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Chapter 4 – Other Childhood Memories

April 19, 2009

I will now go back to my childhood and record events which took place out of my school life. When I was about 8 years old, Father bought a farm across the river from Hise Davis (which is the farm where Ellsworth and Sarah lived for years). The first year we had it, they killed 22 copperhead snakes and 2 black snakes over six feet long, one of them nearly seven. Some snakes!

The spring we bought the farm Father traded for a small roan mare, which we kept for 12 years and raised 7 fine colts. One of these (Midge) I bought from Ellsworth the spring Jennie and I were married and kept her for 7 years. This was the first horse I owned.

I lived a rather strange life as a child, as I had no friends among the children of the neighborhood and played with no one except my brother Delvia and sister Cleo and Uncle Elisha’s children. Elva and Dow came down once or twice a year, and Delvia and I went there as often. This was all the friends we had till I was 15 years old, when we began to play with Buddy and Day Hoff, who lived a half mile below us. This is why it has always been hard for me to make friends. I will mention these friends later.

When I was about six years old, we had diphtheria in a very hard form, and it settled in a sore in my foot. It ate a hole larger than a quarter between my big toe and the one next to it. They could find nothing to help it until a man from Weston came to help Father in the tan shop. He said it was the germs of diphtheria settled there. He had known several cases in Weston, and they had to use diphtheria medicine. This soon cured it up, but there was a scar there larger than a quarter long after I was grown.

A Story of Wolves

I will digress now to tell a story as told to us three children about 70 years ago by Dorinda (I believe her name was). She was Uncle Zibba Davis’ wife. She was then about 65 years old, and she said this happened when she was about 8 years old. It had been a very long, cold winter and the snow had been very deep for weeks.

One Sabbath morning her father hitched the horses to the sled and went to church, leaving the children at home. Two or three were older than she. There was not supposed to be any danger, so the children were not afraid. About noon one of the children said he saw some big dogs out in the yard. When they looked out, they saw a half dozen, a dozen. and then hundreds of great, fierce brutes which the older children knew were wolves.

They had a large dog in the house. One of the wolves stuck his head through a window (which was made of greased paper). The dog sprang upon a bed which sat by the window, grabbed the wolf by the throat before it could get anything but its head inside, and held on until the blood ran down the wolf’s neck and it was still. Then the dog let loose, and the other wolves ate it up. In an hour or two they all disappeared.

When their folks came home, there was no sign of the wolves except that two or three acres of snow was cut all up with wolf tracks. No wolves were seen for years. The old people said that it had been such a hard winter that the wolves could find no food, so they had selected that spot to start their migration.

Hunting and Trapping

I remember my first hunting. Virgil and I were out together (I don’t know why) in the woods below the log cabin on the hill, when Virgil caught a rabbit under a rock. I remember how it squealed. I thought it was a ground hog. He gave it to me, and I sold it at Brake’s store. I was about six years old. This was the beginning of my hunting and trapping.

Hunting and Trapping with Delvia: By the time I was 10 years old, Delvia and I began to hunt and trap together. One day that winter we found a hole where we thought a skunk was denning, so we set a trap. The next morning when we went to the trap something was caught. It had dragged the trap the full length of the chain into the hole, so we could not see what we had caught. As everyone knows, you can have serious trouble with a skunk. To save my clothes I stripped naked and pulled the beggar out. It was a possum. Of course Delvia told what I did, and they laughed at me a great deal. But I got the possum!

We would take the dogs out and hole rabbits. Then we would set a box and catch them that night We could make a lot of money, for we could frequently catch two or three rabbits a month. We got from 5 cents to 10 cents apiece.

By the time I was 14, Delvia and I began to set snares for rabbits. We had fairly good success, and we lost no time as the traps were on our way to school. Once we caught a pheasant (which brought us 25 cents), and we felt rich. I remember one night it rained the fore part of the night and snowed the latter part. When Delvia got to the traps (I did not go that morning), he found two rabbits and a possum. We were rich again, as they were worth 50 cents.

I think I will give one more experience with snares and then drop that subject. The next winter for several mornings we found the snares thrown, the strings cut, and no game. I told Delvia we would get the sinner. So we fixed a solid framework, pulled down a strong pole and prepared for the kill. The next morning when we got in sight, the pole was up and there was a possum hanging by the neck more than two feet off the ground. In a week we had 5 or 6 possums; then we could go ahead catching rabbits. There had been a whole den of possums.

When I was 12, Delvia and I began to hunt at night and trap for skunks and possums. This was the fall that we hunted with John Meredith. We caught several possums, one of which was the largest I ever saw. John was a large, strong boy of 17, but he could only carry it a few hundred yards until he would have to stop and rest. He gave me half of what the pelts brought. He was one of my best friends for many years.

After this we hunted by ourselves for several years, as we had two good dogs. We caught many skunks and possums, which gave us much fun and a little money. This we used later to buy some sheep. Our two dogs were named Fisk and Bounce and were good hunters, day or night.

Night Hunting for Rabbits: One Sabbath Elva and Dow came down to stay all night. As this was in October and a good time to hunt, we decided to go; so we went and had no luck. Then at about ten o’clock, we decided to have a rabbit chase anyway and set them on a rabbit (they would not hunt rabbits unless we set them after them). They chased it down into a deep hollow, up a hill for over a half mile, and put it into a rail pile. We caught it and went back on the hill. They immediately started another, which they ran way down the hill for a long way before we got it also. As soon as we got to the top of the hill, they took another one down the hill and soon began to rave. So we hurried to them and found a hollow limb about five feet long in which the rabbit was hiding while the dogs ran from one end to the other and howled. Of course we got that one.

When we got to the top of the ridge, they started another one, which they soon put into a sink hole. It was now about eleven o’clock and getting rather cool, so we built a fire and began digging. In about a half hour we had the rascal. We felt it was quite a successful hunt as it is seldom you can hole a rabbit at night. We would often get two or three possums and sometimes a skunk in our night’s hunting (and sometimes nothing but tired legs). But we had lots of fun.

Mr. Mink, Muskrats and Coons: One cold morning in January, 1888, we saw where something had carried corn from the crib up the road across the river on the ice to a hole in the river bank. We set a trap and caught a muskrat, but its head was eaten off. We knew a mink was responsible, so we reset the trap. The next night we got Mr. Mink, which ended the threat to our muskrat trapping. This was our first mink, but we caught several after that.

We got 25 or 30 rats the rest of that winter, which we thought was quite good. But the next winter we really went after them with traps and barrels set along the bank (which we often visited before going to bed and again in the morning). We got as high as three rats in one barrel during one night. When spring came, we found we had sold 100 rat pelts that winter. This (with the other fur we caught-skunks and possums) made quite a showing as we got from 3 to 10 cents for our rat pelts.

We went ahead trapping, but not until after I was 18 did we get our first coon. There was a den near the school house where the steam would roll out. We decided there was something denning there. So we set a trap and caught a cub coon. Several years later I caught two fine big coons from the same den.

Sheep Enterprise: When I was about 15, Delvia and I took some of our money from furs and bought two sheep, which Father kept for the wool and we got the lambs. We would get from $2.50 to $3.00 for the lambs. When Father went North in 1892, we sold our sheep. We gained some knowledge of trading by buying and selling while we were boys. Father dealt with us as he did with other people.

Tenants

Jetts: The first tenant we had on the Davis farm was Alvin Jett, who was no good. One morning Father went over to the farm early. As he came back Mrs. Jett called to him and said, “Mr. Randolph, we don’t have a bite of bread stuff about the house.” (Jett was running around with the threshing machine getting good things to eat and doing nothing.) She looked as if she were hungry. Father said, “How about your potatoes. You had a nice patch of them.” She said that the potatoes were all gone, that they got along pretty well while they lasted, but it was hard to live without bread or potatoes. Father had Mother fix up a pail of flour and send Cleo and me up with it.

That afternoon Father went to see when the machine would be at our place. He took Jett out to one side and told him to go home and get his family something to eat, or starve with them, or he would cut him a hickory and give him a good whipping. Then he would throw his goods off the farm. For no man could run around and get plenty to eat and let his family starve on his farm. Jett toddled right off home.

Father often said that he hated “blamed orneriness.” (You may not know just what that word means, but in West Virginia to say a person is ornery is about as mean a thing as can be said of him.)

Now the next tenant was Dolph Weaver-but before I speak of him, I should tell one more story about Jett. He was with Marshall Meredith (who lived on an adjoining farm for 20 years and knew Father very well). Jett told him scandalous tales about Father. Some days later Marshall was at the mill when Jett came to the mill with a grist on one of Father’s horses. After he had tied the horse, Jett went to the mill. Marshall said to him, “How much does Asa charge you for a horse to go to mill?” Jett replied, “Not a cent. I can get a horse to go whenever I want it, and it doesn’t cost me a cent.” “It seems to me,” Marshall said, “if a man treated me like that, I wouldn’t talk about him like you did about Asa.” Jett replied, “I just talk that way about you when I am at your back.” So you see Marshall got it in the neck.

Dolph Weaver: This man, Weaver, was a big, strong young man who was married to a nice looking girl, but they preferred to fool around rather than work. In fact, they were both too lazy for any good use. Dolph told some of the neighbors that Father owed him a lot and wouldn’t pay him so he said he intended to whip him. When Father heard about it, he sent for Dolph to come down and settle up. They found on settling everything that Dolph owed Father between $10 and $15.

Dolph started off muttering to himself. Father let him go about 75 yards. Then he called, “Dolph, come back here.” When Dolph came back to the gate, Father said to him, “You have been telling it all around that you were going to whip me. John Snodgrass jumped onto an old man the other day and got an awful whipping. If you jump onto me, I’ll give you a worse licking than John Snodgrass got.” Dolph just went off without saying a word.

Frank Gardener: The next tenant was Frank Gardener, an Adventist from Kansas. Frank had two children (Charlie, about my age, and Minnie, a girl a little younger). Charlie was a playmate of ours while they were on the farm. Frank was a jolly, good-humored fellow who said he had moved over 30 times. So, you can see that he had the wander-lust.

He was a great hand to joke, and I never saw him get mad. I remember one day in harvest Ellsworth was raking hay when Frank said, “Ellsworth, you are a raker and a son of a raker.” Ellsworth said, “Frank, you are a rake and a son of a rake,” which tickled Frank. He only stayed one summer, when he took a notion to go somewhere else.

When I was teaching up in Taylor County, a man came to me on the bus and said, “Aren’t you Pressy Randolph?” I said, “Yes, but who the dickens are you?” “I am Charlie Gardener, and I am living in Clarksburg and working at Bridgeport.”

We met several times on the bus and talked over old times. He told me one morning that his father was living in Belington and was coming down to visit him soon. He thought they would be on the bus together some Monday morning. One morning I saw a gray-haired man who came up to me and proved to be Frank Gardener. He was just as jolly, good-humored as ever, and we had a nice talk. This was the last time I ever saw either of them.

John Meathrell: The next tenant was John Meathrell. He stayed three years and cleared out about four or five acres and raised crops on it, after which he bought where they now live and moved there. I might say right here that they [John and my sister Callie] were married when I was about ten years old, which was the first wedding I ever saw.

After this, Alva lived on the farm over a year. Then Ellsworth bached on it for a time before he married, after which he bought the farm, and they still own it.

More About the Tan Yard

I will now tell something more about the tan yard. Among my earliest jobs was grinding bark. Two of us children would hitch a horse to a bark mill, which was similar to a mill for grinding cane. There was a long whip hitched to a big log, on which were fastened metal teeth which revolved inside an iron rim with metal teeth. The bark was peeled from chestnut oak trees in the spring when the sap was up. When this bark was thoroughly dried, we would break it over the metal rim. It was ground between the two rims into fine pieces, which were used in tanning the leather.

We would sit there all day in very hot weather breaking the bark and keeping the horse going. Sometimes it took one all the time to keep that horse traveling.

There was a place under the mill where the ground bark dropped. When it filled up, it had to be hauled away. We children hated that work, but we did it just the same.

When the strength was taken out of the bark, we would skim out the worthless bark and scatter it over the ground about the vats. Sometimes the vats would be nearly full of water with bark on top and looked like the rest of the ground. When Delvy was about three years old, he came through the tan yard to a field beyond to tell us to come to dinner. When he got there, he was wet from his arms down. We found where he had walked into a vat. On the other side where he came out, water showed plainly where it had dripped from his clothes on the ground. I don’t think there were any of us children who failed to get into the vats at least once.

Many chickens and geese lost their dear little lives here. In fact a goose would only live a little while when she found she could not get out of the vat. Also, I lifted several pigs out of there. One blind horse which Emza rode from her school one time fell into one of the vats, but luckily got out.

The tan yard soon went to rack after Father left. I doubt if there could be a vat found now.

Working with Oxen

Before I was 16, I sold a horse for Father for $100 at Toll Gate. He had told me to take $80 for it if I could not get $100, but he never offered me any commission on it. This left us with but one horse, and Delvia and I began breaking oxen to work. We had two yoke at one time. Sometimes these oxen were quite wild and would run at the drop of a hat. One yoke would often get away with a sled and run through the woods or pasture until they ran afoul a tree or bush. Then we would go and back them up, get them around the tree, take them back to the road, jump on the sled, and away we would go.

We would often do our plowing with these oxen. In fact, we did all kinds of work. We would sometimes ride one ox we called Buck. But sometimes he would put his head down, snort, and we would land on the ground.

The winter I was 17, we cut a large lot of timber and had it sawed. One yoke of our oxen, which was white, helped in this work. We called them Lamb and Lion. They were very able cattle. I did not go to school this winter, but helped with the logging and stacking lumber.

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Chapter 2: Ruth’s Childhood Memories

April 6, 2009

Birth and Family

A little girl was the eighth child to join the Lee and Lenora Bond home (August 10, 1899). Ada, Orville, Orson, Lydia (Morrow was deceased), Susie, and Ian were there to greet her. Ian being the smallest was somewhat overlooked, but his turn finally came. He said, “Mama, I want to see that little cucumber.” She was named Ruth Content. They later said she should have been named Ruth Confidget since she never seemed to be still.

Early Childhood and Church — Description of a Home Place

My early memories are of a two-story house, two large rooms downstairs and two upstairs with a hallway between. A kitchen and dining room with a storage room were on the back side of the house with a shed-type roof. My father and mother started housekeeping in the two rooms and added on as the family grew.

Also close by was a shop with one large room and a smaller one. A buggy shed was attached to it. A corn crib left ample space to drive between it and the shop. A chicken house was close by.

A barn stood on one little hill back of the house; and a stable for the horses, on another hill back of the house. A smokehouse stood in the yard close to the house. Besides being a place to smoke the meat, it also served as storage space. It had an attic, which made a lovely playhouse, too.

