Remembering Woolworth’s

by Karen Plunkett-Powell

  As adults, both Frank Winfield and Charles Sumner often reminisced about their explorations of the then-vacant Bonaparte hideaway. “Old Nap’s” place, as Frank called it, was only a short ride from the Woolworth farm. It was nicknamed the “cup-and-saucer house” because of its eight-sided octagonal shape, rounded roof, and unusual lookout tower. Young Frank would stare at the great Corsican crest emblazoned on the massive front door, his mind full of adventure. He would peek through the windows, trying to capture the home’s former splendor in his imagination. Frank coveted the wealth and esteem the Bonapartes once enjoyed, and to achieve this for himself became a life-long fixation. A half-century later, Frank Winfield would decorate his executive suite in the Woolworth Building in French-European style, adorned with exotic treasures, including an exact replica of Napoleon’s own desk.

  The Woolworth Farm in Northern New York

  This simple farmhouse in Champion, three-quarters of a mile from Great Bend, N.Y., was where Frank and Charles spent most of their boyhood. Their parents, John and Fanny, purchased the farm in 1859, having moved out of the Old Moody Place in Rodman where Frank was born. After Frank’s mother died in 1878, a housekeeper named Elvira Austin Moulton was hired to help John Woolworth. In August, 1879, she married John Woolworth and became Frank’s stepmother. Frank used to boast about how proud he felt for having built the white picket fence around the old homestead.

  From left to right: John Woolworth, his second wife, Elvira, and their adopted daughter, Flora. In the foreground, an unidentified neighbor’s child holds a dall.

  Throughout his life, the influence of the Bonapartes on Frank W. Woolworth’s own aspirations was far-reaching, even obsessive. Unfortunately, back in the 1860s, Frank’s time at the “cup-and-saucer house” and his ability to fantasize about royal fame and fortune was highly limited. It was the farm that ordered him back, time and time again.

  Frank Prepares to Trade in His Hoe for a Tie

  “To the farm boy, the coldest thing in the world was the handle of a pitchfork in the morning,” wrote Henry Winkler, author of the 1940 Woolworth biography, Five and Ten. Frank W. Woolworth’s early lifestyle was not only cold, but emotionally and physically intolerable. It is no secret to historians that Frank Woolworth scorned farm work. To make matters worse, Frank was never a robust boy. Colds and fevers plagued him as a child, and long-term illnesses cropped up rather frequently when he reached adulthood. The harsh winters of northern New York complicated matters, aggravating his health and dampening his spirit.

  So, perhaps as much he longed for the riches of Napoleon, the maturing Frank Woolworth longed to flee the farm. He yearned for a dry, warm place to earn his daily bread—preferably in a grand shop, dressed like a gentleman, with a fine tie and a starched collar. His interest in mercantiling started early, when, as a toddler, he met his first traveling salesman. He was fascinated by the peddler’s fast-talking ways and saddlebags full of wares. Four-year-old Frank bragged to his parents about the day when he, too, would be “fast-talking” peddler. In the meantime, he and little Charles Sumner played “store” in the dining room. Gathering together miscellaneous doodads from the kitchen and canning room, Frank would carefully set up the “merchandise,” make up prices, and invite his brother to be the customer.

  Real-life trips to county stores left a great impression on him as well, although not always a happy one. It is true that Frank enjoyed the sleigh ride to Watertown, where the great town square was humming with activity and everyone seemed so purposeful, but he rarely had more than a handful of pennies to spend. On the few occasions Frank and Charles dared enter the finer dry goods emporiums, the clerks would blatantly shun them, suggesting (rather strongly) that the Woolworth brothers should shop at a more fitting store. They belonged in a shop that sold penny goods, one that didn’t mind poorly dressed farm youngsters tracking in mud and wasting the clerk’s time.

  TIME CAPSULE MEMORY

  “Those Harsh New York Winters.”

  Frank and I went after the cows at half past five in the morning in late September when there was a white frost and we were barefoot. We would stand on the ground upon which the cows had been lying to get a little warmth into our nearly frozen feet. No wonder we yearned to break away from the endless drudgery.

