a handful of ponds. Today Kent is a suburban community of dense subdivisions separated by dense forests. There are now so many water bodies that it is often referred to as Kent Lakes. The artificial

50

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

lakes and forests are presumed to be natural in origin, with neighborhoods describing themselves as being in the midst of “virgin land.” These disconnects between present and past obscure the town’s history and hinder development of a unified sense of identity (see chapter 1). But Kent’s history is only obscured; it has not been erased. Remnants can be found in between trees and along roadsides. Some historic places are obvious, like the numerous family and community cemeteries whose unused plots speak to unplanned departures—clearance and ruination. More contentious are the historic stone constructions visible all across the town. Kent’s rocky landscape provided resilient building material for stone walls, foundations, and other features that seem mysterious because they do not fit into the narrative of a natural watershed—of wilderness. Just about every property in Kent has stone walls. The stones were collected and concentrated in certain areas during agricultural development to make it easier to build and plow and to move livestock across the landscape. With little effort, other than the strength to pile them, the stones became walls that served as property or agricultural field boundaries, animal enclosures, or decorative elements. By examining the structure and layout of each wall, especially the size and shape of its stones, it is often possible to infer its intended function (Thorson 2005). The same fieldstones were also used to create building foundations. The size of a foundation reveals its function—to support a house, barn, or other outbuilding. Between these walls and foundations, we find glass bottles, metal milk cans, shotgun shells, and other artifacts that tell us what people were doing on these properties. This is how an archaeologist views the landscape. Every place is a mixture of old and new, past and present. Stories of continuity and of change can be read from both what was left behind and what was taken away. Without putting a single shovel into the ground and without collecting any artifacts, my students and I have wandered Kent’s woods and recorded what we found. None of what we find is valuable in the monetary sense, but it is all valuable in the cultural sense. You may never set foot in Kent, but through the data we have collected, you can read its landscape and experience its complex ties to New York City. Here the forests themselves are artifacts of change, and within those forests a silent battle over resources is evident. Although seventeen Kent properties were surveyed, only three are presented here in detail. Keep the larger narrative of Kent’s history in mind, and consider how the material evidence supports, contradicts, or enhances that narrative. No place remains unchanged over time, but in Kent we can see changes that are the direct result of city water policies. What lessons can we learn from Kent to understand how taking water from another place has unintended consequences for that place? What do we owe people and communities who undergo such dramatic change for the benefit of others? On each DEP property we have found artifacts of the past and of the present— evidence of agency and entanglements. Clear violations of the DEP’s land-use rules

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

51

are evident on almost every property and include fire pits, trash dumps, tire tracks from vehicle use, hunting equipment on properties closed to hunters, and paintball forts constructed by nailing wood planks into trees. A safe estimate is that at least 50 percent of all DEP property markers, which declare these lands subject to city rules, are damaged or destroyed. They get torn off of trees and shot up with real and toy bullets, especially on properties where hunting is not allowed. The DEP’s only means of enforcing land-use rules is through a police force that patrols the region by car.

Kent’s Most Prosperous Farm Becomes Forest The Kent Hills recreation unit is located in the northeast quadrant of Kent. The historic atlas depicts this as a rural area on the outskirts of the village of Ludingtonville. Today it is not far from a major interstate, and it abuts a subdivision and an elementary school. When we surveyed Kent Hills, we knew little about it. Armed with the DEP map, our handheld GPS devices, and a digital camera, we set out to document what was there. The DEP map depicted a white void with no obvious official parking area. We drove up and down the road along the undeveloped west and north sides until we found a grassy area wide enough to pull onto. Within minutes a DEP officer arrived in a vehicle with a police dog in the backseat. I approached the officer as he got out of his patrol car; the dog barking from within might have made me anxious if we had planned to break any rules. The officer asked for a permit. I showed him mine, carried in my wallet at all times, and pointed to the parking permit hang tag on my car. My students were behind the car, getting out the gear and applying bug spray. The officer walked over to them and asked for their permits too. After inspecting each one, he encouraged us to go elsewhere to hike. I started to explain that we were doing research, but he walked back to his patrol car and drove off. My team was rather quiet as they finished preparing for the survey. I examined the short but steep slope we had to climb to get onto the property from the roadside and picked an entry point. As soon as we were in the recreation unit, the evidence of intensive agriculture was obvious. An extremely well-made stone wall ended exactly where we entered, and the remnants of a metal livestock gate were right there too—a spring and hinge on the ground, but the supports were still standing. Barbed-wire fencing was noted. The ground to the east was dense with brush. The ground to the west was almost completely stone free and extremely flat. We were on an animal pasture yet in such dense woodland that all of our photos came out with a dark greenish tint. As with every DEP unit, areas near the roadside contained a lot of discarded soft drink bottles and other recent trash, which is expected where the land is at road grade or below, but we had climbed up from the road and trash was everywhere. Bottles with schnapps and Gatorade labels had weathered a bit. Bud Light’s “born on” date had worn off, but we know that Budweiser used this form of date

52

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

stamping from 1996 to 2015 (Bloomberg Business News 1996). Based on the deterioration of labels, this trash scatter was probably around three years old, deposited around 2012. Farther into the unit, away from the road, was an older trash scatter. A glass bottle had lost its paper label, but the phrases “No Deposit,” “No Return,” and “Not to Be Refilled” were embossed into the glass. Embossing produces raised glass letters or logos that are part of the bottle and therefore do not wear off like paper labels. This combination of phrases suggest that the bottle was from the 1960s. That is fifty years of bottle debris between the two trash scatters, and we were less than one thousand feet into this 118-acre unit. It was clear that the Kent Hills unit was not untouched wilderness. We usually record all man-made objects as we encounter them, but on the Kent Hills property the data quickly overwhelmed us. Stone walls ran in all directions and were distributed relatively evenly throughout the property. We decided to use Light Detection and Ranging, or LiDAR, imagery (United States Geological Survey 2022) to map the lengths and directions of each wall. In the field we recorded heights and widths of walls at selected points to help determine their function. These two data sources, LiDAR and field measurements, can be integrated in the lab to reinforce what was obvious from the ground: this was once an intensively used and prosperous farm. Formal walls made with stones too large to be moved by hand suggest that experienced work teams used oxen and carts to create them. This would have been a costly investment (figure 3.3).

Figure 3.3. Material remains of David Kent’s farm showing stone walls and metal gates for the dairy farm. © Drew Leventhal, reproduced with permission.

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

53

LiDAR imagery has its limitations. It cannot detect the small details that fieldwork can. For example, in one area of Kent Hills a formal stone wall paralleled a barbed-wire fence. The gap in between formed a 150-inch-wide corridor along which livestock, likely cattle, would have been channeled. That fence does not appear on the LiDAR. Similarly, less formal stone walls are often low to the ground because a wooden or metal fence had once run along them. In the field we could see where wooden posts had rotted away or where metal posts had remnants of barbed wire still wrapped around them. This would not show up on the LiDAR. Lastly, the northwest corner of the Kent Hills unit had a series of low walls that created decorative terraces extending down to the paved roadway. Only fieldwork could detect this, and it is an important example of the care that was taken to make this functional farm look prosperous to all of those who passed by. The minor details of Kent Hills’ stone walls and fences reveal that this was once a prosperous and well-kept farm. As we moved toward the center of the unit, the land’s historic uses were not as evident as its recent ones. Recent trash, including unopened plastic water bottles, and constructions, including fire pits and tree forts, dominated our note taking. The closer we came to the subdivisions and elementary school, the more this was true. We recorded a paintball battlefield, complete with fortifications nailed to trees. A pile of paintball pellets solidified our interpretation. Nearby was an enormous fire pit, bordered by seating that could hold about twenty people. Fires and fortifications are not allowed on DEP lands. That both children and adults are behind these constructions is evident in the types of beverage bottles encountered. Beer cans were everywhere, but there were also chocolate milk containers. Motor vehicles are also banned, yet we followed a network of all-terrain vehicle tracks to the south. Along those tracks we recorded shotgun shells and a lost duck call. This unit was not open to hunting at the time. It would be easy to assume that those who are using the Kent Hills property might not be aware of DEP land-use policies. But another set of material remains suggests that is not true (figure 3.4). DEP property signs are posted all along the unit’s perimeter, and many at Kent Hills have been vandalized. The “No Hunting” signs are often shot full of holes. This is a material manifestation of conflict and defiance. No wonder the DEP officer was less than friendly. Back in the lab I mapped out the Kent Hills stone wall network using LiDAR and field notes. Our initial impression of this as an intensively used farm was confirmed. No other DEP property is so completely strewn with walls, partially because no other is this flat. The city tends to purchase lands that slope down to waterways, for doing so protects the water runoff as it approaches the reservoirs. The next step was to connect historic records to determine whose farm this was. The 1867 Beers atlas suggests that Kent Hills was mainly the property of D. Kent (Beers 1867). The 1860 census identifies David Kent as a 67-year-old farmer with $25,000 of owned real estate. According to the 1860 agricultural schedules, Da-

54

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Figure 3.4. Material remains of current land use at the Kent Hills recreation unit. “No Trespassing” signs are vandalized, large fire pits have been constructed, and beer cans litter the ground. © Drew Leventhal, reproduced with permission.

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

55

vid owned seven horses, eighty milk cows, six working oxen, eighteen other cattle, thirty-five sheep, eighteen pigs, and grew 1,000 bushels of corn and 350 bushels of oats. Such holdings made David, a distant cousin of James Kent, for whom the town was named, one of the wealthiest men living there in the 1860s. Residing with him were several children, three farm laborers, and three domestic servants. The History of Putnam County describes David Kent (1792–1870) as the first president of the Putnam County Bank, whose office was in Farmer’s Mills. Kent was also a “man of social disposition” who provided jobs to those who needed them (Blake 1849). Two of his sons, James and Wellington, continued to live on and work this farm after their father’s death.

Parker Cemetery Reveals the Close-Knit Community Between Farmer’s Mills and the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir is a city-owned property named Boyd’s Corner North. Its appearance on the DEP map is unusual in that a cemetery is depicted near its center, at the base of the artificial Seven Hills Lake. Almost every other map shows DEP property as nothing but a blank white field, sometimes crisscrossed with a water body or topographic contour lines. For this property I consulted the 1867 atlas before our field survey to determine if this was a church-affiliated cemetery or a family plot. If it were church-affiliated, we could expect the remnants of a church nearby. But the atlas showed only the residence of Mrs. E. Parker nearby. This was surely a family cemetery. On our first visit to Boyd’s Corner North, we parked at its northern boundary for what should have been a moderately difficult but short hike (one mile) into the cemetery. I settled on this route after having visited the eastern boundary of the unit, closest to the Parker house, and finding no way to cross the waterway there. That waterway runs along most of the eastern edge of the unit, so the northern route would be difficult to hike but passable. Not long after entering the unit, we began traversing a steep slope from an unmarked roadway pull-off. The terrain was soon that of boulders situated along a steep slope, and we had to rock-hop our way across them. The city does not own the more gently sloped and boulder-free western shore of Seven Hills Lake, so an easier route was impossible without trespassing. This was complicated navigation, and it took us so long to reach the cemetery that we had just enough time to photograph it before heading back to the car. While en route to the cemetery, we did record several stone walls in the north end of the unit. In general they were low and informal, nothing like those on the Kent Hills property. These walls would not have held livestock, and we saw no evidence of supplementary wooden or barbed-wire fencing during our hurried survey. The only other stone walls we recorded that day were surrounding the cemetery. These were well-built and formal stone walls, and they enclosed an area much larger than was ultimately necessary for those buried here. Those who built these cemetery walls made them to last and to hold many generations of family. They did

56

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

not know that less than twenty years after the first internment, the city impacts to Kent would drive their family away. Back at the lab, the headstone photographs allowed us to see a story in the Parker family cemetery. One of the students, Alec Ferretti, happened to be a talented genealogist. For this cemetery, Alec was able to find the date of the last burial made here, even though it was not recorded on a headstone. The Parker family cemetery was in use from 1849 to 1934. It includes at least thirteen readable markers that tell a story of Kent’s once close-knit community. After reading the names of who married whom and comparing them to the names on the 1867 atlas, we can see how neighbors became family through marriage. The first person to be buried in the Parker cemetery was Elizabeth Ann Russell Parker (1820–1849), wife of William Parker (1817–1891). She died on 24 August 1849, at the age of twenty-nine after having two sons, Isaac (1842–1913) and John Williams Parker (1848–1930). Both sons were farmers who lived and died in Kent and strengthened local ties by marrying into neighboring families. Isaac’s first wife was Sarah Jane Light (1849–1886). His second wife was Isabel Smalley (1857–1945). Isaac and Isabel are buried in the nearby Smalley Burial Ground (Farmer’s Mills). John married Ophelia E. Russell (1860–1933), and they are buried in the Union and Halstead Cemetery. That cemetery also contains the remains of those moved for reservoir construction. These burials, outside of the Parker family cemetery, mainly occurred after 1930. By this time the cemetery was largely unused. I will say more about the last days of the cemetery soon, but first we need to learn more about the Parker family. Elizabeth, the first buried here, is not the “Mrs. E. Parker” from the 1867 atlas. Mrs. E. is William’s mother, Elsa, not his wife. Elsa’s gravestone contains part of the poem Consolation (Park 1836): Weep not for her, who meekly led A life of piety and love, Whose unassuming virtue shed A hallow’s influence from above.

Elsa Lee (1795–1879) and her husband, John Parker (1789–1856), lived and worked at the Parker farm where they raised eleven children, William being the second eldest. Of those eleven children, six returned for burial in the Parker family cemetery. William was one of those buried at Parker, alongside Elizabeth, his first wife. His second wife, Temperance Tompkins (1829–1905), and three of their children are buried elsewhere. William was tied to this land by his mother, Elsa, and his first wife, Elizabeth. The last person buried here, Nelson Robinson, followed that tradition. Among the more recent Parker cemetery burials are those of John and Elsa’s granddaughter, Elsie Jane Lee (1860–1924), and her husband, Nelson Eugene Robinson (1865–1934). They share one gravestone in the Parker cemetery. Nelson’s death date was never added to the stone. Its unfinished state

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

57

reflects the family’s disconnection from a place that had been so important to them for so long. Elsie and Nelson continued the family tradition as Kent farmers, but none of their children followed that path, for the farm had disappeared. That first day of field survey here was difficult but produced a lot of data and left us with more questions. The graves of veterans had relatively new American flags at them. Who placed those here, and did they know of an easier route into the cemetery? We needed an easier route if we were to find whatever remained of Elsa Parker’s house. I contacted the Kent Historical Society and told them about my project. They knew of the cemetery and were interested in my work. Two members of the society, Ed Illiano and Jackie Rohrig, offered to guide me to the farmhouse ruins from a southern entry point. We made plans to meet up for another survey. The southern route was not an easy hike; although the terrain was more hospitable, the dense plant growth obscured any direct path and the distance was a half mile longer, each way. But soon we were standing at a foundation (figure 3.5) discussing what was left from the Parker family and what appeared to be recently deposited. What remains of the farmhouse is a large pit foundation with some stone along the upper rim. A metal pipe protrudes from one wall and a few bricks are along another wall. The latter is certainly where the chimney was located. At least one brick was marked D.P.B.W., which stands for the Denning’s Point Brick Works (Bayley

Figure 3.5. Foundation on the Boyd’s Corner North recreation unit, at the location of Mrs. E. Parker’s house from the 1867 Beers atlas. The photo board is at the top of concrete stairs and a metal frying pan is adjacent to it. © Cayla Neipris, reproduced with permission.

58

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

2005). These bricks were produced after 1881 and therefore were not part of Elsa’s 1867 residence. Also postdating Elsa’s time are two sets of concrete stairs—one adjacent to the main house, the other leading up to an addition, possibly a wraparound porch. Artifacts from when this house was in use include a frying pan and a clothesline pulley. Jackie said that a current Kent resident recalls her family renting the house in the 1950s. It later burned down. Back in the lab I noticed that the Parker farmhouse appears on the 1867 atlas map and the 1940s topographic map but is not shown on the 1890s or 1980s topographic maps. Its omission on the 1890s map and the presence of bricks that cannot be older than 1881 suggest that this may not actually be Elsa’s 1867 home. In order to find out, I would need to excavate to test that hypothesis or locate a historical reference to an earlier fire or any sort of rebuilding episode. The foundation was littered with recent beer cans and cigarette packages. The litter, we decided, was probably coming from people accessing the property through the adjacent Seven Hills Lake. The lake serves as a centerpiece for a private residential community of the same name. This is an artificial lake, through which the water from White Pond flows to Boyd’s Corner Reservoir. The lake and community were created in the 1950s. An original sales brochure (Anonymous, “Seven Hills Lake” n.d.) advertises it as “400 acres of unspoiled virgin woodland” fifty-three miles (85.3 km) from New York City. The brochure does not mention the Parkers or their close-knit neighboring families who farmed this land for a hundred years. That this is virgin woodland is a myth. The Parker family cemetery and the associated ruins attest to that. Near the cemetery and farmhouse foundation we collected field data on several stone walls. Here, as in the northern part of the unit, the walls were still relatively informal. Some seemed to form enclosures with a height sufficient to contain a few small animals, but none of the Boyd’s North walls came close to the formality or functionality of those at Kent Hills. Unlike the family of David Kent, that of Elsa Parker does not appear in The History of Putnam County. The 1860 census identifies Elsa as a 65-year-old woman who owns $2,000 in real estate (one-tenth of David Kent’s holdings). Her twenty-year-old son, Smith Parker, is identified as the farmer, and fifty-year-old George Vantassel is their farm laborer. Smith’s wife, Augusta, and two children also reside there. According to the 1860 agricultural schedules, Elsa owned three horses, six milk cows, one other cattle, four sheep, and six pigs, and grew 12 bushels of rye, 100 bushels of corn, and 100 bushels of oats. Together the modest farmhouse foundation, informal stone walls, and census data show that the Parkers were not a wealthy family. Their rocky and steeply sloped property would not gain them prosperity. Back at the southern access to Boyd’s North, where we met Ed and Jackie, there is a small grassy parking area that can just barely accommodate three cars. Two metal signs identify this as DEP property and provide information for deer hunters. If this is supposed to be the official entrance to the unit, it should be included

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

59

on the DEP map. Also not on the map is the short trail that leads from the parking area into the woods. This omission is understandable, as the trail dissipates quickly. Along it we recorded several shotgun shells and remnants of at least two deer stands, both of which included wood planks nailed into live trees; however, their deteriorated state suggests they may not be in active use. Of more immediate concern was some large trash, including a refrigerator and some automobile seats that have been dumped here. This is the danger of having parking areas for the DEP properties: they make for easy disposal of items that would otherwise be costly to discard. But such waste is antithetical to the environmental protection function of these city-owned properties. Maybe this is why the DEP does not provide access points to the recreation units. But if that is true, these areas should not be labeled as places for public recreation. Also at the southern Boyd’s North parking area, somewhat hidden by vegetation, are a water pump and a stone storage cellar (figure 3.6), locally known as a stone chamber. Given their distance from residences depicted on the 1867 atlas, they were most likely associated with the farm of M. Light. My best guess from the census data is that M stands for Moseman. His farm was as modest as that of Elsa Parker, but his two oxen would have helped in the construction of this stone chamber. There are many varieties of stone cellars in Kent and quite a lot of controversy over their origin and use; some believe they were constructed by Druids, Celts, or even extraterrestrials (Kilgannon 2001; Pollak 1995). All of the chambers I have encountered are, like this one, adjacent to historic farm features such as the water pump or a stone wall. Kent’s farmers clearly made use of these chambers, and the construction techniques necessary to make them are not much different from those employed to create the formal stone walls of Kent Hills.

