Alois was a school teacher in Ritchie, Harrison, Braxton and Taylor Counties for 50 years.  He taught mostly in one-room country schools, and wrote an autobiography which gives valuable insight into rural life and schooling in West Virginia in the last quarter of the 19^th century and first half of the 20^th century.

Children of Alois Preston Fitz Randolph and Jennie Mae Sutton, all born in Berea, WV:

1.    Brady Fitz Randolph, born July 28, 1896, married Mary Anna Juergens on August 24, 1918.  He was a graduate of Salem College, teacher, postmaster, International Harvester dealer, Chevrolet dealer, and active in many civic affairs.  Mary was also very active in the community, and was President of several clubs and organizations.

2.    Harold Fitz Randolph, born January 1, 1899, died January 24, 1901 of whooping cough

3.    Ashby Fitz Randolph, born January 24, 1901 (same day Harold died), and died June 19, 1993.   He married Ruth Content Bond in December 1925.  They are my grandparents, and their information is in the section below and their autobiography.

4.    Avis Fitz Randolph, born October 30, 1903, married Archie Roosevelt Swiger on May 31,1928.  Avis wrote an autobiography, the first seven chapters of which are published on this site.

5.    Randal Fitz Randolph, born February 8, 1905, died March 10, 1907

6.    Rev. Elmo Fitz Randolph, born August 31, 1913, married Madeline Watts on September 1, 1937.  They had seven children, six of whom lived to adulthood.  Uncle Elmo wrote about his life in three books, and encouraged me to publish them on the web so they could be broadly available.  The first two books are currently published, and I will publish the third after I have it scanned in.

For two weeks Jennie took only a little water off slippery elm, buttermilk and sucked the juice from melons (watermelons), and for several days she could not swallow any water. At the end of two weeks on Sabbath morn her feet began to get cold. We put hot blankets on her, but a cold clammy sweat stood on her. By evening she was cold to her knees. The doctor was out of town. We watched for him and got some alcohol, which we put in a pan with hot water and rubbed her feet and legs. She said the first they rubbed her, she felt it go to the end of her fingers. She got warm in a little while and felt so good that she thought she could drink some chicken broth. She got better ever after that. When Cynthia Collins killed a young chicken and brought her up some soup that night, she drank a half teacup of it and said it tasted good. She ate some juices, etc. from that time on.

How about the little boy? Sarah and Draxie asked the doctor what they should feed him, and the doctor said give him a drop or two of milk, if anything. They let him lie till Monday evening, when they said it was a shame to not give him anything to eat. So they prepared some Eskey Baby Food, which we had ordered for Jennie but she couldn’t take it. The little chap took a bottle full and went to sleep. In one week he had gained five ounces. He continued to gain at that rate until they failed to have his brand and sent Nestles; this made him sick at once. Before we could get Eskey’s, five days later, he had lost three ounces; but he gained this back and five more ounces in a week. The whooping cough was very thick in Berea, and Elmo (that is what we decided to call him) got it several times (which one would think was tough on one little boy) but he came through without having it at all. After we had been at Salem some time, the women told Jennie that they felt so sorry for her when she first came for they were sure the baby would live but a short time. Jennie kept on improving; she was able to sit up a little after about three weeks. It was over a month before she could begin to walk.

Another Incident with Mike Jett’s Family: Mike Jett had a cat that was killing our young chickens, and I tried to kill it. One of the girls went down to Mike’s shop to get Ivy to come up and get me. I didn’t know it, but Jennie was sitting by the window listening to all that was said-enjoying it, too. They got water from our well, and the children stole every thing they could get their hands on. After she had sworn that if I killed the cat I’d lose lots more, I told her for all of them to stay on the other side of the fence. She finally called me a liar. I ran to the fence and started to climb over when Ivy headed for the house in haste. I was afraid Jennie might be excited, so I went to the house. She was still laughing and said it was the funniest thing she ever saw. I was glad she enjoyed it.