A dug well stood in the yard. A large level garden was close. On the far side of the garden was the pig house and lot. The privy was along the path to the pig pen.

A cherry tree stood close to the house and always held a swing. The limb that held the swing was well padded to protect the tree. No one knows the hours I spent in that swing.

The road ran in front of our house. A rail fence paralleled the road. That made a good place to let trees grow. Some large white oaks grew along that fence, making an easy way to get to the limbs to climb into the tree. Ian must have taught me to climb, and I liked high places. I don’t remember this, but they say one day when Papa and Mama returned from Roanoke (one and one-half miles away), they found me in the very top of the white oak tree swinging in the branches. They were frightened but afraid of scaring me and making me fall. Papa finally said, “Ruth, don’t you think it is time to climb down?” I obligingly climbed down to safety.

Supplemental Income for My Parents

To supplement the meager income from the farm, Papa made brooms and Mama wove carpets and rugs. Most people around there grew broom corn and made carpet rags out of worn out clothing. Papa took pride in never having a broom come off the handle or unsewed. He did most of that work in the winter months. A Burnside stove kept the room nice and warm.

Mama used an old loom that one worked hard to weave five yards in a day. The time finally came when she got a “Fly Shuttle” loom. That was the time when children came in handy keeping the cylinders full of carpet rags. With that loom she wove 27 yards in one day and had other things to do part of the time. I don’t remember how much they got for their work, but it all helped out.

A Younger Brother

Main joined the family on Christmas Day after I was two years old. That made four boys and four girls. There were nine children in Mama’s family, and she had as many children as all the rest put together. I am glad–otherwise, six of us would not have been.

Spankings I Remember

We had a woodyard close to the shop, for we burned wood in the kitchen stove. There were lots of chips and soft ground there. One time Susie and Ian caught the turkey gobbler and decided to plow up some of the woodlot. They had him by the tail. Main had one wing, and I had the other. As he dug in, trying to get away, the chips really flew. We laughed so hard Papa, who was working in the shop, heard us and came to see what was going on. He did not think it was funny. As I remember, Susie and Ian got spanked; but Main and I were too small to know any better.

Don’t think I never got spanked or whipped. I had my share. One I well remember–I shot a bow and arrow one Sabbath p.m. up at Grandma’s with some of Uncle Everett’s children. Ian knew better, but I learned the hard way.

Sabbath Activities

Sabbaths were very special at our house. We got ready for them on Friday so no more work than necessary had to be done on Sabbath.

Uncle John Heavener was my first Sabbath School teacher. In the summer he would take us out under a shade tree by the church and tell us Bible stories and nature stories. He grew orchards of fruit trees. He compared a fruit tree growing up out in the pasture field where it had no care to a child growing up without going to church.

Uncle John Heavener was the song leader at church and Sabbath School. He loved music and loved to sing. Many Sabbath afternoons were spent at the church singing favorite songs and learning new ones. I have heard it said that Uncle John could not carry a tune when he was married to Papa’s eldest sister. He loved music, and she helped him to learn the notes and carry a tune. He made a good singing teacher. He bought the first organ in the community–also the first phonograph. Many Sabbath p.m.’s were spent there listening to him play records. He enjoyed it as much as we did.

Sometimes on Sabbath afternoons in the fall or spring the Heavener young folk and Bond young folk went for long walks over the hills. Usually we could find nuts that had survived the winter to eat. Or in the fall there was some kind of fruit. Chestnuts were a favorite, but a disease has killed them off. Sometimes we would find wild grapes and maybe swing on a grapevine.

Once a month, the first Sabbath, the preacher from Lost Creek came. He preached Sabbath morning and sometimes that evening, too. Our house was the first one he came to, so usually he stopped there. The first one I remember was H. C. Van Horn. I think Lost Creek was his first church.

Uncle John Bond lived about two miles from the church. They often came home with us for dinner on Sabbath. I loved to get him to tell about things that happened to him. His son Charlie and family used to come to our house a lot. Their older children were about the ages of Main and me, so we loved to have them come. Sometimes when Main and I were older, we would walk up there on Friday night and come to church with them on Sabbath.

Elementary School

I started to school after I was six years old. Russell Ramsey, Lela Heavener, Eston Bond, and I were all in the first grade and finished the eighth together. Brier Point was about one-half mile from home cross country but more than a mile by the road. Some of the fun times were ciphering matches, spelling matches, map matches, and question boxes. About once a year on Friday evening, we went to Roanoke or Conoe Run and had a spelling match and arithmetic match with them; and they came to our school. We won our share of the time–if not more.

At recess we played tag, base, drop the handkerchief, and baseball. We had a straight stick of wood for a bat, and the balls were made from the yarn of worn-out socks. The best balls had a little rubber ball in the center. These yarn balls had to be thoroughly sewed if they lasted any time. When the weather was bad, we would play hot hand, mumble peg, chop wood, and jacks.

4-H Projects

The last year I was in grade school, we had a district supervisor. He organized the first 4-H clubs in the county. Main and I were members. Main’s project was an acre of corn, I think; and mine was chickens. I think I “set” two or three hens on fifteen eggs each. They hatched very well; but after they were two or three weeks old, they got diarrhea. I lost all but seven of them. I did not know how I was going to tell the supervisor when he came to check on our projects. Main said, “Just tell him they got the trots.”

We were working Main’s patch of corn when the supervisor came. After greetings, he asked how my chickens were doing. I looked at Main, and he was looking at me. We both just giggled. I don’t think I ever did tell him what was wrong.

Recreation and Work on the Farm

The first day of May was a big day at our house. We could go barefooted for the first time that year. The first thing was foot races, Ian could always outrun me, but he liked a close race. So he let me get all the start he dared to make it close. Once in a while he made a mistake, and I won–not often. He did the same with a running jump and a broad jump. I could jump about as high as he could.

We did not play all the time. Papa took us with him to the corn fields, hay fields, and to cut the filth on the farm. His farm was the cleanest around. We had to do our work well. If one got a little behind, Papa would hoe a few hills in his row so we all kept close.

The summers at home were something special. We got up early and worked hard all day. I was usually helping with the farm work, whatever that might be. Supper was near five o’clock; and when the dishes were done, we were free for the evening. A large family had moved into the neighborhood, and all the young folk got together in the evenings and played folk games and sang until nine or ten O’clock. We kept the grass tramped down in their yard and ours, too. There must have been from twelve to eighteen of us.

Papa cut two apple trees out of the orchard close to the house to make room for a tennis court. We also had a croquet set. When there was a lesser number who got together, we played tennis or croquet. When cooler weather arrived, two or three nights a week Main and I got together with Harvey and Vesta Heavener and played Rook or Dominos. Most of the time they came to our house. No dull moments!

Picking Blackberries

Usually there were lots of blackberries to pick. We had to go to the neighbors to pick them since Papa would not let briers grow until much later. Usually it was the women folk who picked the berries, with help from the smaller children; the men had farm work to do. We would take the buggy, put a washing tub in the back, buckets for everyone to pick in, and larger buckets sometimes. The berries were canned or made into jelly or jam. Sometimes a twelve-gallon kettle of jam would be made outside. The best part was to pick a bucket full of the nicest berries we could find to eat with sugar and cream, along with bread and butter (a favorite meal with the family).

A Lost Ewe

Papa only had about fifty acres of land, so he often rented corn ground and pasture for his sheep and cattle. Someone had to take salt and look to see the animals were all right once each week. One summer we had the sheep about a mile from home. Main and I were sent to see that they were all right. One ewe was missing. We called and called, but she did not come. We went all over the hill looking for her and calling. I could hardly keep from crying, but I did not want Main to know it. Finally I glanced around at him, and there were tears in his eyes. We both sat down on a log and cried. That was the first time we had been sent to look after the sheep, and we had failed. I don’t think the ewe was ever found.

Raising Corn

Usually the corn ground was easy to work in. Papa believed in thoroughly preparing a seed bed. It was plowed, drug, and harrowed time after time until one could track a bird in it. There were lots of killdeer to make tracks as they hunted for worms and grubs.

Papa liked to let the corn ripen enough to shuck it on the stock. Then the fodder was cut and dropped in piles to be bound with a single stock of corn. About every twelve to twenty feet in the row four hills of corn were tied together by taking the opposite corners and tying them together with one of the ends. Then the bunches of fodder were placed around that and tied tightly with a stalk of fodder.

When the fodder shocks were well cured, it was hauled off the field and stacked around long poles secured in the ground. The bunches were stood up closely in a circle around the pole. When the circle got ten feet or so in diameter, a heavy twine was tied snugly around near the top. Then another row was placed on top of that (but not as big around). Usually the stacks were four or five tiers high when finished. Each one was tied at the top. That kept the fodder protected from rain and snow but made it easy to take out to feed the cows.

Later Papa bought a silo. Then the corn was cut after the grain was mature but before the stocks began to dry. With that process the corn had to be cut and dropped in neat piles so they could be loaded on a sled and hauled to the silo. There it was fed into a cutter that chopped it up and blew it into the silo.

Harvesting Corn with Uncle Lonnie

I remember one time we were short of help, and Papa got Uncle Lonnie to help cut the corn. He was very hard of hearing. He, Ada, and I were to cut and bunch the corn; Main was to haul it to the silo; and Papa took care of that end. We were cutting two rows each. I had the middle rows. When we got to the end of the rows, Ada was a few hills behind; and Uncle Lonnie twitted her about not keeping up. We had to walk back to the beginning of the rows so the bunches would be lying the same way to be easier to load. As we walked back, I said in a low voice to Ada, “We will fix him.” (Remember, he could hardly hear.)

When he was cutting in the row farthest from me, I was cutting in Ada’s row; and we were the first to get to the end. He just dropped his head and did not say a word as we walked back. The same thing happened again and again. Then he got to cutting a few hills at the end of his row so he could finish at the same time we did. At that rate we got so far ahead of Main hauling it in that Papa thought Uncle Lonnie could cut the corn, Ada could go to the house and help Mama, and I could work in the silo and keep it trampled and leveled. Some way it did not take too long until Main had caught up and I had to go back to cut corn.

A Surprise for Papa

Another time I well remember, Papa had gone to Orville’s to take care of his crop as he was in school at Morgantown at the time. We had a good size field of corn that Papa wanted shucked, cut, and hauled off the field so he could plant winter wheat. The moon was full, and not a cloud was in the sky. Main and I got up at 4 a.m. and went to the corn field. We raced to the end of the rows, shucking corn. Sometimes one won, and sometimes the other; but we raced every row. About six, we went to the house to eat breakfast and do the chores. Then we went back to the corn field and continued to race.

When the corn was shucked, we raced cutting it. He cut two rows, and I cut two. The fodder had to be piled in one row. He let me cut the right hand rows, and he had to reach across to put the fodder in one bunch. That gave me just enough advantage to make a tight race, and we raced until it was all cut. Then each of the bunches had to be tied. That was another tight race. Sometime along, we ate dinner and supper and did the chores again.

When we were ready to haul off the fodder, Ada drove the horses. Main would grab one bunch of fodder and I another one as we loaded it on the sled. The horses moved right along, and we kept up with them. Before dark came, we had it all off the field.

When Papa got home, he was as much surprised as we had hoped he would be. I remember that night I dreamed Ada got to running the horses and I got so tired trying to keep up that I just fell over on the sharp corn stubbles and thought that was the softest bed I was ever on.

Making Hay

The hay field was hot work, but no one seemed to -mind. We had a mowing machine pulled by two horses to cut the hay. Trimming had to be done with a hand scythe. The thick grass had to be turned with the fork and loosened up so it dried evenly. The hay was raked with a one-horse rake. Ada did that job when she was available.

The rows of raked hay had to be put into shocks. A long pole was “set”" in the ground on as level a place as could be found. Three fence rails were laid (one close to the pole and the others equal distance apart for rails to be laid crossways to make a foundation for the stack of hay.

The shocks were hauled to the stack by horse. My first job in the hay field was to ride the horse. A long heavy rope or a chain was fastened to the right trace. You rode the horse around the right side of the shock and backed it up to the shock, facing the haystack. Someone was there to hitch the shock. He would slip the rope under the edge of the shock to the back side, then put the rope on top of the hay along the back (stepping on the rope to firm it there), then slipping it under the hay on the other side, and securing it to the other trace. An expert could do that as fast as a horse could walk around the stack.

Usually it took two horses hauling the hay to the stack to keep up with the ones stacking–one on the stack tramping the hay and shaping the stack, the other pitching the hay up to him. The top of the stack had to be well tramped, and a rope of hay was wrapped tightly around the pole to prevent rain from soaking in. The loose hay was carefully raked from the top of the stack down so rain would run off.

I eventually learned to do all of the haying jobs.

Papering the House

Another time Ada and I were home alone. I don’t remember where Papa and Mama had gone. We decided to paper the hallway upstairs and down. She was a good paper hanger; I just helped out and did what I was told. We wanted to get that finished to surprise Papa and Mama. We worked so hard to get it all done that by evening we had both lost our appetites. So we decided to go to bed instead of fixing supper. That night I dreamed we had left the space under the steps. It was so real I had to look as soon as I got up–sure enough, it had not been papered.

Memories About My Mother’s Home

I was small when Grandma Rebecca passed on. I only remember seeing her one time. She was bedfast and asked me to bring her a drink of water. I went to the kitchen, and Aunt Antha gave me a glass of water. I very carefully carried it to Grandma. She called me her little woman. I was so proud.

I remember Grandpa visiting at our house some years later in the summer. Main was sitting on one knee; and I, on the other. He was a big man with a white beard. Some of the older ones had picked the strawberries growing on the hill. llama brought in a big bucketful of berries for Grandpa to see and eat what he wanted. Main and I joined right in and ate our fill, too. What an opportunity!

Grandpa had a big two-story white house with a big double porch on the front. A milk house was built over a good spring of water. That kept the milk and butter cold, besides supplying water for the house. He was a prosperous farmer and had a good apple orchard.

Uncle Tom, Aunt Bessie, Lotta, and Paul lived in Grandpa’s house after he was gone. I remember visits much better after they were there. The upstairs front porch made an ideal place to spread chestnuts out to dry. They were just right to eat on one visit. Also that same time Uncle Tom had a number of watermelons stored in a coal mine on the farm. (They dug their own coal.) No watermelon ever tasted better.

Perhaps on this same visit one evening we younger ones (Lotta, Paul, Ian, Main, and I) were playing in an upstairs room. Paul sat on the floor and challenged anyone to get him up. (He was a husky lad.) After Lotta and Ian had failed, I took my turn. I kissed him on the cheek, and he really came out of there. It was bad enough to be kissed, but it made him all the madder to realize that I had gotten him up. We laughed so hard that the older ones came to see what was going on.

