The River's Past GREAT AUNT MARY’S MEMORIES OF ALEXANDRIA   by John C. Schoeni

My brother Bill attended Gonzaga High School in Northeast Washington, D.C.  I was in second grade at St. Rita’s Elementary.  It was the early fifties and Bill was fourteen and I was seven. Bill’s first high school writing assignment - a report about his hometown and its heritage.  It was a history assignment that did not involve memorizing world capitals or researching world wars.  Bill’s teacher, Father Ernest B. Clements, S.J., wanted the new students to find something in their roots that would inspire them as well as their classmates.  Father Clements wanted something with feeling and emotion in addition to historic value.

Bill’s elementary education had been with nuns.  They assigned boring work like, well, memorizing state capitals.  But the Jesuits gave unique assignments and it was all new to Bill.

He decided to write a story about the Potomac River, the waters that fed our roots in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia.  And it was by coincidence that much of the history of the Jesuits began on the Potomac.

The Society of Jesus’s Maryland settlement was their first opportunity for service in North America.  During those years the priests tried to convert Indians to Christianity.  Now Bill had a chance to do some converting - convert Father Clements’ maximum grade of B to an A, because Fr. Clements always said, “No one ever gets an A in my class, usually.”  The usually gave Bill hope and that’s all he needed.  Maybe Father planned it that way.

Bill decided to get his information right from the horse’s mouth - his great aunt.  So he set up a visit to our Great Aunt Mary, the matriarch of the family.  I had no interest in Bill’s assignment but tagged along anyway.  It meant nothing to me.  I was interested in getting a Davy Crockett suit and a coonskin cap.  Also, in writing impure words in crayon in Bill’s textbooks and on his homework.  We had a big rivalry then and paybacks were, well, you know.  There was big trouble for Bill that day he turned in his homework and the priests saw an impure word in red across his Greek vocabulary.

On the morning of our trip we stopped at Shuman’s Bakery on King Street for jelly doughnuts.  The jelly oozed from the middle like it did from our mouths when we packed them full with as many of Shuman’s delights as we could.

We walked to South Lee Street, two blocks from the river.  Bill was anxious to hear about our family’s beginnings.  He wanted to know what it was about the Potomac that made our great grandfather settle there.

We climbed the archaic stairwell to the shuttered entrance.  The street level door was known as the areaway and it led into the drawing room.  Guests were received at the main entrance one story up and taken to the living room.

Bill tapped on the door then waited patiently.  Aunt Mary was blind and couldn’t rush or be rushed.  Her housekeeper, Lucy, was at Fannon’s Fuel Oil negotiating half a ton of coal for the approaching winter.

Aunt Mary expected us.  She didn’t have a telephone, so Bill wrote asking if she would reflect on everything she remembered about the old river.

She made her way into the room not wanting or needing help.  She felt the arm of the chair then gracefully sat before us.  “Old Town,” she began, “was not always called Old Town.  It was just Alexandria.  The last “a” was usually dropped as locals brushed over it, pronouncing it Alexandree.  It was home no matter how you pronounced it and it brought back lots of memories.”

Aunt Mary asked Bill about school and if the Jesuits were strict.  He assured her they were.  “Coincidence,” she said.  “My father told us stories about the Jesuits and how their steam scow plied the Potomac delivering hay, grain, poultry and dairy products produced on their farm at Chapel Point on Port Tobacco River.”

“My father was a cigar maker,” she said.  “He learned his trade in Bern, Switzerland.  Before he decided to leave for America, he had been an apprentice, a journeyman, and a master, in one of the oldest towns in Europe.  Switzerland gave him roots and the beginning of a profitable career.  But the lure of the new land excited him and he couldn’t resist travelling to America.

He was young and curious, always seeking new challenges.  After talking with the residents, he settled here on South Lee Street in the 200 block.  The odd numbered houses were owned by the Nolands.  The house was a block from Prince Street, or Captain’s Row as it was known then.  In those days, you walked half a block south, turned toward the river and there were rows of captains’ homes spread down the hill before you.  Mornings brought delicate smells of breakfast.  Evening saw shades of candlelight making way for dark.

You don’t have to see, boys, to see it.  I remember it in my mind.  My father, your great grandfather, was not a sea captain, but the pleasures the river brought was enough to make him feel like one.

Papa always told us how beautiful the river was when he’d get up early to take his walk to its banks.  His cigar shop was on the first floor of our house, downstairs from where we are now.  Before he opened, he’d take his Meerschaum pipe to the water and try to create the red over the white bowl by constantly blowing smoke over it.