From Mansion to Country Club to Recreation Land Between Boyd’s Corner Reservoir and Cole’s Mills is a city-owned property named Boyd’s Corner South. The DEP map of this unit shows only contour lines, minor waterways, and the trajectory of the Delaware Aqueduct. The aqueduct runs deep (five hundred feet or so) under the ground and carries water from the distant Rondout Reservoir, approximately forty-five miles (72.4 km) to the northwest, to the city, approximately forty miles (64.4 km) to the south, making it the world’s longest tunnel (Frillman 2015). But there are no aboveground manifestations of this aqueduct at Boyd’s South, so it is an extraneous detail for a recreation map. But even with that information, there seems to be little reason for anyone to visit this steep hill, devoid of any trails or historic sites. The 1867 atlas also suggests that there is nothing of interest at Boyd’s South; the bulk of it is labeled “Kudney Hill,” and the proposed railroad line was never built. No residences are depicted on what is currently city property, but two residences are shown nearby at China Pond. Unlike Kent Hills and Boyd’s North, the

60

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Figure 3.6. Water pump and stone chamber adjacent to other farm features at Boyd’s Corner North. © April M. Beisaw.

story of this property is not rooted in the nineteenth century. Instead it tells a story of change that parallels the history of Kent itself. As you may recall, the Kittredges arrived in 1906 and built a fifty-room Southern-style mansion (New York Times 1928) near the Boyd’s Reservoir. That mansion was at the top of Kudney Hill. The Kittredges did not stay long, selling their mansion and 2,100 acres to developers at the start of Kent’s real estate boom in the 1920s. The Kittredge property then

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

61

became the Carmel Country Club. The sale was described in a 1928 New York Times article as including “virgin forest, carefully and scientifically preserved” with a rooftop observatory for “an unobstructed view of rural beauty” (New York Times 1928). At that time, the adjacent Boyd’s Reservoir had been in service for around fifty years. Apparently that is long enough for an engineered body of water to become part of the rural landscape. Whatever forest surrounded the mansion was certainly not “virgin” in the sense that it had always been there. This I know from the archaeological data we collected during our field survey of Boyd’s South. Given the steep terrain of Kudney Hill, I planned our fieldwork for the middle of the summer season. By then my crew was well conditioned for the hike and well trained to spot and record cultural items in a dense forest. When we arrived, there was no obvious official parking area, so we parked on the side of the road, just west of the Boyd’s Dam. As with the other properties, we started recording trash scatters as soon as we entered it. But here the roadside trash was different; it was much older and more domestic in nature, things from a home. Oddly enough, one of the first artifacts we recorded had the word “Boyd” embossed onto it. This round piece of milk glass (an opaque white glass) is a Boyd’s Genuine Lined Cap for a mason jar. They were manufactured by the Consolidated Fruit Jar Company of New York as early as 1871 (Anonymous 2012). Other kitchen-related artifacts included broken pieces of a ceramic plate, a glass tumbler, and the glass tops of oil lamps. These are not things that would have been discarded by people simply walking along the roadside. One last artifact from this roadside area is worth noting, for it provides direct evidence of how slowly the forest encroached into the once cleared landscape. Just beside the mason jar cap was a tree that had grown through a wooden barrel. The barrel’s metal hoops were still embedded in the tree trunk. From this artifact scatter, we made our way up the bottom slope of Kudney Hill. First, we crossed a power-line corridor that seemed to follow the route of the proposed railway on the 1867 atlas map. This straight line, cut through the woods for electricity transmission towers and cables, created a clearing that allowed us to see the stone wall network that ran from the roadside straight up the hill. Within a matter of feet, stone walls were suddenly all around us, and the team split up to record field data more efficiently—heights, widths, and coordinates of latitude and longitude. I tried to stay between everyone as we hiked up the hill and data was radioed into me through walkie-talkies. Writing while hiking uphill is not easy. Luckily, the slope was so well cleared of stone that navigation was easy. In general, these walls fell between those of Kent Hills and Boyd’s North in terms of formality of construction. There were many openings in the stone walls for farm roads but no evidence of metal gates. The hill was surely a farm, one that was focused on crop production, not livestock. After two hours of recording information about the stone walls, we were about halfway up Kudney Hill. I gave my students the option to either hike back down to the car for lunch or continue up to the top of the hill and have an early end to

62

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

the day. Someone asked if there should be anything at the top. I said yes, the ruins of the Kittredge mansion and its successors, the Carmel Country Club and the Sedgewood Club. That was all they needed to hear. Lunch would have to wait and no one would mind. Near the top of Kudney Hill, we stopped to record some artifact scatters. One contained a Safety Champion / 7.50-14 tubeless tire and a Budweiser beer can with a pull tab opening and “Please Don’t Litter” slogan on the side. The can predates the recycling movement of the 1980s, and the tire was manufactured in the late 1960s. So this trash was likely put here in the 1970s. Next was another utility corridor, this one much narrower than the one at the base of the hill. Then came the foundation remains. In their excitement my team scattered, and I struggled to make sense of all the data they were radioing in to me. We needed to come together and do this methodically, even if it would take a while. The most prominent features we saw were a concrete slab, with a recently used fire pit at its center; a concrete pillar, with a recent Gatorade bottle shoved into a nook; a toppled-over but still mortared section of brick chimney; a fieldstone retaining wall; a set of concrete stairs leading nowhere in particular; a rose garden with a concrete border and untended roses still blooming; and the remnants of paved driveways. A few bits of information were obvious. First, many of these features postdate the Kittredge mansion and are certainly left behind from the latter organizations that used the mansion as a clubhouse. Second, people still use this place for social gatherings, despite its being owned by the city. The concrete slab foundation is probably more recent than the 1906 Kittredge construction, but given Benjamin’s wealth it is possible that he could afford such a luxury (as it would have been in the early 1900s). More likely, the fieldstone retaining wall that is approximately 540 feet east of the slab is part of the Kittredge mansion foundation. The fallen chimney stack included bricks from the Cary Brick Company, which began operations around 1902 (Bayley 2005). Demolishing a building as large as this mansion should have left a depression near the foundation center, however slight. Demolition crews often push parts of the building into the foundation hole to fill it, but over time soils settle into air pockets and wood and other organics decompose, taking up less space. Unless additional efforts to fill in the subsiding cellar hole were made, there should be one here, and I think we found it. Not far from the stone retaining wall was the hood of a 1970s-era automobile. At first I thought the only interesting detail about it was the remnants of a blue bumper sticker. The only word I could make out was “sucks.” Otherwise this seemed to be just another car part in the woods, and other than beer cans, cars are the most common artifact found on our surveys. For some reason, I decided to lift the hood and found that it was still attached to the rest of the car. The roof of the car appeared collapsed in as if the vehicle came from a scrap yard, but it was difficult to assess because many plants are growing out of it. I would need to excavate the surrounding area to learn more about the car and how it got buried at the top of a hill, but experience tells me it is as simple as a hole needed filling and a car needed

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

63

to be disposed of. At a research site in Maryland, we discovered the same thing—a car in a building foundation—and left it there for obvious logistical reasons. To make sense of all we found at Boyd’s South, we need to connect the artifacts and building features to its relatively complicated history. Starting from the top of the hill, the Kittredge mansion stood from 1906 to 1980. After the Kittredges left in the late 1920s, it served as the clubhouse for the Carmel Country Club, which grew to include sixty-six homes and a golf course (Oser 1977) by 1955. Investors William Less and Miriam Whittemore, owners of the Downtown Athletic Club of New York City and three yacht clubs (the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, the Norwalk Yacht Club, and the St. Croix Yacht Club) then purchased it (New York Times 1964) and expanded the subdivision to accommodate five hundred custom homes. In 1964, Miriam sold the club to another developer, who managed it but let the mansion fall into disrepair. It burned down in 1980 under suspicious circumstances (Putnam County Courier 1980b), just before Lawrence Piazza purchased the property and just after the utilities serving the mansion complex had been turned off. The mansion “had been the target of vandals on a regular basis over the past five years” (Putnam County Courier 1980b), so the fire may have been accidentally set. Piazza planned to grow the Sedgewood Club to a 750-home community. In 1998, he sold 250 acres of the property to the city, which included the ruins. The Sedgewood Club’s website (Anonymous, “Sedgewood Club” n.d.) celebrates the fact that it is surrounded by undevelopable city land. This is somewhat ironic because the club is one of the most developed places in Kent. With that history in mind, the late 1970s date for the artifacts at the top of Kudney Hill makes sense. That is when the abandonment of the previously well-maintained area began. An early 1980s demolition of the complex fits perfectly with the need to dispose of a 1970s-era car. All of the more recent trash—including the Gatorade bottle, an empty Chips Ahoy! bag, and used red Solo cups—shows that this place continues as a social hangout, despite the city’s land-use rules. That Kudney Hill has served a similar social function for decades was evident as my team hiked back down to the car along a different route. Beverage bottles dating to all different periods within the twentieth century litter the hillside. A torpedo soda bottle, the name coming from the rounded shape of its base, surely dates to the Kittredge occupation. The Olympic logo on a beer bottle dates it to 1984. Other bottles are more ambiguous as to dates and contents, but most held alcoholic beverages. One beer bottle with a metal screw cap was still unopened. Despite the density of beverage artifacts, the only evidence of food consumption on the hillside was an undatable fragment of a James Keiller & Sons marmalade container. The bottle debris dissipated just as the stone walls reappeared on our descent. We rushed past them to get back to the car and have our long-awaited lunch. Back in the lab, we mapped the stone wall network using LiDAR and searched our archival sources to place them within their own historical context. Using the 1867 atlas, it seems that the most likely owner of this farm was William O. Hop-

64

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

kins. According to the 1860 agricultural schedules, William owned two horses, eight milk cows, two working oxen, six sheep, and one pig, and grew 160 bushels of corn, 60 bushels of oats, and 70 bushels of buckwheat. (Buckwheat is an excellent crop for poor soils and places where other crops will not grow.) The 1860 census identifies William A. Hopkins (note the discrepancy) as a 41-year-old farmer who owns $5,000 in real estate (twice that of Elsa Parker). His wife and two children are listed alongside a nineteen-year-old laborer, James Curry. With so few animals, the Hopkins family did not need the labor-intensive stone walls and fencing that we saw at Kent Hills. They focused on crops, and the stone walls we recorded reflect that. Together, these three city-owned recreation units contain enough archaeology to allow for a robust telling of the town’s history before, during, and after reservoir construction. Regardless of the socioeconomic status of those who lived on these lands, the changes that the city brought to Kent resulted in their properties becoming “vacant” although their use by locals has not ceased.

Connections and Conclusions When the city found out about the wealth of spring water in Kent, New York, it set its sights on a natural valley at Boyd’s Corner. History has recorded little controversy or fanfare associated with construction of the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir, put into service in 1872. But Kent’s farming economy was slowly dismantled by it. Animals, and their excrement, would contaminate the supply. The city’s elite began to buy up Kent’s farms, and the working class soon followed as smaller subdivisions became available. Over 150 years, the original 400 acres the city needed in Kent expanded to over four thousand. Those fallow fields are now dense forest. Between the trees the material remains of yesterday and today intermingle to tell stories of continuity and change and challenge the myths of virgin woodland and the subjective definitions of “rural.” The town of Kent has always been home to a mixture of entrepreneurs, public servants, and more private citizens. From its namesake, state supreme court judge James Kent, to his cousin David Kent, successful farmer and bank president, the nineteenth-century Kents were well-educated and well-respected. David Kent’s lands are now being vandalized by those who do not know that history, who do not understand how a plot of city-owned land is more than a place to play and defy a distant authority. The Parker family left their own mark on this landscape in their almost 100-year-long dedication to a single spot on the landscape: their family cemetery. The Parkers were not rich in land or livestock, but they built close ties to other Kent families through marriage. History could have forgotten their story if not for the things they left behind at Boyd’s Corner North. The Hopkins family farm at Boyd’s Corner South was forgotten when those advertising real

Kent: A Town Repurposed

◆

65

estate claimed Kudney Hill to be virgin woodland. The structure of their stone walls may be all that reminds us that they were there. But how should we classify them? If the Kittredges bought the Hopkins’ land for a good price, the Hopkinses too may have been entrepreneurs. In 1878, the city paid William A. Hopkins for permission to draw water from his privately owned water body, China Pond. This was just before the city and state began exerting control over land use in the vicinity of waterways. Hopkins certainly knew that his property was too close to city water to continue as a farm. Kent’s residents have all been impacted by the city’s influence on their lands. Some sold and left, others stayed and protested (even if just by vandalizing signs and ignoring land-use regulations), and some benefited by celebrating the lack of development in the area. Ultimately, the archaeology of Kent’s city-owned lands tells a story about slow change that many would classify as progress. Here the land originally taken for the reservoir did not create widespread trauma for the town. The small hamlet would be demolished, but everyone assumed that was where it would end. Within fifty years, the original population of Kent was being pushed out to protect that water. Farming was labeled a pollutant and outlawed. The rolling hills of dairy farms soon became the country homes of city elite like Mildred Bailey. The forest filled in the fields, and new, improved roads made the town perfect for city commuters. As some left the city for suburban life in Kent, the city’s demand for water skyrocketed and new water sources were needed. By the 1970s, those in Kent were so supportive of the city’s water projects that they demanded increased investment in the reservoirs. Now the city is a natural resident and the farming history is all but forgotten. The stone walls and foundations of those who were pushed out are now seen as enigmas as the New York Times advertises the mysterious stone chambers and a rock research group holds conferences to assess whether these structures were built by aliens or by Native Americans. This is a colonized place with its own story. Many in Kent do not know what has been lost.

CHAPTER

2

4 Olive: A Town Traumatized

New York City’s impact on the town of Olive (figure 4.1) is quite different from that of Kent. Instead of a small initial taking followed by a series of condemnations that plummeted property values and cleared the land for new residents, much of Olive’s occupied land and economic resources was taken all at once, between 1907 to 1915. Without much assistance from the city or the state, Olive then rebuilt itself around the massive Ashokan Reservoir. Communities were reestablished in deep valleys and on steep slopes as families attempted to remain near each other. Yet the economic activities that once fueled their lives were not possible on those lands. Now, more than a hundred years since the city began its takings, the trauma this uprooting caused is still palpable. Healing is hindered by a strong New York City presence, which includes DEP police who patrol the area from a complex located exactly where construction of the Ashokan Dam began in 1906. The city also continues to transform Olive. In 2021, several buildings in the hamlet of Boiceville were demolished by the city. In addition to DEP police and ongoing demolitions, the city’s presence here includes new home owners; the most recent wave arrived during the 2020–2021 COVID-19 pandemic. As with Kent, many Olive homes are now seasonal residences or rural second homes for city workers. For them, this is an ideal wilderness and easily accessible by the New York State Thruway that connects Manhattan to Albany and Albany to Buffalo. But among the seasonal residents are landowners who might not participate in local issues. They rarely send kids to Olive’s schools or participate in community meetings; therefore, they stand apart from the culture of community cooperation. To be considered “from Olive,” a resident or landowner must have a generational history there and to some extent know the history of the community. Even though no one who lived through the takings is still alive to speak of the losses, their descendants share memories and acknowledge both the loss and the gain. Most love the reservoir now; it is beautiful and has provided some recreation and employment opportunities. But the reservoir is not an economic engine for the community in the same way that the now submerged lands once were.

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

67

Figure 4.1. Digitized version of 1875 Beers atlas map of Olive showing named hamlets and pre-reservoir water bodies. The future location of the Ashokan Reservoir is indicated here but was not shown on the original, as plans for it came together in 1905. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

68

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

As in Kent, the DEP is still buying Olive’s land. Together the city and state own about 60 percent of the town, which leaves residents with an enormous tax burden. New York City alone owns more than 28.5 percent of the town, not including the lands submerged under reservoir waters. Because everything it owns is classified as forest, the city’s tax rate is low. The level of animosity toward the city varies wildly across the town, but many feel that the city can do more to ensure that Olive is a good place for people to live. In another fifty years, Olive may look and feel a lot more like Kent, with mainly residents who have no ties to the town’s prereservoir past and who are happy to live in neighborhoods surrounded by undevelopable land. Such replacements are good for the city and its urban water system. But as the city’s history of taking the land is being forgotten, new infrastructure projects, such as hydroelectric plants, are being proposed for this newly created “wilderness.” In 2021, Power-Tech Engineers withdrew their hydroelectric application to the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) after strong opposition from local residents, governments, and conservation organizations. Olive town supervisor Jim Sofranko summed up the reason why this proposal was such an insult, saying, “It’s not a ‘not in my backyard’ thing—we already have something in our backyard, it’s called Ashokan Reservoir. This is a ‘not in my front yard’” (Southard 2021).

History Founding to 1906 Long before the Ashokan Reservoir was constructed, the town of Olive began on the banks of the Esopus Creek, at the southeastern base of the Catskill Mountains. Water flowed into the Esopus from the northern peaks of Ticetonyk Mountain; the western peaks of Balsam, Friday, Hanover, and Cornell; and the southern peaks of South Mountain and High Point. The Esopus drained toward the southeast, across the flatter and more fertile lands that opened up to the Hudson River. The forested mountainside, fertile valley, and reliable water power created prosperity among farms but also among lumber yards and mills, tanneries and factories, quarries and tourism. Families that settled here grew and spread out across the town; Crispells and Winchells, Bells and Bishops are among the very few surnames present on early records. This reflects the close-knit community that grew up on the banks of the Esopus. According to The History of Ulster County (Clearwater 1907), the first Euro-American settlements in Olive sprang up in the 1740s. The town was organized in 1823 and incorporated in 1824. Communities developed around the Old School Baptist Church and near the mills powered by Bishop Falls. The gristmill there was once owned by Jacob Bishop, often spoken of as “the blind miller.” Conrad DuBois ran the town’s hotel. Construction of the Kingston and Middletown Turnpike, in 1832, spurred greater development. Farms and businesses sprang up on both sides

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

69

of the Esopus Creek, a river by any measure, which raged through a valley to bring Catskill Mountain runoff to the Hudson River. Settlers took advantage of the fertile land watered by the mountains, and soon water-powered businesses flourished along the Esopus. Some factories made the curved wood for barrels; others made the pulp that packed sticks of dynamite. Valley slopes provided ample hay for the farmers below, forests for logging, and rock outcrops for quarrying. People worked together to ensure mutual prosperity: farms supplied boarding house cooks with fresh ingredients, hunters managed animal populations on lands they did not own, and industrial activities provided year-round employment options to supplement family farms and seasonal businesses. Why did residents have so many sources of income? Catskill farms are often discounted as unproductive, due in part to the rocky soils and steep terrain. This has been used to justify city land takings in the region as for “their own good.” Instead of repeating those claims, analysis of the 1850 agricultural census (United States 2010) allows for an assessment of farm productivity, long before the city reservoirs influenced the economy. In 1850, the average Olive farm consisted of 58 improved acres and 57 unimproved acres. The average cash value of the farm was $2,424, at a rate of $21 per acre. In comparison, the average Kent farm consisted of 93 improved acres and 57 unimproved acres. The average cash value of the farm was $3,792, at a rate of $25 per acre. This shows that the average Olive farm was worth less than that of Kent, but in both towns several farms were worth much more than the average. In Olive, the farms of Andrew Hill and William F. Davis were worth more than $10,000. Hill’s wealth came mainly from potatoes, livestock, and butter, which do not require flat or fertile soils. Olive farms produced beeswax, buckwheat, butter, hay, Indian corn, Irish potatoes, maple sugar, oats, rye, and wool. They raised cattle, milk cows, sheep, and swine, all of which provided by-products from meat to milk, and assisted with farming tasks. In summary, Olive farms were not necessarily unproductive. Humans, plants, animals, and the soils coexisted in a web of relationships that should not be dismissed as easily recreated elsewhere. The mixed economy may be less about unproductive farms and more indicative of the cooperative and entrepreneurial spirit of town residents. In Vera Sickler’s History of the Town of Olive 1823–1973 (1973), the leathertanning industry is credited with building the town. The Watson Hollow stream and valley was once the site of Nathaniel Watson’s tannery, his two sawmills, and a stave mill (Clearwater 1907: 330). The location was ideal for this activity, with “hemlock trees stretching into infinity” (Sickler 1973: 12). Those hemlocks fueled an industry of tanning hides for leather, as their bark was a main ingredient. By the time of the American Civil War, the hemlock stands were exhausted and newer methods for tanning hides were being developed. As the tannery industry declined, another short-lived industry was established in the Maltby Hollow during the 1880s. There Herbert Hover began, and Charles Maltby expanded, a charcoal-making industry. Sickler describes how six kilns created the charcoal,

70

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

which was then hauled in wagons to the Shokan railroad station for transport: “This operation required nearly 100 men and many horse and ox teams” (Sickler 1973: 14–15). The railroad was of vital importance to these and other economic activities. It ferried goods out to be sold in urban markets, but it also ferried people in from the city. Hamlets sprang up around each train stop to manage the business of trade and to accommodate visitors. The railroad spurred economic growth right up until the day it was demolished for reservoir creation. Construction of the Ulster and Delaware (U&D) Railroad through Olive began in 1866 (figure 4.2). At the time it was “generally considered wild and illadvised, with certain failure” due to the mountainous landscape (Sims 1894: 33). By 1870, engineers had improved the existing railroad for comfortable passenger travel through natural passes in the Catskill Mountains. After that, Olive was considered the “gateway to the Catskills” for those traveling north from the city. After stopping in the Hudson River city of Kingston, New York state’s first capital, the U&D traveled west and made at least two stops in Hurley (Stony Hollow and West Hurley) before entering the town of Olive. Each Olive station stop gave rise to a hamlet: Brown’s Station, Brodhead’s Bridge, Shokan, Boiceville, and Cold Brook. The rail line then entered the town of Shandaken, with the first two stops there being Mount Pleasant and Phoenicia. From Phoenicia, rail service split in two directions, allowing travel northeast, farther into the Catskill Mountains, or northwest, along the western Catskills and out toward Rochester and Syracuse. The author of an 1877 article in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine titled “At the Gateway of the Catskills” described Olive like this: Here in the heart of Ulster County is a little hamlet of widely scattered homes, separated by field of corn, rye, oats, and buckwheat, and half hidden in old orchards . . . “West Shokan” is the name of a railroad station, where there is a brick hotel, two or three country stores, a lumber mill, a church with an ambitiously high steeple, a number of carriage sheds clustered about, and a few houses which seem as though they would be glad to get away. The Ulster and Delaware Railroad, a local line northwestward from Rondout, traverses the valley, and spoils the clearness of the air with clouds of sulphurous coal smoke. On every side rise hills to the height of fifteen hundred to over two thousand feet, culminating at Shokan in the two mountains, Tys-ten Eyeck and High Point, that stand over against one another at the head of the valley, like two giant warders guarding the portal to the mysteries of the Catskills, which the far blue summits beckon feet and imagination to explore. Through this huge gate and down the valley winds the Esopus, named or at least supposed to be, after the subtribe of Iroquois Indians which had their hunting grounds here. It is a stream as wide as Broadway and very picturesque . . . If searching varied scenery nearer the village of Shokan, you must not fail to walk two miles down to Bishop’s Falls. On your right is an old tannery, on your left, a still older mill. This ancient mill is historic. Through its decayed and moss-grown flume the water has flowed to grind a hundred harvests. (Ingersoll 1877: 816–19)

◆

Figure 4.2. Pre-reservoir route (circa 1901) of the Ulster and Delaware Railroad line through Olive. Public domain.

