The covered bridge is, I suppose, the designated photo opportunity in Beaverkill, but we all have personally treasured views of the best of the valley. This account relates to one of my favorites. It comes into sight at the foot of the Johnson Hill, where the Beaverkill road, descending abruptly from the Elm Hollow turnoff, leaves the woods and first touches down on the alluvial meadow that follows the valley on to Turnwood.

There, the visitor from the City will get his first sight of the Beaverkill after vainly seeking a glimpse for five sometimes tedious miles up from Deckertown, and, moments thereafter, will come upon an old iron trestle bridge leading across the river to a nestled farmstead with a white house and tidy red barn that are so pretty, so snug, and so correctly tucked into the foot of the hill and the crook of the river, that it almost hurts. Continuing upstream and before he has entirely registered these charms, he comes upon a pair of bridges only a few feet apart leading to summer houses in the woods across the stream, and, before he can say, “why two bridges?” will have passed out of Beaverkill and the proper scope of this narrative.

To me, the area leading on from the bottom of the hill has always seemed to belong to Lew Beach rather than Beaverkill, and, because the Friends of Beaverkill are punctilious in restricting these chronicles to the eponymous hamlet, I felt required to establish boundaries. Thus, sitting down to talk Beaverkill history on the porch of Theodore Willich's stone house at the end of the downstream bridge of the pair with two of his granddaughters, Sylvia Willich Hardenbergh and Kathleen Murray, I immediately asked which town we were in. I received a quizzical look, but the ladies pointed without hesitation to the left at a low stone wall at right angles to the river, more or less equidistant between the two bridges, and informed me that this wall in fact marked both the end of the Willich property and the boundary between Lew Beach and Beaverkill. The boundary places the Willich lands generally in Beaverkill; once even more extensive, they still run back downstream along the river almost a half mile to the farm, known to the family as The River Farm. I am bound to note that George Willich, another of Theodore's seven grandchildren who summers on the property, doubts that the stone wall marks much of anything in the way of political subdivision and points out that, in any case, the notion of Beaverkill is not limited to the hamlet but is used widely in the valley, with respectable householders as far afield as Turnwood comfortably referring to Beaverkill as their place of residence.

Theodore Willich, on right, with Dutch business friend, dressed for the woods, inspecting Huggins Pond, Theodore’s property at that time; in late fall 1946

As to the two bridges, I was told that at one point, early in the last century, one bridge, now the upstream bridge, was built to access both the stone house and another house built some yards upstream, and that the old gate in the separating stone boundary wall still marks the original road from that bridge across the adjoining land to Theodore's stone house. The property on which the upstream house was built had been carved out of Theodore Willich's large holdings on the river and given by him to a well known professional man, a very old and dear friend from New Jersey where Theodore lived. The friend then built a summer house much like Theodore's own. The story goes that Theodore also obtained for this friend a directorship in a Jersey bank that was then one of his enterprises and that one day at a board meeting the two men, in spite of their established friendship, took opposing sides on an issue with such vehemence and rancor that one man stalked out, and the two never passed another word during their long lives. Theodore, who was by all accounts a kindly man, but one of strong views and firm convictions, felt humiliated by having to continue to share the bridge and, more, to pass over the adjoining property, improvidently gifted, to get to the stone house, and so built the downstream bridge on his own land. Fortunately, his erstwhile friend lost interest in the property before long, moved out, and opened the way to the peaceable occupation by Theodore and his heirs that continues to this day. Steve Levine bought the parcel in the '70s, and with it, the original bridge, and has since rebuilt the original house which burned a few years ago. I am assured that the old animosities have not followed the title.

Theodore Willich's original property was about 27 acres along the river. As a result of a number of diligent acquisitions over the years Theodore came to own all of the land along the north side of the river from the twin bridges back downstream to the River Farm and high up the hill, about a thousand acres in all. I confess here that to me upstream will always be north, but in fact the upper Beaverkill generally flows down from east to west. Thus, when you look across any of the bridges here considered, you are looking north. The Willich property was generally “U” shaped with the bottom of the letter running about a half mile along the river. One of the two arms of the U ran back north from the stone house all the way up the hill to Huggins Pond. The other extended from the River Farm up to the Ragin Road . Embraced by the two are some thousands of acres of State land.

