The Story of Abraham Parrish, Mendon’s First Tavern Keeper (Part I)

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Wyoming Forts A-Fort Durkee, B-Fort Wyoming or Wilkesbarre, C-Fort Ogden, D-Kingston Village, E-Forty Fort, G-battleground, H-Fort Jenkins, I-Monocasy Island, J-Pittstown stockades, G-Queen Esther’s Rock Source: Lossing, Benson, The Pictorial Field-Book of the Revolution, Harper & Brothers, Publishers, January 7, 1859, p. 353

In many ways, the life of Abraham Parrish wasn’t that different from any other person participating in the formative decades of the grand American Experiment.

In other ways, he lived a unique life that exposed him at an early age to the rarified frontier air that existed when Western New York emerged from its dense terra incognita forest. He witnessed firsthand nearly all the major personalities of our region and saw how they forged this thickly wooded region into an industrious civilization.

But let’s not get far ahead…

Zebulon Parish represents a typical American story. He was born on February 12, 1726 in Windham, a town in the eastern half of the Colony of Connecticut between Hartford and the Rhode Island border. He not only shares a birthday with Abraham Lincoln, he shares something else – his descendants were active in the abolition movement.

There was a very good reason Zebulon’s family joined the fight against slavery – his grandfather, John Wattles, came to America as a slave.

Our story, therefore, begins in Scotland…

John Wattles was born in Scotland and lived in tumultuous times. Great Britain’s King (Charles I) had a son (also named Charles) who was King of Scotland. A lot of folks didn’t like Charles I. In fact, they didn’t like the whole idea of a monarchy. They preferred a republic. (Hmm, interesting idea, given this was more than a hundred years before the American Revolution.)

Parliament decided Oliver Cromwell was the man to lead this new republican government. Charles I disagreed and so began a roughly decade long battle for control of Great Britain. Ol’ Chuck was tried for treason and beheaded in 1649. The execution was quite a spectacle, with people not knowing what to think. Even the executioner refused to shout the usual “Behold the head of a traitor!” for fear people would recognize his voice.

Meanwhile, back in Scotland…

The younger Charles would have none of this. He was popular in Scotland and drew an army of Scots to take one last stand against Cromwell’s forces. Among those Scotsmen was the one named John Wattles.

The Scots didn’t have quite the success Charles envisioned. During the Battle of Worcester (September 3, 1651) Cromwell’s army captured Wattles, along with thousands of others faithful to King Charles I (“the martyr”). The good news: unlike Charles I, they weren’t executed for treason. The bad news…

On October 20th, 1651, Parliament, now controlled by Cromwell, granted amnesty to these prisoners with the stipulation that they pay their own way to the Colonies to serve out their sentence. Wattles, apparently listed as “John Woodall” and/or “John Wodell” on the ship’s manifest of 272 passengers, boarded the John & Sara in London. The boat was then inspected at Gravesend before setting sail.1

Upon reaching Massachusetts Colony in 1652, Samuel Richardson of Woburn paid twenty pounds to buy “John Woodall” for a term of eight years. Although Richardson died in 1658, Wattles didn’t gain his freedom until 1660 and took up settlement a few miles from Woburn in a town on the edge of the frontier called Chelmsford. Given 15 acres of land, he built a place to live and farm. In 1666 he married Mare Goole (Gould). The had several children before John was killed by Indians in King Philip’s War in March of 1676.2

What makes John Wattles interesting to us isn’t his heroic exploits. It’s his eldest child. Mary Wattell (why the “s” dropped off is anyone’s guess) was born in 1668. She really must have liked her father because, in 1685 she married John Parish. The thing of note about John Parish is that he lived in Mendon, Massachusetts, but that’s merely a coincident fact in our story. More important is where they moved. Having suffered one too many Indian attacks in Mendon, the young family promptly moved to a place called Preston in New London County, Connecticut Colony.3

John had a son by the name of Isaac, born in 1697. By 1720, however, Isaac Parish moved to Windham, a bit inland from Preston. Isaac was Abraham’s grandfather. He was a tavern-keeper in Windham.4 Keep that in mind.

It was in Windham that Zebulon Parish, Abraham’s father was born and was married (to Hannah Kimball). It’s also where Abraham was born. They didn’t stay too long. This branch of the Parish family was one of several families to move Connecticut Colony’s then western-most settlement – Westmoreland. Today, that settlement is located in what is now Wyoming County – the one in northeastern Pennsylvania.

“Pennsylvania?” you ask?

Yes, that’s a long story, a different story. Maybe I’ll tell it later. This story is about the Wyoming Massacre.

On the evening of June 30, 1778, Colonel John Butler brought 400 British regulars to the edge of Wyoming Valley and the Connecticut Yankees’ settlement. Along with him came 500 Iroquois (mostly Seneca) warriors5, led by Sakayenguaraghton, a.k.a. the “Old King” of the Seneca tribe.6

In the dawn of July 3rd, the settlers, aware of the approaching enemy, congregated in the Forty fort, which was the main fort of the area. The defenders could count 368 men among them. Little did they know until later that morning that the Tory sympathizers manning nearby Wintermoot fort willingly gave up their charge to the British. After discovering this, the men had a heated debate: should they retain their defensive posture or should they attack?7

A 3 o’clock in the afternoon, they chose to attack,8 but against a force more than twice their size, they soon fell back. Many settlers, including women and children fled to the Pocono mountains and the Delaware River. Those that feared the long trek sought refuge in Wyoming fort. The next day (ironically, July 4th), the British and Iroquois partners forced the fort to surrender.