Olive: A Town Traumatized

71

72

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Several similar descriptions of Olive exist, as rail companies began publishing travel guides to encourage more tourism (see Ferris 1897; Fitchett 1906; Gallt 1922; Munroe 1883; Rusk 1879; Sims [1894] 1912). They especially advertised how simple it was to take the train from New York City, Albany, or Buffalo to enjoy the Catskill Mountains. A round-trip ticket from the city’s Grand Central Station to Olive cost around five dollars. One railroad guide claims that in 1882, some seventy thousand visitors had used the U&D railroad to spend time in the Catskills (Munroe 1883: 7), and this number would be higher, the guide claims, if the region had not been selfishly kept secret. As the secret got out, the number of railroad stops increased and a confusing array of new place-names came into use. For example, the last stop in the town of Hurley, before arriving in Olive, was called Ashton, Glenford, or Olive Branch. The stop provided access to Temple (or Temples) Pond, a 100-acre boating and fishing pond (Ferris 1897), which was the largest body of water in the region before the 8,315-acre Ashokan Reservoir was constructed. While many tourists traveling on this stretch of the U&D were en route to the big resorts of other towns (Woodstock, Phoenicia, or Kaaterskill) outside of Olive, some were drawn to experience the country living that Olive offered. Many of Olive’s boardinghouses were farmhouses, open to tourists for at least three months of the year (Ferris 1897: 24). Farmhouses, Munroe says, “provide quiet home comforts” and “the same soul-elevating scenery and exhilarating mountain-air, with an entire freedom from the petty worries and formalities of more fashionable resorts” (Munroe 1883: 22). The first stop in Olive was Brown’s Station. The station stop included a post office and a general store. Nearby was the Hudson River Pulp Works, which made wood pulp for packing dynamite (Ferris 1897: 42). Sites to see included both Bishop’s Falls and Winchell’s Falls, a deep gorge that could be explored when the water was low enough, and the Beaverkill Swamp, whose wildflowers included a rare species of lily (Ferris 1897: 41). The next stops on the U&D were Brodhead’s Bridge and then Shokan. Ferris wrote this about Shokan: “Nowhere else in the Catskills does the peaceful level of wide meadow lands combine so delightfully with the uplifted slopes of high mountains . . . It is no wonder that hundreds of city folks come here year after year for the season of rest” (Ferris 1897: 48). The community of Shokan was on the eastern bank of the Esopus and West Shokan was on the west bank. Both had busy downtowns with schools, churches, businesses, and offices for lawyers and doctors. Alphonso Trumpbour Clearwater (1907: 328) lists a blacksmith, wagon shops, livery and harness makers, a meat market, barbershop, shoemaker, jewelry repair shop, dressmakers, and a hat maker. The Matthews and North store was the largest in the region, requiring the services of four clerks. The Pythian Hall provided space for performances, dining, and lodging. Next to the hall were two large hotels: the brick Hamilton House, with accommodations for fifty, and the wood-frame Forbes Hotel, whose capacity was not listed in any travel guide. Martin H. Crispell’s maple grove was a favorite picnic ground and “the scene of weekly ‘hops’ during the season” (Ferris 1897: 51).

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

73

The next station stops were Cold Brook, mainly a shipping station for quarry stone (Clearwater 1907), and Boiceville, which offered a mix of industry and rustic beauty. Boiceville was where the mountain waters flowed out of the high peaks of the Catskills, so here the Esopus could be “a raging flood, or a bed of dry rock and stones” (Ferris 1897: 65). Zadoc P. Boice operated a large mill at Boiceville with “rows of employee cottages, and immense piles of wood waiting to be shredded in the machines which run night and day” (Ferris 1897: 65). Nearby were the ruins of Mayer’s tannery (formerly the Hoyt Brothers tannery), a local landmark until it was destroyed by reservoir construction. The industrial nature of Boiceville kept it from developing a large boardinghouse economy. As the U&D left Boiceville and the town of Olive, travelers could take advantage of more mountainous resort destinations at Mount Tremper or Phoenicia, both in the town of Shandaken.

Constructing the Ashokan Reservoir As early as 1901, engineers working on a plan for a new city reservoir began trespassing in the towns of Olive and Hurley (Stradling 2009: 158). Counties on the east side of the Hudson River had banded together to pass legislation prohibiting new city reservoirs within their boundaries. The more distant Catskills had no such legislation, and that area’s much higher annual rainfall levels and more dramatic topography were attractive to water engineers. Before the exact location of the first Catskills reservoir was decided, public meetings were held in Kingston and Manhattan. Objections were received, but most were dismissed by the city as insignificant. Concern about indirect damages was acknowledged as legitimate, but the public was reassured that the city would pay claims as decided by the courts. A 1903 water commission report identified the Esopus as a viable source of city water and described it as running through an “extensively forested” region that was “practically a wilderness” (Stradling 2009: 149). From the start, city officials denied that this was a prosperous area with thousands of residents. A 1905 Kingston Daily Freeman article about the New York State Water Board visiting the area referred to what it was already calling “the site of the great Ashokan reservoir” (Kingston Daily Freeman 1905) although the article ran well before Olive residents knew that their land was being taken from them. Reading in the newspaper that their communities would be demolished was a harsh way to learn the news. In October 1905, the McClellan Bill officially proposed construction of the Ashokan Reservoir and accompanying Catskill Aqueduct as the next addition to the city’s growing water system (Stradling 2009: 153). Desperate to start harvesting water from the Catskills, the city insisted that time was of the essence. In 1907, workers began arriving. A large camp was established near Brown’s Station to house 4,500 people, both workmen and their families (Stradling 2009: 159). Residents would be outnumbered by outsiders engaged in the destruction of the landscape for the next several years. In the spring of 1908, the process of re-

74

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

moving Olive residents from their homes began (Stradling 2009: 166). Some were allowed to stay until the reservoir began to fill. A 1912 Kingston Daily Freeman article titled “Don’t Want Money” reports that large numbers of claimants did not take what money the city offered them (Kingston Daily Freeman 1912a). Lawyers would need to be employed to receive compensation, and legal fees would be taken out of their claims. Resisting the process seemed futile. In 1913, the reservoir began filling and everyone within it had to leave. A local newspaper article from that year says, “The villages are under total destruction” (Sickler 1979: 24). Life in Olive changed for every resident, even those whose lands were not taken. Residents and business owners outside of the take-line had to deal with the relocation of eleven miles (17.7 km) of railroad and the discontinuation of sixty four miles (103 km) of highway (Board of Water Supply 1950: 65) in both Olive and Hurley. Almost every school and church had to be reorganized. Instead of the original district number designations, relocated and rebuilt schoolhouses took on new names that mixed old and new: Ashokan, Bushkill, Boiceville, Brodhead, Lower Spillway, Olive Bridge (Tongore), West Shokan, and Winchell. Churches were similarly relocated and often consolidated. A 1907 Kingston Daily Freeman article reports on the Olive Methodist Episcopal (ME) Church’s claim for $5,127.02 to compensate for the loss of their church and its associated buildings (Kingston Daily Freeman 1907). This issue is returned to in an April 1912 article, of the same newspaper, where it is reported that a judge ordered that the Shokan and Olive ME churches merge to become the Ashokan ME Church and that they share compensation received from the condemnation of their respective churches (Kingston Daily Freeman 1912b). Those who had worshipped at West Shokan’s Roman Catholic church were left without a local place to gather for decades. The only churches near the reservoir that stayed in their original locations were the Olive and Hurley Old School Baptist Church, located between the hamlets of Shokan and Olive, and the ME church of Olivebridge, located between Olive Bridge and Brown’s Station. Local lore tells of the fight to save the Glenford Church in the town of Hurley. It was slated for demolition, but locals triumphantly dragged it out of the city’s takeline under the cover of darkness. Other versions of this story (Finnegan 1997) say the city’s chief engineer had approved the move, but then the city sued the church for theft and it cost $545 in legal fees to settle the case. That cost added insult to injury, but some may say they fared better than others who lost both building and community. The West Shokan Calvary Church, in the town of Olive, was also moved out of the reservoir take-line, but there does not seem to be much folklore about how it was saved. This brief summary of the reservoir construction does not do justice to the trauma endured by the affected communities. Many other sources provide greater details. Construction of the Ashokan is well documented in city engineering reports; historian Bob Steuding’s 1989 book The Last of the Handmade Dams; and local filmmaker Tobe Carey’s 2005 Deep Water documentary (Carey et al. 2005).

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

75

One of the main informants for both the book and the film was Olive resident Elwyn Davis, who kept a diary during reservoir construction and collected photographs, documents, and other artifacts that are now curated by the Olive Free Library in West Shokan. The seventeen-volume set of The Diary of Elwyn Davis spans the years 1906–1975 (Davis, Giuliano, and Giuliano 2014). The diary is a quick and interesting read, as Elwyn’s entries are often very brief. He mainly kept track of what work he did each day and what the weather was like. On some days he goes to the reservoir construction sites to see if he can get work, often being paid two dollars or less for a day. But he only does this when there is no other work to be done around the family farm or on the farms of neighbors. He mentions the need for a new house, as his family home will be lost to the reservoir. The time required to move and the difficulties preparing the new land for farming are recorded. Once the reservoir is constructed and the railroad is rebuilt on its north side, Elwyn drives to the reservoir often to pick up travelers and take them where they need to go. There are few complaints about the city’s incursion; instead Elwyn seems to make the most of it. He is just one of the many locals who helped to construct the reservoir. To them the Ashokan can be a symbol of both resentment and pride. Another reliable informant on how reservoir construction altered the town is Vera Van Steenbergh Sickler. Vera was the Olive town historian throughout the 1970s and someone who lived through the changes the reservoir brought. In response to the requests she received to tell her story, Vera wrote a brief summary titled “Tragic Happenings in the Town of Olive during the Building of the Ashokan Reservoir.” It is reproduced below, mildly edited for clarity and brevity while trying to maintain the emotions evident in her words: I was a year old when it all began but would grow up with it, and a child’s memory is sometimes quite good. To this very day I bear a dislike to the people who took my beautiful town and divided it in two parts. They took the little hamlets along the Esopus Creek where lived a contented and happy people and scattered them like chaff in the wind. The families had to hire lawyers— go to court and practically beg for the money due to them for their property so they could locate in another area. Some of the houses and land had been in the families for generations. We lost nearly all the land settled in the early 1700s. My father would tell of the terrible accidents while construction was going on. In the concrete walls are the bodies of men who did not realize their job was so dangerous. My father did not know small ears were listening to the conversation. My grandmother Van Steenbergh lost her home and one of her neighbors tried to commit suicide—this after days of court action. They caught him in time and he lived out his days in Kingston. The harrowing stories of the many cemeteries and the moving of hundreds of bodies—my family moved our ancestors to Tongore [Olive Bridge]. [Head]Stones not wanted were left on properties on the shore . . .

76

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

When they took the 80 acres from our farm there was, on the other side of the railroad track, many trees and a bluestone quarry, also a just-set-out apple orchard. My father sued New York City but they dismissed the case. There were 90 cases in a 1916 newspaper. I have the paper but can’t locate it among my many papers. Nearly one-half of the cases were dismissed. Their claims were just, as this was the way they made their living. The lawyers became rich and the poor people who had lost everything were left out in the cold to start all over again . . . When the New York State government condemns land there is nothing you can do. In other words, you are helpless. When the upper Reservoirs [other Catskill reservoirs that followed] were built, my husband worked for them 20 years. If there was any way to stop it they would have tried up there. They went through the same process we did here.

A few facts help to explain Vera’s emotional letter. First, the city compensated landowners at a rate of only one-half the property’s assessed value, as assessed by the city itself. And these valuations did not consider the income generated by the land and its buildings. Second, those in the area of dam construction had as little as ten days to leave their property. Others were allowed to stay until their land was scheduled to be cleared. Third, the city offered additional payments to those who would burn down their own houses and remove bodies of their loved ones from cemeteries. (However, payment for burial removal was not enough to cover the costs of reburial in the nearby city of Kingston.) Lastly, people who were suddenly jobless and possibly homeless went to work for the city so that they could survive. The despair of seeing their town demolished was made worse by participating in the demolition. In Vera’s case, her husband participated in the demolition of other towns for the other Catskill and Delaware reservoirs that were to follow.

A Lake Where It Should Not Be The city spent millions of dollars engineering the Ashokan Reservoir while successfully naturalizing it by erasing Olive residents from their narrative, not just from the landscape. For example, city celebrations were planned for 1917, when the Ashokan water would finally reach Manhattan, and organizers made claims such as this: “By throwing a dam across the Esopus creek at Olive Bridge the engineers found they could re-create this ancient lake for New York City’s water-supply” (Mayor’s Catskill Aqueduct Celebration Committee 1917: 89). The “ancient” times they speak of are associated with the glacial retreat, around ten thousand years ago. At that time, natural lakes did not have aqueducts to send the water to distant lands. The 1917 celebratory report never mentions the legal processes by which they took control of the Esopus Creek or land throughout Olive and Hurley. Instead, it includes a script and stage instructions for an allegorical pageant to explain the “The Good Gift of Water” to schoolchildren. The epilogue, “The Mountains Give Water to the City,” describes actors playing the roles of Board of Water Sup-

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

77

ply commissioners and engineers. They are shown studying maps and drawing up plans. Nearby, an actor sits atop a mountain. He is costumed as a caricature of an Indian chief and is drinking water. The commissioners and engineers make their way toward him, and workmen fill in the space behind them and act like they are digging. The commissioners look up and ask the chief for permission to take the water. He nods. Construction continues. At no point are townspeople, farmers, businessmen, railroads, or factories depicted in the pageant. It is as if no one ever objected to the taking of this land. The town’s residents attended meetings and attempted to resist the destruction of their communities, but the power of the city was such that all they could do was file lawsuits. Their homes and businesses were destroyed and the reservoir completed before many of those lawsuits were settled. Some cases were not settled until 1932, almost twenty years after the waters rose. According to David Stradling (2009), of the $10 million in claims only $1.4 million was paid. Just before the last settlements were made, Ulster County attempted to auction off the reservoir because the city was not paying their share of property taxes (New York Times 1931). The political and legal history of how city officials did not live up to their reassurances of adequate compensation for the displaced has already been covered in books like The Last of the Handmade Dams: The Story of the Ashokan Reservoir (Steuding 1989), Water for Gotham: A History (Koeppel 2000), Making Mountains: New York City and the Catskills (Stradling 2009), and Empire of Water: An Environmental and Political History of the New York City Water Supply (Soll 2013). Instead of rehashing well-told accounts of those whose land was taken, and debating whether or not they were adequately compensated, what is needed are more perspectives of those who stayed in Olive after the takings wreaked havoc. Their stories can reveal the extent of collateral damages that have gone unacknowledged and uncompensated. Paying individuals for their land ignores the impact that widespread removal has on all of those left behind. The ripple effects reach far beyond fair (or unfair) compensation of a landowner. Life is altered for everyone in the region, and those alterations have affected Olive for more than a century. The Ashokan Reservoir added billions of gallons to the city’s water supply and today supplies 40 percent of the water used by New York City residents. As long as the Ashokan is near capacity, the city can consume tap water with little fear of an inadequate supply. However, droughts do happen periodically: in 2016, the Ashokan dropped to around 56 percent capacity, and in 1985, seventy years after the reservoir was complete, a major drought reduced the reservoir to 55 percent capacity. New York City mayor Ed Koch visited the Ashokan to encourage city residents to conserve water and to introduce new water restrictions for businesses, air-conditioning systems, lawn watering, and car washing (New York Times 1985). Low-flow shower heads were now required for new city hotels and apartments. Those efforts reduced consumption but were not enough to solve the problem. A reporter for the New York Times wrote: “Ashokan Reservoir is beginning to look

78

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

parched again, a complexion it seems to have worn more times than not in recent years. The problem with Ashokan, the second-largest of New York City’s 19 reservoirs, is less a lack of rain than the public it is being called upon to serve. Out of touch with the reservoir system they’re draining, New Yorkers use four times as much water per person than do residents of the Ulster County hamlets surrounding Ashokan” (Pfeiffer 1989). When there is no such drought, the New York Times usually reports on the Ashokan as a prime tourist destination, despite its lack of tourist services and the abundance of restrictions: Although visitors are permitted at Ashokan, they are greeted at arm’s length by the custodians of the water system. There is no visitors’ center, brochure or guide map, and there are no picnic tables. Signs proclaim, “No parking on the grass,” “No trespassing,” “No alcoholic beverages,” and “No fires, littering or camping” . . . The basic rule is not to go near the water, which is protected by fences. The only people allowed inside the fences are employees and those with special fishing permits from the City Department of Environmental Protection, which are free to those with New York State fishing licenses. (Faber 1990)

After the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks, which targeted New York City, access to the Ashokan Reservoir was further reduced. The Army Corps of Engineers identified the reservoir as a terrorism risk and subsequently closed the only bridge over the reservoir. DEP police enforcement increased in both Olive and Hurley. The locals were treated with suspicion, and resentment toward the city increased. In a 2003 New York Times article, a resident is quoted as saying, “New York City is absolutely the worst neighbor you could ever imagine having . . . They’re acting like we’re part of the problem . . . But we could be helping them . . . We’re the ones that know each other. We’re the ones that know strange cars, strange vehicles” (Rowe 2003). But with each property sale to the city, to second home owners, and to absentee landlords who are converting houses into vacation rentals, it is getting more difficult to know who belongs here and who does not. New residents are generally welcome by the Olive communities with one caveat: please be respectful of your neighbors’ way of life. For example, a 2005 New York Times article describes a clash between relative newcomers, who will not allow hunting on their lands, and locals, who have hunted there for generations (Lee 2005). Similarly, those who are “from Olive” have told me about newcomers who complain about their roosters that greet each new day and the sounds and smells of other animals kept on residential lands. Such culture clashes are not unique to watershed communities, but given their history of losses for the sake of a distant city, each additional request to change the residents’ way of life or their lands and waters adds to generations of disrespect. In 2011, the torrential rains of Hurricane Irene caused flooding of properties in the hamlet of Boiceville. This made those properties eligible for purchase by the

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

79

city’s DEP, which comes with demolition of standing structures. Some residents called for the DEP to build a protective berm or dike instead, as this area is the commercial center of Olive. Yet there is no mechanism by which the DEP could be forced to take on the project or fund it (Snow 2019). Demolition is a much cheaper option but one that will have a much greater impact on Olive and the adjacent towns of Shandaken and Woodstock. This quote about the owner of the only grocery store in the area sums up the problem: “Nancy Occhi, the owner of the Boiceville Market, said she does not want to take a buyout, has no idea where she could possibly move her business within the hamlet, and is waiting for more information on her limited options” (Snow 2019). Now, in 2021, the city is actively demolishing Boiceville residences and businesses as part of their flood buyout program. Gone is the historic Boiceville schoolhouse, which was built to replace the one demolished by reservoir creation. Also being demolished are several business and commercial properties along with the employment opportunities that went with them. The regional fire department is being moved east, toward Shokan. These moves will further isolate those in the hamlet of West Shokan, as there are now fewer services and businesses at the main intersection that connects the highway on the north side of the reservoir to the more rural south side.

Archaeology of Olive’s City-Owned Lands This archaeological examination of city-owned lands in the town of Olive is very different from that presented for the town of Kent. The main reason for this is that many of the Olive lands are not open for hiking, or if they are, the steep topography and dense vegetation make them difficult to survey. This changed how archaeology was carried out but did not prevent it from happening. The correlation of historic maps and recent satellite imagery provided remote access when physical access to the landscape was not possible. The local history archives of the Olive Free Library and the wealth of knowledgeable local residents, some of whom are descendants of those who lived through the removals, were invaluable. So many patterns emerged that only a few can be touched on here. First, the submerged lands were virtually excavated using historic maps, directories, and other archival sources. Combining seemingly disparate data with a geographic information system (GIS) allowed us to see just what was lost to reservoir construction. Second, surveys of the lands around the reservoir, both physical and virtual, provided evidence on how people were pushed onto lands with less economic potential after the reservoir had taken the valuable valley floor. Lastly, the city’s own recreation unit maps have been used to question officials’ long-term plans for the region. Many of the city’s “public access” lands are actually inaccessible or unusable for their advertised purpose in ways that foreshadow additional clearance through land acquisition.

80

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Before engaging with those larger patterns, an archaeology of the many brown metal signs that surround the reservoir may help to orient the reader. Each sign suggests it is at the pre-reservoir location of a demolished hamlet, as it contains only the words “Former Site of ” and then a hamlet name. A stylized waterline is at the top, suggesting that the hamlet was submerged while ignoring the realities of demolition and expulsion. By recording the latitude and longitude of each sign, and the hamlet or hamlets it claims to mark, I was able to compare the sign’s location to the pre- and initial post-reservoir locations of those same hamlets. This allowed for a visual understanding of how some hamlets were lost but others reorganized nearby (figure 4.3). However, it also showed how far from the actual pre-reservoir location some signs have been erected. This is crucial to understanding the changes brought by reservoir construction, as the signs contradict oral histories and create confusion when trying to rectify records of landscape changes with the actual landscape that exists today. With this illustration we can see how the Olive hamlets of Shokan, Boiceville, West Shokan, Brodhead, and Olive Bridge relocated outside of the reservoir take-line. The hamlet of Olive became that of Ashokan. That of Brown’s Station was not relocated, as the city headquarters is located on the land where that might have occurred. Interestingly, Brown’s Station is the only lost Olive hamlet to not have a “Former Site of ” sign, perhaps because putting it within the city complex would show how that hamlet was not submerged but, rather, built on top of. The worst-placed sign is the one identifying the former sites of Ashton and Olive Branch, both of which were closer to the south shore of the reservoir than the north, where the sign stands today. Those communities were located within the town of Hurley and therefore are not discussed in detail here.

