Goodwin A. Rose's Blue Gene (1859-1919)

Goodwin A. Rose

An Epigenetic Fantasy by J.E. Rose

Goodwin Rose Historical Note

It is difficult to exaggerate the impact of little Goodwin Rose’s childhood on the rest of his life. I didn’t hear many family stories about him but those I did described him as somewhat lazy and irresponsible. His oldest son, Edward (my grandpa) grew up having to pick up after many of his messes.

Based on evidence in Alida’s Last Will and Testament, Goodwin’s parents were not happily married. It is likely they spent years in some kind of estrangement or abandonment. It is fairly evident that Goodwin’s young life was marked by considerable upheaval and instability. 

We know that in 1862, when Goodwin was only three, Alida had a baby girl named Mary. I’ve speculated in another chronicle that both Mary and Alida were victimized by the tuberculosis epidemic that swept the Hudson Valley for several years. It took Mary’s life and later Alida’s. Alida died in 1866. Instead of leaving her considerable family inheritance to her husband, she completely excluded Philip from the will and then made the money unavailable to Goodwin only after his twenty-first birthday. I suspect she did not trust Philip to look out for his son's best interests.

Adding to the trauma, it appears that Goodwin never lived with his father again. Goodwin would live with various relatives. There is some scant evidence that he first lived with Alida’s parents (Hiram Hall). Later, when he was ten years old, the census lists him in the home of John Peterson–Hiram’s neighbor. Then, at fifteen, Goodwin was living with the father of his Uncle Peter Rose–Jacob Bornt. I can't imagine how much all this upheaval affected him.

Meanwhile, no sooner had Alida been buried in the Old Brick Church cemetery of Brunswick than Philip remarried: Catherine McChesney. It is difficult not to speculate that he had been in a relationshp with her prior to Alida's death.

Goodwin never lived with them. It is curious to note that when Goodwin had a daughter many years later he named her 'Catherine" so it's possible there was some attempt to restore relationships.

Goodwin next appears in the census record in 1880.  At 21, he now lives in the house of Anton Carpenter. He listed his occupation as “clerk.” 

I believe Goodwin’s tumultuous childhood profoundly affected the man he was to become.

It isn't unreasonable to suggest that it shaped his later emotions Today, we know that in addition to a genome–the biological inheritance of genes inside Goodwin he received from his father. A careful examination of Rose family pictures suggests particular physical characteristics. These were part of the genetic inheritance.

But Goodwin’s genome also contained what we now call an “epigenome.” If the genome is like the electric lights in a room, the epigenome is like the wall switches that turn them on and off at will. There was nothing Goodwin could do about his genomic traits. He was born with them. However, the epigenome from his father contained tiny chemical switches that would be turned on and off depending on the circumstances of his life and how he managed them.

To be clear, Goodwin was always morally responsible for his choices. Unlike the genome, Goodwin could manage those epigenetic switches. He didn’t have to understand biology. But to resist predispositions inherited from his father he would have to work on them. He would need help especially in times of significant upheaval and change. For example, if Philip at his worst was addicted to alcohol, Goodwin may have inherited an epigenetic disposition to addiction also. That doesn’t mean he could do nothing to control it. But it did mean he would have to work harder to do so. 

To be clear, there is no specific reference to Goodwin's mental problems. In this chronicle I've speculated that he turned to alcohol to manage them. I don't think it's unreasonable, however. And if he did find himself wrestling with the same demons as his father, this chronicle would explain how.

The End of the “Long Depression” (1879)

The conclusion of the Civil War didn’t just end the hostilities between North and South. It also unleashed a speculative financial expansion unlike anything the country had ever experienced, centered around the industrial revolution in factories and railroads. However, by 1873, the speculative “bubble” burst. 1873 marked the beginning of what historians call the “Long Depression.” For nearly a decade, the country was rocked by serious unemployment and economic stagnation. Though rural areas like Pittstown had advantages of their farms and self-sustaining ways, they were not immune.  Local economies depended on regional ones. It is likely that the Long Depression severely impacted Goodwin as well. 

