R-O-T-A-R-Y, That Spells Rotary!

This photograph was in my mother's collection, slightly yellowed and no writing on the back to tell the story. I recognized my grandfather on the right, and it's noticeable that he's wearing a hat that says Coudersport. Was it taken at a Consistory Reunion? Or perhaps one of the Newspaper Publishing Association conventions? 

I filed it away in the thick blue file where I have saved other photos of this man - this W.D. Fish - father of my mother.

When Coudersport Rotary celebrated its centennial in 2024, I came across a personal history my grandfather wrote to tell the story of the local club's founding. That story was written in 1967 when he was 91 and while he was an honored guest at the Rotary meeting when his story was told, he tapped family friend, Rev. Robert Merten, himself a Rotarian, to read it to the group.

Hidden in that newspaper account, came the clue I needed to solve the mystery behind this photo!

And today I was the one who had the privilege of sharing my grandfather's story with the Coudersport Rotary Club, still going strong 102 years later!

Here's a portion of his story: 

A Rotary seed found fertile soil in Coudersport in the summer of 1923. It fell but did not germinate until early in 1924. It then took root and quickly became a healthy plant, become more sturdy all the 43 years since. It has produced many splendid blossoms and much valuable fruit, and it is still in production to this day. 

The Yellow Bowl Tea Room stood on Main Street (where Citizens and Northern Bank is today).  This writer visited the tea room for lunch on a Thursday noon, publication day for the Enterprise. A stranger was seated at a table. 

A copy of the Potter Enterprise, hot off the printing press, was handed to the man and it resulted in a conversation. Always ready to give the town a bit of a boost, I told, among other interesting points, that the town was famous for its prominence in Masonic fraternal circles over a very wide area.

My newly-found friend stated he was not a Mason but he was a Rotarian. Never having heard of such an organization, I asked questions. He told of what Rotary did, especially for crippled children and I was much impressed.

Asked if a town of 3,000, like Coudersport, could have such a club, he admitted he did not know but the information would be available from the secretary of Rotary International in Chicago. A letter was written to Chicago and quickly came a reply with printed information, and a promise I would hear soon from Rock Boyce, secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club, within 32 miles of Coudersport.

Action came quickly. Within two or three days in breezed a bright, keen young man with the announcement, “I am Rock Boyce, secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club.”

It was reported in the newspaper under the headline “A Live Wire Visitor”

Rock Boyce of the Boyce Hardware Company of Wellsville was a business visitor in town Tuesday. Rock is not only a live wire in his business but he finds time to boost all projects that benefit his town and community. For instance, he is secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club and while in Coudersport, he scattered a quantity of Rotary Germs that may mean such an institution for Coudersport.

There was a winter slack in progress but by the last of March, 1924, with the Rotary year then ending April 1, the Wellsville Rotary Officers were anxious to form the new club during their term of office. A dozen or more members of the club came to Coudersport and Coudersport Club was established on the last day of March. But what a trip that was! The hard-surfaced road from Wellsville came only as far as Stannards and the macadam from Coudersport extended only four miles north. The 25 miles between was a sea of mud. 

The convention of Rotary International was held in Toronto that year, 1924. Probably because of my activity in the organization in the local club, I was selected delegate. I joined the Wellsville delegation at Toronto. The charter for the Coudersport Club had just been granted and this made me the delegate youngest among the thousands.

The official photographer captured a picture of the oldest and the youngest delegates. The picture appeared in The Rotarian Magazine, giving Coudersport considerable publicity.

There's the answer behind this photo of my jaunty-looking grandfather! Today, thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to locate a digital copy of the August 1924 Rotarian with this very picture and explanation.

Blooming and Burning

The world is both burning and blooming. That was part of the prompt for a recent session of Voices Rising, an online community where I gather with a small group to explore with my words the anger, grief and fire of these urgent times. In those 12 minutes, I composed much of this and later refined my thoughts as a Baltimore oriole perched on a dead branch at the top of the birch tree, catching the sun and sending his song out into the world.

The world is on fire and I feel chilled. That kind of chill that brings shivers from deep within, I struggle to find warmth. The world is on fire and I'm cold. Freezing cold, chilled to the bone, cold in my soul, cold to my community, cold to myself.

They call it dissociation, those wise people who can sometimes help the rest of us find our way. Defined as experiencing a loss of connection between thoughts, memories, feelings, surroundings, behavior, identity - that's dissociation.

Dissociation – closing my eyes and ears and singing "La, la, la, la" at the top of my lungs. But still I can't wish it away. Dissociation – the world is on fire and we avoid the fire, avoid learning of the latest assault on humanity unleashed by that sad excuse for a human who was handed the Presidency through a well-planned and executed campaign of lies, deceit and fraud. And then, it happened again, the campaign for the hearts and minds of Americans even more carefully planned and executed so he could grab and amass even more power, in ever more sinister and corrupt ways.

The man who called President Biden "Sleepy Joe" now nods off soon after his ample rear end is lowered thunderously into the gilded chair in the gilded office. Surrounded by his yes-men, and yes-women who court favor by praising his name (like some evangelical Christians praising the name of Jesus). Those people opening their mouths to repeat the best-selling, well-rehearsed talking points. It's at a point where it would be a comedy skit if it weren't frighteningly and chillingly real.

