The Mystery That Was George Garretson

A death certificate from 1918, a single white evening glove, and a well worn valentine signed "Helen", all carefully wrapped in tissue paper and found in a junk-filled Hillsborough home near the lifeless body of its owner, George Garretson.  Perhaps three of the most important clues into the life of one of Somerset County's most mysterious residents.

Boring Machine patented by George Garretson in 1909.

Born in 1872 into one of the area's most prominent families, George enjoyed a privileged life as the only child of Garret and Sarah Garretson.  A somewhat precocious youth, his inquisitive nature once led him to wire his parents' home with electricity at a time when nearly all in the area were still using gas lamps.  He studied engineering at a college in Pennsylvania, and by the turn of the century was living and working in southern California.  

Drill Chuck patented by George Garretson in 1909.

He was also inventing.  A reporter touring the old Hillsborough estate at the time of his death in 1950 observed two framed patents, one for a new kind of drill chuck, the other for a boring machine.  Not on display was Garretson's 1911 patent for an electrical binding post.  Significant because despite his prominent family, wealth, and personal success in business, the crumbling Hillsborough estate, with it's grand staircases, numerous outbuildings, and old servants' quarters which betrayed it's grand past, had no electric, gas, or telephone service.

Electrical Binding Post patented by George Garretson in 1911.

By 1950, Garretson, who had been living alone for a decade or more, had filled most of the twelve cobwebbed rooms of the mansion with broken future, old stoves, papers, and assorted junk.  He lived in just two rooms, coming out often to walk to the homes of old friends in the area.  When he hadn't been out for a few days, a neighbor who went to investigate spied him through the window lying dead on the dirty sofa.

It might be assumed that this is the story of a man who had fallen on hard times, lost it all in the stock market crash or an ill-advised business venture.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Garretson owned several valuable properties in the area, and had a substantial financial portfolio with a good income.  He was, indeed, well-off.

So, as a reporter for the Franklin Record asked in 1950, "Why would a man, financially well off and accustomed to a moderately wealthy life as a child, be contented to live as a semi-hermit amid a junk-packed old home?"

My own armchair investigation sheds little light on the mystery.  Census records always show him living alone or with unrelated lodgers, and are inconclusive as to whether he was ever married.  A patent search revealed the three inventions, but not much else. 

The only other clue, besides the three precious items previously mentioned, is what he revealed to a close friend late in life.  He told a tale of his one and only love, an actress who appeared in the area with a travelling troupe, and how she left him on their wedding night.

Could a broken heart truly have broken the man?  Perhaps we will never know.

Anna Case, The Hidden Truth

A typical movie set during the silent film era was anything but - silent, that is.  With no live microphones or audio recording of any type taking place, directors shouted out instructions, carpenters plied the tools of their trade, laborers moved equipment to and fro, and clinking cutlery and candid conversation could be heard around the buffet.  All while a serious melodrama or precision-timed comedy was being filmed a few feet away.  Add in the fact that many movies in the teens were produced at studios situated amid the hustle and bustle of midtown Manhattan, and what occurred on East 48th Street one September day in 1918 is even more remarkable.

Ad from "Moving Picture World" May 1919

On that day, Metropolitan Opera diva and noted concert soprano Anna Case was shooting her first motion picture at the Norma Talmadge Studios.  "The Hidden Truth", directed by Julius Steger - and sadly now lost - called for realistic scenes of drama and action, including singing.  Miss Case, playing an Old West saloon singer who is transported by a series of mistaken identities to New York society, was called on to shoot a scene where she gives a drawing room recital for friends.



Still photo of Anna Case in "The Hidden Truth"

 The moment the director called "action" and the first notes of Anna Case's exquisite soprano were heard, the entire studio fell silent.  Tradesmen laid down their hammers, conversation halted, all motion ceased.  Outside on 48th street, deliverymen pulled up their wagons, street merchants who had been hawking their wares were suddenly mute.  People up and down the block hung out of their windows to listen to "America's Favorite Soprano".