However, by 1879, the worst of the depression was past and in its wake another economic boom sweeping the northeast, especially New York and cities like Troy, just 20 miles from Goodwin’s home town, were poised for the greatest growth they had ever seen.  

In 1880, Goodwin became a legal adult. He likely attended the “Old Brick Church”

Of Brunswick where family members–Halls and Bornts with whom he had lived–were faithful members. That would also be the church home of the Conrad Clum family and their daughter Ella. Goodwin became interested in wanting to marry her. Perhaps that drove his decision to seek work at Cluett, Peabody and Company. A prominent man like Ella’s father would demand that a suitor for his daughter have a good job. 

The post-depression era saw Cluett's explosive expansion. It would become the largest producer of men’s shirts in the US. “Collar City” it was called because of the new invention of the detachable collared shirt. The Troy factories consisted of multiple brick buildings with thousands of workers, mostly women–seamstresses and bleachers, working for a dollar a day. But they also needed men for the most highly skilled and high paying jobs: as cloth cutters using newly invented steam-powered equipment. 

As Goodwin heard of the opportunities he knew that was what he wanted to do. Exactly when Goodwin was hired is not clear from the record. But we do know he convinced Conrad Clum to let him marry Ella in 1880. For our story, we will assume he started work earlier this year. 

Though only twelve miles from Troy and its financial opportunity, the realities of transportation from Pittstown in the late 1800s meant that daily commutes for men like Goodwin were unheard of. That meant entry level factory workers found a tiny room at one of the many boarding houses. But it also required leaving Ella home to tend the farm.

Conrad was probably not happy with that arrangement but neither was he good at resisting his daughter’s requests. For her part, Ella remained positive as Goodwin, hitching a wagon ride with a neighbor, headed off to the city each day. 

Learning New Ropes (About 1880)

After being hired Goodwin showed up on his first day and reported to the Cutting Room, located in a large upper level of the brick factory. The foreman was an overweight, unsmiling man named McArdle. He smelled of sweat and tobacco and moved with the determined steps of a man with no time or tolerance for delays or small talk.

“Are you Rose?” he asked. Goodwin nodded and flashed a folksy rural smile, also offering a respectful handshake. McArdle was already moving on. “Follow me” he barked. 

The Cutting Room was not just a room. It was like a small kingdom and McArdie the king who ruled it with an iron hand. It consisted of large individual rooms. Storage rooms, equipment rooms and the all-important cutting rooms with their one hundred foot long maple cutting tables where white huge maple cutting tables–each a hundred feet long. Goodwin was absorbed in the new sights, sounds and smells. He was excited at the thought of a new pursuit for his big ambitions. Goodwin did his best to keep up with the boss. 

McArdle pointed to a storage room filled with stacks of hundreds of bolts of white linen cloth. “You’ll be moving these bolts of cloth to the cutting tables when the cutters ask for them.” 

Goodwin was still taking it all in and standing dumbly with his hands in his pockets. 

“Is there a problem? Let’s go!”  McArdle abruptly pointed from a tower of bolts and then to a cutting table in another room. 

 “I want a bolt of that cloth on those tables, now!” Goodwin sprang into action, energized by his big dreams of a big future. 

The Daily Grind 

Goodwin had big dreams but never been a hard worker. The hiring office at Cluett might have assumed that a strapping young farmer knew the meaning of hard work. But they would have been wrong. Perhaps it was partly the way he was raised: shuffled around from house to house, by older grandparents, inclined to treat him as fragile as they tried to compensate for the trauma of his early years. Whatever the cause, Goodwin’s early enthusiasm for Cluett Peabody did not outlast the reality of the job itself. 

To be fair, it was a difficult job. Goodwin naively assumed he would be cutting fabric. But that was a skilled trade and entry level workers had to earn the opportunity. Summer manual work on the top floor of a brick factory building with poor air circulation and steam-driven machinery was hot and miserable. And the job itself required a kind of physical stamina and motivation Goodwin had never learned. 