The man who called into question President Biden's mental acuity, himself not able to put together a coherent string of thoughts. Instead of focusing on how he can govern and lead the country with its three branches of government, he instead focuses on revenge and retribution. He's said he doesn't care about inflation, about the prices we all have to pay to fund his wars - but didn't he promise no more wars? Meanwhile, his family coffers grow and grow as nations and corporations and the worst among us "pay to play" with Donny and his blood-sucking minions.

The world is on fire and we're coerced into joining the celebration of this corpse of a human's birthday. What a celebration - watching people beating one another to pulp in a bizarre structure erected amid the marble and granite memorials in our nation's capital expressly to remind us of the accomplishments and sacrifices of the best of us. This man, this President, is the worst of us.

The United States of America is our nation, belonging to each of us, we were told as schoolchildren. We, the bright-eyed youngsters, dressed in our new clothes for the first day of school, pledging allegiance to the flag for the first time in first grade, so proud? And the lucky kid who held the flag as we said those words, turning to reverently replace it on the little hook at the corner of the blackboard.

I wasn't chilly then. Then, looking up to the office of President. "I Like Ike" we said and my people did like Ike, especially my father who flew bombing missions as a tailgunner in World War II. And later, my people voted for Nixon, though I wonder if my mother quietly filled in the square next to the name of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Looking up to and trusting the rest of the Presidents who came later, some good, some bad, some who earned our votes and others who did not. But, in my lifetime, none like this man elected on the strength of hate, grabbing power by manipulating emotions.

I need more reminders of the blooming, not the burning. I see the oriole in the tree, and images of my faraway grandchildren exploring their 21st century worlds with delight, and this morning the sound of Arthur singing and playing the piano downstairs. And with those reminders, I can believe there will be an end to this man's madness, his cruelty, his utter lack of regard for anything that is true and good. And I can believe that once more, we will claim that truth and goodness.

The World Is Both Burning and Blooming

by Karen Salmonsohn

You get the bad news

and the sunrise in the same day.

You cry over the headlines,

then you laugh at a baby

wearing a hat shaped like a bear.

This is the dual citizenship

of being alive.

Rage and reverence,

Grief and grace.

You are allowed to feel both.

You are allowed to scream,

and still notice how good the soup is.

You don’t have to choose.

Let it all in.

Founder's Day

It was in 1876 on this date that a baby was born in Coudersport who would change the fortune of Potter County for generations to come. He was Charles Cole, benefactor of the fine hospital that still bears a shadow of his name, today known UPMC Cole.

My newspaperman grandfather wrote of his friend and contemporary Mr. Cole: "Charlie Cole, a Coudersport boy not so many years ago, made a fabulous fortune. He left it to the town and county where he first saw the light of day. Golly is delighted that Charles Cole hung onto his pennies, nickels and dimes until at the time of his passing, his fortune was maybe ten million dollars. He had seen much in his life but always he loved his home town and county. He proved it when he left his great wealth to restore health and preserve the lives of Potter Countians."

There are many stories told about this Potter County hero - Charles Cole. He made his fortune at IBM and accumulated enough wealth to retire back to Potter County in the 1920s, still a young man.

Mary Domaleski wrote in a biography of Mr. Cole, published in The Potter Enterprise for the new hospital's dedication: "Charles Cole was a retiring man, a mystery man, reluctant to reveal to the public his many philanthropic deeds to indigent friends or strangers. He loved to fish and to hunt and spent any hours in his camp near the Wingerter farm at Cross Fork. He named it Daniel Boone Camp for it was presumed that it was constructed on a trail that Daniel Boone once traveled. It was on his many trips through the Potter County countryside that he became keenly aware of the destitute, the desolate, andt he distance they had to travel for medical aid and comfort. He felt this neglect must be overcome." 

Mr. Cole's will made provisions for the bulk of his estate (some estimates say as much as $9 million) to fund the construction of a hospital upon the death of his widow. Mrs. Cole was persuaded that the community deserved the hospital her husband had endowed sooner rather than later and the fine, sprawling Charles Cole Memorial Hospital opened in the fall of 1967.

Mrs. Cole remarked during the dedication: "It is a joy seeing the fulfillment of the dream of my late husband. Today Charlie's dream is a reality, a reality that demonstrates one man's concern for the welfare of his brothers, and is a reminder of those words of grace, 'May God bless us and make us mindful of the needs of others'." 

A former co-worker at Charles Cole Memorial Hospital messaged me this morning to remind me that today is the day we annually celebrated as Founder's Day. Mr. Cole's birthday celebration included refreshments, prepared by the Hospital's Dietary Department and served by volunteers from the active Hospital Auxiliary. Mr. Cole's widow, Edith Pinney Cole Leonard Irwin, would be front and center as special guest, greeted by Hospital Administrators and staff and the community.

I stopped by UPMC Cole this afternoon, wondering if perhaps I would happen upon a Founder's Day celebration in progress but the only sign of Charles Cole was a large oil portrait hanging in the lobby of the hospital and its predecessor, a smaller version of the painting, unearthed a few years ago, and hung in the hallway where donors are recognized. And this plaque, hung during my time as Public Relations Director at our fine community hospital.