Anna Case on horseback in "The Hidden Truth"

Released by Select Pictures as a five-reel feature in the Spring of 1919, "The Hidden Truth" was not a hit.  Anna Case admitted she had a lot to learn about film acting.  In an interview coinciding with the picture's release, she recalled seeing her performance for the first time, remarking candidly, "as a motion picture actress, I make a pretty good singer".

Anna Case with costar Charles Richman in "The Hidden Truth"

Despite promotional tie-ins with music stores who carried her records on the Edison label, the movie did little business beyond the initial curiosity seekers.

It is impossible today to see for ourselves why Anna Case's acting chops did not translate from the grand opera stage to the movie set, but judging from contemporary reviews, she appears to have been somewhat wooden in her role.  The kindest of reviewers noted that at least she didn't partake in the grandiose overacting so common  to melodramas of the period.

Unfortunately, all that remains of "The Hidden Truth" are these few still photos taken on the set, and a sheet of musical cues for the theater organist. 

Oh, and perhaps a few notes floating in the air above 48th Street.

Anna Case Breaks Through in Boris

 Anna Case often stated that she was never given her "big break" by anyone - that she earned all of her success through her own hard work and determination.  There is no better example of that than her performance as Fyodor in the American debut of Modest Mussourgsky's "Boris Godunov".  

Anna Case, Maria Duchene, Adamo Didur, Leonora Sparkes

When she stepped onto the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House on March 19, 1913, she brought with her more than just her exquisite soprano voice - namely, ninety-seven superb performances in eleven different supporting roles over a grueling three-and-a-half years.



Boris Godunov Coronation Scene



For years she had been requesting the roles that went with the arias she was singing to rave reviews at the Met's Sunday Night Concert series and in her own concert tours.  She was told repeatedly that she did not have an "above-the-title" name that would sell tickets.  As she recounted for an Opera News reporter in 1970, her reply was, "put me on with Caruso, and I will draw".

Anna Case with Enrico Caruso, May 1917

Indeed, she did share the stage with Enrico Caruso in a few lesser roles, but it wasn't until she threatened to quit the company - a bold move that shocked the Met's directors ("No one quits the Metropolitan Opera!") - that she was cast as Boris's son Fyodor in Mussourgsky's unique opera.



Anna Case, Adamo Didur



Almost forty years old by the time of it's American debut, Boris Godunov is interesting not only because of its long compositional history - it was extensively reworked by Rimsky-Korsakov after Mussourgsky's death - but also for its use of scenery and costumes.  Sets were not "built out" in the traditional manner, but  instead consisted entirely of enormous canvas backdrops, one for each of the opera's eight scenes, painted in a modern, almost cubist, style.  Costumes were not designed, but were authentic Russian wardrobe of the depicted era.

Anna Case as Fyodor in Boris Godunov, her first starring role.

Anna Case continued in the role of Fyodor until the conclusion of the 1912-1913 season in April.  She would not again grace the Metropolitan stage until December when she would sing what would become her signature role, Sophie, in the American debut of Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier.  Although, from the photo below which appeared in a 1919 issue of Theatre magazine, it seems she held a special place in her heart for the role in which she created her big break!

Anna Case is On the Air

 Thomas "Tommy" Cowan made his way carefully up the ladder to the hatchway that led to the roof of the Westinghouse plant in Newark, one hand on the iron rungs, the other gently cradling a few Edison records.  Just the day before, on September 30, 1921, Tommy had called around to Thomas Edison's headquarters in West Orange, hoping to borrow a phonograph and some Diamond Discs.  The phonograph, too large to fit through the hatch, had been hauled up the outside of the building, and was sitting in the tiny shack that housed the transmitter for one of the nation's first commercial radio stations - WJZ.  This was the day of their first official broadcast - and the first record to be played was "Annie Laurie" by Anna Case.

 



Anna Case sings live over the radio at the NELA convention in September 1921.

