Reflections and childhood memories:
My first recollection of William “Bill” Cottman was when I was three years old, peering out of my bedroom window and watching him walk through the marina on the oil laden dirt road that led past our camp. He always wore bib overalls and lived with his wife in a large white Victorian home at the end of the road on “the point”, where the New York State Barge Canal met Snug Harbor, very close to the entrance to Oneida Lake; I only knew it then as “Cottman’s Backset”.
Their home had lots of gingerbread, and I recall a big circular driveway with some sort of statue or fountain in the center; off to the right was a small building barely large enough for one car. On the canal side of the house was a screened in porch that covered the entire back. Their lawn stretched around to the harbor side of the house where Mr. Cottman parked his long mahogany touring boat, it must have dated to before the turn of the century. It was not very tall but was quite long, it had about twenty seats on each side, large glass windows, and a pilot’s seat in the front that was uncovered with its own windshield. I now wonder if it wasn’t the “L. C. Spencer” that his great-uncle Joseph operated on Oneida Lake in the late 1800’s.
It was the fall of 1946 and we had just rented a camp from Mr. Cottman, having moved from a camp on Forest Avenue in the small village of Verona Beach, New York which we shared with my uncle Red, aunt Nellie and Cousin Donna. Uncle Red had just returned from Germany that spring and we from a winter trip to Florida with the Visser family. My sister was eighteen months older than I and would start first grade the following year at the VeronaBeachElementary School.
The camp was yellow, and the back half stood on stilts over the backset, that is where my father would park his boat. Between us and the camp next door was a set of rails that began at the shore of the backset and traveled across the road to a big barn where Mr. Cottman stored large yachts. In the second camp to the north, next to Mr. Cottman’s home, lived Jack and Ann Visser, their daughter Judy and sons Johnny and Bobby; I suspect they were the ones that encouraged my father to rent the camp we lived in.
The camp was about forty feet long and just wide enough for two single beds at the end facing the road, where our bedroom was. At the opposite end was a small workshop where my father had all kinds of electronic equipment. He had been a radio repairman in the Army Air Corp and fixed radios and TVs for local residents, often times taking me along with him. He continued to do this up until the late 50’s, when he sold his equipment to our neighbor Ron.
My Dad and Uncle Red owned two large dump trucks and on the sides it read “Schafer Sand and Gravel”. Dad kept his parked in the driveway and Uncle Red kept his at his camp on Lake Shore Road near the Fish Creek Post Office. (The name of the Post Office was officially changed to the “Verona Beach Post Office” in July of the following year.)
That fall I recall watching out the window for Mr. Cottman so that I could run outside and follow him. I was fascinated by the way he moved giant Chris Crafts into the barns with no help other than the machinery he had built.
In the barns were railroad cars which were flat, except for two large wooden supports that formed a “V” in the front and back. In the back of the barns were gasoline motors with large pulleys and cables that were hooked to the back of the railcars. He would start the engine and slowly the railcar would move out of the barn, across the dirt road, and under the Chris Craft that was moored at the dock. He would tie a cable to the yacht, and like a magnet, it would settle on the railcar as he pulled it out of the water and into the barn.
He was of average height and build, not muscular but very rock-hard, he reminded me very much of my grandfather Schafer who was a Lorraine Shovel operator and was also very lean. His face reminded me of Howdy Doody; it was short and had squinty eyes that sometimes twinkled. I don’t recall much about that winter, nothing was happening in the backset and most of the time my sister and I played with the Vissers building snow forts.
Spring came and I was back at the window watching for Mr. Cottman. I don’t recall him saying much to me the previous fall, but I was intent on following him. I again watched in awe as he moved the giant Chris Crafts from the big barns to the backset. I don’t ever recall him smiling, but neither did he scowl. The entire summer passed and he never did say much to me, but not a day went by that I didn’t follow him. It was as if we communicated by telepathy.
