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Mr. G's Round Hill Lodge
HOME | ABOUT | BLOG | CONTACT | JUKE-BOX | MEMORIAL | SOJOURNERS | SOUVENIRS | THANKS | SITE MAP
Mr. G's Round Hill Lodge
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 1969 - 1974
Mr. G's Round Hill Lodge or Mr. Gs Roundhill Resort... |
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1969 97km (60mi) away, at a Greenwich Village, NYC bar called the "Stonewall Inn", an event that would come to be known as "The Stonewall riots" began on the evening of June 28, and lasted until July 3. It would bring into human history, a turning point, a change in generations of opinions and attitudes that would ripple through time for many generations to follow. Around the world, bars, clubs, "resorts", and any variety of businesses would appear, owned, operated by, or simply focused on those who were known as the "queer" or "gay" population, "same-sex-attracted" people. For the decade that followed, it became almost common-place to see even long-established businesses change their focus, either opening their doors to or catering specifically to the "alternate" faction of society. Often, an other-wise well-established business, bar, restaurant, hotel, motel, "resort", would close business one day and with-in weeks or months, re-open, often slightly "renovated", as a "gay" something or another. What "Mr. G's" was or what the place was known as prior, remains a mystery. Opening a "gay" business in the smaller communities of Orange County NY wasn't exactly received with the best reactions or responses, and as time passed, the deep-rooted "dislike" for Mr. G's was to become manifested in the response(s) of the people who gathered at the entrance on the night of 20 January 1974. But whether or not they approved, "George", as we knew the owner, ran a most-respectable and respectful establishment, at the top of a hill, well out-side the village of Washingtonville, NY, at the end of an old dirt drive that meandered through a wooded area. (One didn't "happen upon" Mr. G's. One knew where it was, so it presented no "threat" to the town, village or community.) Records of the property and previous business are, or ought to be, on file with local municipal offices, but even then, Mr. G's was located in "Washingtonville" (as indicated on the business card), but the location was incorporated into the village of "Blooming Grove" and subsequently, "South Blooming Grove". Today, the region out-side of the village of Washingtonville is best-known as "Monroe", the larger municipality of the region. Further, older records remain on paper, as originally recorded and research involves personally visiting the various offices that house them. Mr. G's was, in its day, something of an "enigma" to many then; half a century hence, it remains in some-what obscurity. But what I remember and what I come to learn, with all respect to "George" and the place, I do my best to record any particulars remembered and discovered as time goes by... for as much time as I have, at my age. The "history" of Mr. G's remains shrouded in some fashion of secrecy. But then, so too, does so much history, and, considering the subject matter, one might disapprove but one has come to understand. Regardless, the fact was and remains: Mr. G's Roundhill Resort or Lodge was an experience that will likely never be equalled and deserving of being remembered, at least, for many years. Perhaps it wasn’t ultimate “Utopia”, not perfect at all times, or “perfect” in the sense of everybody being "content" at all times. But for me, and I'm certain, for many others, it most certainly was the one and only place in my youth where I always felt welcome, always felt safe, always felt love some-how, some-where and from some-one. So too, were those who accompanied me when-ever I brought along good Friends. The general ambience of the place was one of "family". No matter one's "propensity" or "pedigree", every individual who arrived was welcomed. Strangers soon became "regulars". "Regulars" were as much customers as "staff"; there was no differentiation. We were all "peers".
Why the references to "The Lodge"?