After he took in as much sweet air as he could, he’d return to the parlor, slip back into his Morris chair, over there in the corner, and have his coffee and read the Gazette from the day before.  Then he’d go down to the kitchen for his eggs, hominy and puffs.  Mama had been slaving over the black iron stove all the time Papa was relaxing.  But she liked it that way - he could get some peace and be out of her hair.

My mother was a creator.  She loved to cook.  Many successes were her’s, borne from that old stove - pound cake in winter and puffs on hot summer mornings.  She made puffs from scratch with flour, salt, sugar, hot water and yeast.  She’d kneed the dough then let it rise for an hour in a cozy corner of the kitchen.  Mama’d punch the dough down with her fist and then let it rise again.  Come breakfast time the smell of yeast beckoned us all.  While everyone gathered around the pan of hot oil, she’d pinch off pieces of the dough and fry them, then serve them with honey or molasses.

The river wasn’t just a carrier of smells from home cooking.  It was just as enticing on a fall afternoon as it was with a breeze in the late evening just before the sun sat in the August sky.

Can you imagine the fun we kids had taking the boat out of a Sunday afternoon ‘midst all the sailboats cruising to Washington City?  We could picture General Washington sailing to the foot of Prince Street, then commandeering the reigns of his carriage to race it to Christ Church.  Sometimes I wish I’d lived in his day so that I could have petted his horse or caught a glimpse of history riding up Prince Street.

Saturday mornings my father gathered up the children - me, my three sisters and my four brothers, one of them your grandfather, Buck.  ‘Get ready,’ he’d holler at five o’clock.  ‘We’re going to Washington City to the farmer’s market.’  He had no sooner said that then we were dressed.  We weren’t going in one of those machines.  We weren’t even going to take a carriage.  We were going with our next-door neighbors on their boat.

We stepped from the edge of Prince Street onto the deck, and in what seemed a lifetime, we were adrift along the river.  We watched quietly as Alexandria and its stacks of ships passed.  We were as excited as if we were leaving New York harbor for Europe.  The sun was brilliant and the sky was as blue as any from an artist’s palette.  As we left our hometown scene, another one just as beautiful, entered our view.  It was Washington City all hustle and bustle - preparing for a weekend rest from a week of government.  World affairs were carried on to the east of us, while regular people enjoyed the full measure of their lives on walks on the mall to our west, past the Smithsonian building.

We docked on Maine Avenue and walked to the farmer’s market, an array of anything you wanted to eat - farm fresh.  My father ordered special meats, cut to order, apples and oranges, country eggs, scrapple, hominy, and vegetables for my mother’s soup.  There was candy for the children and even a soup bone for Jiggs, our dog.

Yellow summer squash peeked out of baskets like giant marigolds.  Turnips, all purple and muddy, stared out in hopes we’d pick them up and take them back with us so they could be mashed for Sunday’s dinner.  There were red ripe tomatoes, smooth brown eggs, and cheeses begging to be taken in from the summer sun so they wouldn’t spoil.  There were onions still in their crackly skin as if they had been lying on the beach too long and gotten sunburned ‘til they peeled.

No one could say they had enough of this delightful trip, but returning home was just as much fun.  When everyone checked their lists, we headed for the pier at the same time the farmers were packing for home.

At ten minutes to noon, we reached Maine Avenue and made haste to the boat.  When we were accounted for, we began our trip back to Alexandria.  No one was disappointed with the journey, and going home was just as exciting because we had so many parcels to show our mother and the neighbors.

On our walk back up Prince Street from the pier, captain’s wives would be sweeping the front stoops in preparation for their husbands’ return.  Each had a friendly word and asked of our journey to Washington City.  Sometimes my father would take orders for special items, as the neighbors knew all too well that Papa went to the farmer’s market every Saturday.  They were pleased to see my father had taken special care to pick out the yellowest corn or the choicest cut of meat.  ‘Just because the order was for someone else,’ he’d say, ‘didn’t mean I treat it as a chore.’

In the fall the weekend trips were as much fun as the spring trips.  Spring meant tulips, azaleas, and hyacinths dotting homes along the shore.  Fall meant arrays of colors painted from the bank’s palette by native trees that filled us with peacefulness - indescribable.

To be part of this, to live along the banks of a busy river,  made life in Alexandria a lasting place in my memory.  It’s no doubt why my father picked this area to live and raise his family.  The river was the focal point of activity.  It was as busy as New York.