 

It's possible that Tommy requested the Anna Case disc because of a broadcast that originated from the National Electric Light Association's annual convention in New York on September 28.  On that day the former Metropolitan Opera diva and noted concert soprano sang "Ave Maria" and "Oh Mother, My Love" to one of the largest audiences yet in radio's infancy.  Hobbyists and enthusiasts, thirsting for any sort of signal on their receivers, tuned in from as far away as Boston, Richmond, and Pittsburgh.

 


Anna Case (seated at right) signs a contract with Atwater Kent to appear on the Sunday Night radio broadcasts, 1925.

  

Despite WJZ's use of the phonograph for their first broadcasts, live shows quickly became the norm.  Anna Case signed a contract with radio manufacturer Atwater Kent in 1925, and appeared for several seasons on their popular Sunday Night radio series, becoming one of America's first radio stars.





Anna Case with Atwater Kent host and radio pioneer Phillips Carlin.

  

Throughout the 1920s and into the 1930s Anna could be heard "coast-to-coast" on various radio programs, including a show in 1928 celebrating her twenty years in music.  She also featured prominently on the fledgling NBC radio network.

She confessed a fascination for the equipment itself - her younger brother was a radio engineer - desiring to know how each component worked.  It could be argued the essential component was the one that made you walk over and turn the radio on for the first time - and that component was Anna Case herself.

Annie Beekman, Strangled. Part Two

The home of Jacob Johnson, south of Somerville, NJ, Sunday, September 15, 1895.  Annie Beekman, a twenty-three-year-old former Hillsborough resident visiting the area for the first time in two years lies in the back room of Jacob Johnson's modest cabin.  She is dead.

In the front room are Johnson and his wife, along with the Somerset County Prosecuter, Constable Moore, and railroad flagman Joseph Gorman.  It was Gorman who alerted authorities that he could positively identify the dark-skinned black man and lighter-skinned woman who he saw crossing the tracks of the South Branch Railroad near the Raritan River late the previous evening - and that is what he has just done.

Annie Beekman's body was discovered by local laborer Peter Dow earlier that same morning.  It was obvious as he approached the body lying in a wooded area between the wagon road and the river that the woman was dead - and that she had been murdered. Her bodice was torn, corset wire ripped out, and finger marks were about her throat.  Coroner Brady, one of the first officials at the scene, ordered the body be taken to the nearest house, that of Jacob Johnson - a laborer employed on the estate of JB Duke, and a preacher of some renown in the local black community.

Despite the failure of Coroner Brady to adequately secure the crime scene - evidence including footprints was trampled by curiosity seekers - it was obvious that the murder had taken place on the road, and the body had been dragged into the woods.  An empty purse lying nearby pegged the motive as robbery.

Somerset County Courthouse, 1891

The prosecutor confronted Johnson: hadn't he been seen all over Somerville the previous evening with the deceased, drinking in at least two different establishments?  How could he answer the accusation of Joe Gorman, who saw him and the deceased together not far from the site of the murder after 10 pm last evening?

Johnson insisted that he left Annie Beekman alive in the company of two white men at around 10 pm, and immediately returned home.  Johnson's son later admitted in court that his parents had argued that night upon Johnson's return, his mother demanding an explanation as to why he had been out all evening with Annie, instead of home with his family.

Overwhelming circumstantial evidence which placed Johnson at the scene of the crime with motive and opportunity was enough for a grand jury and eventually a trial jury conviction.  He was convicted of murder and sentenced to death.

Johnson went to the gallows in Somerville on May 5, 1897.  In an ironic twist, he was cut from the scaffold after seven minutes, but was not yet dead. As doctors felt for a pulse and listened for a heartbeat, the noose, still tight about his neck, continued to do its work.  A few minutes later, he was pronounced dead - cause of death: strangulation.

Annie Beekman, Strangled, Part One

Somerset County Fairgrounds, Somerville NJ, Thursday September 12, 1895.  Jacob Johnson hadn't seen young Annie Beekman in more than two years.  Some people said that she was dead or hospitalized - others, that she had married a much older man and was living in Newark.  In any event, she was there at the Somerset County Fair, standing at his peanut and soda-water stand.  By the end of the week, Johnson would be in the Somerset County Jail, accused of her murder.

