Written in 1950; Mimeographed in 1963 By Granddaughter, Mae Randolph Lewis; Scanned and saved electronically in 1997 By Great-Grandson, Mark D. Lewis; Edited, Inserting Chapters and Headings By Granddaughter, Mae Lewis Bottoms in 1997
This twenty-fourth day of April, 1950, I, Alois Preston Fitz Randolph, will begin a short account of my life as I remember it in this 78th year of my life. This record is being recorded by me upon the request of my baby preacher boy and his capable, helpful wife. They said a few hours’ writing a week would leave an account of things as they were in parts of West Virginia in the last quarter of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century, which the children and possibly some of the grandchildren might prize.
My Parents: My father, Asa Fitz Randolph, was born in Salem in 1833, the son of Doctor John Fitz Randolph, being the only son by the first marriage. He had five half brothers—James, Reverend Gideon Henry (who was a Missionary to China about 1890), Joel (who was chief of police of Salem for many years), Steven and Thomas. These are all deceased. Two of the sons of Uncle Henry are Seventh Day Baptist ministers—John is pastor at Berea, West Virginia; and Wardner is missionary in Jamaica, British West Indies.
Mother, Marvel Maxson, was born on Greenbrier in 1832, the daughter of John Maxson. Her mother was one of a large family of Bees, all of whom were Seventh Day Baptists. The most famous of these were Ezekiel, (who was pastor of the Pine Grove Church at Berea for many years).and Ehriam (who went to Richmond to the state legislature before the war).
Mother had one sister, Annetta (who married Grandfather for his second wife), and two brothers, Nathan (who moved to Ohio about 1865) and Elisha John (who spent most of his married life on Otter Slide near Berea). Her father, John Maxson, was a very consecrated Christian and a local preacher. As nearly all the Randolph ministers from West Virginia were direct descendants since their mother or grandmother was a daughter of John Maxson, this, I feel, was inherited from him. Her brother Elisha lived to be past 97 in years.
Father ran a tan yard for Grandfather and had a tan yard of his own until he left West Virginia. I will mention several experiences in the tan yard later in this article.
The chance for schooling was very limited, and Father never got more than three quarters or nine months of schooling until after he was married. He had a felon on the thumb of his right hand which kept his arm in a sling for 18 months. Part of this time he went to school. Later he cut his leg very badly; as soon as he was able to ride, he went to school. He read much and was especially good in figures. In fact, one of his teachers said that he did not need to study arithmetic—he could make one. His interest in education is shown in the fact that of the nine children who grew up, all went to college at least a year, and five have a degree.
Mother was as much interested in education as Father, but she did not have as good a chance as he. I think she could read about like a third grader. She was a very great worker; in fact, I have heard her say that the only request she made of Father before they were married was that he would furnish her plenty of work. She was also an excellent manager. I believe there is no doubt but what she had much to do with his making a success financially.
Father and Mother were married in the fall of l852 at Washington, Pennsylvania. (The grandchildren and the great-grandchildren must skip this.) They eloped! Father said that Grandfather promised him if he would stay at home until he was 21 he would give him the shoemakers trade. But when he arranged to stay, Grandfather forgot the deal; so Father did too. (This should be a lesson to all parents, except me, to keep their word.)
They lived on the waters of Bone Creek for a while, then on Middle Island until 1857, when they bought the farm on the South Branch of the Hughes River, a mile below Berea, where I was born and reared.
My Siblings: There were eleven of us, of which I was the ninth. Two died as infants, but the rest of us grew up and married. There are four of us still living—Virgil, who is 90; Cleo, 80; myself, 78; and Delvia, soon to be 74. We are a long-lived family. Callie lived to be 94, and Alva was 81.
Of the nine, Perie was the most noted; she became a Seventh Day Baptist preacher. She married when she was 35 to Leon B. Burdick, whom she educated and made a preacher. They had one daughter.
Callie married John Meathrell and spent her life on a farm near Berea. They had four children—Julia, Rupert, Conza, and Draxie (who married Ruben Brissey). They are all living.
Emza married the Reverend A. W. Coon and died a few years later.
Virgil taught a few years after finishing college, then became a farmer. He married Mary Wells. They had one son, who is now an engineer.
Ellsworth bought the Hise Davis farm from Father, married Sarah Stalnaker, and settled down on the farm. He had a fine team of horses and did lots of logging in the winter. While logging for Zeke Bee in the spring of 1905, he was accidentally killed. He and I had been more than brothers—we had been companions for years. If one needed help, the other helped him. If there was sickness, the other was there to help in any way possible. Things have never been quite the same since his death. They had one child, Blondie, who is now principal of a school in West Virginia.
Alva married Mary Hoff. He finished college at Alfred with the best grades of anyone who had ever graduated there. He settled down near Alfred and became a famous farmer and leader in farm activities. They had five children—Fucia, Elizabeth, Lowell, Florence and Vida. Florence died in young womanhood, shortly after she married. Elizabeth is an ordained minister of the Seventh Day Baptist denomination. She is now a traveling evangelist.
Cleora (Cleo) went to New York, taught for some years and then married Gene Jordan. Gene died a few years ago, and she is now living in Pennsylvania with one of Gene’s boys, Leon.
Delvinus (Delvia) went through school at Alfred, married and moved to California for his wife’s health. They had two children, but I never knew anything about them. He is retired now and living with his second wife.
The last two mentioned, Cleo and Delvia, and I were inseparable from earliest childhood. Where one went, we all three went. We would go after the cows together until Cleo was almost grown. We had a deal with mother in which we were to feed and care for the chickens and gather the eggs. When we took her twelve eggs, the next one was ours. We made lots of money, for eggs were often worth 5 cents or 10 cents a dozen. We really felt we were in business. Prices are just a little different now.
Mother died when I was 15; three years later Cleo went to New York; and then in 1892 Father took Delvia to New York, which broke up this trio. Oh, that we three could be together for at least a few days! But we are separated by many miles, and none of us has the money to travel so far, I fear, and age is creeping up on us. Blessed are the memories!
Grandfather, Dr. John Randolph
Before I begin the record of my own life, I think I had best give a paragraph to my Grandfather Randolph, as I have already given a short account of Grandfather Maxson. Doctor John Randolph was the son of Jesse Randolph by his first wife, whom he married soon after coming to Salem with the church in 1792. Doctor John was much better educated than most of those of his day. He was a stone mason and helped build the Pike through Salem. He practiced medicine without any special preparation, so was called Doctor John. He had a very keen mind, but I think was very self-willed.
I will give one anecdote about him. Uncle Elisha and he went to a revival meeting down at Bristol. A girl who had worked for Grandfather for years went down the aisle shouting her best, and Grandfather called to her, "Where are you going, Bet?" She replied, "To heaven, I hope." Just then she reached a young man who had been going with her and threw herself into his arms. Grandfather said, "You have got there now, Bet!"
My Early Childhood
I was born on the Right Bank of the South Fork of the Hughes River on September 7, 1872. The old homestead was about one mile below Berea, which at that time was frequently called "Seven Day Town." I have no specific memory of the event, but I presume I was about as unpromising a brat as could be found in seven counties, for my first memories which I can recall make me think I must have been "small potatoes."
Falling in a Lime Vat at the Tan Yard: At an early age (probably two or three, for I had on my first pair of pants) I wandered up to the tan yard, which was about 150 yards away. Among other attractions was a lime vat—this was a wooden box 6 by 4 feet, set 4 feet in the ground and was nearly full of water in which had been poured enough lime to take the hair off the hide (or a little boy)—and I proceeded to walk right into it. Luckily there were some hides in it, so I did not go over my head.
Ellsworth, who was ten years older than I, ran up, grabbed me by the hair and pulled me out. Father came running out of the shop with a leather apron on, which he always wore when he worked in the shop, and yelled, "Take him to the run; take him to the run!" There was a hole of water in the run about ten steps away; Ellsworth ran down there, threw me in and rolled me over and over. Providence seems to care for children, as well as fools, so the lime water did not get into my eyes.
There were no other bad effects except I got my new pants wet. (It was the first time I had worn them.) I had no others, so they put a dress on me. Doctor Hall, who had been our family physician for many years, came to see mother that night and made fun of me, calling me a "girl." All is well that ends well, and I never fell into a vat again.
A Flood: In 1875 or 1876 we had a great flood. The water ran knee deep back of the house. I remember two things about this flood. It was in the night, and we felt the house shake and heard a great noise, which scared us. Upon investigation it was found that the rain had loosened a large stone on top of the chimney, and it had rolled down the roof and fallen onto the ground. The river went down very rapidly. In the morning one of the boys went out in the garden and found three or four nice big fish in a puddle of water. As I remember, they were some 12 or 15 inches long. I presume I helped eat them, but I have no memory of that.
A Deer and Dogs: In the early winter of 1876 I saw my first and only deer until after I was grown; in fact, it was the only wild deer I ever saw in Ritchie County. One morning a neighbor came rushing into the house to get the rifle. He said there was a deer out there. A hound had run it into the field, but the deer was tired of being chased so it turned and chased the hound out of the field and home.
We had two big dogs, one of which was a large greyhound that had caught a deer before. The dog caught the deer as it passed, but his teeth were so poor he could not hold it, so the deer just knocked him over and went on. This made Pete (the other dog) mad, for they were chums. He did not intend to have his friend picked on by any low down sinner while he was around. Now Pete was round and fat and never had been able to run much. It so happened that mother was having a quilting that day, and all the women ran out and yelled with all their might (which was plenty). Pete went wild.
That was some race! I stood behind the house and watched it. The deer was making great leaps (it seems to me every leap carried it ten feet) while Pete was running with his feet more stretched out, his belly close to the ground like Satan was after him. I can see it all as plain as if it were yesterday. The deer had 75 yards start when Pete started after it, and it had one150 yards to the road. Just as the deer’s tail went over the fence Pete’s nose went up.
Father was crippled so he could not go fast, so he told some of the men to hurry up there; for he knew they would meet on the ice (which was just strong enough to hold them up). One of then would surely die, as Pete feared nothing and a deer is very dangerous with its horns. Before the men could reach the scene, we heard the deer bawl (I can still seem to hear it). Emza was the first to arrive there and saw the two meet. She said Pete’s nose was at the deer’s shoulder when it turned to hook him. He grabbed it by the nose, ran between its front legs, and threw it on its back. When Uncle Elisha got there, he was chewing at its throat. Father sold the deer to a Prunty, but kept the heart and liver, so I got to taste it. Since then I have eaten venison several times, but none that I killed.
About noon the owner of the hound came and demanded pay for the deer. Father paid him although he had no right whatever to it. Father would rather give him the money than to racket with him. His name was McDonald, and the worst trouble I ever had in school teaching was two McDonalds (one in Ritchie and one in Taylor County). I would still be afraid to have dealings with a McDonald.
My First Farming Enterprise—Chickens: I will now record my first memory of farming. When about three years old, I went into the chicken business. I have heard Father and Mother tell about it many times, and I also remember it myself; so I know it’s no fake. This is the way they told it—I would run around with my pants down and a hen under each arm. I would take a hen to a box, fix a nest, put the hen on it, and make her stay there till she laid. By the time I was four or five years old, we could take a hen, put her on a nest anywhere we wanted to (if she was a setting hen), and she would sit there without being covered up. This sounds big, but it is true. I can still see myself, about as big as a bull frog, running around with a hen under each arm, with a dirty face and hands and a smile on my face, for I thought I was of some use in the world.
When I was about ten years old, our chickens got the cholera. When it stopped, we had one hen left out of about one hundred. She was a pure white hen and a pet which a neighbor woman (Ora Bee’s mother) had given me. We never had such a tame flock of chickens again as I had to work some after this.
A Fall into the River: The first day I went to school was a very rainy one. I was wearing a cloak. We had to cross the river on a foot log. Virgil was afraid Cleo or I might fall off the log, which was floating on the water. Just as he got Cleo over, he heard a splash and turned around to see me floating serenely down the river with my head up out of the water. The cloak had spread out on the water and held me out of it from my shoulders up. Virgil had told me to wait till he came back for me. Nevertheless he rushed back to the center of the river, jumped in, overtook me and landed me about 150 yards down the river.
Thus I had been twice saved from the water—once from drowning in the river and at least from the loss of my eyes in the lime vat. (If Ellsworth had not been so prompt in snatching me out of the vat, I would have been down, the water would have gotten into my eyes, and I would have never seen again.) So I owe much to my older brothers.
Anecdotes about Delvia: Probably it would be well to tell a couple or three anecdotes about my baby brother Delvia. We burned coal in an open grate. He loved to come in from outdoors and back up to the grate to warm his back. One day he came in, backed up to the grate, and stood there until someone called to him, "Delvia, you’re burning." He moved very quickly, but not quickly enough to save losing the seat of his pants. Luckily the fire did not go much deeper.
Still Delvia would back up to things (which is never safe, for you cannot see what is behind you). One day he came into the kitchen, backed up to a chair, sat down, and wished he hadn’t. In that chair was a pan with 10 or 12 dozen eggs, which were on his seat in the form of scrambled eggs.
Memories of Schooling
We had a very poor school house. The winter I was 8 years old the trustees decided to have the school in summer as the house was too cold for school in winter. Father rented a room from Uncle Elisha and sent some of us to Perie, who was teaching at Otter Slide. She had a program at the end of the term. It was at night, and there was a large crowd there. I had a small recitation, which was the only part I ever had in a "Last Day of School Program." For the benefit of some of the little grandchildren, I will give it:
A boy got up one winter’s morn and came to breakfast rather late,
Yet raised a fuss because there was no nice, big pancake upon his plate.
His father took him o’er his knee and raised his hand up in the air,
And when that boy got loose again, he held his spanked ache in the chair.
This was all my experience as an actor until after I began teaching.
The summer after I went to Perie at Otter Slide, I went to school to Callie at Berea. Mr. Brake owned the land all around the school house. He came to the school one day and complained that the children were getting into his orchard and wasting his apples (which I expect was so). Callie told them that she would whip anyone that went into the orchard. A few days later one of the Brake boys and two of the Hise Davis boys got some apples, and she whipped all three. This stopped apple stealing.
Some Memories of a Teacher Named Hall: The winter I was 9 years old, a young man by the name of Hall was teacher. He could do nothing with the children. I will give you one incident that I saw myself. Four or five of the larger girls were in mischief, and he told them they would stay after school. When he dismissed school, they started to get their wraps. He said, "Girls, I told you to stay in." Ocea Colgate said, in a voice that was plain for everyone to hear, "I don’t have to; I don’t intend to; and you can’t make me." What do you suppose he said? "Well girls, you can stay in at recess tomorrow."
When we got outside, John Meredith proposed, "Three cheers for Ocea," which we all gave with all the power of our lungs. Then someone proposed, "Three groans for the teacher." This we gave just as loudly as the other. We were up on the hill on the road to Auburn one half mile from Berea and could be heard there. We told about it at supper that evening; and Father said, "If one of my children was in such a thing, I would whip him." We never mentioned that we yelled as loud as anyone.
Now this teacher had a rule that when he called the roll, if you came in late you were to answer, "Tardy." Also, if you had whispered that day, you were to say, "Imperfect"; if you had not whispered, you were to say, "Perfect." Ellsworth was 19 years old and was very careful to not whisper. But one day some of the big girls fooled him into whispering, so he had a time the rest of the day. The girls had lots of fun thinking he would have to answer, "Imperfect." When the roll call came, he answered, "Tardy."
The trustees planned to turn Mr. Hall out at the end of the second month (we only had four months then), but he promised Mr. Brake that he would quit his tarnal partiality and not whip his boys unless he whipped someone else. Father took us children out of school and sent Ellsworth and Alva to another school three miles away.
Another Teacher—Tom Brown: The next winter Tom Brown taught our school. He was entirely different from Fred Hall.
One day the trustees came in to visit the school. They were Father, Mr. Brake, and Mr. Colgate. They were seeing about getting some new seats. Of course, the children were watching. After Father left, Mr. Brake made a speech. He said, "There’s not enough studying, too much looking around. Give it to ’em, whip ’em. Give ’em the rod; it’s good for ’em. We had to take it." Mr. Brake always said lick ’em. But if he found the teacher whipping one of his boys, he would take them all out of school.
The teacher was mad. After Mr. Brake left, he told us if we didn’t study better he would get some hickories and whip anyone who looked off his book one minute. He soon got the hickories and told us not to look off our books one minute on penalty of a whipping. I was 10 years old and knew the difference between looking at a book and studying. I looked at the book, but I did not study. (There’s an old saying, "You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink.")
(I have heard that there is a way to get many to think, but some will not for they have no thinker.) But during the evening while I was looking intently at my book, (with my eyes rolled up, looking at the front of the house), I saw the teacher looking at his clock on the wall, then jump and grab a whip from the wall. I suddenly glued my whole mind on my book. When I heard him pass my seat, I knew I was safe. A moment later I heard him say, "What are you doing?" The boy replied, "I was studying." But the teacher said, "No you weren’t"; and he jerked him out of his seat and gave him a hard whipping. I didn’t look back to see.
Now, who do you suppose it was? You’re right; it was one of Mr. Brake’s boys. I am sure he had watched all day to catch one of them. Mr. Brake always said, "Whip ‘em!"; and just as he did this time, he always took them out of school if the teacher whipped one of his kin.
More School Memories: I will go ahead and finish the account of my school days, and then go back to give an account of other happenings in my boyhood days. The next year Mr. Luzader (the father of Everett Luzader) taught part of the term. The children were so bad that he quit and Tom Brown finished it. I remember nothing important happening except his giving Elmus Bee a very hard whipping for looking out of the window to see how much snow was on the ground.
Mr. Wade taught the winter I was 12 years old. It was reported that he was very strict, so everybody was good the first month. The first morning of the second month he told us he had heard it was a very bad school, but he had never taught a better one. Poor man! That was the worst mistake he ever made, for the Berea school would not be bragged on. In the next three months he whipped not less than 10 or 12 times. Of these were the four largest boys in school and two girls. One of these girls was 15 years old, would have weighed at least 175 pounds, and was married in six weeks. He whipped her very hard. Mr. Brake again took his boys out of school because they got whipped.
At 13 I went to school to George Hoff for my last term at Berea. This was a very quiet term of school—never but one little flaw. He told us one morning that there had been some kissing games played and that there must be no more. A lot of us boys went down into Mr. Colgate’s field to play ball. We heard the bell in just a little while and went to school. He told us, "I told you this morning you were to play kissing games no more, and at noon you went down behind the house and went to playing them again. There will be no more of it." And there wasn’t. Mr. Hoff boarded at our house and was a very nice man about the house.
An Incident at Upper Bone Creek: Before school began when I was 14, they had made a new school district at Upper Bone Creek and put us in it. Mr. Hoff was the first teacher. Things went along very well until he got into trouble with Frank Prunty. The school house was built on the Prunty farm. At recess one day Frank saw their sheep in the meadow, so he went to put them out without asking the teacher. He didn’t get back until 15 minutes after school was taken up. When Mr. Hoff asked him how he came to be late, he wouldn’t say a word. So Mr. Hoff told him he could stay in five minutes at noon. But Frank ran out.
Mr. Hoff got a whip at noon. Then before recess he got the key from the janitor and locked the door. Frank told the janitor, who was a boy about his age, that he would kill him if he gave the teacher the key. Before recess he was told that he could stay in all recess, but he just laughed at him. His older brother said at noon that he hoped Hoff would skin him alive as he was so mean none of them could do anything with him. Mr. Hoff proceeded to do what the brother hoped. Frank fought, but he was surprised to find himself jerked out of his seat, thrown to the floor, his hands tied behind him, pulled to his feet, and the whip worn out on him. Frank fought and swore he would kill Hoff, but George just threw him down on the floor and held him there all recess.
It was equal to any revival you ever saw. There was weeping and wailing, but no shouting. The girls all cried; the little children howled; and Frank kept swearing he would kill Hoff and the janitor. After recess he turned Frank loose, and Frank went out and got a ball bat and dared Hoff back there. He then went home, swearing to kill the two.
The trustees met the next day and expelled Frank. Mr. Prunty was away and did not return until the next afternoon after the fight. On being told why Frank was not at school, he went to the woods, got some hickories, and whipped him until he gave out. The next morning he got some more whips and began again. Frank finally said, "Father, if you won’t kill me, I will go back to school." The trustees took him back when he agreed to behave in school and not bother young McClain (the janitor) while they were at school. He did not keep his word, but picked on him every chance he got and still said he intended to kill him.
One day the next summer, the McClain boy went down to get some sheep that had strayed onto the Prunty farm. Frank saw him and ran down and started a fight. The boy proceeded to cut him up, but not seriously. He was indicted for unlawful cutting, but he was cleared when Frank swore that he had said he would kill McClain but he had decided just to give him a good beating. The District Attorney said Frank got what was coming to him, which proves that justice is pretty sure to come sooner or later.
Another Teacher—John Lowther: I will write of one more teacher so that you may get a fair picture of the schools of that day, both good and bad. The next winter after the events mentioned above had happened, we had John Lowther as our teacher. He was a big man about 25 or 30 years old, but a teacher that kept no order at all. He would yell out so you could hear him for a half mile, "Cut that out," or "You’re getting fresh back there."
One cold wintry day, when Frank was the only one of the Johnsons who was there (now Frank had to be careful when any of the other children were there, for they would tell on him and Mr. Johnson would whip the life out of him), Frank was having a big time at the stove and Lowther told him to go to his seat. But Frank did not go. After Lowther yelled at him two or three times, he started back and Frank ran. Just as he got out the door Lowther yelled, "If you go out that door you’ll never come in here again." Frank had closed the door, but he opened it, came back in, went up to the stove and sat down. Then Lowther really spread himself. He said, "If you ever do such a thing again, I’ll cut every dud off you. I’ll skin you alive! Don’t you know you’ve got to mind me?" Frank replied very quietly, "No, I don’t." Lowther finally ran out of steam. After telling Frank to go back to his seat and close his knife (which he had been whittling a seat with), he then went on with the school.
My Final Years of School: The next year Alva taught, and I had a very successful term of school. The next year Alva taught again, but I stayed at home and helped with a big saw set. The next winter I was 18 and went to Miss Miller, who was a good teacher for an ordinary school but could not handle some of the outlaws of "Bloody Bone" (as we called the school). They annoyed her until she became a nervous wreck. They would drop a book on the floor to see her jump and hear her scream. They would throw a ball on the roof at recess to hear her scream. She finally had to stay at home and rest a few weeks before she could finish the school.
I will now tell you of an incident that happened at my last winter’s school, to show you the kind of boy my youngest brother, Delvia, was. One evening after school was out a boy ran up behind him, knocked his hat off, and started to pick it up and throw it in the mud. Delvia just lifted his heavy boot up by one foot and placed it firmly in his face, which left a rather muddy spot. The boy just turned around and walked off.
The next morning, Delvia slipped around the garden to the barn with the new hat. When I overtook him, he pulled an old, slouch hat from under his arm and said, "I am going to knock hats today." When anyone came around knocking hats off, he took his turn. His aim was poor; instead of hitting the hat he would take the side of the head just about the ear. They never bothered his hats any more.
This was my last year in public school, for the next year I got a second grade certificate and began teaching.
Other Childhood Memories
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.
More About Parents and Home Life
One thing which we never did when I was a boy was to say Sunday, Monday, etc. We said First Day, Second Day, etc. In fact, I did not know the names of the days of the week as they are called now till I was nearly grown. I remember while Perie and Callie were in Alfred in school, they used the word, "Sunday," in a letter. Father wrote back, "If this is what you are learning up there, you can come home." Sunday was never used in their letters again.
Father and Mother: You can see from the above incident that Father was very set in his views. I will give a few more incidents about Father. Father and Mother were very much opposed to Emza’s marrying A. W. Coon for several reasons—she was not strong (in fact, she had T. B. and only lived about two more years); they considered him an old crank (he was about 70 years old) and not fit to marry anyone, much less an invalid. After they were married, Emza wrote; but her letter was never answered.
One other story will suffice to give a good picture of Father, except for his work in church and charity, which I will also mention. Perie spent a couple months at home the fall after she was married. They went to church meeting on Friday night and a good "Sister" got up and delivered a eulogy on Father. She told how honest he was, how truthful he was, how charitable he was. In fact, with one little change he would be just about perfect—if he just wouldn’t be quite so harsh in some of his statements. She thought she had put the "cleaner" on Father. When she sat down, Father got up and this is what he said, "I wish I could say as much for some other members of the church as has been said about me." That evening at supper, Perie told Father that he should not have said that. Father’s reply was, "I know when I am insulted."
I will also tell one story about the way Father paid on the church when they were building it. They were having trouble to raise the money to finish it, so Father offered to pay one-third if the rest of the church would pay the rest of the cost. This was subscribed but not all paid, so he had to help pay the rest. Someone reported Father had built the church and was going to use it for a hay barn, so you see that you can’t please some people.
Mother was every bit as liberal as Father and maybe a little more interested in the church and the church work than he.
About 70 years ago, Father was on a deal for a farm (known as the "farm with the brick house") near the Seventh Day Baptist Church on Green Brier. Father had been out there; when he came back, he told Mother that they were trying to raise a salary for a preacher and got pledges for $13.75. Mother said, "You don’t need to buy, for I won’t go there." The church is now dead.