In summer the water wet our appetite for fresh blue crabs.  My father would send your grandfather Buck to the corner store for two pails of beer at five cents a pail.  My father loved his beer and even more with crabs.  The women prepared the table with brown paper, mallets, and crackers.  Vinegar was set upon the table and corn on the cob was heaped into lots to steam.  All the neighbors were invited so no one complained about the noise.  No one yelled from windows to remind us that people were trying to sleep.  Everyone expected a little noise.  And we weren’t celebrating anything special except that we were fortunate enough to be able to celebrate in the first place.

We had entertainment.  People would get up and perform – tell jokes, dance, sing a little.  Summer evenings beckoned for fun and frivolity because winter’s boredom arrived soon enough.  While winter had many moments of beauty, there was nothing like a summer evening to remind us that the smells of honeysuckle and wisteria were fleetingly special.”
Aunt Mary interrupted and walked to the icebox to offer us a drink and homemade pound cake.  The cake was her mother’s recipe and she could duplicate it to perfection.  It didn’t have to be Christmas to enjoy such a delicacy.  The cake’s buttery taste and tender, moist texture was well worth the wait.  And though Aunt Mary’s stories captured the essence of the city, her pound cake captured the essence of the city’s flavor.

Aunt Mary used to take took some of her pound cake to her brother who sailed on the Clara A. Donnell schooner.  It was unloading at the Mutual Ice Company wharf at the foot of Cameron Street.  That was nineteen hundred and four.

“That schooner was a sight,” Aunt Mary continued, “as the ship’s mighty masts stood in contemplation of the river, while hands were busy unloading the frozen cargo.  In August, when it was devilishly hot, the ice was unloaded in the early morning hours so each hatch could be opened separately.  One ice company in Washington City was so large it had over two hundred ice wagons and as many horses.

It was a treat when the ice was ready for shipment to the ice company and then to customers.  We waited eagerly for the iceman.  When we heard the wheels of his wagon bouncing their way up Prince Street toward Lee, our afternoon teas were guaranteed success.  The honey wagon that used to break down in the rain in the alley, well, that was another thing.

"There's a wealth of history and stories bred upon this river," Aunt Mary said, "whether you're a fisherman at St. Mary's or a housewife in Alexandria. Its beauty and bounty are a gift that you will not soon forget. Its muddy waters look murky now, but that's part of its evolvement good or bad."

Aunt Mary rose from her chair and reached for a tattered book with pages as worn as sailor’s skin.  “Children,” she said, “I’ll quote from one of my father’s books,  ‘Observations of Voyages to the New World’, that recorded Captain John Smith’s words when he and his crew of the Virginia Company entered Potomac waters in 1608”:“ . . . the river exceedeth with abundance of fish . . . there runneth many fayre brookes of Christel-like water . . . and abundance of fish, lying so thick with their heads above the water, as for the want of nets.”  "His words make me see what it was like."  “And thus we tooke more in one houre than we could eate in a day . . . we saw trees ashore, fit for the finest masts of any ship in the world.”

Aunt Mary had tears in her eyes.  “I haven’t opened this book since I was a girl,” she said.  “It brings back so many memories when Papa read to me from the important books of the times - books that he considered part of our history and culture.”   Then she placed the tattered book back on the shelf.  She memorized it as a child, and since going blind, could quote it as if she could see it, over fifty years later.

Aunt Mary rose and made her way to the stairway leading to the upstairs parlor.  We did not follow.  We had taxed her enough for one day.  In a moment, Lucy was there and asked us if we enjoyed our visit with Miss Mary.  Lucy made sure we got to the bus stop.

As Bill and I got older, we realized that Alexandria held a lot of history along its walkways and waterways, behind its hidden alleys and wharves and in its gardens and inlets, just as Aunt Mary had said.  But the real history went on inside the homes.  The true measure of time was recorded by the residents, the tenants and the visitors to those houses so many years ago.

Aunt Mary is someone we shall not soon forget.  And the memories she left behind will light our memories and live beyond us and beyond the river past to those we tell.  It is an integral part of our history and culture. 

Great Aunt Mary was my grandfather’s older sister.  She went blind due to cataracts they thought was from diabetes.  She spent weeks at Johns Hopkins University Hospital in 1906 to repair her sight and the description of what she went through each day would not be enjoyable reading.  When they took off the bandage, she still could not see.  What would she think now of cataracts being removed as easily as having your hair cut? 

She was Mary Salome Schoeni, born on November 14, 1880 in Alexandria, Virginia at 208 South Lee Street and was raised there.  She left the house to live with us in 1953 and had memories of Alexandria she shared with us, some she had seen, and some not, but all just as vivid as the day they happened.  She died in 1971 at the age of 91 at the Home for the Blind on R Street in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. where she had traveled to years before on a boat.