The Cash on the Desk
In the autumn of 1907, as the stock market hemorrhaged nearly half its value in three weeks and the Knickerbocker
Trust Company's depositors formed a line that stretched around the block, as the Ice King and the copper magnate watched their scheme to corner United Copper dissolve into cascading defaults, as the gross national product of the United States prepared to crater twelve percent and the very architecture of American finance trembled on the edge of medieval collapse — J. Pierpont Morgan summoned the brightest minds on Wall Street to his private library on Madison Avenue to decide whether the country would have a banking system come Monday morning. He invited exactly one woman.
She arrived, as she always arrived everywhere, in a shabby black dress of indeterminate vintage, her effects reportedly carried in a cloth drawstring bag. She had predicted the whole thing. "I saw this situation coming," Hetty Green later told the New York Tribune. "Some of the solidest men of the Street came to me and wanted to unload all sorts of things, from palatial residences to automobiles." She had given the New York Central Railroad a "big loan" and that had made her "sit up and do some thinking." So she had begun, quietly and methodically, calling in her money, gathering cash — more cash than most banks held in their vaults, more cash than some small nations could lay hands on. "When the crash came I had money, and I was one of the very few who really had it. The others had their 'securities' and their 'values.' I had the cash and they had to come to me."
They came to her in droves. They always did. And the spectacle of their coming — of titans and institutions and the city of New York itself arriving hat in hand before a woman in a worn-out dress who worked from a borrowed desk at Chemical Bank, who heated her oatmeal on the office radiator, who sometimes claimed to be indigent in order to obtain free medical care — is the central paradox of Hetty Green's life, the image from which everything else radiates outward. She was, by the time of her death in 1916, worth somewhere between $100 million and $200 million — the equivalent of roughly $2.5 billion to $5 billion today. J. Pierpont Morgan, whose name adorns the largest bank in the Western world, died in 1913 worth $80 million. Hetty Green had no bank. She had no partners, no board of directors, no staff beyond her own two children. She ran the entire empire — railroads, real estate, government bonds, mines, mortgages spanning New York to Chicago to San Francisco — from a desk that wasn't even hers.
The New York Times, in its front-page obituary, called her "one of the most amazing characters, man or woman, that this country has produced." The Guinness Book of World Records called her the world's greatest miser. Both designations contain a portion of the truth, which is to say, neither one is adequate.
By the Numbers
The Hetty Green Fortune
$100–200MEstimated net worth at death in 1916
$2.5–5BApproximate value in 2024 dollars
36thRanking on list of wealthiest Americans ever (only woman in top 100)
$80MJ.P. Morgan's net worth at death in 1913
$1M+Loans made to New York City during fiscal crises
171Whaling expeditions sponsored by family firm Isaac Howland Jr.
51 yearsDuration of her active investing career (1865–1916)
The Rancid Smell of Money
Before people learned how to get oil out of the ground, they got it out of whales. The business of killing leviathans to light the lamps of civilization was, in the decades before the Civil War, one of the most lucrative growth industries in America — the value of total production rising more than a thousand percent between 1815 and 1859. It was also one of the most dangerous. Between 1820 and 1860, eighty-eight whaling-ship captains out of a single port died at sea. Three were killed by Pacific Islanders. Ten were killed by whales. One, a Captain John Fisher, was last seen holding fast to the side of a whale, like Ahab. But the profit from a successful voyage could return investors an annual average of nearly fifteen percent, and half of all American whalers listed New Bedford, Massachusetts, as their home port.
Two characteristics distinguished the principals who ran these New Bedford whaling firms: they were mostly Quakers, and they tended to intermarry. Quakerism conduced to thrift. Intermarriage conduced to accumulation. The consequence was that by the 1850s, New Bedford was the wealthiest community per capita in Massachusetts and one of the wealthiest in the United States. When Herman Melville arrived at its wharves in 1841, searching for work on the sloop that would inspire Moby-Dick, he found a town perfumed by the rancid smell of whale oil — the smell, really, of concentrated wealth.
And the wealthiest whaling agency in New Bedford was Isaac Howland Jr. Isaac Howland — a man who, history has found it important to record, weighed less than a hundred pounds — opened his agency in 1817, at the start of the whale-oil boom. He took in partners: his son-in-law Gideon Howland (such was the degree of intermarriage that the son-in-law bore the same surname), a local businessman named Thomas Mandell, and eventually a Quaker from Rhode Island named Edward Mott Robinson. Robinson entered the trade in the customary manner. He married Isaac Howland's granddaughter, Abby. In 1834, Edward and Abby Robinson had a daughter. They named her Henrietta. They called her Hetty.
