Winter 2003

A Memorial Tribute

J. Sheldon Fisher

An American Original

by

Paul S. Worboys

J. Sheldon Fisher, 95, the pre-eminent keeper of Western New York heritage for over eight decades, died Saturday night, December 21, 2002. Among countless successes in historic preservation, he saved the Valentown Hall (opposite Eastview Mall) from demolition—turning the structure into a museum of his vast collection of area artifacts, and he withstood the onslaught of development pressures to preserve the Ganondagan Historic Site (on Boughton Hill) for the appreciation of Native American culture.He leaves behind his wife of 63 years, Lillian Lewis, three sons, two sisters, several other relatives and a legion of friends. He was predeceased by his daughter, Priscilla.

"Please tell my father what you just told me. He needs to hear that."

Those were the words of Douglas Fisher eleven years ago, following J. Sheldon Fisher's program at the Honeoye Falls-Mendon Historical Society.

You see, I was a little too awed to say directly to Sheldon how inspirational he was to me. Here I was, finally seeing an American Original, the legendary man I had come to know, mostly from reading microfilm at the Library of Congress in Washington, D. C.

Although I was a native of Western New York, my formative adult years of the '70s and '80s were spent elsewhere. But my roots were deep and my fondness for the lore of Honeoye Falls and environs had blossomed into long-range local history research. As my haphazard approach bounced me through microfilmed Rochester newspapers with little regard to chronology, I kept running into this fellow, Sheldon Fisher.

There was a 1927 story of a young man, barely twenty, hauling and placing rocks to form a stone sign on a hill above the hamlet that carries his family name. I saw an item from the 1930s-a photo of him next to a prominent railroad historian—cajoling the colossal New York Central to refrain from turning a little pump house into a pile of cobbles. (Today it is arguably the oldest existing railroad structure in America.)

In a news picture he's leading a parade through Rochester honoring a local town in its Centennial year. And in another item I read about his striving to keep a life-sized carving of a 19th-century baseball player from being hauled off to Cooperstown.

I saw an edition showing him placing yet another roadside historical marker, paid for from his own pocket. This item notes he's helping organize a neighboring town's historical society. Here he's wallowing in mud, there digging through stony soil or backyard dumps, flea markets, estate sales or derelict buildings.

How could I help but draw an impression that this man was unique! A watchdog for preserving the record of our forebears—ears pricked, eyes wide open, like the volunteer fireman, ever on call to save our heritage. (I might add that he was quite civic-minded, too—like when he helped form the volunteer fire company the hamlet of Fishers is so proud of.)

Thanks to his son's encouragement, I got the chance to tell Mr. Fisher what he meant to me—and then and there, he embraced me as a friend—for he never tired from hearing words of praise. To him a pot of gold, a winning lottery ticket, a genie in a bottle paled by comparison. He so wanted to be appreciated for his vocation—that was his treasure.

I'll remember him doing the grunt work of history, too. Setting up snow fence for the annual Antique Peddler's Market. Hobbling about on a gimpy leg: "Oh," the 90-year-old man said at the time, "its nothing, I was at the Hall, trimming branches and just fell out of the tree." Climbing Fishers Hill to rededicate his stone sign and also to celebrate his 95th birthday, then sliding on the loose till, heading for a terrible fall, but grabbing a handy sapling as he skidded by—momentarily reminding me of Gene Kelly doing "Singin' in the Rain" whilst twirling on lamp posts. This man may have been only 5'7" and 160 lbs. dripping wet, but he was a 500 lb. gorilla when the chips were down. From Boughton Hill, Canandaigua, Mendon, Victor and towns all around, the landscape would have been markedly altered had Sheldon chosen a different career path.

But my clearest vision of all goes back to those dark days less than a decade ago, when a specter nearly scattered the Fisher/Valentown legacy forever. I see Sheldon and his faithful wife, Lillian, a mother four times over, the greatest partner a man could ever long for, marching proudly into hearing rooms and press interviews and letting the informed public be their judge. That vivid picture of them taught me that, if one believes in the rightness of a cause, and seeks the moral high ground, then there is little to fear.

At this otherwise joyous, hopeful time of year, I'll close with an analogy inspired by a recent visit to GEVA Theatre's Dickens play, A Christmas Carol. If you recall, Marley's ghost said, "I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link and yard by yard." But the restless spirit had to carry that chain for eternity—the consequence of taking from humanity, rather than giving to it.

Unlike Jacob Marley, Sheldon labored almost gleefully to create a wondrous chain linking great and small events of history— helpfully lengthened by the unflinching support and sacrifice of Lillian. But his chain of history was left with us when he crossed over to the other side—perhaps surprised at his own mortality. It is now in separate links, distributed among us as a memory and a token of his life's passion.

He would want us to work on our links, to keep the spirit of historical preservation alive, in our hearts, our families, our communities and in our nation.

Like everyone else who knew them, I am proud to have been allowed into the lives of J. Sheldon and Lillian Fisher. Now that Sheldon is gone, I will forever carry a vision of this thoroughly human, decent man standing proudly adorned in Seneca garb in front of Valentown.

© 2002, Paul S. Worboys

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