It was a day’s journey from our home to Grandpa’s, although it was only about twenty miles. We liked the strip of road where the river was on one side and the railroad track on the other just as we were getting into Weston. Papa always whipped the horses to get through that strip as fast as possible. I liked to go fast! On the other side of Weston, a pipe carried water from a cold spring to welcome any thirsty traveler. We always stopped there. Grandpa lived on Hacker’s Creek, about 1 1/2 mile from Berlin. We always stopped to see Aunt Tamer Wolfe before we got to Grandpa’s.

Memories of Papa’s Home and Family

My paternal grandfather’s home was close to us since Papa built on his part of Grandpa’s farm. Papa was small when his mother died. Grandpa eventually married Eliza Crowell. They had Lillie, Everett, Jenny, and Lonnie.

My first memory is of Grandma, Aunt Jane ‘ (her sister), and Lonnie living in the home place. Uncle Everett, Aunt Darlie, Urcil, Oras, Eston, Novice, George, and Alta lived on the other side of Grandma from us. Uncle Sammie and Aunt Jane lived beyond Uncle Everett’s. The church was beside Uncle Sammie’s house.

On a branch road that went by Grandma’s house lived Uncle Mansfield Heavener. He was really a cousin to Papa (their mothers were sisters). His half brother, Uncle John, had married Papa’s oldest sister; and they lived at the head of the hollow. I only remember when Aunt Fronie kept house for Uncle John. One daughter lived in Clarksburg, and her oldest child was about my age.

Uncle Eddie lived on Indian Fork, maybe about fifteen miles from us. It was a treat to have them come or to go to their house. Papa had made his home with Uncle Eddie quite a bit of the time after their father died when Papa was thirteen. Uncle Eddie’s grandchildren were about my age and younger. The two families have always been especially close.

One time when we were something near 14 to 16, our parents let Main and me take a horse and buggy (also Beatrice and Walter Bond took a horse and buggy) and go to Uncle Eddie’s for the weekend. Since Beatrice and Walter had been there more than we had, Main rode with Beatrice and I rode with Walter so they could tell us who lived along the way. We felt real “grown up,” being permitted to go alone. We did not feel so big later in the evening.

Supper time came. Uncle Eddie had a long, drawn-out way of speaking; and when he was giving thanks, one of us (maybe me) got tickled and all of us giggled. We were all so ashamed of ourselves, but we just could not help it.

We spent most of the time at Uncle Eddie’s son Charles’ home since they had a girl and boy about our ages. We had a good weekend and did not disgrace ourselves any more.

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Chapter 1: Ashby’s Childhood Memories

April 6, 2009

Birth and My First Home

I was born one mile down river (South Branch of the Hughes) from Berea, West Virginia. Our home was on the opposite side of the river from the road and the Asa Randolph home (later the Amos Brissey home). There was a ford across the river (maybe one-eighth mile above the Brissey house to our home). I was born and lived there about 3 years.

The first memories of this home I really don’t remember but have heard from my parents and Aunt Sarah, who lived on top of the hill back of our home. Aunt Sarah and my parents visited back and forth often, helping each other. There was maybe one-half mile between homes. I do not remember my Uncle Elsworth, who was my father’s youngest brother and his special buddy. Uncle Elsworth was killed in a logging accident before I could remember.

They tell me of my birth, which was at a tragic time. My brother, Harold, 2 years older than 1, died of membranous croup the same day I was born. Old Dr. Bee was at our place trying to save Harold when he brought me into the world. For some reason, probably because of Harold’s death and other business, he never recorded my birth at the courthouse. I know that because of the trouble I had getting my Social Security at the time of my retirement. Aunt Sarah was a big help at that time, they say.

Another time Aunt Sarah was such a special help was when I had diphtheria, probably in my first year. They said they almost lost me then, but Dr. Bee and Aunt Sarah brought me through. Of course, Mom and Dad did their part, too.

Aunt Sarah and Uncle Elsworth’s only son, Blondy, was a little older than I; and we were playmates and buddies from the time we were babies. After my diphtheria spell, Mother and Dad got concerned as to whether I could hear, so they decided to test me by having Blondy in the next room but out of sight. When he said my name, they knew I could hear.

There were two happenings at our first home that I heard a lot about. One was the time I was in the woodlot at the same time our cow was there, and she butted me over the woodpile. They said I didn’t even cry, and they watched me closer to keep me from playing with “Moo Cow.” The other was the time Mom heard me hollering, “Mom, Mom. Come come.” When Mom got to the river at a sand and gravel bar just above the ford, I had hold of a pole with a fish on the end of its line. The fish would pull me a while toward the water, then I would pull it. That may be why I love so much to see my grandchildren and great grandchildren pull and holler, “Help me, Paw.”

Uncle Gene’s in New York

About the summer when I was four, we moved to Uncle Gene and Aunt Cleo Elizabeth Jordan’s in New York at Friendship near Cuba. I can remember some things quite vividly. First, on our train trip we had to wait some at Wheeling. The trains sounded so near that I was expecting them to come into the waiting room. Also, I have memories of the drays and drivers, probably because Mother cut out connected strings of brownies. (Mother was a real crafter and artist.)

While we were in New York State, I went to school a little while. They took me out because I fell deeply in love with an older girl, Agnes Childs. We were together, it seems, all the time at recesses and noons. Often all of us children would go to an orchard maybe 300 yards away (maybe it was farther but seemed so short a distance because Agnes and I always walked hand in hand or arm in arm).

Another thing I remember well was Uncle Gene’s black dog (it must have been a Water Spaniel) and his big and mean gobbler. Romulus, the dog, stayed with me a lot, and he was seldom out of hearing of me. I can remember one time the gobbler spread his tail and wings mighty scarily; I had a hard time to get Romulus to save me, but he finally did.

My sister, Avis, and I had groundhog pets that my older brother, Brady, had caught for us. Brady knew where their dens were in and around a big meadow. He would hide near a den and watch until they would get far enough from their home until he could get between their den and them before they could reach safety. My pet wasn’t really a pet. He would bite and finally got away.

Avis and I played together a lot because she was two years younger than I. Sometimes I had trouble getting her to play my way or keep up when we were going to Uncle Gene’s, about one-half mile from our home. Then I would say, “”Appy won’t keep the snakes off you.” That got cooperation.

Life on Otterslide

It must have been the fall of 1907 that we went to Otterslide near Berea. I am sure that we were sorry to leave Aunt Cleo and Uncle Gene because they were mighty good to us. Our new home was small and just boarded up, but it was close to many of our relatives and friends. Probably we lived on Uncle Lashie Maxon’s place. Then there were Uncle Delvie and Uncle Elsa Maxson who lived near. They all had children who went to school to Dad and played with us what few times we could get together.

A few things are very vivid in my memory. I remember Dad chopping wood by our woodshed. Once he glanced his ax off the shed and cut his foot badly. Then I remember my mother carrying water up a ladder and into the attic to put out a fire that caught from the chimney. Another time at the supper table our oil lamp fell over, and the kerosene caught inside it. Mom grabbed an overcoat hanging near and wrapped the lamp up and put it outside.

The worst thing that happened while we lived on Otterslide was while Dad and Brady were working up the hollow (like they were when Mom put out the attic fire). My younger brother, Randall, choked. After Mom pounded his back and shook him while holding him by the heels, we ran to Uncle Lashie’s. Mother carried Randall, who must have been about 2 years old; and Avis and I tried to keep up. They could not unchoke Randall. It was such a sad time. I remember Dad and me after dark out by the woodshed crying our eyes out.

I have some hazy memories about going to school in the one room school at Otterslide. Of course, I was in the first grade, and my teacher was my father. But really, the next vivid memory was riding in a wagon and entering Berea. Just after we got through the covered bridge, what to my wondering eyes should appear but George Washington’s son sitting on steps in front of a house. His hair was cut just like the pictures of George Washington, and it was white. Later I found out he was my first cousin, Arden Bee. Probably his mother, Aunt Rachel, told him we were coming, and he was watching for us. Arden and I have always been close friends and still are.

Living in Berea

My memories of Berea are so many that I could never tell you about them all and get done in time to go fishing when the weather gets fit. Suffice it to tell about my schooling, my work, my dog, and my friends and enemies. I may make a mistake telling about the happenings with my enemies. My grandchildren and great grandchildren must realize that I was just a boy eight to almost twelve years old–so you do as your dad and mom say, not the way I did.

Maybe you will be interested in knowing what Berea looked like while we lived there. It was located in an almost round bottom of about fifty acres on the south side of the South Branch of the Hughes River. The business consisted of two stores, a post office, livery barn, and a grist mill. There was a two-room school when we arrived, with another added while we were there; and this was in Berea proper. The school was later moved to where Camp Joy is now. (The house was not moved, but a new schoolhouse was built.) The road made a loop around the bottom, with houses on both sides. There were about twenty houses along the loop and three on the road that extended down the river from where the loop joined at the covered bridge. At that junction was the post office, one store, the livery barn, and the blacksmith shop. The other store and the gristmill were about one hundred yards up the river along the loop, by the dam.

My Schooling at Berea

As for school, I remember I was a very slow reader; and I liked exciting stories like Gulliver’s Travels, Indian stories, Greek stories, poems, and wars in the histories. I once printed a big imaginary story about a character similar to Gulliver. I also often felt very sad, fearing I would never have a chance to be a hero because I feared there would never be any more wars. of course, I was wrong. There have been wars, and I am glad I didn’t have to fight in them.

These stories of Jason, Hercules, the Roman heroes and the Christian martyrs, I suppose, influenced me to try to be a martyr. My worst punishment at school came from that desire. In fact, there were two of those experiences–one in the fifth grade at Berea and the other in the ninth grade at Salem High School. After I was teaching, I realized that I needed the rubber hosing I got at Berea and being expelled from the study hall at Salem because I took the blame for other pupils’ mischief.

Play at the Berea School was real fun. We chose up and played base, both draw base and prisoner base. We also had fun playing ball with a twine-wound ball and no cover. (We had never seen a baseball or softball.) I loved to be the catcher. One noon I was catching for a strong eighth-grade pitcher. The ball was wet, which made it like a rock. A batter just snibbed the under part of the ball, causing it to hit my eye squarely. That ended my catching career. There were many other games, like “London Bridge,” “soccer ball,” and in the fall “Hull Gull, Odd or Even,” and in the spring “Lap Jack.”

Maybe you would like to know how we played “Hull Gull” and “Lap Jack.” As I said, Hull Gull was played in the fall. Chestnuts were plentiful, and we would fill our pockets with them before we went to school. Then we would hold out a hand (with some chestnuts enclosed) and say, “Hull Gull, odd or even.” If the other youngsters said “Even” or “Odd” and when we opened our hand there was what they said, they got the chestnuts. But if they were not right, we got one from them to make it odd or even.

We played lap jack in the spring because the willows along the creeks were extra limber. We took a willow switch with us to school, and we would challenge another child to lap jack with us. Whoever hollered first lost the match. Usually this only lasted one day because it caused trouble that mothers and teacher didn’t like.

There were many programs at school in those days. We had a literary meeting each month during the school term. The older people had parts in it, too. I remember being in a debate: “Resolved that water is more destructive than fire.” I don’t remember whether I won or lost. I also remember a Christmas Program with a big tree for the community and a jolly Santa Claus. On that tree was a pair of skates for me. When I got the skates, I left the program and went to the river above the dam, where there were solid ice and lots of skaters (including my older brother, Brady). I didn’t have a period of falling down because I had practiced stroking just like the big folks even without skates on for a year or so.

This is enough about schools at Berea except to say that I was noticing girls again like I did in New York State (but not quite as much). Pearl Buzzard, who later became Mrs. Curtis Simmons, was my special. Pearl’s husband left her when she became a crippled invalid. We were close friends until her death, when she willed me her wheelchair. She also left one son, who took good care of her to the end. Another girl I liked a lot was Beulah Collins, who later married my cousin, Hollie Sutton. Beulah was beautiful and had an especially beautiful voice. She didn’t notice me because she liked the older boys.

One year while we lived at Berea I went to school at the Fair View School. I walked with Dad about three miles each way. That was the last year I had Dad for my school teacher. That was a great experience. Dad was a wonderful teacher, especially in arithmetic and history and on the playground. Among many other games, we often played “Fox and Hound” at noon, which used about all the noon period and a lot of rough country.

Special Friends (and Enemies)–(Wrestling and fighting)

It was not long after we moved to Berea, the summer I was seven years old, that the boy who was to become my best friend and buddy came to see me. The thing I remember most about his visit was that he wanted to wrestle. So Dad cleared a room of furniture, and we went at it. I couldn’t seem to understand what was happening until after he had thrown me three or more times. Then I said it was my turn to yank. To the best of my knowledge, he never did throw me again.

In fact, I can’t remember our ever wrestling again except once, when we got paid to fight in front of a crowd of men at the livery barn. In the first place, the men told Lester (Lester Jackson was my friend’s name) they would give him a nickel if he would get me to fight him. We fought so fiercely that they got ashamed, I suppose, and paid us a nickel apiece to quit. We took the money and hand-in-hand went to the nearest store and bought candy to eat together. The nearest store was the Douglas one.

Lester and I were at the livery stable another time when the front big sliding door fell on Lester. It hardly hurt him any, but we were scared. Lester was a tough boy. Once he had his head smashed when his father’s combination truck and surrey automobile (the first one of any kind owned near Berea) hit a telephone pole with his head between the truck and the pole. It did put him in bed for a while, but he recovered and served in the Marines for many years.

I saw Lester only once after we left Berea at the age of eleven and almost twelve. He came to our place for a visit at Salem, and we went to Clarksburg to visit my cousin, Arden Bee (the one I thought was George Washington’s son). The three of us went above the dam at Hartland, a suburb of Clarksburg, and had a great time swimming. I went back to try to see him at a Jackson and Prunty Reunion at the old Prunty Place, three miles below Berea. They told me Lester had died in Hawaii ten years before.

I must tell you about the time Lester Jackson saved Avis’ life. We had been on the ice of the river down by Creed Collins’. We didn’t have skates, so we must have just walked on the ice across the river. Lester and I had gotten across and were waiting for Avis. She hollered, “Help!” We saw her sink to her arm pits through the ice. Lester ran to her. They broke the ice in front of her, and Lester led her to the bank. I was ashamed that I didn’t go to her, but no doubt it was meant for Lester because I was so heavy. I might have drowned both of us, or all three. Those of you who read this, beware of thawing ice. It is treacherous because it can have hidden rotten spots.