On historical maps provided by USGIS and Google: This would be the association with a "lodge" as well as explaining the name "Roundhill" or "Round Hill" as they are. "Round Hill" being located to the East of Mr. G's. Both, obviously, are deeply-established in the history of the area. So, the reasoning behind the name of the place and the variations, cleared (I'll continue to refer to it as "The Lodge" because that's how I remember it, and "lodge" better conveys the warmth that we so valued), there was so much more to "The Lodge". And since information is still coming (I started this web-site as a blog in 2017 and brought that here, in 2018, and in 2025 was blessed with the image of "George" which encouraged me to continue expounding), if I, at my age today, am able and more information becomes available, I'll surely incorporate it either here, "About", or on the "Blog" page. For now, getting into the actual "Era" of "Mr. G's"... How the reminders of passing years continue to haunt my memories and, I imagine, those of us still possessing a beating heart and a functioning memory who passed so many hours in the company of "Best Friends". Out-side and to the south of the little village of Washingtonville, NY, known to some, primarily for a winery that boasted "the oldest operating" in America, off the double-lane paved highway, at the end of an old dirt road that wound its way through the wood-land, over a little brook, away from the world, it stood in rustic, old elegance and glory. Settled on a little hill-top, surrounded by the local old and worn mountains, divinely bucolic by day and vibrant with life and living by night, Mr. G’s welcomed us all, all of us who came to it as pilgrims travel long and far to a remote place on Earth, to purge torn and weary souls, and bask in a divinity of kindred spirits, to commune with one-another and with one’s self. We were “welcome” and “welcomed” there, for who we honestly were and who we dreamed we could or might be. As it lived, and we lived, the main house, the stone house, the bungalows, the ever-cold, spring-fed swimming pool at the end of the wood-land path, the buildings and the very earth it all rested upon pulsed with solid heart-beats, embraced by anticipation, joys and even sorrows of Life itself. When the music from with-in the main house went still, the rhythms, beats, melodies and lyrics continued, in the breezes that blew across the tall grasses and through the old trees. Songs that made the spirit dance and those that comforted the weary souls. Comfort, and even in the heaviest of times, the consolation of others, all together with one simple, basic purpose: a unity that spanned the entire universe, to support one another, when-ever and how-ever was necessary and possible. In sickness, good health, rejoicing and mourning, in times of concurrence and times of disagreement, the commonality of one and all, drinking, dancing, sharing meals and time created more of a “family” amongst familiar faces and strangers than many, if not most, had, even in their own houses and homes. It was a place of shelter, of togetherness. It was a place of protection, from the elements of living, from the elements of existence, from the elements of Life. It was a place of nourishment of body, mind and soul, and it was a place of rejuvenation, often at the end of a week of anxiety, uncertainty, and shrouds of oppression and pretense. There was an un-seen and un-seeable energy in and of the place that penetrated deep into the core of being that lent assurance and the ability, the right, to “be”, to breathe free and freely. If ever a place could be truly called “Home”… this was it. In the buildings and all around the grounds, we, who gathered, were allowed to shed inhibitions, to open hearts and minds. We were as diverse as the global population itself, a microcosm of all of Creation. We were proud and humble, rich and poor, troubled and trouble-free. We were tall, short, Black, White, men, women, local and from a-far. We came from farms, cities large and small, towns, villages and solitary houses out in the most rural of landscapes. We were different, similar and same all at once. We fell into and out of like, lust and LOVE! And together we celebrated the joys and mourned the sorrows as we all healed… one-anther, each-other, together. And.. we danced! And HOW we danced! With steps that had names and others that were more improv expressions of mind, body, soul, spirit! We… DANCED! Some danced in celebration, of something, anything, nothing and everything. Others danced with memories of people, places, events. There were those who danced in joy, and those who danced in sadness. Finger-popping, bangle jangling, singing, whistling, or simply caught up in the rapture of song. “1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8” “You better think… Think bout It” and remember that “Everybody Plays the Fool… sometimes”. So you just “Get On The Good Foot”, because “I’ll Be Around”, “You’re The First, The Last, My Everything”. We’ve all got a “Mighty Love”, a “One Of A Kind Love Affair”. And if you find that “Smiling Faces Sometimes… pretend to be your friend” and the world can have more than a fair share of “Back Stabbers”, and you ask yourself “Where Is The Love?” it’s all really quite clear and simple: It’s “Too Late To Turn Back Now”, because “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” I said “If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna Be Right”. So “Let’s Stay Together” because “I Wanna Be Were You Are”, we’ll start a “Love Train” and “Until You Come Back To Me”… “I’m Still In Love With You”. That’s the “Law Of The Land”. Directly or indirectly, consciously and unconsciously, we believed, thought, hoped and probably prayed that G’s would never end, would be there for us through all the years that lay ahead of us. For some, the years were many, and for some the years numbered shorter. But even facing realities, kind and harsh, some little place in our hearts held some crazy little belief that the