There was only one other camp that I recall, it was across the road and down a bit, it had a long driveway and was buried deep in the woods. Three old men lived in it, they were known as the “Doherty Boys”. They had been musicians in their earlier years and I found out later that they were Mrs. Cottman’s brothers. They would love it when my sister and I visited them, which was often. They would entertain us with their guitars and violins and were very cordial. I recall that their living room smelled just like my grandpa’s, who smoked a pipe also.
I later learned that Mr. and Mrs. Cottman had a home in Florida and would winter there; the “Doherty Boys” owned a car and would also go with them. However, none of them drove, so they would hire someone to drive them down and then back again in the spring.
Johnny Visser and I became the best of friends, building forts and playing in the wooded area between the harbor and the canal. I recall discovering a makeshift cabin with just enough room for a cot and a cooking area. We were told it belonged to a hermit and not to go there, but we did often. We later learned that the hermit went south in the fall; that must have been why we never saw him that winter.
We moved to Vienna Road in SylvanBeach in the spring of 1948, I had just turned five. Dad still kept his boat moored in the backset so we would see Mr. Cottman often. For some reason he took a liking to my dad and never charged him any dock fees right up until the time my parents moved to California nearly twenty years later.
In the summer of 1953 we moved to Uncle Red’s camp on Lakeshore Road. Two years later my parents bought a large two story camp on Forest Avenue, right across from the lakefront camp that Mr. Cottman purchased for his wife as a wedding present. It was never used by them, nor rented out. I later learned that she did not like living on the lakefront and would never stay in it. As soon as Mr. Cottman found out we moved there, he hired me to keep his lawn mowed. He paid me $1.00 each time I mowed it, which was about once a week – I had to use my father’s mower and provide my own gas.
That was the summer that Johnny and his mother were electrocuted. I was supposed to go water skiing with John and his father that day, but he had to cancel at the last minute. John and our friend Mike were playing catch in the backset when John jumped in the water to retrieve the ball. The owner of the boat at the dock was charging the battery and the electrical cord was frayed and was either touching the water or the metal hull, I’m not sure which. When John swam back to the dock and grabbed onto the boat, he was electrocuted. Mike went in after him but he too was shocked; fortunately he dove in and had just enough momentum to coast out of the electrical field. He swam to a different dock and called for John’s mother. She too dove in and was electrocuted. Mike, I and four other friends were pall bearers, it was the first time I ever had to deal with death, and I missed him for a very long time.
I continued to mow Mr. Cottman’s lawn, right up until the time I went into the Military. Although he was still only paying me $1.00 nearly seven years later, I liked him very much and knew he could not get anyone else to take care of it. I would ride my bike over to his house to collect my $1.00, but he was always out working in the Harbor. Mrs. Cottman would invite me in for milk and cookies and then ask: “Is he still only paying you a dollar?” She would give me a dollar and then tell me to go collect another one from him. For the next several summers, I made it a point to look for him at the house first.
Mrs. Cottman would tell me stories about her early years at Sylvan and Verona Beach, and about the year three barges full of gunpowder blew up and destroyed their home, which they rebuilt on the same site. The explosion also destroyed Mr. Cottman’s electric power plant along with several other buildings. That explained why we “beach kids” were always finding dynamite fuses lying on the bottom of the lake; we often used them to burn our initials into the seats of our bicycles.
Oneida Daily Dispatch, 25 June 1922
"One woman was killed, 10 other persons were badly burned and property damage estimated at over $200,000 was suffered June 25 in a disastrous fire at VeronaBeach, starting from an explosion of gun-powder in three barges anchored at the canal terminal. Firemen and apparatus from Oneida and Rome responded to the conflagration, and did excellent work. The property destroyed includes W. V. Cottman's electric power plant, John Warner's general store and gas station, Miss Steven's Temperance Hotel, and 27 other structures, along with the three barges and a tug. What sparked the explosion has not yet been settled, but indignation is manifest among property owners over the fact that the powder should have been parked so near the business center of the pleasure resort, and there is talk on every hand of damage suits against the boat owners or the powder company."