Edward Robinson had wanted a son. A boy was born, briefly — and died in infancy. The loss broke something in the household. Abby retreated into depression and chronic illness. Edward, enraged by the absence of a male heir, threw himself into work. By the time Hetty was two years old, her parents had shipped her off to live with her grandfather Gideon Howland and her aunt Sylvia Ann Howland, a woman afflicted with spinal problems who was carried through the streets of New Bedford on a litter. This was the emotional ecosystem in which America's richest woman was incubated: an unwanted daughter, farmed out to relatives, raised among men who communicated affection in the language of ledgers and dividends.
Hetty learned that language early. By the age of six, she was reading the daily financial papers aloud to her grandfather, whose eyesight was failing. By eight, she had opened her first savings account with nickels collected from her weekly allowance. By thirteen, she was the family's bookkeeper. She accompanied her father on his rounds of the wharves, warehouses, and counting houses, absorbing the rhythms of commercial life — the inspection of ships, the negotiation with captains, the cold arithmetic of risk and return. "I was taught from the time I was six years old," she later said, "that I would have to look after my property."
On Hetty's twentieth birthday, her father bought her a wardrobe of expensive, fashionable dresses — the standard investment in a daughter's marriage prospects. She sold the dresses and bought government bonds.
The Forged Page
The Howland partners got out of the whaling business at exactly the right moment. Between 1860 and 1865, industry revenues fell by nearly fifty percent — Confederates captured or sank forty-six Northern whaling ships, the Union government bought forty more and scuttled them outside Charleston and Savannah in a failed blockade attempt, and Edwin Drake's oil well in Titusville, Pennsylvania, in 1859, had begun to make whale oil obsolete. In forty-five years, the firm of Isaac Howland Jr. had sponsored 171 whaling expeditions, more than almost any other agency in the nineteenth century. Then it was over. After 1865, the whaling industry was kept alive only by the continuing demand for whalebone, which was used in the manufacture of corsets. It is poignant to think of sailors risking their lives in the extremely messy and dangerous business of killing whales just to keep the world in a decent supply of affordable corsets. In 1906, the invention of cheaper flexible steel hoops collapsed the whalebone market and with it the last remnant of the American whaling industry.
Edward Robinson died on June 14, 1865, leaving an estate worth almost $6 million. Less than three weeks later, his former partner Sylvia Ann Howland — who had never married, who was said to have been the richest person in New Bedford — died at fifty-nine, leaving an estate of $2,145,029. Their deaths left a single heir-at-law to the entire Howland fortune: Hetty Robinson, age thirty.
She was not satisfied. Her father had left her about $900,000 outright plus the income from the remaining $5 million in trust. Sylvia Ann's will placed roughly half her money in bequests and the other half, $1,132,929, in trust — with Hetty receiving only the income during her lifetime, and the principal reverting after her death to the lineal descendants of Gideon Howland. Hetty was therefore left with nearly a million dollars of her own, plus the income for life on some $6 million more. By any measure, she was wealthy. By her measure, she had been cheated.
In December 1865, she sued. She filed a bill of complaint in federal court against the executor and trustees of her aunt's estate, claiming the existence of an earlier will — one dated January 11, 1862 — according to which the entire estate, minus $100,000 in unspecified bequests, should go to her outright. She produced a copy of this earlier will, signed by Sylvia Ann Howland and three witnesses. She also produced two copies of an additional document, signed only by Sylvia Ann, which revoked "all wills made by me before or after this one." This document became known as the "Second page."
What followed was one of the strangest trials in nineteenth-century American jurisprudence. An impressive parade of legal talent was enlisted — a former congressman, a retired justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court, Benjamin R. Curtis (who had resigned from the United States Supreme Court in disgust over the Dred Scott decision). The judge was a former governor of Massachusetts. The trial turned into an extended battle over a single piece of evidence: whether the signatures on the "Second page" had been forged.