Until the end of World War II Theodore owned and, through tenants, operated three farms on this property: The River Farm, now owned by granddaughter Sylvia; the farm up the hill taking in the area around The Huggins Pond, called The Lake Farm; and, the third farm towards the Ragin Road ridge, known to the family as The Hill Farm. A fourth property, a farmstead in the distant past but for many years a hayfield, adjoined the Hill Farm. The River Farm had been purchased from Ed Hunt whose family I believe first farmed the land. It was the last of the Willich properties to be intensively farmed and continued as a dairy farm until sometime around the end of the War. The three farms were, at one point, active dairy farms, although, as is the case with so many farms in the area, their profitability was always tenuous. The histories indicate that, in fact, many of the substantial farm buildings in the area were financed from their woodlots rather than their fields. Many of the area farms were run by tenants; tenants Royce Backman, Art Pierpont, and Jay Campbell had all farmed on The River Farm. A good portion of this land, including the strip along the river, remains owned by the Willich family, although the Huggins pond farm was conveyed to the Boy Scouts after the War and is now State land. The river landholding carries Beaverkill fishing rights all along the adjacent half of the river.

The Reverend Derby in front of Hemlock Cottage around the time of construction – 1914

Family legend has it that Theodore as a teenager in the late 1800s sat on the bank in front of where the stone house now stands and stated that someday he would own the property and there build his house. He and his brother Will fished from young ages and may have then been staying with a group of friends in one of the many boardinghouses in the area. Grandson George Willich, who lives in The Hemlock Cottage just downstream from the stone house, believes that there is some indication that he stayed in the large house at the foot of the Campsite road, now owned by Kate Adams and Duke Wiser. Sylvia Mattman, who later married Theodore, also stayed at that boarding house from time to time, but apparently met her husband only later in Hoboken , her family home, where they played and sang together in an informal musical group. There is also some indication that on occasion Theodore stayed at the Bonnie View, now the Beaverkill Valley Inn, during some of his early visits. Although Theodore became a skilled fisherman whose rods are still among the family heirlooms, there are those in the family who contend that, in the beginning, it was the hunting and not the fishing that brought him to the Valley.

Sylvia Mattman Willich, Theodore’s wife, and son on the river, circa 1915

The Willichs are from an old German family, and Theodore for many years worked for and ran the American agency of a German firm that imported and processed rice, at one point apparently investing company assets in U.S. war savings bonds during the First World War. On occasion, members of the family, a number of whom worked for the business from time to time, would come to the Beaverkill by train from company operations in Louisiana . Theodore and his children were bilingual, and German was spoken frequently among friends and family.

As Theodore prospered he was able in 1910 to fulfill his ambition and build his house on the river; the date is carved in a stone in the wall. It was planned and built as a summer cottage. He used river stone and cobbles taken from the creek next to the house that flows down, over some sizeable falls, from Huggins Pond. The bed of the Beaverkill seems to have been another source of stone; at least, there is an adventitiously deep spot in front of the house that was the family swimming hole for many years. In order to get the construction completed quickly he paid premium wages that apparently caused some local criticism by those who felt that his scales could only spoil Valley laborers. Theodore paid a skilled workman $1.00 a day or $2.00 for a man with a team – the going rate for labor was apparently 75 cents. The exact condition of the property when the house was built is not recorded; much earlier, in the industrial era in the valley, a mill pond had been created by damming the Beaverkill in front of where Hemlock Cottage now stands. Remnants of the hemlock logs used to build it are still visible. Another mill, located near where the Levine house stands, is believed to have turned wood for bowling pins.