I remember one other wrestling match, and it was with Odbert Bell, a mighty husky boy my age. Our wrestling was done with one arm over the shoulder and one under for each. When one was down and couldn’t get up, the other had won. We squeezed each other’s back and thrashed around, trying to bend the other’s back in until he would fall. Finally Odbert got me. I think that was why I never cared much for wrestling.

My memories of Berea have many fights in them. Suffice it to tell you of a few. One boy I fought with was Harry Wade. His father bought our home place, and he lived in the same house where I was born. He and I were very good friends, but some of the big boys got him to start a fight after a program at school. We fought with our fists, only quite evenly and so entertainingly that the watchers cheered loudly enough to attract an older person, who stopped the fight and sent us on home (for which I was thankful because I wasn’t sure of the win).

Our next-door neighbor was the village blacksmith, Mike Jett. He had two sons and two daughters. The son Dewit was my age; and the daughters, Pearl and Judy, were older. Leo was the youngest son. There was practically a feud between our family and Mike Jett, along with the men who came to his drinking parties.

Once I was coming home on our horse at night;, and they rocked us, which almost made Nellie run off with me. Another time, I met Dewit, Pearl, and Judy in front of the school house. I got on the school house porch against the house so they couldn’t get behind me. I guess I was pretty desperate because I hit Dewit so hard that I heard a loud crack. Dewit went down. I saw some folks coming who heard it from the post office porch, so I ran home.

Good Times With Cousins and Hunting Dogs

My time at Berea was also very pleasant–especially the visits to stay all night with my cousins, Blondy Randolph at Aunt Sarah’s and Oma Sutton at Uncle Herman’s. Blondy and I played climbing and swinging in the big spreading chestnut tree that had grapevines in it. Aunt Sarah’s big barn had lots of hay and straw in it, where we did tumbling stunts. Most fun of all was training and using a pair of calves to pull a cart our Uncle John Meatheral had made for us.

The times I remember going home with Oma were in the fall during the hunting season. Uncle Herman had hounds. Most of them were foxhounds, but one was a dandy night-fur-animal hunter. He would tree opossums and hole skunks, and we would have fun shaking the possums out and digging out the skunks. We sometimes built a fire to warm ourselves and roast apples wrapped in clay mud, and once a young chicken.

Speaking of hunting dogs, I had a red short-legged dog, Rover, that was a real pal. He used to go with me all the time. Many were the times I grabbed his hind legs and helped him pull groundhogs and rabbits out of their dens. He had such short legs that he would go back in their holes and pull them out.

I remember one time down at our old home place that Rover ran a groundhog into a hole. I heard it whistle before it went in; then, as it came out a back door of its den, Rover grabbed it. They fought over and over on a smooth path; then they got off the path, so Rover just rolled over and over with it until they got to a small flat place at the edge of the river. Rover wanted to do his fighting on level ground. They fought there; but before I could help Rover without hurting him, they got into the river. I was really scared for Rover then, so I went in, too. We finally got it out and quieted, but I had an awful time finishing it off with a club.

There is a story about this hole–in fact, there are two–where Rover and I finished off the groundhog. This hole in the river was just below our ford and between our place and Grandpa Randolph’s. The story goes that another dog, Bruno (a big, ugly bulldog) got revenge on a deer for butting his friend and playmate, Ring (the tall greyhound), with a quilting party of ladies watching.

Bruno’s barking brought the women out to see the trouble just in time to see a big buck send Ring rolling with its horns. Bruno, even though he was fat and lazy, seemed to get determined to pay that buck back for hurting his playmate. He chased it to the river. While it was crossing on the ice, he caught it by the nose. He turned it a somersault and broke its neck. After quite a while, a man on a horse came along and claimed the deer, claiming his dogs had been running it. Grandpa gave it to him.

The other story also happened before I was born and while Dad was a young man. He and his brothers built a fence across the lower end of this water hole, just about where we fought the groundhog. They built it of rocks and put a room below it at the swiftest side. When the river would rise because of grinding grain and using water from the dam at Berea, they would open the door into that room. When the water went down, they would close the door and go in and catch fish with hands and clubs. Sometimes they got mighty nice ones.

Once for a few days we couldn’t find Rover. After worrying and inquiring, we heard that a teamster about 15 miles down river had him. Dad, Brady, and Clee Wagoner went down to get Rover. They walked and took turtle-prodding sticks similar to gaff hooks because it was spring before the turtles got out of the mud. They spied Rover at a house a little way from the road. Brady and Clee waited at the road, and Dad went to the house. Dad told the man he had his dog and he was going to take it home. The man said he would wade through blood before he would let that dog go. Dad said, “Start wading”; and he went back to the road, where Brady had called Rover and had him. We were a happy family when they came home with Rover and two sacks of nice snapping turtles. I think Avis and I were the happiest. Mom let me sleep with Rover in my bed for some time. That was very unusual. I never knew of her allowing a dog in our house at any other time.

My Work at Berea

Besides this fun, I did do some work while living at Berea. One year, we raised a cane patch (probably two acres) on top of the hill near Aunt Sarah’s. I remember that so well because I had to thin it. Dad was afraid the seed was poor, so he put plenty seeds in each hill. I think they all came up. I got a terrible headache.

We also had a garden au the old home place besides the big one we had at Berea. One day Brady, Dad, and I were working in this garden when we heard loud splashing in the riffles at the ford. We ran down and got a fish in a little open place among the seaweeds. Brady hit it with a club, and we had a twenty-four-inch bass. I remember we couldn’t eat it all in one day with Grandpa and Grandma Sutton visiting us.

There were a number of farmers around whose children had grown up and left home, so I got to ride their horses for cultivating, harvesting, etc. One of these farmers was John Meredith. He had a queer way of paying; he would feel in his pocket after I had worked a half day or so and find a nickel, dime, or once or twice a quarter and give it to me.

One day Mr. Meredith got me to help him drive two cows down to Wolf Pen, about 10 miles down river, in order to sell one of them. He thought they would drive easier. I rode behind him on a horse, (a rather sharp-backboned one). When we were coming to a branch road, I got off, ran ahead, and made the cows go the right way. We ate dinner there; then we drove the one cow back. It took about all day. I remember so well because I was so disappointed; he only found a nickel to pay me.

When I was ten and eleven years old, I had a regular job of driving the milk cows for our village to a pasture in the morning and to their home lot in the evening. They paid me by the month, twenty-five cents. I thought I was rich. There were deep hollows and patches of brush. Sometimes it took me until after dark to find the cows and get them home. Dad let me buy a little hand ax, similar to our Scout axes now. With that ax I never was afraid, even if a stump or bush would look like a bear.

That night hunting makes me think of the stormy night when Nell got out, and I went up the river to hunt for Nell while Dad went down river. Dad forgot to tell me how far to go. I kept going and looking in every possible place. She meant about as much to me as Rover did. It was extremely dark except when the lightning flashed, which I learned to appreciate. I must have hunted two miles where there was not a home in sight of the road before I gave up and went home discouraged. Dad had found Nellie, so I was happy; and Mom and Dad were glad to see me.

Another kind of work was hacking. That was cutting brush from one- to eight- or ten-inches in diameter and piling it. At first I wasn’t big enough to use an ax, so I piled. Once in a while when they would find a nice branchy bush, they would let me climb it before they cut it. I would get on the side up hill. When it fell, it would bounce up and down a while, giving me a thrilling ride.

When I was ten years old, Dad let me use a pole ax. I saw my first copperhead that I remember. When stepping up to a bush, I spied a copperhead all coiled up. I yelled, “Dad!” He came and made a quick end to its life.

They also let me use a scythe that same summer to cut weeds and small brush and briers. I went down to the place Dad bought from Grandpa Sutton, which was just across the river from the lower end of Berea. I was feeling big and important. No doubt that made me careless whetting my scythe. I cut my hand, which stopped my using the scythe for a while.

My Colt, Tony

Our horse Nellie finally had a colt that Dad let me call my own . Nellie and the colt pastured in the round bottom where Camp Joy is now. I loved the colt and began petting it whenever Nellie would let me. Finally I got a halter on it and would lead it around near its mother. Then I would get it into the box stall in the church barn, where I would feed it apples, etc., from my hand and put my hand on its back.

One day I led Tony down to Berea. He must have been about one year old then. I took him to drink at the watering hole in the river where the liverybarn horses drank. Tony started jumping up on his hind feet and pawing, so I started him back toward pasture. He gave me a hard time. Once he managed to scrape my back some with his front hoof. Dad (or maybe it was Mom) wouldn’t let me bother Tony for a while. As soon as I could, I got him back in the box stall, fed him, petted him, put my hand on his back, put a blanket on him, and finally would hang onto the top of the stall and sit on him.

About that time, Dad moved him to a pasture at the top of the hill toward Pullman. The Berea cows were being kept in that pasture, so sometimes I would find Tony and ride him bareback to round up the cows. One time just as I got on him he jumped a ravine. It caused me to fall, but Tony stopped and waited for me to get back on his back.

The first time Tony had a saddle on, Avis rode him (with Dad on Nellie) for a visit up Otterslide. They said he was as good as could be. The second time was when I took him back to pasture. I was at the foot of the hill when I met two young men. They had white straw hats. They threw the hats in front of Tony. He wheeled, and my saddle turned. I fell and broke my arm. I took Tony on to pasture without letting the boys know I was hurt. Then I went home and let Dad and Mr. Wagoner set my arm.

More Injuries

Surely you are getting tired of happenings at Berea. Suffice it just to say that Avis got her arm broken while riding an old buggy coasting down the road in Berea. I got one arm broken jumping over a cliff when they were turning off maple sugar at Uncle John Meatherell’s.

At still another time, a young fellow cut my shoulder; and Minter Fox, the veterinarian, sowed it up, which hurt like blue blazes. (I still have a scar on my back that looks like a lizard.)

At another time I was riding to Pullman, and Nellie jumped over the bank and a fence because she saw her first car. When cars first came around, they must have seemed like dragons to the horses. Most car drivers would stop when they met a horse, turn off the engine, and lead the horse or horses past the car.

Fishing at Berea

When the ground was too wet to work and we didn’t have other work we could do, Mom and Dad were real good about letting us have fun–like fishing.

Once we (Brady and I) went fishing in the same hole where Mom helped me catch my first fish, only this was on the road side of the river and two or three hundred yards farther up stream. We went down a steep bank from the road to a small flat where we could throw our baits into the water near an old brush pile. We began catching fish. Brady was catching them faster, probably because his pole was longer. I started stringing his fish, and he caught them as fast as I could get them strung. We had the stringer about full and decided that was all we could carry home. They were nice black and yellow sunfish and catfish. Just as we got up on the road, along came Uncle John Meatherell in his surrey pulled by two spirited horses. He took us home, and we were thankful.

Elmo’s Birth and The Last Year in Berea

August 31, 1913, was a day of many anxieties at our home. Aunt Sarah was there. So was Julia Meatherell, our cousin. Our family doctor was there. Everything was hustle and bustle, so Avis and I stayed out of the way, mostly outside of the house. I have heard the story over and over since–how Dr. Bee could not take care of Elmo when he was born because he was busy saving my mother. Aunt Sarah said she thought Julia and she could save him, and they did. They had to use a medicine dropper to feed him because he was so tiny. It was touch and go for both Mother and Elmo for quite a while. Elmo’s birth, Mom’s being sickly, and Brady’s going to Salem College caused Dad and Mom to decide to move to Salem.

Another reason for the move was our troubles with unfriendly neighbors–like the time Brady came home from school at Salem one evening. Since Dad was staying at school for a program, Brady and I decided to go to the program and come home with him.

As we went by Mike and Dinah Jett’s home, we noticed they were having company. When we got through the covered bridge, we heard loud hollering (“We’ll murder them!”) and a lot of swearing. We knew they meant us. We quickly gathered a good club and a handsized rock. As we went up the steep path (which was a short cut for walking toward Pullman), we planned to wait for these young men and have the downhill advantage. We tried that a number of times before we got to the top of the hill; but even though they were drunk, they wouldn’t fall for our trick. Our plan was for Brady to get them down and me to crack them over the head with the club.

When we started down the hill that would take us to Dad’s school, we traveled on the road. These men (there were five of them about Brady’s age, seventeen years old to twenty) came up to us, trying to shove each other against us, then backing off and rocking US. They didn’t get the fight started that way because we weren’t going to fight unless we had to.

Finally one of the largest ones of them took hold of Brady’s lantern and said he had lost his cap. (He had his cap on his head.) While they argued, two of them went past us and two stayed above. I tell you, I was scared and had my club tightly in my hand. Brady told Luther to let loose of the lantern or he would take him over the rock cliff (which was just off the road); he let loose. The two in front of us stepped aside, and they all left us. Probably Luther’s scare brought them to their senses. Anyway, we were mighty glad to get to Dad’s school.

Life at Salem: Boxing at Salem

Among my first memories at Salem are of boxing at the Pennsylvania Dormitory of Salem College. I guess we lived there while we waited to get in our home on top of the hill back of the college. Some of the boys who lived in the dormitory, including Ruben Brissey, got Otho Randolph and me into a boxing match. It was the first time I ever saw boxing gloves. Otho, my cousin and the chief of police’s son, gave me all I could handle; but I must have done fairly well.

About once a year Otho and I would have a lively boxing match until the summer we were sixteen. I remember that one extra well. We boxed in Uncle Joel’s yard at the mouth of Pennsylvania Avenue. Otho was giving me a mighty hard time, mostly because he kept stepping on my toes with the spikes on his running shoes. I got afraid he was going to get me, but Aunt Gertie came out and stopped us. We never boxed again, but I will tell you of our farming together at Uncle Al Glover’s later.

Of course, that was not all the boxing I did at Salem. Some of us boys stopped at Jennings Randolph’s home on the way back from church (probably a Junior Christian Endeavor meeting), and Jennings brought out his gloves. First Gene Lowther put them on with me. I happened to get him some pretty solid blows, so he quit, never to box with me again. (I never did see him box with anyone again.) Then Jennings boxed with me. We enjoyed many bouts for two years. We never tried to knock each other out, but he was a mighty worthy opponent.

When I started to Salem College Academy, I boxed often in the Rec Room. These were just for fun. But one with Offet Collins was for real. Offet told me he was going to stay with his father at a saw mill in Kentucky the next summer, so he wanted to practice fighting. I agreed to fight with him, even though I was fifteen and he was eighteen. He also had much longer arms than mine. Of course, we put gloves on. We sparred a little; then Offet rushed. He kept on rushing. I hit him, but he kept on. Finally he caught me an extra good one. I went sort of numb. I felt some other blows, first on one side and then the other. The next thing I knew I was wakening up on the floor. I got up and held him off for a while; then he did the same thing again. When I got up the next time, I stayed with him until he wanted to quit. Either the sting had left his blows, or I had learned how to keep them from landing.