No expense was spared. Chemists analyzed the ink. Engravers evaluated the handwriting. The presidents of commercial colleges offered opinions. Bankers were brought in from Boston and New York. For the defense, a pioneer of American photography named Albert Sands Southworth testified, as did the person who had inscribed the Emancipation Proclamation. For the plaintiff, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. — scientist, physician, dean of the Harvard Medical School, remembered today mainly as the author of "Old Ironsides" — testified that under a microscope the signatures showed no evidence of tracing. His colleague Louis Agassiz, the Swiss naturalist who had discovered the Ice Age and who had just returned from an eighteen-month expedition to Brazil undertaken in order to disprove Charles Darwin, treated the lawyers to a disquisition on the microscopic interactions of ink and paper fiber.
So vast an improbability is practically an impossibility. Such evanescent shadows of probability cannot belong to actual life. They are unimaginably less than those least things which the law cares not for.
But the estate's most devastating witness was Benjamin Peirce, the Perkins Professor of Astronomy and Mathematics at Harvard — the first internationally recognized mathematician the United States had produced, a man of cultivated wizardliness who wore his iron-gray hair long and whose obscurity was legendary. ("Do you follow me?" he once asked an advanced class. No one did. "I'm not surprised. I know of only three persons who could.") He brought his son Charles Sanders Peirce — twenty-eight years old, already an accomplished mathematician and logician, the future inventor of the philosophical term "pragmatism," a man who could reportedly write with both hands simultaneously, a problem with the right and its solution with the left, and also a philanderer, an opium addict, and an impossible colleague who would die in poverty. Together, father and son devised an ingenious solution. They identified thirty places in Sylvia Ann Howland's signature where she made a downstroke with her pen, collected forty-two of her signatures, enlarged and printed them on oiled paper, and then Charles superimposed each signature on the other forty-one, tabulating 25,830 individual comparisons. The probability of all thirty downstrokes coinciding by chance, Benjamin Peirce announced to the court, was one in 2,666,000,000,000,000,000,000 — "or once in two thousand six hundred and sixty-six millions of millions of millions of times."
Hetty's lawyers called it "mathematical voodoo." The public didn't like the idea that something humanly possible could be declared statistically inconceivable. But it was among the first applications of probability theory to legal evidence in history.
In the end, it didn't matter. The Circuit Court threw the case out on a technicality — Hetty had testified on her own behalf in violation of a federal statute. The question of forgery was never formally resolved. By 1867, while the trial was still grinding on, Hetty had married Edward Henry Green, a wealthy Vermont businessman who'd made his money trading silk and tea in East Asia — and had moved to London, where she and her husband lived for eight years, perhaps to put some distance between herself and the shadow of a criminal-fraud charge.
The Prenuptial and the Principle
Edward Henry Green was everything Hetty was not: affable, generous, fond of clubs and fine food, a man who tipped lavishly and dressed well. He had spent twenty years in the Philippines trading in silk, tobacco, and tea, and he had accumulated a comfortable fortune of his own. He was fourteen years older than Hetty, an easygoing Episcopalian where she was a hard-edged Quaker, and the only thing they clearly shared was a fascination with money — though they expressed it in opposite ways.
Before the wedding, Hetty required Edward to sign a prenuptial agreement. This was not merely unusual for 1867; it was almost unheard of. Under the legal doctrine of coverture then in force, a husband assumed all of his wife's rights and property upon marriage. Hetty's father and grandfather had spent her childhood instilling the principle that she must manage her own finances and never depend on anyone else. The prenup absolved her of responsibility for Edward's debts and kept their fortunes entirely separate. It was, in its way, the single most prophetic financial decision of her life.
In London, between 1867 and 1874, they had two children: a son, Edward Howland Robinson Green — called Ned — born in 1868, and a daughter, Sylvia Ann Howland Green, born in 1871. During this period of relative domesticity, Hetty invested in U.S. government bonds and railroad stocks, building what would become the foundation of her empire. She established a lifelong principle: never borrow. Never use another person's money. Never take on a partner.
When the Greens returned to New York in 1874, the marriage began its long, slow deterioration. Edward was a spender. Hetty was — well, Hetty. She bailed him out of risky speculations more than once. In 1885, when Edward finally went bankrupt, she refused to pay his debts. They separated. She packed her bags, took the children, and marched down to Wall Street to make up the loss. They remained on civil terms — she even reestablished a cordial relationship with him before his death in 1902 — but the essential lesson was clear. Trust yourself. Trust no one else. Especially not with your money.