Gangs in Berea-Our Decision to Move to Salem

I told some of the better folks in Berea if they would help me we would break up some of the rowdying of a lot of the boys and girls in Berea. But no one seemed to be willing to help. Every time Ashby was out after dark, they would yell at him and rock him so that I was afraid for him to be out by himself. When Brady came home for Thanksgiving, five boys of Brady’s age followed him and Ashby on their way to church on Slab, where I was teaching, and rocked them and tried to take their lantern away from them; but Brady backed them off. Some of the boys had clubs, and some had open knives. As I came back with them, they were not bothered. This, with other things, made me so mad that I decided to move to Salem in the spring.

When John Meredith heard I was leaving, he came to me and said, “Pressie, don’t do it. Stay here, and I will back my back up against your back, and all hell can’t prevail against us.” I told him I had offered to help clean the dirty mess out, but no one seemed interested; so I was going to Salem. That is why we moved to Salem and left our friends and home behind, and I have never regretted it. The move opened up a new life for my family, and they all had a chance for an education such as we never had. We did not foresee the things which would happen-some of which would be good and some bad.

My school on Slab was not a complete success as there was one family that did everything they could to give me trouble (and they gave me plenty). But I came out okay.

I will share memories of these eventful years in the coming pages with episodes and vignettes that hopefully will give insights into the life of a boy growing to manhood in the West Virginia college town of Salem through the period of the great depression.

I was initiated into the business world at thirteen years of age when I took a newspaper route for the CLARKSBURG EXPONENT, a morning paper. My route of some fifty customers covered the west end of Salem. It began at about seven-thirty A.M. on downtown main street where the tightly rolled and wrapped papers were dropped off.

Every morning began with a race by all the newsboys to sell the extra copies of the EXPONENT we were allotted. I think the business men on main street enjoyed buying their paper from the first newsboy to arrive. The race began by sorting out your bundle of papers and slamming it flat on the sidewalk to break it open. With the papers in your paper bag you now ran along the street shouting, “EXPONENT! CLARKSBURG EXPONENT!”

Responsibility was “the name of the game” if you were to succeed with a paper route. It called for early rising; promptness in picking up your papers; delivering the papers to every customer in every kind of weather and getting to school on time. Making the rounds to every customer regularly to collect was a necessary, and not always pleasant assignment. Because I would not deliver papers on Sabbath, I had to employ some boy to take the route that day every week. As you can imagine, finding someone who could be depended upon was difficult. Unhappy customer relations sometimes resulted from unsatisfactory service by my employee.

Memory fails me now on how long I kept the newspaper route. Nor do I recall how profitable the venture was. I must have carried the CLARKSBURG EXPONENT for two years or so and with my profits I was able to purchase a number of things a teenage boy needed or wanted desperately.

One special “newsboy experience” deserves reporting. Imagine the thrill of opening the EXPONENT one morning and shouting, “LINDBERGH LANDS IN PARIS!” The date was May 21, 1927.

Another business project I tried early in my teens was selling THE SATURDAY EVENING POST. That effort was not very successful.

I certainly rate the newspaper route experience as a highly worthwhile enterprise. The contacts with a number of diverse persons was an education in human relations that has stood me in good stead through the years.

My father and two brothers, Brady and Ashby, were outdoorsmen and hunters. So it was natural for me to catch their interest in firearms. I must have been thirteen when Mama and Ashby approved my purchase of a twenty-two caliber rifle. The gun was a Stevens octagon barrel, lever action single shot rifle with open sights. It easily ranked as my most prized possession.

How fortunate I was to have brother Ashby instruct me in the care and use of this gun. I spent many sessions rubbing the gun barrel and stock with 3-1 oil. But the ultimate thrill would come when I could hunt squirrels with this treasured weapon. (Squirrel hunting in West Virginia enjoyed a popularity among sportsmen akin to what we observe during big-game seasons in the West.)

I knew there were squirrels in the oak grove above the stone quarry at the head of Pennsylvania avenue. This location was perhaps a quarter hour walk from home and on the fateful morning of my first hunt with the new gun I was sitting with my back against an oak tree surveying the grove around me at first light.

There have been numbers of occasions in my life when the sight of a buck deer or a bull elk has prompted an adrenaline flow through my system. The discovery of a gray squirrel on the limb of a nearby oak, flipping his tail and chattering, eclipses them all in sheer excitement and emotion.