In 1961 I enlisted in the Air Force but would always make it a point to visit Mr. & Mrs. Cottman when home on leave; I knew I could always find both of them at their carousel, with Mrs. Cottman and sometimes their niece selling tickets and Mr. Cottman always close by. Mr. Cottman would always reach in and grab a string of tickets and give them to me; these visits were the first time I ever recall seeing him smile. It was not that he was “grumpy”; he just always kept very much to himself and was absorbed in the work at hand.
In 1963 I was assigned to Griffiss Air Force Base in Rome. I spent the next two and a half years back at “The Beach”, and continued my visits with Mr. and Mrs. Cottman, usually at the carousel.
I made the decision to move to California shortly after my discharge. It was a very dreary late November night and I was the only patron in Russell’s Bar, sharing old times with the owner, Pete (Paul) Howell. I began working at the attached skating rink when I was nine, a few years later Pete purchased the rink and night club from Tom Anze and a guy name “Vern”, and he managed it up until the time I was sixteen, when he turned the management over to another local resident also named “Pete”. However, their name was the only thing they had in common. Within a few weeks the new manager had kicked out nearly every friend I had and all of the remaining kids from the nearby villages eventually quit coming, I left to work in the Midway. A few others tried to get the patronage back up, but it never did recover and became a flee market a few years later.
I had always “hated” November. It had the bitter cold of winter, but lacked that clean winter look. My latest fling had just moved to Florida for the winter and I had already taken my SAT tests at SyracuseUniversity. I barely had enough gas money to get to the west coast, much less tuition at a prestigious University, so the following Monday morning I headed west to California. I had heard college was nearly free to almost anyone, and the thought of sandy beaches, little duce coups, and a year-round atmosphere of “The Beach” was very intriguing.
I regret very much not visiting Mr. and Mrs. Cottman before leaving, without knowing it; he had made a very big impression on me. I was still young and thought they would be there forever, however, when I returned for a visit a few years later, they had both passed away.
Nearly sixty years after first meeting Mr. & Mrs. Cottman, I ran across a 1920 census record of William and Carlotta Cottman while tracing my own family tree, they were residing in Verona Beach next door to his cousins Sallie Cottman and Evangalina Cottman Ketchem Parmalee. Mr. Cottman was age 33 and listed as the owner of a lighting company, Carlotta was 34. This was two years before the big fire. This tweaked my interest even more, and I began to trace his family history.
It all began in about 1858 when the brothers George Strieby Cottman (31), William Brinkley Cottman (27), Joseph Strieby Cottman (22) and their sister Anna Eliza Cottman (20) removed to Rome, New York, four of eleven children of William B. and Maria Strieby Cottman of Philadelphia. Their exact reason for coming is not known, but the 1860 census indicates that the eldest brother George was superintendent of the Gas Works in Rome and his younger brother Joseph was residing with him as a “Gas Litter” in the 2nd Ward. Their middle brother William is enumerated as an “Upholster” and resided with his family in Ward 3. William was the grandfather of the subject of my research, “Bill” Cottman.
However, in 1861 tragedy struck and at age 34 George died, leaving his wife Talitha with three young children. It is not known if six year old John, five year old Sarah/Sallie or two year old Elizabeth remained with their mother, but by the 1870 census, seventeen year old John was residing with his uncle and aunt Joseph and Frances in Rome and fifteen year old Sallie is found residing back in Philadelphia in an upscale boarding house operated by a Mrs. Francis Hyatt.
Sometime before 1880 William and Rachael, along with their children Edward, George and Eva, removed to Rochester, New York where father and sons were engaged as painters. By 1880, Sallie had left the boarding house and was also residing with her uncle William, working at the local Knitting Factory.
Again, tragedy struck, and on October 4th, 1881 Joseph’s wife Frances died unexpectedly in Rome at the age of 43; it was shortly afterwards that Joseph gave up his Plumbing business and removed to Sylvan Beach as the proprietor and captain of the steamboat L. C. Spencer on Oneida Lake. Four years later William died and not long afterwards “Sallie” moved in with her uncle Joseph as housekeeper, she remained with him for the next 26 years, until his death in 1911. In 1896 Joseph built the enclosed carousel that is still in operation behind the “Fun House” at SylvanBeach.