A Desk at Chemical Bank
The image is too good not to linger on. Each morning for decades, Hetty Green — worth tens of millions, then hundreds of millions of dollars — commuted from a cheap apartment in Hoboken, New Jersey, or Brooklyn, New York, to the offices of Chemical Bank near Wall Street. She did not rent office space. She sat at a desk in the back of the bank, pouring over her holdings, reading newspapers, issuing orders, collecting rents, calling in loans, buying and selling railroads. She heated her lunch — reportedly oatmeal, or crackers, or dry toast — on the office radiator. She wore the same black dress until it disintegrated and was replaced by another. Her clothes, she explained, reflected her Quaker heritage. "Let them wear ostrich feathers on their heads if they want to; that's their responsibility, not mine."
She moved from cheap apartment to cheap apartment — Hoboken, Brooklyn, various addresses in Manhattan — never establishing legal residency long enough to trigger tax obligations. She traveled alone by train, sometimes carrying important documents strapped to her body. She carried a gun. She used salty language picked up on the New Bedford docks. She smoked cheap cigars with reporters. She walked blocks to buy broken cookies in bulk. She once reportedly spent hours looking for a two-cent stamp.
How much of this was genuine eccentricity, how much Quaker austerity, and how much calculated disguise is one of the genuinely unanswerable questions of her biography. She believed — perhaps not unreasonably — that both her father and her aunt had been poisoned and that she herself was in danger of assassination. She avoided ostentation in part so that she would not be recognized and preyed upon. As her son Ned later explained: "Mother held herself aloof because there was nothing else she could do in her position. When it becomes known that a person has money to lend, you have no idea of the requests that come for it."
But the frugality was real, and its consequences were sometimes cruel. The most notorious story — the details of which Hetty disputed — concerned Ned's leg. As a boy, he injured his knee in a sledding accident. Hetty sought treatment at a free clinic, disguising herself and her son in shabby clothes to qualify as charity patients. When doctors recognized her, she reportedly took the boy away rather than pay the premium charged to wealthy patients. Years passed. The leg worsened. Whether from the original injury or from a subsequent one, the leg eventually required amputation. Ned wore a cork prosthetic for the rest of his life.
The full truth is likely more complicated. Multiple accounts suggest Hetty spent years consulting doctors, trying home remedies, even temporarily relocating to Baltimore to be near specialists. She carried Ned through the streets when he couldn't walk. The charge of neglect was based on one incident, taken out of context, and amplified by a press that found the spectacle of a rich woman behaving like a poor one to be irresistible copy. "If a man had lived as did Hetty Green," the New York Times reflected in 1916, "nobody would have seen him as very peculiar. It was the fact that Mrs. Green was a woman that made her career the subject of endless curiosity, comment, and astonishment."
Buy When They're Crying, Sell When They're Laughing
Hetty Green did not get rich by saving. She got rich by investing. The Guinness Book omits this distinction, and the omission reveals more about how the world received her than about how she actually operated.
Her first major play was U.S. government bonds. In the years immediately following the Civil War, bonds issued to finance the conflict were trading at as little as forty cents on the dollar — the market was betting that a shattered nation could never repay its war debt. Hetty bet the other way. She knew the country's vast natural resources, its expanding railroad network, its restless commercial energy would guarantee the bonds. She bought aggressively between 1865 and 1867. When the government made good on its obligations, she made a fortune.
I buy when things are low and nobody wants them. I keep them until they go up and people are crazy to get them. That is, I believe, the secret of all successful business.
This was not wisdom she arrived at through academic study. It was behavioral instinct, honed from childhood reading of financial papers, refined through decades of watching men panic and overpay and lever themselves into oblivion. She was practicing value investing — buying undervalued assets, holding patiently, selling when prices recovered — more than half a century before Benjamin Graham formalized the theory in his 1949 book
The Intelligent Investor, and nearly a century before
Warren Buffett made the same principles famous.
Her holdings eventually spanned the continent. Railroads: she purchased a fifty-eight-mile section of the Houston and Texas Central Railway in 1892, consolidated it with other Texas track into the Texas Midland Railroad, and installed Ned as president. Real estate: she owned Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, office buildings in downtown Chicago's Loop, entire blocks in St. Louis and New York. Mines: gold, copper, and iron out West, plus a gold mine called the Eureka in Sutter Creek, California, which her husband had acquired thirty years earlier. Mortgages: she was a prolific lender, never charging excessive interest but also unafraid to foreclose when payments stopped.