Father and Mother were an ideal couple, for I have heard them each say that they never had a cross word (and I never heard them, either). There are not many couples like that!
Mother’s Sister, Rhoda: Mother had another sister, Rhoda, whom I have not mentioned so far. She had rickets when she was a child and was not strong mentally. She stayed at Grandfather’s (Doctor John) until I was about eight years old. Then it was reported that an old widower by the name of Tolls was planning to marry her for her money (he was past 70 and had very little himself), as she had about $1,000 that her father had left her. Mother and Uncle Elisha felt Tolls would use up her money and leave her with nothing to live on and no one to care for her but Mother and Uncle Elisha. So Uncle Elisha went out and got her and brought her to our place, where she stayed until some time after Mother’s death (about 8 or 10 years). Then Uncle Elisha took her to his place and kept her till she died, for which he got what she had (he surely earned every cent of it), which was a small thing for 15 years (or maybe 20 years) of care. She had a good home and good care; I am thankful.
One little incident happened while Aunt Rhoda stayed at our place. One Friday evening a spring wagon stopped at our place, and Toll and Uncle Joel came in. We knew at once that they were after Aunt Rhoda, so Ellsworth went after Uncle E. J. to come in and help prepare the strategy by which they hoped to win. It looked as if Father planned to take Aunt Rhoda in the buggy, but just before he got in the buggy (Aunt Rhoda was already in), Father told Uncle Elisha to get in the buggy and drive Aunt as he had forgotten to ask Mr. Tolls to go to church with us. So we all went to church. When we got there, the buggy was not there; and they saw nothing more of Aunt Rhoda. This was hard luck for Uncle Joel, for he was to have had $50 for the trip if he could have delivered her to Salem as planned.
Now what had happened was that Uncle Elisha had crossed the Deep Ford and gone up the river over to Pullman and on to Dan May’s (whose wife was Mother’s cousin) and left her there until the coast was clear. When they asked Elisha about her, he told them the last he saw of her, she was going West. They thought we had sent her to Uncle Nathan’s, who lived in Ohio. Toll tried to hire someone to slip her out and take her to Salem, but failed. So ends this beautiful romance in failure.
Some Stories About Alva: My brother, Alva, was by far the greatest squirrel and crow hunter of us, as he was a great shot with a rifle and had lots of patience to wait for game. He did not hunt rabbits or night hunt as he would rather read than to be out at night. One day he was down below the corn field when he ran into some young animals that he thought were young wild cats. He began to shoot; when he thought he heard the old cat, he began to yell for help. He got all three—they were young coons. One of them he got alive. These were the first coons (I was about 10 at this time) that I ever saw.
Some years later Alva was in a big woods back of our home farm when he saw a wild cat behind a tree. He could not see its head nor shoulders, so he shot where he could see. He was afraid to move for fear it would run, and he only had a rifle. When he shot, it fell over and scratched and screamed. He was afraid to go near it until he got the gun loaded; by then it had left. He followed it by the blood to a big fence. Every little bit he would see where it had fallen off the fence and had trouble to get back on the fence. He tracked it to a den but could not get it. Later it was found dead near the den. It had come out of the den to die.
It was rather difficult to get Alva to do chores about the house, so the girls would sometimes offer him special things to get him to do some of the things they wanted done. One day when Father had butchered a sheep, they offered to make some meat dumplings for some work they wanted done. Now Alva was very fond of meat, so he did the work. They made a nice batch of dumplings, but when Alva cut into one, he surely was sore and said, "There isn’t a bit of meat in them."
I remember one more thing that I think I shall tell. All our clothes—pants, shirts, and under-clothing—were made at home. One night our hired girl (Tanie Hammond) gave Alva a new pair of pants which she had just finished for him and told him she would guarantee they would hold him. But she didn’t know what a test they would get. He got up and put his new pants on and hurried out. A little later he came out with a long face and said, "I put on my new pants and just filled them full! Isn’t that a shame?" I think so.
An Incident when Callie was Courted: I will now turn to some other members of this populous family. In the winter of 1881, Father and Mother went to Salem on a visit. While they were gone, Callie’s boyfriend (John Meathrell) came to see her and brought a black Indian pony, which he gave to her. Ellsworth didn’t like Callie’s sending for John to come see her when Father and Mother were away. So when he went upstairs to bed, he, instead, watched them to tease Callie. He soon grew tired of this and finally went to bed. Just as he went to sleep, Virgil jumped out of bed and said that he heard the shop door open. (Now, the shop door made a noise every time it opened by grating on the floor.) Virgil grabbed his pants, rushed out and called the dogs, with Ellsworth at his heels. But there was nothing wrong at the shop. When they got back, John was mad; he thought it was a joke on him until he found that it was Virgil who had heard it. He feared someone was trying to steal his horses. They went to the stable, but there was nothing wrong; so it left everything a mystery. Ellsworth always said it was an easy thing to settle—it was just that John kissed Callie. I expect that he was right! Anyone can see why John and Ellsworth never got along well. They never could have gotten along anyway.
Ellsworth and Steele Brake: I will now tell a little story about a school experience that Ellsworth had at Berea while Perie was teaching there. Steele Brake was about Ellsworth’s age and size. He made a business of getting Ellsworth down and beating him up very often. Ellsworth feared to resist; for Perie would not give one of us a fair deal. She feared people would accuse her of being partial. But Ellsworth grew very tired of being submissive.
So one day when Steele had him down flat of his back and pounding him just as he wanted to, he just reached up with his right hand (he was left handed) and pushed him up and poured his left fist into the pit of his stomach until Steele howled like a whipped hound pup. As soon as he could got loose, he ran to the house to tell how he had been treated. Of course, Perie held court to see who the criminal might be. The children all said that Ellsworth was no rougher than Steele had been. But Steele said, "Ellsworth was mad, and I wasn’t." "How do you know he was mad?" Perie asked. "I saw the tears way back in his head," Steele replied. The whole school yelled, and even Perie smiled. This settled the case, and Ellsworth got sweet revenge on Steele for all his bullying and didn’t get a whipping either.
A few years later, after Steele had quit school, he met Ellsworth one night as he came home from school and told him he heard he had been talking about him and if he didn’t quit, he would tan his dog hide. Ellsworth just looked at him and said, "There is such a thing as a ‘bull hide,’ and it’s mighty hard to tan." This settled the whole argument.
I had a little trouble with one of Steele’s younger brothers when I was a boy in school. He was quite a hand with the girls, and one day at noon three of them told him they would like to kiss me. "Why don’t you?" he asked them. "We’re afraid of him," they replied. He told them he would hold me. I just got up, took off my coat and put it on the fence. Wirt, that was the boy’s name, raved but did nothing. We became fine friends later. One evening when I was in his store where I traded, he told this story. One of those there asked him why he didn’t hold me. He replied, "I was afraid he’d whip me."
Mr. Wasp: The common wasp used to build its nest in all the outbuildings. One day I went into one of the sheds, and a wasp was sitting on the wall. I just pointed my finger at him and said, "I am going to kill you." Just then Mr. Wasp rose up and lit on my nose and stung me. Oh! How it did hurt! My nose got big, and Delvia told what I said and everybody laughed at me. Right here I will insert a few quotations from the Bible which I think will apply:
Let he who thinks he standeth take heed lest he fall (1 Corinthians 10:12, KJV)
Pride goeth before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction (Proverbs 16:18, KJV).
Such is life!
Jip and Sheep: When I was about 8 years old, Father bought a yellow "bone-legged beast" from Harrisville. We called him "Jip." Now Jip was a good rabbit dog and not much good for anything else. We let our sheep and lambs run out in the road early in the spring before the grass started in the field, as the grass would start earlier along the river than in the fields. Jip would get and run the sheep. Ellsworth took care of the sheep and didn’t like to have them run.
One evening we were at the barn doing the chores when we heard the sheep coming (one of them had a bell) with Jip after them as hard as he could run. Ellsworth picked up a two-inch cube which had been sawed off an oak scantling. The sheep went by as hard as they could run with Jip after them, grunting every jump. As soon as the sheep passed, Ellsworth leaped out of the shed door where he had been hiding and let loose with that left hand. The block took Jip square to the side of the head and knocked him over the bank next to the river. He got up, yelling like a possessed one, and ran to the house like Satan was after him. That was one dog who was broken of sheep-chasing, for Jip never ran sheep again.
Alva and the Sheep: Ellsworth had always cared for the sheep; but when I was 12 years old, Father decided that Alva should care for them that spring and summer. When grass came, Alva turned the sheep out in a field we called "Poverty Point" (which was in the far end of the farm a half mile from home and adjoining a big woods). We had a part of this field in corn and beans, and Mother went up to see it. When she came back, she said she could carry all the corn and beans up there in her apron (and this wasn’t so far wrong), so we called it "Poverty Point."
The first time Alva salted the sheep, which was about twice a week, he said one little lamb was missing. In about two weeks he reported nine more lambs missing (they would have weighed from 40 to 60 pounds each), and he couldn’t find them. On search, the nine were found near the woods, partly covered up with leaves. Their throats were out and they had been partly eaten above the necks. They seemingly had been killed one each night. The sheep were moved to another part of the farm, and no more lambs were bothered; but Alva never took care of the sheep again. His mind was too much on books.
About two years later a neighbor (Ves Parker) killed from 5 to 10 cats. (The cat that I told about Alva’s shooting was in the same woods.) So the lambs were revenged!
The next fall after the lambs were killed, Father gave Delvia and me charge of the sheep; and we never had any more killing.
Seventh Day Churches Around Berea
I believe it will be profitable to give an account of the early life, development, and work of the Seventh Day Churches about Berea. As I have before said, Berea was called Seven Day Town. It was settled early in the nineteenth century by Asa Bee, Job Meredith, Jonathan Lowther, Preston Zinn, and a number of others who kept the Sabbath.
Pine Grove Church: I do not know the exact date (but about 1850) they called Ezekiel Bee (a minister of some ability but not ordained) to move to Berea and preach for them. He accepted the call provided they gave him a farm. There were two farms offered him (which shows the religious zeal of these people). He accepted the one then owned by Preston Zinn, which included all the land on which Berea now stands. I have never heard where the other farm was. He continued to preach here until old age made it impossible. He died in Berea about 1892 at 93 years of age.
This church was called "Pine Grove Church." It was Seventh Day Baptist, but it never was accepted into the Seventh Day Baptist Denomination as the leaders—that is the Bees and Merediths in particular—had some very peculiar notions. For example, they would not wear clothing of cotton and wool or any other mixed material. Women would not wear artificials on their hats, nor ruffles on their skirts. If a boy who did not belong to the church took a girl home, she was to mention joining the church the first night. If he did not agree to join the church the second time, she was to fire him.
Besides this, they believed that the elders should manage all the temporal as well as the spiritual affairs of the church. For example, when a cow grew old, they would say to its owner, "You had best sell that cow." The elders were to be absolute dictators (I don’t think they ever got it to work). Women were to have absolutely no say in anything; in fact, they were not to speak in meeting. If they wanted to know anything, let them ask their husbands at home (which I am afraid would never have made them very wise).
I don’t think they ever got this to work in the church, but it cost them some new members. In about 1865 Perie and Callie went to church intending to join the church one Sabbath. Perie overheard one of the elders ask the others if they should mention artificials, ruffles, etc. The others said, "No, wait till these young folks have joined, and then we will mention that." The girls did not join.
The Ritchie Church: There were several Seventh Day Baptists who did not belong to Pine Grove and did not like their beliefs and practices but wanted to belong to the Seventh Day Baptists. So about 1870 to 1875 they organized the Ritchie Church and built a church on Otter Slide. Some of the early members were Jake Ehret and wife, William Jett and wife, E. J. Maxson and wife, Leve Stalnaker and wife, Father and Mother, Perie and Callie, some of the Kelleys and probably some others.
Adventists in Berea: Soon after the Ritchie Church was built (about 1879) an Adventist preacher by the name of Sanborn came to the Pine Grove Church and held a meeting for about six weeks. Before he left, they organized an Advent Church. They built a church in Berea the next summer. The principal members were the Merediths, the Lowthers, Charley Bee and wife and a few others. This left the Pine Grove Church so weak that they decided to unite with the Ritchie church provided we would hold meetings month about in the Pine Grove and Ritchie churches. Several of the members did not join the Ritchie church, so about a year later Marcus Martin (a Seventh Day Baptist minister of little ability) decided to revive the old church. So he filed a key to fit it and called a meeting and started the church again. It did not last long till they asked the Ritchie church to take it over, but all meetings were held in the Ritchie church except some union meetings.
The Advents continued to grow very slowly, but always trying to tear the Ritchie church down (especially every time we had a good revival) until the early summer of 1892, when a preacher by the name of Babcock came to Berea and preached for several weeks. He was a very glib talker, very well coached in the Advent doctrine but not an educated man.
The Advents told wonderful stories about him; one I will narrate. As a young man he was working on his father’s saw mill (which was running at full speed) when he accidentally fell into the saw. He grabbed the teeth and stopped it instantly. It cut off his thumb and cut his hip, but his great strength saved him. Elder Seager heard just how it happened. Babcock’s father had an edging which had the high tenser off so that the saw was merely turning over when he fell into it and cut himself. I am telling this so that you will know the faith they had in the man.
This was the first meeting, outside of our own meetings, I had ever attended to amount to anything. I would generally go three or four nights a week. One night the preacher told us that he would prove by the Bible the next night that the "Old Dragon" was pagan Rome and that the "Seven Horned Beast" was Rome after she became Christian— so I went to hear him. He soon began to prove his point by reading from Revelations. "The Red Dragon that old deceiver which is the Devil." "Oh," he said, "I read too far." I have never had any use for the Advents since then.
This revival caused the Advents to decide to have their Camp Meeting there that summer. We had a new pastor by the name of Brown. Elder Hoffman (a man of great ability and greatly hated by the Advents) preached on Sabbath morning. He preached a very strong sermon against the Advent religion. He told them he had planned to stay at Berea for over a week but that he would have to leave Sunday. The Advents said he was afraid of them because their ministers would be there at the end of the week. After preaching that night he told them he heard they said he was afraid of then. He then said, "There is but one thing I am afraid of, and that is the Devil, and I don’t suppose he will be there." He went on to say that he could come back at the end of the week and debate the issue for one day or a week with any of them or all of them (Sister White thrown in) if they would give him equal time, but at the end of that time he would have to go to Nebraska. They said no; but after he went West, they said they would debate.
I will now tell a little joke about their trip over from Pennsboro. Mr. Kildow (one of our members) had a fine team, and they hired him to haul some of their tents and fixtures over. When they got there, they found more people than they expected; so they asked Kildow if he would be willing to bring a load of people instead of tents. He said he would just as soon haul livestock as anything else. They talked about one of their preachers (Stone) who had gone to Virginia and went to keeping a saloon. They kept saying they didn’t see how he could, seeing the end was so near. Kildow got very tired, so when a little shower came up (it was in July and very hot and dry), one of the men said he hoped it was raining on his corn. Kildow replied, "I don’t see what difference it makes seeing the end is so near." The man got so mad he got out and walked for a mile or two. This is 58 years ago, and I fear the man’s corn got rather dry if it hasn’t rained yet.
They had great crowds and took several of our members—our Pastor Brown, Dolph Bee and family, Ida Bee and some others. They bragged that they had destroyed the Ritchie church and that they would soon all join the Advent church. Uncle Nelson Bee told Ellsworth that they said he and Sarah would soon join them. Ellsworth replied, "Yes, they took a good plan to get us. They took our flour up there and thought we would follow." (Someone took a batch of flour during the meeting.) I attended the meeting enough till I could preach most of their sermons as well as they could; in fact, when you have heard four or five, you have heard them all. One night the preachers said that everyone of the wicked were burned up except the Devil, and that he was to be punished forever and ever, day and night (which means he was to be burned up in a day and night). This kind of foolishness does not appeal to me.
The next summer many of the Advents sold out and went down to Newark, where they had started a school from where they went out to sell Advent books. They soon ran through with their money. They were taught that they should not eat but little. They were so nearly starved that when fever broke out the doctors said there was nothing to build on, so they died. Several families with mothers gone came back to Berea. Joe Bee’s wife, Davis Meredith’s wife, and Foggin’s wife died, and several children. Some of these had lost everything they had; and Joe Bee was badly crippled, lost his home and had two small children to raise. This greatly reduced the Berea church, and they never were so strong again.
More About the Ritchie Church: The fall after the Camp Meeting, Elder Seager held a meeting at the Ritchie church. This was in October, 1892. The meeting lasted for a month, and there were about 75 conversions. A large number of us young folks joined the church at this time, and it was much stronger than it had been for years. So the prophecy that it was dead was proved totally false, as often happens.
Many of the Sunday people in the neighborhood were troubled about the Ritchie church. They said it had been the center of religious thought; all the children for miles around had made a profession there; and it had done enough already so that it should live for years for what it had already done.
One winter our pastor (Riley Davis) and the pastor of the U. B. church (Rev. Steele) held a union meeting in the Pine Grove church. After two weeks, as there seemed to be but little interest and Pastor Steele had to go to another church to preach over the end of the week, they decided that Riley should hold the meeting Sabbath and Sunday night. There was quite a stir these two nights so that the meeting went on for two or three weeks longer. Many were converted, and it looked as if both churches would be greatly strengthened.
Seventh Day Baptists and Adventists Debate: I have often noticed after every great revival, Satan makes a very great effort to destroy the work done. So it was again. The Advents had been bringing in one of their ministers as soon as a revival ended to destroy the work that had been done. This time they brought in a man who was very abusive. One of our ministers, Elder McClarin (who was a very highly educated Scotchman), had written a pamphlet exposing many of their beliefs. He was hated by them like a snake. So Westworth (that was the Adventist’s name) told in his sermon that the pamphlet was like bad soap, more lye than grease. Later in the same sermon he said that McClarin was a "liar, rascal or fool!" and that they all knew he wasn’t the latter.
Our people had grown tired of this abuse, so Ellsworth and our pastor wrote to the Missionary Board to send McClarin down (he was in Rhode Island), and we would pay his way back. When he came, they sent for the Advent preacher to come over to Riley’s. There McClarin told him to go into the pulpit and show wherein he had lied and he would apologize publicly. This he refused to do, but in turn challenged McClarin to debate the thing in difference with the Bible as the only authority. This was to keep McClarin from bringing Mother White into it, as he had been president of their college in Battle Creek and learned all about her. This debate was intended to prevent McClarin from making a reply to their charges on the pamphlet as McClarin had told them that he had to go back on Monday and the debate was to be Sabbath night, Sunday and Sunday night.
The first subject was the "Sleep of the Soul." McClarin had the first speech. When it came Westworth’s turn (he was the Advent speaker), he made fun of the soul and said, "How does God poke a soul into a child? Does He have a lot of souls made and stored up in heaven, or does He make a new soul every time a child is born? If He does, He is a partner in the crime every time an illegitimate child is born." By the time the evening debate was done, there were a great many people (even the Sunday people) saying it was a disgrace and that Westworth ought to be egged.
People say many things without thinking, which they should not. In the evening debate Westworth accused McClarin of having been expelled from the college. McClarin said he would show them the next day how he was expelled. Westworth became more abusive, and McClarin called for order. Mart Powell, who was chosen by both sides as chairman, said he was out of order. But Cobb, the Advent moderator, jumped up and said, "My brother has not had a fair chance, and I intend to see he talks." I was sitting in the back of the house by the side of a fighter who jumped up and started for the pulpit with me at his heels. Everybody jumped up and started for the pulpit with fire in their eyes. Just as a free-for-all was ready to start, Westworth said, "I’ll be moderate." So everybody sat down.
The next day Westworth and Cobb came to hear McClarin speak on the pamphlet and what had happened while he was president. Some said the Advent preachers would call McClarin a liar while he was speaking. I said, "If one of them calls him a liar, I’ll knock him down." Ellsworth said, "You must not do that." But I replied, "I will anyway." So they decided that Ellsworth, as moderator of the church, should take charge of the meeting. He told them that any appeal from his ruling would go to the Ritchie church, so they said nothing. They sat right in front facing the pulpit. Ellsworth said they made faces, stuck out their tongues and did everything they could to insult him. I told Ellsworth I would not have stood for it, but he said it did not seem to bother McClarin any so he let them go.
McClarin told that when the Advent leaders found he would not accept Mother White, they cut his salary so he had overdrawn his full salary already. A couple months later he met one of the leaders on the street and this man said to him, "How are you getting along without any money?" He replied, "That’s my business," for he said, "I know when I’m insulted." They made no effort to pay him, so he notified them Friday if they did not pay him his full salary before sunset that evening he would sue them. Before sunset he had his pay. He then showed us a paper over a yard long with over a hundred names of those who had come to his place as a surprise party and had given him $25 in gold to show their appreciation for the splendid work he did in the school. When he finished showing this, he said, "That’s a pretty nice way to be expelled, isn’t it?"
An Egging: The Advents proposed to answer McClarin that night. As I said before, some people (Sunday as well as Seventh days) had said they ought to be egged. So some boys (both Seventh day and Sunday boys) hid on a bank and egged them. Of course, this was all wrong, but I blame the grown folks more than the boys. Two men ran them down, caught them down on their farm (the Advents). They refused to let the boys go, and a fight occurred. Mounty Bee (an Advent) struck Hayse Bee (one of the eggers) on the head with a fence rail and knocked him out (in fact, he has never gotten entirely over it). He knocked Cnood Ehret down, and he lay there (afraid he would get hurt, I think). That only left one of the eggers, Roy Bee. He seemed to think they were going to kill him, so he slipped an old pocket knife out of his pocket and began to cut them down to his size. The noise of the combat brought reinforcements to the Advents from Berea, but Roy proceeded to cut them up, too. The boys finally got away and went home. Two other boys who were with the eggers got scared and ran before the egging began.
The Advents had the eggers indicted, but they found one of them would get a trip to the pen for hitting Hayse Bee with a fence rail and swearing he intended to kill him and wished he had. So they compromised it and made the sentences light.
Some good came of it, for the Advents said they wanted us to let them alone and they would let us alone. They have kept their word fairly well, for which we are truly thankful. Their church had been going down ever since the exodus to Newark soon after the camp meeting in 1892, which I have already told about. After this trouble they began to die rapidly. They have had no meetings for many years, and the church house is torn down.
Mother Died, Father Remarried
I will now go back and take up some events in my early life which changed all our lives. Mother went to church on Thanksgiving in 1887 and took sick that night. There was no doctor near, nor telephone, so a man went to Harrisville and got Dr. Hall. He said it was typhoid fever. With all the care we could give her, she only lived a week. We sent a telegram to Virgil, who was in New York. It was delayed, so he got to the church after the sermon was partly over. He stayed a week, and Father went back with him and stayed for a short time. This was the only time Virgil has been in West Virginia since he went to New York in 1882.
Cleo and Emza kept house for nearly a year. Then Emza got married, and Cleo did the work herself. This was very hard as we would have eight or ten hands in harvest. She would get up at 4 a.m., get breakfast, prepare dinner, and fix supper and take it a half mile on the hill to the hands for a five o’clock supper. Hands began at sunrise and worked till sunset then. Cleo had never been very strong, so this was too hard for her; but she never complained. In the fall of 1889 Cleo went to school in Salem, and Aunt Delilah (Father’s sister) stayed with us. Then the next year Cleo went to Alva’s at Alfred and never stayed with us any more.
We kept bach, but Father was very restless and was away a lot, leaving Delvia and me to care for ourselves—which we both enjoyed. In the spring of 1891 Father went up to Alfred to get married. He stayed for about two months. We kept house, did the work, and put in the crop. Someone told Father that Ellsworth said he had lost $500 by being gone. He never said any such a thing, he told Father when he asked about it; for he thought we got along better while Father was gone than we all three did when he was there. I doubt if Father liked that very well.
Gigging: It was while Father was gone that we asked Elva and Dow down to go gigging with us one night, as we found gigging was quite good that spring and there was no fishing on the head of Otter Slide. We split up poplar rails into small long pieces, which we tied into long fagots. We tied these up with leather bark (the bark of a small bush which peels well early in the spring, and is quite tough). These fagots are from 6 to 8 feet long, make a fine light, and burn for a considerable time. We started out as soon as it was dark. We soon found there were fish on the riffles. I carried the torch, and Elva carried the fish in a sack pouch over his shoulder. At first I had the heaviest load; but by the time we got to the bridge, the sack was heavy. In some places we saw ten fish for every one we got, but we got plenty.
Just as we got under the bridge Elva exclaimed, ‘‘Look there." I did, and there was a bass! It looked as if its back was out of the water although the water was over a foot deep. I told Elva to hold the torch, for I feared he would fail to get it as he had never gigged before and a bass is hard to hold. I hit that bass as if I meant to kill a bear. I hit it at the gills, and it was so deep through that it turned on its side and cut its spinal cord; and it never flopped. It was over 18 inches long. Oh, it was a dandy! When we got home, we had about a bushel of fish. Elva and Dow surely did have a great time, and I was so glad for they were the best friends we had for many years.