  —Charles Sumner Woolworth, c. 1930, recalling younger days in Great Bend, N. Y.

  Nonetheless, Frank was mesmerized by his limited exposure to the business world. The stores were always toasty warm and well lit by elaborate gas lamps. The air was filled with pleasant aromas of candle wax, starch, and perfumed soap. Stretches of long wooden counters with highly polished tops held every imaginable whatsit to make a body’s life easier. And overhead, rolls and rolls of colorful fabric were stacked high on shelves, ready to be fashioned into fine garments.

  One thing is for certain: these varied experiences instilled a burning desire in Frank to have his own business. He admitted later that he envied the shop owners and clerks in Watertown. They were, he thought, the most fortunate of mortals. Still, he never forgot the shabby treatment bestowed on him by his “betters,” or the frustration he felt at not being able to purchase even modest luxuries, such as colorful hair combs for his mother. The maturing Frank W. Woolworth vowed to own a store that would offer quality goods that all people could afford. His employees would respect even the humblest customers, making them feel that their nickels and dimes were as valuable as any five-dollar gold piece.

  But Frank faced a major dilemma. Just about the time his dreams for the future were crystallizing, he was approaching the milestone age of sixteen. The year was 1868, and he knew he had to make a serious decision about his life, a decision that would cause much consternation at the Woolworth homestead. Like his ancestors before him, both Woolworth and McBrier, he would be soon be expected to live out his days devoted to the land. Until he married, he gloomily forecast, the only time he would don fine clothes would be for Sunday services at the Methodist Church; the only luxury he could ever afford would be a handful of lemon drops.

  Nina Brown Baker, author of the children’s book, Nickels and Dimes, explained Frank’s plight perfectly: “In those days, most farmers considered a boy had learned quite enough when he knew how to read and write and do his “figures.’ Everyone left school at sixteen, if he had lasted that long. It was felt that at sixteen he had either learned all there was to learn, or else he was too stupid to learn and might as well be put to work.”

  Of course, Frank Winfield Woolworth was far from stupid, and he had only just touched the surface of all there was to learn. He hungered for more knowledge, more experience, and the accumulation of more finery than had his hero, Napoleon Bonaparte. He was certain that his dreams would be shattered if he remained at home. His father was a very good farmer, but impractical in business. Unlike his McBrier in-laws, John Hubbell Woolworth had not realized any substantial profit from his long, unrelenting years of labor.

  Watertown, New York, Through the “Woolworth” Decades

  As early as 1855, Frank would join his family for trips to Watertown on market days, where they would sell potatoes and pine. Although the above photo is dated much later (c. 1900) the busy scene on the public square is typical of what young Frank experienced. In 1916, when Frank’s dear friend William Moore died, Woolworth erected a new six-story building on this same site, where it served as the company’s statutory principal office until 1966. In 1969, the Woolworth Company donated the entire building and all of its leasehold to the Henry Keep Home of the municipality.

  Two things were clear to Frank Winfield Woolworth as he exited Miss Penniman’s schoolhouse in Great Bend for the last time. First, that it was in the world of business, not agriculture, where he would attempt to make his mark on the world. And second, he needed a high-falutin’ plan.

  TIME CAPSULE MEMORY

  “A Rags-to-Riches Tale”

  When I was in my teens, I remember reading a biography of Frank W. Woolworth, and immediately I thought
, “what a fine tale this would make for a children’s book. Woolworth’s story had all the trapping of a Horatio Alger rags-to-riches story! He started, dirt poor as the son of a potato farmer, suffering through the unrelenting winters of the North Country. He was unhappy with his lot in life and had big dreams for the future. As a boy, he was scorned by most of the wealthy merchants in town, yet he found, among them, a benefactor, who gave Frank the wherewithal to start his own business. He struggled upward and he succeeded, and just like an Alger hero, he never forgot those people who believed in him along the way. If Alger wrote it, the book might have been called: Frank the Dime-Store Boy: The Tale of the Merchant Prince. I found his life inspiring, and never forgot it, during my own long, struggle upward.