And always — always — cash. Massive, liquid, immediately available cash. This was the cornerstone of her strategy and the source of her power. While other investors leveraged themselves to the hilt during booms, Hetty kept millions in conservative instruments and physical currency. When the boom turned to bust — and it always did, in 1873, in 1893, in 1907 — she was the one person in the room who could actually write a check.
"Before deciding on an investment, I seek out every kind of information about it," she told reporters. "There is no secret in fortune making. All you have to do is buy cheap and sell dear, act with thrift and shrewdness and be persistent." It sounds banal. It is banal. It is also, as every honest practitioner of finance will admit, almost impossibly difficult to execute with discipline across fifty years and multiple panics.
The Only Woman in the Library
The Panic of 1907 was the defining test. F. Augustus Heinze, a copper magnate, and Charles Morse, the so-called "Ice King" who had cornered the market in literal ice, attempted to artificially inflate the stock price of United Copper. The scheme collapsed. Their defaults cascaded through a banking system that held almost no reserves. The Knickerbocker Trust failed. Bank runs spread across the country. Over three weeks beginning October 22, 1907, the New York Stock Exchange plummeted nearly fifty percent from its 1906 peak.
Morgan convened his crisis meeting in his palatial library — the same library where, today, tourists admire Renaissance manuscripts. The guest list was a roll call of Gilded Age finance. Hetty Green was the only woman present. She was there because she had what no one else had: cash. And because she had predicted the whole thing.
She had watched the signs accumulate. The solidest men on the Street coming to her to unload assets. The New York Central Railroad quietly requesting a loan. She had begun calling in her money, hoarding liquidity, positioning herself for the moment when panic would transform her cash from a sterile asset into the most powerful weapon on Wall Street.
She lent freely during the crisis — to investors, to businesses, to the city of New York itself. "More than once she bailed New York City out of a pinch," one biographer noted. "It is staggering to think of a major city coming to a single person, hat in hand, but such was the scope of Hetty's fortune." The problems were so severe that they ultimately spurred the establishment of the Federal Reserve System. Before there was a central bank, there was, in some practical sense, Hetty Green.
The Bullet Through Your Heart
She was not meek.
Her confrontation with Collis P. Huntington — the railroad baron who built the Central Pacific, a man of legendary ruthlessness — is the story her admirers love best. In 1892, Hetty had sent Ned to Waco, Texas, to bid on a fifty-eight-mile section of the Houston and Texas Central Railway running from Bremond to Ross. Ned outbid Huntington's agent and purchased the line, which came with more than 250,000 acres of land and a franchise to extend the track north to the Red River. Huntington was furious. He had been outmaneuvered by a woman and her twenty-four-year-old son.
The feud escalated. In 1895, Huntington got the property back through litigation. But the personal battles continued, and when Huntington reportedly threatened harm to Ned over a subsequent railroad dispute, Hetty's response entered the annals of Gilded Age legend:
Up to now Huntington, you have dealt with Hetty Green the business woman. Now you are fighting Hetty Green the mother. Harm one hair of Ned's head, and I'll put a bullet through your heart.
Huntington — the man who built the transcontinental railroad — called her "nothing more than a glorified pawnbroker." She was both more and less than that. She was a pawnbroker in the sense that she lent money against collateral and collected interest with mechanical rigor. She was more than that in the sense that her holdings ranged from coast to coast, her credit was better than most banks', and her judgment on markets was sought by men who considered themselves her superiors in every way but one.
The Witch and the Question of Gender
The epithet "Witch of Wall Street" attached itself to Hetty Green in the press and never let go. She wore black — not mourning clothes exactly, but the plain dark dress of her Quaker upbringing, which to the sensationalist newspapers of the Gilded Age looked indistinguishable from a widow's weeds or, better yet, a witch's costume. She was sharp-tongued. She was unsmiling. She conducted business in a world where women did not conduct business. She was rich beyond the imagining of people who believed women should not be rich. The nickname was, in every meaningful sense, a punishment for transgression.
The New York Times understood this clearly, even in 1916. "Though something of hardness was ascribed to her, that she harmed any is not recorded, and victims of ruthlessness are usually audible," the paper observed. The cruelties attributed to her male contemporaries — Rockefeller's predatory pricing, Carnegie's labor practices, Morgan's market manipulation — were treated as the inevitable costs of empire building. Hetty's comparable sin was parsimony, which is to say, the refusal to perform wealth in the way that women of her class were expected to perform it.
