“Yet to be attributed to a specific artist, this portrait is a charming representation of demure femininity and ably replicates the clothing, hairstyles, hand-made lace and jewelry common in the 1830s in the Hudson Valley.”
In the 1930s Midget racing cars were run on a quarter-mile clay track off Cooper Lake Road in Bearsville.
Vly-Atwood, known hereabouts as “the Vly,” was a hamlet where people attended school and church, and gathered for social congress. Named from the Middle Dutch word vley or valeye, meaning valley or swamp, the Vly is actually situated in an upland area of the Town of Marbletown, above the buried aqueduct that takes water from the Ashokan Reservoir to New York City, and the Esopus Creek, which flows through a narrow canyon below.
The seven recipients represented a rich cross-section of the various heart-felt efforts that are helping save, restore, document and repurpose the architectural heritage of the city.
People decry the state of modern politics, but its child’s play compared to when, in the late 19th century, the Republican-controlled Ulster County board of supervisors remade, for the sake of anti-immigrant sentiment, the county’s largest municipality.
This is the story of two remarkable people who, 51 years ago, envisioned a place where people from near and far could come and research their genealogy or learn about local history – a place where membership was not required, with regular hours, a knowledgeable staff and a collection of research materials that were guaranteed to be there when you needed them.
Words from a lost age. “The present campaign has certainly been carried on, in a very ladylike manner. Never before have we observed such courtesy in a political campaign. There has been little mudslinging, our opponents have treated us in a very gentlemanly manner.”
The Ulster County Courthouse in Kingston is no ordinary place; it’s one of the country’s earliest bastions of democracy
We all die, of course. But some of us die far from home. Some of us die lost, without the memory of friends or family. Some of us die in alleyways or emergency rooms. Some die face-down in drainage ditches or under frozen sheets of broken cardboard boxes. Some of us, in other words, die broke, alone, forgotten. These are the people whose bodies have for thousands of years filled what are most commonly called “potter’s fields.”
“No parent of a gifted child could have done more to develop and spread its fame than she did for her beloved Woodstock. Marion’s was the brain and the heart that led every forward step the town took. She crusaded, she cajoled, scolded and exposed until she won for the town what she thought was necessary for its welfare and its growth.”