Somerset County Fairgrounds, Somerville, NJ - 1891

Annie Beekman had indeed been living in Newark.  She told Johnson that she had returned to Somerset County to visit her brother in Hillsborough, and to collect $45 that was being held in trust for her by Calvin Corle of Neshanic.  Annie and her brother, both of biracial descent, had been bound by their mother to Neshanic farmer Edward Horner.  Upon reaching the age of maturity, each was given $50.  Her brother had taken the full amount directly, but Annie withdrew just $5, leaving the rest with Corle.

Jacob Johnson worked as a laborer on the estate of JB Duke.  He lived with his wife, son, and daughter in a cabin on the Elmendorf property near the banks of the Raritan River, not far from the tracks of the South Branch Railroad.  He was well liked and admired, especially in the black community around Hillsborough, where he was well known as a preacher with a particularly strong religious fervor.

Johnson suggested that Annie stay with them while she was visiting in the area.  She spent the day Friday visiting with her mother, and upon returning that evening, asked Johnson to accompany her on Saturday to Neshanic in order to recover her money form Mr. Corle.  She explained that she did not feel comfortable travelling alone with such a large sum.



Somerville Train Station - 1891

On Saturday afternoon, they boarded the train at the Roycefield Depot near Johnson's home for the short trip to Neshanic.  Annie received $45 from Mr. Corle, which she placed in a small purse and tucked into the bosom of her corset.  On the return trip, she suggested to Johnson that they get off the train at Somerville, and celebrate with a drink.

 



Commercial Hotel, Somerville, NJ - 1891

They went first to the Commercial Hotel, where Annie bought them a couple of rounds of beer.  She then suggested Cawley's restaurant, where they dined on sandwiches and wine - Annie carefully removing her purse, paying the bill, and returning it safely to its hiding place.

 



Cawley's Restaurant, Somerville, NJ - 1891



Johnson later told police that Annie had wanted to continue drinking, but he begged off, on the account of the lateness of the evening - it was already close to 10 pm.  Johnson claimed that before he left Annie near the Somerville Station, he saw her with two white men, one tall, one short, and that she had gone off with them.

 

That's not the story told by Joseph Gorman, a railroad flagman working near the Somerville Depot that Saturday evening.  Gorman told police that he clearly saw the pair cross the tracks in the vicinity of Bridge Street, and head towards the Raritan River.

 

more tomorrow....

Elmer Clawson, Boy Murderer, Part Two

May 12, 1897, 7 o'clock.  Elmer Clawson, 19, sits down to his final meal - steak, coffee, cake, and strawberries.  His stomach is queasy, and he picks at the strawberries.  He is just three hours away from becoming not only the youngest person ever to be executed in Somerset County, but also the first white man to go to the gallows in that place in over a century.

Just one week earlier, the only other death row inmate in the Somerset County jail - black Methodist minister Jacob Johnson - was hung by the neck for eight minutes, then cut down still alive while the doctor waited another eight minutes for him to expire.  Just several weeks earlier, Johnson, convicted of robbing and killing Annie Beekman, had foiled Clawson's escape attempt by telling the guard that Clawson had hidden an iron bar in his mattress straw, and had been fashioning a key out of a piece of metal from the leg of the iron bed fame.

No doubt  Clawson was desperate.  Convicted of killing Pluckemin farmer Harry Hodgetts on August 29 of the previous year, all appeals were exhausted and entreaties by leading Somerset County residents to commute the boy's sentence because of his age were unsuccessful.  On the witness stand, Clawson freely admitted that he had discharged his pistol three times, striking his former employer twice in the chest before fleeing on his bicycle.  In fact, Clawson had admitted his crime from the start - even going so far as to tell his family on his way out that fateful morning, that he was going out to kill Harry Hodgetts.

It was this bizarre behavior, and the subsequent testimony of Clawson family members as to the family's history of mental illness, that caused defense attorneys to be hopeful of an acquittal, or at least a sentence of life imprisonment.  Jurors heard from six mental health experts.  Unsurprisingly, the three put on by the prosecutor pronounced Clawson perfectly sane.

