over here?â Fleurette said, once we had put the castle behind us.
âAll the silk men do,â I said.
From our vantage point on the hill, we could see the mills and factories clustered together at the edge of Patersonâs downtown, casting their shadows into the Passaic River. Narrow brick stacks discharged coal smoke into the air, where it formed a permanent gray cloud. The river dwindled to a trickle this time of year, leaving nothing but mud and boulders and puddles visited by mosquitoes. The mill owners preferred to live a comfortable distance away from their red-bricked empire, so they retreated to this cool, quiet neighborhood with its canopy of elms and wide, sloping streets.
âYouâre taking a very roundabout way into town,â Fleurette said, fidgeting with her hat.
âWeâre early,â I said. âI thought we could ride around the park.â
âWell, I wanted to get there early!â Fleurette protested. âI wanted to have a chance to meet the director!â
âI know you did,â I said, slowing Dolley to a leisurely walk under the elms.
Â
PATERSON was a city of industry. Every schoolchild read the story about Alexander Hamilton and his Society for Establishing Useful Manufactures, conceived for the purpose of harnessing the powers of the Great Falls of the Passaic River and building along its banks a national manufactory. Although things did not go as Hamilton had planned at first, Paterson did eventually grow into a city of steel mills and, later, silk mills. The factories produced locomotives, Colt revolvers, and, most recently, hair ribbons and yardage. But all industry ceased when a motion picture concern came to town.
As Fleurette rushed to the intersection of Market and Main, dragging me behind her, we passed banks that had closed for the afternoon, grocers who had locked their fruit stands, and jewelry stores with shutters over their windows. Businessmen in pinstriped suits stood on the sidewalk as if they had no business to attend to. Schoolteachers crowded into the street with their young charges. Police officers pushed the crowd aside, only to get a better look for themselves.
Fleurette couldnât see above anyoneâs head, so I let her climb the stairs of the library (closed until further notice) and perch atop a lamppost pedestal. She wrapped her arm around the post and craned her neck to see. In a peach-colored afternoon dress that flowed and swirled around her and her hair in dark glossy waves around her shoulders, she looked like Liberty with her torch. I stood below and watched with alarm as young men took their eyes off the proceedings down the street and grinned up at her instead. She kept her chin high, but I saw her glancing down at her admirers and wished Iâd taken the post with her to discourage their interest.
The intersection had been cleared as if for a duel. One of Patersonâs older trolley cars sat on the tracks, awaiting its fate. An enormous black motor car lurked on the other side of the intersection, half a block away, its engine growling. A wooden platform had been built for the camera, which stood all alone on its three-legged stand.
Finally the motor carâs engine roared and a conductor jumped into the trolley and waved to the crowd. Everyone yelled back and fluttered their handkerchiefs at him. The driver of the motor car stood and waved to even more applause. Then they both settled down and a hush fell over the crowd.
The cameraman gave a nod. Someone raised a megaphone and counted down.
âThree. Two. One. Go!â
Over gasps and screams from the audience, the trolley rolled along its tracks and the motor car came at it broadside, picking up speed, just as Henry Kaufman had. The conductor looked out with an exaggerated expression of fear, which drew a laugh from the audience just as the car plowed into the trolley. It rocked back and forth. The conductorâs expression grew more
âAll the silk men do,â I said.
From our vantage point on the hill, we could see the mills and factories clustered together at the edge of Patersonâs downtown, casting their shadows into the Passaic River. Narrow brick stacks discharged coal smoke into the air, where it formed a permanent gray cloud. The river dwindled to a trickle this time of year, leaving nothing but mud and boulders and puddles visited by mosquitoes. The mill owners preferred to live a comfortable distance away from their red-bricked empire, so they retreated to this cool, quiet neighborhood with its canopy of elms and wide, sloping streets.
âYouâre taking a very roundabout way into town,â Fleurette said, fidgeting with her hat.
âWeâre early,â I said. âI thought we could ride around the park.â
âWell, I wanted to get there early!â Fleurette protested. âI wanted to have a chance to meet the director!â
âI know you did,â I said, slowing Dolley to a leisurely walk under the elms.
Â
PATERSON was a city of industry. Every schoolchild read the story about Alexander Hamilton and his Society for Establishing Useful Manufactures, conceived for the purpose of harnessing the powers of the Great Falls of the Passaic River and building along its banks a national manufactory. Although things did not go as Hamilton had planned at first, Paterson did eventually grow into a city of steel mills and, later, silk mills. The factories produced locomotives, Colt revolvers, and, most recently, hair ribbons and yardage. But all industry ceased when a motion picture concern came to town.
As Fleurette rushed to the intersection of Market and Main, dragging me behind her, we passed banks that had closed for the afternoon, grocers who had locked their fruit stands, and jewelry stores with shutters over their windows. Businessmen in pinstriped suits stood on the sidewalk as if they had no business to attend to. Schoolteachers crowded into the street with their young charges. Police officers pushed the crowd aside, only to get a better look for themselves.
Fleurette couldnât see above anyoneâs head, so I let her climb the stairs of the library (closed until further notice) and perch atop a lamppost pedestal. She wrapped her arm around the post and craned her neck to see. In a peach-colored afternoon dress that flowed and swirled around her and her hair in dark glossy waves around her shoulders, she looked like Liberty with her torch. I stood below and watched with alarm as young men took their eyes off the proceedings down the street and grinned up at her instead. She kept her chin high, but I saw her glancing down at her admirers and wished Iâd taken the post with her to discourage their interest.
The intersection had been cleared as if for a duel. One of Patersonâs older trolley cars sat on the tracks, awaiting its fate. An enormous black motor car lurked on the other side of the intersection, half a block away, its engine growling. A wooden platform had been built for the camera, which stood all alone on its three-legged stand.
Finally the motor carâs engine roared and a conductor jumped into the trolley and waved to the crowd. Everyone yelled back and fluttered their handkerchiefs at him. The driver of the motor car stood and waved to even more applause. Then they both settled down and a hush fell over the crowd.
The cameraman gave a nod. Someone raised a megaphone and counted down.
âThree. Two. One. Go!â
Over gasps and screams from the audience, the trolley rolled along its tracks and the motor car came at it broadside, picking up speed, just as Henry Kaufman had. The conductor looked out with an exaggerated expression of fear, which drew a laugh from the audience just as the car plowed into the trolley. It rocked back and forth. The conductorâs expression grew more
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