This was the moment I had waited for and dreamed about–the “moment of truth”. At this vantage point in time I like to believe I was steady and in control as I put the rifle sights on the squirrel and squeezed the trigger. Alas! There was no sound of a shot–only the “click” of the hammer strike. Amazingly, the squirrel stayed put on the limb above me and continued his quarreling. Frantically, I tried to shoot again and even put a new shell in the chamber without success. Admitting failure, I threw a stick at the squirrel and watched him scurry away unscathed.

A broken firing pin proved to be the cause of the gun misfiring. With my rifle repaired, I do not remember ever shooting at another squirrel. However, my Stevens twenty-two provided me recreation in target practice through many years until I traded it in a trading session with Newell Babcock in Alfred, New York in 1937 or 38.

In November of 1992 I published a book–covering the first twelve years of my life–titled, MY CHILDHOOD REMEMBERED.

Now, in my eightieth year, I offer a second biographical effort covering my teen years through experiences as a Boy Scout Executive in Maine in 1944. We’ll title it, YEARS REMEMBERED: TEEN YEARS, EDUCATON, MARRIAGE, EARLY CAREER.

This presentation is mainly in the interest of sharing my life story with family members and close friends. Though many of you have heard much of what I have written, perhaps the retelling will refresh your memories through the years. It may even be that grandchildren in some distant future may be entertained and enlightened by reading these pages.

I confess to having thoroughly enjoyed stirring my mind to call up significant memories from yesteryears. Too often I have failed to remember names of individuals important in my life. I am grateful that so many memories and experiences came into focus as I wrote.

Teachers of writing strongly suggest that for good results, rewriting of copy is essential. I have not followed that advise but have concentrated on making the first draft acceptable in content and clarity. Toward this end, the computer is a marvelous instrument.

Because my dear wife, Madeline has proof read every page of this material as it came from the computer, I offer this book nearly free of typo glitches. My appreciation of Madeline reaches far above and beyond her efforts here.

If your acquaintance with the offerings in this book are in any way rewarding for you, then I find complete happiness in bringing them to you.

Elmo Fitz Randolph
Trail’s End
Boulder, Colorado
March 22, 1994

Autobiography (Book #2) of Elmo Fitz Randolph:

Autobiography (Book #1) of Elmo Fitz Randolph:

The neighbor women put him in a shoe box and put a wedding ring on his arm as a bracelet. They have said that they put Grandma’s thimble on his head, but I don’t remember this part and it seems far-fetched to me.

Ugly as he was, we loved him and cared for him until in a few months he was healthy and fat. His once bald head had changed into a beautiful head of blond curls. By this time, I wouldn’t have traded him for anybody’s girl. But I still wanted a sister! His hair grew in curls; down to his shoulders, and we could not bring ourselves to cut it until he was past three, then we all cried when we took him to the barber.

Brady was my oldest brother and when he finished eighth grade, he was sent to Salem to enter the academy which was connected with Salem College. There were no high schools in our county, and only a few young people even had the opportunity of going on to school. After Brady had been away one year, it was decided to move the family to Salem. Dad could get a school to teach in Harrison County and we would all have better school opportunities.

The place that had always been home was sold and a home bought in Salem. This move changed our lives in many ways, new friend were made and there were new hills to climb and new fields to roam. The home life was much the same, however. We ate oats or salt fish for breakfast as we had done for years.

Perhaps I should explain about salt fish. Each fall the folks would make out a grocery order to Sears, Roebuck and Co. It would be shipped by freight and would contain enough staple foods to last for the winter. There would be: 100 lbs. of rolled oats; 100 lbs. of rice, one or two kegs of salt fish; a ten-pound box of prunes, perhaps a few “specials” such as hard candy for Christmas, and ALWAYS one five-pound box of mixed cookies. This was the most important item in the order, as far as the children were concerned.

Now back to salt fish again. I don’t think they sell such a product on the market today, for which I am glad; and yet I would like to taste it once more and see if it is really as good as I remember it.

To prepare the fish for eating took at least twelve hours. My mother would take the fish from the brine in the afternoon if she was going to have them for breakfast the next morning. They were placed in a large pan of water in order to soak the salt out. The water would be changed two or three times to assist in the process of reducing the salt content. The next morning the fish were rolled in flour and fried. This was always a welcome change from the normal breakfast of oats or rice.