How I wish that Elva, Dow, Delvia and I could be together to fish, hunt and roam around over our old playgrounds! But alas, Dow is gone; Elva is not able to do anything; I am a wreck; and Delvia is far away. So we can never all meet here again. But I hope we may meet again in the future when the troubles of this life are over.
Father Returns with New Wife, Then Moves to New York: When Father was to come home, Ellsworth and Sarah went after them in the road wagon. They had to go to Pennsboro (14 miles), where they left the train. As we had a sheep to shear at John’s, we went over there to shear it in the afternoon. Just as we got back, Ellsworth drove up with the folks. Father said we would have been more presentable if we had been dressed up, but we told him we had been shearing sheep. That evening he told me I would have been more presentable if I had on collar and cuffs. Now I had asked Father to get me them before he left, and he said he never had anything of that kind when he was a boy. On Sabbath he said the same thing again, and I told him what had been said in the spring.
Delvia and I did not get along extra well with Mother Randolph, but both sides were to blame. But we never had any real trouble.
That fall I was 19 and taught my first school at Lower Otter Slide. I expected to hate teaching, but I enjoyed it so much that I decided to make it my life work.
That winter a letter came to Mother Randolph from her sister that she was very sick (she was a dope fiend) and wanted her to come at once. She went and did not return, so Father went and took Delvia with him in the spring of 1892. He offered to send me to school until I could get a first grade certificate if I would go with him. I did not go for several reasons. I got a First Grade that fall, so it would not have helped me much. I did not like Alfred, and still don’t. I had become interested in a girl (not girls), so I stayed in West Virginia. Had I gone, my whole life would have been changed and that of my family. I still am glad I did not go; knowing my disposition, I would never have been happy there.
Some Changes I Have Seen
I will now tell you of some of the changes that I can remember. The first buggy was owned by Jonathan Lowther. I was 8 or 10 years old when he got it. Mr. Brake got the second, which was the first with a top as the first one was a buckboard. Father got the third buggy. It had a top, and he sold it after Mother’s death. Mr. Brake bought the first mowing machine about 1884; Father bought one about 1887 or 1888. Father had a turnover rake made about 1885. This was about 8 feet long, so you could rake an 8-foot strip. It was pulled by a horse while you walked behind and tripped it whenever you wanted to make a windrow.
In 1892 I had never seen an auto, an airplane, a radio (in fact, none of these existed at this time), a reaper and binder nor a telephone. I had never ridden on a train nor seen a streetcar, had never heard of a refrigerator, nor seen a washing machine. We had no solid roads; for about four months out of the year the mud was so deep that a wagon could hardly get through. There were no electric lights in our section (we made candles sometimes), and all heating was done with coal or wood stoves. We knew nothing about electric milkers, bathroom fixtures, nor sweepers. Oh, things were different then! What would we do now without typewriters, adding machines, and so many other inventions that we never stop to think of?
Much to Be Thankful For
I will say right here that life has been good to me. I have had many good friends; my wife and I have lived together for over 55 years; our children have been good to us; we have enough to live on fairly well. Yes, and we still have fairly good health—so what more can we ask?
Teaching, Marriage and Family
Before I go ahead with my married life I will relate a few other items which may be of some interest and throw a little light on some things which happened in my later life. In early life I became very much interested in history. We had a large class which would often know nothing about the lesson. Then when it came to me, I would recite it almost word for word, giving names and dates. Of course the class laughed at me, but it came in handy when I took County Exams. I was extra good in arithmetic; in fact, all my studies were fairly easy except "grammar," in which I was rather slow.
At the last State Exam I took, I made 93 percent, which is not bad for a country bum. I took my first County Exam in 1891 and got a number two [teaching certificate], which was all I tried for. At that time you had to take a special exam if you wanted a number one. In 1892 I got a number one, with an average of 93 1/3 percent, which was one of the best in Ritchie County. I have held a First Grade [teaching certificate] ever since, which is now 59 years. I will hold it as long as I live (I don’t know how long that will be), as it is a Life Certificate.
My Early Teaching Experiences
Lower Otter Slide: I began teaching when I was 19 years old. I taught four months at Lower Otter Slide, for which I received $100 all told. I have often wondered that someone did not knock me in the head, for I was a very green boy. But I still believe that I taught school above the average.
This was a school of about 35 or 40, mostly children under 16. I had trouble with some of the children about stealing. One large girl was accused of stealing a stamped envelope. This was reported after school was out one evening. The girl’s sister said she hunted for the envelope after they got home and could not find anything of it. I told them she might have put it in her pocket. The girl’s reply was, "I don’t have any such thing, never did have; if you don’t believe it, you can examine and see." Of course, this made the boys very much amused. The mother threatened to whip me if I touched the girl, but luckily nobody was hurt.
It was here I first became interested in the girls—or rather a girl. The next summer I began dating a girl, called Jennie, which resulted three years later in our being married. This marriage has lasted over 55 years.
As I said before, I fell for a girl in my school and began going with her in June, 1892, just before I was 20. Another fellow tried to cut me out by trickery, but I waited till he started to take her home from church one morning, and I walked up and told her to decide who was going with her. She said, "You are the only one who has asked me." So I took her home and continued to go with her for nearly three years. Now, you can see why I stayed in West Virginia. I have never regretted it, although I do wish I had more education. But I have had a good life. My children have a better education than I have, and my grandchildren are getting a chance for an education.
After Father left, I made my home at Ellsworth’s. I paid straight board, unless I was away for a week or two at a time. I had the right to take company there any time I wanted to.
The first summer I went to school for ten weeks and worked mornings and evenings and Sundays. I went to exams that fall and got my first grade certificate with a 93 1/3 percent average. This lasted for four years. I taught at the Hall School that winter and boarded at John Lowther’s on Bone Creek. I had a very nice time and made one fine friend (Lloyd Hoff). This friendship continued until he left Bone Creek.
Working in New York in 1893
In the spring of 1893 I went to New York to work for Virgil. I only got $100 for seven months, but it was a very enjoyable summer. Cleo kept house for Virgil, and we renewed our old times together. It was as it had been in the past years when we had been at home. How we used to enjoy the evenings after supper when the others went into the other house while Delvia and I stayed in the kitchen until Cleo washed the dishes and did up the work!
A Peddler and Hot Tea: One night a peddler stayed at our house, and he complained of a pain in his stomach and wanted Cleo to make him some black pepper tea. In a little while he came back in and wanted to see that she made it good and strong. Cleo told him to go into the other house and tend to his own business and she would make the tea. Now Cleo was no hand to half do things, so she put in three times the required amount and let it boil in a tin cup. When we went into the other house, she took it off the stove, boiling, put a spoon in it, and took it to him. He just ran the spoon around it once, tipped it up and drank it down. We found the next morning that it had been so strong that it had taken the tin off the inside of the cup.
Another night we were in the kitchen when we noticed something moving the paper in a basket hanging to the wall. I took it down, thinking a mouse was in it. When I got it down, out jumped a big rat, ran up the inside of my pants leg, on up my shirt, and out at the collar. Did I holler? Did I scream? You bet I did!
Virgil would often go away at the end of the week and stay a day or two. We would be alone. Of course, I had the feeding to do and the cows to milk (there were ten of them) on Sabbath, but this left me some time to rest.
An Irish Woman and "Tae": One Sabbath morning in April (it was cold and rainy) an old Irish woman, all wet and miserable, came in and wanted to make some "tae." We let her sit by the fire and warm and drink her tea. When she started to leave, she began to pour out blessings. ‘‘May the Holy Virgin and all the Saints bless you and keep you. May you have long life and happiness go with yea all yer lives, and may trouble and sorrow never come near yea." She kept this up till she was out of the house and had shut the door. Such a life! She was tramping the roads in cold, rainy weather with no place to stay, wet and lonely, yet she still kept her Irish Blarney. She sure had kissed the Blarney Stone.
Chasing the Cows: Another time Virgil had stayed two days. When I got up that morning the cows were gone. I had to hunt them until nearly eight o’clock, milk the ten cows, and rush the milk to the factory (it had to be there by nine o’clock). While I was gone, Virgil came and wanted to know what I was doing. Cleo told him and said, "You’d better be very nice, for Pressie has been on the run since daylight, hasn’t had any breakfast, and you bet he’s mad." Could any boy have a better sister?
Virgil was just as nice as could be and never said a cross word. The fact is, Virgil is a great guy, as honest as they come and as good a neighbor as anyone ever had. He hated to borrow so badly he would rather buy than to borrow. But he would loan anything he had, and in sickness or trouble he would be right there to help.
A Crazy Drunk Man: I will tell one incident to show what the saloon did for people who visited them (I had never seen a saloon till I went to New York). One day we were going to the hay field after dinner. Virgil was walking through the field while I went up the road with the wagon. I saw a man coming down the road in a buggy. It made me mad as soon as I saw him. He would hit the horse as hard as he could with a buggy whip; the horse would start to run; then he would jerk it down on its haunches, yell his best, and whip it again. He was just crazy drunk. As soon as he saw Virgil, he began to curse him and used such vile language before he came to where I was that I jumped up on the wagon and told him to shut his mouth or I would take him out of the buggy and beat the life out of him. He never said a word till he got past me. Then he began again and dared Virgil out in the road. Virgil told him he wouldn’t dirty his clean white hands with the likes of him. Then the fellow swore he would go into the field and get him. When he turned in, Virgil slapped his fork into the ground and told him if he came in there just what would happen. So he drove on. It still makes me mad to see a drunk man. Father sure did a good job teaching us to hate drinking.
Binding Oats: I helped bind over 30 acres of oats that fall. Virgil got a neighbor to cut part of our oats with a drop reaper, and we helped bind his. You had to use a double band in binding oats. As I had never made them, Virgil tried to teach me. Because I was slow to learn, he said I would never learn (Virgil was naturally a little impatient) and so would not be any use in oat harvest. He was just a little mistaken, for I could soon make a double band as quick as any one there and bind faster than the rest.
A Ruckus in the Night: During oats harvest we had a young lady visitor (she had been a small girl when Virgil boarded with them years before), and they sat up until late. Now, I would be very tired, so I would go to bed. One night I went to bed but could not go to sleep because of the noise down there. I got up, dressed and went down. I stayed till about twelve o’clock, when I went back to bed and right to sleep.
I was dreaming of a terrible racket when Cleo burst the door open and yelled for me to get down stairs quick. I jumped up and started down, but Cleo said it might be better under the circumstances if I put my pants on. So I proceeded to do so. When I got out there, I found our dog (a dandy collie) barking at someone in a hay barn and Virgil, with a pile of rocks ready, telling him to come out of there or he would knock the barn down on him (and he would have, too). The man began to whine. He said he was just a poor old man who had come in there to sleep. Virgil asked him where he had been while all the racket was going on. He said he hadn’t heard any noise. There had been noise enough to almost waken the dead!
Virgil told me to take Romulus (the dog) and keep him from eating the man up. He was just a pup and harmless, but he sure was acting vicious. I took the pup away and waited for Virgil’s return. He soon came, and we heard the story.
When the girls went to bed, he went out on the porch, and there stood a man on the steps. The dog was barking out by the barn. When Virgil took after the man and called the dog, four men jumped out of the shadow of a tree and ran. The dog took after them, but Virgil called him back for fear the men would shoot him. As he came back he circled the old hay barn where the last man was found. So there were six men around the house at one o’clock at night.
What was it all about? Two days before Virgil was in the bank. There a young, clean-shaven man was sitting at a desk writing on the back of blank checks. Whenever anyone drew out any money, he would put the sum down; if the man’s name was called, he put it down and put it in his pocket. If not, he would tear it up and throw it in the waste basket. Virgil drew out quite a sum of money, and he saw the man put Virgil’s name down when he heard the banker call him by name. When the old man in the hay barn jumped to the ground from the hay barn, he turned his face toward Virgil for a moment, and he saw he was the young man he had seen in the bank. So I am sure it was lucky that they sat up very late that night, for all of us. This was in the panic year of 1893.
I helped Virgil pick about 400 bushels of apples. Before we got them all picked, I got word to come home and begin teaching. We got them all picked before I left, but we didn’t get them packed because they failed to deliver the barrels.
Back to West Virginia, Fall 1893
Lost on a Visit to My Girl: I got home Wednesday and went to see Jennie Friday night. It was raining, and they had cleared out a piece of woods that spring that I was used to going through. Erlo was with me, so I didn’t pay any attention to the road. As I came back late that night, I got lost! It was still raining and very dark, but luckily I had a lantern. I suddenly found whichever way I went I would go down into a deep hollow instead of coming out onto the ridge road. I thought for a short time and decided as I had followed a fence out that I should find where I had missed the road by following the fence back, which I did and was soon on my way home. I never got lost again when I went to see my girl.
Bartlett School, 1893-94: I taught the Bartlett School on Spruce this winter. The teacher the winter before had not been able to control the big boys (there were eight over 15 years old) at all. I had a little trouble but not much. I saw some of these boys at church the next winter and asked them how school was coming. They replied, "We are having no school of any account. We wish you were back." This made me feel very good, for one of these boys had given me a lot of trouble.
Summer at Ellsworth’s, 1894: The next summer I stayed at Ellsworth’s, and we raised a crop of corn together. But the summer was so dry that the corn was no good. Stock of all kind was so low that it was hardly worth anything. There was almost no work to be had at any price. I was lucky and got a week’s work at 40 cents a day cutting filth for Uncle Elisha! (Now, what do you think of that?) And we worked from sunrise to sunset. When I was 75 years old, I made 65 cents an hour for picking apples, and I picked from the ground and did not climb into the trees—but this will come later, for I was not 75 at this time.
Moon Rise School, Winter 1894-95: The winter of 1894-95 I taught at the Moon Rise School north of Auburn. I had a very nice school there, but it was a very cold winter, The snow was deep; the house was very open and on a high hill far from any road. This was not a very large school, and several of the scholars did not learn as well as very high intellectuals should. Indeed, several of them were dumb! I would go up to Uncle Elisha’s Sunday evening, stay all night and go to school. Then I would come home on Friday, stay all night, go to church Sabbath, and maybe stay down and work on the farm Sunday (I had the home farm rented) and go back to Uncle’s Sunday evening. I paid Uncle for my board. One Friday evening when I got home, my feet were so badly frozen that Aunt had me put them in cold water and soak them.
I had one family that was rather hard to control, so I whipped one of them for not getting his lesson the second time. This made the parents very mad, and they took the children out of school two days before school was out. The father said he would whip me the first time he saw me, and the boy said he would whip me when he grew up. Some years later the boy got drunk, came to church at Otter Slide on Sunday night and inquired for me. He said he didn’t want to whip me because he liked me. I am glad he got over being mad.
There was a family of several children who never came to school. They were very poor. I told the children one day, near the end of the term, that I was going down at noon to enumerate them and that I intended to talk to them about going to school. They said the woman would run me out. I talked to them, and they were very nice. The woman said they were too poor to buy the books. When I told her how little they cost, she was surprised and said they would send them the next winter. She was as nice as could be. So you see that you should not cross a bridge till you come to it—nor ever meet trouble half way.
School was out March 15, 1895, and we had planned to get married March 28. So I hurried to fix up the house, get some furniture, and get ready for housekeeping. I bought a bed, a cook stove, cooking utensils and chairs. We had some bed clothes, pillows, etc., and felt we were ready for housekeeping. I bought a horse and cow, and Jennie had a heifer that would soon be fresh; so we would have two cows. We also had a half dozen hens. Jennie and her mother had raised a calf together. When Jennie told her mother that she was going to get married, her mother gave Jennie her share of the calf, which was then two years old. This cow proved to be very fine, and we kept her till she was 10 years old and sold her for $30, which was a good price for a cow at that time.
Elder Seager was holding a meeting at Roanoke, but we hoped he would be back in time for the wedding. I got our license on Tuesday and waited till Wednesday to get a preacher. When Elder Seager was not at home Tuesday night, I got a preacher named Robinson. When I got back, I found that Elder Seager had come home at midnight that night. So you see, if we had gone there that morning, we would have had Elder Seager marry us. I have told this so that you may know why Seager didn’t marry us.
We went together for nearly two years before we were engaged and a year after we were engaged before we were married. The morning of March 28 (Thursday) was nice and fair. I rode one horse and led one with a side saddle (there were no autos then). Sarah rode another, while Ellsworth walked across the hill. The guests were Jennie’s grandfather, grandmother, Uncle Frank, John, Callie, Ellsworth, and Sarah. We had a very nice dinner. (Mother Sutton was very good cook), and everybody seemed to have a good time.
Sarah fixed the Infore supper that evening. The guests were Father Sutton, Mother Sutton, Uncle Frank, Cleo, Sarah and Ellsworth. That evening several friends came to spend the evening. Those who spent the evening included those at the supper and these others: the whole Meathrell family, including Tom Ehret and Watie. Of all those who were at the wedding, none are left except the bride and groom. Those who were at Infore and at the reception that night are all gone except Cleo and Julia, Rupert, Conza, and Draxie. It does not seem possible that it will soon be 56 years since these events, but time does fly!
Our First Year—Gardens and Chickens: I have but little memory of the first summer we were married except that I raised some crop and Jennie raised a wonderful garden. We planted beans the 15th of April, for she said she had plenty of seed and could plant again if they failed to grow. The neighbors made fun of her, but the beans came right up and grew right along. We had beans the 7th of June, which was a full month before others had them. We had plenty of beans all summer. Mrs. Colgate came over one Sunday as soon as she heard that we had had beans and said, "Jennie, let’s go out and look at your garden." When she looked at the beans, she said, "Now, Jennie, you can’t eat all those beans. Won’t you let me have a mess?" So Jennie gave her a mess. Poor thing, she just couldn’t see something good to eat and not try to get some of it.
I remember that we had 7 hens and got 7 eggs a day for weeks till one hen went to setting (we set her). Then we got 6 eggs a day. There had been no chickens on the farm for two or three years, so the hens did extra well.
After the hen we had set hatched, the crows began to take the young chickens. I saw a crow light down among the chickens, hop up to one, grab it in its bill, and fly away with it. This made me so mad that I said, "I’ll get you old sinner," and I did. I borrowed Rupert’s shot gun. I knew about when it would come, so I went out into the coal house and waited for it. It soon came, and I fired. That crow began to fly in a circle and went higher and higher until it went out of sight. I knew I had gotten it.
I never lost any more young chickens from the crows. A hawk soon started to take them (they will usually come about the same time of day). So I took the gun out into the woodyard and began to split wood. Soon I saw it coming and again I fired. It never came back! So I soon got the drop on the varmints.
The first winter after we were married, as I came home from school, I saw where a mink had been eating a chicken along the river bank. So I got two of my traps and set them. They were too light; the next morning I found it had got away. I had a double spring trap which was loaned, so I got it. I staked a muskrat to the ground so it couldn’t pull it away and set the big trap. The next morning I had as big a mink, I think, as I ever saw.
Some Young People Who Grew Up With Me
I think right here will be a good place to give a short account of the young folks who grew up with me. Luther Brissey was one of my chums when I was a young fellow. We went to Institute together and got our certificates at the same time. He did not seem to get along very well with his schools, so he did not teach long. He became a fine carpenter and worked at Evander’s Planing Mill for several years. He and his wife were both killed in an auto accident several years ago,
I have mentioned Elva and Dow different times, and I will write some more about them. We spent one winter in an old house on their farm so that I could be closer to my school. We hunted together of nights and caught some coon and several skunks. They did not charge us any rent and have always been my very best friends. Dow married Jennie Batson (one of Jennie’s best friends) about six months before we were married. They raised seven children, but are both dead. Elva married Georgia Thomas, who died about 1905. They had 4 children; one of them died just before Georgia did. He then married Minnie Jones, and they had 9 or 10 children, which makes a large family.
Art Brissey and I ran around together as boys, and he married my cousin, Neva Maxson. He and I hunted together with Elva and Dow. He later bought a farm on Alum Fork. Later he became crazy and early one morning, while the family slept, he went out and hung himself. They have two boys. One of them, Maynard, is a great friend of mine.
More Teaching Experiences and Early Married Life<P> Winter 1895-96: I taught at Lower Otter Slide that winter. I had a very fine school. I think everybody but one family was very well suited. This one family had a grudge against me. One mother, at a quilting, said her boys would fight for me as quickly as they would for their father. I counted that a high compliment.
Mother Sutton Died: This winter Mother Sutton took sick and died. She was one of the noblest women I ever knew. She was married before she was 18. Although she was never strong, she worked very hard and was saving (she had to be) but was not stingy. They began life with very little. Although they had a large family, she managed to buy the groceries and clothe Jennie out of the egg and butter money. She always had the children looking nice when they went to church, which they did most of the time. She succeeded in dressing Jennie as nice as most of the girls in the neighborhood. She fixed for the children to go to school as well as anyone in the district.
Jennie did the washing after she was 12 years old, for her mother was not able to do it. Sometimes she would have to stay at home from school and wash if she did not get it done on Sunday. Mother was very quiet, no gossiper, no tattler nor fussmaker—just a fine Christian woman who loved her family, stayed at home and cared for them and set an example which others might well have followed. I could never have had a better and more loyal friend. What more can be said about a woman than that she loved and cared for her family, was a good neighbor and a noble Christian woman? I don’t know; if I did, I would say it about her, for she deserved it.
Pa Sutton married again in about six months, which was all right as he would not be satisfied until he did.
Selling Books, 1896: In the spring of 1896 I entered into a contract to sell books for a year (this showed how little sense I had) and began selling soon after school was out. I canvassed all of Ritchie by midwinter. I worked on a salary, but I had to deliver all the books I sold. My commission counted on my salary. If I did not deliver all the books, the commission on the books I did not deliver was deducted from my salary just the same. There was the rub! You can never deliver all the books sold, and sometimes not much more than half. People who are supposed to be honest will take any kind of a dodge or just refuse to take it.
One case in mind—I sold a book to a School Teacher who was teaching in a village down the river. I sent Tom Ehret to deliver some, for Elva, who did the delivering, was sick. She told Tom she had a School Order but the sheriff would not cash it. I gave Elva the money and told him to cash the order and deliver the book. Elva saw a store clerk he knew, and he promised to cash an order for the price of the book if she would give it. She told the same story and said she would be glad to take it if she had the order cashed, but the sheriff had refused to cash it that very morning. He asked her to borrow the money, but she said no: so he told her he was sheriff enough to cash it. Then she owned she didn’t have any order. He made her sign an order, got the money and left the book at the store.
I got sick in the late winter and did not finish the contract. They always give such a short time in which to do the work that you cannot fulfill the contract, for you will always lose some time; so you just get your commission.
Brady was Born: It was July 28, 1896, when our first child (Brady) was born. There was no milk for him and neither of our cows’ milk was fit for him, so Watie got on a horse and swam the river to get milk for him. He was so hungry that he took two bottles of milk, then went to sleep and slept like a pig.
Pine Grove School, 1897: The spring of 1897 I taught a select school of small children in the old Pine Grove meeting house. I had a fair-sized school, which paid me well. They were a bunch of bright children and did good work. One day Jennie taught, and some of the larger girls tried to scare the little children by telling them they saw a ghost. John Bee (the doctor’s boy) just said, "All magination, all magination." I enjoyed this school very much.
Lower Bone Creek School, 1897-1899: The next two winters I taught the Lower Bone Creek School. The winter before a girl had taught it, and she had not been able to manage it at all. They would not mind her at all and annoyed her every way they could. I had no trouble and enjoyed it very much.
February 12, 1898, was the coldest time I ever saw. It was clear as could be, but the air was full of frost—that is, the moisture in the air was frozen into snowflakes. I had a black cow in a barn by herself, and she was covered with frost until she was white. We could hear the trees cracking in every direction. I had to go one-half mile to feed my sheep, milk the cows, and feed the stock, and then go to school. It was 10 a.m. when I got to school, but there was no one there. The fire builder had stock to feed by the school house; so he had built a fire, fed the stock, and gone home for his breakfast. In one-half hour one came; in an hour three more came; and at noon Rupert and Arlie came. So we had six that afternoon—all boys. It registered 44 degrees below zero. Most of the orchards in the valleys were killed. All of the beech trees half way up the hills were killed, and nearly all of the dogwoods also were killed. Nothing like this was ever seen here before nor since. That afternoon it got much warmer, and by Monday the snow was gone and it was warm and nice.
Measles Outbreak: Erlo Sutton came to the last day of school that spring with an awful cold, felt bad all day, and in the morning he had the measles. He gave them to everyone he saw that day, which was at least 75. One girl about 15 in my school died; also, an old lady in Berea. Jennie, Brady, and I had them at the same time. Erlo had no idea where he got them. The next spring the trustees asked me to close the school a day early to avoid the danger of spreading disease.
Farming Enterprises: That spring I cut the dead trees on a field for Ellsworth and raised a fine crop of corn; it was worth only 35 cents a bushel when I husked it. Some different from what it is now!
In the fall of 1898 I bought an interest in a cane mill with Dad Sutton and made molasses until late fall. The next fall we began to make molasses the 29th of August and finished the 6th of October. After that we never made so many, for people quit raising cane. I enjoyed it, but it was hard work. We would begin before daylight and work until 9 or 10 at night.
About this time I bought an interest in a reaper and binder with Ellsworth. We did a lot of work for three years. Then people began to quit raising so much wheat; and I sold my share to Uncle Sam Stalnaker.