music might change, the faces and names might change, the buildings and such might change… but they’d change… and always be where they were, on those nights when we arrived, on those mornings when we left and that they’d stay, right there, on Roundhill, waiting for us to return. It was an exhilarating and comforting feeling, turning off the main road (Route 208) and onto that old, worn, often pot-holed dirt road. You had to know where it was because there were no bright lights illuminating what always seemed to be a weather-worn sign at the road-side, barely visible and almost un-noticeable. Driving along in the darkness of an evening, through the woods, as it were, it felt as if the cares of the rest of the world were being brushed away, inadmissible at the "Main House". At the end of that course were "good people", old Friends and kind strangers. From sojourners to staff, and, in particular, "George", the proprietor, the man who made it all possible, every-one was "Family" and George was our most benevolent patriarch. Celebrities at The Lodge: Now, to some, Mr. G's might seem, all too simply, just another remote and perhaps obscure "resort', one of any of the region in a period of so many more famous and well-known resorts. And perhaps, in its own right, it likely was. Advertising was limited to very few publications, and surely, the residents of the area kept it one of their "better-kept secrets" for any variety of reasons. But that very well might have been the attraction to some of the well-known and popular "celebs" who graced the place with their presence. Amongst the locals and sojourners from a-far, it was never unusual so spy a currently-popular character from any one of the many "soap operas" of television fame, or a, perhaps, "relatively" well-known performer. Mr. G's was located a mere hour's drive, south, from Woodstock, NY, with their "Summer Theatre" groups and performances that attracted many actors, actresses, artists and all fashion of performers. "Summer Stock", as it was known, provided both respite from the stringent professional routines and yet, an opportunity to keep one's "trade" sharp. But Woodstock being so well-known, attracted the "paparazzi" and press of the day as well, and "escape" was almost futile. Like-wise, there were the "star-struck" who would tend to gather and flock around their "idol(s)" there. (Many of them, "guests", "visitors" and "vacationers" to the area... the "locals" were, for the most part, accustomed to the "presence" of "stars".) 45 minutes to the west of Mr. G's, in the "Heart of the Catsksill Mountains"... Monticello NY hosted the more popular, larger, older and well-established resorts. "The Borscht Belt" crowd gathered and with them, more of the world-wide known talents, some of whom simply needed a place to unwind and enjoy "life" as "one of the people". Mr. G's, with the assorted and comparatively smaller number of "clientele" (many of whom actually respected the rights of one and all to a peaceful and enjoyable stay) offered an escape.As the years have passed, so many of the names of those who stayed in the rooms, danced on the old dance-floor, offered impromptu, momentary "shows" and simply milled about with the rest of us have vanished from my memory. And because neither they nor we made much of their presence, all were "just part of the family". Two people I DO recall today, particularly because of their "contributions" to "The Lodge" are "Brenda", whose family name I never did come to know and "Pat Rainey". Brenda was a child-hood friend of Diana Ross. But at Mr. G's, Brenda was guest, sojourner, part of the family. She and Diana had grown up together so there was a potential for some "celebrity". You never would have known or guessed, had you not had the delightful opportunity to simply chat with her. No pretense. Just another member of the "group".
But my dearest memory of someone who, in her time, was an actual, well-known success (though, with a poignant history) was Pat Rainey.
Pat was a singer and actress, worked at the "Zanzibar Night Club" (New York City, 1940s, "Home of Cab Calloway"), she'd appeared in many other clubs and in the films "Reet, Petite, and Gone" (1947) and "The Dreamer" (1948), and recorded "Gotta Love You 'Til I Die" in 1949 which was lauded as "the hottest record of the year" (and competed with the "B" side of the same record "Headin' For A Heartache"). In 1955, she was rumoured to be romantically involved with "Farouk", the former king of Egypt. (And I DO remember her having made a passing remark , in one conversation, to that, but she didn't make a point of it and our evening moved right along... as all evenings at Mr. G's did.) After some tribulations, she'd closed her career (1961) and removed into seclusion and "obscurity", as recorded in some accounts of her life, where she stayed until her death in 1998 at age 72. Reports were that she was employed as a social worker. It was Pat Rainey who, on the evening in October (1973), when I walked into Mr. G's after a brutal altercation, with cuts and bruises, took me aside and with a warm embrace, told me that everything would be alright. It was Pat Rainey who, to the best of my knowledge, approached George and arranged for my sage haven at The Lodge until time had passed and I was able to move on and along in safety. We had spoken many times prior to that evening. Pat was very much a part of Mr. G's, always one to greet and talk with every-one, she waited tables, brought drinks, kept the place tidy, and appeared to be "just part of the staff". She was kind, loving, caring, would sing with many of the records played on the juke-box and after closing, would sing as she cleaned the place up. Pat Rainey was, for all of us, a Friend, Companion, a "peer". We were all "guests" and, simultaneously, "Family" at Mr. G's. Pat made that fact all the more obvious. (I will, forever, remember how she SO enjoyed dancing to the song "Love Rain" by the O'Jays. The kind smile on her face as she moved with the beat and sang with