The large white linen bolts weighed about 50 pounds each. His shift was ten hours long and on a normal day would be expected to supply all the cutting tables with multiple bolts. That would mean walking the equivalent of ten miles a day carrying 50 or more bolts on his shoulder. In 1880 America there was no safety office or government regulations to insure them. There were no back braces, ear protection or steel-toed boots.  

Rumors of prestigious, high paying jobs as a cutter paled by comparison to the reality. Goodwin found he was making around $1.50 per day–a far cry from the rumor of $10.00 per day he had heard. He feared he would be lugging bolts for the rest of his life and for a fraction of the pay he expected. 

Nor had he at all calculated the cost of living issue. Ella had tried to warn him but in his early starry-eyed enthusiasm he just shushed her up. Between the costs of a boarding house and paltry meals at the tavern, his take home pay seemed a pittance. How could something that seemed so right now be so wrong? If anything comforted him in the dark days of his youth it was the wish that tomorrow might be better. That hope faded more each day.

Goodwin had also relied on the support and assurances of family to keep him going in his younger years. He did not appreciate how much their strength and resilience helped him. Before her death, his mother had been his first rock support. His grandparents too were solid folks. And then there was Ella! In his better moments, Goodwin did realize how much she helped him. But the more they lived apart, the less he felt her quiet strength. 

As a child, Goodwin had learned to avoid work when possible. There were always chores on the farm but he didn’t like them and found ways to hide from them. Old habits die hard and the hard disappointing job at the factory tempted him to look for shortcuts. 

Bathroom breaks seemed to be a good excuse for lingering. The latrine in a 19th century factory was nothing like today. There were no flush toilets or private stalls. No sink to wash hands. They stunk like primitive outhouses.  Nor could workers go there whenever they wanted. Goodwin knew, however, that it was an opportunity and he just had to figure out how to capitalize on it. 

His job also provided a unique chance for breaks. Lugging bolts of cloth all day meant he was often in different locations and even different floors, free of direct eye contact with his bosses. 

By paying attention to the movements and locations of supervisors he could find out of the way places to give his feet and back a break. If a foreman did walk in, he could pretend to be picking up something off the floor. And, the best place was a stairwell rarely used by others. He spent many quiet minutes sitting on a step, his ears tuned to hear anyone coming. He could sometimes get a ten minute break 

One sweltering afternoon, Goodwin had found a cool spot and sat down in the stairwell. As uninterrupted minutes passed he became careless and his mind wandered off into nothingness. He didn’t hear the footfalls of heavy leather boots coming up the steps until it was too late: the unmistakable bark of McArdie himself. 

“Rose!” he snapped back to reality. His worst fear was realized. McArdle was furious. “What do you think you are doing?” 

“Sir, I ah, sir, I had to stop to fix my shoe and–”

McArdie had heard every poor excuse imaginable and even some good ones. Goodwin’s was pathetic. 

"The cutters are asking where you are! Their tables are empty. I should dock your pay for it. Next time I find you slacking I will. Get to it!”

McArdie stomped away. But Goodwin ran. 

The Tavern on River Street

Goodwin had never taken corrections well. He always had some ready excuse. Even as a boy on the farm, on the rare occasions Grandpa Hall rebuked him, he didn’t seem to know how to learn from his mistakes. Instead, he made more excuses. 

The stern rebuke from his boss stung worse than anything in a long time. Goodwin kept replaying it in his mind as he ended work for the day and proceeded to his evening supper at the River Street Tavern, next to his boarding house. 

Watching his father’s abuse of alcohol had always made Goodwin resolve to view liquor as a problem not a solution. But as he ate his meager meal and saw the other men with their mugs and bottles he couldn’t help wondering if he had been too quick to judge his father. Goodwin knew it was not the best way to handle problems. But maybe it was necessary at times–especially when he was so miserable he needed something to get him through. 

This was one of those defining moments in life when seemingly little choices have enormous consequences. He eyed an old man sitting at the bar nursing a bottle of whiskey. He had seen him there many times. He probably knew pain. But it didn’t register on the man’s face.