Although the three sturdy bridges now make for dependable access, crossing the river was never taken for granted in earlier years, and the whole bridging saga has been an important part of Willich history. There was no bridge to the property when the stone house was built. When river levels permitted, construction materials and supplies were brought across a ford some distance upstream. A first bridge was built, but flooding took it out as well as a number of its successors. While repair and the construction of ever fewer and better, but still vulnerable, bridges was being awaited from time to time over the years, access was either by the ford or over lengthy suspension bridges. Until the '60s the River Farm had no fixed bridge at all. Access was over a swinging cable bridge, from time to time over a ford, and over a right of way extending along the hillside up from the River Farm and back down to the Hemlock Cottage property, thence over the small bridge that crosses the creek coming down from Huggins Pond and out over the twin bridge. None of these permitted easy access in winter. In 1962 the old iron highway bridge at Turnwood was replaced, and in 1964 the parts were purchased where they lay, put back together, and raised as the first permanent bridge at River Farm where it remains today on concrete abutments built from materials forded a little downstream from the farm.

Second bridge – one of the number of “permanent” bridges tried over the years – this one probably in the ’30s.

The access saga may not have entirely ended. I talked history with George Willich and his family at Hemlock Cottage on the rainy Friday night of Hurricane Ivan, driving back over the bridge that crosses the by then swollen stream from Huggins pond. Next morning the stream flooded and washed out the bridge. Only the existence of the old right of way back to River Farm permitted George and the others to get to Sylvia's bridge and the Beaverkill Road . I asked Sylvia what would happen in such a case if her own bridge were compromised. She smiled and indicated that she had one other road up her sleeve, this one going on up the hill to Ragin Road via her son, Roger Lynker's, property near the ridge. She regularly drives the rights of way, which are rough, and is sure they remain passable.

Theodore Willich had two sons, Albert and Theodore, who, between them, had seven children. All of the children are alive, and visit from time to time, but only Sylvia, Kathleen, daughter Jackie, and George remain connected to the Beaverkill property. The others, Charlotte, Theodore, Marjorie and Robert, have scattered, but a reunion of all of the grandchildren and their children and their children's children took place in July 2005 in the valley. Five generations of Willichs have lived or summered on the Beaverkill, though if you count original visits by Theodore's mother and father in the late 1800s, the Beaverkill connection is a six generation one.

The stone house has always been known to the family as the Big House, or, more formally, The Stone Cottage. The Beaverkill Post Office recognized it as Stone Cottage, and mail addressed simply to Stone Cottage, Beaverkill, found its destination. The house has always been the center of family summer activity, but, some yards downstream, there is another house, known as the Hemlock Cottage, which became almost as important to the family. This property was owned by the Reverend Aubrey Derby who was pastor of the All Saints Episcopal church in Leonia , New Jersey and who, over the years, baptized most of the grandchildren and married some. Grandmother Sylvia was an active church member and before long the Reverend and his family were invited for a weekend at The Stone Cottage. Inevitably, they fell in love with the place and bought two acres either from Ed Hunt or Theodore, and, in 1914, built a single story cedar shake cottage with huge windows nestled in a grove of hemlocks. This became, of course, The Hemlock Cottage and has remained such since. Before long, the Derbys wanted more land because no more was then available from neighbor Ed Hunt, sold the property to Theodore and purchased the farm on Ragin Road that is chronicled by Grace Van Nalts, Rev. Derby's daughter, in Volume I of these Stories. Later, Theodore bought The River Farm from Hunt, and its 1800 feet of frontage completed the Willich river holdings.

Sylvia received the River Farm from her grandmother in the '50s, later coming to live on the river full time for a stretch of 14 years or so. She left for Florida but returned again three years ago and has spent full time since, although she still considers Florida her home and is not particularly fond of winter on the Beaverkill. It was a short summer season for the families; generally from the day after school ended to the day before it began. Thus, spring and fall were not spent on the river and Theodore rarely, if ever, visited in winter. This was a matter of practicality and not preference, for when he retired in the early '50s Theodore came to occupy the stone house more or less continuously until his death in 1964 at age 89. He particularly enjoyed the winters, although one understands that his wife, the original Sylvia, always remained less enthusiastic.