A year prior to William’s death in 1885, Sallie’s cousin Edward married Nettie, and in 1886 their first child William V. “Bill” was born, followed by another son Chester in 1888. It is only conjecture that “Bill” was close to his great-uncle Joseph and his father’s cousin Sallie, the 1910 Rochester census enumerates Bill as single, age 24, and the manager of a “Merry-go-roundout”.
Joseph and Frances had no children, so when Joseph died in 1911 he willed the carousel at SylvanBeach to his niece Sallie. Again, it is only speculation that Bill removed to Verona Beach to help his cousin Sallie operate the Merry-Go-Round, but the 1920 census data placing Bill and Carlotta next door to Sallie would indicate this is likely. These records, along with the 1922 article about the barge explosions, establish that Mr. Cottman owned the Electric Company and purchased the Marina sometime between 1910 and 1920.
Upon her death in 1946, Sallie willed the carousel to Bill and Carlotta, who in turn willed it to their niece upon Bill’s death in February, 1967, Carlotta passed away the following year. This must have been Chester’s daughter but I can find no record of her. I recall meeting her on several occasions, but cannot now remember her name.
And so the ownership of the Carousel went, from uncle to niece, from niece to “cousin”, and again from uncle to niece, none of the owners ever having any children to pass it on to.
Proprietor, Inventor, genius? Bill Cottman was a man of many talents. He was a shy man and rarely got involved in local politics, and appeared quite content with his harbor and carousel in later life. The carousel is still there but the horses have been replaced, the harbor looks more like a lush green park and doesn’t quite smell the same. The little yellow camp on stilts is still there, all restored and looking very much like I remembered it. The big white Victorian house seems much smaller, and the circular driveway is barely big enough to turn a car around in it, there is no statue, just weeds. However, I still have my memories.
Bud Schafer
Elk Grove, CA (formerly of Sylvan and Verona Beach, NY)
Roman Citizen
1883 abt May 30
Mr. Cottman's Steam Yacht.
"The steam yacht L. C. Spencer, owned by Joseph S. Cottman, of this city, is one of the trimmest little vessels which has anchored in Rome for years. She was built to run on Oneida Lake, and was used for that business last year. Mr. Cottman purchased her last fall, and this spring had refitted and painted and greatly improved her in convenience and appearance. A Lavatory and closet have been introduced, and the seats are newly cushioned with leather. The boat is about 40 feet long by 10 feet in width, and will accomodate comfortably from 50 to 75 passengers. She has a powerful engine, which will take her over the deep waters at the rate of ten miles an hour. At Mr. Cottman's invitation a party of gentleman made an excursion of three miles up the canal and return on Tuesday evening, and all were delighted with the qualities of the boat. The trip of six miles, including several stopages, was made in an hour. Mr. Cottman will soon take his little craft to Oneida Lake, where he will run her during the season for an excursion steamer. Romans visiting that delightful resort will not forget their townsman."
1883 July 29
THE UTICA SUNDAY TRIBUNE
-There are now six steamers plying on Oneida Lake- • Tam O'Shanter," "Trisdam Shandy", "William Douglass", "Oneida", "L. C Spencer," and "Grace Wiley."
THE TRAGEDY THAT STRUCK THE IYENAGA FAMILY
Syracuse Herald American, Sunday, August 11, 1985 (s2466,67,68)
War Hysteria Led To Tragedy
Scars still linger from 1942 slaying of Japanese-American
By Steve Carlic, Staff Writer
FISH CREEK - It was 8 a.m., but that didn't keep Joe O'Toole from sharing a few shots of whiskey with friends at Owens Hotel. The world was a cold one on that Dec. 23, 1942; the sky over Oneida Lake was cloudy, the forecast called for snow, and some local children got an early Christmas vacation when a waterpipe in their school burst. The war wasn't going well either and that concerned O'Toole, a 64-year-old retired bartender who often chatted about the war with his friends. On this day in particular, O'Toole sat at Owens, drinking and talking with an old friend of his, John Humphrey. They drank until 9:30 a.m., when O'Toole stepped from the bar and said, "Humphrey, I can get a couple of Japs. I'm not just talking either." As O'Toole walked to the door, Humphrey saw him pull something out of his pocket.