Submerged Communities and Infrastructure Historic maps of the pre-reservoir landscape show the town of Olive in ways that are difficult for even current residents to understand. Without persistent landmarks to orient map users, comparing the before and after is impossible for all but those with generational knowledge of who and what was where. A complicating factor is widespread use of the same family names over and over on historic atlases. The names Bishop, Bell, Boice, Crispell, Davis, Eckert, Elemdorf, Every, Hill, Krom, Merrihew, Patchin, and Winchell appear with such frequency that cartographers often changed spellings when they could, to disambiguate one landowner from another. Residents still debate whether Avery and Every are the same family or whether Broadhead should or should not contain the letter a in the first syllable. The named hamlets within the town only add to the confusion. Within the town of Olive there was a hamlet of Olive, a hamlet of Olive City, and a bridge and associated industry at Olive Bridge; it also contained the hamlets of Brown’s Station, Brodhead, Shokan, West Shokan, Boiceville, Samsonville, Krumville, and Davis

Figure 4.3. Analysis of “Former Site of ” signs that ring the Ashokan Reservoir. The current location of each sign is depicted along with the historic map locations of each hamlet, from pre-reservoir maps, and the current hamlet location from the NYS Office of Information Technology Services GIS Program. Note how hamlets farthest from the reservoir have moved much less than those closer to the reservoir. © April M. Beisaw.

Olive: A Town Traumatized ◆

81

82

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Corners. The hamlet of Olive Branch was in the adjacent town of Hurley, on the branch of road that led one west toward Olive. GIS software provides new ways to visualize and discuss the pre- and postreservoir landscape and to focus our assessment of reservoir impacts on just the town of Olive, separating out the losses of roads, railroads, and buildings lost in Hurley and Marbletown. With GIS, I was able to create digital versions of the 1875 Beers atlas map (Beers 1875) and a variety of historic United States Geological Survey (USGS) topographic maps. The software then allows for calculations and tabulations within the area of interest alone. For example, the 1875 atlas map includes 677 buildings within the entire town of Olive. Of those, 515 are labeled with the owner’s name, suggesting they were partially or entirely used as residences. At that time just about every resident of Olive identified as a farmer on censuses and in town directories, but a number of them also had a second or third occupation, many of which were undertaken on their own property. Twenty-five of the 515 residences are identified as woman-owned, just under 5 percent of properties. The 1871 Olive Business Directory (Anonymous 1871) includes 463 entries, 385 of which are identified as farmers. Twenty-six percent, or 102, of those farmers list a second or third occupation, including owning or working in a mill or tannery and being a general merchant or specialized merchant of meat. Also included are those with skilled trades, such as blacksmiths, carpenters, carriage makers, carriage painters, machinists, shoemakers, stonecutters, stonemasons, and surveyors, and professional trades, such as physicians or lawyers. Several ran hotels or were postmasters. Hiram J. Winchell was the proprietor of a cider brandy and whiskey distillery; John I. Boice was the commissioner of highways; John W. Lane was the undertaker; and Nathaniel K. Vangaasbeek was a steamboat captain. Only 6 percent, or twenty-seven individuals, did not list farming as an occupation. These people were full-time blacksmiths, boot- and shoemakers, coopers and carpenters, carriage makers, dressmakers, and store clerks. Elijah Travis was a dentist. The Reverend Orrin P. Crandall is listed as pastor of the Olive Bridge Methodist Episcopal Church. The dressmaker was Laura A. Turner. She is one of twenty-five women included in the business directory. All the others were listed as full-time farmers. The 1875 atlas map identifies some of the specialized properties that served nonresidential functions. There are ten blacksmith shops, two cemeteries, seven churches, two doctors’ offices, two factories, four gristmills, one social hall, five hotels, two parsonages, two railroad stations, twenty-one sawmills, thirteen schools, sixteen stores, two tanneries, one heading mill, and one cider mill. The GIS software identifies 298 of Olive’s 677 buildings and cemeteries as falling within the Ashokan Reservoir waters and the land buffer that encircles it. That is a full 44 percent of the town of Olive destroyed between 1906 and 1913. The destruction was even greater than that, as the farms, mills, and other water-dependent properties along the streams that flowed into the new reservoir were impacted in ways similar to what occurred in Kent.

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

83

Each of the major waterways that flowed into the Esopus Creek had at least one mill on it. Outside of the take-line there were at least nine mills that relied on water flowing toward the Esopus. The majority of these were on the Bushkill Creek, which ran through Watson Hollow. Additional research is necessary to know if these mills were still in operation at the time the land was taken and, if so, whether they were affected by the changes to the flow of surface waters the reservoir brought. The loss of each residence and business surely caused a loss for properties dedicated to providing services. There were fewer farm products for the mills, fewer worshippers for the churches, fewer students for the schools. Most of the Olive schools and churches were demolished for the reservoir. The reshuffling of those institutions both influenced and responded to the reshuffling of residential properties. Plans for the Ashokan Reservoir were approved in 1905 and work began in 1906. That is thirty years after the Beers atlas was published, and certainly the town of Olive had gone through some changes. USGS maps of the region were produced in 1903 and again in 1942; however, those maps do not identify landowners or building function, except for schools and churches. With the data they do provide, it is possible to assess the changes in numbers and locations of buildings. For example, a total of 594 Olive buildings were included on the 1903 maps, which may not represent a decline from the 677 on the 1875 atlas map. The USGS symbol for an outbuilding is usually an unfilled square, but no such markings appear on the Olive quadrangle maps. Therefore, the difference in count from 1875 to 1903 may be mainly a difference of cartography, where barns were included in the former but not the latter. The 1942 USGS map contains 756 buildings. This is important because it shows that despite the widespread destruction of buildings that came with the 1906–1913 reservoir construction, the number of buildings in Olive increased by 162 within the thirty years after construction was complete. We can assume that the two USGS maps used similar cartographic methods, and therefore these data support the local history that the people of Olive remained despite the hardships that came with doing so. Adding the 1906 Board of Water Supply maps of parcels taken by the city to the GIS results allows for another tabulation of what was lost. A total of 479 Olive parcels were taken from named individuals and companies. Those 479 parcels total 8,466 acres of land (13.23 square miles or 34.27 square kilometers). A full 23 percent of those parcels were woman-owned, including the boardinghouses of Brookside Cottage, Sylvan Lake, and the Cool Breeze House (figure 4.4). These woman-owned properties averaged 15.5 acres in size and totaled 1,705 acres of Olive land. In contrast, the obviously or presumably male-owned properties averaged 18.7 acres in size and totaled 6,284 acres of Olive land. The remaining acres include churches, cemeteries, business, and other nonpersonal properties. The largest woman-owned parcels taken included Mary Cole’s 120 acres, Mary Jane Terwilliger’s 98 acres, Rebecca Ladew’s 88 acres, and Mrs. Chase Davis’s 86 acres. But forty-two of the woman-owned parcels were under 1 acre in size. These

◆

Figure 4.4. Digitized 1906 parcel map of the Olive land taken by the Board of Water Supply. The woman-owned parcels are highlighted with hashing. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

84 Taking Our Water for the City

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

85

were mainly downtown parcels in Shokan and West Shokan, near the railroad, churches, schools, and other businesses. Many were likely sources of income for these women. They certainly received little compensation from the city for these properties, and it may have been difficult to re-create what they lost when forced to move to other communities that may not have been so supportive of independent women in the early 1900s. It is also possible to tabulate the cumulative losses suffered by families according to their surnames. For example, some families lost ten or more land parcels. The Bishops lost twelve parcels totaling 280 acres. The Boice family alone lost twentyeight parcels, totaling 470 acres, including the Fern Cottage boardinghouse. The Davis family lost fifteen parcels of land, totaling 256 acres, including the Davis Cottage boardinghouse. The Every family lost ten parcels totaling 246 acres, including the Locust Farm boardinghouse. The Winchells lost ten parcels totaling 102 acres. That is 1,354 acres across seventy-five parcels lost by just five families, who themselves were related to each other through generations of marriages. All of the properties described in this section would be considered archaeological sites worthy of excavation, but none are accessible. Those that are under the waterline were likely obliterated when engineers dug down to ensure maximum depth for the reservoir. Those properties closer to the shorelines may have foundations and other features that escaped destruction during reservoir construction, but they have surely been impacted by water action and land erosion. Those sites that may be present within the forested buffer are on lands not open to hiking, so I have not been able to conduct surface surveys. Using LiDAR, I have documented the locations of many sites and reported them to the State Historic Preservation Office with the hope that the SHPO will help protect and preserve this evidence of what was lost to city water. Those city-owned lands that are open to hiking have been surveyed and are discussed in the next section.

Pushed onto Slopes and into Valleys Evidence of how Olive residents rebuilt their communities around the Ashokan Reservoir comes from oral history, archival records, and the archaeology of cityowned lands acquired through the Land Acquisition Program, which began in 1997. The lands that were available for new home construction were either what was left of prime farmland or the steep and rocky slopes of the mountainous peaks to the north, west, and south of the reservoir. Those uphill lands had been minimally developed because their value was more in line with logging, quarrying, and hunting than farming when land was not at a premium. With hundreds of people trying to find a new place to live within Olive, the losses and frustrations were compounded. Some examples of this restructuring can be seen in the relocation of the Van Steenbergh and Davis families, and also in the archaeology of the Black Road and South Mountain city-owned recreation units.

86

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

The Van Steenbergh family lost five parcels to the Ashokan Reservoir, totaling 118 acres. At least two of those parcels were owned by Benjamin Van Steenbergh, father of Vera Van Steenbergh Sickler, who wrote about the “tragic happenings.” In her 1979 book, The Town of Olive through the Years: Part Two, Vera speaks from experience about how Olive residents struggled to rebuild around the reservoir and remain within the town. The construction of the Ashokan Reservoir caused a dreadful upheaval in Olive. It was unbelievable how it changed the topographical area of the town. The little hamlet of Olive would succumb to all the changes that the Reservoir would make. People with nowhere to go would make Olive their home. Something would have to happen quickly, or people would be living in tents. Some did live in barns until their homes were completed. Who made the magic happen? Two men who had lost their businesses and homes in West Shokan were Jacob Crispell and Abner Winne. It was these men buying 60 acres of land of John Davis in Olive that would begin what they called the new settlement. (Sickler 1979: 23)

That new settlement is today’s hamlet of Ashokan on the north side of the reservoir. Vera and her family would reside on what became Van Steenbergh Lane. She credits Jacob Crispell and Abner Winne for facilitating the creation of this new hamlet. Abner had lost two small parcels of land within West Shokan, but Jacob himself lost 96.5 acres. That they could absorb that loss and help build a new community is commendable. The Davis family lost 256 acres to city taking and were now sacrificing 60 acres of prime farmland on which to build homes for the displaced. These are some of the ripple effects that spread the effects of reservoir creation outside of the actual take-line. One of the Davises who lost the most land to the city was Mrs. Chase Davis, mother of Elwyn Davis, who recorded Olive’s transition in his diary (Davis et al. 2014). They lost 86 acres of land and rebuilt the family home on higher ground. It is shown in the postcard in figure 4.5. Among his entries for June 1913, Elwyn speaks of how difficult it is to work new lands: “It surely is a big job to get the stone buried as has never been cultivated.” This quote provides context for the ruins of agricultural activities found on two city-owned Olive properties—that of Black Road and South Mountain. These properties contain the foundations of buildings that do not appear on the 1875 atlas map. The building on the Black Road property does not appear on any historic maps, suggesting that those who tried to make a life on these rocky slopes gave up quickly. The farm on the South Mountain unit was likely a subdivision of the adjacent Bell family farm that appears on historic maps. The longer agricultural use of this land allowed the property to remain occupied for approximately a hundred years. The historic buildings were demolished by the landowner, and the land was sold to the city as part of the Land Acquisition Program.

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

87

Figure 4.5. Postcard of Elwyn Davis’s new home (right) after the city land takings displaced the Davis family. Courtesy of the Olive Free Library.

Black Road Unit The city-owned recreation unit in Olive that best exemplifies how town residents struggled to remain is that of Black Road. Located on the north side of the reservoir, this property slopes steeply from the road from which its name derives, down toward Butternut Creek and the hamlet of Ashokan established by Jacob Crispell and Abner Winne. The city has designated this a hiking and fishing property, but the creek has been nearly dry each time I have surveyed the property. On the northern end of the unit, at Black Road, we found the usual litter of beer cans and beverage bottles. But soon we encountered the stumps of trees cut long ago and now in the final stages of decay. Moving southeast, small piles of stones were noted, one of which appeared to be an old fire pit. Then the topography dropped off. We crossed a wetland, and suddenly everything was different; the tree canopy disappeared and a network of stone walls, enormous in both height and width, came into full view. The walls went on and on and we took a moment to decide what to do next. After undertaking several surveys of the property, it was possible to piece together an archaeological understanding of how it was used. The flattest lands contain what appear to be large stone-walled animal pens. Within these enclosures, the ground is relatively free of small to medium-size cobbles. Those were moved to the edges and piled high to construct the stone walls that rise up several feet. The corners of some wall intersections have features that may have been used to hold dry hay or to capture rainwater. On the land with a steeper slope, the wall network is more open, suggestive of the land’s use as fields. There too the density

88

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

of surface stones is greater outside than inside the stone walls. Several foundations were noted, including the raised stone corners that were likely the edges of barns and other outbuildings. One foundation with a stone-lined cellar was likely a small house. Near the house foundation, several maple trees have holes for maple syrup taps; some trees even have rusted-out metal pails near their base. There is no evidence that making maple syrup was a profitable activity. Instead, it may have simply provided for those living on the property. Despite the extensive evidence of residential and agricultural use of the Black Road property, the house and barns that stood here do not appear on any historic maps. Local knowledge also seems to have forgotten whose place this was; most of the neighboring houses were constructed between 1970 and 1995. Land deed research is possible but has not yet been undertaken due to the number of city-owned parcels included in this study. I asked the DEP for access to their files to help reconstruct the histories of these properties and was told that such information does not exist. The archaeological information that does exist suggests that those who created this farm on the rocky slopes of Ticetonyk Mountain made a significant labor investment in clearing the land but were unable to make a living here. They did not stay long enough to be captured by the maps of 1875, 1903, or 1942. This may have been a post-reservoir attempt to move upslope from the valley floor. But as noted by Elwyn Davis, these previously unused lands were difficult to work.

South Mountain Unit The city-owned South Mountain recreation unit also contains a stone-lined house cellar and the raised stone corners of a barn and other outbuildings along with a network of stone walls. Whereas those of Black Road fall between 220 and 280 meters in elevation (roughly 720–920 feet), those at South Mountain are at 280 to 320 meters in elevation (roughly 920–1,050 feet). South Mountain’s stone walls are minor in both size and complexity, but rolls of rusty barbed wire suggest that fencing instead of enclosures was used to control animals on the flattest land that was available. Instead of sloping down to a waterway, the South Mountain property slopes up. Hay still grows between the lower slopes and the building foundations, and the rusted remains of a hay rake were noted. Above the foundation cellar, the property is very steep and unusable for most agricultural functions. At the barn foundation, we recorded the cast-iron top of an otherwise wooden Adriance toolbox. Adriance, Platt & Company was a nineteenth-century farm equipment company based in Poughkeepsie, New York. Around the cellar foundation are many features, including a concrete foundation of what appears to be a springhouse. Daffodils, non-native flowers likely planted by former residents, still grow in this area, similar to the rose bushes encountered on the Boyd’s Corner South unit in the town of Kent. From speaking with the neighbor, we know that the farmhouse that stood here had been demolished just before the property was

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

89

sold to the city as part of the acquisition program. Downslope of the foundation are the remnants of the home’s gutters and pipes and some cinder blocks. Scattered about are metal bowls, other discarded housewares, and a shattered aquarium. Close to the roadway there are the remnants of plastic planters and other items more likely to have been stored in a barn or garage than in the main house. Unlike the Black Road cellar, that of South Mountain (see figure 0.4) does appear on the 1903 and 1942 USGS topographic maps. According to the 1875 atlas this is the land of “A&R Bell.” This Bell farm was well outside of the city’s reservoir take-line, but the Bell family did lose eight parcels (53 acres) of land that were within the take-line. The A&R Bell property was upslope and high enough that the reservoir is visible from much of it. From here, residents would have witnessed its construction and filling along with all the changes that came with it. On the 1880 agricultural census, Abram Bell is listed as owning $1,000 in real estate. His products include one hundred pounds of butter, 57 bushels of buckwheat, 50 bushels of apples, 50 bushels of rye, 37 bushels of oats, 30 bushels of potatoes, and ten tons of hay. Animals kept included sixteen chickens, seven cattle, five pigs, two sheep, two working oxen, and one milk cow. Abram died in 1887, twenty years before reservoir construction began. Exactly who R. Bell was is not yet clear, as the Bell family was large and had several members with that first initial at the time. Unlike the Black Road property, which did not have an agricultural history predating the Ashokan Reservoir, South Mountain had been farmed for decades or more. That history may have allowed those who lived here to remain for a century. But ultimately their land would also come to be owned by the city. The slopes that ring the Ashokan Reservoir also shed water toward it; therefore, restricting how these slopes are used is part of controlling pollution levels. The only lands around the reservoir that are free from pollution concerns are those of the relocated hamlet of Olivebridge. Surface waters there do not flow toward the Ashokan. That is why the city has not made purchases south of the Olivebridge Methodist Episcopal Church. An analysis of the locations, sizes, and accessibility of all Olive city-owned recreation units shows that many are not suitable for the activities allowed or are simply inaccessible.

Creating Inaccessible Public Access Lands The Land Acquisition Program assigned priority levels for the acquisition of lands around city reservoirs. Much of Olive was assigned priority 1A, 1B, or 2. In comparison, all of Kent was assigned priority 1B. Each level was defined as follows: 1A Sub-basins within 60-day travel time to distribution located near reservoir intakes 1B All other sub-basins within 60-day travel time to distribution 2 All remaining sub-basins in terminal reservoir basins

90

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

3

Sub-basins in non-terminal reservoir basins with existing water quality problems (NYCDEP 2009: 3)

Within Olive, the newest hamlet of Ashokan was given a 1A priority for acquisition. Lands within the hamlet of Shokan were assigned priorities 1B or 2, based on topography and distance to water. Boiceville and West Shokan were both priority 2. Brodhead was priority 1A and 1B. Olivebridge is mostly of no priority level at all. Flatter land closer to the reservoir usually earned a higher priority rating, which are the same lands where families like the Van Steenberghs resettled. Both the Black Road and South Mountain units were on priority 2 land, due to their distance from the reservoir but also because of the steep slopes that limit the potential for pollution-causing activities to occur there (figure 4.6). With this framework in mind, many of the Olive city-owned parcels come into focus as a continuation of the legacy of removal or expulsion. The newest DEP recreation unit in the town of Olive, created from LAP lands, is named Ashokan Brook. The 32-acre unit in the hamlet of Ashokan has no signage identifying it as a place of recreation, but the DEP map identifies it as a hiking and hunting property. Archaeological survey there was hindered by the dense brush at the only 20-foot-wide (6.1-meter) point of access, making the property almost impossible to enter for hiking. I gained access to it in the early spring, when much of the brush was dead. Once through that initial barrier, I could not find a path into the wider interior, which is just about 750 feet (228.6 meters) wide at its greatest breadth. LiDAR shows a stone wall network indicative of past agricultural or pastoral use for that interior area, which I have yet to access. Hunting is allowed on this land, despite the nearby private residences. Ashokan Brook is on priority 1A land for city acquisition. Just northwest of Ashokan Brook is the 84-acre Peck Road unit. Because it is upslope and farther from the reservoir, it is on priority 2 land. When we first surveyed this unit in 2015, it included a southern parcel that was accessible from the roadway and provided easy access. There we documented a small Elmendorf family cemetery; a building foundation with a concrete pad; barbed wire embedded deep into trees, suggestive of pasture land; and a stone wall network suggestive of a dairy farm. More recently that southern parcel has been reposted as Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) land and is ringed by “No Trespassing” signs. What remains of the city-owned DEP Peck Road unit, listed as open for hiking, hunting, and trapping, is inaccessible without trespassing on private property. The place where the recreation unit touches Peck Road has a significant drop-off between the road level and the unpaved ground, and there is no safe parking area on the narrow and curvy Peck Road. LiDAR shows a building foundation within the unit, so there is certainly evidence of past land use to be found there. The Elmendorf family lost ten Olive parcels to the reservoir takings, totaling 394 acres. Now one of their family burial grounds is also inaccessible and not being maintained.

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

91

Figure 4.6. Digitized map of city-owned DEP lands around the Ashokan Reservoir showing the acquisition priority levels for each area during the LAP. The boundaries of adjacent DEC-owned forests are also included. © Neil Curri and April M. Beisaw.