The men would spend their vacations and commute on weekends by train, met in the early days by a horse and wagon, later a car, from the River Farm, and the women and children would stay for the season. But for the means of transport, this way of life has continued with little basic change since the stone house was built.

Sylvia, Theodore's wife, was particularly independent and proud of being able to take care of things in her husband's absence. She acquired a shotgun, just in case. At one point she heard noises in the spring house over the course of several nights and soon began to find butter and eggs missing. Finally, one night, she confronted the thief who was not visible in the dark, and, getting no response to her challenge, took a shot, and, apparently, wounded him. She believed she knew who the thief was but placed no charges. Some little time later she was stopped on the street in Lew Beach by a man with a limp who, to her shock and discomfiture, rolled up his pants leg and pointed to a wound that he loudly proclaimed was clearly not due to buckshot. He complained that the entire town knew of the shooting and now believed him to be an egg thief. He pleaded with her to tell people that he was not the culprit.

Although Mrs. Willich was independent, it is also true that, generally, she was accompanied by household help during the summer. At one point two young European women lived in a cottage behind the stone house which the family, given to naming all possible places and locations, referred to as The Paradise Hotel, it being their custom in such nomenclature to capitalize the article, a usage more or less honored herein. The property benefited by some marvelous springs coming out of the hills behind the river, and the spring house was easily cold enough to keep dairy supplies. There was also an icebox in the house which was kept charged with ice taken from various ponds on the property in the winter and packed in sawdust in an icehouse for summer use.

There was no refrigeration until electrification in the '40s, and, until the '50s, food was purchased in Livingston Manor from a grocer who would come past two or three times a week delivering the order that had been placed at his previous visit and picking up a new one. The Manor baker worked on the same basis; regular trips to the store for groceries were not a part of life at the time. One of the remembered diversions over the years was a trip to the Antrim Lodge in Roscoe, a trip that, by horse and buggy in the early years, took longer than the train ride to the Manor from Weehawken and made it a full day's expedition. An annual trip to celebrate Albert Willich's birthday on August 15th was always a highlight of the summer, although Albert always admitted to mixed feelings about the event which also heralded the end of summer and the return to school. As cars came in and the roads were finally blacktopped in 1934 or 1935, communication with the nearby towns became more practical.

The stone house is substantial, clearly well constructed, and most of the original construction remains much as built, although it was enlarged over the years and was winterized in the middle '40s, looking towards Theodore's eventual retirement on the Beaverkill. The outdoor house was connected by an areaway to a separate kitchen building in the back. It is not particularly large or ostentatious, but it is perfectly right and looks as though it grew from the river bank. It was built as a rural camp, and its well realized purpose was to permit the family to enjoy the outdoor pleasures of the woodland and river. The Hemlock Cottage has always been a summer house and was not winterized, although it was greatly enlarged around the beginning of the '40s to accommodate son Theodore's growing family. The family divided itself between the houses in the course of the summers. The Willichs have always been a close family, and their summers together on the river is one of the main reasons.

Electrification after the Second World War was greeted with great enthusiasm by Theodore, but the grandchildren did not entirely share his enthusiasm for the convenience, an encroachment of civilization. The nightly ritual of lining up and filling the kerosene lamps was regarded by them as a part of the Beaverkill scene and its absence detracted from their view of themselves as pioneers, roughing it as in primitive times. A number of the males in the family were devoted fishermen, and Theodore and his brother Will were original members of the Beaverkill Trout Club. There has been some considerable success over the years in fishing for sport and the table.