Our food was always good because my mother was an excellent cook. She made light bread, salt rising bread, and of course corn bread and biscuits. For many years, she sold warm bread to the grocery stores. She had quite a sale for loaves of salt rising bread three times a week. This sale of bread kept us in sugar, salt, vinegar, soda and baking powder and other staples.

My Dad bought a hog, and when finances permitted, a quarter of a beef front quarter, usually each fall. This meat was carefully preserved to last for the year. You were a poor housekeeper, indeed, if you didn’t have enough lard and meat to last until butchering time again.

Every family had a cellar where fruit and vegetables were kept for winter use. In the summer time milk and eggs were kept there also. Unless you had a thunderstorm, the morning milk would still be good at supper time if you set it in a pan of cold water just drawn from the well. If it was an especially hot day, you changed the water in the pan a couple of times. Supper usually consisted of mush and milk or corn bread and so it was too bad if the milk soured.

I remember two kinds of cellars, both very dark and damp and none would have won a medal for sweet odors. Some cellars were dug into the side of a hill and rocks were used to form the walls. It might be that flat stones were laid for the floor, and sometimes the ground was .just packed hard. Then dirt was filled in around it so that there was only one end left open where a big double door was hung. Potatoes and apples would not freeze in the winter, and it was reasonably cool in the summer.

Another kind of cellar was the one under the kitchen. A hole was dug out, shelves and bins were built in and a stairway fixed from the kitchen down into it. It had a “trap door” which was part of the kitchen floor. When you needed to go to the cellar, you lifted the door and used the stairs. This was quite a task, and the women made sure they got what they would need from the cellar so as not to have to make extra trips. Just to see this hole opened up in the floor was always good for a bit of excitement to the “smallfry.”

When I was twelve years old, I had a wonderful birthday! I can never remember a birthday cake before that time, although there might have been some. This cake had a white icing and “chocolate drops” in lieu of candles. My second special friend, Gladys Clark, came for supper that night and brought me a gift. She also furnished the candy for the top of the cake.

Gladys was the daughter of the president of Salem College. They lived in a big two-story house, and I was permitted a few times to spend the night there and to eat with the family in their very spacious dining room. In this house I saw my first indoor bathroom and learned to flush the commode.

The Clarks had some real treasures in their cellar! They kept a keg of sweet pickles, and many times there would be a bunch of bananas hanging from the rafters, and perhaps a large round yellow cheese. We never touched any of these “goodies” without special permission. We remained friends until Dr. Clark was sent to another school, I believe it was in Michigan, and I never saw Gladys again. It is sad that friendships were broken because of distance. It would not be so in this day, for we can go to the ends of the earth with less time and effort than we could travel a few hundred miles in 1916.

During these years there was a growing realization among us children that we were individuals. Brady was the oldest, and in Salem College, and we all had a special pride in him and in his debating ability. Everyone at home listened to his opinions and generally accepted them. I can remember how he pressed his “blue serge suits” until they shined as much as these fancy suits I see an television today; and they were not supposed to shine! A shine revealed their age. Once in a while he would have a date and take her to the “nickelodeon” to see a movie. That was a great experience for the whole family, for he would spend hours telling us the stories he saw. Mama would bake an extra loaf of bread for him to sell so he could have the dime for their tickets.

Ashby was two years older than I was, and we were naturally much more together. Because he was a boy and older, he felt that he should always be the boss. It was all right on occasions for him to give orders, but I felt compelled to take up for myself. He was stout and there was no way I could out-fight him, so I had to try to out-smart him. Once in a while that would be successful. I would promise to do some of his reading or writing if he would do something for me that I didn’t like to do, arithmetic, for instance. There were times he bent me to his will by saying he wouldn’t keep the snakes off me if I didn’t.

I was stubborn and once I told him I wouldn’t do something, I never changed my mind. If he hit me, I went crying to Mama. He used to flip a towel at me. If just a corner would hit my arm, it would burn and hurt. One time I picked up a salt shaker, it was loaded so it wouldn’t tip over, and threw it at him. He ducked and it hit the door facing and bent it badly. He would have had a sore head for sure if he hadn’t seen that coming.