She did not employ workers at slave wages. She did not steal land from the public or outsmart stockholders or pay off government officials. She did not scheme with Wall Street or speculate with other people's money. "No," she told a reporter, "my formula for success is simple: common sense and hard work." The lack of drama in her methods — the boringness of buying cheap and selling dear, of never borrowing, of keeping cash on hand — made her a poor subject for the narratives of villainy that the press applied to the other titans. And so they called her a witch instead, which was at least colorful.
That she left no public monuments, endowed no libraries, established no foundations whose staff might curate her reputation, has meant that the witch narrative outlived her. Unlike Carnegie, whose libraries are everywhere, or Rockefeller, whose university and medical center and national parks attest to strategic philanthropy, Hetty Green's legacy was her children's to manage. And manage it they did — in their own way.
The Disappearing Fortune
Hetty Green died on July 3, 1916, in New York City, at the home of her son Ned. She was eighty-one. The Times ran the obituary on the front page.
Her estate was not entirely hers to dispose of. The portion of her wealth derived from Sylvia Ann Howland's estate reverted, under the terms of the 1863 will she had failed to overturn, to the lineal descendants of Gideon Howland — who had died in 1823. By 1916, he had 1,478 living descendants. Four hundred and thirty-nine of them were determined to be legitimate heirs.
But the bulk of the fortune — the vast empire she had built from her father's legacy through five decades of disciplined, solitary, brilliantly contrarian investing — was her own. In Quaker fashion, she left it all to her children. Ned married, but by prenuptial agreement his estate, upon his death, reverted to his sister. And Sylvia's married name completed a genealogical circle almost too perfect for fiction: she was Sylvia Ann Howland Robinson Green Wilks. She had no children.
When Sylvia died in 1951, she gave away $100 million — a staggering act of philanthropy that would have astonished and perhaps horrified her mother. The beneficiaries were many. One of them was Wellesley College, whose administration building is named Green Hall. There is no evidence that Hetty Green approved of the gift or ever visited the campus. She would not have approved. She would not have visited. But there it stands — an institutional monument to a woman who spent her life avoiding institutional monuments, named for a fortune that originated in the bloody, dangerous business of killing whales off the coast of a Massachusetts town that no longer remembers what made it rich.
What Claude Shannon Wanted to Know
Here is an odd coda. When Claude Shannon — the mathematician who invented information theory, the man who single-handedly created the intellectual framework for the digital age — wanted to learn about investing, he read books about other investors. One of the people he studied was Hetty Green. The calculus is worth pausing on. Shannon was among the most brilliant minds of the twentieth century. His approach to any problem was to find the person who had solved it most elegantly and reverse-engineer their method. That he chose to study Hetty Green tells us something that the Guinness Book missed entirely.
She was not a miser who happened to get rich. She was a financial genius who happened to be frugal. The frugality — the oatmeal on the radiator, the shabby dress, the Hoboken walk-ups — was not the cause of her wealth. It was a symptom of something deeper: a total, almost pathological commitment to the principle that every dollar had a purpose, and that purpose was not consumption but deployment. Cash was ammunition. Spending was waste.
Compounding was the only magic she believed in.
She died in the same year that the Federal Reserve — an institution created in direct response to the kind of panic she had profited from and helped resolve — began to assume the role of lender of last resort that she had once filled as a private citizen. The world moved on. The age of the individual financier, of the woman sitting at a desk in the back of a bank with more liquidity than most nations, was ending. What replaced it was a system — institutional, regulated, impersonal — that would have been unrecognizable to the girl who opened her first savings account with nickels at the age of eight.
Hetty Green is buried beside her husband in Immanuel Cemetery, on a hill overlooking downtown Bellows Falls, Vermont. For years the grave was unmarked. Her name has since been added to the monument. Not far away, on Route 5 at the town's gateway, a severely dilapidated Hetty Green Motel stood for decades — reviews uncommonly negative, the former owner recently deceased, a tree having crashed through the roof. It has no actual connection to Hetty Green, except as a symbol of her folkloric status in a town that never quite knew what to make of the richest woman in the world living among them in a house without hot water, wearing a dress that was falling apart, carrying a gun in one pocket and a banana in the other.