The Stansburry School, 1899-1900: In the school year of 1899-1900 I taught on Spruce (the Stansburry School, and may I receive forgiveness for teaching in such a place). There was just one family which was interested in an education (George Brissey’s), and they were the only ones coming at the end of the term. Mr. Brissey said he always had to furnish all the scholars the last month of school.
I had 59 in school, and 19 of them were in the first grade. Of these one was a 16-year-old boy who was almost as heavy as I was One was a girl of 6 who wasn’t larger than a pound of soap after a hard day’s washing or a minute and it half gone.
The most of these first graders had no book but a speller! I told each of them to ask their parents to get them a First Reader, for I couldn’t teach little folks in the speller. The next morning I asked the children what their parents said. Some said their mother said she would get a reader that day; others said she would get one at the end of the week. The little girl before mentioned said that her mother said whenever they learned what there was to learn in the speller, she would get them a reader. I thought, "Poor kids; they will never see a reader.’’ Their father was working in Ohio. When he came home, he got them a reader. Think of a country school of eight grades and 19 in the first grade!
Now this little girl I wrote about had a sister 7 and a brother 8, and the girls were too mean to live. One day I was hearing a class when they got very much amused, and I asked what was the matter. One of the class told me that Flossie was spitting on Donie; so I told Flossie to go up and sit on my seat. She began to cry and said, "Donie was spitting on me, too." I then told Donie to go up and sit there too, which tickled her for she thought she would have a lot of fun. But when I told her I would sit between them, she said, "No." I tried to get her to sit on the bench, but she wouldn’t so I held her on my lap. She fought and kicked and tried to bite, but I just held her while she yelled, "Let me down mister; let me down." I held her for about a quarter of an hour; then she sat on the seat all right. They did not come back, and the mother said I was holding the girls on my lap so she had to keep them at home. When the father cane home, he sent them back.
They were liars and had little idea of honor or right. I don’t think they were as much immoral as they were unmoral. They had a very low order of intelligence; in fact, they did not want to know much. I will give one instance of lying without cause or reason. A boy got mad at a boy behind him for putting his feet under his desk and said to him, "If you don’t keep back, I’ll cut your guts out." I whipped him. A girl got excused to go home at recess (she was 14 years old) and stopped at a house on her way home and told them we had had an awful time up there that afternoon. She said that Okey Bird had taken a knife and ripped Russell Haddox right down his belly and then cut him right across. Of course, she was bound to have known they would find out she was lying, but she just wanted to tell a lie—probably to keep in practice, but I don’t think she needed any practice.
I had trouble with a McDonald who told that I had hurt one of his boys seriously. I sent him word to show up or shut up. When I saw him, he agreed to shut up. Of course, he didn’t, because that is not the nature of such people. But it did me no harm, for I still got schools without any trouble.
Harold was born—January 1, 1900. He was a very happy little fellow who endeared himself to everyone. Of course, we did not know that he would not be with us for only two short years. (If we could only know about these things, we might be so different.)
Lower White Oak School, 1900-1901: This next summer I bought the Parker place of Aunt Polly Kelley and moved over there that fall. I taught the Lower White Oak School the winter of 1900 and 1901. This was a rather long trip, but I had a very nice school. I had a very nice First Reader class of four. They each tried very hard to be the best in the class, so I told them one day that the next day I would tell them which was the best. The next day they were all excited about who would get the honor of being the best in the class. Of course, I was likely to get in bad; but just watch what I told then. I told them that the best one in the class was the one that studied the hardest. Everyone was happy, and each one studied his best to let no one in ahead of him. One has to try many things to get the best results.
Watie and Elzie Sutton (Jennie’s brothers): Watie came home from New York with Maggie this winter. They lived in Berea for a while, and Watie got a job with Fox and Meredith. The next summer he got a chance to buy Steve Bee’s farm by the Deep Ford. I got the money for him to pay for it. He stayed here until he went to work for Flanigan. From there he went to Doddridge County to an oil pumping job, which he kept till he retired. He was a hard-working, honest, truthful man who could be depended upon every time. He and I were great friends. Every time I go to Salem, I go to see Wilma, who is his only daughter and a very nice woman with a very nice family.
While I am writing about Watie, I will also write about Elzie, who was one of the finest boys one would want to see. He went to Salem when he was a young man and went to work for Uncle Lloyd Randolph about 1902. He then went to work in Uncle James’ store. He stayed there until Uncle James broke up, when he went to work as a carpenter. In the meantime he married Ethel Lynch. He was so industrious that he exposed himself by working in the rain to finish a job and took pneumonia, which ran into tuberculosis. He went to Colorado, where he lived for ten years. Ethel and two girls are still living in Boulder, Colorado. Ethel is very industrious, saving, and a fine manager. She is a loyal worker in the Seventh Day Baptist Church at Boulder. Bobbie (the third boy) died at Berea nearly fifty years ago.
Typhoid Malaria: In the summer of 1901 Jennie was very sick for several weeks, so that we had to have a hired girl. Watie and I raised a big patch of cane, and it was very fine. A good deal of the cane was down, and it rained nearly every day. We were wet nearly all the time while we stripped it. There was lots of typhoid fever in the neighborhood, and I felt sure I was taking it. So I went to the doctor and got some dope before we got the molasses made. We had 115 gallons.
Sabbath noon, after we got through, I took a chill, went to bed and sent for the doctor. He said I had typhoid malaria. As soon as the doctor said I had the fever, the girl went home. Jennie could just walk about the house a little, and Brady was five years old. John came down that evening and gave me a sponge bath. He said he would be back the next night, but the next night he had the fever. Ellsworth had always helped, but Arley and Aunt Mat each had the fever, so they couldn’t help. The neighbors were so afraid that they would not come near. A neighbor boy (Creed Collins) came and offered to go and get me a school (I had no school), but he would not come into the house. He got me the Upper White Oak School. I was glad for that friend.
Brady gave me the medicine and water, and Mamma got us something to eat. I was up in two weeks. It was in late September, and I had to stay in bed for a few days as there was no wood to warm the house until Riley Davis (our pastor) came down and cut some wood. A friend in need is a friend indeed, so I have never forgotten Creed Collins and Riley Davis.
One more I must mention. Someone (I never found out who) went to one of my trustees and told him that I had got me another school. At the same time I was in bed with the fever Tom Bee was carrying the mail in that neighborhood, so they came to the post office to ask him. He told them I had the fever, but when the time came I would be there and teach them a good school. The first chance I got, I thanked him for it; I have thought more of him ever since. Jennie’s father had the fever, and I went there and waited on them. I think there is where I got it. There were over 30 cases of fever about Berea that summer and fall, and only one death.
Whooping Cough—Harold Died, Ashby was Born: I had a fairly nice school this winter. But it was a very sad winter, for Brady and Harold got the whooping cough. When I came home at the end of the week (January 17) Harold did not come to meet me. Jennie said he was sick, that she had had the doctor and that he said it was brain fever. Just one week later (the day Ashby was born) Harold died. That was a sad day for us. We kept Brady in another room in hopes Ashby would not catch the whooping cough. It worked, and Ashby did not get it.
We had a very nice girl (Edna Campbell) working for us. Brady would get lonesome as he could not go into the room where Jennie was; so Edna would take him up and sing to him. In fact, she taught him to sing.
This winter I boarded with a Baker near the school. They had five children in school. Mrs. Baker would help them in their studies every evening after supper. There were three in the same class, and the youngest was the best of the three. They treated me very well.
Middle Fork School: The next winter I taught on Middle Fork. The winter before a girl had taught who could do nothing with the children at all. When she said anything to the big girls, they would jump up, shove up their sleeves, and tell her to look at their muscles and that she couldn’t do anything with them. They took a B-B gun to school, put a mark on the blackboard and shot at it in time of school. I soon tamed them some and had a very nice school.
I fixed up a house on Elva and Dow’s farm and lived there as it was too far to go from home and there was a river to cross. This was a very pleasant winter for us although there was some deep snow and some cold weather. We were all well and happy. We kept the house good and warm, with the best hickory wood you ever saw; and we had plenty to eat. So what more could anyone want?
Friends in Ritchie County: Yes, and we had good friends near, which made it still nicer. I wonder if we ever appreciate friends as we should. We have always had friends, but I still think of the friends back in Ritchie—Mr. Haddix, Mr. Colgate, John Meredith, Mintee Fox, Mr. Wagoner, John Bee, all the Maxsons, Jack Hudkins, Mr. Kelly, Karl Bee, Art Brissey, Maynard Brissey—yes, and so many more that I can’t begin to name them all. But I must mention Uncle Frank and Uncle Herman, Reuben and Albert Brissey, Ves Collins. Yes, and I mustn’t forget Jess Kelley, with whom we used to hunt so much.
Sun Rise School—Avis was Born, October 30, 1903: The next winter I taught at the Sun Rise School. This was a long trip, so when Marshal Ehret wanted us to move into his house and feed his cattle and let me have hay for my horse, I agreed and moved up there. Before we could move, our only girl (Avis) was born. We had a very pleasant and profitable winter there.
I will tell one thing that happened at the house while I was at school. The stove pipe went up through the roof without any flue. One day when Jennie was alone with the baby, she saw that the roof was afire. The spring was a quarter of a mile from the house. She had a pan of dish water on the table and a rung ladder set against the side of the house. She grabbed the pan, climbed the roof, threw water on the fire, and put the most of it out. Then she took her hands and scraped the coals off the shingles. She burned her hands some, but she saved the house. This took lots of grit, but she did it. The baby was only a month or six weeks old.
We did not take our cows with us as there were several there. He promised to pay for the feed for the hens if they didn’t lay enough to pay. Snow came right away, and they didn’t lay enough to amount to anything; in fact, not a dozen all winter. He did not pay me anything as he said he had left some flour and meal, which he thought would pay for the hen feed. This was no pay at all, but I didn’t say anything as I expected to stay there some more because it was handy. I fed nearly 30 head of of cattle and calves. He came out and saw his stock just before school was out and was very well pleased with them. School went very well; but, as in most of the schools, some of the children would not try to learn.
Father Died, Fall 1903: The fall of 1903 Father came to Salem for Conference, where he and many others got ptomaine poison. He got better and came out to Berea. On the train he got worse and was never out of bed after he got to Ellsworth’s. We had two doctors, but they could do nothing. As the children were all there except Virgil and Cleo, they decided to settle the estate at once. There was no will nor debts, so each would share alike. Mother Randolph said she only wanted enough to keep her while she lived; if the children would give her 4 percent of their share per year, she would be satisfied. This was very generous of her, and I feel sure the children all appreciated it.
Ashby had Scarlet Fever, 1904: We went to Commencement at Salem in 1904 and left the children at their grandpa’s. When we came back, Ashby had the scarlet fever. He was very bad for two weeks. In fact, it did not look like he could live at all. He did not cry or make any noise except when we doctored him, which was every half hour; then he would make a very peculiar noise. When he began to get better, he was too cranky to live. When we gave him a drink in a cup, if he wanted it in a glass, he would throw it as hard as he could. If he wanted it in a cup and we brought it in a glass, the same thing happened—we never knew which one he wanted.
The first day I left the house I went a half mile to hoe my corn and stayed all day. When I got home, I found Jennie scared nearly to death. Aunt Sarah Colgate had been there and told her Ashby was deaf, for he wouldn’t notice when they called to him; in fact, he wouldn’t notice anything they said or did. I told her of course he would do nothing they wanted him to do. This did not convince her, so I stepped out in the dark, picked up a board, hit the side of the house; and he nearly jumped out of the cradle. This settled the question of his hearing. He did have a lot of trouble with his ears and nose that fall and later. I think this will be enough about Ashby for the present.
Ellsworth died in 1905: Ellsworth did not have his farm all paid for. He told me in the spring of 1904 that he could pay out by selling his stock. He was killed in the spring of 1905 logging for Zeke Bee. This changed many things for me, as we had always worked together. I would help him when he needed help, and he would help me When Blondie was a very sick baby, we went night after night and sat up with him. Then when Ashby had scarlet fever, they came for two weeks and sat up with him. As I said before, "Never did any one have a better brother.". It was during this winter that Ashby was so very sick that he would not notice anything. We were alone for two or three days, but Ellsworth came up as soon as they heard of it and stayed all night. It was this night that he really began to improve. When something did not suit him, he cried for the first time he had made any noise for three days. Never was there a brother that stood by better than Ellsworth.
Middle Fork School: That winter I taught again at Middle Fork. A young man had taught the winter before. He had paid attention to Ada Knight, which had made the Zinn girls very angry. When school began, I found that I had a job on my hands. If I smiled at the Zinn girls, the Knight girl wanted to kill me; if I smiled at the Knight girl, the Zinn girls would try to kill me. They would not sit near each other at class. In two months they decided that Zinns and Knights were all the same to me; so we got along all okay.
One boy gave me a lot of trouble the first winter. He was easily influenced, and a big boy and girl put him up to mischief. But the second winter I got him interested. He studied hard and decided to go on to Salem, which he did and got a good education. I am always very glad when I can get a boy or girl interested in going ahead to school. I feel the school a failure if no one is inspired to go ahead along the road toward education. Every teacher should be able to fill his pupils with such a thirst for knowledge that they will never be satisfied until they have drunk deep of that fountain. I am proud of the fact that I have inspired many to go on in their studies. I am especially proud of the fact that, where no one had ever gotten a diploma from the eighth grade in one school in Braxton County, now more than a dozen have finished high school. I am proud because I know that I was directly responsible—but more of this later.
My First State Teaching Certificate, 1905: My certificate expired in 1905, and I did not try for a school. In July Mr. Mason sent me word to come up and get the Sun Rise School. He said that Port Campbell was wanting the school but that the district did not want him. Mr. Mason, Mr. Hayden, and Mr. Campbell were the trustees. Mr. Campbell could not help hire Port, so he resigned and tried to get someone else appointed who would help Mr. Hayden hire Port. Mr. Hayden said he would be glad to sign my contract. I went up to see Mr. Mason and then to Mr. Hayden. We ran him down, and he squirmed like possessed. At last he said that I could have the school, so I got a certificate. This was my first state certificate.
When Port heard I got the school, he said I could not get a certificate for I couldn’t get anything on "Grammar." He got 65 percent on grammar, and I got 93 percent. He said the grammar didn’t suit him. It sure didn’t. Since that time Port and I have been good friends.
In spite of all handicaps, I had a fairly nice school; indeed, it was above the average, so I think.
Working in New York for Gene Jordan<P> Randal was Born: On February 3, 1906, our fourth son (Randal) was born. He was a delicate baby; soon after we got to New York he had a serious case of pneumonia. We were lucky to get a very fine doctor for children (Dr. Loughbead), who fixed a formula for feeding him, and he did much better on it. He was a Seventh Day Baptist at Nile, and we were very lucky that we got him.
We sold some of our household goods and left some. Very little of what we left was to be found when we got back. We took some bedding with us, but little else. The weather was fine, and we had a very nice trip. A livery man took us from Cuba (seven miles) to Gene’s. We stayed there for over a month before they could get our house ready. We had a fairly comfortable house to live in. We put in several potatoes and some corn. Gene drilled a gas well near our house, but it was not much good. Soon after this, he got a contract to drill several wells in Pennsylvania. The boys went down there with him.
He bought a new horse and came up to start harvest. When he tried to work the horse, it proved to be an awful kicker. He went back and told me to work her and they would come back and help me put the hay up when I got a lot of it cut down. They came back and put up 35 acres. He had 30 acres he wanted to get put up on the shares. I told him Brady and I could put it up (Brady was nearly 10 years old). We put the 30 acres up, for which I think Brady got about $7. This wasn’t much, but it was dear gain, and it paid Gene very well.
In the early fall Gene’s family went down to Pennsylvania. We spent the winter in their home so we would have a warmer house and be closer to the feeding and milking. We had a fine lot of winter apples. I had so much work to do and no help that I only got a start when 8 inches of snow came (the 8th of October). It only lasted a day or two, when I went on with the picking. Before I got them picked, we had hard freezing. I would just wait till they thawed out and go on picking. I finally got them all in the cellar, and we had apples till after the middle of July. Two years later the tenant did not get the apples picked till after a freeze and lost them all.
The first summer we were there, Brady caught 25 woodchucks. He would hide near their den, wait till they got away from it, then beat them to it and get them. There are a great many woodchucks in New York.
Brady had a lot of trouble in school. Some of the larger boys would beat up on him, and the teacher would just laugh at him. I, or we, got tired of this (he was having a headache all the time) and took him out of school. The teacher reported him, and the truant officer came. I was prepared for trouble, but he said that the former teacher, who lived in the district, told him the way Brady was treated and said she would not send him a day. A neighbor told him it was a shame the way he was treated and that the trustee said he told one of the boys to let Brady alone, but the boy said he would do as he pleased and he couldn’t help it. The teacher denied this, but the officer told her if she wouldn’t take care of the children he wouldn’t make them come. So he said he would get his stepson, who was a doctor, to give him an excuse. The teacher tried again, but the officer paid no attention. He told her he didn’t do his work twice.
Trading a Kicking Horse: I spoke of a horse that could kick. We called her Maud, and she could kick! She took it by spells. Sometimes she would work for several days without kicking any; then she would kick things all to pieces for a few days. Oh, she was a honey! I saw a man in Nile who wanted to trade for her. I told him she would kick some but that I had worked her at everything I tried but one and that was plowing. He wanted to know what she did. I told him she kicked, ran back, acted the fool, and did everything but plow but if we didn’t trade, I would plow her. We traded even, and he had new shoes put on the horse I got. The blacksmith where we traded told me that the man I traded with said he wouldn’t take less than $125 for her. There was a number by, and he thought he would have some fun at my expense. I just looked at him and said if she had suited me I would not have taken less than that, but she did not suit me so I let her go. The crowd roared. I never saw the man I traded with again, but I learned he was a regular horse trader so I presume he came out all right. The horse I got was a fine worker but very slow, so I came out all right, thank goodness,
Ashby and Avis: The first summer we were at Gene’s, Ashby and Avis went with me up there (Ashby was 4 and Avis was 2). When I got the team ready to go to work, I told them to run on home, which was one-fourth mile away. It was thundering, and they were afraid; so Cleo went along. Avis said, "We’s too good for thunder to hurt us, ain’t we, Auntie?" They were very good just then.
This next story was told by a doctor. He asked Cleo about her little children. She said she had no little children; they were all grown up. Then he told her that he was going by there the year before when he saw two little children playing in a swamp and he said to them, "What are you doing, little children?" The boy said, "We are catching bullfrogs." Then the little girl piped up, "You mustn’t say that, Ippie; you must say cow frog." Cleo knew who they were, for Avis always said "Ippie."
Ashby had a lot of trouble with a gobbler that Cleo had. He could make it too much for Ashby. Gene had a collie pup he called Romulus which thought a lot of Ashby. Whenever the turkey would see Ashby, he would jump on him, and Ashby would say, "Come on here, Romulus, he’s coming." Romulus would right off and run the turkey away. As soon as the turkey saw the dog was gone, back he would come; and the same talk would happen again, "Come on back here; he is coming again." He never called for any of us to help, and the dog always ran the turkey away.
Back to West Virginia, Fall 1907
It was not a very successful year. The cows Gene bought did not prove to be fresh in the spring, as the man he bought them of said they would. We did not get much milk (which is the chief money crop in that neighborhood). Jennie was sick most of the summer and fall, and things did not look good for the future. Therefore we decided to come back to West Virginia, which we did in the fall of 1907. I sold the team and some other stuff to the renter Gene got to take our place. Gene took the man’s note for the team. For the rest of the things I got some money, a cheap railroad ticket, and a little surplus which he promised to send—but of course he never did. On the whole I made a good deal with the man, so I never worried about the unpaid balance.
Coon Hunting before We Left New York: The renter said he had a good coon dog, so Gene and the boys and I went out before we left. We got a coon in a little while, and later we treed another in a slump of trees. We decided to watch it. As it began to get daylight, we decided the coon had gotten away, so we started home. But the dog struck a track right away and in a few moments treed. Gene said he saw one and shot it out. I told him to let me have the gun, and I shot another one. This made us three coons in one night, which we thought was quite good.
We stayed in a hotel the first night in Pittsburgh. The next evening Elva met us at Pennsboro with a wagon. We lived in a house on Uncle Elisha’s farm, where he had lived for many years. I taught the Upper Otter Slide school. This was a very pleasant school with one exception. Tom Gribble got mad at me about his son Paulie and took him out of school. He raised a fuss about my being partial toward my children. I called the trustees in and demanded a hearing. They failed to get Tom to come, so they came in and told the school that there was nothing to what he was telling so I let it go. The trustees were Al Kelley, Tom Ward, and I’ve forgotten the other one. Tom Gribble objected to Ashby’s going as he wasn’t quite 6 (Tom sent his children before they were 5, and Ashby was there once).
More about Ashby and Avis: As I have already said, Ashby did not go to school the latter part of December and until January 24. One cold day Jennie got to wondering what the two were doing. She found them playing meeting. Ashby was the leader, and he told Avis to get up and speak. She said, "I don’t know what to say." He told her to get up and say, "The Lord has gone from me, and the crows are carrying my chickens away." How quickly children can learn to imitate older people!
Avis was very successful in getting her way with children, but Ashby had a fine way to get her to do as he wanted her to. He would say, "Avis, if you don’t do this, I won’t watch the snakes off of you." She would always say, "I’ll do it, Ippie, if you’ll watch the snakes off of me." She feared snakes very much and was certain that Ashby could keep them off of her. Children are so trusting, but they soon learn to doubt us for we fail to do as we say exactly all the time.
Randal Died: We were to move into Pa Sutton’s house in Berea as soon as school was out. Aunt Rachel had not moved out yet, so we had to wait a few days. I was working for Dow and had just gotten back to work after dinner when we heard Jennie calling that Randal (our baby of two years) was dying. She had carried him for about one-half mile. He was dead. Jennie thought he had choked to death, but he hadn’t. He had taken some kind of fit or spasm and died without a struggle. Had he choked, he would have struggled for breath and his face would have turned black, none of which happened. He had never been strong. We were glad he went without suffering rather than being sick and suffering for weeks. It was a terrible blow to us, especially to Jennie. Although she did not talk much about it, I doubt if she really got over it until after the birth of Elmo. Even now it is a sad thing to write about, so I will write no more about it.
A Big Bass: We moved to Berea and raised a garden down at the Polly Place as well as in Berea. One day Brady and I were down there working in the garden when Brady got tired and wanted to go down to the river. He said he heard a big fish on the riffle. I told him to go on as he had worked very well, and I thought he was tired. As soon as he got down there, he began to holler, "Come down here quick! There’s a big fish here." I knew there was no big fish that we could catch, but I went to please the kid. When I got there, what do you suppose I found—a bass one-half as long as your arm in a hole of water 10 feet long, 3 feet wide, and 6 inches deep, with very shallow water on each side.
I told Brady to drive him up to the upper end where I had put a cross tie so he couldn’t get away, and I would kill him with a club. I didn’t think he would go below, but he seemed to be afraid of me and only came part way. All at once he went by Brady on the dead run. I yelled at him, "Now you let him get away." The water was so shallow that he had to turn on his side and flop. Brady rushed for it and hit it on the head with all his might. That was the end of the bass! It was 18 3/4 inches and weighed 3 lbs. 14 oz. and made more than we could all eat in a meal.
A Home in Berea; Lower Room at Berea School: That fall I sold the Polly Place and bought the house and lots where we lived in Berea. I got the lower room to teach at Berea, and Ernest Campbell was principal. I did not ask for a place at Berea. When the one they gave the lower room to would not teach, I got it and had a very nice time. I had to teach the first five grades as Ernest would only teach three. He would not try to keep his boys from running over those in my room. One day at noon my room and some of the upper room were playing trim a Christmas tree when Orin Hammond came down and began to tear it up. Then Hose Brake made for him, and they had a time. Orin never bothered my kids again.
I had a bunch of girls from 8 to 10 who were said to be so badly spoiled that they could hardly be controlled. I found them as good students and as nice to get along with as one could ask. They were Guerney Brake, Jessie Hayhurst, May Douglas, Darla Bee and some others. They would do anything I wanted them to do. They each wanted to do more than the others. This winter Guerney Brake came to school the first day with the mumps. We all had them but me, and I still have not had them. Brady had them very hard, for he took a backset on them.
Auburn School, 1909: The summer of 1909 I taught a school for advanced scholars in Auburn. I had a large school, which paid me quite well. I had 40 students. I did so well with the lower room that they gave me the principal’s place the next winter. This was a much harder job, but I got along fairly well. I got the ill will of Tom Jackson and Ell Douglas, which caused me a considerable trouble.
The Grange: About 1908 they organized a Grange, which did a lot of good for a few years. Two years we had a Farmers’ Institute with fine speakers from other parts of the state. This was very fine. Then for two falls we had a Farmers’ Picnic with fine speakers. The fall of 1912 we had five or six of the best speakers in Ritchie and one (a very able speaker) from another section. There were hundreds of people there, and it was a very successful affair. I was lecturer and had charge of the program, and I think I had a small part in its success. We tried to start a Grange store. We bought a suitable building and lumber to fix it up, but we failed to find a manager. We sold the property, lumber and all so that we did not lose anything. Mr. Wagoner moved away, we went to Salem, and the Grange died.