After agreeing to peaceful terms, the Tories promptly reneged, burning the 23 homes in the village of Wilkesbarre, separating the men from their families and forcing the remainder on a 60-mile hike through the swamps with little food or clothing. The survivors called this trek through the wilderness “The Shades of Death.” In all, the settlers suffered more than 300 casualties – nearly all the men.9

Those that delayed their leave watch in horror as the warriors tortured their prisoners to gruesome death. One historian says, “that between the 3rd of July and the morning of the 4th of July, there was a massacre of the male settlers, and of the Americans engaged in the conflict of the 3rd of July, equalling anything of the kind in Indian history for cruelty and atrocity!”10 Only two men would escape, Lebbeus Hammond and Joseph Elliot.11

John Butler paid $10 for each scalp brought to him, and by the end of the 4th, he had already collected 227.12 Ishmael Benn, who was at the fort when it surrendered, later testified “on the night after the battle, seeing fires under some large oaks near the river, he with his father, Squire Whitaker and old Captain Blanchard, went down to the river side, they could see naked white men running around the fire, could hear the cries of agony, could see the savages following them with their spears, it was a dreadful sight.”13

But there was a fate worse than death. It was one that befell Major Roswell Franklin and his sister. After fighting alongside his father, he watched in horror as his mother and his other sister were killed right in front of him. Then he and his surviving sister were taken prisoner, Franklin for three years, his sister for eleven (which would be six years after the war had ended). Franklin, by the way, was the last living person who saw action in the Wyoming Massacre. He became the first settler of Aurora, New York in 1787 and died there in 1843.14

Where was Abraham Parrish during all this? And why is this last tale of particular relevance to the Parrish family and, ultimately, to the Town of Mendon? Stay tuned next week for Part II of The Story of Abraham Parrish.


1Autobiography of Gurdon Wallace, by Gurdon Wallace Wattles, Scribner Press, 1922
2Ibid website, accessed April 4, 2021,
4History of Windham County Connecticut, Volume I, by Ellen D. Larned, printed by Charles Hamilton, Worcester, MA, 1874 p. 555
5History of Wyoming: In a Series of Letters, from Charles Miner, to His Son William Penn Miner, L. Crissy, Publisher, Philadelphia, 1845, Appendix p. 79
6The Massacre of Wyoming, Rev. Horace Edwin Hayden, Wyoming Historical and Geological Society, Wilkes-Barre, PA, 1895, p. xi
7Annals of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania, Vol. II, by John F. Waston, 1850, p. 125
8The Massacre of Wyoming, p. xiii
9 Annals of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania, Vol. II, p.125
10The Massacre of Wyoming, p. xiv
11History of Wyoming, p. 226
12The Massacre of Wyoming, p. xiv
13Ibid, p. xvi
14Annals of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania, Vol. II, p.127

So Long, Hal. We Hardly Knew Ye…

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The signs were ominous.

As I pulled into the familiar parking spot, I couldn’t help but notice the unbroken blanket of fresh fallen snow. No one had parked here. In fact, save for a long pair of footprints making a path in the snow to the door, there was no sign of life.

I glanced up at the storefront windows to see if the lights inside were on. But the blinds shuttered the windows completely, barring any spying eyes from the outside.

On one hand, the daily hours remained posted in their usual spot. On the other hand, there was neither a “We’re Closed” sign or a “We’re Open” sign.

That was strange.

I told my father to wait in the warm car and that I’d check out the situation. I got out of Continue Reading “So Long, Hal. We Hardly Knew Ye…”

A Look Back (Part I): An Early (1841) View Of A New Village

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Here’s an annoying problem I discovered while researching for the book Hamburger Dreams: there’s a lot of people and places that come up when you search the words “hamburger” or “hamburg” that have nothing to do with the delicious sandwich that spawned a trillion-dollar industry.

This required me to be both creative and patient as I sifted through hundreds of century old newspaper articles. It eventually worked, but it took a lot of time. In the end, it proved worthy.

The same thing is happening now as I complete my research on the Masonic Temple/Wilcox Hotel/Wilcox House/Falls Hotel (yes, that one building has gone by several names during its nearly 200-year existence). It turns out Continue Reading “A Look Back (Part I): An Early (1841) View Of A New Village”

Ode to a Once Mighty Oak

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And in that brief moment, its reign ended.

We don’t know how old it really was, but the centuries had exacted their toll. Despite the efforts of the valiant few, the rot that builds with age had eaten its way through the internal fabric that once supported its mighty infrastructure.

When that final gust rushed through, the great citadel had fallen. It had stood for so long that those closest to it, stunned by the fatal reality before their own eyes, could only muster an anemic disbelief.

