By Brian Cudzilo
During a recent visit, my mother-in-law noticed something: “What’s up with all those college-named streets off Park Avenue?” Later, driving around the neighborhood, she asked, “Is Birr Street cold (lol implied)?” Confessing ignorance, I gave her a recent Epitaph to stall for time while I found answers. Momentarily satisfied, she still had questions: “When will there be a grandchild?” Well, Mother-in-Law, the college theme started with Harvard, but not the University. A 1951 Times Union article explains, “Hobart Arnold [Section I, Lot 27] dubbed the street, then a single block from Meigs to Rowley, ‘Harvard’ for his brother-in-law, John Harvard Castle [Range 3, Lot 230].” Other streets then took on college monikers. Birr Street is cold in winter, but was named after Birr, Tipperary, Ireland, the birthplace of Charles J. Burke, who owned the tract through which the street runs.
Thoroughly impressed with my answers to her first two questions, I confessed to stumbling upon a PDF scrapbook of newspaper clippings online through the Rochester Central Library, which contains a series of articles, mostly from 1936 and 1951, that record the origins of more than 50 local street names. Desperate to avoid the third, I offered to drive through the winding, snowy roads of Mount Hope Cemetery and regale her with more street-naming tales.
Less than a half mile from Birr Street is Selye Terrace. Its namesake, Lewis Selye (V, 23), established the Rochester Daily Chronicle newspaper in 1868 after some disagreements with another local Republican newspaper, the Rochester Daily Democrat. The two papers merged in 1870 to form, you may guess, the Democrat and Chronicle. Selye was also involved in the manufacture of fire engines, held many positions in local politics, and was elected to the U.S. Congress in 1867, serving one term. In 1898, as alderman of the 10th Ward, Selye was responsible for the naming of Dewey Avenue to honor Admiral George Dewey’s recent Spanish-American War victory.
Azariah Boody (D, 142) accumulated his fortune in the railroads. In 1851, his home, present-day 474 East Avenue, was one of two buildings on a vast tract that spanned from Alexander to Goodman Street, with nothing to the north. The second building, on the corner of present-day East and Alexander, was William Hall’s saloon—proof that some things never change. That year’s City Directory calls Boody a farmer. We know for certain he had cows, and legend has it those cows so well-fertilized some of his land that it became studded with dandelions.
In 1853, Boody donated eight acres of cow pasture to the recently founded University of Rochester. To accommodate the university, several new roads were laid out. One was an extension of Riley Street, just north of Asylum, named for the “indefatigable temperance reformer” Ashbel Wells Riley (F, 30), which terminated at Alexander. The name was changed to University Avenue. Another, along the west end, was aptly named Boody Street. A 1928 Times-Union article notes that many found the eponymous name “too common.” Ever obliging, Boody agreed to change the name to the regal-sounding Prince Street. Little did those men know the Prince in question was not Albert of England or Alfonso of Spain, but rather Boody’s favorite horse, though some sources claim Prince was actually his favorite dog. As for the UR, it would adopt the dandelion’s yellow as its official color.
Samuel J Andrews (G, 49) of New Haven, Connecticut, lost his fortune when the British captured a fleet of merchant ships he owned during the War of 1812. And so, along with his brother-in-law Moses Atwater, he came to Rochester. Sources conflict on whether the duo already owned the land or purchased it upon arrival, but by late 1812, they owned a tract of more than 120 acres on the east bank of the Genesee River near the falls for only $2,000—a steal even 200 years ago. In 1815, Andrews built the first stone house in Rochester on the corner of present-day Main and St. Paul Streets. Andrews was also involved in building mills and an early bridge leading from the street that today bears his surname.
Perhaps the oldest home still standing in Rochester is at 70 East Blvd, the rear of which was built as a tavern as early as 1805 in what was basically the middle of a wilderness. A major expansion was completed between 1815 18. At the time, the house faced what is now East Avenue in Brighton on a 105-acre plot of land (paid for at $3 per acre in 1800) bounded by the then non-existent streets of Barrington to the east, Hawthorne to the west, and Atlantic to the north.
Its builder was a true frontiersman. At age 19, he traveled here on foot from Vermont before joining a trading company that traveled to the even denser wilderness of present-day Cleveland. He purchased his lot here in 1800, but his wandering ways found him back in Cleveland—and even Detroit—buying, selling, and trading goods. With a healthy savings, he returned in 1805 and commenced building his tavern and clearing his land. During his time in the Rochester area, he operated a sawmill and an ashery, cleared and laid out what would become East Avenue, organized a school where he himself studied with local children, built boats for use on the lake and canal, co-founded St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, was instrumental in establishing Monroe County, and was the first Brighton Town Supervisor —among other exploits. His name was Oliver Culver (C, 55), today remembered by both Culver Road and Oliver Street, the latter between East and University.
Before seeing her off the next day, I divulged a few more “fun facts” to my mother-in-law over breakfast at her favorite diner. Emanon Street, off St. Paul, just north of Norton, is “no name” spelled backwards. According to Arch Merrill, an agreement could not be made on what to call the street. In 1811, Nathaniel Rochester (R, 11) noticed something peculiar about the angle of the road to Pittsford being laid out by Mr. Culver, which was meant to meet the river at a soon-to-be-completed bridge at Main Street. The direction, however, was all wrong—if it followed its current path, it would end up too far north. The road builders were instructed to find a place to turn the road to meet the bridge. That turn was at the present junction of East and Main and explains why—before the extension of the Main Street we know today—Azariah Boody’s home was on Main Street in 1851. Fully sated with eggs, bacon, and factual information, we saw Mother-in-Law off.