the lyrics. And to think, I had NO idea about her history... She was a most beautiful person, a magnificent heart... and soul.) Historical Significance It was the early 1970s, the "Stonewall Up-rising" was still very fresh and new and there was a "global" political movement with-in the homosexual population striving for what was then, a "normalisation", an "integration", as it were, into the rest of society. "Activist groups" were being formed or being brought into the public view. The "Mattachine Society", "Gay Liberation Front", "Gay Activists Alliance" were just a few of the many splinter groups, large and small, mentioned and covered in the media. (At the time, the primary goal was simply to be acknowledged as an integral, productive part of society-as-a-whole, to dispel and eliminate the common negative stereo-types. Housing, employment, owner-ship of business, much was forbidden or even illegal at the time.) As the established groups came to the fore-front, in a remote "resort" on an obscure hill, in a village not particularly note-worthy, 2 young men got together in the "formal dining room" at Mr G's and conceptualised the notion of the "GAOC"... the "Gay Alliance of Orange County" New York. Mr. G's because the heart of the organisation, with the support of George who allowed for meetings and such. Galas were held at Mr. G's to help with fund-raising. Though the "GAOC" eventually became integrated into the larger organisations over time, as did many of the smaller factions, the "GAOC" inspired surrounding counties to gather individually and unify. Mr. G's was the epicentre for Orange, Sullivan, Dutchess, and Ulster counties. Because of the ambience and atmosphere of The Lodge, and diversity of guests, it served to bring people of all walks of life together where open conversations could take place, safely, respectfully. If anything can be said, it is that Mr. G's served as one of the very earliest "bridges" between the "gay and straight" populations of multiple counties in NY state... some of which were quite rural and other-wise "conservative". "In those days", to goal was "unity" of one and all, to simply "live together" regardless of mate. It was the antithesis of today's drive to "separate" under a veritable plethora of acronyms and in a whirl-wind of violence. We, at The Lodge, congregated with respect for one-another and that sense of camaraderie extended to the general politics of each and all. 1974 11:30pm: Sunday, 20 January 1974 Today, as I still vividly recall and type this, what truly was “an era”, a time of joy for a great many, disappeared in a red-orange glow against a deep indigo-grey sky. Today, I don’t suppose there really would have been any “hope” for the old place, considering its age at the time already. And yes, I do suppose that it rather did call out for some repairs and the likes. But one thing that sticks in my own aging mind is the report that, as it burned, back up there on the hill, the “kind” folks of Washingtonville, NY gathered together, in spite of the dark and cold, massed together at the dirt-road entrance to the grounds, and blocked the fire responders from getting there in time to save even a bit of the old place. “Kind”… The people of a quiet, bucolic, gentle little Orange county NY, rural village. To them, it made no difference whether or not anybody was in the building. To them, it wasn’t important that somebody’s financial investment, never mind, emotional investment, was being destroyed. To the kind and gentle, happy little folk of Washingtonville, the moments of happiness the place provided for others was insignificant. Never mind the refuge, sanctuary and safety it, the place, and its owner gave to so very many who truly needed such a place, back then. There was food in the kitchen, drinks at the bar, music on the juke-box and acres of “secrets”, of romance, hardships, some drama, and a lot of true, real and honest “love”. The food was turned to ash, the drinks, to empty, broken, charred glass. And as the glowing orange sparks danced into the darkness of the night, the juke-box and its music went silent, lights went out, the 45’s melted and cremated. The grand old front porch crumbled and lay in a bed of glowing embers and cinders. And souls of the living, rose into the Heavens, there, and around the Earth as dreams and memories vanished with the news. We became “Mr. G’s Roundhill Lodge in exile”… in an eternal diaspora. After that October evening of note above, I moved away from the environs of Mr. G's, off to new adventures, and, as my dearest mother succinctly pointed out, “100,2 miles from door to door” from my child-hood "home". But on Saturday, the 26th of January, 1974, I’d returned for a visit. The details of the travel are gone to the deep recesses of my aged and aging mind, but there is one memory that remains clear, and one wound that remains open and sore even today, these many years later: It had been a usual January sort of day, weather-wise, with normal Winter weather in the Hudson Valley, a bit on the grey and drizzly side. That night was cooler and rainy. (Yes, I DO remember.) That evening I was looking very much forward to having dinner with my Mum, then relaxing for a bit and then… as was almost common-place and routine when I lived at home, heading out and onto the roads to Mr. G’s for a Saturday night with Friends. I hadn’t been in quite the while and the matter, as usual, hadn’t been discussed at all previously. So I went about the business of having a shower and changing my clothes. As I got back into the kitchen, almost ready to head out, and by this point it was well passed 9:00pm, my Mother, standing at the kitchen sink asked, “Where are you going?” A bit taken by surprise by her enquiry, believing and taking for granted that she knew where I’d spent so many Saturday nights before and that tonight, she’d know where I was heading, I simply, respectfully replied, “To G’s of course.” “No you’re not.” she said, calmly and not at all confrontationally. “And why not?” I asked.