  —James Wilkins, Jefferson County, N.Y.

  Chapter Two

  The Birth of Woolworth’s “Great Five-Cent Store”

  “Surely they thought I was about the greenest fellow who ever came off a farm.”

  —Frank W. Woolworth

  In 1868, sixteen-year-old Frank W. Woolworth, son of a humble potato farmer, set forth to make his fortune in the world of business.

  Unfortunately, only a limited number of fortunes could be made in that part of Jefferson County, New York. The Civil War troops had returned home, jobs were scarce, the cost of living high, and young Frank didn’t have a lick of mercantile experience. Earnest inquiries brought the same response from each shop owner: “No.” So, for several years, Frank was forced back behind the plow, sweltering beneath the summer sun, and freezing amidst the North Country’s merciless ice storms. Since his schooldays were over, he didn’t even have the lively discussions of Miss Penniman, his former teacher, to divert his active mind.

  With every heft of the hoe, Frank’s determination to escape intensified. The problem was that on the ladder of mercantile, Frank’s muddy boots occupied the bottom rung. Undaunted, he concocted a plan. He’d heard about a small commerce college in Watertown where he could learn the rudimentaries of business. Perhaps, Frank told his mother, if he had a genuine certificate, a potential employer would take him more seriously. Fanny McBrier Woolworth wholeheartedly agreed with her son, but they both knew that the tuition was dear: twelve whole dollars. Brushing aside this road block, Fanny championed her son’s cause, presenting her arguments to her husband, John. Their son was clearly unsuited for harsh physical labor; he was always taking ill. He’d toiled in the fields since he was a toddler and deserved a chance at something more. He was quick at math and smarter than any other boy in the village—he had potential. She was even willing to give Frank the tiny nest egg she’d been tucking away, penny by penny, since her wedding day. John Woolworth finally relented. Frank could attend school, but he still had to perform his daily chores. Arrangements were made with a professor to tutor Frank at night, and in 1872, Frank enrolled in the two-month commercial course.

  TIME CAPSULE MEMORY

  The education I got in two terms in a business college in Watertown did me more good than any classical education I might have got.

  —Frank W. Woolworth

  Frank studied hard, and by the time he turned twenty, he’d earned a certificate declaring him proficient in double-entry bookkeeping. He had yet to wait on a customer in a real store, but he sensed he was on the road to success. Dressed in his finest wool scarf, Frank headed to nearby Carthage. One by one, he visited every merchant in town: the tiny furniture maker’s shop, the meat market, even the undertaker’s parlor. The owners were not impressed with the tall, wiry boy and his paper certificate, and promptly sent him packing.

  A touch desperate, Frank traveled solemnly back to Great Bend and approached the station master, who ran a tiny grocery at the rear of the train depot shed. The agent was willing to teach young Woolworth the trade, but he couldn’t spare any wages. Hungry for practical experience, Frank started working part-time. He performed odd jobs and bagged groceries, and then, a half-hour before train time, he sold rail tickets. His official title was “Assistant Station Master,” and since he’d always been fascinated with locomotives, this suited Frank just fine—at least for a while. But Frank’s job at the depot was short-lived. It was just not sensible for a young man to work without pay, so he was pressured back into full-time farm life.

  “But I still had higher ambitions,” wrote Woolworth in 1919, “and I got acquainted with a gentleman [Daniel McNeil] who ran the Country Store at Great Bend. I tried to get a clerkship there, but without success, and I envied the young men behind the counter who dealt out the dry goods and groceries.”

  Dan McNeil knew of Frank’s ambitions and respected his enterprise. The kindly, spirited proprietor told Frank that he knew several merchants in Watertown, and he would keep his eyes and ears open for opportunities.

  Meanwhile, back at home, the situation reached another turning point.