This match with Offet probably helped me when I boxed Fay Bunnel, the carnival boxer, before a crowd at Salem. I was eighteen at that time. I only agreed to fight three rounds as a wrestling and boxing card. For some reason the wrestling didn’t happen, so they asked me to go six rounds with Fay. I agreed. About the second round Fay caught me a glancing blow in one eye. The gloves were six ounces and badly scarred. The blow almost blinded me the rest of that round. I had a hard time covering up. His blows came fast. They seemed to come from everywhere. He had a style I had never seen before; his gloves were down at his sides. I seemed to do better after that second round but was glad when the sixth was over. Fay had a good professional career.

My Twelfth Birthday

By the time I had my twelfth birthday, we had -moved into our own house on the top of the hill behind Salem College. Mom had a party for me with some ten or twelve of my friends. Gene Lowther, Jennings Randolph, Russell Jett, and Otho were among them. Among other things we tried to see who could chin himself the most. I could chin myself only once, while a lot of them could go up four times and some more. After that I developed the ability to chin-up more than eight times.

Scouting (Boy Scouts)

It wasn’t long after my twelfth birthday that Oris Stutler started a Boy Scout troop. My, but we enjoyed learning in the Scouts. Oris was a great Scout Master. Jennings saw that he got a Congressional Medal for it.

I remember two camping trips. In the summer of 1914, we camped on Ford’s Place four miles below West Union on the Middle Island Creek. It was a wonderful experience; but my buddy, Russell Jett, almost drowned while taking a swimming test. He was swimming beside me, and I saw him sink without saying a word. When I realized he wasn’t fooling, we pulled him out; and Oris brought him around.

The next summer we camped one mile below West Milford on the West Fork River. One of the things I remember most about the camping was the great food. I even learned to like rice that was cooked with water and sugar (I never liked it before). I also remember catching big frogs.

I meet Ruth Bond

.Another thing I remember about my scouting was meeting the prettiest girl I had ever seen–on the walk by the side of the College Administration Building. She had blond curls, lots of them, hanging over her shoulders. I was wearing my scout suit. I tipped my hat as nice as I knew how. It must have made some impression because I now have her as my own queen and mother of my seven children.

In the scouting I took a special interest in fire-building, cooking, and bird watching. I made many trips back up the ridge from our home, where I would watch and listen for new birds. When eating time came (I could only tell by my hunger because I had no watch), I would prepare a spot carefully and build a fire. Sometimes I had some kind of meat. More often it was a vegetable or just a sandwich to toast on a forked stick. I would wrap corn or potatoes in clay mud (we did not have aluminum foil). My birdwatching was more listening and stalking than watching. I kept listening for new songs or voices. Then I would stalk the bird that made the sound or sang the song until I could get a good look. Sometimes I found it was an old friend but just a different song. That led to my recognizing many birds by their voices.

Some Fights

During the first summer I was at Salem, I had some interesting experiences. One of them was after a ball game on top of the hill back of Jennings Randolph’s home. A gang of boys led by Tad Graham were playing, and my friends (Russell Jett and Dana Williams) and I joined them. After the game Tad and his friends grabbed me. They threw me down. I looked for help and saw Russell and Dana heading for safety and home. Tad said, “Let’s make him eat this cow manure.” (It was real dry.) I broke loose and grabbed a club that happened to be handy. I said, “The first SOB that gets near me is going to get this.” (I used the real words, which I had never done before.) They believed me and finally gave up and went home. I had a few other hard times because I was a country greenhorn.

Many times while on the Main Street I would pass a dray wagon hauling things to or from the railroad station. Mr. Davis and some of his three boys would be on it. The boys got to hollering, “Baby, Baby,” each time when they passed. It got annoying. One day I met one of them with an Ash boy. I just started swinging my fists. I backed up against the side of the Ford and Swiger store so they couldn’t get behind me. We were trading blows hard and fast, especially the Ash boy, when a man came along and parted us. That didn’t satisfy me or the Davis boys either.

Another day I met the three of them walking in front of the college. We started swinging. I remember college students gathered to watch on the lawn. I knew them, and many of them knew me because I went to the 7th grade there where they practice taught. I soon got the Davis boys separated. I would knock one into the street. Another would come; I would roll him. They soon had enough. Later they were good friends.

Tad Graham hadn’t had enough to suit him. One day Jennings brought his boxing gloves up to that same ball field for Tad and me to have it out. I beat him thoroughly because his arms were shorter than mine and he wouldn’t quit trying to clobber me. Tad was a friend from then on.

Working at Salem

I always had a job during the summer. The first summer after my 7th grade, I took office telephone calls for the Salem Block Company (they made cement blocks). Sometimes when they had train cars of sand or cement that had to be unloaded quickly, I would help with that. They had one man laborer besides the owners. I could handle more sand and as much cement bags as he did.

I did not wait until school was out to peddle bunches of onions. They were green onions from sets that Mom had brought from Denver, Colorado, when she and Uncle Waitie went there to see their brother, Uncle Elzie. These were called winter onions because they would be good eating-size by March. We put 5 or 6 onions in a bunch, and I sold them at 5 cents per bunch.

We had a hard time making a living. Dad taught mostly one-room schools and sold life insurance in the summer. His pay was not enough to keep us four children and Mother. Mother took in some washings to help. My father and I took filth jobs the summer after my 8th grade. Some of them were hacking jobs, and some were scythe jobs (like briers). I did not have to worry about copperheads. Dad could distinguish a copperhead smell as well as I could a bird song. Once when we were hacking brush on Dr. Davis’s farm on Tarkill, he said, “There’s a copperhead around.” We looked for a likely place and spied a big rotten stump. When we got it turned over, we killed two big rusty ones.

The next year was my first year away from Salem College for schooling. I went to Salem High School as a freshman. Among many exciting things, about the last of February, I took the measles. With other subjects that I did all right in, I had Latin, which kept me hustling to understand. These measles kept me out of school two weeks. Mother taught me to make flowers out of crepe paper and to tat so I could pass the time. Maybe I should have been studying Latin. When I got back, they had learned about verbs; and I was having an almost impossible job to catch up.

Along came the offer for high school boys to leave school to work on a farm to produce food for England and France during their war with Germany. I jumped at the chance. I went to Uncle Al and Aunt Martha Glover’s dairy farm on Route 23 one mile north of Salem. I had never milked a cow, and all milking was by hand then. The first morning at four o’clock Aunt Martha (she was not a real Aunt but acted like a sweet one) called, so Uncle Al and I went to the barn. While Uncle Al milked seven cows, I milked six. I was mighty proud, but my fingers were almost too tired to hold my knife and fork while I ate breakfast when we got to the house.

There was lots of good healthy work to do on the farm. We prepared the ground and planted the corn, harvested the meadows, and cut filth. If it rained, there were always things to do in the barn, like cleaning up and caring for the machinery.

One very hot evening I heard a buzzing while getting the cows out of the woods. After listening and watching a while, I located a bee tree. The entrance was about thirty feet up in the main trunk of a red oak. When I told Dad about it the next Sabbath on one of my weekly visits, he planned to come over and help me cut it. Uncle Al agreed to our cutting it. We sawed it down with a cross-cut saw (there were no power saws then). When it fell, the tree split lengthwise, leaving the honey entirely open as pretty as could be. The bees did not think we should take their honey. After burning some rags, we managed to get four water buckets of honey and a few stings.

I learned a lot about farming from Uncle Al, and Aunt Martha fed me so very well. One unusual thing I learned to eat was clabber milk from her cold spring house. The milk would be soured into a solid called clabber. When it was in my glass, I would take my knife or fork and chop it up some–then drink and smack my lips. Try this some day. You may find a drink much better than Coke.

Another drink I liked especially well was buttermilk. Often I enjoyed a supper of buttermilk and corn or light bread. Now, 1981, Grandma doesn’t churn; but she makes buttermilk by putting about four tablespoons of vinegar in a quart of milk or powdered milk (or until it starts to curd as you stir it–it might take more than the four tablespoons). I am having some buttermilk and cornbread flapjacks on this my 79th birthday for dinner or supper–or maybe both.

After school was out, my cousin Otho Randolph came to work with me. One of our biggest jobs was the harvesting. I had never done anything but help build shocks and ride the horse to haul them in. This summer I helped build the shocks and pitched it up to Uncle Al while Otho hauled it to us. It might interest you to know that my pay started at $10 for the first month and then raised to $20 per month.

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“So Long as We Both Shall Live”

April 6, 2009

I drove the new Chevy with Beef following me in the Pontiac and we arrived at the Watts home in time for a chicken dinner with the family and some of the wedding guests. That Wednesday, September 1, 1937 must have been the hottest for that date on record. After dinner I took a tub bath before dressing for the wedding at 2:00 p.m. Reece Burns, my Best Man, was with me when I tried to dry off with a towel after the bath. Several times, before I could dry myself with the towel, perspiration would cover my whole body. I began to wonder if I ever could get dressed. With Reece’s help I succeeded.

The Rev. Lloyd Powers, Madeline’s beloved longtime Baptist Pastor, performed the wedding ceremony in the living room of the Watts home. Madeline’s parents, John and Etta Watts; her brother Ralph and his wife, Susie and their son, Billie, attended. “Captain Jack” and “Mall Tulley with Charlie, Ruth and their daughter, Lenore Phillips were there. Matilda Whitlatch, a sorority sister, played the piano. Floyd Crane attended, too. Brady and Mary were my only family members attending. (My Mother could not cope with highly emotional experiences so she and Dad were not there.) Madeline’s best friend, Ruth Powers–eldest daughter of Pastor Powers–was Maid of Honor. Reece Burns “stood up” with me.

I recall an interesting comment from Pastor Powers during a visit with him before the wedding. He said, “You are going to learn that you have married strangers.” I don’t believe Madeline and I have ever found that to be true.

After receiving congratulations from the guests, and enjoying wedding cake and punch, we left on our honeymoon–not yet knowing where we would stop for the night. Floyd Crane left for New York State driving the Scout Pontiac and carrying a load of Madeline’s possessions. Included was the beautiful American Chestnut hope chest with hammered aluminum trim built by her father.

When Beef got back to Hornell, Chief Dunn asked him what he thought of the bride and Beef replied, “If Randy can’t get along with her, he can’t get along with anybody.”

After a few blocks of driving we stopped to remove the tin cans tied to the back bumper of the car and then were off into Pennsylvania and finally New York and Camp Gorton on a two-weeks honeymoon. Before we reached Morgantown Madeline opened a letter from her Mother and with it was a “keepsake” cameo necklace. Madeline wept softly and I was touched.

Road signs advertising a hotel with “special rates for honeymooners” led us to the impressive Summit Hotel atop a Pennsylvania mountain. Checking into a room we changed into bathing suits for a swim in the hotel’s Cabana Beach. (The pool didn’t live up to its name and we didn’t swim long.) The hotel dining room looked a bit too ritzy for our budget so we drove down the mountain to a restaurant called “Dad’s Place” and enjoyed a ham dinner.

Back at the hotel, it was fun walking around and listening to the orchestra play the dance music of the period in the ballroom. Enough to say our first night of married love was glorious!

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Early “Teen” Experiences

April 6, 2009

The summer of 1928, when I was fourteen years old, was the first of four vacations I lived on our farm with Dad. I have always believed a major reason brother Brady and Dad decided to buy the farm was to provide a work experience in a mountain setting and the opportunity to spend meaningful weeks living with Dad for me. If that was their motivation, they were justified in it and the results were all they could have hoped for. In those years of the great depression there was no work for a boy in Salem and I would have been at loose ends all summer, playing endless hours of tennis and being generally useless.

Summer life on the farm was quite like camping out. The terrain was steep and rough. A few acres were wooded–with some beautiful poplar trees–and most of the land that could be cultivated was overgrown with brush. (In West Virginia they call the unwanted growth “filth”.)

There were no buildings on the property until Dad, with some carpenter help, built a chicken house. We lived in that house for two summers. When it rained we moved the bed to the middle of the room to avoid the water that came through the cracks in the walls. We cooked on a wood burning stove and had kerosene lamps for light at night. (Dead chestnut trees provided excellent firewood.)

Until a well was drilled on top of the hill, we carried water from a spring on the hillside below the house. Going to the spring for water one day I spotted a copperhead snake sunning on a rock and killed it with a stone. It was great exercise cranking up water from the deep well that was drilled.

The first few days and nights of each summer on the farm I experienced real homesickness for Mamma, my friends and life in Salem. The after dark calls of the Whippoorwills brought on loneliness at bedtime. (Another nighttime sound was the slap, slap of flying squirrels jumping from one tree to another close the house. We didn’t see the flying squirrels in the daytime.)

The projects Dad and I worked together on most of the time were tending the garden crops and clearing the land of brush. One of our leisure time activities was target shooting with my twenty- two rifle. Once we walked to Elk river and went swimming. This was the only time I ever saw Dad swim. He wore his overalls and swam with a breast, or frog, stroke. With each stroke the bib of his overalls would balloon out. Dad had many experiences and stories to tell me as we worked and played. He enjoyed walking through the garden and around the farm as we rested from work on Sabbaths. He planted fruit trees of many varieties and raised blue ribbon quality Rhode Island Red Chickens.

Indians–probably Cherokees–must have lived and hunted on Bug Ridge. Of the several artifacts we picked up on our land, Dad’s was the finest–a black spear head perfectly crafted. It is the best artifact in my collection and I wear it now as a striking bolo.

I probably would not have chosen to spend those summers on the farm but now I would not exchange those experiences for any other activity I might have engaged in. The saying is certainly true, “You can take a boy out of the hills, but you can’t take the hills out of a boy”.

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Summers with Dad on our Bug Ridge Farm

April 6, 2009

The summer of 1928, when I was fourteen years old, was the first of four vacations I lived on our farm with Dad. I have always believed a major reason brother Brady and Dad decided to buy the farm was to provide a work experience in a mountain setting and the opportunity to spend meaningful weeks living with Dad for me. If that was their motivation, they were justified in it and the results were all they could have hoped for. In those years of the great depression there was no work for a boy in Salem and I would have been at loose ends all summer, playing endless hours of tennis and being generally useless.

Summer life on the farm was quite like camping out. The terrain was steep and rough. A few acres were wooded–with some beautiful poplar trees–and most of the land that could be cultivated was overgrown with brush. (In West Virginia they call the unwanted growth “filth”.)