Maybe a drink would be Goodwin's. 

He strode up to the bar and sat next to the old man. 

“Whiskey,” Goodwin said to the barkeep and plopped down a five cent piece. The old man acknowledged him and raised his glass in a half salute. Goodwin did so as well. “The name is Miller,” the man said. “Yours?” 

“Rose. Goodwin.”

“You work at the shirt factory?” 

Goodwin nodded, taking a swallow. 

“Me too,” the older man continued. “Nigh on fifteen years.”

“You survived the Long Depression?” Goodwin asked, trying to sound pleasant.. 

Miller looked at his bruised hands, rubbing them together.  He pointed at some scars.

“Work on a steam press. You?”

“I’m supposed to be a stretcher but so far they only let me carry bolts.” 

“Ah so you know McArdie.” Miller said his name with sour disgust. “We hired in at the same time.” 

Goodwin could tell by the man’s tone that he didn’t much like McArdie. That was okay with him and emboldened him to gripe,

"He rides me every day. I can’t do anything right. Always tells me I’m dragging down the whole line. A man can only walk so many miles in this heat.” 

Miller let out a dry, hacking snort. He fondled the bottle. "You think McArdle cares about anything but himself? You are just a piece of coal in the furnace to him. When you are burned up he’ll just find someone else to take your place.”

“I really try so hard,” Goodwin said, begging for affirmation from this stranger. 

“What’s the point?” Doesn’t really matter. Whether you work hard or not you still go to an early grave in that place. The pay is the same. They dock you any chance they get.” Goodwin nodded.  

“Here, have another,” Miller said. “On me.” 

Goodwin had planned to have just one shot. But the kindness of his new “friend” changed the equation. It would be rude to say no. 

Sometime later Goodwin stumbled back to his room. He belched a bit of warm whiskey and swallowed it again. It wasn’t as bad as he thought. He couldn’t stop replaying the poisonous words and attitudes of Miller in his head.  Miller was so right. He was just a piece of coal in a furnace to these people. But he was stuck. He had no other prospects. That resignation filled him with even more sadness. And tomorrow it all began again. 

Before drifting off to a restless sleep an image of Ella flashed in his mind. Instead of a tender smile her face bore a frown. It caused him to shudder. He knew she could not understand what he was dealing with. Nor would she understand what he had to do to deal with the pain. It would be best not to tell her about Miller. He consoled himself with the thought that women like Ella could not appreciate things like this anyway.

Trouble at Home 

Over the next months Goodwin found a stool next to Miller almost every night after work. As the pressures and frustrations at work and home got worse Goodwin looked forward more and more to these evenings. The River Street Tavern seemed more like home than anywhere else. It was like a safe spot in a dangerous world. He and Miller usually shared a bottle till it was gone. Sometimes Miller would buy it.  As the weeks passed, he let Goodwin. 

Goodwin finally got promoted from carrier to stretcher. He now worked at a massive cutting table under the watchful eye of the skilled cutter. Goodwin’s new job picked up where his old one left off. He first unfurled the white linen cloth from the bolt its full length–about  one hundred feet on the massive maple cutting table. He had to keep the cloth perfectly smooth and straight. There was no tolerance for even one wrinkle. 

Then, when one layer was laid he added another in the same way. With each subsequent layer it became more difficult to keep them smooth and aligned. Altogether, one batch on the table might have forty layers. When the cloth was perfectly laid the cutter came to inspect his work. Only when he was satisfied would the cutting process begin. 

Before Goodwin’s days, cutting was much less sophisticated. Sixteen inch hand shears meant very few layers at a time. But now, mechanical, steam-powered knives and circular cutters driven by overhead pulleys dramatically increased the amount of work in a day. It also upped the ante for mistakes. Even a quarter inch misalignment could ruin an entire batch. It would cost  more than Goodwin made in a year. Stretchers were terrified of making mistakes and lived in dread that they might be blamed for those of their cutter. 