After breakfast, Clawson - dressed in black jacket, white shirt, and black tie - had a final meeting with his attorney, and is reported to have said, "I would rather go to sate prison for life, but am not afraid and will go through it all right."

At precisely 10 o'clock, Sheriff Wyckoff, accompanied by Hangman Van Hise, retrieved the prisoner - Van Hise slipping behind Clawson and tying his hands while Wyckoff proceded with final instructions.  They walked to the basement gallows.  Clawson stood on the spot inscribed by a chalk mark on the floor while Van Hise adjusted the silken rope about his neck and lowered the hood over his face.  The execution, including nineteen minutes in the noose, was completed by 10:26.

Elmer Clawson, Boy Murderer, Part One

August 29, 1896.  Farmer Harry Hodgetts of Pluckemin, an Englishman who had been in the country three years and who had only just saved enough money for his wife and children to join him, had just finished breakfast and was heading outside to begin his day's work.  He was met unexpectedly by eighteen-year-old Elmer Clawson, a lad who had worked for him the previous season, but who he hadn't seen in over a year.

Clawson set his bicycle down by the road and strode up to meet Hodgetts by the door of his home.  Clawson asked for work, and when Hodgetts refused, Clawson demanded to be paid wages that Hodgetts had withheld the previous year - an amount equal to what Hodgetts suspected the boy had been skimming from produce sales to local merchants.

When Hodgetts again rebuffed the youth, Clawson drew a pistol and fired three times - two of the shots hitting the farmer in the chest.



Elmer Clawson, before his execution in 1897

As Clawson sped away on his bike, Hodgetts did not drop, but instead pursued the boy on foot for seven minutes over the Somerset County countryside before finally falling dead.

Hearing the gunshots, Hodgetts' neighbors responded to the scene, and followed on wagon and bicycle the track of Clawson's bicycle tire clearly visible on the dusty Bedminster Township roads.

By the time the pursuers reached Far Hills four miles away, their numbers had grown to include more men on bicycles, wagons, and buggies.  At the Far Hills train station, Clawson overheard the station agent repeating a phone message that included his description, and regaining his bicycle made a mad dash for Bedminster.

The closing vigilantes forced Clawson to ditch his bike and take to the underbrush at the side of the road, but the posse cajoled him out of his hiding place.  Word of Hodgetts death having reached the mob, they considered lynching him on the spot.  Only Constable Thomas Moore, riding up through the crowd at a full gallop, dissuaded the men from committing an act that would surely leave a black mark on Somerset County.

more tomorrow....

Clement Clawson's "Capitalism", Part Three

Imagine you had a wicked stepmother who so opposed your romantic relationship with a former employee that she secretly changed her will, adding a provision that would deny you your father's inheritance - a small fortune that you had acquired in your father's name through your own toil - should your liaison ever culminate in marriage.  Sounds like the plot of a Jennifer Aniston comedy, or with a few songs thrown in, a Disney film.

In actuality, this was the real life drama of prolific inventor and entrepreneur Clement C. Clawson, Sr.

Beginning in North Carolina in the 1870s, and eventually moving to Newark, NJ, Henry T. Clawson and his son Clement built an enormously successful business based on the younger Clawson's invention of the coin-operated vending machine, or "coin-in-the-slot" machine as it was originally named.  These highly profitable machines were the first of their kind, and very desirable to tavern and store owners who placed them on their counters and practically minted money.

The machines typically cost less than five dollars to produce at the Newark factory owned by Henry.  Machines were then purchased at a set price by the Clawson Slot Machine Company controlled by Clement, thereby guaranteeing Henry any amount of profit they wished.  And there was no shortage of profits, as machines could either be leased, put into stores with the take being split between the Clawsons and the store owner, or ultimately sold outright for around $65.

Despite the complex business arrangement, Henry Clawson always acknowledged that the business would be nothing without his son's genius, and that upon his death, anything in his name would be left to his son.  Somewhere along the line Henry Clawson had a change of heart, and at the reading of his will in 1897, it was found that he had instead left everything to his second wife, Aurelia.  A justifiably upset Clement was able to exact a compromise with his stepmother - in exchange for not contesting his father's will, she would agree to make a will leaving everything to her stepson upon her death.