The best fish story to come out of the Willich occupancy was, of course, about the big one that got away. In my judgment it is significant in the piscatorial history of the valley, but because I am not permitted to compromise my credibility by any involvement with fish tales, I have asked George Willich to tell it:

“One summer when we arrived for the season, we discovered a huge brown trout that had taken up residence in the large pool that extends between the two houses. It was estimated to be about 3 feet long and certainly the largest trout ever to be seen in the Upper Beaverkill . Most people speculated that it must have escaped from Huggins Pond and made its way down the brook during the spring floods. Huggins pond was known to contain some very large trout, but this particular trout was exceptional. He gained considerable fame in the valley and beyond, and we named him Oscar. Because Brown Trout tend to be cannibalistic, he also became a problem because he ate so many other trout. During the years he was there, the trout population in our pool became greatly diminished. Catching Oscar became an obsession for the grandchildren, but no matter how hard we tried, no one could catch him on rod or reel, or even by illegal methods [trout tickling. ed ]. As time went by, his fame grew and one summer a crew from the National Geographic came up for a photo shoot. I guess Oscar assumed that he didn't have too many natural enemies in the water, so he did little to hide himself and could usually be seen resting quietly in the deep, cold water where Huggins Brook empties into the Beaverkill. Then, one summer, he was gone, never to be seen again. Maybe he just died or maybe he was taken out through the ice during the winter when the river sometimes freezes over. But, I like to think he decided to move on the bigger and deeper water downstream in the Delaware .”

The grandchildren grew up in the '30s and '40s, and their recollections of summer in the valley remain vivid and happy. The keynote of the life they remember was family self-sufficiency. They were not isolated geographically or socially – though they were teased occasionally by friends who claimed that they had cut themselves off behind their bridges – but distances for the time were large and parents of the generation assumed less of a chauffeurial role than many today. Thus, apart from a few near neighbors and imported friends, the children made their own amusements, mostly outdoors, within their own extensive lands. Helen Willich, the wife of Theodore's son Albert, and Ellin Berlin , wife of Irving Berlin, became friends in the 1940s shortly after the Berlins established their summer residence in Lew Beach . The two women and their children, who were all about the same age, enjoyed visiting on many summer afternoons during the '40s and '50s. The friendships continued through the '60s and '70s when the children grew up, married, and had children of their own. Although Helen Willich died in 1967, Mrs. Berlin continued to plan and organize play dates, parties, and theatre and travel expeditions for her grandchildren and often included Theodore's great grandchildren. Five generations of Willichs cherish the visits between the families over the years.

The adults as well centered their summers on the property. Socializing was on a family to family basis, and I have been pointed to no general gathering place or watering hole for the summer residents. Although some in the family used the golf course at Trout Valley Farm, that resort was aimed primarily at visitors and did not seem to be a social center of the valley population. The family had a long connection with the Beaverkill Trout Club, but it hewed to its specific purpose. The Lew Beach bars were, apparently, somewhat rowdy, but, in any case, served mainly the local population, and nearby restaurants were then, as now, pretty much nonexistent. It is hard to identify Beaverkill with a particular social scene, then or now. Bridge was perhaps the most important part of the social life of Theodore, children and their friends. Business guests were in frequent attendance, and the local players included Fred Banks and Ken and Ethel Osborn, and the Juhrings who lived in the big farmhouse where the bridge crosses the river towards Beech Hill, now owned by Sue and Tom Engle.

At one point, self improvement became the theme among the grandchildren who organized themselves as the “Junior Commandos” who would be waked at six in the morning by a neighbor, Norman Blake, from across the river, to engage in calisthenics, followed by a plunge. In the early mornings of the early summer this was an ordeal that Sylvia still remembers with a shudder and compares, unfavorably, with the ocean in Florida . Norman was a summer visitor at his Aunt Sarah's farmhouse, long gone, that once stood across the river from the Cottage. Aunt Sarah's husband, even then deceased, was James Mercer, who was related to the larger Mercer family who to this day own hundreds of acres upstream from the Willich property. In 1866 John Mercer invented the process for strengthening cotton so that it could receive dyes. Readers may remember the day, as George and I do, when most cotton goods carried the “Mercerized Cotton” label. Mercers have been residents of the valley for possibly as long as the Willichs. The family still sees Norman when he comes each year to fish.

At another time, one of the ladies in the household decided to provide a vehicle for activities as well as an opportunity for a little moral improvement and discipline and organized the young troops into an Indian band that engaged in rituals, projects and competitions and were rewarded by feathers of various colors. George Willich remembers that a white feather, the rarest, was to be given to the child who could manage the season without squabbling with any sibling or relative. He does not, however, remember that it was ever awarded. He also remembers listening from bed with his brother Teddy to the very spirited bridge games of his parents and their friends, sometimes conducted in loud German. Teddy observed at the time that none of the adults could have qualified for the white feather either.