There were no buildings on the property until Dad, with some carpenter help, built a chicken house. We lived in that house for two summers. When it rained we moved the bed to the middle of the room to avoid the water that came through the cracks in the walls. We cooked on a wood burning stove and had kerosene lamps for light at night. (Dead chestnut trees provided excellent firewood.)

Until a well was drilled on top of the hill, we carried water from a spring on the hillside below the house. Going to the spring for water one day I spotted a copperhead snake sunning on a rock and killed it with a stone. It was great exercise cranking up water from the deep well that was drilled.

The first few days and nights of each summer on the farm I experienced real homesickness for Mamma, my friends and life in Salem. The after dark calls of the Whippoorwills brought on loneliness at bedtime. (Another nighttime sound was the slap, slap of flying squirrels jumping from one tree to another close the house. We didn’t see the flying squirrels in the daytime.)

The projects Dad and I worked together on most of the time were tending the garden crops and clearing the land of brush. One of our leisure time activities was target shooting with my twenty- two rifle. Once we walked to Elk river and went swimming. This was the only time I ever saw Dad swim. He wore his overalls and swam with a breast, or frog, stroke. With each stroke the bib of his overalls would balloon out. Dad had many experiences and stories to tell me as we worked and played. He enjoyed walking through the garden and around the farm as we rested from work on Sabbaths. He planted fruit trees of many varieties and raised blue ribbon quality Rhode Island Red Chickens.

Indians–probably Cherokees–must have lived and hunted on Bug Ridge. Of the several artifacts we picked up on our land, Dad’s was the finest–a black spear head perfectly crafted. It is the best artifact in my collection and I wear it now as a striking bolo.

I probably would not have chosen to spend those summers on the farm but now I would not exchange those experiences for any other activity I might have engaged in. The saying is certainly true, “You can take a boy out of the hills, but you can’t take the hills out of a boy”.

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Memories of Chestnuting in West Virginia

April 6, 2009

NOTE: This article was published in GOOD OLD DAYS magazine in October 1973. Since then it has appeared in THE SALEM HERALD and in ECHOES FROM FORT NEW SALEM.

What changes had come in our ways of living since my boyhood years of the twenties in West Virginia. The generations of our children born since 1930 have missed experiences and modes of living that we, in our day, shared and enjoyed. Perhaps you will be interested in reminiscences from boyhood in Salem, West Virginia from the era historians have labeled “the Roaring Twenties”.

With the coming of October’s crisp, autumn days I’m reminded again of the fun boys had gathering chestnuts. It’s doubtful if there was a boy in Salem, in my time, who didn’t have a favorite grove of chestnut trees where he could harvest a bountiful supply of the delicious nuts.

As a tree, the American chestnut was sturdy and beautiful. Growing to a size comparable to the oaks, its crown was symmetrically rounded with branches carrying a thick foliage of glossy green leaves that turned a lovely yellow after heavy frosts.

Chestnut wood made excellent lumber. It was semi-hard with a wide, flowing grain alternating light and dark. Builders used chestnut wood in houses for interior trim. My wife’s Father built her a beautiful hope chest entirely of chestnut wood. One of the characteristics of chestnut was that it split cleanly and easily. This quality, with its resistance to decay when kept off the ground, made it a favorite material for the rail fences still in use on West Virginia farms past the first quarter of this century. And what farm boy of that period does not remember cutting, splitting and piling well-seasoned chestnut firewood for his Mother’s kitchen range? The axe-strike into chestnut wood on the chopping block made rhythmic percussion music and a well-stacked woodshed of chestnut firewood offered an aesthetic effect most pleasing to the eye. In a wood burning kitchen range chestnut wood burned with a quick, even heat a careful cook could depend on. My Mother knew just how many sticks she needed in the stove to bake an angel food cake to fluffy perfection.

Gathering chestnuts during the fall days was an annual ritual of hill country lads. As they grew on the tree, the coveted nuts were tightly encased–three or four together–in a round, green burr the size of a small apple and covered with needle-sharp spines painful to touch or step on. A riddle describing a chestnut burr went like this:

“Round as an apple; sharp as an awl–

Pick it up and you’ll let it fall.”

After frosts the burrs, still clinging to the branches, burst open like inverted tulip flowers and let the smooth, silky dark brown nuts drop into hiding among the fallen leaves on the ground. It was a challenge to move under a chestnut tree with patient concentration–brushing the leaves back as you looked–intent on picking up enough chestnuts to make one’s pockets bulge.

In actual practice, however, we never waited for the chestnut burrs to open and drop the nuts. Soon after school began in September we would begin harvesting the chestnuts by knocking the formidable burrs off of the tree with thrown stones and sticks and gingerly opening them until they released the nuts.

A pocket full of green chestnuts to eat or share in school during early Autumn was a genuine status symbol though to eat many of them was to invite a sore mouth and dire gastric results. Teachers often emptied our pockets of their hoarded store when the sound of cracking the outer shell of the chestnut between our teeth gave us away.

Knowing the location of chestnut trees that bore a good crop of quality nuts was important. Like hickory nut trees, individual chestnut trees produced nuts of a certain size, from small to as big as a buckeye or horse chestnut. Larger chestnuts were much sought after though perhaps the flavor of the smaller ones was sweeter.

I remember there were a number of productive chestnut trees near the stone quarry on the Ehret farm at the head of Pennsylvania Avenue. The nearness of these tree to town made it a race to get any nuts. There were excellent trees that bore large chestnuts on the Alexander Randolph farm west of Salem. I would not have divulged this secret seventy years ago.

Having a Good supply of sound chestnuts stored for the winter gave one a e sense of well-being. In a good year there might be a bushel or more to eat as special treats when company came or the family was gathered around the fire on winter evenings. Keeping the chestnuts was no problem except that, like apples, they sometimes got wormy. Sprinkling the nuts with salt may have helped.

Most of the time we ate the chestnuts raw. After a few weeks in storage the nuts got softer and the flavor improved. We boiled or roasted the nuts on occasion, too. Imaginative cooks discovered delicious uses for chestnuts in dressings, salads and sundry dishes.

Now the majestic American chestnut tree is all but extinct. A fungus disease has taken it toll until only a few specimens of the once plentiful tree remain in the United States. People of my generation are grateful for our memories of “chestnuting in the West Virginia hills. We continue hopeful the struggle of the scientists to save the species may yet succeed.

NOTE: I saw a healthy, growing chestnut tree at Camp Joy near Berea, West Virginia, in a recent year. In July of 1992 Milton Van Horn showed me a healthy chestnut tree in his woodlot in Milton, Wisconsin.

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Chapter 7 – A Country School Teacher

April 6, 2009

I was eighteen years old and scared and very lonely. I didn’t know a person within twenty “country” miles, for I had arrived at Lawford, West Virginia. There was one store and three houses. The school house was a mile up the creek, where I was to teach school. I had room and board at a large house about a half mile from the school.

The family consisted of a middle-aged couple by the name of Wagoner, their ten year old son, Andrew, and her aged mother who was paralyzed from the waist down. They were typical mountain people who could just write their names (the grandmother couldn’t), and they took little stock with “book learnin.” They had a good farm and were more affluent than most of their neighbors. They probably secured their wealth by keeping the teachers year after year, for they charged me $10.00 a month!

Lawford was a full day’s trip by buggy from the nearest railway station. But in September I was able to get a truck to take my trunk and me out there. Later a trip had to be made in a buggy or on horseback because the roads were very bad.

I arrived at my new home on Sunday afternoon and my trunk was deposited in the hall where it had to be unpackedbefore Mr. Wagoner could carry it upstairs to my room. That was quite a scene; for allof these strangers sat around watching me pull out each piece from the trunk. They were very frank to express their dislike for “city duds.” When I had finished the task of unpacking, I was told that there wasn’t much there that would be suitable to wear in that community. I don’t know why, but for some reason they didn’t ask my age. They informed me that the last two teachers had been “run off ” by the scholars. No wonder, though, for the last one had been only nineteen years old! This was one time I was grateful because I looked older than I was. I never told my age as long as I stayed there.

How blue I was! If it hadn’t been so far to the railroad, I would travel been leaving that night. I was sorely tempted as it was.

I had been used to good gas lights at home, and here I had only a little kerosene lamp. We hava gas stove in every room at home and here I was in an upstairs room that had never had any heat in it. The heat problem would not bother for a month or so, though. I was accustomed to having friends about me and going places every day. Here I could scarcely communicate because of the difference in age arid interests. The only place to go was to church one Sunday a month. For some peculiar reason, the Wagoners never even visited in the neigborhood. and that left me very much outside of the society of the community.

In college we had been told to start our school year with great severity. We were urged to prepare two paddles and fasten them together in such a way that they would make a loud noise when they were used. According to the going theory of the day, a number of rules should be imposed, and the first pupil to break one rule was to be paddled before the whole school. The paddle would make a loud noise; the child would scream, supposedly, and the teacher must yell as each lick was hit. Such fear would be upon them all that there would be no more trouble out of any of them. Did it work? I don’t know, for I never had the courage to try it.

Fourty-some students arrived on Monday morning at that little one-room, run down, lopsided school house. The youngest was six and must be taught to read and write. The oldest was nineteen and would be in the eighth grade. My greatest problem, however, was with three teenage boys who were in the sixth grade. Their arithmetic was to give me many restless nights!

The schoolhouse had six windows and one outside door. There were some other openings large enough to “throw a cat through” as the local expression was. When cold weather came, we stuffed them with rags best we could. There were hooks across the back of the room for their hats and coats. A small. table stood by the door with a water bucket and dipper. A table was on a platform in the front for the teacher’s desk. There were two blackboards and two benches across the front as recitation benches. The children sat at desks made for two, but sometimes occupied by three because of the crowded conditions. A large “pot-bellied” coal stove sat in the middle of the room and furnished all the heat they ever had. Those nearest the stove got blistered faces, and those on the outter row got frozen feet if we forgot to rotate about every hour.

In the school lot was a pump from which we carried our drinking water. A coal shed provided the fuel for the stove. The other buildings on the grounds were marked “boys” and “girls” and it was a contnual wonder to me that they didn’t fall over some time when a half dozen giggling girls or bragging boys would crowd in. The last year’s catalogues that could be spared from the homes were put to use here.

One family by the name of Collins sent five children to school. The oldest boy I had was from that family. I will explain later how he helped me. They walked across a hill two and a half miles and seldom missed unless there was some urgent work at home. They invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. That was the first turkey I ever ate, and I thought I had a real treat.

The days were full. and busy, but the evenings and nights were almost unbearable. In the early fall, I would go with Mrs. Wagoner to the barn lot and sit on a stump while she milked. There was a whipporwill in the meadow that cried each night, and it gave me the most lonely feeling I have ever had. I still cannot enjoy hearing one, for I feel alone, regardless of how many people may be around. There were two warm rooms in the house when winter descended upon us, the sitting room where they had a gas stove, and the kitchen with its huge woodburning stove. We ate in the dining room without heat, so no one tarried long at the table. There was no bathroom, so everyone washed in the kitchen. The stove had a large built-in container for water, so there was usually plenty of hot water at all times. There was no sink, so a bucket was set by the washstand and the water was emptied into it. In milder weather we just went to the door and threw the water into the yard, but in cold weather you just didn’t open the door that often.

We ate good country food: milk; butter; potatoes; apples; pork and dried bearis. We always had biscuits, meat and gravy for breakfast and corn bread the other two meals. I longed for light bread, and one day she let me make a batch. All of them liked it, so she learned to make it and we had some every week. It tasted better than a cold biscuit with apple buttter in a lunch pail at school.

These mountain people were very superstitious. They used to explain their contacts with ghostly appearances, and then I would cover up my head all night. I had heard ghost stories before, but never believed in them. I still didn’t, but the differences in culture and thought would get next to me in the dark and cold of that lonely room. I wondered sometimes if witchcraft might not be a partial reality.

One day we were cutting apples and a “news bee” hovered around my hands. Mrs. Wagoner said he was trying to give me some bad news, and that of a surety, I would get it by mail within a week. Sure enough, I heard of the death of one of my distant relatives. She said, “See, I told you so. You must learn to accept the truth.” They felt that “much learning” had made me incapable of living a simple life!

Life became less tedious for a while because I found a boy friend. I believe he worked there on a nearby farm for a few weeks. We met at the Box Supper at the schoolhouse. I must tell you first about that unusual. social event. It was a money making project for the school. The women of the community prepared some good food, like a picnic lunch, and boxed it. The box was made as attractive as possible with crepe paper so the wen would want to buy it for a good price. The girl whose box brought the highest price was a real celebrity. She was the queen of the community for months to come. The boxes were sold at auction, and then the girl must eat with the one who bought her box. Husbands were expected to buy their wives’ boxes, or there would be talk. I believe we made around $40.00 that year, and it was used to purchase materials for art classes. I got watercolors, crayons, colored chalk, art paper, patterns and so forth, for the children to use. They had never had such a wonderful opportunity before. We took all of Friday afternoons for them to do creative things, and some of them were quite good. We always had decorations on our walls and windows that were appropriate to the season.

My first and biggest discipline problem almost finished me. There were two teenage boys who spent their nights coon hunting. They would come to school late and sleepy. They were the trouble makers who had whipped the teacher the year before and “run her off.” One day they brought their hound dog and chained him up at the front door. He soon tuned up in a loud concert, and I told them to loose him and send him home. Reluctantly they did so, but they brought the chain in and began to pull it back and forth across the desk. I told them to put it away, but to no avail. Then I asked that it be brought to my desk. They refused and suggested that I try to take it.

I have always been quite stubborn and determined to finish what I started. So I went back to get that chain. They stood up with clenched fists and waited. As I passed the stove, I picked up the poker. I never knew whether I would have used it or not, and they didn’t either. The oldest boy, Lonnie Collins, stood and moved over to assist me, and the others of his family followed suit. The two boys soon saw they were alone, and they placed the chain in my outstretched hand. What a relief! They never returned to school another day that year. The pattern of getting rid of the teacher was broken and by the next day I felt my nervous tension gone.

As you can see, I survived that term, but I was not willing to go so far into no-man’s land the next year. I applied nearer home and got a school on Sycamore, in Doddridge County. It was about eighteen miles from home, but could as well have been eighty. When the roads got bad, there was no way to get out except to walk or ride horseback. I walked out once and rode horseback many times.

Many exciting things happened to me at this second teaching appoiritment. I found a place to board at Thomas Swiger’s, which was within sight of the schoolhouse. Swiger was the most common name in the community. The family consisted of the couple and their three children, Dallas, about twenty-one, Ila, my age, and Loy, who went to school. A couple months later they took two grandsons.

The house had two main rooms and a shed kitchen. There was an attic where the boys slept. The downstairs rooms had large open fireplace where gas was burned for heat. A large wood stove had been converted into a gas stove in the kitchen, so they had things modern and more convenient than most of those who lived around them. I believe their gas was free because they had some wells that were in use by the Hope Natural Gas Company.