With-out a spoken word, she walked into the living-room and returned with the local news-paper which she placed onto the kitchen table, front page face up. I recall, so vividly, glancing at the page, seeing a black and white photo of firemen standing in front of a smouldering building which meant nothing to me at the moment. My Mother turned away and went back to her chores at the sink as I looked closer… at the caption under the photo, centre-page. It read: In the same state of non-belief that one might experience upon receiving news of the death of a loved one, I turned to page 5A as calmly as I possibly could. On page 5A was a brief account of some minor injuries of attending fire-men and the passing mention that the fire department in Washingtonville, along with those of several surrounding towns, took 12 hours to extinguish the blaze. All through that week she’d known. But she didn’t have it in her heart to tell me. She said she didn’t know how to tell me. Even as we’d chatted through the day, she’d known, but couldn’t find it in her heart to say. For so long, she’d known what that place had been to me, what it meant to me, and, in many ways, how it saved my life, even to the few weeks before I’d left home and moved so far away. She knew, she understood and she anticipated the crushing devastation that the news would inflict. Even as she placed the paper on the table, words failed. Mothers know. Mine knew me. To be quite honest, I don’t, to this day, remember what the rest of that cold, wet night brought. But in the days that followed, telephone calls confirmed the article. Nobody, it seemed, knew exactly what had caused the fire. There were rumours of arguments between George, the owner, and a guest who set the blaze in retaliation. There were rumours of disgruntled hired staff having set the fire in a fit of maddened revenge. But the one story that never made the news, but had been confirmed by eye witnesses that night was that yes, indeed, as the fire consumed the Main House, set back off the main road, away from the nearest village of Washingtonville, the residents, never pleased about the Lodge’s presence, turned-out, on that cold, Winter, January night, at 11:30pm, and with their vehicles and persons, created a barricade across the only entrance to the dirt road that led up to the place, detaining for as long as they possibly could, the responding fire companies, essentially prohibiting them from promptly attending the fire. The years have passed, as years do, and as I type this "memoir", as has been all through each and every day, month and year prior, I can still close my eyes, and in the darkness behind shuttered lids, in my mind, my heart and my soul I can travel back to the gravel parking area, in front of the old plantation-like main house. I can hear the juke-box playing from inside and thorough the main door in the centre of the large front porch that spanned the entire length of the house, I can hear the voices of some who sang with the tunes recorded on the 7-inch vinyl platters, and with the same joyful anticipation I had back then, I climb the old wooden stairs, walk into the main foyer, see the people wandering about, talking, laughing, some holding a drink. I can still smell the various colognes and hear, over the music coming from the rear room to the right, conversations and laughter. The room, with it’s black floor, small, round tables round the perimeter, juke-box against the wall to the right as I enter, and people, dancing… And HOW they dance! Many of them are now “gone”. I always wonder how many are still around, still alive. I always wonder how many of them still remember. And I do suppose, I always will. I like to think of those who’ve “left” as having gone back to G’s, some-where up in the vast and endless night skies, to where the music still plays, the vignettes of Life continue, and they all still dance… and HOW they dance! And as for George, the owner of Mr. G’s Round Hill Lodge? Well, as "Time", in its apathy, will do, along with so very many of those of us "of The Lodge", I can guarantee he remains and will be, safe, sound, respected and much Loved… in my heart, where he’ll stay until I too am blessed with the ability to return, to travel up that dark old dirt road, through the woods, over the brook, past the spring-fed chilly pool, to the gravel lot at the foot of the old wooden stairs where again, I’ll climb up to the front door, and with the same joyful anticipation of then, walk through the foyer and in to that room in the back… and hopefully, Pat Rainey too, will be there, very much a part of the heart and soul of the throng, perhaps dancing as she did, spirit high and mighty. AND HOW I’LL DANCE AGAIN in the company of the very BEST people any one of us could hope to become acquainted with, ever, in our life-times! My memories are likely not those of others, though mine are shared with others. And our memories will fade over the course of time and over that course of time, they will vanish as we vanish, but here, the story, the history of a place so very near, dear and special to people from around this old planet we call "Earth", "Mr. G's Round Hill Lodge" will live on, "digitally", as bits and bytes of "data" on some computer some-where, but available to SO VERY MANY MORE than we, in the 1970s could even imagine. And I? Well, I will be eternally grateful for the blessing that was being part of an era, and to those who made it possible for me, today, to create this web-site... and remember.
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1930: Round Hill, Braggs Cove, Mountain Lodge & entrance road indicated