There used to be a lot more of us in Pultneyville, maybe someday there will be again.

The Descendants of Charles Montondo have called Pultneyville home for a very long time.

He settled here around 120 years ago, and 3 of his sons made it their home.

Ward, Frank and Ernie all lived here, all died here.

But in the time, they were here, they made an impression.

Not in large estates or farms, or grand houses, but in the work they did and the family they left behind.

Oh you can see their names if you look.  The cemetery, the churches, even on the stage of Gates Hall, they were involved. 

Charter members of the fire company and the gun club to the south, they did their part for the community.

Some went off to serve their country, and when they were done, they came back to Pultneyville and started families.

Frank Montondo raised his 4 boys and 1 girl next to the corner store, and when the time came, some of them set up homes in Pultneyville as well.  It started a pattern that has led us to today.

There used to be a lot of us in Pultneyville, maybe there will be again someday.

At one time, as best I can recollect, you would have had Frank and Alice, Ernie and Jo, Ward, Clem, Jerry and Viola, Margaret, Chic and Jean, Dick and Kay, Frank Jr and Ruth, all Montondos or related to them, plus a bunch of kids.

Some of that first Frank Montondos kids started lives here, but they didn’t stay here.

And when all was said and done, it was just the younger Frank Montondo that put down roots and raised his family in Pultneyville.   In the little house, built on top of the old mill, he too had 5 kids, and they called Pultneyville home.

Somewhere along the way, Frank and his oldest son bought 11 acres of scrub land where Dan would build a house, and they both would plant some apples and peaches.   That little farm would become central to the life of Frank Jr, and his kids, and their kids.  Three generations would work and play and pick apples on what became a very special place for a very long time.

But all good things come to an end, and Frank Jr got old and couldn’t take care of the little farm anymore, and his kids were too busy to take care of it.   But none of them wanted to let it go.

In a nice twist of fate, another farmer, whose grandfather had been a mentor to Frank, took over the care of that little farm.  The Montondos still owned the trees, but they are someone else’s apples.

And then Frank and Ruth passed away.

And things got complicated.

None of the kids could afford to buy the house on the corner of Salmon Creek Road, and pay the county what was owed for the nursing home bills.

And if the death of my mom and dad broke my heart, selling their house crushed my soul.

It had to be done, and the neighbor who bought it was fair, and will take good care of it.

And dad would be pleased with the way the new owner keeps the place up.

But it’s still sad.

And that brings me back to that little farm.

This is where I’ll plant my flag.

Where I’ll draw a line in the sand.

This is the hill I will die on.

To barrow a line from the NRA, you can have this farm when you pry it from my cold dead hands.

I don’t know how it’s all going to shake out, but this piece of Pultneyville I will not let slip from the family of Frank Montondo.

It might not be the best way to farm, or the smartest investment, but that’s not why I’ll work to keep it.

Dad taught us some things were worth working for, and sometimes fighting for.

His little farm is one of those things.

For my dad’s memory, for any descendants of Charles Montondo who might want to come home someday and pick an apple or two.

There used to be a lot more of us in Pultneyville.

Maybe someday there will be again.