George remembers that perhaps the high point of his own life as a savage was during his stint as Thunder Cloud who, as the keeper of the flame, was responsible for building fires. He ran a thin wire from a tree to the campfire – liberally dosed with kerosene – and placed a cousin high in the branches with a kerosened wad of cotton wrapped around the wire. At a signal from the fire giver he lit the cotton and sent it down to the campfire which burst into satisfying flame.

Camping and exploration were another activity. When the children were young, trucks would ply the rough road up to the farm at Huggins Pond carrying tents, blankets and other camping equipment, and the kids would cook and overnight with a parent on watch. Later, the kids camped on their own, sometimes staying at Huggins for three or four days. The farm was no longer worked at that point, but hay continued to be taken, and the apple orchard still produced. One of the happiest memories was climbing to the lake, swimming, and then being brought back on a load of hay pulled by two horses. They explored the ridges above the river, one traditional pursuit being the search for Indian Tunis' lead mine. Tunis , a central figure in the early history of the Beaverkill, is described in the History section on page 186 of this volume. The story of his later years, when he retreated to the woods, becomes associated with Indian tales of a mine up-river so rich that pure lead was hacked out with axes and brought in chunks to town for sale. There would be a great deal of tasting of springs up the hill for the supposed taste of lead. Usually, however, the most plumbic tasting springs and most likely caves could never be located on the next trip, so there was little ultimate progress towards the mother lode. There was, inevitably, the story of the cave entered, and quickly exited, when two glowing eyes appeared in its recesses, an inhibition on exploration for a period.

The river itself was of course the central playground. Adults and children swam every day, sometimes interspersed with badminton and croquet on the lawn running down to the river. There was a small dam that created a pool below the stone house where canoes and rafts could be used. They were, on occasion, used for transportation. Kathleen Murray at age 7 or 8 figured that the route down the river to the Covered Bridge would be direct and easy and so embarked with the current in a rubber raft – without telling the household. She was found to be missing, and great hue and cry arose. It took some time to drift down to the campsite, and when she arrived finally in the dark she was greeted by lights from fire engines and police cars as well as some very relieved but very stern parents.

The grandchildren's youth on the Beaverkill took place largely during the Second World War. Although travel was limited by gas rationing, summer occupancy was never greatly trammeled. River Farm still operated, although diminished by the absence of Jay Campbell, and the more liberal gas ration given to farmers made it easier to travel than might have been the case. With proper husbanding the tank filled in Beaverkill could provide for the round trip to New Jersey and back. The farm also supplied eggs, milk and butter during the season and even, occasionally, during the winter. Maple syrup, apples, and honey also came down from the farm. All in all, the war lay lightly on this part of Beaverkill; one of George's clearest memories is of the handsome Italian prisoner of war, the son of a rice miller with whom the company did business before the war, who was apparently released on a weekend pass, and came to visit leaving memories of exquisite manners culminating in a kiss on the hand of George's mother that utterly undid her. Theodore was proud of the sense of honor among businessmen before the war and liked to tell the tale of a deal reached just before the outbreak of war with a handshake and no witnesses late at night on a ferry in the English channel – a deal that was honored four years later by the Dutch supplier involved who completed the shipment at a huge loss to himself.

In a demographic familiar to many of us, the growing grandchildren eventually became less interested in their games and began to seek a broader companionship. To adolescents, cousins of the opposite sex begin to lack consuming interest as playmates. Transportation was a problem but – one way or another – the children managed to find others of their kind. By this time the Beaverkill store and post office had moved to the corner of the Elm Hollow road, and there was usually some activity going on there. An even better hangout was the canteen at the Campsite. This was a small building built against the hill where the road descends to the Covered Bridge which sold basic provisions, camping supplies, and snacks and, at one point at least, housed some of the staff who ran the place. It was a meeting place for staff, campers and kids from the Beaverkill area. With some effort the grandchildren were able to meet and consort with the children of some of the summer residents who had houses on down the river in the hamlet.