  Early in March 1873, Frank’s uncle, Albon McBrier, offered his nephew a job at his prosperous farm, Pierpont Manor. Frank would receive room, board, and $18.00 per month. If he lived frugally, he could even send some money home to his parents. Frank’s brother, Charles, was out of school, and could take over Frank’s chores at home. It was a logical plan, in the best interests of everyone—except for Frank.

  When it came to tilling the soil, Frank had always felt emotionally torn, and now his trepidation heightened. He knew that the success of a farmer was inextricably bound to the whims of Mother Nature. One drought, one rainy season, could wipe out a family’s income for a year. He longed to have more control, to own his own business. He wanted to build a great building, piece by piece, much the same way he’d built boyhood palaces out of spare lumber and rocks. If Frank went to work on Uncle Albon’s farm, he would never achieve his Napoleonic dreams. Yet he was being presented with an offer he couldn’t honorably refuse.

  Just as he had countless times before, Frank trudged to McNeil’s Country Store, hoping for good news. One late winter evening in 1873, Frank’s efforts were rewarded. While McNeil was conducting business in Watertown, he’d heard of an opening at Augsbury and Moore’s Drygoods. McNeil gave Frank an encouraging pat on the back and a letter of introduction to Mr. Alexander Augsbury.

  The door of opportunity had materialized. It was up to Frank Woolworth, a few weeks shy of his twenty-first birthday, to step through that door and make his mark.

  Watertown, New York—City of Opportunity

  Watertown, New York, Jefferson County’s seat, was an exciting place for an ambitious young man in the 1870s. The town featured a central square encircled by wooden sidewalks and flanked by shops. Hand-lettered signs advertised everything from silver tea sets to the services of legal solicitors. Well-dressed children nibbled fine chocolates, and tantalizing aromas seeped from the bakery. On special holidays, such as Christmas, bands played merrily in the wooden gazebo, and gentlemen in black coats tipped their hats to ladies in swirling hoop skirts. Frank reveled in this scene. His own hometown harbored only 125 people, but Watertown boasted a population well over 7,000.

  Frank had traveled the eleven-mile stretch to Watertown many times before, of course, on open-air market days. Ever since he could remember, his family had journeyed in a wooden sleigh led by pack horses to peddle their wares. On those cold mornings, their mission was to sell wood to the sawmills and papermills that stretched for miles alongside the Black River. This time, however, he’d arrived to secure a respectable position with Augsbury & Moore, the finest of drygood merchants. Located on the corner of the public square and Arsenal Street, the shop’s well-lit interior beckoned to Frank, a beacon of freedom. As Frank wound his way toward his mark, he was praying, with typical Methodist fervor, that all would go well.

  The first news Frank received was far from encouraging. Elderly Mr. Alexander Augsbury had taken ill and was abed. Clutching his letter of introduction, Frank headed straight for Augsbury’s home. Years later, Frank would chuckle, recalling his daunting experience with Mr. Augsbury. Frank Woolworth told financier B. C. Forbes t
hat he was shaking in his boots as he was led by a proper maid to Mr. Augsbury’s sick room. After Frank stated his business, Augsbury shot out a series of rapid-fire questions about Frank’s character, his experience, and his attire.

  “Bub, don’t they wear any collars in your neighborhood?” asked Augsbury. Frank shook his head. “No neckties, either?” pressed the austere merchant. Frank politely explained that he did not yet own a collar or necktie. There wasn’t much call for a starched collar while shoveling manure or milking cows.

  Somehow, Frank muddled through this nerve-racking interview and Augsbury sent Frank back to town to see his partner. If William Moore liked him, barked Augsbury, then Woolworth had the job.

  Fortunately, as described earlier, Frank made it through this second interview with Moore, who, vast experience aside, was only twelve years Frank’s senior. From that day on, Frank credited Moore with giving him his first real start in business.

  Back on that milestone day in post-Civil War America, Frank headed home, heady with euphoria. Mr. Moore said Frank had three months to prove himself a worthy employee, working for free during his trial. After that, well … most anything could happen.