Building onto our Home: After finishing my school at Auburn, I decided to add another story to my house as it was a one-story house. I took some of the ceiling and upper floor from the Polly House, which I still owned. This was red oak and hard maple, very fine, tongued and grooved. I also bought some fine dressed lumber at a sale very cheap. This way I was able to have a good two-story house.
More Teaching Experiences in Ritchie
The next summer after I taught at Auburn, I taught at Berea. My school was small and did not pay me well, but I had a very nice time. They learned well and had good success getting certificates.
I will continue with my teaching work until I left Ritchie. The fall of 1910 there was an effort made, in an underhand way, to keep me from getting the school at Berea; but I got it and taught a fairly successful school in spite of all a few dirty meddlers could do. I decided when school was out that I would not try for it again, so I got the Sunny Point school on Turtle Run. Conza asked me before the Board met if I was asking for the Berea school, and I told her "No." Then she said she would try for it. I told her to pitch in. Ell Douglas was on the Board, and he got them to delay hiring the Berea teachers until September in hopes the girls would get schools elsewhere or he could get someone else. Two of the Board members told Conza and Draxie, after the meeting was out, that they should have the school. The opposition made a great effort to get someone else to teach it, but failed.
One night John Meredith (one of my best friends) came up to see me. This was while Jennie was in Colorado, and I was alone. We talked for some time when all at once John said, "Pressie, can’t we get you to teach our school this winter?" My reply was, "No, John, you can’t." We talked on a while, and again John spoke up, "Pressie, isn’t there some way we can coax you to teach our school?" My reply was "No, John, there isn’t." After talking for some time longer, John spoke up for the third time, "Pressie, isn’t there some way we can force you to teach our school?" My reply again was "No, John, there isn’t." He soon went home, and I was happy; I knew Douglas had sent him although he had gotten mad early in the spring when one of the patrons had asked him to give me the school. So it tickled me to say, "No." Oh, it was fun!
An Incident at Berea: I will now tell a funny incident (some might not think it very funny) that happened the last winter I taught at Berea. Barnard Bee had been using bad talk at school, and Draxie had him wash his mouth with asafetida. This raised an awful fuss, and they had Zeke summoned before the Grand Jury. He came to the school house and told us about it. He said he didn’t want to go as he had no fuss to raise about what she did to the boy. We told him to go ahead; it was all right with us.
The next day we went out to town. We went into the clerk’s office, had ourselves summoned before the jury, sworn, and then waited to be called in. When they called me in, the foreman asked me if I knew what I was summoned for. My reply was, "Maybe I do and maybe I don’t." He then asked me what I knew. My reply was, "A little of nothing and not much of anything." He then asked me about the trouble in school. He was smart and thought he was very smart. The first question he asked after that was, "What is your business?" My reply was, "I take the place of the parents." I saw several old teachers on the jury, and I knew we were okay.
When he said, "Don’t you know that no one but a practicing physician has a right to give medicine?" I shot right back at him, "Yea, if you go home tonight and one of your children has the bellyache, you wouldn’t dare to give him a dose of castor oil?" "That’s different," he said. A half dozen said, "No, that’s the same." I knew we had won. The foreman came out a little later, and we told him we had another witness. He said they didn’t need it; for us to just go on home and teach our schools. This was all done by a bunch of trouble makers and ended as such things usually do.
Draxie and Mike Jett: Draxie also had trouble with Mike Jett. He got mad because she kept Witt in at recess. When recess came, they sent for Witt to come home and then sent him back on the playground to play. Draxie saw him out there playing, so she went and got him. I went up to the house to get a drink. While I was gone, Mike went to the school house, cursed Draxie and took Witt away. I stopped in the lower room when I came back and heard John Bee, John Waggoner and Draxie talking about it. When they said he cursed Draxie, I said I would have him arrested and proceeded to call the squire at Harrisville. He said he would be out as soon as the weather was fit and get him.
As soon as Mike heard about it, he wanted to settle it, so they agreed to meet at our house Sabbath evening. Mike and Ivy and Conza and Draxie came. I told them it was all right with me any way they settled it, if it was satisfactory with the squire; for it was in his hands. Draxie agreed if he would come to school Monday morning and apologize for what he had done, it would settle it with her. Mike thought it was all settled, so he never came about.
A few days later the squire called up and said it could not be settled out of court, but that he would try the case himself. Mike came to Draxie again, when he heard the squire was coming. He told her he couldn’t talk in public. She told him he seemed to be able to talk when he came after Witt. The weather stayed too bad for the squire to come, so Mike was indicted by the same jury we were before. He paid a fine of $25, which was more than I would like to pay for the privilege of cursing a school teacher.
Trouble for Brady and Clee Wagoner: I taught the Sunny Point school two years and had a very nice time. Conza had a hard time with her school; the children were mean and the people meddled. The next winter they got a big man by the name of Alender, who worked for Tom Jackson for a while before school, so they had a chance to tell him how mean Brady and Clee Wagoner were. The boys complained to me that they didn’t get a fair show. I knew this was so, but I told them to wait and he would find out how it was.
There got to be too much courting in school, and we told the boys some of the girls would got jealous and then there would be trouble. Some of the kids in the neighborhood would come in and say, "We are having a good school this winter," in a hateful tone. Of course, this made us mad, but we didn’t say a word.
All at once word got around that Clee had used vile talk to John Prunty’s girl, and he had taken her out of school. Alender went to see about it, and John said it was not so. When Alender told the member of the board (Ell Douglas) that he found no basis for the charge, Douglas said it was so and he had to investigate it. The girl said it was so; Clee denied it; the girl’s seatmate said she did not hear it; and Brady, who was sitting right by, said Clee did not say it. Alender said she had not proved her case so she must apologize. She refused to do this, so he turned her out. This raised an awful stink and more charges against Clee. Alender failed to find any proof and told them so.
The next Friday noon the Board and 25 to 50 people came in. Alender took up school and went to hearing classes. Then one of the board got up and asked if he might say a word. Alender said, "Speak on." He (the board member) said they had been sent for to come down there. Alender said he knew nothing about it, for he had received no notice. The member said he knew that was so, for they didn’t know what it was about.
After some talk it was found out that Alender was accused of being partial for not getting Clee for what they called immoral conduct. They said they intended to protect their girls (three of the accusers were the most immoral men in town) and get rid of the vipers like Clee. Alender offered if the crowd would leave that the board could inquire of the scholars and find out the truth. One of the crowd jumped up and said, "I am a taxpayer, and I came here to see that justice is done, and I am going to stay and see that it is." The board said if that was the way they felt, there could be no trial till written charges were filed and Alender was notified of charges and date. So they fixed the date two weeks off and went home.
The crowd was mad, for they hoped to get Alender and Clee both put out of school. They were mad at Alender because he would not kick Clee and Brady out of school. If they had gotten Clee put out, they would have soon patched up some lie on Brady and kicked him out too. This crowd (not all of Berea by a good deal) was mad at Al Wagoner and me and wanted to ruin us. There was a lot of blowing done, and John Meredith told them there was nothing to it. They replied, "John, don’t you believe in protecting our girls?" John told them it was just a plot to ruin the boys and that there was nothing to it. This didn’t suit some of them very well, but John didn’t care a cent how they liked it.
When the board met, there was a big crowd there again anxious to get Clee and Alender. They had charged Alender with partiality on ten counts—nine for not investigating charges against Clee and one for expelling a girl. When the case came up, Alender proved that he had tried every case but one and had no proof and that they gave him no chance to try that one. The board ruled that the teacher was not guilty, but they reinstated the girl. If Clee was to be tried, they would have to bring charges against him and set another date. Clee told them he had to quit school and go to carrying the mail, so they dropped his case.
I may have cause to mention Clee again, but I will say right here that he graduated from Salem College with a fine name, took a course in agriculture, married a fine girl (her mother was a daughter of George Randolph). The last I knew, he was teaching in high school. In fact, he has done better than any of those that tried to ruin him back in Berea.
Some of the folks tried to get Minter Fox to whip Alender and went to see what Fred thought about their chance. Fred told them Alender would whip them both before any one could pull him off of them; so they didn’t try it. The Brakes, Jacksons, Collins and Douglases went to another school by consent of the board, which left the Berea school very small. Douglas kept his girl at home for a few days, which cost him about $12. This was the best lesson Berea ever had. Since then most anybody could teach the Berea school. So you see that good can still come out of evil.
The next spring Wagoners moved to Harrisville, which took away one of my best friends.
Experiences as Fire Insurance Agent
In the spring of 1911 I got a job of writing fire insurance for the Safe Insurance Company of Harrisville, which I followed for three summers. I was quite successful; I cleared an average of $2 a day, which at that time was good wages. I wrote in Gilmer, Tyler, Ritchie, Wood, Doddridge and Harrison counties. I enjoyed the work very much. But once in a while it looked as if some would get insurance and then cash in on it, if they got too much insurance. I tried to be careful and did not have many fires.
There was a man in Gilmer by the name of Wagoner who had a fine house. I tried hard to get him to write insurance, but he told me that he built the house himself and he knew there was no danger of its burning, so I gave him up. A few months later I passed through a village not far from his home. A friend came out and told me he had some insurance for me. He told me that Wagoner had had a fire, and he said he would write insurance with the first insurance agent who came along. I found it was in a room where ceiling paper had been used instead of lumber to seal overhead. A small boy found the fire. When the mother went up, she found the ceiling paper burned off and the paper burned about half way down all around the wall. The room was shut up tight, so there was no draft and it burned very slowly. They saved the house with very little damage. I wrote the insurance, which made me $2. No doubt a mouse or rat had carried a match to their nest, gnawed it and started the fire.
I saw a two-story house with matched oak ceiling with a hole made by fire which looked as if it had been made for a stove pipe. It was in the parlor, which had been shut up for a week. When a girl went in to sweep the room, she found ashes on the floor. She thought it had started upstairs, so she ran up there but found no way to get at the fire up there. So she came down and put the fire out down there. When they got the fire out, they found the burned remains of some stockings and old clothes which had been a nest. The house was shut up tight, so the fire had not blazed but kept live coals. These are just a few of my experiences while writing insurance.
Jennie Visited in Colorado, 1911
In the summer of 1911, Jennie went to Colorado with Watie [Sutton, her brother] to see Elzie [another brother], who could not come to West Virginia on account of his health. She had a very nice trip. She sure deserved it, for she had never been out of West Virginia except when we moved to New York. Watie and Arlie paid for her trip.
Elmo was Born, 1913
When I got home July 29, 1913, from writing insurance, I found Jennie sick and the doctor and some women there. Sunday morning we sent for Dr. Goff, and Sunday afternoon Goff asked for the doctor from Auburn, which we got at once. At 6 p.m. Sunday Elmo was born. He weighed 4 pounds dressed, and he was so small that I laid him down flat in a shoe box that rubber shoes had come in. The doctors told the women that they didn’t expect the mother nor babe to live.
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.
As soon as we decided to go to Salem, we offered some of our stock for sale. We had two cows and two horses we wanted to sell. A lot of the people about Berea wanted to get them for nothing, and they kept people from buying them. A man in my district wanted to trade a cow for my young horse. We traded without anyone in Berea finding it out. When they objected to my price, I told them I would turn her out on grass (I had lots of pasture) and let her raise a calf and get fat; and in the fall they would be worth lots more than I asked for them. I sold them both for my price, and the Berea folks didn’t get either of them—which suited me to a "T."
One more incident before I leave my Berea friends—I owed Dr. Bee a bill of over $30 for Jennie’s sickness that fall, and he demanded his pay at once. He said he had never had but one person pay a bill after they moved away. I told him I would have the money in a few days. I went to get some money. When I got back, he came right over to the post office to see if I was going to pay him. Minter Fox found the doctor was going to raise a fuss about the bill, so he followed him over there and was going to offer to pay him if I didn’t have the money. But I had it and paid him. It is a friend indeed that will come out in the rain to shake hands with you.
Two Trips in Snow Storms: Lincoln’s birthday came on Thursday that year. By having a program in the morning, the rest of the day was a holiday. So I went to Watie’s that evening, stayed all night, wrote some insurance for a Bland, and headed for Salem. When I got on top of the hill, I saw the train pull out of Long Run Station. Since I missed the train, I had to walk ten miles and carry a load of butter and stuff for Brady through a howling snow storm. I got there and back home safely on Sunday.
Washington’s birthday was on Sunday, and Monday was a holiday. As I had promised to write some insurance at Ellensboro that day, I got up at 4 a.m. to walk to Pullman. The snow was falling, and the ground was turning gray. It was 5½ miles to Pullman. I rode 6 miles on the train to Gooseneck; the snow was then 8 inches deep. I walked 6 miles to Ellensboro; the snow was then a foot deep. I wrote five policies, which made $13 (not too bad for one day’s work). Then I headed for Harrisville, five miles away, over snow drifts from former snows in places 6 feet deep. The drifts were crusted, but every little while I would break through and go into my arms. The wind was howling. When I got to Harrisville, I was really cold. I handed in the applications, got warm, and went to the train.
They could not get the coach up the hill, so I had to ride the engine (which, I can tell you, was no fun). After we got the coach, we traveled at a terrific rate (sometimes as much as 6 or 8 miles an hour) until we got to the hill just before we got to Pullman. There they stopped and fired up till the old engine just roared; then we took up the hill like Old Nick was after us. We just rattled along till we were about half way up, when we began to slow up, then went poof, poof, and died. We backed down the hill, cut up a lot of rails, fired up again and tore up the hill. We went farther this time, but again it went puff, puff, and stopped. Lest I become tedious, I will just say we finally got over the hill and into Pullman, which was very lucky. It was now after 9 p.m., so I couldn’t phone home. The snow was 13 inches deep, the road unbroken, it was very cold, and I would be as far from school at home as I was here. Therefore, I decided to stay in Pullman, go to school in the morning, and then go on home in the evening. I did just that, and everything worked out fine.
I bought a house and lot of Leonard Jett and borrowed the money to make a down payment. We moved on the first day of April, 1914. This changed our place of residence from Ritchie County, where we had spent nearly all our lives, to our new home in Salem. We never moved back to Ritchie as our home. We had a small house, but large enough for us. This saved us paying room and board for Brady. There were four children—Brady, 17; Ashby, 12; Avis, 10; and Elmo, 6 months. Brady was in the Academy, and Ashby and Avis were in the grades in the college.
Flinderation School: I was to write insurance, but it did not work out as the insurance men fought us both fair and foul. So I got the school at Flinderation that winter. When the district superintendent proposed my name as the teacher, one of the board turned around and asked if I thought I could hold Flinderation down. I told him I did. The fact is I thought I could hold anything down, but I have had some doubts since. When virtually all of the patrons, as well as the children, do everything they can to be mean, it is hard to make a success in any school, as I found in Taylor County a few years later. Flinderation proved to be a very nice school. Every one seemed to be entirely satisfied and wanted me to teach it again. I thought they would ask the board for me, and they thought I would ask; so I did not get it.
I got a job of Uncle Preston the next summer. He was building a house, and I had all kinds of work to do. I can tell you he was hard to please. I then worked at other places after I quit him.
Black Lick School; A Bout with Rheumatism: I taught at Black Lick in Doddridge County this winter. I felt miserable most of the late fall, and by Thanksgiving I felt so bad that I let Brady teach a day or more as it was vacation for him. By the first of the next week, I was down with rheumatism. For two weeks I lay on my back and could move but one foot a little bit and neither hand. They fed me for five weeks because I could not get either hand to my mouth. The pain, at times, was terrible—but not all the time, for we found a remedy that would stop it in an hour. (Ring a woolen cloth out of very hot water with a tablespoon of Epsom salts for every quart of water, changing it as soon as it begins to cool. This may be of use to someone.) I did not get to go back to school till late in January; even then I felt miserable. This was not a very interesting school, for the most of them were not very bright students .
I did not get steady work the next summer for two reasons: I was not very able to work, and work was very scarce. I got some work about town and went out in the country and did some harvesting.
This winter of 1916-17 I taught at Buckeye, three miles out of Salem. This was a fairly good school, and enjoyed it fine.
Working for Virgil in New York, 1917
When school was out, I went up to New York to work for Virgil as I feared work would be scarce in Salem. I started about March 20. I had a cold when I left; by the time I got there, it had developed into grippe. I was not able to do anything for two weeks. We put out a crop of oats, about ten acres of potatoes, and an acre of corn for ears. Virgil had a bottom that would mature corn; but oh, it was so hard and flinty. Virgil told me later that the acre produced 125 bushels of corn.
Soon after I got there, World War I started. Potatoes were over $2 a bushel; flour went out of sight, but it soon went down some. They asked everyone to plant all the potatoes they could as they would be needed. Virgil feared there would be so many raised that they would not be worth raising. He need not have been scared; they started off in the fall at $1 a bushel and soon went up to $2. In the spring they went still higher. The farmers, both grain and stock, made big money during the war. The next year the price went way down and did not go back up on farm products until about 1940—twenty years later. I’ll tell you, it was hard times for the farmers. No wonder the farmers rose up in their might and crushed the party, in 1932, that had ruined them and that it has not returned to power in twenty years—but I am getting in ahead of my story, so I had best go back.
I worked fairly hard that summer but did not hurt myself. I did not get wages like others were getting because I began work before the war started. Elizabeth was at Virgil’s that summer. We had a great time together. She was a fine friend and did everything she could to cheer me up when I’d get home sick and lonesome. Vida came out a while that summer and was very nice to me, which I will never forget.
We had a near neighbor who had bad spells with his heart, which scared the family very much. They would come after Virgil in haste, and he would go over and stay for hours sometimes. He was a very good neighbor. One day they came after Virgil at noon, and he wasn’t at home. So I went and stayed till he got better. They told Virgil I was very helpful, which made me feel good. It is really very good to feel you are useful.
Mary was a fine motherly woman who was as good as any could be. Winston did nothing of any amount for he was not strong and did not dare do much.
Back to Salem, Fall 1917
I came back to Salem the last of August so I could go to Teachers’ Institute and got steady work at three times the pay I was getting. I was very glad, for we needed the money very much. I got a lot of work at the lumber yard.
I taught at Dewey Town that winter. It was one of the coldest, iciest winters one need ever want to see. It was a very rainy fall; in fact, once or twice it would rain till I would be wet from my waist down. My rubbers and shoes would be full, and I would wring out my stockings and put them back on. By 4 p.m. my clothes would be about dry; by the time I got home, I would be wet as ever. Between Christmas and New Years it got very cold. For six weeks it was seldom above zero and as low as 17 below. Most of the time the snow was covered with ice, so you were constantly in danger of falling and crippling yourself. I boarded over there the last week of the severe cold weather. All my eighth grade got promoted, which was very good.
When school was out, I got a job on a farm at Glovers and Kings for the summer. They were very good to me except Mrs. King, who hated me, and there was no love lost. She had two girls whom she was trying to bring up to be as big snobs as she was.
I taught at Flinderation again this year. The flu broke out after I had taught a short time, and all schools were closed for about six weeks.
Railroad Work at Grafton<P> I got a job working on the railroad at Grafton. A train came to Salem at 6:45 a.m. and was supposed to come back at 6:45 p.m. We got pay from the time we were supposed to leave Salem until we did get back. We got time and a half after 10 hours, and we always got 11 hours. Once we got 13 besides the extra time. This wasn’t the worst of it; they wouldn’t let us do half work. You wonder why? The railroad companies were running the railroad for the government, and they wanted to make it cost the government so much the government would have to give it back to the railroad companies.
I will give one example of the way they worked. One morning when we got into Grafton, we found that McAdo (the big boss) was there, and he was mad. He told them there were men enough on the job to have done three times the work they had done. That was really an understatement, but I suppose he didn’t want to be too hard on them. The super came out and told us to get tie hooks and go to carrying ties. He said, "Any one found loafing while the government men are here will be fired." Of course, that meant when they left we could loaf all we pleased.
The men began to carry ties, three hooks, six men to a tie. I was left without any hook or buddy. There was one hook and two men extra, so I told them to catch back a little from the end and I would carry the back end. I could carry my end, but it was heavy. The second tie we carried a boy ran up and grabbed a hold. On the third tie a man came, too. This made me so mad that I let loose, and my end of the tie dropped to the ground. They were pulling down instead of helping. Just then the super came back and told us to carry some old ties. I started for them, and three more came after me. When I got there, I tipped a tie on end, put it on my shoulder, and walked off with it. Several began to curse and rave. I stopped and told them that I didn’t object to help in carrying ties but I’d be hanged if I’d carry the ties and drag two or three with it. Some of them talked saucy, but no one laid hands on me, so it soon died down.
Sometimes they would go over into town and stay for hours. One boy from Salem slipped out at noon and didn’t come back till 3 p.m. They fired him, but he came back the next day and worked right ahead. I’ll bet he got full pay for the day they fired him. It was the greatest swindle I ever saw. I got over $4 a day for six to eight hours play; the rest of the time we put in on the train, part of the time going and part of the time on switches waiting for a train to pass us.
A few weeks after I got my pay, a man came to me and asked if I had got all my pay. I told him I got what they gave me. He said there was more at the depot. I went down and got enough to make me about $5 a day. This was the best job I had ever had.
Teaching Again
About the first of November I began teaching again. This was the great flu year of 1918. I had a very nice school, but it got quite small and they sent the scholars to Bristol the next year. I never taught in Harrison County again. The chief reason for this was that the board of Ten Mile decided about this time to hire no one unless he had as good as a Normal certificate.
The summer of 1919 I worked on Evander’s farm for Brady and Ashby and for Wardner Davis on some city jobs. This was a fairly good summer, but not as good as I had a couple years later.
Teaching in Ritchie Again: I had no school until late in the fall, when they sent for me from Ritchie to teach the Upper Otter Slide School. This was a new school; the district was formed and the house built late that fall. The Moonrise School house had burned down the fall before, and the school had been taught in an empty farm house. This fall they got the board to cut off part of Upper Otter Slide and a part of this district, build a house, and form a new district on the head of Otter Slide with me as teacher. I found it one of the best schools I had ever taught, although they said it had been no good at all the winter before. In fact, the large girls told me they had acted so badly that they were ashamed of themselves every time they saw their teacher that summer.
There were 26 scholars, made up of the following families: 7 from Lee Campbells, 6 from Port Campbells, 2 from Jack Hudkins, 6 from Elva Maxsons, 3 from Dow Maxsons, 1 from Art Brisseys, and 1 I can’t remember. One of the Campbells and two or three of Elva’s girls went through high school, and Maynard went one year.
I stayed at Uncle E. J,’s and worked nights and mornings and Sundays to pay for my board. It was a very good winter except Jennie had a very severe sick spell. I went to see her and found her getting better. A few weeks later Conza said a friend from Salem told them that Dr. Bond said she was going with T. B., so I went home to see about it. I went to see Dr. Bond, and she said there was no sign of T. B., which made me feel very good.
The first trip I made in a pouring rain. I was wet from head to toe. I waded several creeks to my knees. I did not know when the train ran, so I walked very fast and was tired when I got to Tollgate. I had to wait an hour. The station master said I was the wettest, worst bedraggled man he ever saw. He built up a good fire, which dried me out a little. I got quite cold on the train, but it had no bad effects.
Before school was out, the scholars got up a petition to the trustees asking them to hire me next year. I told them before I left that I would try to come back. Some of them were in Salem to a church meeting and came to see me about teaching, and I told them I would. But before time for me to go, Jennie got quite sick and had to go to the hospital for an operation. The surgeon said she would be no better until she had another operation in about a year, so I couldn’t go. I went three years later and taught two terms, but I will write of it later.
Selling Books in Pennsylvania: That summer I sold books in Pennsylvania. I went up there with three other Salem boys. I did quite well in the small towns but could do nothing in the country. You couldn’t sell a $5.00 gold piece to a Pennsylvania farmer for $4.50. They were the sorest, worst disgruntled, sourest people I ever saw. They said the young people had all gone to the factories; they had to pay two prices for anything they bought and could not get half price for what they raised. They were just mad. This was in 1920.
Before the season was nearly over I had to come home, for Jennie was quite sick. She got some better so I could go out for a few days. She soon got worse and had to go to the hospital for an operation. The surgeon performed only part of this then, and she had to go back for a second operation a year later.
Buckeye School and Picking Apples: I taught at Buckeye that winter and had a very nice school. Before the school began, I worked in the lumber yard for Evander a while. Then he sent me to pick apples. He had a man picking peaches that he thought was the fastest picker in the country. He got the peaches picked by noon and came to pick apples that afternoon. I was then 48 years old, but I still thought I could pick as many apples as the next one. So I went to work.
Now the trees were medium sized young ones, loaded down with fine, large, smooth Ben Davis apples. The Ben Davis is not the best eating apple; but when it comes to picking and filling a bushel measure, they are hard to beat. I had plenty of bushel boxes handy to fill, so I went to work. I would stand on the ground and fill the picking bag I had over my shoulder. Once I wanted to see how soon I could fill a bushel box; so I got under a limb that I thought had at least a bushel of apples that I could reach easily, looked at my watch, and went to work. In just two minutes I had a bushel box of apples picked (pretty fair, wasn’t it?). When we quit, I found I had picked three to his two bushels all afternoon. Pretty good, wasn’t it?