Mama had a brother, Waitman Sutton, who lived out in the country several miles below Salem. When we went to visit him, we went by train for about twenty miles and then we walked across the hills to his house. One spring weekend Ashby and I had been out to Uncle Watie’s and they had given us a bucket of strawberries to take home. When I thought I had carried them “my share” of the way, I insisted that he take them. He was busy throwing at birds and squirrels, or just throwing, and he couldn’t be bothered. I set the bucket down and told him he would have to carry them or they would be left there. He gave no heed to my words and we walked on, sans the berries! We had gone perhaps a half mile when he became aware that I really had left the berries, and he retraced his steps to pick them up.

You see, I had something on him that made it very difficult for him not to “knuckle under” to me in an instance like this. He was older and would be held responsible for this fruit when we arrived home. I had something else going for me too. I was the only girl in the family, and there were times when that fact weighed heavily in my favor. In fact, I guess it over-balanced his greater fighting ability.

There was an interesting ending to this strawberry story, however. We came to a little creek beside the railroad track and there was a blacksnake curled up. I was instructed to guard the berries at a safe distance while Ashby killed the snake. When that heroic deed was finished, I just picked up the bucket and we walked on. Now I am not sure that he didn’t win the battle of wills after all! That snake might have been left to sun itself in peace if it hadn’t been needed to bring me into line.

There are two vivid memories of my visits to Uncle Watie’s home. He had not married a West Virginia girl, I can’t remember where her home had been, and her cooking was different.

Aunt Maggie drank coffee all day long, and there was always a large open kettle boiling on the old-fashioned iron stove which was built to burn coal. However, since they had free gas, it was converted to burn gas, which was allowed to burn constantly. Every morning she put some fresh coffee into the kettle but did not remove the grounds that were already there. As I recall it, there must have been four- pounds of coffee grounds and a dozen egg shells boiling there at any given time. That coffee was as black as tar and strong enough to set your “inwards” burning. Plain coffee was never quite strong enough, so she added “essence” which gave it color and bitterness. When I got the chance to take a few sips of this “brew,” I felt like a heroine, for I didn’t let on how nasty it really tasted to me.

The other memorable thing about Aunt Maggie was the decorations in her home. She attended all the county fairs in the area, and she must have been lucky in winning things, for her walls and tables were crowded with the rare works of art which can be won for a dime on the midway. Never before or since have I seen such a treasure house of useless, but impressive looking, things!

My mother was an amateur photographer, so we had pictures to show of all the memorable events of our lives. She not only took the pictures, she developed the films and made the prints. We always had a “Dark room” for this work, and it never lost its air of mystery for me. Mama would shut herself in and place a film and paper into a frame. Then she would step outside and hold this frame up to the window for a count of three or four and step back and place this blank-looking paper in a pan of developer and count again as she came to the light. When she could see the picture clearly, she moved it quickly to another pan of solution. This “set” the picture and then she washed it under- running water to take all the acid off. It was hung up on a curtain to dry then it was placed between two books to press and it was ready to keep forever. (I have many of these homemade pictures and they have not faded away in these sixty years.)

There were times when I was permitted to stand in the corner of this dark room and sense the excitement and expectancy of each step of the process. She had a small lamp with a red shade which she burned in this dark room in order to be able to see how to “feel her way” to do this work. She used to earn a few extra pennies by making pictures for other people.

We lived on College Hill in one of the last houses on the last street, near the top. There were no paved streets up there and not even a sidewalk the last block of the way. I have heard about a famous “board-walk” at Atlantic City. I haven’t seen it; but I suspicion that it is quite different from our walks of those olden days. They were not as wide as our cement walks of today and were always built well off the ground with wide cracks between the boards to let the water run off. Steps, steps, and more steps to climb! Unless it was very muddy or the dust was too thick, we usually preferred the climb on the street rather than by the steps. I recall where we lived later, when I was in college. There were forty-eight steps straight up the side of the hill.

O, the West Virginia hills,
How majestic and how grand!
With their summits pointing skyward
To the Great Almighty’s land;
If o’er land or sea I roam,
Still I think of happy home
And my friends among those
West Virginia hills!