Despite all this, Goodwin was learning to manage the pressures of his job better. He worked well with his cutter and found some measure of pride in his new skills. The extra pay of his promotion didn’t hurt either.  

Even so, things were not improving in Pittstown. 

In 1881, Goodwin and Ella welcomed their first child, Nellie. Two years later, Ella was pregnant again and would bring my grandfather Edward into the world. Over the next years they would have another baby every other year or so until eight little “rose buds” filled the home to capacity. 

Though they loved the children the added mouths to feed and increased household activity put heavy demands on Ella. It would have been hard enough with a husband to help. But Goodwin was gone much of the time. Even when he was home, he seemed disconnected and distracted. 

From the first time he noticed Ella, sitting with her family at the Gilead Lutheran (Old Brick) Church on Sunday morning, Goodwin was captivated by her peaceful, cheerful countenance. As he got to know her, he appreciated her emotional stability and positive attitude. He didn’t know how much he needed that, only that he liked it and wanted to have her in his life every day. 

In their early years of marriage his choice of Ella was confirmed over and over. She was so resourceful and never spoke a hurtful word. 

But the years of isolation and struggle were taking a toll on her. Even with the raise Goodwin’s pay was nowhere near enough to pay for everything in their busy life. Though he had received a considerable inheritance from his mother’s estate in 1880, it was long gone. Ella begged Goodwin to ask her father Conrad for a loan–just to take some of the pressure off. But Goodwin exploded in defiant rage. Ella never dared bring it up again. 

The Raymer and File Mercantile (1895)

Goodwin’s firstborn son Eddie was 12 years old.  Wiith Goodwin gone so much Eddie had grown up fast and was often the “man of the house.”  

Today, those who study family systems know how a father like Goodwin is often produced by circumstances brought on by a man like Philip. They also note how sometimes a father like Goodwin can unexpectedly produce a son like Eddie–especially when there is mother like Ella. 

As Goodwin struggled to work hard all his life, Eddie struggled at working too much. As Goodwin was careless with credit, Eddie refused to borrow a nickel from anyone. As Goodwin was often trapped by impossible dreams of wealth and riches, Eddie was trapped by his fear of them. They couldn’t have been more different or motivated by something so similar.  

Of the few enduring family stories about Goodwin, there was one that depicted the generational contrast of fathers and sons: the story of the grocery store credit. 

Eddie was twelve years old and had been serving more and more as the head of the home. Ella wondered what she would ever do without him. Even something as simple as getting groceries would have been almost impossible for a woman with eight children and a horse and wagon for transportation. 

Farm families in 1895 raised much of their own food. They had a garden for vegetable and almost all of them raised chickens.  But they still needed drygoods–sugar, salt, coffee. In Pittstown, the nearest drygoods store was in Raymertown. Though only five miles away, horse and wagon meant a two hour trip each way. Ella relied on Eddie more and more to keep the pantry stocked. 

Eddie enjoyed the solitude of a long drive to Raymertown, especially on warm summer mornings. The Tamarac Road connected Pittstown to Raymertown. It was well-traveled. Eddie would see others from time to time but mainly he could enjoy the road to himself. 

Spring and Fall rains changed the road into a muddy swamp and the two hour journey to four.  But this morning was pleasant and gave him time to enjoy nature. All his life he would love growing things–keeping a vegetable garden until in his eighties. He especially loved flowers. As he enjoyed the scenery it allowed him to avoid thinking about what was awaiting him at the end of the road at the Raymer and File Mercantile and is owner, Henry Raymer. 

Small town merchants in those days operated on a system of credit and barter.  In Raymertown the storekeeper, Henry Raymer, kept a large leather ledger on the counter with handwritten entries. It was a simple, efficient system for exchange: the date, name and quantity of each purchase followed by a running total of payments made. It worked as long as it didn’t. 

Ella had been particularly fastidious about household business. As money got tight, she was even more careful. Even so, her attentiveness and thrift was not enough. The Rose Account at the store was badly behind. Raymer was tolerant of some delays. But after months without a payment, he could not afford it much longer. 