This was on Friday before my school began. Alexander asked me to pick apples for him Sunday, so I went out and worked for him all day but did not get done. He asked me if I could find some way to finish them, so I started to school early and picked a while and then picked after school was out. That way I finished picking them.
I saw Elmus Bee one evening as I came from school. He told me he had picked all the apples that were easy to get at and that I could have the rest if I would gather them. So I did and got several bushels of fine apples which lasted till way in the winter, for which we were very thankful.
Cutting Filth and Blackberry Picking: It was in the spring of 1922 that I began to do a lot of work for Lee Davis. I hoed some corn and did some other work for him. Then he wanted me to cut a big field of filth for him where there were lots of blackberries. I was to have all the blackberries on the patch I took to cut. We agreed on what I was to have for cutting a part of the field, and I picked the first day of July. I found I could pick six gallons of berries a day, which was about all I could carry into town, four miles away, and I could get 65 cents a gallon. I soon asked for more filth to cut so I could have more berries to pick. We agreed on a price (a little too cheap), but I was to have all the berries on the entire field. I picked every day and carried into town until my arms ached all the time. I would carry a three-gallon pail in my right hand, a two-gallon pail in my left hand, and a one-gallon pail fastened to the suspenders of my overalls. My arms would ache that winter from carrying my dinner pail, but it paid. I cut the filth on the whole field, which with the berries I picked made me about $100, which isn’t hay!
I taught the Long Run school that winter, and they all wanted me back. But a girl slipped to the board and got it away from me.
The next summer I cut the same field of filth of Lee, built a lot of woven wire fence for him, and worked for some others. So I had another busy summer and a fairly prosperous one,
Trouble in a Taylor County School: I had more trouble getting a school than I had ever had, but I got one in Taylor County and never taught near Salem again. In fact, I never spent a winter there again. This was the hardest school to teach I had ever struck. The children were taught, the most of them, that they had a right to do as they pleased. I only saw two of the trustees when I went to contract for the school. They told me they had been having no school for several years and that they wanted me to teach it and see that they behaved. When I saw the other trustee, I found that he was a ruffian and didn’t want the children controlled.
I got along fairly well until the first of December, when I found the children in the house and the door locked. They refused to open the door, so I went to the trustees (I boarded with one of them). They said that they thought the children should have a little fun. I told them they said they wanted me to teach the school and let no one else run it. They said that they forgot to tell me that the children were to have some fun before Christmas and lock me out. (If they had told me about that, I would have told them to keep their school.) The next morning they did not try to keep me out, so I went on with the school.
The week before Christmas, I found the door fastened again. That evening the trustee where I boarded and I went to see the other trustee, a very nice old man by the name of Taylor. He said that he thought it was all right for the children to have some fun and that they had been locking the teachers out for fifty years. My reply was, "Mr. Taylor, when you were first married, you would get on a horse and Mrs. Taylor would get on behind you when you went anywhere. But now you have an auto." Mrs. Taylor was in the kitchen listening, and she spoke up, "That’s so, and you men had better go over there and stop those children acting the fool." They came over the next morning and found the door with one end of a rail against the stove and the other against the door. They opened the door and told the children not to lock the door anymore.
I gave them a treat at the end of that week (they knew I was going to treat them when they locked the door the second time). I hoped that would stop it, but it didn’t. The other trustee put the children up to being mean and came to the school house after school was out and told me I didn’t have sense enough to teach school and that I must never punish any of his children in any way.
Shortly after this the spelling class his girl was in missed every word in their lesson. They didn’t try to spell but would look at each other and grin when they missed. So I told them they would try it again in the morning. It was the same in the morning, so I told them to stay in at recess. The girl said her father told her not to stay in. I told her she could stay in or take her books and go home and stay till she would mind. Just then her father came roaring in. He dared me outside (he was about 35 and I was 50) and said he would be there and get me that night and that he would follow me till he did get me.
I called the two trustees in, and they told me to have him arrested. I dismissed school and went to Grafton and took out two warrants for him, one for assault and one for breach of peace. The squire told me if I could prove what I told him, he would step on him. When I left he told me to go back to my school and take care of myself. I asked if he meant any way, and he said, "Any way."
I had known I was going to have trouble, so I told the trustees the week before that I was going to quit, for the children would tell any lie. They said they wouldn’t believe anything the children told, but I told them someone else would try the case so I thought I would quit. When I got home, I told them I had quit. Ashby was teaching out in the country, and I told him when he came in that I had quit. He told me, "Dad, you’re not quitting. You have taught the worst schools in the country, and you managed them. You are not quitting this one." I said, "All right, kid, if you say so, I’ll go ahead. But there will be trouble." And there was. Just the same I have always been very glad that he told me to go back and that I did.
McDonald was the man’s name (this was the second McDonald I had had trouble with in school, and I could not trust one of that name as far as I could throw a bull by its tail). He did not come back to the school house, but he went over to Mr. Taylor’s and bragged about what he had done. He said I had started the ball rolling and he intended to keep it rolling and that he was going to follow me till he did get me. In fact, he told everything he did, so Mr. Taylor was the only witness I needed. But I took the other trustee and his boy, 12 years old. McDonald took his mother to go his bond, if necessary, his children as three witnesses, and the best lawyer in Grafton. We also got a good lawyer.
I told what happened, and Mr., Taylor told what he knew. When they cross-questioned me, they asked if McDonald whispered. When they questioned the boy, he got along well till they asked if the defendant was mad. This stumped him for a minute. Then he said. "He did not whisper." When we rested, the lawyer moved to quash the warrant. The squire said, "No." The lawyer said we had not proved what they expected, so they would have no witnesses. The squire said he would render his verdict. He turned to McDonald and said, "You have done entirely wrong, and I won’t stand for it. I will fine you $25 and bind you over to keep the peace for a year and a day under a $200 bond." So you see, it didn’t pay him to get extra smart. I finished the school without any more trouble, but I feel it was one of my poorest terms.
Why This School was Called Robinson: I think it might be well to tell the story of how this school came to be called Robinson School. A man by the name of Robinson and his wife lived in a house near the school. They got in debt and borrowed some money of McDonald, the father of the man I had trouble with. Robinson gave him a deed for his farm with the agreement if they could pay the money back within a year that they could redeem it. They scraped and saved and got the money. When they went to redeem the farm, he said, "No, I have the deed for the farm, and I am keeping it."
McDonald lost a dog and accused Robinson of killing it. Every time they met, he would throw it up to Robinson about killing his dog. One day Robinson said to him, "The next time you say dog to me, I’ll kill you."
Sometime before the year was up, McDonald came down and ordered Robinson to move out. Robinson told him he would move out the day the year was up and not a day sooner. McDonald came down the morning he was to move and found him loading up to move. "Well," McDonald said, "I reckon I can keep a dog now." Robinson got his gun and shot him dead.
They sent to Grafton for the officers. When they came, Robinson was in the house and refused to let them in. He told one of his friends who was with the officers that when he was ready they could have him, but not till he was ready. He also said he had a rifle, a shot gun, and a revolver in the house; and if they thought he couldn’t shoot, to put a penny on top of a post 25 yards away. In a half minute the penny was shot off. They waited around till evening. Soon after the lights went on, they heard a shot. They went in and found he had shot himself. A man may be so annoyed that he will do awful things.
Two Pupils in Robinson School: I believe I will write a little about two of my pupils in the Robinson School before I forget it. The family where I boarded moved away about two months before school was out, so I boarded with her brother’s family the rest of the term. The name was Stark. There were two little girls—Ruth was 8, and Jinnie was 6 about the middle of the winter. Jinnie did not come to school until the last two months. She may have known her letters; if she did, that was all. Neither of the girls came in bad weather, for it was a long trip and Ruth was not strong.
One rainy day when I came from school, Mrs. Stark told me Ruth had tested Jinnie to see how many words she knew at sight anywhere. I told her about 100. She said Jinnie knew 125. Pretty good for a six-year-old girl in less than two months! I think she was a little above average in ability, and she really tried. Ruth was a very sweet little girl. She wrote for two or three years but finally quit. I think I just forgot to answer one of her letters.
Summer Work in Salem: I came home Monday evening, finished my school reports, and went to work for Guy Davis on the school house at noon Tuesday. I leveled off the dirt floor in the basement, cut two holes for sewer pipes through the 18-inch wall (Guy said it was the hardest concrete he ever saw), and laid a concrete floor. I had worked on this school the year before when they were building it.
After finishing the school house for Lee and Guy Davis, I went to work on farms and did not lose any time for rain for six weeks. One rainy morning at about 8 a.m. Lee raised the window of the school (it was right below our house) and wanted to know if I wanted to work. I went down and cleaned up and carried lumber for them. Then for some time, whenever it rained, they would call me down. Then for a while I got no work., Then one Sabbath evening Guy came to me and asked if I could work the next day. He said a man had promised to come Friday but didn’t, so he was through with him. After that I did all the common labor for them. Besides the other work I did, I got a job teaching some children at night who had not passed their grade. I made over $1200 that year, which was a little the best I had ever done up to that time.
Besides the Central School building, I had also worked on the East School building. In 1920 I had worked for several weeks on a glass plant at Bristol. I am telling this to show I had worked on a number of big buildings in Salem. I am sorry to say I was not the contractor or head man on any of these jobs, but I did a lot of common labor on each of them.
My Last Teaching in Ritchie County—1923-1925
The summer of 1923 went by rapidly. In the late summer I was offered the Upper Otter Slide School, so I was fixed for the winter. I boarded with Guy and Mamie that winter. I had plenty to eat and was treated very nicely. In fact, I had a very nice winter. Harold Brissey, Jesse Kelley and some of the other boys would go out hunting at night. We caught several possums and a few skunks. When I left in the spring, the patrons petitioned the board to hire me again. All but one of them signed the petition, and he went to the board and told them he wanted me. They hired me, so I was all set for the term of 1924-25.
This year I did not find as much work about Salem as I had been doing.
As there was a big gas line being laid in Ritchie, I went out there the 4th of July and worked for Elva till they got the line near enough to walk back and forth. I got $4.08 a day, and my board cost $l.35 a day. This saved me some, as I worked for Elva on Sundays. Digging ditches is hard work, but I liked it fine except for a few days when it was so terribly hot. One day I had to go to the shade for over an hour, but they did not dock me any.
I dug in the ditch till we got to the center, where the Italians were supposed to meet us but didn’t. Then I went back and filled in till a mile beyond the center. Our super said he could take 100 Americans and lay more line than 175 Tallies. I finished the job just before time for school to begin.
Jack offered to let me live in a vacant house he had. This was a real good four-room house with a bed and bedding which he said I could use. He didn’t charge me anything for it. He also gave me some beans and apples, which he said he would not pick. Of course, they were not high quality, but they were good enough for me. I surely enjoyed them very much. I helped Willie Jett fill his silo, and he let me have a lot of corn beans. So I had beans for a long time.
I will mention right here that Jack, May, and Ova were very nice to me, and I won’t forget them.
Elmo Stayed With Me and Attended School: I stayed by myself and did my own cooking until I went home to vote. When I returned, Elmo came with me. We had a grand time. Jesse Kelley and I had been hunting some, so we went out in a short time after Elmo came. I could see that Jesse did not like very well for Elmo to go, but I would not go without Elmo. About 11 p.m. the dogs treed something, and we had no ax. Elmo said to give him the lantern and he would go to Jesse’s (which was about one-half mile away) and get an ax. He was back in a little while. After that Jesse was glad for Elmo to go every time. We had lots of fun and got lots of possums. We had a few to eat. Elmo enjoyed them very much.
The girls liked Elmo and got along with him just fine, but the boys were inclined to be jealous of him because he could beat them at almost any of their games. When they played "hide and seek," he would lie down and be still. They would pass by him, and he could come right in. When they played "keep away" with the volley ball, he could beat them, which made some of the Campbell boys mad. They tried to do Elmo the same, but they didn’t have any success.
When we went home for Christmas, Elmo wasn’t sure if he would come back. When the time came, he was anxious to go back. We bought a quarter of beef of John Meathrell and had beef about all winter. We bought potatoes of someone there and plenty of groceries from the store. We lived fine, and it didn’t cost nearly as much as they (Jennie and Dow) asked for board for me only. They wanted $20 per month, which at that time seemed rather high.
I did not have quite so good a school this winter, as several of the boys decided they were too big to study or behave. The most of them did well, and several got diplomas from the eighth grade.
This finished my teaching in Ritchie (24 winter terms). In fact, I have been in Ritchie but little since the spring of 1925.
Summer Work at Salem—1925
This summer I took a job of filth cutting of Lee Davis. Before I finished it, Leonard Jett came over and wanted to help. He had been working for the city and got his hand badly mashed. He wanted to work some to get able to do a day’s work, and then go in with me and be able to make something. I took him in. After finishing that job, we helped Alexander in his hay. We took a job of cutting four acres of hay with scythes and also helped him put up all his hay.
Work was getting scarce, and we had heard that they were going to build a concrete basement for the Ritchie Church. We found what the sand and stone would cost and what the lumber and labor would cost. When we got there, we found Amos Brissey thought it could be built for less than we could build it. I made a bid, but I have always been so glad we did not get it. There was a big racket over it, and there would have been a much worse one if we had got it. And I hate a racket.
I had no school when Brady wrote me that he would get me a school if I would come up there and teach. I told him okay. So he got me a school (I found out later that no one else would have it). I went two weeks early as Brady wanted me to dig an incubator cellar.
Poplar Ridge School: The school was ten miles from Sutton on the road to Centralia. Before I went up there, Brady said to me, "Dad, it’s a little school. You be real good to them, and you will get to teach it for years." I went up there Sunday afternoon and found a house 22 ft. by 13 ft., not fit to keep chickens in. The seats were dilapidated, some broken down, others loose so they reeled back and forth, while some were fairly good. There were not nearly enough chairs for the children. The children told me later that they had been in the habit of running back and forth over the tops of the seats at noon and recess.
When I rang the bell Monday at 9 a.m., the children came running in like rabbits from a broom sedge field. They filled up the seats, two and three to a seat, and I started to classify them. I found two girls in the seventh grade, which was the highest grade the first winter. One of the girls would talk, but the other one would merely grin. I asked them if they could add, subtract, multiply and divide. The one said, "Yes, we can." I told them to go to the board and gave them a fair-sized problem in addition. I stopped them when they began to count. The third time I stopped them, they said that was all they could do. I stepped to the board and showed them how to add. They said they couldn’t do it that way. I asked if any of the sixth or fifth grade could, and they said, "No." Then I asked if any of the others could, and a third grade girl held up her hand. I called her up, and she could add very well. I asked her where she learned, and she said her mother taught her. She was a bright girl, and I had hopes for her. But her mother died that winter and her father was no good, so she had no chance.
After finding the girls couldn’t add, I tried them in subtraction. They could not borrow; they did not know the multiplication table; they could not divide. So I took them back and taught them the fundamentals. We got to the sixth grade at the end of the term. After about two months of the second term I told the girls if they would finish the sixth grade and half the seventh grade by the end of the term I would promote them so they could get their diplomas next year. Ada spoke up (she was the one who would talk) and said, "We ought to, Mr. Randolph. We did the second, third, fourth, and fifth last year; so we ought to do the sixth and seventh this year," and they did.
After I had finished giving the seventh grade their assignments, I called up the other grades to find the most of them wouldn’t talk and were way behind in their grades.
Among the first graders was a boy of 11 who sat with his sister of 13, a nice bright girl. He did not come up with the other children, so I went back and talked to him at his seat. The same thing happened each time I called the class that day. The next day after the class recited, I went back and told him he must come up and recite. When I took hold of him to lead him up to class, he grabbed his sister’s waist. If I had tried to pull him loose, I would have torn her waist off. I told him he must let loose, and his sister took his hands loose. I took him up and heard him recite. He never came up to recite with the class all winter. When I called the class he was in, he would sit still. After they recited, I would call him. He would look in every direction, taking long, high steps as if he expected something to get him.
This boy lived in a deep hollow away from any road and didn’t see anybody. In fact, most of the people lived off the road in the head of some hollow. When I told Brady that I had 59 pupils, he said it was impossible. He had been along all the roads up there, and there were no houses up there. Then he asked, "Where do they come from?" My answer was, "From the head of every hollow, from every red brush patch, and from every broom sedge patch." I wondered for a while as to why they built in the heads of the hollows. Then I thought of the reason. It was to get water without digging wells. I think that living in the hollows and hardly ever seeing anyone had much to do with their being like scared rabbits.
There were several families who were so poor that the children seldom had any shoes to wear and never went to school in the winter—just a little while in the fall. Several of them gloried in saying, "I’m too poor to send my children to school." Oh, how I would have liked to kick them soundly!
These are mountain people who are very loyal to their friends but are bitter enemies. They had but little education (some could neither read nor write) and had been having very poor schools. The patrons and children had no interest in school. No one had ever gotten an eighth grade diploma. No one had ever received a certificate for attendance nor a report card. So there was not much reason for them to be interested in school.
There had been some lively times up there. The county superintendent (Mr. Golden) told me he sent the nicest kind of a little girl up there, and they took her out and set her down in a mud hole. I asked him why they didn’t take me out and put me down in a mud hole. He said he didn’t know. I did; they got the idea that I would skin them alive. Then I got them interested in learning, and I treated them nice so they were my friends. In fact, only two families got mad at me. One of these men died the second winter I taught, and I had the friendship of the family the rest of the time. The other one said the third winter I taught that I was all right and he would carry a petition around for me to teach the next winter if someone would write it. So you see, I had the good will of everybody when I left.
As would be natural in a backwoods place like this, there were several who were dull and came to school but little, and I could not interest them in education. But there were many bright children there. I could never have made a success of this school if I had not gotten them interested not only in getting a diploma from the eighth grade but also in going ahead to high school. But more of this later,
One of the large girls had caused a lot of trouble in school in the past. In fact, one evening as soon as school was out, she jumped on another girl, broke her glasses and beat up on her. She made her say "Enough" twice so the teacher would be sure to hear her; the teacher was a young man and never did anything about it. This girl started to school the second month I taught. One day I saw her write a note and start to pass it. I went back where she sat and just held out my hand without saying a word. She looked at me, and I continued to hold out my hand. She put the note in it, and I went back to the desk. I never said a word about it, for it was just a joke; but she expected a whipping every day for weeks. She never gave a bit of trouble.
It was a cold winter with deep snows. The school is on a high hill, so there was no ice to skate on. The children would fix a slick place and slide on it. They would run into each other and fall in the snow and get wet and cold. I told them they must go one at a time and not pile up in the snow. They just wouldn’t pay attention, so I told them they must not slide any more.
When I went after coal in the evening, I found they had made a slide and had been sliding. I told them that the juvenile judge of Denver was telling about having a Snitching Bee (that is, they were to tell on themselves), and that I would give those who were sliding till school time next morning to come and tell me about it. One of the big boys said to his chum, "Shall we own up?" The other said, "We had just as well. He will find out any way."
Another boy told me he didn’t skate but he helped some of the others. In a few minutes he came back and said, "I lied to you, teacher; I did skate." I asked him why he lied, and he said he thought maybe he could get out of it but he had decided I would find out.
Some of them tried to get out by denying it, but there was too much evidence against them. So I told about six or eight of them that they could not play any for a given time. This made Burb Skidmore very angry, for he said they lied on his boys. He never forgave me, but after his death his wife and children were good friends of mine.
A couple of boys were out for four weeks with whooping cough. When they came back, they brought third readers instead of second readers. I told the boys that I could not promote them as I had not promoted those who had been there all the time. This made their father mad, and he kept the boys at home the rest of the school. Two years later he got in a good humor and was as good a friend as I had up there, for which I was very thankful.
After I had taught a few weeks, I saw that the children had no place to go. I proposed that we have a spelling race some night. Ada spoke up (she was the seventh grade girl who would talk) and said, "‘We can’t do it, Mr. Randolph. They would come here drunk and break it up." "Oh, I reckon they wouldn’t," I replied. "Yes, they would," she said. Then I said very firmly, "No, they won’t, and we will have a spelling race,"—and we did. After that we could have a program, singing or anything without any interruption in the house.
The school house, as I have mentioned before, was no good. When the wind blew, it would heave the west wall in, and the wind would come howling in. There was a hole in the floor a 12-year-old girl could put her foot through. They promised to furnish flooring to put over the old one, but Sell Skidmore, secretary of the board, got them not to furnish it. I had a better plan, so I let it go and kept the children warm by staying by the fire a lot in cold weather. About the middle of the winter I proposed we get a new school house.
They said it was no use as they had tried several times. I told them we could not only get a house, but a two-room house. I drew up a petition with a space for them to give the number of children of school age and another one to put down the number under school age. There proved to be over 80 of school age and about 30 under age. So we got a new house with two rooms, but a very poor one.
They got up a petition for me to teach the next winter, and everyone signed it but the two I mentioned before. Several of the patrons went down and forced them to give it to me after part of the board tried to slip in another teacher.
My Last Summer in Salem: The spring of 1926 I went back to Salem and spent the summer there, which was the last time I spent any time to amount to anything in Salem. I can remember but little about that summer, what I did, who I worked for, or if I got much work. I only know that I spent the summer at Salem and went back to Poplar Ridge to teach that winter.
Back to Poplar Ridge School: We had two rooms, and Miss Edna Barker was my assistant. I met her first at the Teachers’ Institute, which I believe was our last institute. I found her a fine girl, a good teacher and nice to work with. We both boarded at Dave Hosey’s, where I boarded the first winter. Things went nicely this winter. We had a new family, the Halls, with two girls in the eighth grade. The girls both got diplomas, which were the first ever received there.
Debate over Supplementary Readers: This winter I had trouble with the board of education over supplementary readers. They claimed I was teaching them and neglecting the text books. My pupils signed a statement that I had not heard a single class in any books but the regular text books. They, the board, also claimed it cost the patrons too much to buy the extra books, so I told them I was paying for the books myself. When Brady handed in my reply, one of the board members said it was a lie, that he knew that I had been hearing classes in those wicked books. Brady told him he thought he should be careful about calling all the larger scholars liars. After thinking a minute he said, "Maybe it was the other teacher." When Brady told them I was paying for the books, he said, "That’s a lie. He only paid the postage on them." Brady replied, "Dad says he paid for them, and he did." Then he said, "Maybe it was last year I was thinking about.’
Some of the children took the books home when school was out instead of giving them back to me. One of them offered to sell the one he kept to Miss Barker for 55 cents. She asked me if that was a fair price. I told her, "No." When I found who had it, I told her it was my book and she could have it for 35 cents. (It cost 70 cents.) I told her to tell him I said it was my book, and I sold it to her. When I told the school I was going to buy the books and loan them to the third grade, Ada spoke right up and said, "Mr. Randolph, you are too smart for them after all." Ada was a very fine girl and a great friend of mine.
We had a very fine program at Christmas time. I helped in several of them. Several of the parents and young folks out of school helped. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves very much.
They got up a petition, and everyone signed for me to teach again. This time there was no trouble about my getting the school.
Summer at Brady’s: This summer I spent at Brady’s. I took care of a 2400 egg incubator, raised 400 white leghorns, also a very fine pig and a half acre of potatoes. The potatoes were not a success. Although I sprayed them four times, they blighted before they matured. The pig was hard to beat. I also trap nested a flock of Rhode Island Reds. Ten of these laid over 200 eggs each, and one laid 242, which was very good at that time. One of the Red pullets laid her first egg at 4 months and 24 days. We had raised these Reds by the all-mash formula, which we found started them to laying before they were of proper size. So we never tried this play again.
The Next School Year at Poplar Ridge: Again Miss Barker and I boarded at Dave Hosey’s. I got along very well with them, but Miss Barker had a lot of trouble with them. I think they thought Charlie (their boy) was paying too much attention to her. She told me she thought of him as a kid brother. They went to a dance one night together, and Dave’s [family] never forgave her. They told the neighbor they would never board her again, but they would board me. Dave went to the board and got them not to hire her again.
We had two programs this year. The first was at Thanksgiving, and the second was at Christmas. The second was very good. Two of the patrons had growled about our having them, so we had the last one to show them we could. One of the growlers was an old man of about 72 who had 6 children in school. When I asked him how he liked it, he said, "It was fine, just fine." He was just tickled skinny. So many people will rave about what they know nothing about and will make no effort to find out about.
This was my third winter on Poplar Ridge. This spring Ada and Gladys Hosey received eighth grade diplomas, but neither of these went to high school. Later I will give an account of several who not only went to high school but got their diplomas.
We Bought a Farm on Bug Ridge
Before school was out, I promised to go back and teach again. I had no idea what I would do that summer. Before school was out, I got on a trade with Cliff Gillespie for a farm, which Brady and I bought after school was out. As soon as the deal was finished, Junior [Brady’s son] and I went to Salem. This was April 29, 1928. When we got up that morning, it was raining at Brady’s, but there was snow on the tops of the hills. When we got to Flatwoods, there was snow everywhere; and when we got to Salem, there was a foot of snow. They said there was 18 inches of snow on Bug Ridge, where our farm is. Although it froze some, the fruit was not hurt.