All that incredulity could not suspend the finality that was. It was gone. Not really. But really.

*          *          *

The Seneca tribe was a fierce warrior tribe. They had to be. They guarded the “west gate” of the Iroquois Confederacy. From that position, they both protected one flank of their Continue Reading “Ode to a Once Mighty Oak”

The Torch Is Passed

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Like a bright beacon, Jack Leckie stood as a steady torch light, forever illuminating our lives, our community, our very essence. In his remarkably demur way, he reminded us of where we came from, why it was important to embrace that past, and how those previous travels help guide our future.

I was the new kid on the block when I first met Jack. Literally. I had just moved to Mendon (well, technically, it was a permanent return after an earlier short residence at my parents’ new home). I was also a “kid.” I was only 26 years old when I moved into my home.

You get the picture. Definitely the new kid on the block.

So you could understand why I might have been nervous when, shortly after moving in, Jack invited me to his home on Boughton Hill Road. Imagine my thoughts. There was me – a newbie – and Jack – the Town Supervisor.

I was in awe. I was unworthy. I was a mere peon of youth compared to this big man of Continue Reading “The Torch Is Passed”

Ode to Larry Pierce: Forever Among the Colonnade of Community Pillars

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They are few and far between. Any vibrant community is blessed by no more than a handful. They’re unassuming when you see them. But the moment they speak, you know them.

They are the bedrock of any sustainable community – the foundation upon which everyday folks like us can confidently build our everyday lives. They allow us to assume a comfortable regularity of our surroundings. This makes our lives more pleasant. This makes our lives easier. This, indeed, makes our lives.

Yet, they are much more. Beyond the rock of a common foundation, they represent the solid stone pillars that uplift our community. In doing so, they not only make our lives Continue Reading “Ode to Larry Pierce: Forever Among the Colonnade of Community Pillars”

Life is a (Small Town) Carnival

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Like any kid growing up in the snowbelt otherwise known as Blasdell, I looked forward to three things each summer. The beginning of summer would signal going to IMG_0016_Mendon_Carnival_Twilight_300Fantasy Island to celebrate a good report card, ride the steamboat and watch the live shootouts. The end of summer meant going to the Erie County Fair to see the vast array of other-worldly side shows on the Midway, the acrid smell of burnt oil and rubber at the demolition derby and the taste of my grandfather’s sumptuous pizza. Sandwiched in between, both chronologically and geographically was the Big Tree Fireman’s Carnival. I think it was actually called the Big Tree Firemen’s Annual Field Days. But for kids (and headline writers short on space) it was the Big Tree Carnival.

Here’s the real difference between Fantasy Island, the Erie County Fair and the Big Tree Continue Reading “Life is a (Small Town) Carnival”

Size Doesn’t Matter

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It may have been my father’s greatest embarrassment, but it was my greatest loss, a loss erased only by 25 years and a chance plumbing mishap.

How my family sees my long lost 1970 trophy.

It all started on a day which lives in “famy” (as opposed to“infamy”). No, I’m not exaggerating. It really was a famous day.

On Saturday, March 7, 1970, I found myself bowling three games at Leisure Lanes in Hamburg, New York, among several dozen participants in the first Bowling Tournament my Cub Scout Pack ever had. The rest of the Northern Hemisphere spent the bulk of that sunny midday experiencing the greatest total eclipse of the sun our corner of the Earth will have until April 8, 2024. (For my own account of that day, see “Solar Eclipse, 1970 – A True Story,” Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel, August 17, 2017.)

I had won the Big Tree Cub Scout Pack 489 Bowling Tournament that day. My father, the Pack’s Cubmaster, bought a nice bowling trophy and a brass plate to etch the name of the winner. He didn’t expect his son to take the trophy home.

That’s what embarrassed him.

So struck by the genuine joy I showed in winning it, he couldn’t bear telling me of his Continue Reading “Size Doesn’t Matter”

Fill Out The Old Mendon Cobblestone Firehouse Survey!!!

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[This Commentary originally appeared in the November 22, 1990 issue of The Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel.]


(N.B.: The author is a member of the Old Mendon Cobblestone Firehouse Community Task Force and gratefully thanks everyone in the Mendon Fire District for completing their survey.)

By now, many of the households in the Mendon Fire District should have received their Old Mendon Cobblestone Firehouse Community Opinion Survey. Being only one page in length and with return postage provided, it’s very simple to fill out. In addition, it’s very Continue Reading “Fill Out The Old Mendon Cobblestone Firehouse Survey!!!”

White Cream Donuts

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[This Commentary originally appeared in the November 8, 1990 issue of The Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel.]

CarosaCommentaryNewLogo_259To the world: I apologize. I confess to a vice of unimaginable corruption. I am truly sorry. In my regret, I confront a life-long affliction – my passionate ardor for… white cream donuts.

It began as a child. On bright sunny Sundays, my parents would take me, my brother and my sisters to the donut shop after church. As soon as my father parked the car, we would joyfully yank open the doors and leap out into the modest bakery. Inside, our nostrils filled with the warm sweet smell of freshly made donuts. We had Continue Reading “White Cream Donuts”