Ila and I shared one room and one bed. Later, when the grandchildren came, we shared the bed with the two year old. The bed had no springs, just slats, and a straw tick which was filled with new straw each fall. Every day when you made up the bed, you stirred the straw to fluff it. Some people had a feather tick over the straw tick, but we were not that fortunate.

Every day’s menu was the same. For breakfast we had biscuits, butter, molasses, fried potatoes, pickled beans, canned peaches and maybe once a week an egg. At noon and at night we had corn bread instead of biscuits and the remainder of it was the same. There were times, however, that we would have some pork, kraut, and dried beans. I don’t think I ever sat down at that table when there wasn’t a dish of pickled beans.

The Swigers had some peach trees way back on the hill and they couldn’t afford to make many trips back there with the wagon. So when they went, they picked all the peaches, which were quite green. They didn’t waste things, so they canned them at once, and without sugar. I have never been too fond of canned peaches to this day.

Pickled beans were plentiful. They picked bushels of nice beans and all the neighbors came in to help string them. The next day they were cooled and placed in a large barrel, we called them rain barrels, for everyone kept one or more at the eaves of the house to catch rain water for washing clothes. In two weeks or so, they were sour enough for table use and became the mainstay for the winter. They did not think beans or corn should be canned. How grateful I am for canned and frozen vegetables!

I believe thirty-some students appeared that first day of school. We had a new schoolhouse and it had good lighting (sunlight) and, wonder of wonder, two cloak rooms and a gas stove for heat. The community was justly proud of their modern school. Five of the students were grown young men. I made the terrible mistake the first day of asking if any of them could use a scythe and cut the weeds on the school. yard. They didn’t say much then, but their looks spoke louder than words. The idea of asking a farm boy if he could cut weeds! I remember some of their names: Harry Holbert; Brent Ashcraft; and Archie Swiger. (I have been Mrs. Archie Swiger for forty-three years) The others I can’t recall their full names. One was Orville and the other was a Smith.

I am not sure that I taught them much, but we kept busy. We added art and music to the regular subjects. We had practice in public speaking by having a community program once a month. The small children said memorized pieces and the older ones debated with students from other schools. The school was the heart of all community activity, and the teacher could have a very strong influence over them.

If we went anywhere at night, all the young people went in a group. There were several who had finished school so that we would be a group of around eight or ten when we attended a program at another school or went to a revival. Anywhere we went, we had a big hill to climb and fences to get over or through. We thought nothing of walking three or four miles, and then back home again. Once in a while some of the girls would not be permitted to go, and then Ila and I would have to stay home, for it would not look good for just two girls to go with several boys. Usually, if Ila’s brother was along, we were permitted to go.

Another social event of the area was the visit of the teacher to most of the homes for a weekend visit. There was likely to be a gathering of all the young people at that home on Saturday night or Sunday afternoon. We would pop corn. roast chestnuts, dig apples out of the winter storage hole, and just have a good time.

I enjoyed this school year, but I didn’t want to go back another year because of the problem of a place to stay. I couldn’t go back to the same place again because Ila and I had a “falling out” and I didn’t stay there the last two weeks of that term. I have no idea what our problem was. The home where I spent those two weeks was not a satisfactory place, for the man drank and she didn’t want anyone to know it; so she wouldn’t take me. (Of course I had known it ever since I arrived there, but one didn’t let on about such things.)

My third year of teaching was back in the same county where I taught the first year, only it was not so far out. I had a nice place to stay near the school which was in the little village of Berea where I had lived as a small child. Dad was teaching in the same county about four miles up Otterslide. I knew everyone in that area, so it was not so lonesome. Some of my relatives lived there. Aunt Callie and her family, and many cousins once or twice removed.

The year was more or less uneventful until March, when I took quite ill. A doctor was called after several days. He had to come five miles, so you didn’t call him for every ache or pain. He said I had appendicitis and must be operated on at once. It was five miles to a paved road and six more miles to the railroad and then forty miles to the hospital. The country roads were impassable for an automobile, yet the doctor said I could not ride in a wagon. You should have seen that procession. They put me in the back: seat of a Ford and hitched a team of horses to pull it to the paved road.

I survived the ordeal and the operation, but didn’t get back tofinish the term of school. An old retired teacher in the community did that for me.

During these years of teaching, I attended summer school and got my permanent teacher’s certificate and a Standard Normal from Salem College.

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Chapter 1 – Country Life In The Early Twentieth Century (A Child’s View)

April 6, 2009

The covered bridge over the Hughes River was the meeting place for the children of the little Ritchie County community of Berea, West Virginia. The boys must always show their prowess by walking all the way over the founded beams that supported the side of the roof of the bridge. When they had successfully maneuvered their way across (it was very seldom for any one of them to fall the fifteen feet to the floor of the bridge, and when they did, Old Doc quickly splintered their broken arm), it was time for the girls to try their skill. They were never permitted (by their brothers),to go more than a third of the way up, and then they could sit quietly there to rest on their laurels before backing down to the safety of the bridge floor.

There was an open gas flame on a pole between the village store and post office. Since this was the only outside light in the community, it was the gathering place on summer evenings for the children. Fireflies, moths, and all other flying insects also considered this the proper place to spend, and I do mean spend, a worthwhile hour or two.

As the children played, the men discussed the events of importance. Politics always came in for its fair share of argument. Teddy Roosevelt and his exploits were either the greatest or the world’s worst, depending upon which “Party” you supported. News of the outside world would arrive by way of the mailman about twice a week, but in between times the “old news” would suffice for heated discussions.

The mothers of the community rarely entered into village play and deliberations. There were always stockings to be darned, trousers to patch, and a million-and-one other things to occupy their time. They baked their own bread for the family, washed their clothes on a scrub board and ironed them with a “flat iron.” They dried and sulphured their fruit and vegetables that would suffice for food during the winter months. (Not many things could be canned in the early twentieth century. Pork was preserved by salting and beef by drying.) Fodder beans (dried beans in the pods) was a staple food for winter meals, and I still like them. The women also made all the clothes for the family with the exception of a “Sunday suit” for Dad and the boys after they “grew up.”

There were a few days of the year when the women folk could really shine. Among these special occasions would be: First, there was the thirtieth day of May picnic when buggies and wagons would come to Pine Grove from as far as five miles away. (I must tell you a little later how ice cream was provided for this feast.)

Second, the community Christmas tree at the school house. There would be a program using all the local talent. The tree was lighted with candles that glowed with a far greater splendor than any of the modern day lights. The gifts had no fancy wrappings, but were just hung from every branch and piled on the floor under the tree if they would not hang. After the program in the school house, fireworks were put off from the hill overlooking the village. There might be a half-dozen “Roman candles,” dozens of “sparklers” and firecrackers without number.

Third, there were bean stringings, apple cuttings, and quiltings which were days for social gatherings in which the women would really show their skills. Perhaps five to ten bushels of beans would be picked and the neighbors would come in to help prepare them. There would be music and games for the young folks and work and talk for the others. The next day these beans would be washed and partially cooked and placed into a large barrel and left to sour. After about three weeks, they would turn into delicious “pickled beans,” and would be eaten every day during the long winter months. (If you don’t think they would be good, get a recipe and make a gallon of them. Your family will enjoy the change.)

Another big barrel was used to sulfur apples. If you have smelled sulfur, you will wonder how anything could be eaten that had been around that terrible odor. When the proper amount of sulfur was used, the apples remained white and had a fresh taste when cooked. Bushels of apples were dried. You can still buy dried fruit in stores, peaches, apricots, prunes, and even apples, but they turned very dark and had a different taste when cooked.

Nearly every home in the community would have a quilting day during the winter. The women folks would piece quilts all year and finally when four or five were ready to set in the frames, the neighbors would be invited in to help quilt them. It was important for the young ladies to learn to be good quilters if they wanted to be recommended to the most eligible young men. All day long the sewing and laughing and talking continued. When evening came, this family had new quilts to keep them warm.

I guess there may be one or more strange characters in your area–there was, and is, in ours. Poor Toody lived in anticipation of these special days and she never missed one. She wasn’t much good with the needle, but she was “S-1″ at the table. She would manage to get to the “first” table and remain through the second and third shifts. When everyone else had finished, Toody would finally leave the table weeping and when asked why she wept, she would say, “It is so sad that I can’t eat more when there are such good things left.”

The farmers assisted each other at wood cuttings, corn huskings, and hay harvesting. These were family gatherings because the women came with food and brought the children along. The boys and girls were responsible to draw water from the dug well and keep the men in the field supplied with fresh drinking water. The best food available was provided on these occasions, even pie and cake.

Let me tell you how a group of people who work together can provide special treats for themselves. In our locality there was an old one-room log house. This house was filled with sawdust. When the river froze over solidly, the men would go down and cut out chunks of ice and store them in the sawdust. Each participating family would be permitted to remove a certain number of blocks for his own use. On the 30th of May, ice cream would be made for all the picnickers. Sometimes there was enough ice left to have ice cream for the 4th of July also!

The three-room school house in the heart of the village served the countryside for miles around. The pupils varied in age from 5 to 20 years and the teachers were sometimes younger than some of their charges. I was lucky, though, for Dad was my first teacher. We lived in sight of the school and I was permitted to go in the fall before I became five. I recall asking to be “excused” and then running home to get a “piece.” One day I whispered and disturbed Dad and he punished me by placing me on the corner of his desk with a “fascinator” tied around my face so I couldn’t see. (A fascinator was a head scarf made of a long narrow piece of woolen cloth.) It was a serious punishment for me to have to sit quietly and have no one with whom I could whisper.

The village store was a treasure house to the youngsters. They always had candy: rock candy that looked and tasted about like a rock, except that if you sucked carefully on it, you got a faint taste of sugar; maple sugar candy that was molded into exciting shapes–hearts, stars and cubes–and it was really good, even though it had been left in the open to dry out by the month so that it became as hard as the rock candy; several varieties of stick candy were always awaiting the one who had the nerve to try to bite them; green pickle candy was the real treat. It looked like a small pickle and was as sour as a homemade pickle. These precious tid-bits came pretty high–one egg carried carefully in the hand and presented to Mr. Jackson could be exchanges for two “pickles” and they could last all day if you gave yourself a little rest before you started on the second one.

Even a community of thirty-nine people had its characters. There were Uncle Jake and Old Doc, Aunt Perdillie and Aunt Lovie, these were their real names, who were the “salt of the earth.”

Uncle Jake liked children, I guess, and he was always after them about something. He walked with a cane. This cane had an especially big crook in the handle, and any child seeking to slip by Uncle Jake for any reason at all would find himself brought face to face with the old man by the force of that crook around his neck. Every child feared him, but no one ever heard of any harm done by him to anyone.

Old Doc had delivered all the babies in a fifteen-mile radius and watched them grow into men and women. He always made each child feel he was someone special. To every girl he would say, as he patted her head, “Pretty as a peach with the fuzz rubbed off.” To the boys he would say, “Oh, that muscle is really developing.” Any time a child had to be taken to his office, which was in a little white-washed shack in his front yard, there were some candy pills doled out into his hand, as many sometimes as a half dozen, and they were sure to do the trick, even if you were still sick a week later.

Aunt Perdillie and her husband, Uncle John, lived in a two-room house in the heart of town. He was paralyzed and unable to walk, so he sat all. day long in his rocking chair while Aunt Perdillie went out to do a few chores for neighbors to earn their living. They received an old-folks pension of $5.00 a month, so with the things given to them by neighbors, they got along. She would give a penny once in a while to a child who would sit with him at times when he was feeling “poorly.” She was highly respected for her devotion to her crippled husband. Children would sit by the hour in the shade of the house on a long hot afternoon, soaking up “local color.” There was no better way to her the news, for she was the town “gossip.”

Poor Aunt Lovie was renowned for her stinginess! When she had guests for a meal, she could be expected to say, “Help yourself to the butter. There’s more in the cellar in a teacup.” She was the guardian of her precious loaf of bread, for she kept it in her lap and if someone asked for a slice, she would cut it and pass it over with the remark, “I don’t like to cut any ahead, for it dries out so bad.” Her idiosyncrasies were always good for a laugh when the men gathered for a session.

Religion played an important part in the lives of these country people. There were two established churches, and when a third one, -Seventh Day Adventists, sought to establish a congregation, the holy ire of the community was aroused. The new minister was forced into public debate and thoroughly humiliated by the men of the community who tricked him into “deep water” out of which he was unable to swim. Their objections to this new doctrine did not concern the keeping of the Sabbath, for the majority of the community were Sabbath-keepers, but they objected to the ban on the eating of pork and the doctrine of “soul sleep.” To this day, the Seventh Day Baptist group still have a church and the Adventists are only mentioned in connection with reminiscences.

The yearly “protracted meeting” was held in the late fall when all crops were gathered in and the work was slack. From every direction you could see the lights converging on the “church in the dell.” Each family brought a lantern to see to walk by and to use in lighting the church. Time had been spent in every household some time during the day in filling the lantern with coal oil and (:leaning and polishing the globe so as to get the best possible light from it. Sometimes mischievous boys would turn the wick up on some lanterns to make them smoke so no light could penetrate the globe. They were considered the Is roughnecks,” and prayers were said for their souls. The meetings frequently continued for six weeks with much rejoicing and an “experience meeting” each night when the grownups got to testify about their personal lives. (The truth about this was that everyone there already knew so much about each one as he knew about himself–sometimes it agreed with his testimony, and sometimes not.)

This meeting afforded the main social opportunity of the year. The young men lined up at the door to ask the young ladies of their choice if they might “see them home.” The two or three-mile walk through the mud or snow–whichever it chanced to be–gave ample time for exciting conversations and spills and pick-ups which provided a little harmless physical contact, always in the close proximity of the rest of her family (and probably his). The old folks and children were preferred as chaperones and permitted to carry the lanterns while the courters walked behind in order to make the most of the lantern light, so they declared.

The grist mills was always good for a few hours of interesting perusal if nothing else developed. The mill pond, formed by the dam, was too deep for a playground, but at times it was possible to walk across the top of the dam a few times without being caught. That was as exciting as the visit of a stranger in the village, and almost as rare. The great mill wheel was always turning, for there was never a shortage of water in the river. The splash, splash of the water as it came off the wheel could carry a contemplative child into the land of dreams where all sorts of exciting things took place.