92

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

To the west, in the area between Boiceville and West Shokan, is the 145-acre Traver Hollow unit. This priority 2 land is deep within the hollow formed by Samuels Point, Cross Mountain, and Mount Pleasant. The recreation unit is broken into three lots that are relatively equal in sized but disconnected. All are identified as open for hiking, fishing, hunting, and trapping. We were able to survey each lot but had difficulty accessing the central parcel. The northern parcel is steep, quickly climbing from 300 to 420 meters (roughly 980 to 1,380 feet) in elevation. But there is an old road leading up to a former home site, the remnants of which were strewn about in the woods and down the slope. Old kitchen appliances had traveled downslope toward the parking area. The central unit’s access point is questionable. The map shows a narrow corridor leading to a wide-open parcel, but there are “Private Property” signs along the roadway, suggesting this is not a public road. We obtained permission from the landowner to park on their land. After a short distance we had to return to the car for waders to cross a stream before finally accessing the DEP land. No significant archaeological finds were made in this central parcel, but we had used up most of our field time just getting there. The southernmost lot is easily accessible by a pull-off along Route 28A. Abandoned roadways lead down to the stream, which flows directly into the reservoir. Campfires and camp chairs were set up in various places attesting to the regular use of this part of the unit, while no evidence of recent recreational use was found on the other two. All three parts of the Traver Hollow unit connect directly to the 50,634-acre Slide Mountain Wilderness, operated by the DEC. There are no official Slide Mountain trails leading to the DEP Traver Hollow unit, but the forest map indicates two primitive campsites near or on the DEP lands. This city-owned land seems more like an addition to the DEC Slide Mountain Wilderness than stand-alone recreation units. Due south of Traver Hollow is the 25-acre Oak Ridge unit, also on priority 2 land. This steep unit is on the slopes of Samuels Point within the hamlet of West Shokan, near the entrance to the Maltby Hollow. Oak Ridge is listed by the DEP as open for hiking, fishing, hunting, and trapping (see figure 1.1), yet it is completely inaccessible without crossing private property. An exception is the northernmost park of Oak Ridge, which adjoins the Slide Mountain Wilderness. There are no DEC trails or campsites anywhere near the Oak Ridge unit, making it unlikely to be used at all. I asked local landowners to provide us with access to this property, but none gave us permission to cross their lands for the survey. The 1875 atlas suggests that this was the land of C. Eckert. The Eckert family lost three Olive parcels to reservoir creation, totaling 24 acres. LiDAR shows a stone wall network just outside of the Oak Ridge unit but no clear features, such as house foundations, inside of it. It is steeply sloped with elevations between 300 and 400 meters (roughly 980–1,310 feet). Southwest of the Oak Ridge is the 76-acre South Hollow unit, which is bisected by the Watson Hollow Road and the Bushkill Creek. This is deep within

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

93

the Watson Hollow and at the end of the priority 2 acquisition area. The two parts of South Hollow are both inaccessible but for different reasons. The west side of the unit is a long, thin parcel that touches the roadway at a point no wider than a car. There is no parking area, and the tick-infested grass grows taller than me or any of my team members. This is essentially another addition to a DEC forest; here it is the Sundown Wild Forest. There are no DEC trails nearby, but there is a primitive campsite a half mile away. We were able to access the eastern section of South Hollow by climbing down a ravine and wading through thigh-deep and swiftly flowing waters. Once across, we crawled our way up the steep bank. The unit then climbs steadily from 300 to 460 meters in elevation (roughly 980–1,510 feet), on the slopes of High Point Mountain, without any trails. We recorded evidence of past logging but, not surprisingly, no building foundations. The 1875 Beers atlas suggests this was the land of Col. H. White, C. Hickey, and a stave factory. (Staves are the curved wood used to make barrels.) Nathaniel Watson, for whom the hollow is named, had a lumber mill just south of here. The DEP map for South Hollow says it is open to hiking, fishing, hunting, and trapping. Only fishing seems possible here, but there are many more accessible fishing points nearby. Northwest of the South Hollow unit is the 23-acre Watson Hollow unit. It does not connect to any public roads. Even the roadway leading toward the unit is marked “Private—No Trespassing.” I was unable to secure permission to cross private property, so it has yet to be surveyed. The DEP map says this priority 2 land is open for hiking, hunting, and trapping. The only public access point would again be though DEC land: the Sundown Wild Forest. The entire unit is steeply sloped and narrow, making it unlikely to be used for any sort of recreation except by those who own the private properties that adjoin it. The same steep slopes make LiDAR unreliable for assessing the likelihood of archaeological sites here. The 1875 atlas shows a mill located here, adjacent to the property of C. Eckert. In summary, although the city claims that recently purchased Olive lands add valuable recreation opportunities to the community, many are inaccessible except through existing and vast state forests. Purchases of the relatively flat priority 1A and 1B lands, especially within the hamlet of Ashokan, are further limiting residential and economic opportunities within communities whose residents have already lost so much. As Nancy Occhi said in response to the offers to sell her Boiceville Market property, there are few places within Olive for relocation (Snow 2019). More than a century of land takings is turning this town into a very expensive city park more than seventy miles (112.7 km) away from New York City.

Connections and Conclusions It is difficult to compare Olive as it is now to Olive as it was then. As Vera Van Steenbergh Sickler says, her ancestors would not recognize it (Sickler 1979: 58). It

94

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

is not that there are not any old buildings and long-standing families; it is that the buildings and people were moved about in an unpredictable fashion to make way for a massive lake that they did not ask for. There is no linear narrative to ease the telling of Olive’s story; there is only disruption and disorganization. That does not mean that Olive’s past has no value; instead, it can serve as a cautionary tale of how infrastructure projects can leave a legacy of impacts on peoples and places. There is much more to learn here than whether or not the displaced were adequately compensated for their lands. Clearing communities from landscapes often creates personal and collective grief, defeat, and outrage (Smith 2008: 18). In Olive, disconnection from community heritage occurred when schools, churches, cemeteries, businesses, railroads, and roadways were demolished. Virtually every single place described in prereservoir accounts of the area was destroyed. This includes the natural Bishop (or Bishop’s) Falls and its associated mills, and the industrial ruins of the Shokan Tannery, the last of Olive’s leather tanneries. There is no one-room school, early settler’s home, or Victorian mansion open for schoolchildren and the public to gather at and reminisce. That is unfortunate because the local history of small towns is often embodied in their landmarks. Instead, Olive contains a jumble of pre- and post-reservoir buildings, some of which are decaying in places different from where they were first erected. As such, the town’s history is not easily read from its landscape. The city has installed several interpretive panels around the reservoir, but all are focused on the reservoir itself. For example, the panel titled “Ashokan Reservoir History” speaks of the “monumental task” of construction, which cost $20 million but now provides 600 million gallons of freshwater to the city each day. The only reference to the local community is this: “Residents of the Catskills sacrificed much to make way for the reservoir. A 1905 state law gave New York City the authority to move people out of the valley and compel them to sell their homes and farms. Four hamlets were permanently removed, and eight others were relocated to higher ground.” “Compel” is an interesting word choice, as is “relocated.” The city did little to help these communities rebuild. All around the reservoir, a series of brown metal signs claim to mark original hamlet locations for Olive, Shokan, Boiceville, West Shokan, Brodhead Bridge, Olive City, and Olive Bridge. But many of these signs are closer to the rebuilt versions of those communities than the original locations. Missing is a sign for Brown’s Station, which was on land now occupied by the city’s headquarters. Such signage focuses newcomer and tourist curiosity and grief on the reservoir itself and what may lie beneath the water. But there are more ruins of Olive on land than within the reservoir waterline. Archaeological surveys of city-owned lands in Olive have documented that humans, plants, and animals coexisted on the lands now described as “vacant” lands devoid of history. The trauma of removal and expulsion can be seen on the lands outside of the reservoir waters. This work has attempted to refocus the

Olive: A Town Traumatized

◆

95

collective gaze away from the fantasy of submerged ruins. But the water, and what it might give back if conditions are right, provides a more appealing narrative. For example, articles in national newspapers and on popular websites encourage tourists to look for Atlantis within the Ashokan Reservoir. For example, the online magazine Mental Floss includes Olive in its list of “10 Drowned Towns You Can Visit” (Lovejoy 2015), and the New York Times has a series of articles, one of which is titled “‘Watery Graves’ Was No Figure of Speech: A Receding City Reservoir Reveals a Turbulent Past” (Foderaro 2002). Both promise glimpses of ruins complete with church steeples poking out of murky depths. In articles like these, well-researched and factual information is mixed with local lore in ways that make it unclear what is and is not true. A Hudson Valley Magazine article titled “The Creation of the Ashokan Reservoir Changed the Catskills Forever” contains the following disclaimer (Loftin 2008: n.p.): “Some people believe that when the reservoir is low, you can see church steeples and chimneys poking above the water. This is pure mythology—or perhaps wishful thinking. The engineers left no trace of the civilization they conquered.” Simple logic would question whether a wooden church steeple could remain in the midst of so much flowing water. But the Mental Floss article begins with an unbelievable photograph of a steeple emerging from a lake, which makes anything seem possible. The photo is captioned, “The drowned belfry in Kalyazin, Russia.” Construction of the Uglich Reservoir in 1939 submerged the Monastery of St. Nicholas, of which that belfry was just one part. Within the Olive Free Library’s local history collection is a compact disc with images of the reservoir floor during the 1985 drought. Instead of a monastery belfry or church steeple, the ruins that remain under these waters are simple low stone walls, a stone-lined roadway, and some stone foundations and cellar holes. Most of these are along banks of the reservoir, not deep within the waters. Having witnessed these modest ruins is part of being from Olive, because glimpsing them is more about persistence than sightseeing. If you live in Olive long enough, someone will show you one of its many ruins. But to understand the trauma that accompanies each ruin, it is necessary to speak to and learn from the descendants of the families who experienced their creation. One of those descendants who taught me so much is artist Kate McGloughlin. She is a descendant of the Bishop, Boice, Davis, and Winchell families and still lives and works in Olivebridge. With her permission, I reproduce part of her poetry from Requiem for Ashokan: The Story Told in Landscape here (McGloughlin 2017: 7): It’s fullness emptied by drought and thirst Weathered shards of lost wood drifts, Nesting on the shoreline, Fishing boats as eggs Held close in safety

96

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Where water meets the earth Light breaks the calm surface That belies the century old loss Uncovers history, our story The traces of past mark the Place where their hearts were left behind Aching for their old long ago Dragging feet, trudging out Spitting bitter and salt Tears mix with the sweat Feel the heft of dead family Rising from earth to the new Eternal rest.

CHAPTER

2

5 Water Pasts for Water Futures

An Archaeology of Watershed Communities Manhattan Island was not an ideal place to build a great US city because it is surrounded by saltwater. Its natural sources of freshwater, underground springs that fed into the Collect Pond, were polluted in the eighteenth century. Fresh water had to be brought in by horse-drawn cart and was sold much like bottled water is now. Private and public water systems were planned, adopted, and discontinued as the city grew. Manhattan Island reservoirs were constructed, celebrated, and abandoned as the land they stood on was repurposed for other needs. There was once a reservoir where the New York Public Library is now, adjacent to Bryant Park, and two in Central Park, one now covered by a baseball field and the other converted into a recreational lake. For New York City to survive into the twentieth century, a robust and pollutionresistant system of reservoirs and supply tunnels was needed. The sources had to be far from the city center in order to allow for expansion and to protect the supply from pollution. With each passing decade, the city extended its reach farther away from Manhattan’s booming population. Now nineteen reservoirs and controlled lakes bring water to the city from up to 125 miles (201.2 km) away. Creating this vast network destroyed many rural communities and crippled the economic viability of those that remained. Roads and railroads were rerouted, agriculture and other potentially polluting activities were banned, and property values changed. Those people who remained were limited in where they could live and what they could do there. With community institutions, such as schools, churches, and meeting halls, gone, and their ancestors dug out of graves, connections to the land and to each other were strained or severed. Watershed communities became the bedroom communities for city workers, who are unlikely to protest decisions made for the benefit of city water. This approach of demolishing the rural to feed the urban became a model other cities followed.

98

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

After New York City’s vast water system was complete, pollution concerns and new federal water quality standards led to the acquisition of additional lands around reservoirs and the waterways that fed them. The city has purchased more than 100,000 acres of watershed lands since the 1990s. That is seven times the landmass of Manhattan Island. Manhattan Island is only 14,478 acres in size, and all five boroughs (Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Staten Island, Queens) total just 205,000 acres. Although properties purchased through the Land Acquisition Program (LAP) were classified as vacant lands devoid of history, archaeological survey reveals them to be recently vacated lands that contain the ruins of peoples and ways of life that could not coexist alongside city water. These lands and the “No Trespassing” signs that surround them are material evidence of how rural places have been, and continue to be, altered so that their water can be harvested for distant urban populations. Since 2014 the city has also been purchasing watershed lands as part of the New York City-Funded Flood Buyout Program (NYCFFBO). This allows the purchase of lots with standing structures and has led to the demolition of historic buildings in the town of Olive (NYCDEP n.d.). Such continual erasure of the past limits the future of watershed communities whose memories cannot be anchored by places on the landscape. In the absence of detailed official watershed histories, local lore has developed stories about mysterious alien stone chambers (Kilgannon 2001; Pollak 1995) and Atlantis-like submerged structures (Foderaro 2002). Such fantasies distract from the reality of the landscape clearance, which continues with no end in sight.

Witnessing the Ruins of City Water Urban watersheds are “wilderness” only in the sense that humans have been pushed out and their past presence erased and denied. The ruins of two New York towns, Kent in Putnam County and Olive in Ulster County, were presented to illustrate how reservoirs big and small can have similar removal histories. In both cases, reservoir construction was just the beginning of the city-funded landscape clearance. At the start, it seemed like Kent’s Boyd’s Corner Reservoir would not require much demolition. What was lost in the taking of that area included a school, a church, and a cemetery, and the rerouting of a planned railroad. But before the reservoir was complete, the city was already laying claim to additional waters and lands. Concerns over water pollution were used to end agriculture throughout Kent. With it fell the mills and other services that processed and moved farm products. Land prices plummeted and farms were replaced by country clubs and then residential subdivisions. Few people in Kent now have any ancestral connections to the land or the town’s history. It is mainly a bedroom community for city workers who want homes surrounded by protected wilderness. Having learned some lessons from Boyd’s and other reservoirs, engineers planned the Ashokan Reservoir to be enormous with little concern for what was in

Water Pasts for Water Futures

◆

99

the way: the bulk of its residents, the valuable valley floor, or the river that flowed through it. Reservoir construction left only the land that was always marginal— the steep slopes of the central basin and the edges of smaller valleys that radiated out from it. Previously, the slopes and valleys were useful for local resource harvesting (logging, quarrying, and hay production), but they could not support the large farms that were an economic engine of the town. Another economic engine was the railway that carried tourists in and economic products out. It too was destroyed to create the reservoir. By the time it was rebuilt, tourism had shifted, and Olive became a place to pass through, not a destination in itself. Olive draws our attention to the people caught between a powerful city and their own ties to a landscape. Their predecessors received little help adjusting to the landscape altered by city water. As such their stories are not well told by legal or economic histories of watershed creation. Those sources often comment on how the city provided locals with jobs. Those who resided in Olive before the Ashokan Reservoir was constructed were mainly self-employed farmers with secondary roles in the community economy: doctors, lawyers, factory owners, and boardinghouse managers. The often temporary employment that the reservoir brought was not comparable. For example, most Olive residents took in summer boarders at a rate of five dollars a week to four dollars a night. Many could accommodate ten or more boarders, some held as many as 150. Reservoir construction jobs paid less than two dollars a day. Compensation for taken lands was also less than what was needed. Lawsuits seeking additional compensation lingered on for decades. Of the $10 million in claims, the city paid only $1.4 million (Stradling 2009: 166). The town would certainly have been better off if the city had not taken its land and water. The city-owned lands in Olive and Kent contain ruins that helped to tell the story of these removals. On the north side of the Ashokan Reservoir, an extensive network of large stone walls and building foundations attest to the investments made to relocate upslope and the failure that came with those investments. On the south side of the Ashokan Reservoir, the ruins of a farm and associated hayfield show how subdividing existing agricultural land allowed people to remain in Olive but not necessarily prosper there. The ruins of Kent tell a similar story. Just north of the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir, the remnants of Mrs. E. Parker’s house are near her grave and the graves of her larger family. They had a modest farm that was too close to the city water supply for it to persist. To the east, the ruins of David Kent’s large and successful dairy farm indicate how even the wealthy Kent family could not remain once the city’s needs dictated land use in the region. Just south of the Boyd’s Corner Reservoir, the ruins of the Kittredge mansion show us how the town’s population shifted toward wealthy outsiders but also how their lands also somehow became naturalized and described as “virgin” land. How different would our understanding of urban water systems be if these places and their stories were preserved and openly discussed? If the city were to fund a complete historical and archaeological survey of all their watershed lands,

100

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

what other stories would emerge? For example, through discussions with Olive residents I have become aware of a stone bear trap that is on the south side of the Ashokan, on land open only for fishing access. Several residents have mentioned it to me as a place of importance to them that they want protected. I cannot document the presence of the bear trap, as that property is not open for hiking. In the last three years, the DEP has been logging in that area, running heavy machinery through the forest. Without intentional efforts to preserve it, the bear trap will be lost. Bear hunting was once an important part of managing animal populations in the town of Olive. The bears are still there; I have encountered several. This book has used just a few ruins in two watershed towns to draw attention to the larger landscapes of clearance in New York and across the globe. Wherever people are forced out of their homes and businesses with little notice and insufficient compensation, the changes such removals bring are not part of any natural or inevitable progression from then to now. A distant urban government brought these changes to ensure its own survival. The city has made its own claims on the future of their watersheds. Urban population growth is now coupled with climate change, and both can lead to water insecurity for other cities. By documenting ruins as evidence of the power differential and interpreting them through the lens of archaeological theory, I hope that contemporary archaeology can inform watershed policies aimed at supporting cities without destroying rural communities.

Clearance, Ruination, and Entanglement Archaeological theory helps us to see how city reservoirs that are placed within distant rural communities can become structures of dominance; something that persists while many residences and businesses around it crumble. What remains is what Ann Laura Stoler calls an evasive space where there are “sliding and contested scales of differential rights” (Stoler 2008: 193). By documenting the sites and artifacts that reveal these differential rights, archaeologists can confront the ways those in power deny that the situation is of their making. Agents work within but also against social structures. These structures include “unquestioned beliefs in the way things have ‘always’ worked” (Harris and Cipolla 2017: 41). In sites, artifacts, and landscapes, archaeologists can document acts of resistance to unquestioned social order and help envision the alternatives. Using a posthumanist approach, we can see that forced removals apply to more than just people. Removal changes plants, animals, roads, buildings, and everything else that once supported ways of biological life (Weik 2019a: 7). It is possible to read human agency from the material remains of those who were removed. Throughout the city watersheds, their experiences are literally hidden behind “No Trespassing” signs, shielded from view by trees and fallen leaves, and denied their existence by property maps that depict lands as if they are devoid

Water Pasts for Water Futures

◆

101

of human history. The signs exert agency when they keep us from seeing these ruins and asking questions about them. This includes the “Former Site of ” signs that reinforce beliefs that whatever remains of land takings is below the reservoir waters. The land contains all the evidence we need in order to see how people in Olive are entangled with their landscape and its history of removal but also with New York City and its needs for survival. These processes and experiences are not limited to New York. This case is important precisely because it is not unique. Wherever governments redirect water it tends to flow from those with less power to those with more. This is because water infrastructure often flows from those with the least social and political power. The recent past is rife with examples of Indigenous communities impacted by government water projects (see Bischoff-Mattsona, Lynch, and Joachim 2018; Boelens 2015; Boelens et al. 2018; Dennis and Bell 2020; Ellis et al. 2018; Estes 2019; Gallardo 2016; Gilio-Whitaker 2019; Hartwig et al. 2021; Jackson 2015; Jackson and Barber 2013; McGregor 2013; McLean 2007; Mitchell 2019; Nikolakis and Grafton 2014; Norman 2017, 2018; Robison et al. 2018; Wilson 2020; Woods, Woods, and Fitzsimons 2021; Zanotti 2015). In these and other cases, money is rarely an adequate replacement for what is being destroyed. Taking water strains relationships between humans and nonhumans and disconnects them from the landscape that co-created their identities. It may be impossible to re-create elsewhere what is being lost. Moving water supplies shifts power through the displacement of non-elites and the expansion of territory (i.e., Klassen and Evans 2020). Taking water also means taking control of the land through which it flows. Claims that this is a natural source or process keeps us from seeing and asking about what is happening. What happened in Kent and Olive is similar to what happened at the Seneca Allegany Reservation (Bilharz 1998) and at Shoal Lake (Perry 2016). In these two cases, water and land were taken from Indigenous peoples for the benefit of the distant cities of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Winnipeg, Manitoba. Historian Adele Perry documented how the city of Winnipeg figuratively cleared the landscape by denying the presence of Indigenous peoples upon it. Even if there were people there, officials declared, a “perfect water supply is worth all its costs” (Robson, public utility commissioner 1912, as quoted in Perry 2016: 50). Construction of the aqueduct that brought water from Shoal Lake to Winnipeg occurred at the same time as New York City’s construction of the Ashokan Reservoir. More than just the water was taken. The Indigenous community lost their best farm, timber, and hay land and were no longer allowed to swim around the lake (Perry 2016: 69). Approximately forty years after the Winnipeg Water District took water and land from the Shoal Lake communities, the US Army Corps of Engineers flooded one-third of the Seneca Nations’ Allegany Reservation to build the Kinzua Dam and Reservoir to protect the distant city of Pittsburgh, 150 miles (241.4 km) to the

102

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

south. Anthropologist Joy Bilharz (1998) documented the experiences of Seneca who were children at the time of their land was taken. As adults they were still traumatized by memories of listening to their parents’ despair over the removal and by seeing their ancestors dug up from cemeteries. Olive town historian Vera Van Steenbergh Sickler wrote of her own trauma in having experienced those similar angry whispers and grave disturbances (see chapter 4). A legacy of physical and emotional damage accompanies many reservoir projects, but those that take from Indigenous communities connect to centuries of sovereignty violations. The 1794 Pickering Treaty should have protected the Seneca and their lands and water, for it says that the United States will never claim their land nor disturb the nation (Onondaga Nation 2014). It did not. Groundbreaking occurred on 22 October 1960. When President John F. Kennedy was asked to stop construction of the Kinzua Dam; he chose instead to encourage the Army Corps of Engineers to explore the recreational potential the dam might bring to the Seneca (Bilharz 1998: 55). New York City also uses recreation potential to justify its takings. The similarities in how urban water systems were created stem from the fact that New York City’s water system was a training ground for infrastructure engineers. Several went on to plan and lead similar projects elsewhere. For example, the city of Winnipeg hired water engineering experts from New York City before establishing their Water Supply Commission in 1906 (Perry 2016: 46). The same chief engineer, Frank Windsor, oversaw construction of the Ashokan Reservoir and Boston’s Quabbin Reservoir (Nesson 1983: 69). Four towns—Enfield, Dana, Greenwich, and Prescott—were completely destroyed to create the Quabbin, which was fully functional in 1946. The counts of those who were moved include twenty-five hundred living and seventy-five hundred dead (Nesson 1983). Most of the Quabbin dead were reinterred in the Quabbin Park Cemetery, which is maintained by the state. Enumerating all the peoples and places displaced by water system creation is beyond the scope of this book. However, additional studies are encouraged with the hope that infrastructure engineers look to the past to build for better futures. Water consumers have much to learn from watershed histories. Americans consume more water per day than citizens of any other nation (Centers for Disease Control and Protection 2020)—156 gallons per day. We far exceed the internationally agreed-upon human right to water (United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs 2015), which is thirteen to twenty-six gallons per person per day. To maintain these levels of overconsumption, how many more dams, reservoirs, and aqueducts will be needed, and whose communities will be destroyed to create them? If water consumers are shown the ruins of their watershed communities, might they rethink their own consumption patterns? Maybe more consumers would support water filtration and recycling programs if they understood what burdens others must endure to send their water to a distant city.

