Lou’s View – Feb. 25, 2016
Shoemaker’s Birthday
by Lou Bernard
As of right now, it’s been almost fifteen whole minutes since I brought up Henry Wharton Shoemaker. But it’s his birthday, so I figure it’s time again.
Henry Wharton Shoemaker is a hero of mine. I say this just in case this is the first one of my columns you’ve ever seen. Otherwise, you’re probably aware that I hold the man in pretty high regard. He was a writer, editor, historian, folklorist, ambassador, and local volunteer. He lived in Wayne Township, on the south end of McElhattan. He wrote down local legends, ghost stories, and all sorts of cool things. It’s safe to say I respect the man.
Shoemaker was born on February 24, 1880, and I have a tendency to re-tell some of his stories when his birthday rolls around. (Also for Halloween, Christmas, my own birthday, and when I feel like it.) He’s buried up in Highland Cemetery—He died in July 14, 1958 after his second heart attack. The last known photo of him shows him being loaded into an ambulance, and the guy actually took a moment to wave to the cameras on his way to the hospital.
The guy had class.
Out of all his books, my personal favorite is “Tales of the Bald Eagle Mountains.” I mean, they’re all good—If Henry Shoemaker had scribbled down a grocery list, chances are it would have mentioned ghosts and Native American artifacts, and I would buy it on Amazon. But “Tales of the Bald Eagle Mountains,” published in 1915, contains some of his wildest, coolest stories.
In “Birth of the Bald Eagles,” set in the Muncy area, Shoemaker tells the story of how the Bald Eagle mountain range came to be. The Great Spirit (It doesn’t matter specifically what spirit; choose your favorite) decided that the Native Americans had no courage, because they had never been tested. So he sent a giant worm-like creature tunneling underground, to come up and attack them. As it came through the land, it burrowed up a considerable amount of dirt behind it, creating the Bald Eagle Mountains. So when I look out my window at the mountain range to the south, that’s right—I’m seeing a monster trail.
The tribe appealed to a Wise Man, who told them how to defeat the creature. They made a giant spear, and when the thing came up through the ground (Exactly where my wife works, according to the story, though Shoemaker does not mention Michelle specifically) they rammed the spear into its throat, killing it instantly. The Wise Man left his memorable words behind to remind them of their great act: “Let none of you forget the spear.”
In another chapter,”Caves of the Bald Eagles,” a Civil War deserter goes running for the hills of McElhattan. As he avoided the draft, he found a cave overlooking the Susquehanna River. He took shelter there, but was driven out by the ghosts of Native American warriors who told him that he wasn’t brave enough to join them. He ran back down to the railroad tracks and turned himself in.
“King Wi-Daagh’s Spell” involves the Indian King Wi-Daagh, who lived in the Antes Fort area. Each day, Wi-Daagh would walk along his favorite path to a spring, and he would insist that any other tribes he encountered come back and visit him in one year, under penalty of death. It’s said that his ghost does the same thing to this day, and if you encounter it, you feel a compulsion to come back in one year exactly.
My favorite is “The Giantess,” in which Prince Pipsisseway has a huge stone statue built of a girl he once loved. But the statue has a curse, that causes damage to the tribe and ultimately kills him. Pipsisseway and the statue are both still buried in McElhattan.
There are so many other good ones. “The Sorceress.” “The Lost Chord.” “The Siren.” And the neat thing is, when you read these, they totally conform to the location—I can pinpoint the exact spot with the tunneling creature on a map. In Antes Fort, there really is a spring and a trail, with a monument to W-Daagh. On the mountain in Wayne Township, there really is an old cave.
That’s the neat part of Henry Shoemaker—He told amazing stories, and was so unerringly local. He brought magic to this area. And if you stop by the Ross Library to borrow one of his books, you’ll experience some of the magic for yourself. Let none of you forget the spear. Happy birthday, Henry.
