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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 from 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.
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