Water Pasts for Water Futures

◆

103

Archaeologists as Effective Activists? What does it mean to see like an archaeologist? It is all about the layers—being able to see what persists, permeates, and penetrates as well as who and what has been expelled, erased, and expunged. Most people who drive through New York City’s watershed see only beautiful reservoirs surrounded by dense forest and a few buildings clinging to the slopes around them. When I make the same drive, I see farmhouses without farms, churches without cemeteries, historic homes in disrepair adjacent to new gated homes and subdivisions, few businesses, and an abundance of “No Trespassing” signs. Archaeological surface surveys reveal ample evidence of once vibrant communities that were expelled and replaced by a landscape of resource extraction justified with the label of environmental protection. With the aid of archaeological theory, these landscapes come into focus as quiet battlefields. In places and times of conflict, archaeologists must tread lightly. Asserting power over the narratives of the displaced can only add to the trauma. With this in mind, I have never placed a shovel in the watershed’s ground and never removed an artifact from where I encountered it. New York City has already turned over more than its fair share of soil and taken more than enough away from these communities. Instead of excavating sites and collecting artifacts, I spent nearly a decade walking the landscape, documenting what I saw without disturbing it, and talking with community members about what I did and did not find. This methodology allows the evidence of what has happened to remain on the landscape for others to witness. Historical documents allow me to see and listen to residents who recorded thoughts as the changes to their hometown were taking place. Interviews and casual conversations allow me to gather additional personal recollections from descendants and current community members. With their input, I hope to have captured just some of the human story behind these sites and artifacts; the evidence has not been tampered with. No one can deny that New York City both needs and deserves a clean and safe water supply. But we can and should question city officials’ methods. Ensuring the city’s water source affects those in distant communities even as city residents are generally unaware of the sacrifices being made. Those who reside near reservoirs and along the waterways that feed them have fewer rights to their lands and livelihoods than those outside of the city’s watershed. To extricate themselves from city rule, watershed residents must choose between costly measures, such as selling land, and other forms of resistance, such as violating DEP rules on city-owned lands in their own communities. Some violations of these rules have been documented here, but care was taken to avoid implicating any individuals or to suggest that restrictions should be tightened or better enforced. The problem is the system, not the actions of those who are entangled in it.

104

◆

Taking Our Water for the City

Contemporary Archaeology for Social Justice This archaeology of urban water systems, particularly the New York City water system, is just one example of how archaeologists can help society remember those who are asked to sacrifice in the name of progress. Victor Buchli and Gavin Lucas (2001: 79) characterize archaeologists like me as those who “tend to direct themselves to that which is forgotten, to attempt literally and metaphorically to find what has been ‘buried’ and obscured, sorting through the hyperactive creation and dissipation of resources, information, and material goods.” An archaeology of the contemporary is not the sort of archaeology that all those who declare “When I was a kid, I wanted to be an archaeologist” once dreamed of. It is an archaeology of us and how we can reexamine the world we live in now in order to perhaps influence what the future should look like. The decay and destruction of objects brings forgetfulness (Buchli and Lucas 2001b: 80). Therefore, the careful examination of places intentionally destroyed and the things there that have decayed from disuse allow us to remember what once was. The archaeological process of slowly traversing landscapes, documenting what is seen, and interpreting the evidence also creates new memories and reveals connections between past and present. It is often what is missing that creates the tension between remembering and forgetting (Buchli and Lucas 2001b: 80). The archaeological method documents lingering evidence of what is no longer present as it once was, be it a building foundation or a remnant stone wall. Archaeological theory then places that evidence within our understanding of culture to explore how the loss of that home or farm impacted the plants and animals that live there now, the descendants who once expected to inherit that farm, and the neighbors who can no longer interact with the family they once saw on a daily basis. Where economics may argue that the landowners were compensated for their loss, environmental science may say that the abandoned farm created new habitats, or political science may insist that many New Yorkers benefited from the eminent domain that expelled people from their farm, archaeology says the former landowners were not individuals who made their own decision to leave. Archaeology documents the pattern of expulsion that transformed landscapes of community and productivity into areas of resource extraction for the benefit of distant people. The same distant people generally have no idea of the sacrifices made for their water supply. Contemporary archaeology does not want society to memorialize these landscapes of clearance and declare them remembered. Instead, the goal is to keep open the tension between remembering and forgetting (Buchli and Lucas 2001b: 81). That tension is what allows for dialogue between personal and collective memory. That tension resists the urge to declare the sacrifice over and done with, to relegate it to the past. That tension challenges us all to see how the processes set in motion decades if not centuries ago are still in motion today. More lands are being purchased in the name of protecting New York City’s water supply. Reservoir al-

Water Pasts for Water Futures

◆

105

terations are being considered in response to the uncertainties of climate change. Infrastructure projects all over the world are constantly reshuffling the landscape and threatening long-standing communities. Leave open the tension between what New York City started in the mid-1800s and what it continues to do today to communities well outside of the city’s boundaries. That tension makes us all responsible for what happens next.

Conclusion What we believe to be true about the past is what legitimates the current social order. In this book, a long-term perspective on the human costs of urban water systems was provided by an archaeologist. Sites and artifacts anchored archival documents and local histories to show the consequences of watershed creation. The past brought the present and future into focus; watersheds are landscapes of clearance created through power imbalances. Watersheds can create conflicts and injustices. From the nineteenth-century clearances of the living and dead on Manhattan Island to the twenty-first-century clearances more than one hundred miles (160.9 km) away, those with less social and political power are uprooted to ensure that those within New York City can consume water at rates far above any agreedupon human right. New York City is the most populous and most densely populated city in the United States. Its water system uses an amount of land totaling eighty-six times the square mileage of Manhattan Island, where the city began. The city advertises that its watersheds are “protected” lands with “recreation potential.” Ignored, however, are the histories of these same lands, the communities that struggle to remain there, and the archaeological sites that tell the stories of those who came before. If the city were to preserve the watershed ruins and interpret the histories contained within each parcel, the sacrifices necessary to ensure urban water would become apparent to consumers. A complete historical and archaeological survey of the New York City watershed could provide infrastructure engineers with information on how to minimize impacts of creating new reservoirs and how to develop green infrastructure, such as hydroelectric plants. The double threat of climate change and increasing populations worldwide means infrastructure projects will be expedited. The lessons of Olive and Kent might help us think of the long-term consequences of other infrastructure projects. Archaeology can be part of imagining a better future.

2

References

Adkins, Keith Josef. 2015. The People before the Park. Play. Dir. John J. Wooten. Premiere Stages at Kean University. AKRF Environmental and Planning Consultants. 2012. “Archaeological Assessment: Collect Pond Park Unanticipated Discoveries.” Prepared for the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation. http://s-media.nyc.gov/agencies/lpc/arch_reports/1473.pdf. Anonymous. 1871. Gazetteer and Business Directory of Ulster County, N.Y. for 1871–2. Printed at the Journal office. ———. 2012. “Boyd’s Genuine Porcelain Lined Cap.” Old Glass Bottles and Items of Antiquity, 17 October. Retrieved 14 April 2021 from http://oldglassbottles.blogspot.com/2012/10/ boyds-genuine-porcelain-lined-cap.html. ———. n.d. “The Sedgewood Club.” Retrieved 14 April 2021 from https://www.thesedgewood club.com/the-sedgewood-club/. ———. n.d. “Seven Hills Lake History of the Area.” Seven Hills Lake Property Owners Association. Retrieved 14 April 2021 from https://sevenhillslake.com/history.html. Associated Press. 2014. “Groups Discuss Detroit Water Shutoffs with UN Experts.” Detroit Free Press, 19 October. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from http://www.freep.com/story/news/local/ michigan/detroit/2014/10/19/detroit-water-shutoffs-united-nations/17585855/. ———. 2017. “A Timeline of the Water Crisis in Flint, Michigan.” 14 June. Retrieved 21 April 2021 from https://apnews.com/article/north-america-us-news-rick-snyder-mi-state-wi re-flint-1176657a4b0d468c8f35ddbb07f12bec. Baires, Sarah E. 2015. “The Role of Water in the Emergence of the Pre-Columbian Native American City Cahokia.” WIREs Water 2(5): 489–503. Barnes, Jodi A. 2011. “An Archaeology of Community Life: Appalachia, 1865–1920.” International Journal of Historical Archaeology 15(4): 669–706. Barton, Christopher P. 2021a. Introduction to Trowels in the Trenches: Archaeology as Social Activism, edited by Christopher P. Barton, 1–19. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. ———, ed. 2021b. Trowels in the Trenches: Archaeology as Social Activism. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Bayley, D. S. 2005. “Denning’s Point: History and Brick Works.” BrickCollecting.com, 27 June. Retrieved 14 April 2021 from http://brickcollecting.com/dennings.htm. Beers, F. W. 1867. Atlas of New York and Vicinity. New York: F. W. Beers, A.D. Ellis & G.C. Soulle. ———. 1875. County Atlas of Ulster New York from Recent and Actual Surveys and Records. New York: Walker & Jewett.

References

◆

107

Bilharz, Joy Ann. 1998. The Allegany Senecas and Kinzua Dam: Forced Relocation through Two Generations. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Bischoff-Mattsona, Zachary, Amanda H. Lynch, and Lee Joachim. 2018. “Justice, Science, or Collaboration: Divergent Perspectives on Indigenous Cultural Water in Australia’s Murray–Darling Basin.” Water Policy 20(2): 235–51. Blake, William J. 1849. The History of Putnam County, N.Y.: With an Enumeration of Its Towns, Villages, Rivers, Creeks, Lakes, Ponds, Mountains, Hills, and Geological Features: Local Traditions, and Short Biographical Sketches of Early Settlers, Etc. New York: Baker & Scribner. Blakey, Michael, and Lesley Rankin-Hill, eds. 2009. The New York African Burial Ground: Unearthing the African Presence in Colonial New York. Washington D.C.: Howard University Press in association with General Services Administration. Bloomberg Business News. 1996. “Anheuser Beers to Carry Freshness Dates.” New York Times, 28 March, sec. Business Day. Boelens, Rutgerd. 2015. Water, Power, and Identity: The Cultural Politics of Water in the Andes. London: Routledge. Boelens, Rutgerd, Tom Perreault, Jeroen Vos, and Cambridge EBA. 2018. Water Justice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Board of Water Supply, New York (NY). 1950. The Water Supply of the City of New York: A Volume Descriptive of Its Sources, Storage Reservoirs and Transportation, with Certain Construction Features of the Catskill, Delaware and Interconnected Water Supply Systems. Reproduction Section, Board of Water Supply. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://babel .hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015024011853&view=1up&seq=47. Boyd, William Philip. 1912. History of the Boyd Family and Descendants: With Historical Sketches of the Ancient Family of Boyd’s in Scotland from the Year 1200, and Those of Ireland from the Year 1680, with Records of Their Descendants in Kent, New Windsor, Albany, Middletown and Salem, N. Y., Boston, Mass., Northumberland County, Pa., and Sketches of Those from the Southern and Western States from 1740 to 1912. Rochester, NY: John P. Smith Printing Company. Buchli, Victor, and Gavin Lucas. 2001a. “The Absent Present: Archaeologies of the Contemporary Past.” In Archaeologies of the Contemporary Past, ed. Victor Buchli and Gavin Lucas, 3–18. London: Routledge. ———, eds. 2001b. Archaeologies of the Contemporary Past. London: Routledge. Burrows, Edwin G., and Mike Wallace. 1998. Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carey, Tobe, Artie Traum, Robbie Dupree, and Robb Webb. 2002. Deep Water: Building the Catskill Water System. Dir. Tobe Carey. Glenford, NY: Willow Mixed Media. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. 2020. “Water Use around the World.” Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 13 January. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.cdc .gov/globalhealth/infographics/food-water/water_use.htm. Christensen, Kim. 2010. “Archaeology and Activism of the Past and Present.” In Archaeologists as Activists: Can Archaeologists Change the World?, ed. M. Jay Stottman, 19–35. Tuscaloosa: University Alabama Press. Church, Jennifer. 2009. “Avoiding Further Conflict: A Case Study of the New York City Watershed Land Acquisition Program in Delaware County, NY.” Pace Environmental Law Review 27(1): 393–410. Clearwater, Alphonso Trumpbour. 1907. The History of Ulster County, New York. Kingston, NY: W. J. Van Deusen.

108

◆

References

Crossland, Zoë. 2003. “Towards an Archaeology of ‘Empty’ Space: The Efitra of the Middle West of Madagascar.” Michigan Discussions in Anthropology 14(1): 18–36. Davis, Elwyn, Florence Giuliano, and Gina Giuliano. 2014. The Diary of Elwyn Davis 1906– 1909. Self-published, CreateSpace. De León, Jason. 2015. The Land of Open Graves: Living and Dying on the Migrant Trail. Oakland: University of California Press. Dennis, Mary Kate, and Finn McLafferty Bell. 2020. “Indigenous Women, Water Protectors, and Reciprocal Responsibilities.” Social Work (New York) 65(4): 378–86. Duane, James Chatham, Edward L. Allen, and Alphonse Fteley. 1895. Report to the Aqueduct Commissioners. New York: Douglas Taylor & Company. Ellis, Jim, Adrian Parr, David Laidlaw, Michelle Daigle, Helen Knott, Tasha Hubbard, Nancy Tousley, Charles Tepperman, Ciara McKeown, and Jodi Hilty. 2018. Water Rites: Reimagining Water in the West. Calgary: University of Calgary Press. Estes, Nick. 2019. Our History Is the Future: Standing Rock versus the Dakota Access Pipeline, and the Long Tradition of Indigenous Resistance. London: Verso. Faber, Harold. 1990. “Viewing City Water, at Its Source.” New York Times, 4 November, sec. Life Style, section 1, 62. Fagan, Brian M. 2011. Elixir: A History of Water and Humankind. New York: Bloomsbury Press. Ferris, R. 1897. The Catskills. An Illustrated Handbook. Kingston, NY: Ferris Publication Co. https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/009560096. Finnegan, Michael C. 1997. “New York City’s Watershed Agreement: A Lesson in Sharing Responsibility.” Pace Environmental Law Review 14(2): 577–644. Fiske, Amos K. 1898. “Murray Hill and the Reservoir.” New York Times, 27 February. Fitchett, William J. 1906. Picturesque Catskill Mountain Summer Resorts; Select List of Hotels and Boarding Houses. New York: United States Resort Co. https://catalog.hathitrust.org/ Record/009588667. Foderaro, Lisa W. 2002. “‘Watery Graves’ Was No Figure of Speech: A Receding City Reservoir Reveals a Turbulent Past.” New York Times, 14 May, sec. Metro. Forbes, Allan, George D. Heron, and the Seneca Nation of New York. 1994. Lands of Our Ancestors. Dir. Allan Forbes, with the assistance of George Heron. Rochester, NY: Seneca Nation of Indians. Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct. 2009. “About the Friends.” Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct, 15 January. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://aqueduct.org/about-friends. Frillman, Karen. 2015. “Call the Mega-Plumbers: The World’s Longest Pipe Needs Fixing.” WNYC News, 16 June. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.wnyc.org/story/ call-mega-plumbers-fixing-longest-pipe-world-/. Gadsby, David A., and Jodi A. Barnes. 2010. “Activism as Archaeological Praxis: Engaging Communities with Archaeologies that Matter.” In Archaeologists as Activists: Can Archaeologists Change the World?, ed. M. Jay Stottman, 48–62. Tuscaloosa: University Alabama Press. Gallardo, Mayarí Castillo. 2016. “Socio-Ecological Inequality and Water Crisis: Views of Indigenous Communities in the Alto Loa Area.” Environmental Justice 9(1): 9–14. Gallt, Frank A. 1922. Picturesque Catskills. Catskill, NY: Catskill Mountain Resort Co. https:// catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/009582011. Galusha, Diane. 1999. Liquid Assets: A History of New York City’s Water System. Fleischmanns, NY: Purple Mountain Press. Gazin-Schwartz, Amy. 2008. “Abandoned, Avoided, Expelled: The Creation of ‘Empty’ Landscapes.” In Landscapes of Clearance: Archaeological and Anthropological Perspectives, ed. An-

References

◆

109

gèle Smith and Amy Gazin-Schwartz, 25–45. One World Archaeology Series 57. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Gibson, Campbell. 1998. “Population of the 100 Largest Cities and Other Urban Places in the United States: 1790 to 1990.” United States Census Bureau, June. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.census.gov/library/working-papers/1998/demo/POP-twps0027.html. Gilio-Whitaker, Dina. 2019. As Long as Grass Grows: The Indigenous Fight for Environmental Justice, from Colonization to Standing Rock. Boston: Beacon Press. González-Ruibal, Alfredo. 2006. “The Past Is Tomorrow: Towards an Archaeology of the Vanishing Present.” Norwegian Archaeological Review 39(2): 110–25. Gross, Eric. 1988. “Boyd’s Dam Scheduled for Repair.” Putnam County Courier, 6 July. Guernsey, Brenda. 2008. “Constructing the Wilderness and Clearing the Landscape: A Legacy of Colonialism in Northern British Columbia.” In Landscapes of Clearance: Archaeological and Anthropological Perspectives, ed. Angèle Smith and Amy Gazin-Schwartz, 112–23. One World Archaeology Series 57. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Guillen, Joe. 2014. “Detroit City Council Approves 8.7 percent Water Rate Increase.” Detroit Free Press. Retrieved 17 June 2022 from https://web.archive.org/web/2022070118 4001/https://www.news4jax.com/news/2014/06/17/detroit-city-council-approves87-water-rate-increase/. Halperin, Christina T., Jean-Baptiste Le Moine, and Enrique Pérez Zambrano. 2019. “Infrastructures of Moving Water at the Maya Site of Ucanal, Petén, Guatemala.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 56(December): 101102. https://doi.org/10/gjskj3. Harris, Oliver J. T., and Craig N. Cipolla. 2017. Archaeological Theory in the New Millennium: Introducing Current Perspectives. London: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. Hartwig, Lana D., Sue Jackson, Francis Markham, and Natalie Osborne. 2021. “Water Colonialism and Indigenous Water Justice in South-Eastern Australia.” International Journal of Water Resources Development 38(1): 30–63. https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.10 80/07900627.2020.1868980. Heckscher, Morrison H. 2008. Creating Central Park. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Herring, James, and James B. Longacre. 1835. The National Portrait Gallery of Distinguished Americans, vol. 2. New York: Monson Bancroft. Hodder, Ian. 2012. Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Hoffman, Joan. 2005 “Economic Stratification and Environmental Management: A Case Study of the New York City Catskill/Delaware Watershed.” Environmental Values 14(4): 447–70. ———. 2008. “Watershed Shift: Collaboration and Employers in the New York City Catskill/ Delaware Watershed from 1990–2003.” Ecological Economics 68(1): 141–61. ———. 2010. The Cooperation Challenge of Economics and the Protection of Water Supplies: A Case Study of the New York City Watershed Collaboration. London: Taylor & Francis. Horning, Audrey. 2019. “Removal and Remembering: Archaeology and the Legacies of Displacement in Southern Appalachia.” In The Archaeology of Removal in North America, ed. Terrance M. Weik, 127–56. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Hudson New York Daily. 1878. “Annual Scare.” Hudson New York Daily. 12 September. Hursey, Leigh. 1995. “Once-Bustling Putnam Hamlet a Victim of Progress.” Poughkeepsie Journal, 4 January. Ingen, W. B. Van. 1923. “Landscape Illusions of Central Park: How Imagination’s Aid Was Artfully Invited.” New York Times Magazine, 18 May.