It didn't take long for Aurelia Clawson to have second thoughts.  When Clement's wife died in 1899, Aurelia suspected that Clement had taken up with Ella Hood, a young woman who had lived with the Clawsons and was employed as their child's nanny.  It is unknown exactly what the widow Clawson's objection was to this relationship, but her feelings were so strong that she made a new will on July 17, 1900, adding the provision that all of the property previously promised to Clement by first his father, and later herself, would be forfeit were he to live with or marry Ella Hood.

No doubt this would have caused quite a dilemma for Clement, had he known of it!  In the event, he indeed did marry Miss Hood in February 1901, moving permanently to Flagtown, and becoming estranged from his stepmother who remained in the Newark house with her grandniece Aurelia Lee.

In the months before her death in February 1902, relations between stepmother and stepson improved somewhat, with Clement often visiting Aurelia in Newark.  How shocked he must have been upon her death to find out that he had once again been cheated out of what was rightfully his, the entire estate going to Aurelia's grandniece and other of her relatives.

This time Clawson went to court.  The Clawsons and their two young sons - Clement, born 1902 and Robert, born 1903 waited for more than two years for the case to be decided.  Finally, on June 28, 1904, the Court of Chancery of New Jersey ruled in their favor, awarding them everything that Henry Clawson had originally promised Clement before his death, valued at around $50,000.

In subsequent years, Clement Clawson, Sr. moved the entire operations of the Clawson Machine Company to Flagtown, building Hillsborough's first modern factory, and establishing a lasting legacy in our town.

Might make a good movie someday!

Clement Clawson's "Capitalism", Part Two

When his father and business partner, Henry T. Clawson, passed away on August 15, 1897, Newark based inventor Clement Clawson might have had better luck consulting one of his own coin operated fortune-telling machines than relying on the promises made by first his father, and then his stepmother Aurelia.



Clawson Fortune Telling Machine, circa 1890

"Business partner" might be too kind an attribution for the senior Clawson, as it was later proved in court that by the mid 1890s he had little to do with the running of the business.  The profitable factory where the Clawson Slot Machine Company could barely keep up with the demand for its coin operated vending and gambling machines was in Henry Clawson's name, as was the Newark home that he and his second wife shared with Clement and his young family and nanny Ella Hood - but all of the success of the business was due to the inventions and business acumen of his son.

On several occasions during the last decade of his life, Henry acknowledged this - promising to leave the factory, all of the equipment, and the Clawson homestead to Clement.  Imagine the son's surprise then to find that his father had made a will in 1893, four years before his death, leaving all to Clement's stepmother - with the provision that Clement would be allowed to occupy the factory at a rent she determined.

Foreshadowing what would happen upon his stepmother's death five years later, the young Mr. Clawson demanded satisfaction, refusing to leave the attorney's office where the will was read until all agreed that he had been done wrong.  He threatened to contest the will and bring immediate legal action to prevent the dissemination of any property, and to recover other monies owed to him by his father through their business dealings - a not inconsiderable sum of perhaps $7,000 or more.

The widow Clawson assured Clement that in exchange for his not pressing the matter, she would make a will leaving everything to him upon her death - which she did in March 1898.

All was well for about a year.  The family was joined by Aurelia Clawson's grandniece, Aurelia Lee, and by all accounts everyone got on well at their Halsey Street residence, and at the recently purchased country house in Flagtown - even after the death of  Clement's wife Lillie on March 10, 1899. 

It was around this time that Clement moved permanently to Flagtown, and Aurelia Clawson suspected that he had taken up with the children's nanny, Ella.  Mrs. Clawson disapproved very strongly of this relationship - so strongly that she secretly changed her will on July 17, 1900, including the new provision stating that if Clement and Ella should marry, all the property promised to Clement by his father would instead go to her niece!


to be concluded tomorrow.....