NOTE: Hotel Owens = Danceland = Russell's
Fifteen minutes later, a Japanese-American man lay dead and his wife and mother gravely wounded by bullets fired in anger. It may have been the only war-era murder of a Japanese outside California. The slaying has haunted one survivor for 43 years.
Day after day the war reached Fish Creek and Sylvan Beach through the papers, which carried news of battles and the names of local heroes and casualties. The community responded by displaying its loyalty and by making sacrifices for the war effort. One Fish Creek family, the Iyenagas, tried harder than most to prove its allegiance. The Iyenagas were Japanese, "Nips" and "Japs" according to the headlines. They ran one of the area's largest chicken farms and owned concessions on the midway at Sylvan Beach. And they were patriotic. Kenneth bought many War Bonds and even donated a car to a local scrap metal collection drive. His wife, Kei, worked with the Red Cross, often walking 10 miles to and from the local chapter's meetings.
They displayed a picture of Gen. Douglas McArthur in their front window, a portrait of George Washington in the parlor. They marked the days of 1942 with a Boy Scout calendar that hung in the kitchen. The Iyenagas were a family of social standing - Kenneth's father, Toyokichi, was a publisher in Japan before serving as Japanese foreign affairs commissioner to India, Persia, Turkey and China. He moved his family in 1898 to the United States, where he taught political science at the University of Chicago. When Toyokichi retired in 1922, the family moved to Oneida County.
Toyokichi, an adviser to the Japanese embassy in Washington, was highly respected in Sylvan Beach. He died in 1936 after falling through the ice of Oneida Lake. Newspaper accounts say the entire community mourned his passing.
Michael Joseph O'Toole was also well-liked in Sylvan Beach. He had been a bartender in New York City and had recently retired and moved north to the "working man's resort." O'Toole, a frail man, worked part-time at the liquor counter of a local store. According to one official familiar with O'Toole and the Japanese family, O'Toole met up with Kenneth Iyenaga about two weeks before Christmas. They talked about the war; O'Toole remarked that progress was slow and that the war might drag on into 1943. His Japanese neighbor agreed, saying: "The way things are going, we've got to do something. We've got to get rid of the president." Before he left Owens Hotel on the morning of Dec. 23, police said O'Toole told one person, I'm an American citizen - I'm not going to have any Jap making remarks about President Roosevelt." At about 9:45 a.m., O'Toole completed his mile walk from Owens Hotel and arrived at the Iyenaga home, a small building that had been purchased as a kit from the Sears and Roebuck catalog back in the 1920's.
According to police, O'Toole knocked on the back door and Kei admitted him to the kitchen. "I've come to shoot the Japs!" O'Toole yelled abruptly and let go five shots from his .32-caliber automatic revolver. Kei was hit first, in the neck. Her 77-year-old mother-in-law, Yui Iyenaga, was hit second - in the thigh, abdomen and shoulder - and Kenneth was hit once, in the chest. He died instantly; the two women were critically wounded, and eventually recovered. The Iyenagas' two boys escaped injury, Kenneth Jr., 14, was not at home and Yone, 20, ran away when the shooting started. Immediately after the shooting, O'Toole left the home and walked toward the Fisk Creek post office. On the way he encountered Bertha Buyea, a neighbor who heard the shots and the screams and was running toward the Iyenaga home. "I shot the damn Japs," he told Buyea. "Now you can tell the state police if you want to." When he got to the post office, O'Toole told Postmistress Iva Money about the shooting. "He said he was an old man and it didn't make any difference and that he would take the consequences," she told police.
Just 460 Japanese-Americans lived in Upstate New York in 1942, and the Iyenaga killing may have been the most extreme act of violence against a Japanese-American outside of California during the war, says John Tateisi, research director of the Japanese-American Citizen's League. "There were some minor incidents - like shooting through windows - but nothing as major as this," Tateisi said.