110

◆

References

Ingersoll, Ernest. 1877. “At the Gateway of the Catskills.” Harper’s New Monthly Magazine. May. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from http://catskillarchive.com/gateway/index.htm. Jackson, Sue E. 2015. “The Cultural Politics of Environmental Water Management in Australia.” WIT Transactions on Ecology and the Environment 200: 29–41. Jackson, Sue, and Marcus Barber. 2013. “Recognition of Indigenous Water Values in Australia’s Northern Territory: Current Progress and Ongoing Challenges for Social Justice in Water Planning.” Planning Theory & Practice 14(4): 435–54. Jaworowski, Ken. 2015. “Review: ‘The People before the Park,’ a Family Clash Rich in New York History.” New York Times, 10 September. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www .nytimes.com/2015/09/13/nyregion/review-the-people-before-the-park-a-family-clashrich-in-new-york-history.html. Johnson, Katharine M., Timothy H. Ives, William B. Ouimet, and Sarah P. Sportman. 2021. “High-Resolution Airborne Light Detection and Ranging Data, Ethics and Archaeology: Considerations from the Northeastern United States.” Archaeological Prospection 28(3): 293–303. https://doi.org/10/gmn77r. Jones, Wendy N., Adam J. Nagourney, and E. J. McMahon. 1978. “Putnam Homes Imperiled by Danger Dam.” Herald Statesman, 24 August. Joyce, Rosemary A., and Robert W. Preucel. 2002. “Writing the Field of Archaeology.” In The Languages of Archaeology: Dialogue, Narrative, and Writing, ed. Rosemary A. Joyce, 18–38. Oxford: Blackwell. Kilgannon, Corey. 2001. “Putnam’s Mysterious Chambers of Stone.” New York Times, Late Edition (East Coast). 22 April, sec. 14WC. Kingston Daily Freeman. 1905. “Commissioners in the Catskills.” Kingston Daily Freeman, 5 August. ———. 1907. “Church Claims Damages.” Kingston Daily Freeman, 23 September. ———. 1912a. “Don’t Want Money.” Kingston Daily Freeman, 25 May. ———. 1912b. “New Ashokan M. E. Church.” Kingston Daily Freeman, 15 April. Klassen, Sarah, and Damian Evans. 2020. “Top-Down and Bottom-Up Water Management: A Diachronic Model of Changing Water Management Strategies at Angkor, Cambodia.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 58 ( June): 101166. Koeppel, Gerard T. 2000. Water for Gotham: A History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kurnick, Sarah. 2019. “Creating Nature in the Yucatan Peninsula: Social Inequality and the Production of Eco-Archaeological Parks.” American Anthropologist 121(2): 376–89. LaRoche, Cheryl J., and Michael L. Blakey. 1997. “Seizing Intellectual Power: The Dialogue at the New York African Burial Ground.” Historical Archaeology 31(3): 84–106. Lee, Denny. 2005. “Deer Roam, But Hunters May Not Tread.” New York Times, 16 December, sec. Escapes. Loftin, A. J. 2008. “The Creation of the Ashokan Reservoir Changed the Catskills Forever.’” Hudson Valley Magazine. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from http://www.hvmag.com/HudsonValley-Magazine/August-2008/History-The-Ashokan-Reservoir/. Lovejoy, Bess. 2015. “10 Drowned Towns You Can Visit.” Mental Floss, 29 July. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/66680/10-drowned-towns-youcan-visit. Martin, Douglas. 1995. “Before Park, Black Village: Students Look into a Community’s History; A Black Village That Gave Way to Central Park.” New York Times, 7 April, sec. Metro.

References

◆

111

Matthews, Christopher N. 2021. “‘Free for the Taking’: Archaeology and Environmental Justice in Setauket, New York.” In Trowels in the Trenches: Archaeology as Social Activism, ed. Christopher P. Barton, 185–210. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Mayor’s Catskill Aqueduct Celebration Committee. 1917. The Catskill Aqueduct and Earlier Water Supplies of the City of New York: With Elementary Chapters on the Source and Uses of Water and the Building of Aqueducts, and an Outline for an Allegorical Pageant. New York: The Mayor’s Catskill Aqueduct Celebration Committee. McGloughlin, Kate. 2017. Requiem for Ashokan: The Story Told in Landscape. Olivebridge, NY: Davis Corners Press. McGregor, Deborah. 2013. “Indigenous Women, Water Justice, and Zaagidowin (Love).” Canadian Woman Studies 30(2–3): 71–78. McLean, Jess. 2007. “Water Injustices and Potential Remedies in Indigenous Rural Contexts: A Water Justice Analysis.” The Environmentalist 27(1): 25–38. Milne, Claudia. 2002. “On the Grounds of the Fresh Water Pond: The Free-Black Community at Five Points, 1810–1834.” International Journal of Historical Archaeology 6(2): 127–42. Mitchell, F. M. 2019. “Water (in)Security and American Indian Health: Social and Environmental Justice Implications for Policy, Practice, and Research.” Public Health (London) 176: 98–105. Mithen, Steven J., and Sue Mithen. 2012. Thirst: Water and Power in the Ancient World. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Munroe, Kirk. 1883. Summer in the Catskill Mountains. New York: West Shore and Buffalo Railway Co. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/011213082. Muscarella, Richard A. n.d. Kent Town History. Putnam County archives, Brewster, NY. National Park Service. n.d. “Virtual Museum: Lake Mead National Recreation Area.” Retrieved 4 July 2021 from https://www.nps.gov/features/lake/museum/historic-st-thomas .html#gentry-hotel-001. Nesson, Fern L. 1983. Great Waters: A History of Boston’s Water Supply. Hanover, MA: Published for Brandeis University by University Press of New England. New York City. 2022. “1790–2000 NYC Historical and Foreign Born Population.” NYC.Gov, 2022. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www1.nyc.gov/assets/planning/download/ pdf/data-maps/nyc-population/historical-population/1790-2000_nyc_total_foreign_ birth.pdf. New York City Board of Aldermen. 1878. Documents of the Board of Aldermen of the City of New York. New York: The Board. New York City Board of Health. 1899. Ninth Annual Report of the Board of Health of New York. Albany, NY: Troy Press Company. New York City Department of Environmental Protection (NYCDEP). 2009. “Long-Term Land Acquisition Plan: 2012–2022.” NYCDEP Bureau of Water Supply, Division of Watershed Lands & Community Planning, 30 September. ———. 2010. “Final Environmental Impact Statement (EIS): The Extended New York City Watershed Land Acquisition Program.” 10 December. ———, Bureau of Water Supply. 2019. “Land Acquisition Program Semi-Annual Report.” July. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www1.nyc.gov/assets/dep/downloads/pdf/about/fil tration-avoidance-determination/fad_4.2_lap_semiannual_07-19.pdf. ———. 2021. “§ 16-13 Regulated Activities” and “§ 16-14 Prohibitions.” Chapter 16: “NYC DEP Rules for the Recreational Use of City Property.” The Rules of the City of New York.

112

◆

References

30 July. American Legal Publishing Corporation. Retrieved 12 July 2021 from https://code library.amlegal.com/codes/newyorkcity/latest/NYCrules/0-0-0-25906. ———. n.d. “Extended New York City Watershed Land Acquisition Program.” Retrieved 14 April 2021 from https://www1.nyc.gov/site/dep/about/extended-nyc-watershed-land-ac quisition-program.page. New York City Department of Public Works. 1893. Report of the Department of Public Works of the City of New York for the Quarter Ending March 31, 1893. New York: Martin B. Brown, Printer and Stationer. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.google.com/books/ edition/_/0RYwAQAAMAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1. New York Daily Times. 1853. “The Central Park.” New York Daily Times, 19 September. New York State. 1818. Laws of the State of New-York, Passed at the Thirty-Ninth, Fortieth and Forty-First Sessions of the Legislature, Commencing January 1816 and Ending April 1818, vol. 4. New York: William Gould & Company. ———. 1821. Laws of the State of New-York, Passed at the Forty-Second, Forty-Third and FortyFourth Sessions of the Legislature: From January 1819 to April 1821, vol. 5. New York: William Gould & Company. ———. 1827. Laws of the State of New York Passed at the Fiftieth Session of the Legislature, Begun and Held at the City of Albany. Albany, NY: E. Croswell, Printer. ———. 1836. Journal of the Senate of the State of New York at Their Fifty-Ninth Session, Begun and Held at the Capital, in the City of Albany. Albany, NY: K. Croswell, Printer. New York State Office of Information Technology Services. 2022. “Water Consumption in the City of New York.” Open NY. Retrieved 5 February 2022 from https://data.ny.gov/ widgets/ia2d-e54m. New York Times. 1868. “Our Water Supply: Where the Croton Comes from––Our City Reservoir—The New Storage Reservoir in the Croton Valley—Its Construction and Progress of the Work—Its Cost—When It Will Be Finished.” New York Times, 24 August. ———. 1928. “Putnam County Farms Giving Way to Country Estates.” New York Times, 7 October, sec. Real Estate. ———. 1931. “Court Allows Sale of Ashokan Reservoir: Justice Staley, Denying Injunction for City, Approves Ulster Procedure on Unpaid Taxes.” New York Times, 15 March, sec. Second News Section. ———. 1938. “Reports Small-Farm Demand.” New York Times, 8 May, sec. Real Estate. ———. 1939. “Gebing Heads Putnam Board.” New York Times, 18 November. ———. 1951. “Mildred Bailey: Singer of Blues: Noted Entertainer Succumbs to Heart Ailment Won Fame with ‘Old Rockin’ Chair’ Big Name in Field Discovered in 1929.” New York Times, 13 December. ———. 1964. “William L. Less, a Stockbroker.” New York Times, 13 August. ———. 1985. “The Rain—and the Pain.” New York Times, 14 July, sec. Week in Review. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.nytimes.com/1985/07/14/weekinreview/therain-and-the-pain.html. Nikolakis, William, and R. Quentin Grafton. 2014. “Fairness and Justice in Indigenous Water Allocations: Insights from Northern Australia.” Water Policy 16(S2): 19–35. Norman, Emma S. 2017. “Standing Up for Inherent Rights: The Role of Indigenous-Led Activism in Protecting Sacred Waters and Ways of Life.” Society & Natural Resources 30(4): 537–53. ———. 2018. “Toward a Global Water Ethic: Learning from Indigenous Communities.” Ethics & International Affairs 32(2): 237–47.

References

◆

113

“NYC’s Reservoir System.” n.d. City of New York. Retrieved 14 April 2021 from http://www .nyc.gov/html/nycwater/html/drinking/reservoir.shtml. O’Connell, Margaret F. 1975. “Potter’s Field Has Found a Resting Place at Last.” New York Times, 31 August. https://www.nytimes.com/1975/08/31/archives/potters-field-has-fou nd-a-resting-place-at-last-a-resting-place-for.html. Onondaga Nation. 2014. “The Canandaigua Treaty of 1794.” Onondaga Nation, 23 February. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.onondaganation.org/government/thecanandaigua-treaty-of-1794/. Orser, Charles E. 2019. “The Janus Face of Removal.” In The Archaeology of Removal in North America, ed. Terrance M. Weik, 216–25. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Oser, Alan S. 1977. “About Real Estate: Kittredge Grounds Opened for New Development.” New York Times, 23 February, sec. Business & Finance. Palladium Times. 1978. “Avert Dam Burst Threat.” Palladium Times, 1 September. Park, Roswell. 1836. Selections of Juvenile and Miscellaneous Poems: Written or Translated. Philadelphia, PA: Desilver, Thomas & Company. Perry, Adele. 2016. Aqueduct. Winnipeg: ARP Books. Pfeiffer, Mary Beth. 1989. “Water Works, and Wars.” New York Times, 4 March, sec. The Arts. Pollak, Michael. 1995. “Stone Chambers Silent on Their Makers.” New York Times, Late Edition (East Coast), 16 July, sec. 13WC. Prevost, Lisa. 1998. “If You’re Thinking of Living in Kent, N.Y.; Rustic, Rugged Yet a Workable Commute.” New York Times (Online), 25 January. https://www.nytimes.com/1998/01/ 25/realestate/if-you-re-thinking-of-living-in-kent-ny-rustic-rugged-yet-a-workable-com mute.html Putnam County Courier. 1864. “Local Sketches.” Putnam County Courier, 21 May. ———. 1927. “History and Condition of Boyd’s Dam at Kent Cliffs.” Putnam County Courier, 3 August. ———. 1928. “Residents Protest Lowering of Boyd’s Reservoir.” Putnam County Courier, 10 August. ———. 1978a. “Supervisors Vote to Sue NYC for $50,000,000 Damages.” Putnam County Courier, 4 October. ———. 1978b. “Bruen Urges Supervisors to Reconsider Law Suit.” Putnam County Courier. 11 October. ———. 1980a. “City Planning to Restore Boyds Corner Reservoir.” Putnam County Courier, 2 July. ———. 1980b. “Suspicious Fire Destroys the Clubhouse at Sedgewood.” Putnam County Courier, 13 August. Rathje, William L., and Cullen Murphy. 2001. Rubbish! The Archaeology of Garbage. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Reinhardt, Bob. 2020. “Directory of Drowned Towns.” The Atlas of Drowned Towns, 31 May. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://drownedtowns.com/directory-of-drowned-towns/. Risinit, Michael. 2002. “NYC May Not Have to Build a Filter Plant.” Journal News, 25 May. Robinson, Henry 1897. A. Local Taxation as Affecting Farms. U.S. Department of Agriculture Circular 5. Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office. Robison, Jason, Barbara Cosens, Sue Jackson, Kelsey Leonard, and Daniel McCool. 2018. “Indigenous Water Justice.” Lewis & Clark Law Review 22(3): 841–921. Rosenzweig, Roy, and Elizabeth Blackmar. 1992. The Park and the People: A History of Central Park. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

114

◆

References

Rowe, Claudia. 2003. “In Catskills Town, Big City’s Influence.” New York Times, 14 September, sec. Metro. Rusk, Samuel E. 1879. An Illustrated Guide to the Catskill Mountains, with Maps and Plans. Catskill, NY: S. E. Ruck. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://catalog.hathitrust.org/ Record/011206380. Scham, S. A. 2001. “The Archaeology of the Disenfranchised.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 8(2): 183–213. “Seneca Village Project.” n.d. Retrieved 14 April 2021from http://projects.mcah.columbia .edu/seneca_village/. Sickler, Vera Van Steenbergh. 1973. History of the Town of Olive, 1823–1973. Self-published, V. Van Steenbergh. ———. 1979. The Town of Olive through the Years: Part Two. New York: Smith Printing. ———. n.d. “Tragic Happenings in the Town of Olive during the Building of the Ashokan Reservoir.” Sims, N. A. (1894) 1912. The Catskill Mountains: The Most Picturesque Mountain Region on the Globe. All Points in This Great Health and Pleasure Resort Reached by the Ulster and Delaware Railroad. Kingston, NY: Press of the Kingston Freeman. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://hdl.handle.net/2027/loc.ark:/13960/t9r21kj2b. Smith, Angèle P. 2008. “Landscapes of Clearance: Archaeological and Anthropological Perspective.” In Landscapes of Clearance: Archaeological and Anthropological Perspectives, ed. Angèle Smith and Amy Gazin-Schwartz, 13–24. One World Archaeology Series 57. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Smith, Angèle, and Amy Gazin-Schwartz, eds. 2008. Landscapes of Clearance: Archaeological and Anthropological Perspectives. One World Archaeology Series 57. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Snow, Violet. 2019. “Owners of Boiceville Properties Try to Choose between Relocation and Floodproofing.” Hudson Valley One. 5 January, sec. Politics & Government. https:// hudsonvalleyone.com/2019/01/05/owners-of-boiceville-properties-try-to-choose-betw een-relocation-and-floodproofing/. Soll, David. 2013. Empire of Water: An Environmental and Political History of the New York City Water Supply. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Solomon, Steven. 2010. Water: The Epic Struggle for Wealth, Power, and Civilization. New York: Harper. Southard, Lukas. 2021. “Ashokan Hydroelectric Plan Foiled—for Now.” Times Union (Albany, NY), 12 April, sec. News. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.timesunion.com/ hudsonvalley/news/article/Ashokan-Reservoir-hydroelectric-plant-plans-move-160941 07.php. Spewack, Danny. 2016. “Seneca Nation Joins North Dakota Protests.” WGRZ, 24 September. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.wgrz.com/article/news/seneca-nation-jo ins-north-dakota-protests/32511526 Steuding, Bob. 1989. The Last of the Handmade Dams: The Story of the Ashokan Reservoir. Rev. ed. Fleischmanns, NY: Purple Mountain Press. Stoler, Ann Laura. 2008. “Imperial Debris: Reflections on Ruins and Ruination.” Cultural Anthropology 23(2): 191–219. Stottman, M. Jay, ed. 2010. Archaeologists as Activists: Can Archaeologists Change the World? Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press.

References

◆

115

Stradling, David. 2009. Making Mountains: New York City and the Catskills. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Sulas, Federica, Marco Madella, and Charles French. 2009. “State Formation and Water Resources Management in the Horn of Africa: The Aksumite Kingdom of the Northern Ethiopian Highlands.” World Archaeology 41, no. 1: 2–15. https://doi.org/10/dprk8w. Thorson, Robert M. 2005. Exploring Stone Walls: A Field Guide to Stone Walls. New York: Walker & Company. United Nations. 2019. “Growing at a Slower Pace, World Population Is Expected to Reach 9.7 Billion in 2050 and Could Peak at Nearly 11 Billion around 2100,” UN DESA (United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs), 17 June. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.un.org/development/desa/en/news/population/world-population-pros pects-2019.html. United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs. 2015. “International Decade for Action ‘Water for Life’ 2005–2015. Focus Areas: The Human Right to Water and Sanitation.” Retrieved 21 April 2021 from https://www.un.org/waterforlifedecade/human_ right_to_water.shtml. United States. 2010. “Nonpopulation Census Schedules for New York, 1850–1880.” Documents and Digital Collections. Albany, NY: New York State Library. United States Congress. 1830. Journal of the House of Representatives of the United States, Being the Second Session of the Twenty-First Congress, Begun and Held at the City of Washington, December 6, 1830. Washington, DC: Printed by Duff Green. United States Environmental Protection Agency. 1997. “New York City Filtration Avoidance Determination.” May. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://archive.epa.gov/region02/wa ter/nycshed/web/pdf/fadtxt97.pdf. United States Geological Survey. 2022. “What Is Lidar Data and Where Can I Download It?” USGS. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.usgs.gov/faqs/what-lidar-data-andwhere-can-i-download-it. Van Dyke, Ruth M., and Susan E. Alcock, eds. 2003. Archaeologies of Memory. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Walker, Savannah Waring. 2014. “Kent, N.Y.: There’s Something about the Water.” New York Times (Online), 6 August. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://www.nytimes .com/2014/08/10/realestate/kent-ny-theres-something-about-the-water.html. Wall, Diana diZerega. 2001. “Afterword: Becoming New York: The Five Points Neighborhood.” Historical Archaeology 35(3): 133–35. Wall, Diana diZerega, and Nan A. Rothschild. 2004. “The Seneca Village Project: Studying a 19th-Century African American Community in Contemporary New York City.” SAA Archaeological Record 4(4): 33–35. Wall, Diana diZerega, Nan A. Rothschild, and Cynthia Copeland. 2008. “Seneca Village and Little Africa: Two African American Communities in Antebellum New York City.” Historical Archaeology 42(1): 97–107. Wall, Diana diZerega, Nan A. Rothschild, Cynthia Copeland, and Herbert Seignoret. 2004. “The Seneca Village Project: Working with Modern Communities in Creating the Past.” In Places in Mind: Public Archaeology as Applied Anthropology, ed. Paul A. Shackel and Erve J. Chambers, 101–17. New York: Routledge. Wakeham, Pauline. 2008. Taxidermic Signs: Reconstructing Aboriginality. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

116

◆

References

Weik, Terrance M., ed. 2019a. The Archaeology of Removal in North America. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. ———. 2019b. “Introduction: Anthropological, Theoretical, and Historical Contexts of Removal.” In The Archaeology of Removal in North America, ed. Terrance M. Weik, 1–18. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Weldon, Marie. 1905. “Frocks of the Season.” New York Times, Part Three Magazine Section. White, Lazarus. 1913. The Catskill Water Supply of New York City: History, Location, Sub-Surface Investigations and Construction. New York: Wiley. Wikipedia. 2020. “List of Flooded Towns in the United States.” Wikipedia, 20 December. Retrieved 6 June 2022 from https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=List_of _flooded_towns_in_the_United_States&oldid=995277576. Wilson, Nicole J. 2020. “Querying Water Co-Governance: Yukon First Nations and Water Governance in the Context of Modern Land Claim Agreements.” Water Alternatives 13(1): 93–118. Woods, Rene, Ian Woods, and James A. Fitzsimons. 2021. “Water and Land Justice for Indigenous Communities in the Lowbidgee Floodplain of the Murray-Darling Basin, Australia.” International Journal of Water Resources Development 38(1): 64–79. https://www.tandfo nline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/07900627.2020.1867520. Yamin, Rebecca. 1998. “Lurid Tales and Homely Stories of New York’s Notorious Five Points.” Historical Archaeology 32(1): 74–85. ———. 2001. “From Tanning to Tea: The Evolution of a Neighborhood.” Historical Archaeology 35(3): 6–15. Zanotti, Laura. 2015. “Water and Life: Hydroelectric Development and Indigenous Pathways to Justice in the Brazilian Amazon.” Politics, Groups & Identities 3(4): 666–72.