We had a large pear tree that was full of young pears. We picked about 20 bushels of very fine pears that fall.
Brady got a carpenter to help me two days on the house. I did the rest with a little help from Brady. Elmo came up after his high school was out, and we cleaned up a nice piece of ground that summer. We also tended two acres of corn, which was very fine. The mail boy told me it was the best piece of corn he had seen on the Ridge.
Now the ridge on which the farm is situated is called Bug Ridge. One night an Irishman stayed at a house on the ridge and said the next day he never saw so many bugs in his life. "Sure and it should be called Bedbug Ridge." Later it was changed to Bug Ridge.
Snakes on Bug Ridge: Elmo went down under the hill to get some water one day at noon. When he came back, he said he saw a snake lying on a rock and killed it; he believed it was a copperhead. I went out and looked at it; sure enough, it was a copperhead. This was the boy’s first poison snake.
One evening Pepper, our dog that you will hear a lot more about, came running up. Elmo said, "So the bees got you, Pepper." I looked and saw that his head was badly swollen. I told Elmo it was not bees but a snake. He said he knew where it was, for he saw Pepper stick his nose under a rock and jump back. I went over, turned up a rock, and there it lay. So I proceeded to destroy the dirty sinner, and Pepper was properly revenged. This was snake number two. Later in the season we found snake number three and killed it. The three snakes measured altogether 92 inches.
I killed several other copperheads much larger than these, but Mamma killed the granddaddy of all the snakes. It was a black snake 5 feet 11½ inches. She had Pepper to help her, or I doubt if she would have killed it. Every time it started to leave, Pepper would bark at it (he was a brave dog). Jennie would carry more stones and pile on the snake till it was as dead as a door nail. I think she was very brave, for she was very much afraid of snakes. She said she would never have tried to kill it, but she had a garden beyond where the snake was and she would never go out through the tall grass while that snake lived.
Neighbors on Bug Ridge: This summer we got acquainted with the Huffmans: Uncle Daniel, Aunt Nancy and Bee. Later we got acquainted with Olta Facemire and Ira. She was a sister of Bee’s and built a house on her share of the Huffman place. These were the best friends we had on Bug Ridge. I forgot to mention Jim Marlow, Mrs. Huffman’s brother, who lived with them and would do anything for us.
This summer Elmo had a .22 rifle. We practiced a lot with it till we could sometimes hit the nail that held the target on the board. He also taught Pepper to jump through a hoop and later through your arms. Pepper would do this till he was so old that you had to put your arms down low so he could jump through them. We took time for fun but did a lot of work. We went down to the river to swim, and Elmo was surprised to see that I could swim so well although I had not done any swimming for years. We went fishing once and caught a few small ones. He was never there during hunting season, or we would have done a lot of hunting.
Upper Wolf School: The winter of 1929-30 I taught the Upper Wolf School, 4½ miles up one big hill and down two going to school and up two big hills and down one coming home. This was a little the toughest winter I ever had. Every day, five days a week, I walked 9 miles. Soon after school began, Brady took blood poisoning, and I would go down to Sutton twice a week. This added 20 to 45 miles, which made 65 miles each week besides teaching and doing my own cooking. I told Brady in March if I lived through the winter I would be so tough they couldn’t split me with a wedge and blow torch. I did live through the winter, and I was tough—but oh, so tired and ready to rest.
This was a rather backward school. Most of the children did not learn very well, and their moral status was very low. You could not believe what many said, and their fingers were so sticky. Yes, and they knew nothing about property rights. When I went to school the first day, the glass was broken out of more than half the windows and the roof was torn off the coal house. The children said the teacher watched them tear it off at noon and recess. The sash was broken out of some of the windows. One of the board told me that they gave me that school because I had taken such good care of the house at Poplar Ridge and maybe I could care for that one, too. There were no windows broken out while I was there.
Selling Fruit Trees: I began to sell fruit trees for Stark Brothers. I had fine luck. In the next few years I sold several hundred dollars worth besides getting our own trees much cheaper. I sold trees for at least 15 years and enjoyed it very much. I liked to get out among the farmers.
Weasels and Hawks in our Poultry: Elmo came up again and spent the summer with me. It was this summer that Pepper decided to clean the farm of weasels. He started by finding four in a rock pile. We got them all, an old one and three young ones about three-fourths grown.
We had two old hens and 24 little chickens in a coop up by the new house we were building. One morning when we went to work, we found one old hen dead and all the little chickens gone. I told Elmo that it was a weasel and told him to go down and get the guns and we would get the nasty thief before night. About 4 p.m. Pepper said he had found it in a brush pile. I asked Elmo if he would shoot it if I scared it out; he said he sure would. I scared it out, but no shot was fired. I asked him why he didn’t shoot. He said it went so fast he didn’t have a chance. Then I asked him if he would shoot it if I scared it out again. He said he absolutely would, but no shot was fired when it came out. I told him he had let it get away, but Pepper soon said it was up a bushy, leafy poplar. You ought to have heard that pup rave!
We soon located the thieving murderer. Elmo tried the .22, but he was so nervous that he missed. Then he grabbed the shot gun and rolled him out. So ended the weasels’ first attempt to sabotage the Randolphs’ poultry business in the death of the saboteur.
Three more times our poultry were raided. The next time I had gone to the lower hen house late in the evening to feed the hens. When I came back, I found a nice big young rooster dead. I picked it up to see what was the matter and found its throat was out. I went into the house. The cat came in and ran under the bed. Something squalled, and I smelled a weasel. Just then I saw a weasel run from under the bed. It got behind a board in the other room, and I shot it. So that was number two properly avenged.
The third time a weasel killed five young guineas in about one minute. When the old hen squalled, Archie, Mamma, Pepper and I rushed out. Pepper chased it up a bush, and Archie shot at it and missed. As that was the only shell we had, Archie went to Ira’s and got a shell and killed it. So five little guineas were most perfectly avenged.
Now comes the fourth attack on the poultry industry. One morning when we went out where about 300 young chickens were in open shelters, we found a chicken with its throat cut. Pepper took the weasel’s trail and holed it under a stump, but we couldn’t get it. That night I told Pepper to watch the chickens. When we went out the next morning, the chickens were all right. Pepper ran under the hill and said that he knew where the cowardly little thief was. We went down and dug it out. Pepper at once showed that blood-thirsty varmint that he was more than a match for any four-footed blood-sucker that ever lived. Never again did the weasel clan challenge our ability to protect our kingdom.
Before we conquered the weasels, we had another enemy to meet. I had a flock of 13 lovely young chickens. When I came home one Wednesday, there were only 12; on Thursday evening there were 11; and Friday there were only 10. When I saw how my flock was being destroyed, I said, "You have got your last chicken." I watched all day; about 5 p.m. I heard a fuss from the chickens. I saw the hawk coming and waited till it was right over the chickens; then I let him have it. He dropped to the ground with such a surprised look on his face. He took a step or two and ceased to exist. He had paid the penalty for trying to destroy all the poultry on the farm of the Randolphs. The next morning just after daylight, I saw the mate of the hawk I killed sitting in a tree, so I shot it. This ended the threat to my little chickens.
Soon after this I found a hen had been killed by a hawk. This kept up till they had-killed three or four hens. I tried every way I could but failed to get it. One day after school was out Bee Huffman and I were up by the three walnuts when he saw a big hawk on the fence. I ran and got the gun. When I shot, Bee said I got it for it could hardly fly. I lost no more chickens, so I guess I did. This ended my trouble with hawks, but I had a few chickens stolen.
One evening when I came from school, I saw one of my roosters (worth at least $24) and four hens were gone. I thought at first that someone had stolen them to get a pen of superfine Rhode Island Reds, but Brady found the rooster’s band near a house on the outskirts of Sutton. A girl with a very shady reputation lived there, and two boys from the Ridge were going to see her. They undoubtedly had taken them down to have chicken to eat. Brady gave the band to the state cop and told him to go and get them. The cop was sent to another beat the next day and took the band with him, so we lost the evidence and could do nothing about it. We never lost more than two or three chickens at a time, and that was by boys who ate them.
More About Pepper: Pepper was a great hunter, but the trouble was he would go out before hunting season and get all the possums on the farm. The boys who hunted said there was no need to hunt on our farm for Pepper got them all. (I failed to tell that Elmo left Pepper on the farm when he went back to Salem the second summer.) Many a night I would hear Pepper barking and would know he would stay till daylight when the possum would come down and then he would die.
Pepper went everywhere with me. One night as we came from Sutton he found a fine big possum near the road. He went with me to Upper Wolf School every day but two. The children loved to have him there. Two or three times someone tried to claim the pup, but I said, "No," very emphatically.
He had one very bad fault. He would go courting. One time he went down to Sutton and was gone for two weeks. Nearly all dogs in the country were poisoned, and I gave Pepper up, but he came home. As is sure to happen, he went once too often; and a man down on Buckeye who had a gyp shot him. He was very old, so he would not go out with me to work in hot weather but would come down to me in the evening. So died a noble dog, whose one fault, if it was a fault, was overshadowed by the finest nature and greatest intelligence with the truest loyalty, with no fear nor the least care for what might happen to him while he was doing what he felt was his work. I am no child nor have dealt with but few dogs but have owned some very fine dogs (in fact, I owned a very fine dog since Pepper died). But with all due respect to other dogs I ever owned and all dogs owned by anyone else, to my mind he stood head and shoulders above all of them. I declare of all dogs I ever knew, he was prince of them all.
Back at Poplar Ridge, 1929-30
The winter of 1929-30 I taught at Poplar Ridge, which was my last term for several years as I wanted to teach nearer the farm on Bug Ridge. This winter I did not board at Hosey’s. Instead I bached in a shanty out at Curt Hosey’s.
There was quite a mix-up about my assistant. The board hired Clyde Facemire’s girl (one of the board said she had been loafing on the job and they thought I would make her teach), but on the first day there was no assistant. I let a high school girl who wanted to teach that day take charge. At recess an auto drove up and a lady got out. She said she was Mrs. Skidmore, a sister of the girl who had the school, that Clyde’s girl let her sister have the school when she decided not to teach it. Her sister (Miss Ann Baxter) had been in an auto wreck and could not come to teach her school for a month. Mrs. Skidmore said she would come at the first of the next week and teach for three weeks till her sister could come. About 9 p.m. Clyde’s girl came up and said she was the teacher of the Cleveland School and that she would be up the next morning to teach. She did not come, and Miss Baxter taught the school. She was a very bright girl, but I found from her own account that she was tricky and thought it was smart to cheat.
Trouble at a Christmas Program: This year we planned a Christmas program, and one of the toughs bragged he would break it up. I had never asked for help, but I decided that two rooms, a hall and a big porch were more than I could handle by myself. I decided I would need two to help me. The trustee agreed he would help, but I didn’t believe he would be much help. So I went to Ed Davis (a big able man who was a special friend of mine), and he said, "Mr. Randolph, I’ll do anything you tell me to do. If you tell me to knock a man down, I’ll knock him down. If you tell me to throw him out of the house, I’ll throw him out." I said, "All right, we’ll have a program." A few days later Ene Perine (another big man) sent me word if I needed help he would help. I told his boy to tell him okay.
But as so often happens, when I needed help, none of them were there. A drunk man came onto the lot and began to swear. I allowed no swearing on the school grounds, so I said to him, ‘‘We allow no swearing on the school grounds." His reply was, "That’s the way we are in the habit of talking when we are out in the woods." "Pardon me, you are not out in the woods tonight." He kept on talking, and I told him there was no use talking, that he had to stop swearing. He wanted to know what I would do if he didn’t stop. I told him I’d put him in Sutton jail. "Sutton jail? That’s a pretty bad place, isn’t it?" he said. I told him there was no use talking about it, just stop swearing. He turned to Hans Hosey and said, "That’s the way we talked out in the woods, ain’t it, Hans?" Hans told him yes, but that no swearing would be allowed there.
I felt that I was in a tight place as he was considered a dangerous man and there seemed to be no help near. There were two Hosey boys (about 20 years old) standing on the porch. After Harris left, one of them said to me, "Mr. Randolph, we boys don’t want any trouble. We came here with our mothers and sisters to have a nice time. If there is any trouble, call on us." This made me feel good!
One who said he would help me was out in the woods with another man. I guess they thought there was likely to be trouble so they were getting them a cudgel apiece. When they heard what had happened, one of them said, "We’ll fill Sutton jail." The other spoke up, "Don’t say a word about Sutton jail. We’ll give ’em a hospital bill." That settled the whole trouble.
A little later the man came out and said he didn’t mean any harm and that he would like to stay in and listen to the program. His nephew told him, "You’ve got too much, Charley." "Yes," he said, "I’ve got too much. I’ll just go on out the road," and he did. His nephew told me he’d see that Charley didn’t bother us.
I expected trouble later, but he said when he sobered up that he got a bottle of whiskey when he got off the train at Centralia and drank too much and that I treated him exactly right by making him behave himself. So this ended happily, and I found I had the backing of the whole neighborhood.
This was the last program I had here for several years. I had a warm spot in my heart for these people. Whenever I went back, which was often, or whenever I met any of them, they had a warm welcome for me.
Friends on Poplar Ridge: I think it would be well for me to mention a few of my friends up on Poplar Ridge. Ed Davis was one of my stanch friends who got me the school again in 1939 and I would like to see him again. He sent nine children to me.
Martin Lynch was a good friend. He sent seven to me. Hans Hosey was another friend. Although he could not read, he sent his girl to me till she got an eighth grade diploma. Uncle Sell and Aunt Nancy Hosey were among my splendid friends. Their girl Gladys got a diploma. Dave and Sarah Hosey were where I boarded for three years and were among my best friends during my first four years of teaching there. Four of their children went to me. The youngest graduated from high school. Dave’s youngest brother was a good friend who sent five children to school to me.
I don’t want to forget John Dillon, who told me when I went there that he was 72 years old and the father of 22 children (there were two born after that) and that he hoped to have children in school as long as he lived. He sent eight to me. He died at the age of 90 and had two still in school.
A. C. Hosey was a friend with whom I spent one winter in a shanty and roomed one winter in his home. I boarded one winter with A. C.’s boy, who married Lexie Lynch. They were very nice to me. I think this is about enough to show I had a lot of friends.
I should mention Ene Perine, whose two boys went to school to me and then graduated from high school. Preacher Heron was a splendid friend, although none of his children went to school to me. I feel that I did good work in that school.
Spruce Lick School, 1930-31
I will now go to the winter of 1930-31, when I stayed at the Spruce Lick School. I will not write much about this school, for I am ashamed of it. If I had known what I was getting into, I would never have taught it—never, never!
You may wonder what kind of school could have such an effect on one who had taught where he had the worst, most disobedient, the vilest, the worst liars, the degenerate, and the immoral. But where others disobeyed, these didn’t know the meaning of the word obey. Where others were vile, these were below beasts. Where others were liars, these did not know truth. Where others were degenerate, these were reprobates. Where others were immoral, these knew not what the word moral meant. You ask, "How can children be so low?" That’s easy; they drank it in from their parents, from other people, and from other children as a baby drinks in its first breath of air.
Now don’t get the idea that there were no respectable people in the neighborhood, but they were so very scarce. Their children had grown up in the riffraff so that there were no high grade students among them.
I have had some filthy children in school, but I never saw anything like these children. An 8-year-old girl would write filthy stuff on a piece of paper, throw it down on the floor, then pick it up and bring it up to me and say she found it on the floor. I finally told her she wrote it herself and not to bring any more to me or she would be in bad. That stopped it. They would steal out chalk and write filth on stones and fences. I would not have taught that school again for twice the wages.
One of the toughest of these girls married Harm Sanson the next winter, when she was hardly 15. One of my friends speaking of her called her, "Harm’s little Hell Cat." I thought this was a perfect description of her.
No School, 1931-32<P> This school cost me dearly, for one member of the board refused to give me a school. Brady went to him about it, but he denied it. Brady said to him, "You are a dirty, stinking skunk, and I believe you are a dirty liar." Brady then went over to the secretary and to another member of the board, who told him no one else had said a word against my having a school except Marshal Skidmore. So Brady went back and told him, "Marshal, I told you, you were a dirty stinking skunk and that I believed you were a dirty liar; now I know it." Marshal went off waving his hand back and saying, "Brady, I didn’t have a thing to do with it."
The next winter I saw him (he was running for re-election), and he came up and shook hands and asked me if I was going to ask for a school. I answered very firmly, "I am." He said, "That’s all right. Maybe you are mad at me. Your son is very mad at me." I told him I was; not because he didn’t give me a school but for denying he was to blame when he was. He tried to dodge, but I gave him no consolation.
He tried for a solid hour to keep me from getting a school when the board met, but my friend Barnett stayed with him and got me a school. I did not electioneer against friend Skidmore, but I heard of numbers of people whom I had never known saying, "I won’t vote for Skidmore for the way he treated Randolph." When the voting was over, both the other candidates beat him badly.
Improving the Farm: While I had no school, I built fences, cleaned up the farm, and began to keep stock on it. Brady let me have a cow to keep that he bought and did not need. We kept Old White Face (that was the cow’s name) for eight or ten years. She raised eight or nine calves and made Brady $200, although she only cost him $25.
In the spring of 1932 Pud Gillespie and I drove the posts and strung the wire from the Stout line to the road just below where the house now is, thus separating the orchard from the pasture. A little later Clyde Garrison and I ran the fence down the road to the Huffman line. After that we cut the timber for 18,000 feet of lumber. Hezzie Tharp hauled the logs. He had enough lumber to build a house, where Archie’s lived, and a good barn.
Upper Wolf School, 1932-33
The winter of 1932-33 I taught the Upper Wolf School. I had a very successful term except there was not enough money for but 4½ months of school. I taught an extra month as the children were badly behind in their grades and I wanted to promote them.
At Christmas time we invited the parents in to a little program. I had them do some spelling, some ciphering, some reciting of poetry, and writing on the board by the first grade. In fact, I gave them a fair idea of what they were learning. There was a fair number of the parents, both men and women, present. I called on each of them to speak, and three or four did. Ev Facemire said he knew that his two girls had made between one and two grades. He thought they must be an exception, but he saw that the others were doing the same. He went on to say that a first grade girl wrote better than half the teachers in Braxton County.
Jim Davis told us that he was more than pleased with the school; then in less than a month he was trying to get the patrons to work to get Zena Hartley to teach their school the next winter. He went to one of my friends and said, "We can get Zena Hartley to teach our school next winter." His reply was, "I’m very well suited with the teacher we have."
Of course there was a good reason why Jim wanted Zena to teach there. His son Bill, a widower with three children, was courting Zena. She would board at Jim’s and Bill could court her. A lot of people are selfish, and Jim was very selfish.
I taught four weeks free and built the fire and swept the house most of the time. As soon as they found I would teach some extra time, a few of them asked, "Can they make us go?" Only about 14 came, and about 10 quit. I told them when the government offered ten pounds of meat free, worth about 75 cents, they would go 15 to 20 miles and spend all day to get it. But when they were offered a free education for their children, they would keep them at home. "Oh, consistency, thou art a jewel."
An Orchard on Our Farm
When school was out, I went back to work on the farm. About 1930 I set a piece of ground across the road from our place, on Clyde Facemire’s farm, in fruit trees. There were about seven acres of it. Clyde furnished the trees; Brady and I were to take care of the orchard and get all the fruit and crops that grew on it for ten years. We did not get much fruit, but we did get a lot of crops. When Clyde took it over, it was a very fine orchard, and it has since developed into one of the best orchards in Braxton County. I set out an orchard on our farm also. It is also a fine orchard, but it was slow to develop as it did not have the care it should have had.
Archie and Avis Move to Our Farm During the Depression
In March of this year Archie came up and wanted to build a house on the farm and work for some things on the farm when he didn’t have work on the W.P.A. or some government job. We had the lumber, so Brady and I both said okay. So Archie and I said we would build the house in a jiffy, which we did and soon had it ready for them to go to housekeeping.
The committee would not give Archie any work, so Brady wrote to Charleston and told them about it. He reminded them that the president had advised young couples to leave the cities, go out on farms, get work with the W.P.A. part-time and work on the farm to help out. He told them Archie had done this and they wouldn’t give him a day’s work. The next day the lady who had charge came rushing into the post office and said to Brady, "What in the world did you write to those folks down at Charleston? I just got a letter that would burn you up." Brady answered her, "Why didn’t you give him work?" Brady told her he must have at least three days a week, and he got it. We sure stick together.
Archie and I worked together and raised a fine crop. The children ran loose on the farm and got fat.
More Snakes: One evening the Swigers were going to a neighbors but forgot something and sent Alois (he was four years old) back after it. He soon came back and said there was a snake by the door. Archie went back and found a copperhead lying by the door. Archie immediately sent it to the land of forgetfulness.
This was a small one, but I killed two or three very large ones. I killed two between the garden and the hen house—both were large. One of these crawled across the path and stopped with its head on one side of the path and its tail on the other. If it had gone ahead, it would have been safe, for there was thick grass just beyond. But it stopped to watch me, so I called Mamma. She brought me a hoe, and I killed it.
I think the largest snake I ever saw was in the corn near the Stout line. The bull dog we got from Archie was trailing, and every little bit she would jump back as if there was a snake. I went to look, and a snake was coiled up in a low place two rows above the one I was hoeing. I killed it quick. I am sure it was as large as my wrist and 3½ feet long. It sure was some snake!
I am sure of all the copperheads I ever saw, I only let two or three get away. This is quite a record as they stay in big grass or filth. I think this will be enough to prove that I lived in a rather wild section.
Archie worked on a high school project until in the fall, when they started building sanitary toilets. He got a job as foreman on a gang on Bug Ridge. This let him get to his work without walking so far, and the pay was very good. When they quit building toilets, he went back to Ohio and got a job. Avis soon went to him.
More About Schools
I taught the same school the next winter. This winter I had a good school and a number of very good friends. Among whom were John Woods, Jim Hosey, Barnett the mailman, and Ev Facemire.
In the late winter a new school law was passed in West Virginia making the county the school unit. The state superintendent of schools appointed the new school board until an election was held. The son-in-law of John D. Sutton was appointed as president, and he got the other members to agree they would hire no married women nor old teachers. So I was left out for the two years he was in office. Brady went to see if he couldn’t get him to change his mind and give me a school. He told Brady to tell me to get another job as I would never get another school. He was running for a second term, and Brady told him he had better be careful as another man tried the same thing and was not elected. He said he was not afraid of that, but he was defeated just the same.
No School for Two Years: For two years I had no school (1934-36), and things were rather tough. I sold some fruit trees, got a few days teaching, raised my own meat and potatoes and had my butter and eggs. In the term of 1934-35 I got some teaching to do as substitute, but they got another teacher to do some of it. I got along but was not able to pay any on the farm. Neither was Brady, but they did not crowd us.
Squire Baughman got the Lower Stony Creek School the term of 1935-36 and died in February. The superintendent told Brady that I was to finish the school, but the substitute teacher cut such a fuss about it that the board let her have it. They told Brady not to act mad as they could not help it, but that I should have a school the next winter (1936).
A Hard Winter: The winter of 1934-35 was a very hard one, and we had three or four very deep snows that lay on a long time. Jennie and Elmo planned to come to the Ridge for Christmas, but the snow was so deep a car could not get on the Ridge. They wrote for me to come down to Sutton and Elmo would meet me there. The snow was very deep, but I waded down Buckeye to Sutton. When I got there, Elmo was not there. So I trudged back through the snow to the Ridge. They wrote me that the roads were so slick and covered with ice that everyone said it would be all any one’s life was worth to go on the road afoot, much less in an auto. It sure was so, and I expect it was very lucky he did not try it.
The snow lay on for several weeks, and it was very cold. It finally went off and got some warmer, but it was still cold. I had to carry the fodder from across the road (about 150 yards) and go into the woods nearby and saw wood—I had become an expert one-man sawer—and carry it up to the house.
One day I had no wood nor fodder either. It seemed to be going to get warmer, so I decided to wait till about 3 p.m. and get fodder and wood to last two or three days. Just before 3 p.m. I noticed the sun had ceased to shine and it was getting dark. So I grabbed my hat and coat, picked up a rope, and ran for the fodder. The wind was howling. Before I got to the fodder, the snow was a regular blizzard. When I got a load, the wind would almost pick me up and take me to the barn. I carried fodder, took care of the stock, cut wood and piled it in the house till after dark. By that time it was cold. I got my supper, made a roaring fire, and sat by it till nearly midnight. I could not go to sleep, for the wind shook the house and the cold seemed to penetrate every place. We had a thermometer that would register 10 degrees below. When I got up the next morning, there was more than a foot of snow on the ground. The mercury was down in the bulb, and it never came back in sight for three days and nights. It was 17 degrees for some time.
I had between 10,000 and 12,000 feet of lumber, and I got Cliff Gillespie to snake it up through Olta’s place on the snow. He brought a big team he had one Friday morning. I went down and uncovered the lumber and helped him load till 11 o’clock. Then I went up to get his dinner. It was very cold, and he said I froze out. I went back after dinner, but we did not get along very well as we were dragging it on the ground. The snow went off over the end of the week, so we did not get to haul right away again.