Wise beyond his years, Eddie knew what was happening. That’s how he knew that this trip to the store would be more difficult than he cared to think about. Mother had scrawled a short shopping list of bare essentials for Eddie. With a worried expression on her face, she gave Eddie a hug on his way out the door, “Be sure to tell Mr. Raymer that we will have a payment for him next month.” 

“Yes, Ma’m.” 

Eddie  loved his mother dearly. His respect and admiration was enhanced by the strained relationship with his father. Seeing him only on weekends and holidays meant he hardly knew the man. It left too much room for imagination also, especially when it meant Eddie was required to do things that a father should be doing. 

The beauty and brightness of the beginning of the day was now clouded with thoughts of his father, family money troubles, and the impending conversation with Mr. Raymer. How Eddie hated asking for more credit! 

Reaching Raymertown Eddie pulled up the wagon to a post and removed the shopping list from his pocket. He took a deep breath.. 

The little bell on the door jingled announcing as he opened the door. Mr. Raymer was stocking some shelves as Eddie marched up to the counter. 

“Good morning, Sir,” Eddie tried to sound confident and cheerful. 

Raymer turned to look. Raymer’s expression filled Eddie with dread. This would be bad.

Raymer knew well the Rose Account. He had reviewed it earlier in the week. In a small town he also knew much of the family situation. He had been around long enough to remember Goodwin’s father. 

“Hello Master Rose,” Raymer spoke with measured tones. “How can I help you today?” 

Raymer might have hoped the boy was here to pay off the debt but he knew better. The stories were always the same.

Eddie removed his cap in a sign of respect, “I’ve come for some drygoods, Sir,” he began, holding the list in his other hand. 

“Now Eddie, I hope you know we cannot keep this up. It’s been two months since you made any payments on your account and–”

Ella had warned Eddie how this conversation would go. She had prepared him with words to say. 

“Mr. Raymer, Mother wanted me to assure you she will make a payment next month. My father had to miss some days at work because of illness. He’s back now, though.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure. But Eddie, I have my own bills to pay!” 

Raymer had danced this dance so many times with customers over the years. It was usually the same. Raymer was too good a man to deny basic necessities to a struggling woman like Ella. He knew she had eight hungry children to care for! He knew enough of the family to know that her husband had never been a hardworking man. But he also knew after saying his piece he would eventually give in, hoping it would be rewarded in the end. 

Later that day Henry would reflect on the irony of the Rose situation. He knew the woman’s father, Conrad Clum. They went to the same church. Clum was a well-respected business man down the road. Henry often went to the Clum Blacksmith Shop with his horse. Why didn’t the woman ask her father for help? Clum would be shocked if he knew how far behind his daughter was. 

But Henry sighed with the realities. He knew the Rose men. Like his father, Goodwin was a proud, stubborn man. Men like that often refused help from family until they were forced to. Raymer wondered what it would take to force his hand. 

Henry stoically took the short list from Eddie’s hand and began pulling items off the shelves, putting them in a small wooden crate:  ten pound sack of flour, five pounds of molasses, one pound of coffee. 

Raymer glanced out of the corner of his eye at the twelve year old. He did feel sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault. THe saw Eddie eyeing a glass candy jar on the counter filled with black licorice. He wondered if Eddie would insist on one. 

“Okay, Eddie. Tell your mom I’ll give you one more month. But I must have some payment. After that I won’t be able to sell you anything more until the account is paid.” 

Eddie nodded and smiled politely. He picked up the crate and started for the door. 

Raymer said, “Wait a minute, boy. You forgot something.” He reached into the candy jar and pulled out a long  black string of licorice. With a warm smile he handed it to Eddie. “And, here you go. You are a fine young man–”

“Oh Sir!” Eddie protested. “That was not on my list. I cannot–”

“Yes, yes, i know,” Raymer said with another smile. “That’s why I’m giving it to you. Eat it nice and slow on your way home.”