[NOTE: Occasionally, I will write about my research experiences — this is a personal reminiscence
of my relationship with the George Eastman biographer, Elizabeth Brayer.]
It was Thursday, October 26th, 2017, my second day that week to work for Elizabeth (Betsy) Brayer, helping her with her current writing, and organizing her historical archives.
Betsy was an accomplished and successful Rochester writer and historian, with a long list of published books, pamphlets, newspaper articles, and essays, including: 150 Years Young: The Story of the Friendly Home; East Avenue Memories; The Eastman Theatre: Fulfilling George Eastman’s Dream; Leading the Way: Eastman and Oral Health; MAGnum Opus, The Story of the Memorial Art Gallery; Margaret Woodbury Strong and the Origin of the Strong Museum; Of Town & the River: A Rochester Guide (with Jean France); Our Spirit Shows; A Story of the Chatterbox; The Story of the Genesee Valley Club; The Warner Legacy in Western New York; many years of Brighton-Pittsford Post feature articles; and last but definitely not least, her mighty tome, George Eastman: A Biography.
I was excited to see her that morning because she had received the proof copy of her newly-finished booklet, Kodak Girls and Eastman Ladies. She was thrilled, especially with its glossy pages once again showcasing the glory of the Kodak Girl.
When I first met Betsy, early in 2014, I was amazed at the various booklets strewn around her living room, which she was continuously working on: The George Eastman Story; Grande Dames of Rochester; Boomtown Echoes; George Eastman: In His Own Words; Hiram Sibley in Dits, Dots, and Dashes; Fanny Johnston: Kodak Girl Extraordinaire; Mr. Eastman Builds That House; “My Dear Josephine”; Transformative Technologies in Nineteenth Century Rochester; Eight Portraits and a Glass Eye; George Eastman’s Art Collection; Margaret Woodbury Strong: A Doll Who Would Collect Dolls; Memory Art Gallery: In Nine Volumes; On the Go with George Eastman; the George Eastman Calendar; Snapshots of Diversity. 
In that year — 2014, I was still new to Rochester, having come here the previous year to research and write a book on my relatives, the Dossenbachs, who were locally-famous musicians and conductors, and who played for George Eastman’s twice-weekly musicales and parties from 1905-1919. Betsy discussed them in both her Eastman biography and her Eastman Theatre book.
Thus, one of the first things I did after arriving in Rochester was to purchase and read her biography. It was a moving experience. Betsy made George Eastman come alive; she made readers love him, and miss him, a man we never knew. When I finished the book, I wrote to her and, shortly thereafter, we met for coffee and conversation in her living room. Towards the end of our afternoon, I said, “Mrs. Brayer, please, if there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.” And she quietly replied, “Well, if you could visit with me regularly, I would like that.” Music to my heart!
And so began our every-two-weeks get-together at her house, where we discussed local history. I asked questions; she told me stories of people she’d known, funny stories — Betsy had a dry, wry humor. And Mr. Eastman was always there in spirit — we talked mostly about him, hashing out theories about why he quit school in his teens (was it to help his mother? or simply because he was bored and already driven to accomplish something?), his relationship with Josephine Dickman (was she his lifelong love?), why he didn’t offer Hermann Dossenbach the conductorship of the new orchestra in 1919, what happened when he fired Henry Myrick in 1931, or what led to his fateful decision in March of 1932.
Truthfully, we loved loving George Eastman together.
At each of my visits, Betsy asked me to take home one of her booklets, and “look it over,” tell her what I thought, let her know of changes or edits that should be made. I took this to mean “proofreading” and “editing,” which I did, leaving yellow stick-it notes on many of the pages, all of which she ignored — Betsy was by nature a creative person, and was not a fan of the editing and revising phases of writing.
In fact, Betsy was a much more dedicated writer than anyone else I’ve known. Every morning, after breakfast, she was in her office, writing; every afternoon, after lunch, she was in her office, writing. Every day.
Her life was not easy as she had many health problems, which others might not have overcome, but Betsy didn’t want to give up. She had stories still to tell, books still to write and share.
Her life was not easy as she had many health problems, which others might not have overcome, but Betsy didn’t want to give up. She had stories still to tell, books still to write and share.
In 2017, Betsy asked me to work for her, two days per week, to help her with current writing/researching activities, and to prepare her archives for eventual donation to local research libraries/museums. The office that she had used throughout most of her career was upstairs, where she hadn’t been for a few years. But she remembered what was there (if not where it was exactly), so I was able to find stuff for her, files, information, photos she wanted to re-scan. We discussed what she was working on, and searched the internet for new info, or read together from the Rochester books which I had found all around her house and gathered together on her shelves.
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And so there we were on October 26th, with the Kodak Girls and Eastman Ladies booklet finished — a triumph! When I arrived that morning, Betsy was finishing breakfast at the dining room table.
Sitting with Betsy that morning was fun — the air was filled with excitement and enthusiasm. But, like so many other times, the ideas and facts and questions poured out nonstop, and soon I had to rush for a pen and scrap paper, lest I forget anything. We started with a question about an Archer Gibson organ recital at Mr. Eastman’s house in 1918 — did we have the program for that event? This led us to talk about the musicale programs and invitations, how GE often didn’t save them, but that many of them exist here and there in people’s scrapbooks and papers, archived by the area libraries.