When the mill was running, it was an exciting place to be. The farmers brought their grists of corn and wheat and stacked them inside the great dusty room. A bag at a time would be opened and poured into the hopper. Then the real entertainment began as one could run from place to place watching the progress of the grain as it was turned into meal or flour. Eventually it poured out of a chute into a bag and was ready to be used for baking bread, cakes, cookies or pies. The miller, in his flour-covered clothes, always divided the finished product, keeping one bag out of four for his share as payment for having ground the grain. The little country stores for miles around would stock their supply of flour and meal from his “share” that was always piled high in the storage room.

Winter was a wonderful time in this remote section. Ice skating and sleigh riding were the natural recreational outlets for about two months of every year. Even school days did not prevent the youngsters from skating and sleighing, since the river was near enough on the one hand, and the “hill” was in easy distance the other direction. So the noon hour afforded ample time to enjoy whatever sport was best at the time. I doubt that the lunch pail got much attention those days, only something that could be consumed “on the run” was appreciated. Practically every child owned a pair of ice skates, store-bought, and a sled, home-made, and learned to use them before he entered school.

The grownups were more likely to use the “river” and the “hill” at night. They would build bonfires and make a real social occasion of it. Some of the families had sleds drawn by one or two horses, in which they transported their families to church and other necessary places. A good layer of hay was placed in the bed of the sleigh and everyone crawled in and covered with quilts and blankets against the cold winds that were generated by the fast movement of that plow horse that was doubling as a racer for this occasion.

Many important subjects came in for their share of discussion around the stove in the store, mill, or blacksmith shop. The weather was always good for an opener, whether it was hot or cold, wet or dry. “Crops” would always strike fire if certain farmers were present, who invariably had the “most corn to the acre,” the biggest “punkins,” and so forth.

One subject that had top rating for several weeks was “Halley’s Comet.” The story was widespread that when this comet approached the earth, it would swing around and its tail would touch the earth and set it on fire. It would be the end of the world. This was discussed pro and con by the hour while the appointed time for its appearance drew near. The children were spellbound as they listened to the tale–afraid to hear it, but too curious to run away and hide. There were nights of troubled sleep for the young fry who talked in whispers about what it would be like if all the world was afire. Would the river be a safe place to hide? (It was as much as fifteen feet deep in spots.) Or would it be better to find a deep cave to hide in while the fire burned? The night the comet was to be visible passed without incident, and there was an unconscious sighing of great relief when the population awoke as usual and found themselves still alive and everything normal.

There was no such thing as a daily newspaper in that farming area, but there were a few families who took weekly and monthly farm and family magazines. GRIT was a great favorite as an all-around weekly news and specialty paper. YOUTH COMPANION carried a serial story and other features of interest to the whole family. The day the companion came was a special one, for everyone hurried a little faster with the chores order to gather in the “sitting room” for the reading of the continued story. One member read aloud, so all could get the exciting details at the same time. Today’s theaters would do well to secure some of the reading talent that was developed in those evening sessions! The best reader was urged to do the honors, since a great deal of their pleasure depended upon the romantic atmosphere provided by the voice, accents, and speed of the reader. There were some homes where even the best reader left much to be desired, but if it happened to be the story of an Indian raid, a slow monotonous voice reading, “As I stared toward the window, there appeared two feathers moving upward , and then the hideously painted face of a savage came into full view.” would help to ease the pain of suspenseful anxiety.

By the way, have you ever experienced the feeling of contentment that “all’s well with the world” sense of satisfaction that accompanies group reading? Get a few compatible companions and try reading poetry, a new novel, a book on present-day trends in race relations, a book on prison life in a Communist country, and see if life doesn’t put on new interest and emphasis.

Music had an important place in the lives of these contented people. There were few instruments in the community–most of them pump organs. Some churches had organs, and a few homes were so blessed, but few people learned to play them. Perhaps as many as two women would be able to play the church hymns. There was one accordion in the community, but it had little in common with the present day instrument. It had twelve (?) notes and two bass notes. (I still have one that my mother used.) Singing came natural with these people. Nobody had a trained voice, but nearly all could “carry a tune,” and they enjoyed doing so. Certain people were considered leaders because they owned a pitch-pipe, which would give them the proper pitch for starting a song. This was used when no instrument was to be played.

After the first frost fell in the fall of the year, a new and interesting chapter of life began. The gathering of nuts was the children’s contribution to the winter supply of interesting food. There were chestnut, hickory nut, walnut, butternut, and hazelnut trees in abundance. (Now all the chestnut trees are dead from a blight, and only a few of the others have survived the years.)

The most frequent and enjoyable excursions were made to get chestnuts. Those trees were large and grew outward more than upward. Longfellow described it when he said:
Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stood

Chestnuts grew in round shells, or envelopes, that were completely covered with prickly burs. When they were ripe, these burs fell to the ground and frequently burst open on impact to reveal four sections which contained one nut in each. These burs were fully lined with a soft substance which felt like velvet. At times, the nuts seemed so content with their soft pleasant home that they were reluctant to leave it. In that case, you took a stick to force them out while you held on to the bur with your foot–if you had shoes on.

The pleasure of gathering these nuts was almost eclipsed by the pure delight of eating them. They were good in so many different ways. On long winter evenings, chestnuts Would be placed in the coals in the open fireplace and heated until they would burst open. It took careful watching to eat a hot one without getting burned on the shell. If there was no fire for roasting them, they Would be boiled and the taste was quite delightfully different. Then, of course, they were available for stuffing the Christmas turkey or, more completely, the rooster.

It was great fun to gather the hard-shelled nuts: hickory, walnut, butternut, and so on, but they were tiresome to crack and pick out.

Long hours of confining work were required to get a dish full of those nuts prepared for use in baking or candy making. They had very thick shells, and it took a hard lick with a hammer to crack one. (The shells are much like the shell of a Brazil nut, only thicker and tougher.) You had to hold the nut between your fingers on a piece of iron or stone and then whack it. Many fingers have been badly bruised in the effort, and thumbnails lost in the process. Then the tedious task of picking out the kernels began. You used a wire hairpin or a nut pick to dig the kernel out of its hiding place. The next time you go to the store and buy a little plastic package of black walnuts, remember what it cost someone to prepare them.

One of the joys of springtime was following after the plow. “Tasting” the feel of freshly-turned earth on bare feet! All winter you had worn high shoes that cramped your thoughts, if not your toes, but now for the first time since last fall, those toes could enjoy their freedom again.

The earthworms that were plowed up must not be wasted, either. The fishing holes were beckoning. Many frying pans in the community would be full of tobacco box and black sunfish the next few days. (People call these fish bass today.) What a glorious way to spend a lazy afternoon–sitting on the river bank with a home-grown fishing pole in your hands and a string of three or four five-inch fish flapping around in the water beside you! Then is when your dreams of the future really blossomed, the fruit might never mature, but you had the pleasure of the blooms, anyway.

The words “hay harvest” bring varying responses. Some of them are happy; some are filled with dread and fear; some recall hard work and sweat, and there are many memories of pleasurable experiences. Children had certain pre-arranged jobs connected with harvesting. There was always the continuing job of carrying water from the spring to the workers. If they were working as much as a mile away from the house, dinner Must be carried to them–otherwise, it Must be served on the table. Someone had to ride the horses to haul the hay shocks to the stack area, and of course the small fry were selected for the job so that everyone big enough to “pitch” hay would be available for that job.

Two things were dreadful to me about those haying days. The sweat bees stung my legs as I rode bareback on the horse. I was so afraid of them that if one was flying around me, I was likely to forget to guide the horse to the right place. A few tears were inevitable because, if I got stung, I cried, and if I failed to guide the horse properly, I got scolded and I cried. And then I was always afraid I would see a snake. My brothers were older than I, and they assured me they would protect me, but there was always the idea that they might be far away.

Nell was a fine horse. She could travel well in a buggy, and she was a five-gaited traveler. My Dad was very proud of her, but she had one big fault–she was afraid of cars. On the rare occasions that we would meet a car on the road, she had to be held by the bridle and talked to, patted, and reassured. We were always sent scampering up the bank above the road for protection as soon as we heard a car approaching. (You could hear them a mile away in those days.)

Old Nell and I had a mutual understanding with which Dad could never agree. As soon as Nell saw me approaching with a bridle, she would lay back her ears, bare her teeth and run at me. I never went far from the fence and always made it over safely before she got there. Dad insisted she would not hurt me and he would send me back again and again. If my memory serves me right, I never did prove that she wouldn’t eat me up. One of the boys always ended up catching her and then I could ride her or lead her anywhere.

Country children were taught to be afraid of certain things. My list included: mad dogs, gypsies, snakes, buck sheep and bulls. In our wandering around the country, we avoided fields where there were sheep or cattle, so that was usually taken care of. But we couldn’t tell when a band of wandering gypsies might come through. (I remember seeing one band off three wagons when I was very small.) Any time we were on the road and heard a wagon coming, we visualized gypsies until it came into view and we knew the people.

A boy in our county, we didn’t know the family, had been bitten by a mad dog and died a terrible death. So this idea of fear would fill my thoughts if I chanced to be alone for any distance away from the house. I suppose I have run many miles fleeing from an imaginary dog. I never saw a mad dog until many years later, and then it wasn’t a strange dog, but our own.

Dad had a sister, Aunt Callie, her name was really Calfernia, who lived in the nicest house in all the Countryside for miles about. It was built on the top of a steep hill about three miles down the river from Berea, our little village. When the weather was good, you could drive there by buggy or wagon, or ride horseback. Most people walked over the hills and avoided crossing the river, which was necessary if you went by road.

To my childish mind, this great two-story white house was a castle in the clouds. It had a wide stairway with railing that was perfect for sliding, providing you didn’t get caught! If you did get caught, once in a long while, you were likely to stand up for a few hours in order not to add to the pain that was present with you.

The rooms were large and filled with interesting things which had not been made for children’s play toys. Two of the most interesting rooms were forbidden territory except on very infrequent occasions. The parlor was reserved for very special guests, which I never was in those days. Recently we have gone back there twice for a few hours, and that was the room we were taken into. I had to ask to see the kitchen and dining room. Cousin Julia is now dead and only her sisters, Conza and Draxie, and Rupert, their brother, still live there.

In 1965 when we visited there, after a bumpy and dangerous trip up the hill, we parked the car in the yard. Conza came out to warn us to be sure all windows were closed; otherwise, we might not have any upholstery left, for one of the horses was in the habit of eating all such delicate repasts. We didn’t know how smart the horse was, so we locked the doors, too.

There were special chairs covered with velvet and lovely soft cushions in every one. A table held an “Aladdin lamp,” which was a special oil-burning lamp that was much better than the ordinary ones used in the rest of the house. On the walls of this room hung the prize pictures of the members of the family. They were “enlarged” and framed in wide gold-colored frames about two by three feet, and some of them were larger. Those pictures are still there, and on the table stand is the same velvet-covered album of pictures that was their pride and joy a half-century ago.

Aunt Callie and Uncle John have been gone many years, and their children who still live there are now older and more feeble than I remember- my uncle and aunt. No wonder, for they have worn their lives out in that beautiful but inconvenient setting. Even in this modern day they must still carry nearly all their drinking and cooking water from a spring at the foot of the hill.. They have a drilled well on the back porch, but it never would supply more than a few buckets of water a day during the must ideal circumstances. When I was a child, I carried many buckets of water up that winding path. The girls of the family, Julia, Conza, and Draxie, made a large wooden yoke which they placed across their shoulders to aid them in this difficult task. A rope hung from each end of the yoke, with a hook on it, which they placed in the handle of the bucket; thus, the weight of the load they carried was distributed across their backs. I could never try it, for it didn’t fit me. Even as a child, I thought this made them look like “beasts of burden,” for it was much like the yoke they placed on the oxen when they hitched them up to work.

Washday was an event. The dirty clothes were carried to a level spot by the spring; a fire was built under the huge copper kettle which was filled with water. The clothes were placed in a tub with cold water and left to soak while the water heated. The other tub was filled with hot water, just hot enough to make the hands turn red but not blister, and then the washing began. Home-made lye soap was used and the clothes were rubbed, piece by-piece, on a washboard. The white clothes were then boiled in soap suds for about a half hour and then put through two tubs of water to get all the soap out. The wringing was all. done by hand, and those baskets of clothes were heavy when they were carried up the hill to hang them up to dry! In the winter, rain water or melted snow was used and the kitchen became the wash house.

The early spring was a wonderful time to visit at Aunt Callie’s house, for they made maple syrup. I suppose the month varied some, for the sap must be gathered just as it began to move in the trunk of those sugar maple trees. The days would be warm and sunshiny and the nights quite cool. A dozen or so sugar maples would be “tapped” and buckets hung under the spout they placed there. The sap would continue to drip for a week or so, and the buckets would have to be emptied twice a day. It tasted like lightly sweetened water to me. Now, as I remember it, I think it must have been somewhat like coconut juice from a freshly picked nut. (I don’t care for it, either.)

It took long hours of boiling this sap to bring it to the stage of maple syrup. I think one gallon of sap would make about one-half pint of syrup. It was used in baking, on the table, and best of all, it was made into candy. I would be given a small dish of the hot syrup to beat and mold into candy for myself. They sold many pounds each year, molded in little heart shapes. When it had been boiled down and molded, it was the color of light brown sugar, but the taste was wonderful. Nothing that we have today tastes as good as I remember that did.

There was another juice that was boiled down for syrup in those days, also. Sugar cane was grown by many of the farmers and then in the fall, when :it was at the perfect stage of ripeness, it was cut, ground, and the juice boiled for molasses. They would make molasses for the whole community at one time and place. Someone had a large vat, which must have held a hundred or so gallons. A large hole was dug in the ground and fire was kept burning (wood was the fuel, by the way) under the vat for several hours until the molasses had the proper consistency. It took two to feed the fire and stir the syrup. Long-handled wooden paddles were used to stir the molasses constantly so it would not burn. We children would be permitted to use our own little paddles to stir the top, with the end in view of licking the paddle. I never liked molasses, but I did enjoy pretending to “lick” along with the other youngsters.

All of this has been written in an effort to recapture some of the charm and homespun pleasures of the common people of the non-urban population of the early twentieth century. You don’t need to long for those good-ol-days; just take time to visit some of these same areas today and you will find the essential atmosphere has changed but little. There will be some electric lights and appliances, some telephones, passable roads all year round, and a car in the barn, but the people who are still there have retained their same philosophy and simple way of life. You will find last year’s Sears Roebuck catalog in the outhouse, nailed to the side of the wall, for your convenience. The biggest change would be that you would find no young people. Many houses are empty and going to swift ruin that used to ring with the impetuous laughter and joy of family life. The old folks died and youth moved away; for urban life beckoned them!

I guess this retrospective view has turned to be like a session on the psychiatrist’s couch. The question is: Will these recollections do me or anyone else any good?

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