The local town was Livingston Manor, although a trip to Roscoe was an occasional treat. At one point Roscoe had a field day with athletic competitions open to all and entered, sometimes quite successfully, by several Willichs. A well remembered event was the trip to the movies in the Manor followed by a visit to Friedenbergs' ice cream parlor in a small house just east of the Hoos building. Johnson and Johnson's, the large dry goods store in the Manor was an important shopping place. However, the town was not central to Willich life. The square dances in Turnwood were an important summer event that continued into the seventies.

George indicated that some years after the War Theodore and Sylvia took up permanent residence in Stone Cottage. I had to blurt out, “you mean in the winter?” This indeed was the case, at a time when the isolation on the upper Beaverkill, with most farms gone and the tourist population dwindling, was fairly extreme. After Sylvia died Theodore continued to live alone in the house, summer and winter, for a number of years before his death in 1964, assisted only by a longtime family retainer, Frieda Wagner. He was robust and active almost until his death.

Grandson George Willich has this recollection of his last visit to his grandfather: “I remember so well the day in 1964 when my grandfather's housekeeper, Frieda, called and told me that she thought I might want to come up and see him as he was not doing very well. I took a day off from work and drove to find him in bed. It surprised me because he was never ill and each day shaved and dressed before coming downstairs for breakfast. I sat by his bedside for several hours and we talked and talked about the things that were of most interest to him: family and Beaverkill. I had to return home and couldn't spend the night but as I stood up to leave, he reached over to the floor beside him and lifted up a bottle of wine which he handed to me. It was a beautiful old bottle of Bordeaux . Although he was not that fond of the French people, he was a great lover of French wines and always maintained a nice cellar. The bottle, a 1928 Chateau Léoville Las-Cases was the last of a case given him by a Beaverkill neighbor, Lazare Kaplan, a prominent jeweler and diamond cutter who owned a large farm on the Mary Smith Road out of Lew Beach . Legend has it that when Mr. Kaplan was commissioned to cut a famous diamond, he retired to Beaverkill for 2 weeks in order to calm himself and steady his nerve before he made the final cut. In any case, my grandfather told me he thought the wine and the vintage year to be one of the greats of the century and despite its 36 years of age had been well cared for and was readily drinkable. Driving back to my home in New Jersey I reflected on our visit and knew that his usual vigor was diminishing. He still retained his fierce pride and great love for the lands about him but knew that his time was passing and that he must rely on the next generations to continue the way of life he had taught us. ‘Keep the lands together and in the family', he would say. He died quietly in his sleep a few days later and I realized that I may have been the last of the family to sit with him. I knew that I would do all I could to follow his wishes and my children have been asked to do the same. I hope that I have made the same impression on them that he made on me. Incidentally, I also knew that I would never open and drink the great bottle of wine.”

Theodore's son Albert, who was George's father, and Albert's wife Helen also came to adopt Stone Cottage as their retirement home. Albert lived with his wife on the river year round until her death and then, alone, almost until his own.

Theodore Willich was a precursor. He was not an inventor of the way of life that still characterizes Beaverkill – the back to nature movement was well established in the last half of the nineteenth century, and country houses, usually called cottages, or, camps, were popular at the time among the rich and the more or less well to do all around the country, but he was among the first to come to Beaverkill, not as a tourist, but to construct a house purpose built for summer life on the river and to inhabit that house and follow that life for a lifetime. Many of the Friends of Beaverkill enjoy a local life whose elements were all familiar to Theodore: an occupation and residence elsewhere combined with a very strong, if sometimes seasonal, connection to the Beaverkill based on an individually independent, somewhat woodsy, way of life inspired by the outdoors, and a social life centered on friends and families.

I picture the young Theodore sitting on the bank of the river thinking of the house he would build, and I believe that if one were to have told him then what would transpire from his dream, he would be pleased, but he would not be surprised.