2

Index

Adkins, Keith Josef, 9, 31 African American communities: around Collect Pond, 12, 26–27; displacement of communities and, 8–9, 12, 23–24; erasure of land ownership and, 12, 23; invisibility in historical accounts, 27–28; Seneca Village community, 8, 12, 29; York Hill (Yorkville), 29 African Burial Ground, 27–28 agency, 16–17, 100–1 Appalachian Trail Archaeological Heritage Project, 23 Archaeological Theory in the New Millennium (Harris and Cipolla), 15 Archaeologies of the Contemporary Past (Buchli and Lucas), 13 Archaeologists as Activists (Stottman), 22–23 archaeology: activism and, 22–25, 38, 100, 103; agency and entanglements in, 16–17, 100–1; cultural resource management (CRM) and, 13–14; culture history and, 15–16, 104; GIS use and, 37, 79, 82; landscape clearance and, 11; LiDAR imagery and, 16, 52, 62–63, 85, 90; method and theory, 15–16, 25, 100, 103–4; past and present in, 6–7, 12–14, 23, 104; political power and, 7, 100–1; postprocessual, 15–17; remains of disenfranchised people, 14, 29, 103; social justice and, 23, 104 Archaeology of Removal in North America, The (Weik), 18, 23 Ashokan, 74, 80, 86, 90, 93 Ashokan Brook, 90

Ashokan ME Church, 74 Ashokan Reservoir: construction of, 8, 12, 39, 66, 73–76, 83, 94, 102; control of activities around, 78, 89; DEP lands around, 12, 91f; displacement of communities and, 4, 9f, 10f, 66, 74–77, 82, 85–86, 93–94, 98–99; drought and, 77–78; land acquisition and, 35, 39, 84f, 89–90; map of, 67f; McClellan Bill and, 73; rebuilding of Olive community around, 85–89, 99; submerged communities and, 79–80, 81f, 82, 85, 94–95; undercompensation of displaced and, 75–76, 85, 94, 99 Ashton, 80 Atlas of Drowned Towns, 3 Bailey, Mildred, 47, 65 Barnes, Jodi, 24 Barton, Christopher P., 24 Bell, Abram, 89 Bell, R., 89 Bilharz, Joy, 102 Bishop, Jacob, 68 Bishop Falls, 94 Blackmar, Elizabeth, 30 Blakey, Michael, 27 Blue Ridge Mountains, 23–24 Boice, John I., 82 Boice, Zadoc P., 73 Boiceville, 66, 70, 73–74, 78–80, 90, 92, 94 Boston, Mass., 3, 102 Boyd, Ebenezer, 42, 44 Boyd, Mary, 44

118

◆

Index

Boyd’s Corner North: agricultural history of, 57–59, 60f; archaeology of, 55–59; DEP recreation area program and, 55, 58–59; Parker Cemetery and, 55–57; stone chambers in, 59, 60f Boyd’s Corner Reservoir: cemetery displacement and, 44, 46, 98; construction of, 8, 12, 40, 44, 64; displacement of community and, 4, 39, 44, 98; draining of, 47–49; map of, 41f, 43f; reconstruction of, 49; regulation of land use around, 46–47; White Pond and, 45, 58 Boyd’s Corner South: agricultural history of, 64–65; archaeology of, 61–64; DEP recreation area program and, 59; Kittredge family mansion and, 60, 62–63, 65; Kudney Hill and, 59–63, 65; stone walls in, 61, 64–65 Brodhead, 74, 80, 90, 94 Brodhead’s Bridge, 70, 72 Brown, William H., 45 Brown’s Station, 70, 72–73, 80, 94 Bryant Park, 30, 38, 97 Buchli, Victor, 13, 104 Burr, Aaron, 28 Bushkill Creek, 83, 92 Butternut Creek, 87 Cannonsville Reservoir, 32 Carey, Tobe, 74 Carmel, 42, 45, 47 Carmel Country Club, 46, 61–63 Cary Brick Company, 62 Catskill Aqueduct, 73 Catskill Mountains, 68–70, 71f, 72–73 Catskill State Park, 9 Catskill watershed, 8–9, 32–33, 35, 69, 73 cemeteries: African Burial Ground, 27–28; displacement of, 2, 4, 27–29, 32, 40, 44, 46, 56, 76, 83, 94, 98, 102–3; Indigenous communities and, 102; Murray Hill, 29; Parker family, 55–58, 64; Ward’s Island, 29; watershed communities and, 2, 4, 17, 103 Central Park: displacement of communities and, 8, 12, 29–31; marginalized communities around, 12, 30–31; reservoir

construction and, 29–31, 38, 97; Seneca Village and, 12, 29–31, 38 China Pond, 45, 59, 65 Cipolla, Craig N., 15–17 Clean Air Act of 1970, 32 Clean Water Act of 1972, 32 Clearwater, Alphonso Trumpbour, 72 climate change, 2, 5, 11, 100, 105 Cold Brook, 70, 73 Cole, Mary, 83 Cole’s Mills, 42, 43f, 45–46, 59 Collect Pond: African American communities around, 12, 26–27; city water in, 26, 38; displacement of communities near, 12, 27–28; filling in of, 27–28; marginalized communities around, 26–28; water pollution and, 26, 97 community displacement: archaeological perspective on, 11–12; Central Park and, 8–9, 12, 27–28; compensation and, 7–8; Indigenous people and, 101–2; NYC water system and, 2–4, 11; reservoir construction and, 3–4, 4t, 7–8, 30–32, 101–2; trauma and, 66, 74–77, 86, 94; urban water systems and, 2–4, 7, 12. See also Kent; landscape clearance; Olive Cooperation Challenge of Economics and the Protection of Water Supplies, The (Hoffman), 36 Copeland, Cynthia, 8 Crandall, Orrin P., 82 Crispell, Jacob, 86–87 Crispell, Martin H., 72 Croton Aqueduct Commission, 44 Croton Dam and Reservoir, 12, 29–32 Croton Watershed, xiv, 29, 31–33 cultural resource management (CRM), 13–14 Curry, James, 64 Davis, Elwyn, 68, 75, 86, 87f, 88 Davis, John, 86 Davis, Mrs. Chase, 83, 86 Davis, William F., 69 Davis Corners, 80, 82 Davis family, 80, 85–86, 87f Deep Water (2005), 74

Index Delaware Aqueduct, 59 Delaware watershed, 32–33 De León, Jason, 20 DEP. See Department of Environmental Protection (DEP) Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC), 24, 90, 91f, 92–93 Department of Environmental Protection (DEP): flood buyout program and, 78–79, 98; inaccessibility of public lands, 21, 21f, 22, 37, 89–90, 92–93; land-use rules and, 50–51, 53; logging by, 100; mapping of watershed areas, 21; monitoring of water pollution, 45–46, 49; police presence in watershed communities, 51, 66, 78; recreation area program and, 12, 21, 21f, 37, 58–59, 87, 90, 92; vacant land discourse, 10, 35, 38, 64, 94 Detroit, Michigan, 6 Diary of Elwyn Davis, The, 75 DuBois, Conrad, 68 Eckert, C., 92–93 Elmendorf family cemetery, 90 eminent domain, 18–19, 30–31, 35, 38, 104 Empire of Water (Soll), 7, 77 entanglements, 16–17 environment: archaeological activism and, 23–24; impact of development on, 24–25; impact of urban infrastructure on, 32–33; land taking justified as protection of, 38, 40, 103; processual interpretations and, 15; ruination and, 19 environmental justice, 23–25 Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), 4–5, 33 Esopus Creek, 68–69, 72–73, 76, 83 Evans, Damian, 8 Farmer’s Mills (Milltown), 42, 43f, 44–46, 55 Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC), 68 Ferretti, Alec, 56 Finding of No Significant Impact (FONSI), 33 Flint, Michigan, 6

◆

119

Frederick’s Town, 42 Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct, 32 Galusha, Diane, 7 Gazin-Schwartz, Amy, 18 Gebing, Herbert J., 47 geographic information system (GIS), 37, 79, 82 Glenford Church, 74 González-Ruibal, Alfredo, 12 Haight, Joseph, 44 Hall, Maude, 47 Harris, Oliver J. T., 15–17 Hill, Andrew, 69 History of Putnam County, The (Blake), 55, 58 History of the Town of Olive 1823–1973 (Sickler), 69 History of Ulster County, The (Clearwater), 68 Hoffman, Joan, 36 Hopkins, William A., 45, 63–65 Horning, Audrey, 24 Hover, Herbert, 69 Hudson River, 8, 32, 38, 68–70, 73 Hudson River Pulp Works, 72 Hurley, 8, 70, 72–74, 80, 82 Hyatt, A., 46 Illiano, Ed, 57–58 Indigenous communities, 20, 24, 101–2 infrastructure development: climate change and, 2, 5; displacement of communities and, 2–4, 94; environmental impact of, 32–33; submerged communities and, 80, 82–83, 85; urban water systems and, 102; vacant land discourse and, 68 Kennedy, John F., 102 Kent: agricultural history of, 45, 50–51, 59, 64, 69, 98; archaeology of city-owned lands, 49–53, 65, 99; dairy farming in, 45–46, 52f; DEP police presence in, 78; as destination for NYC elites, 47, 49, 64, 98; erasure of the past in, 98; founding of, 42; freshwater supplies in, 44–45, 64; impact of urban infrastructure on, 64–65; land clearances in, 46–47, 98; map of, xiv,

120

◆

Index

41f; NYC land acquisition and, 35, 44, 47, 49, 64, 89; recreation area program and, 12, 37; regulation of land use and, 40, 45–46, 49, 65, 98; reliance on NYC, 48–49; reservoir construction and, 8–9, 12, 39–40, 44–45, 64, 98; stone walls and chambers in, 50, 52, 59, 60f, 61, 64. See also Boyd’s Corner Reservoir Kent, David, 52f, 53, 55, 58, 64 Kent, Elisha, 42 Kent, James, 42, 55, 64 Kent, James (son of David), 55 Kent, Wellington, 55 Kent Cliffs, 46–48 Kent Community Association, 48 Kent Hills, 51–53, 54f, 55, 59 Kent Historical Society, 57 Kingston, 70, 73 Kingston and Middletown Turnpike, 68 Kinzua Dam and Reservoir, 3, 101–2 Kittredge family, 46, 60, 62, 65, 99 Klassen, Sarah, 8 Koch, Ed, 77 Koeppel, Gerard T., 7, 26 Kudney Hill, 59–63, 65 Kurnick, Sarah, 20 Ladew, Rebecca, 83 land acquisition: compensation and, 8, 18, 31, 35, 75–76, 94; eminent domain and, 18– 19, 30–31, 35, 38; impact on watershed communities, 34–36, 49, 79; protected areas and, 34–35; reservoir construction and, 4–5, 10, 29–31, 33–35 Land Acquisition Program (LAP): acquisition priority levels and, 35, 89–90, 91f, 92–93; archaeological survey of watershed lands, 36–38, 85; filtration avoidance plan and, 5, 35; impact on property values, 35–36; inaccessible public access lands and, 21, 21f, 22, 37, 89–90, 92–93; NYCFFBO and, 98; NYC land acquisition and, 35–38, 49, 98; Olive properties and, 86, 87f, 88–89; recreation area program and, 10, 34–35, 37–38; vacant land discourse, 10, 38, 64, 94, 98

landscape clearance: archaeological perspective on, 11, 18, 104; differential rights and, 8, 12, 20, 23, 101, 105; disconnection from community heritage and, 74, 94; forced, 18–19, 104; national parks and, 24; political order and, 8, 19–20; reservoir construction and, 18–20, 98; resistance to, 19; ruination and, 8, 10, 10f, 11–12, 16, 18–20, 50, 94, 98–100; trauma and, 18–19, 94, 102; wilderness areas and, 20–21. See also community displacement landscapes: abandoned, 6, 18–19; agency and entanglements in, 16–17; avoided, 18–19; colonialism and, 20; expelled, 18–20, 23–24, 104; forest encroachment on oncecleared, 50, 61, 65; as places of meaning, 15, 18–19, 104; ruination and, 11, 19–20; virgin woodland mythology, 36–37, 50, 58, 61, 64–65, 94, 99; as wilderness, 19–21, 23–24, 37, 73, 98 Landscapes of Clearance (Smith and GazinSchwartz), 18 Lane, John W., 82 LAP. See Land Acquisition Program (LAP) Last of the Handmade Dams, The (Steuding), 7, 74, 77 Lee, Elsie Jane, 56–57 Less, William, 63 LiDAR imagery, 16, 52–53, 63, 85, 90 Light, Moseman, 59 Light, Sarah Jane, 56 Liquid Assets (Galusha), 7 Lucas, Gavin, 13, 104 Ludington, Frederick, 42 Ludingtonville, 42, 46 Making Mountains (Stradling), 7, 77 Maltby, Charles, 69 Maltby Hollow, 69, 92 Manhattan Company, 28–29 Manhattan Island: landmass of, 5, 32, 98; landscape clearance and, 105; reservoir construction and, 29–30; water systems and, 1, 26, 97. See also New York (City) Marbletown, 82

Index marginalized communities, 12, 24, 26–31 Matthews, Christopher N., 24 Max, Louis William, 47 McClellan Bill, 73 McGloughlin, Kate, 95–96 Merritt, Zachariah, 42 Mill Pond, 45 Moss, Maximillian, 47 Munroe, Kirk, 72 Murray Hill Reservoir, 29–30 National Environmental Policy Act of 1969 (NEPA), 32 National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA), 33 National Park Service, 28 National Register of Historic Places, 13 New York (City): freshwater and, 26; population growth and, 2, 2f, 2t, 3, 32, 44–45, 49; water consumption, 1, 78, 105 New York (State), 4, 29, 33 New York African Burial Ground, The (Blakey and Rankin-Hill), 27 New York City Board of Water Supply, 20, 47–48 New York City Department of Environmental Protection (NYCDEP), 1 New York City-Funded Flood Buyout Program (NYCFFBO), 78–79, 98 New York City water system: archaeological perspective on, 6–11, 26, 38; Collect Pond area and, 26–28, 97; denial of occupied landscapes, 16, 73; displacement of communities and, 2–4, 11, 94, 101–4; filtration avoidance plan and, 5, 9, 33, 35; increased demands on, 2, 2f, 32, 45; overview of, xiv; private sources and, 28–29, 45; regulation of land use and, 33–34, 45–46, 97; reservoir construction and, 1–3, 3t, 4, 4t, 11, 29–33, 44–45, 73, 97–98; watershed land acquisitions and, 35–38, 49, 98; watershed size, 9. See also Department of Environmental Protection (DEP); Land Acquisition Program (LAP) New-York Historical Society (NYHS), 31 New York Public Library (NYPL), 30, 97

◆

121

Oak Ridge, 21f, 92 Occhi, Nancy, 79, 93 Olive: agricultural history of, 69–70, 82–83, 86–89, 99; archaeology of city-owned lands, 79–80, 81f, 82–83, 85–90, 92–94, 99; Black Road, 86–88, 90; businesses in, 72–73; charcoal-making industry in, 69–70; DEP police presence in, 66, 78; descriptions of country living in, 70, 72; destruction and displacement of, 9f, 66, 73–77, 80, 82–83, 85, 87f, 93–95, 98–99; destruction of churches in, 74, 83; erasure of the past in, 74, 94, 98; founding of, 68–69; inaccessibility of public lands in, 37, 89–90, 92–93; infrastructure development and, 68; map of, xiv, 67f; mills in, 69, 83, 93; NYC land acquisition and, 35–36, 66, 68, 83, 84f, 85, 89–90; occupations in, 69, 82, 99; railroads and, 70, 71f, 72–73; rebuilding of community, 85–89, 99; recreation area program and, 37; reservoir construction and, 8–9, 12, 39, 66, 73–77, 98; seasonal and newcomer residences in, 66, 78; South Hollow, 92–93; South Mountain, 88–90; stone bear trap in, 100; submerged communities and, 79–80, 81f, 82, 85, 94–95; trauma of displacement and, 66, 74–77, 86, 94; Traver Hollow, 92; Watson Hollow, 83, 93; woman-owned properties in, 82–83, 84f, 85. See also Ashokan Reservoir Olive Branch, 80, 82 Olivebridge, 9f, 74, 89–90, 94 Olive Bridge Methodist Episcopal Church, 82, 89 Olive City, 94 Olive Free Library, 75, 79, 95 Olive Methodist Episcopal (ME) Church, 74 Orser, Charles, 18 Panken, Hermoine, 47 Panken, Jacob, 47 Park and the People, The (Rosenzweig and Blackmar), 30 Parker, Augusta, 58 Parker, Elizabeth Ann Russell, 56

122

◆

Index

Parker, Elsa Lee, 55–57, 57f, 58–59, 99 Parker, Isaac, 56 Parker, John, 56 Parker, John Williams, 56 Parker, Smith, 58 Parker, William, 56 Parker Cemetery, 55–57, 64 Parker family, 55–57, 57f, 58, 64 People before the Park, The (Adkins), 9, 31 Perry, Adele, 101 Piazza, Lawrence, 63 Pittsburgh, Penn., 3, 101 population growth: climate change and, 100; global rates of, 5; New York City and, 2, 2f, 2t, 3, 49; population growth and, 5, 32, 44–45; reservoir construction and, 2–3, 45; water insecurity and, 11, 100 posthumanism, 20 Putnam County, 9, 39–40, 42, 45, 48. See also Kent Putnam County Courier, 44 Quabbin Park Cemetery, 102 Quabbin Reservoir, 3, 102 Rankin-Hill, Lesley, 27 Reinhardt, Bob H., 3 Requiem for Ashokan (McGloughlin), 95–96 reservoir construction: capacities of, 3t; cemetery displacement and, 2, 4, 27–29, 32, 56; clearance of rural communities, 1–4, 4t, 7–8, 12, 18–20, 29–32, 73–74, 80, 94, 98–103; climate change and, 105; eminent domain and, 18, 30–31, 35, 38; land acquisition and, 5, 10, 29–31, 33–34; population growth and, 2–3, 45; as structures of dominance, 100; undercompensation of displaced and, 8, 31, 35, 75–76, 94. See also Ashokan Reservoir; Boyd’s Corner Reservoir; New York City water system; urban water systems Robinson, Nelson Eugene, 56–57 Rohrig, Jackie, 57–58 Rondout Reservoir, 59 Rosenzweig, Roy, 30 Rothschild, Nan A., 8, 31

ruination: agricultural history and, 86; as imperial debris, 19; landscape clearance and, 8, 10, 10f, 11–12, 16, 18–20, 50, 94, 98–100; social power and, 12, 14, 100–1; submerged communities and, 94–95; water consumption and, 102, 105 rural communities: destruction and displacement of, 1–2, 7, 12, 29, 73–74, 98–99; erasure of the past in, 94, 98, 103; impact of urban infrastructure on, 11, 64–65, 100–103; regulation of land use and, 46–47, 78, 89, 103; resistance to destruction of, 19, 74, 77, 100; sacrificed for NY water system, 7, 11, 29, 38, 73, 76–77, 94, 97–98; suburbanization of, 24, 35, 40, 46–47 Russell, Ophelia E., 56 Safe Water Drinking Act (1974), 4, 33 Safe Water Treatment Rule (1989), 4–5 Samuels Point, 92 Sedgewood Club, 63 Seneca Nations, 101–2 Seneca Village, 8–9, 12, 29–31, 38 Setauket community, 24–25 Seven Hills Lake, 55, 58 Shandaken, 70, 73, 79 Shaw, N. D., 45 Shenandoah National Park, 24 Shoal Lake, 101 Shokan, 70, 72, 79–80, 85, 94 Sickler, Vera Van Steenbergh, 69, 75–76, 86, 93, 102 Slide Mountain Wilderness, 21f, 92 Smalley, Isabel, 56 Smalley Burial Ground (Farmer’s Mills), 56 Smith, Angèle, 18 Smith, Edward, 42 Sofranko, Jim, 68 Soll, David, 7 South Hollow, 92–93 State Historic Preservation Office (SHPO), 14, 22, 85 Steuding, Bob, 7, 74 Stoler, Ann Laura, 19–20, 100 Story of the Ashokan Reservoir, The (Steuding), 77

Index Stottman, M. Jay, 22–23 Stradling, David, 7, 77 Sundown Wild Forest, 93 Surface Water Treatment Rule (1989), 5 Terwilliger, Mary Jane, 83 Ticetonyk Mountain, 88 Tompkins, Temperance, 56 Town of Olive through the Years, The (Sickler), 86 Traver Hollow, 92 Travis, Elijah, 82 Trowels in the Trenches (Barton), 24 Turner, Laura A., 82 Ulster and Delaware (U&D) Railroad, 70, 71f, 72–73 Ulster County, 9, 35, 39, 77. See also Olive Union and Halstead Cemetery, 56 urban water systems: climate change and, 5, 11; competition for land and, 8, 11; destruction and displacement of communities, 2–4, 7–8, 12, 23; differential rights and, 23; displacement of non-elites and, 101; filtration requirements and, 4–5, 33; impact on communities, 8, 39, 100–2, 105; infrastructure development and, 2; political power and, 8, 101; population growth and, 5, 11; sacrifice of rural communities for, 7, 11, 29, 38, 73, 76–77, 94, 98; social justice and, 39. See also New York City water system; reservoir construction Vangaasbeek, Nathaniel K., 82 Van Steenbergh, Benjamin, 86 Van Steenbergh family, 75, 85–86, 90 Vantassel, George, 58 Wall, Diana diZerega, 8, 31 Ward’s Island, 29 water consumption, 1–2, 6, 78, 102, 105 Water for Gotham (Koeppel), 7, 26, 77 water pollution: agricultural risk and, 12, 17, 47, 98; EPA requirements and, 4–5;

◆

123

filtration avoidance plan and, 5, 33; land-use rules and, 24, 33–34, 45–46, 49, 89–90, 98 watershed communities: activist archaeology and, 14, 22–23; agency and entanglements in, 16–17, 100–1; archaeology of LAP units, 36–38, 100; as bedroom communities for city workers, 12, 97–98; control of activities in, 5, 33–34, 89; DEP recreation area program and, 10, 12, 16–17, 34; destruction and displacement of, 2–4, 4t, 5, 12, 19–20, 29, 38, 98; differential rights and, 20; erasure of the past in, 74, 94, 98, 100–1; housing impacts and, 35–36; inaccessibility of public lands in, 21, 21f, 22, 37, 89–90, 92–93; land acquisition and, 5, 10, 10f, 34–36, 49, 98; ruination and, 19–20, 102 Watson, Nathaniel, 69, 93 Watson Hollow, 69, 83, 93 Weik, Terrance M., 18–19 West Branch Reservoir, 39, 45 Weston, William, 28 West Shokan, 35, 70, 72, 74–75, 79–80, 85, 90, 92, 94 West Shokan Calvary Church, 74 White Pond, 45, 58 Whittemore, Miriam, 63 wilderness areas: archaeological perspective on, 8, 11, 16, 22, 24; displacement of marginalized communities and, 23–24; domestic/economic use and, 37–38; ecological colonization and, 20, 23–24; posthumanism and, 20–22; re-creation after community displacement, 16, 21; watershed landscapes as, 8, 19–21, 23–24, 37, 73, 98 Winchell, Hiram J., 82 Windsor, Frank, 102 Winne, Abner, 86–87 Winnipeg, Manitoba, 101–2 Woodstock, 36, 72, 79 York Hill (Yorkville), 29–30