Earle Bastow remembers O'Toole's trial. Bastow was Oneida County district attorney when the case finally went to trial in September 1945. He had just completed a three-year hitch in the military and the O'Toole case was the first he prosecuted since his return home. "It was a white elephant," Bastow said recently from his Utica home. "He shot a Japanese man during World War II, and at that time there was so much antipathy toward the Japanese that I could never have gotten a conviction. "I would examine juror after juror, but I could tell they all sympathized with the man (O'Toole). At that time, they thought anyone who shot a Jap should be applauded, not convicted." O'Toole had been charged with first-degree murder and two counts of first-degree assault. At O'Toole's trial, a defense attorney said O'Toole was driven by war hysteria and a brain disorder that distorted his view of the world.
Doctors from three mental hospitals concluded O'Toole was insane, suffering from cerebral arterial sclerosis. A judge ruled O'Toole would not be tried until he was fit. After spending two years and five months in three asylums a doctor concluded that O'Toole was able to face the charges. Before the trial began, however, Bastow and Charles L. DeAngelis - one of O'Toole's three attorneys - invested four days selecting a jury. They interviewed 106 people in order to select 12. At one point, the judge admonished prospective jurors for their undisguised hostility toward the Japanese victim. In examining jury candidates, DeAngelis constantly referred to the victim as Katsunosuke Iyenaga (his Japanese name), stumbling over the pronunciation. The jurors were also asked whether they had any sons in service. When the jury was finally seated, Bastow suddenly agreed to a plea bargain.
O'Toole pleaded guilty to second-degree manslaughter and was given a five-to 10-year suspended sentence. After just 60 days in Marcy State Hospital in Utica, he was released to his wife's custody. The war was ending and millions had died fighting the Japanese; no one complained, Bastow said. "It just got down to the fact that I recognized I would never get a jury," Bastow said. "We kept calling in more and more people and every day I recognized it was hopeless. They might well acquit him; everyone agreed he was mentally disturbed. "I never did buy that, though."
"My mother said maybe he died a more horrible death by going free than if he had been put away." Says Kenneth Iyenaga, who was 14 when his father was shot. "I remember he (O'Toole) came up to my mother sometime after the trial and asked for forgiveness. He died shortly after that, you know. My mother said, "I did not have to raise a hand, God did that for me.'"
Kenneth taught at Oneida and other local schools for many years and retired two years ago. His mother is still alive and moved to Seattle to live with a sister-in-law earlier this year. Last year, Kenneth moved to a trailer park in Southern California, to a place he hopes will remain a secret.
"I struggled. I made it on my own. I grew up at age 14; I didn't have a father," he says. "I had to go to work. I survived because it was necessary to survive. The scars are on the inside. I was always uptight, I guess. It was all a carryover from World War II. I didn't know where the next arrow was coming from; and they were real arrows."
Kenneth remembers the day of the shooting, how he was called out of a Christmas assembly at school and the principal put his arm around him. How he was brought to the hospital and saw his mother lying on a stretcher with blood dripping from a wound in her neck. He remembers the priest who took him aside at the hospital and explained that his father was dead. He can still see the home in Fish Creek, and the walls and floor were stained with blood. "I think I took a hell of a lot of the brunt of the abuse," he says. "I didn't have to get hit with the bullets; I got hit with verbal bullets. During those years of the war I played sports and they kept saying 'Get that Jap.' They spit on you. They took their jabs and I stood it all the time. It took its toll, but I didn't show it."
Kenneth says his older brother, Yone, now lives in a group home after spending several years in Marcy Psychiatric Center. Yone was born partially retarded, he said, but the shooting in 1942 surely left its scar on the family's oldest son. Kenneth refused to leave New York until last year because he didn't want it to seem like he was running away. He says he could have retreated to places where more Japanese live, but he didn't. "I've left it all behind me now," he says. "I moved out here to kind of bury everything behind me. You can't even get away from it now, you know? I've lived here for 10 months and I just found out that when I moved in some of the people were saying 'I didn't know they were going to let Japs in here.' "I'm still sensitive to that," he says. "I still feel it."
NOTE: The "Fish Creek Post Office" was aka the Verona Beach "Grocery Store" operated by Mrs. Iva Money.