And one thing led to another. Archer Gibson in 1918 led to Hermann Dossenbach (maybe the program was in his scrapbooks or papers at Rush Rhees or Rundel?). Dossenbach led to GE’s organists — George Fisher and Harold Gleason, which, of course led to Marion Gleason and the Gleasons’ divorce.
Next, Betsy asked me to find a photo of Red Cross nurses sitting around the lily pond in Mr. Eastman’s garden. And GE had given a party to celebrate the Red Cross work — maybe there existed somewhere a program for that event. She remembered how Mr. Eastman had coerced the Home For the Friendless (today it is the Friendly Home) to move from their building on East Avenue and Alexander Street because he wanted it for the Red Cross headquarters. I knew my cue, and asked her — “How did he coerce them?” “Well, he simply bought them a new and better building, of course.” Giggling from us.
Upstairs in Betsy’s old office, I found the Archer Gibson file, found the Dossenbach file, found the Red Cross photos, but still had some unanswered questions. And so this gave the opportunity for a favorite scenario. I said to Betsy, “Well, why don’t we check the Index from that wonderful George Eastman biography written by Betsy Brayer — maybe she knows!” Oh, I smile to think of it, Betsy’s beaming face, and how she’d remind me that she had created that index all by herself. “No professional indexer was hired for that job,” she’d proudly say.
The day went on. I took her Kodak Girls and Eastman Ladies booklet to the George Eastman Museum and came back and told her how much everyone loved it. (The booklet is for sale in the George Eastman Museum Gift Shop.) Betsy then asked me to write an article for her Historic Brighton Newsletter about Hermann Dossenbach (Hermann is my great-granduncle) and the Hubbell Bible Class of early 20th century Rochester. I opened my laptop and found photos and articles, getting more and more excited as I told her how I could write about this and I could write about that. Betsy ironically teased, “I didn’t think you’d get that excited about the Hubbell Class,” so I reminded her, “but it’s about my Dossenbachs!” And she said, “yes, of course.”
Eventually, she asked me to help her with her morning preparations. We were both missing Kay Polis, her longtime assistant and close friend, who was usually here to help her, but was not able to come today. Kay is a treasure; Betsy deeply loved her, and I love her too. Wanting to help Betsy feel at ease with me, I said to her, “Don’t be embarrassed because someday I’ll be older and need someone to help me.” She softly replied, “I hope you have a good friend to do these kinds of thing for you.”
Humor was never far from Betsy, and so she then told me a story about how she had injured her foot when her kids were younger. Betsy remembered chopping something at the kitchen counter with a sharp knife, but she didn’t like cooking, and was, as always, distracted. The knife jumped out of her hands, she said, to the floor, piercing her foot. “For years afterwards, my daughter would demonstrate the moment to her friends, using a knife and a hunk of cheese — ‘Now mommy was standing over there by the counter, and then the knife jumped into the air, and then landed on her foot,’ using the cheese of course as a stand-in for my foot.” We laughed and laughed about this, and Betsy again reenacted her daughter reenacting that incident from the past.
I shall always remember the tenderness of the next moments. She sat in front of her dainty, pretty dressing table, with the windows looking out to the autumn colors in the backyard, framed by the deep blue bottles on the windowsill, creating a lovely light. I had a sense that the little dressing table was special, and so I asked her about it, and, indeed, she replied that she’d had it since she was ten years old. Betsy was combing her hair, and looking in the mirror, and also out the window. And all of it — Betsy, dressing table, window, outdoors — was a precious scene.
“It’s nearly 4:00pm, isn’t it? You’ve got to go,” she said. And I nodded, and asked, “You’ve already done quite a bit of writing today and must be tired, so will you be going out to the living room to watch some television and go through your mail? Should I bring your ice water out there?” She responded, “No, I’m going into the office, I still have a few things I want to finish.”
And so she did. I went upstairs to put the files away and noted that there were several sorting projects which I longed to finish — piles of her Brighton-Pittsford Post articles; black and white photos with a note, “For Betsy to identify”; binders of historical pictures to check for doubles and reorganize; and the folders of past talks and honors and writings and correspondence which I’d been placing into a chronology, in an effort to see the whole of Betsy’s career and accomplishments.
Downstairs, I brought her water, with lemon, into her office. And she said she didn’t need anything else. I said, “well, okay, I’ll see you next Monday then.” I made some kind of a little joke, which I can’t remember now, and I heard her giggling as I gathered my things and left.
This was the last day I saw Betsy, for she passed away soon afterwards.
It was a good day — a great day in fact — and one which I shall always remember.
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| Betsy Brayer and Lisa Kleman in 2017 (Photo by Sarah Brayer) |
I am honored to have been able to call Elizabeth Brayer my friend — Betsy, who will be much missed by all.
Rest in peace, lovely lady — well done!
Rest in peace, lovely lady — well done!
