David Sakmyster - The Belhurst Story

THE BELHURST STORY

David Sakmyster

Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

2011 / David Sakmyster

Cover Image By: Neil Sjoblom Photography, Geneva, NY

Cover Lettering By: David Dodd

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For Dr. George Maxwell Blackstock Hawley (18701941) engineer, lawyer, teacher and extraordinary historian, without whose tireless researches into the past, without his love for Geneva, and his meticulous notes (fortunately preserved in the Hobart and William Smith College Archives), very little of this story would have been saved.

And a special dedication to Margaret R. Wilson (1920- ) who lived at the Belhurst Castle in her youth while her father served as groundskeeper and chauffeur. She is a historical treasure, and without her memories and stories this tale would have been poignantly incomplete. In her own words, Belhurst will always be her true home. In many ways, this story is for her.

Belhurst Castle, 2003 (pre-addition)

The Belhurst - 2008

A great many people aided in the realization of this work, and if I leave anyone out it is with the sincere apologies of one who may have lost count of how much help he has received.

First, my gratitude goes out to Karen Osborne at the Geneva Historical Society, who helped set my feet onto this path, and who kindly dealt with every one of my "just one last thing" requests. To Linda Benedict at the Warren Hunting Smith Library Archives, Hobart and William Smith Colleges. To Dale Johnson from the New York State Folklore Society and to the Ontario County Records Archives.

To my Uncle Thomas Sakmyster from the University of Cincinnati, and Linda Bailey at the Cincinnati, Ohio Historical Society both pulling through with some key records when I needed them most.I would also like to thank the Finger Lakes Times for their record-keeping skills and excellent journalism throughout most of Geneva's history. Also to Maud Kane at the Yates County Office of Public History, who found a critical missing piece of the puzzle, and to the Oliver House Historical Museum in Penn Yan.

A special thanks also goes to Carmen Brennan, Banquet Manager at Belhurst Castle, and to several members of the current staff; also I am indebted to Dr. Kamil Kovach, "Red" Dwyer's physician towards the end of his life.

For their invaluable databases and meticulous genealogical collections, I thank the Family History Center (at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints) in Pittsford, NY.

To Margaret Wilson, who kept not only those amazing photographs of the Collins' era, but also kept alive such incredible memories and stories of her youth.

And finally, my thanks goes to my wife, Amy, who has given invaluable editorial assistance, helped with the research, encouraged me when I faltered, and endured my moods throughout this obsession.

"O h , they're stories here. The place is lousy with 'em. It's hard, though, to tell the fiction from the fact."

Cornelius "Red" Dwyer (Owner of Belhurst Castle 1933-1975)

O n the outskirts of Geneva NY, it stands in a beautiful grove amidst ancient oak trees, high on a cliff with a sweeping view of Seneca Lake. It is a castle in a style and grace rarely seen this side of the Atlantic. Constructed with red Medina limestone, its dormers, balconies and turrets stand in stoic repose, as if contemplating a long and memorable past. Inside, the exquisitely carved oak craftsmanship and mahogany fixtures whisper of bygone days of glory; in the foyer a suit of armor patiently stands guard before a winding staircase while above, elegant guest rooms jealously retain over a century's worth of secrets.

In the winter of 2000, as a birthday gift I surprised my soon-to-be wife Amy by taking her to the Belhurst Castle where we would stay a night on the top floor in the Tower Suite, overlooking the grounds and the lake. After a spirited evening socializing with local patrons in the mahogany-walled tavern on the first floor, under an approving smile from a large gold-framed painting of the late owner, Cornelius Dwyer, we retired to the widow's peak in our room for a sip of champagne.

Looking out over the dark front lawn, snow-free during an unusual January thaw, we gazed silently at the moon-speckled lake, and then suddenly we froze. Something on the lawn just below us caught our attention at the same moment. My wife recollects that she took her eyes away from the figure only to see the hairs on my neck standing on end.

I was riveted to the sight there, standing between two large evergreen bushes, staring out over the lake, was a woman dressed in a magnificent white gown. My heart raced as my eyes struggled to make sense of the image, to place it as perhaps some trick of the moon playing off the hedges, or the interior dining room lights casting odd reflections. But the more we looked, the clearer she became, and there, at two in the morning on a Friday evening, I wrestled with something I couldn't comprehend.

We watched, just staring in silence for another five minutes at the motionless figure that solemnly faced eastward. At that point I wanted to run down the three flights of stairs and race onto the lawn to see her up close, even though I was sure she would be gone when I arrived.

Amy, however, pulled me away from the window, whispering that whoever it was, and she had no doubt it was a ghost, "didn't want to be seen." We were intruding on her privacy, perhaps on some melancholy ritual she performed in the darkest hours or under the moon's light, a somber experience that wasn't meant for others to see.

Reluctantly, I pulled away. We went to sleep. At least Amy did. I, however, had the worst night's sleep of my life, fitfully drawing close to sleep, then jarred awake by knocking sounds at the windows, scraping in the pipes, scratching at the doors, and what sounded like footsteps on the winding stairs up the turret.