In about a week we had another fall of snow just about as deep as the other one (this made three snows of over a foot) which laid on the ground for some weeks. Cliff came back and cut a forked sapling, nailed a 2 by 4 on the back end, and put the end of the lumber on this and chained it fast. This way we took it out, as Father used to say, "like a hen a walking." Cliff told me when he got in that first night and began to get warm that he began to ache and that he didn’t get over it for several days. In fact, he was nearly frozen. After the first day we got along fine. Some of the neighbors wanted the job and said it was worth $10 per M. I got it done by the day for about $1.75. I was lucky to have a fine snow to skid it on.
Raising and Selling Pigs: I kept a sow and raised two litters of pigs (one in the spring and one in the fall). Then I would butcher her and keep a pig to raise more pigs. It got so people would speak for pigs and not take them. This would leave them on my hands, so I quit raising pigs.
One time I had four hogs to kill. Elmo and Ashby came up one morning and butchered one of them and took it to Salem. About the middle of December Cliff and I butchered the others. While we were butchering them, a man by the name of Collins, from Sutton, came to buy some potatoes to take to Burgoo. Cliff told me to let him take one of the hogs, pay for what he could sell and bring back the rest. Cliff said he was all right, so I let him have one cheap. He came back with the money and wanted another, but a cent less. I let him have it, but he never came back. He paid Brady all but $11. He said he couldn’t sell it all and the snow was so deep he couldn’t bring it back. He took it a second trip and sold it on time and would pay it as soon as he got it. But he never paid. He was all right, Brady told me, for he owned a house in Sutton and was a big church member. The house belonged to his wife and he was a dirty rascal.
Cliff said he would get it for me as he was to blame for his getting the hog. But Collins would not pay. I finally traded it on a billy goat. I offered him a fair trade, but he wanted some boot. He thought he could get the money from Collins, so I let him have an order and told him he could have all he could get out of it. He never – got – a – cent.
Loans Never Repaid: I should not complain, for I loaned money to a number who were in need and never got it back. A Sutton boy borrowed $3 to meet his girl and get married. They lived together about three months, and she left him. I never got the $3.
I loaned $10 to Boo Cutlip during World War II to go into Ohio to a job. I never got it. I loaned Wilson Stout $25 to take his family to a war job; I never saw a cent of it. I did loan to some who paid. I just charge it to profit and loss.
Jennie Came to Bug Ridge, 1936
In the spring of 1936 Jennie came onto the Ridge to stay, and was I glad! Elmo had gone to the Seminary at Alfred, and he did not come to stay with us any more. We raised a fine garden and had fruit—strawberries, grapes, peaches, cherries, and apples and some years, plums and apricots. We raised potatoes and corn. We always had one or two hogs to kill besides having plenty of eggs and chickens. Jennie worked hard and helped raise things, so we had plenty to eat. I had a school this winter, and we had two cows and several chickens, so we got along very well.
This was one of the mildest winters I had ever seen. We had only two little snows (not enough to track anything) till March. Peaches and plums were in bloom in February. Of course, we had none of them as a snow fell the first of March (six inches deep), and it was 10 degrees above.
Things were much easier this winter as Mamma was here and I only had to do the chores and get the wood.
More Improvements on our Farm: In the fall we cut a lot of logs for a barn. That winter I hired Cliff Gillespie and Worthie Thorp to build the barn. Ira helped some. I had some trouble about the roof. I wanted a galvanized roof. There was only partly enough in town, so I had the hardware man order it. It was supposed to come in three days, but it didn’t. A week passed; a big snow came, and still no roofing. After two weeks I bought rubber roofing and finished the barn. I got a very good barn that was warm and very handy. Cliff did a very good job and did it cheap. This was one of the best improvements I had made on the farm.
A few years later I got a fine cellar with cement walls and floor. Charley and Ed Davis built it for me. I got George Thorp to move a house that stood by the side of it over on the cellar, so we had a cellar and a cellar house.
I could keep all the stock in the barn, feed them there and never have to milk in the cold, snow, or rain. Oh, it was grand! The cellar was also grand. We could keep the milk and butter nice and cool, keep the airtights in perfect shape and also keep the apples, potatoes, turnips, and all kinds of vegetables in fine shape—and we didn’t have to be bothered with rats. We now had a good barn, a good cellar and a good hen house, and a fairly good house. We also had a good well, but it was very unhandy. It looked as if we were about ready to live.
Teaching Experiences, 1936-1940
Bug Ridge School—Teaching Three Generations: I got the Bug Ridge School the fall of 1936 and had a very nice time. Brady and I used a little politics to get it. One of the board members ran for assessor and offered me the deputy job if I wanted it. He said I had been treated dirty. Brady asked the board member how he would like for him to work against him. He said "No, no." Then Brady told him of the offer and that I would accept it if I was to get no school. He said I would get a school, and I did.
It was during the winter of 1936 that Bond [Ashby’s oldest son] stayed with us for a month and went to school to me. This meant that three generations went to school to me [Jennie, Ashby, and Bond]. I had a number of cases where a father and child and in one case where both parents and children went to me, but this was the only case where the mother, son, and grandson went to me. I also taught Johnnie [Elmo’s son] to read. Very few teachers can say that they have taught three generations, but fifty years is a long time to teach. I’ll bet I don’t teach another generation.
This was a successful school although they had had lots of trouble for two years. I had no trouble of any amount. It was a large school. I had a large class in the eighth grade, and they all got diplomas. They were Beulah Combs, Edgar Gillespie, Juanita Gillespie, Harry Dillon, and some others I have forgotten.
Edgar had been having a lot of trouble, but I found him all right except a little lazy. When he got his report card, he came to me and wanted to know why he didn’t get a better report. I tried to dodge for a little. Then I looked at him and said, "If you will go to work, study some, and try to learn, I’ll give you a better grade." He looked at me rather sour for a minute and then smiled and said, "I’ll do it, Mr. Randolph. I’ll answer every question you ask me." From that time he studied well. When I gave him his next report card, he looked at it and grinned. I asked him how he liked it, and he said, "That’s better." I encouraged him all I could, and he did fine. I do like to help a pupil who tries.
1937-38—Substitute Teaching and Lower Stone Creek School: The board gave the Bug Ridge School to Zana Hartley and gave me no school. The superintendent, Virgil Harris, got mad at Brady and so had it in for me. He tried to keep me from getting a school ever after, but only kept me out of a school one whole year.
The last of November I got a call to teach for a week at Baker’s Run. The teacher, a young man, went to Chicago with the 4-H club. Before I left, several of the pupils told me they intended to have me teach their school next winter.
On Friday after I got back I got a letter from Harris saying I had been given the Lower Stony Creek School to teach half time. If I would teach it, I should to be at his office Thursday and get my papers. I went right down and told them I sure would teach it.
Monday morning I headed for school. The snow was about 6 inches deep and cold as blazes. As I did not have to teach but half a day, I aimed to get there by noon. When I got there, cold and tired, I found nobody there and no fire. There was a family moving into the house right by the school house. They built a fire, and one of the children went and got four more children. So I had 7 the first day; the next day I had 11. I had over 10 on an average the first month. The average attendance for the whole term was 99 percent. Harris (the superintendent) tried to keep me from teaching full time, but the board gave me full time after the first month.
I failed to find any place to board. One place I had the children ask their parents for board, and the woman sent back word that there were 11 of them and they had four beds. I told the children I might be back and I might not. When I got to the mouth of Wolf, which was three miles from school, I was tired and it was getting dark. So I headed for Brady’s. When I got there, he wanted to know what I was doing there. I told him I was looking for a place to get out of the weather. He told me to stay there that week, and they would try to find me a place to stay after that. Alma got a camp for me to bach in about two miles from school. This made it very nice. Brady would take me part way to school of a Monday morning and bring me part way home of a Friday evening. For this I paid the rest ($150) back on the farm.
I had a very nice time as there were only 11 scholars and five grades. We had a Parent Teachers Association meeting, which was attended by several out of the district and was very good. Before school was out, they got up a petition for me to teach the next year, which was signed by everyone in the district and two or three outside who said they would send if I got the school. This would make 27 scholars to attend.
No School, 1938-39—Ashby’s Illness: When the board met, Frank Hosey (the member from Holley) told the board that he had promised the Baker’s Run School that he would send me there. However, it was a long way and they all wanted me at Stony Creek; so he would favor my going there. This was agreed to; then when all teachers were placed, Harris said they would not have any school at Stony Creek. Hosey knew this was a plan to keep me from teaching, so he asked the other members if I should have the school if it was taught. They all agreed. Brady was nominated for the board by a good majority at the primary (I worked for him at Wolf and got all the Democratic votes but nine, about 95%). At the next meeting Harris proposed another man for the school. Three of the members backed down, and I got no school.
This did not prove to be quite as bad as it seemed, for Ash took sick the last of August and sent for Mamma. Three days later Brady called me at 11 at night and told me to be ready in half an hour to go to Ash’s. Brady, Mary, and I went. Brady drove like John! When we got there, I didn’t believe he would live 24 hours. The next morning we took him to the hospital. They found he had double pneumonia, blood poison in the blood tubes, and some other troubles. Mamma stayed with the children till March, and Ruth stayed at the hospital with Ash. So you see there would have been no one to have looked after things at home if I had taught that winter. After losing one leg, Ash has been able to teach for the last ten years.
I was sure glad to see Mamma when she got home in March. I didn’t have so much to do, but it was lonely to be by myself for seven months. It was fine to have her back.
Cleveland School, 1939-40: One of the board members told me in the spring of 1939 that he intended for me to have the Cleveland School. Ed Davis got up a petition for me (I knew nothing about it), and every one in the district signed it. When Ed took the petition, they asked him if the teacher they had wasn’t all right. He said he was not complaining about their teacher but that they wanted me. Harris replied, "You had just as well understand that you won’t get him. Ed looked at Harris and said, "We will too, and you can’t help it." I got the school, and Harris couldn’t help it,though he tried.
Stories About Mountain People
I think it will be well to tell two or three stories so everyone will get a better idea of these mountain people. These stories I take from Stories of the Elk (a number of stories written by Bill Byrne, who once had been prosecuting attorney of Braxton).
Victim of a Scam: Bill Byrne and Jake Fisher and several others (among whom was Squirley Bill Carpenter, who was noted as a hunter and fisher and as a teller of tall tales) were going down to Clay Court House. As there was a circus in town, they had to visit it before they could go. There was a doctor there, a fine fellow who lived out in the country; a man came to him and told him they made the best gate in the world and they wanted someone to handle it in Braxton. He said he had been told that the doctor was just the man they wanted and that the doctor would not have to do any selling. They would ship the gates to him; people would come and get them and pay him; and he would keep half and send them the other half. But to show his good faith, he must make a deposit of $25, which he did.
A little later he got worried and tried to find the man, but he couldn’t. Then he yelled for Byrne and wanted him to arrest the man. Byrne wanted to know where the man was and who he was, but the doctor didn’t know. So Byrne told him he couldn’t do anything about it. The doctor just raved, things were in a fine shape when an honest man could be cheated and nothing be done about it. A crowd had gathered and a boy called out, "Doctor, it ain’t a lawyer you need; it’s a guardeen." The doctor looked at the boy a moment and then said, "Bub, I expect you are right." That settled the whole thing.
A Big Fish Tale: They went down the river in a boat, and on the way Byrne gigged a very large Jack Pike. It began to rain as they came to an old mill, so they ran under it to get out of the rain. They began to brag on the pike. Squirley said, "I saw a lot bigger one. One day I was coming down the river just as we did today, and a rain came up just as it did today. I ran under here as we did today, and I looked down and there was a pike in the spillway. It was so long it couldn’t turn around. I ran and got my gig and gigged it. It was six feet long; I’ll swear to it on a stack of Bibles this high," and he raised up on his toes and lifted up his arms and tipped into the spillway. The men all jumped down to help him out, but his son Squack never made a move to help. When the men got him out, nearly drowned, Squack looked at him and said, "Dad, if that fish had been one inch longer, you would have drowned in spite of Hell."
Monk Dillon: Monk Dillon owned 200 acres on Bug Ridge, of which our farm was a part. He had a brother about 70 years old who stayed in Sutton during the summer and tended gardens and worked in livery barns or anything an old man could do. Then he would go up on Bug Ridge to his brother Monk’s, who always had corn bread, hominy, and sow belly (his neighbors said the meat didn’t all come from his own hogs). It seemed Monk rode his brother pretty hard. One winter it seemed he rode him harder than usual, but he couldn’t drive him from his corn pone and sow belly.
The next spring the old man saw Monk on the street talking to two men, so he went over to see if he could get even for the way he had been treated. Just as he got there, he heard Monk say, "I’ll leave it to you men, if being an honorable man I could do that." This was the brother’s chance, and he said, "Honorable man, hell! Didn’t you shoot Mint Squire’s big gat sow?" The answer was, "What if I did? Didn’t you hep cad her in?"
Now Squire had lost a big sow (all hogs ran out in the woods), and he was going to have Monk indicted for stealing his hog. Monk paid for it to save himself from the law.
Monk had 10 or 12 children. The girls would run and hide when anyone came, even when they were grown. Monk raised lots of wheat. At threshing time the workers had to go inside the house and up some steps to put the wheat in a box in the loft. As a neighbor went in with a load of wheat, one of the girls took up the stairs; of course, the man followed her. Now the upper floor was laid with loose boards. As she ran across the floor, she stepped on a board that didn’t reach the joist. It tipped up; she went down right into the flour barrel. The flour rose right up and settled all over her.
The man was not immoral, but unmoral. A preacher told me that Monk said, when he was 80 years old, that he had never heard a sermon preached. So the preacher held meeting where Monk was and preached so he could say he had heard one sermon. It hardly seems possible anyone could be so ignorant in the last forty years.
Elmo and Madeline Married in 1937
In 1937 Elmo and Madeline were married and spent their honeymoon in a 4-H camp in New York. Madeline came down and stayed a while with us that fall. One Sabbath we went up to see Ozenia Bee and her sister Maggie. This was a very nice trip. We also went to the Homecoming at Salem.
My Final Years of Teaching
Back at Poplar Ridge, 1939-41: The winter of 1939-40 I taught on Poplar Ridge. This was quite a different school from what it was when I taught there in the 1920s. Then I had 59; this time I had 26. When I first taught there, they knew nothing about real study, and most of them would not talk and had no interest in going to high school. Now they were nearly all planning to go to high school; in fact, nearly half of them go to high school. I feel that I had much to do with this happy condition. But there are still too many who will pick up things which belong to someone else. Still, I think many have changed about that.
Teachers Get Tenure: This winter the legislature passed the Tenure of Office Bill. Teachers no longer had to be appointed every year. This meant I had a school for some years to come, but I could retire at 65 (I was 67 then) and receive a pension. Retirement was optional with us until 1945, when a new law passed that a teacher must retire at 65 unless the State Board of Education agreed to his continuing.
Second Year at Poplar Ridge: The second winter I had trouble to get a place to stay. I tried to get a house of Dave Hosey. But his boy (Skip) would not move out till the last of October. So I boarded at Dave’s till the first of December. The boy did not move out, and Dave charged too much. Ed Davis was fixing a small building for me to live in till Skip moved out (I had arranged with Ed to move over there when Skip moved out). Dave found out about it and told me Ed could keep me till he got the house fixed. This proved very satisfactory, for the house was large enough and very comfortable. Ed’s were all very nice to me. In fact, it was one of the best winters that I boarded away from home. Dave was mad at me for four or five years, but one day I met him in Sutton and he came reaching out his hand to shake hands and was as friendly as ever. I was glad of this; Dave and I had been close friends, and I just don’t like to have folks mad at me.
Brady told me in the early fall that one of the board members said he intended to see I got the Bug Ridge School. I told him I didn’t want it, for I was sure it would not be pleasant. In February Brady told me again that the same member said he intended to see I got the school. By this time I had got tired of getting up by 6 a.m. and walking six miles through a foot of snow of a Monday to school and having Mamma stay by herself and do all the feeding five days a week.
This was my last winter at Poplar Ridge. These last two years, there were six eighth grade diplomas; in the six years I was there, there were 14 diplomas received. When you consider that in the 60 years before I went to Poplar Ridge there had been no diplomas and then in 6 years there were 24, I feel pretty good. The fact is that the school had been doing so poorly and the house was such a disgrace that the parents and children (though they did not know it) were ready for someone to come and teach a real school; I arrived at the opportune time. When I went up there to get votes for Brady, some of them said to me, "Of course we will vote for Brady for the work you did for our children." All things work together for good, etc.
Mamma went to Alfred and stayed at Elmo’s for two months when Dan was born in July, 1941. I did very little while she was gone, for my ankles were hurting me badly and she told me to do nothing but the chores. The rest seemed to help me lots.
Bug Ridge School, 1941-45: In 1941 I had a large school. I had a good-sized eighth grade class to graduate this year. Among these were Thelma Combs, Gay Ellison, and a Stewart girl. There may have been others, but I don’t remember them. The Stewart girl started to school her first year at Upper Wolf and years later got her diploma at Bug Ridge. We had a fine school this winter with very little trouble.
At Christmas time we had a program. It was not extra good as we could not get the children to learn their parts well. I have always thought a good program was very valuable. In some schools I think it is of untold value. I think our programs at Poplar Ridge were of more value than several months of school. This was because the children were so timid and not willing to talk. They sure got over it before I left.
It was this winter that we got into World War II. They asked the teachers to get help and do the rationing. I got three women (Mamma and two others) to help, and we put in two days. Later we had to do a second job. The second year they asked for milkweed balls and scrap iron. We did fairly well with the weed, but we got a very fine lot of iron. In the fall of 1942 the government asked all schools to collect as much scrap iron as possible. The superintendent told all teachers to spend three days with their scholars and get all the scrap they could find. We got several tons—in fact, we were among the best in the county. We took an interest in everything the government asked us to do.
Each of the four years I taught at Bug Ridge, I had a class to graduate. The first year there were three, all girls—a Combs girl, a Stewart girl, and an Ellison girl. The third year Zeno Watts graduated. The last year I had two—Iolene Combs and the Ellison boy. Bob Combs took Iolene and me down [to the graduation ceremony]. I had not intended to go, but he asked me to go as a favor; of course, I went.
Two or three of my "friends" got sore and tried to get up a petition to get me out. When they talked to some of the others, they said I could teach their children and they were satisfied. This put a stop to the racket.
I told the superintendent that I was willing to teach to the end of the war as teachers were so scarce; he said they would like for me to do that. I told the children in the fall of 1944 if the war closed that year that I would resign at the end of the term. I decided early in 1945 that the war would end that year. Then I told Olta I was resigning so she had best look after her interests, and I wrote a letter resigning and told the children I had resigned. Olta went right down and got the school for the next winter. I was very glad of that. Although there were two or three that got out with me, I think everyone was my friend when I left. At least they have all been very friendly when we went back.
Synopsis of My Teaching Career
So ended 51 terms of school teaching—27 in Ritchie County, 3 in Harrison County, 4 in Doddridge County, 1 in Taylor County, and 16 in Braxton County. I have taught about 1500 children. Very few teachers have had a chance to do more good to the rising generation. This was a long time to teach. During this time I have seen many changes.
When I began teaching, almost anyone who could answer the questions asked by the Board of Examination could get to teach—in fact, if they could answer three out of four. Often there was much cheating so that many teachers could not work fairly simple problems in arithmetic and knew nothing about history. I remember well in my first exam that one question was, "How many teeth has an adult?" A young fellow asked the examiner, "What is an adult?" The reply was, "What do you think it is?" The boy replied, "I wasn’t sure, but I thought maybe it was a sick person." I am glad to say he did not get a grade.
At the time I began teaching, there were no teachers in Ritchie County with a degree except the principal of a large high school. I doubt if there were any, or very few, teaching in the rural schools who were high school graduates. The rural schools were all one-room schools. In fact, they didn’t begin to consolidate schools and haul the children in buses for 30 years. How many of the teachers now are not only high school and normal graduates, but have a degree!
The salary for a First Grade was seldom over $30 per month for a term of four months. When in 1903 they increased the school term to five months, they cut the salary to $23 per month. After paying your board, you had less than $100 for five months’ teaching. You ask why any one would teach for that? The answer is easy—there was no work you could get during the bad winter months, and it was an honor to be a teacher. When school was out, you could raise a crop or get a job on a farm (farming was about the only work to be had in the rural sections). Your school gave you a little cash, for money was scarce.
After World War I teachers’ wages were raised to $108 per month, which seemed like a princely wage. But this did not equal the wages paid in factories. Many teachers went to the cities, and there was trouble to get teachers in many sections. They had to take boys and girls without any preparation who did not intend to make it a life work but merely wanted to make some easy money, not caring whether the children learned anything or not.
I will tell a story one teacher told me. She passed a school house early in the fall, about 1:30 p.m. The teacher had on a man’s white shirt and a pair of slacks, with her feet on the desk, leaning back against the wall sound asleep. Probably she was happy!
The wages in Union District, Ritchie County, were always low until the county was made a school unit and a minimum wage was set in 1919. The towns had paid much higher wages, but this law did away with independent districts, which pleased me for I hated for them to feel that they could laud it over us rural teachers.
Stories Told by County Superintendents: I will tell a few stories told by county superintendents. There was a time when there was a blank space after each name on the register for the teacher to make remarks about the pupil. One teacher wrote, "Kissed the teacher three times." After another name was written, "The prettiest girl in school." The same superintendent read us a report from one teacher of an attendance of 200% (this was better than I ever could do). All of this shows that many teachers were lacking in education, judgment, and good common sense,
Another superintendent told me of visiting a school which showed lack of order and any sign of teaching ability. All at once a big boy in the back of the house yelled out, "Gobbler," (the teacher’s name was Garber) "what time is it?" After school was out, the teacher said he was going into something that would pay him better than teaching. The superintendent told him that was the thing to do.
Farm Enterprises on Bug Ridge
Raising Goats: Elmo had a flock of goats. I decided I wanted to keep goats, so he brought me two nannies just before Thanksgiving in 1941. This proved to be a pleasant and profitable job. We soon had all the milk and cream we needed from the goats and cream from the cows to sell.
The first kids came in February when it was very cold. One evening I found a litter. One of them was so cold that it couldn’t get up; so I took it to the house, warmed it up, and finally got it to take a little milk. This got it on its feet, and I took it to its mother. In the morning it was again frozen. After warming it up and giving it some milk, I took it to its mother. It was all right then. There were five kids. I gave the two billies away, which left me five nannies.
We kept the goats staked out when we first got them. In the spring of 1942 I hired a woven wire fence put around a five-acre field for my goats, where we kept them and their progeny for over three years. I also kept the cows in this field part of the time. I let the doe kids run with their mothers, but the billies I gave to the neighbor children for the first two years. Then I began to charge a small price for them. I sold a few doe kids while they were small and some grown goats.
When I had had the goats about four years, I decided to sell them and get a couple pure-bred does of a fine milking strain. I found I had nine does to sell. I paid $20 for the two does and $15 for a buck. While we raised the goats, we ate three bucks (they were fine), sold a pair for $2, one doe and her two young does for $10, and two old goats for $15. I got $55 for the last nine does. Altogether I got $82 for the initial $35 investment. The goats cleaned up a five-acre field of filth, and we had all the milk and butter we needed so we could give the milk from the cows to the hogs and sell the cream. This gave us a cash income from the farm for Mamma, and we could raise two or three fine hogs a year.
I was very much interested in raising goats, but Elmo was very anxious for us to come to Wisconsin for a while. We decided to go there for the winter, then come back to the farm, buy our goats, and farm for ten more years. But as so often happens when you postpone anything, we never got our goats.
Another thing I liked very much about the goats, especially the kids, was to see them play. They would chase each other all over the field. One would jump on a tall stump. Then another one would jump up and butt it off. Then two more would butt that one off, and so it would go. They would climb onto a stump five or six feet high and then jump as far as they could. They sure are lively little animals.
A billy sometimes learns to butt if he is teased and can be very unpleasant if he makes a square hit when you are thinking of some other things. You must learn to take the bitter with the sweet (this is up-to-date philosophy and should be taken with a little water, if handy, but taken any way).
I think every one can see that I only gave up the goats to get better ones, and old age got me. I just got the farm 10 years (or 20) too late. Why should I worry about that? I have had a very good life and enjoyed the 17 years I was on the farm— every bit of it. If we could have remained able to have worked on the farm for ten more years, it would have been so nice; we would have enjoyed it very much.
Cows We Owned: About 1942 I had three cows. They did not give the milk they should, and one of them was an awful kicker—in fact, she was a killer. I sold her and bought a two-year-old of Ed Davis for $40—which proved to be a fine cow and a good bargain. I had to sell the others as they got garget.
In the spring of 1944 I went to a sale to buy a good cow. The dairy I had hoped to buy from had been sold. We met a man from Lewis County who said he had two good cows for sale. We went there as we came back, and I bought a three-year-old jersey cow with a heifer calf sired by a pure-bred Guernsey for $100. This was about as good a buy as I ever made.
I kept the calf till it was a cow and sold it for $150. The cow was a very fine milker and more than paid her way. After we left the farm we sold her to Olta for $125. I also sold another of her calves for $15. I sold the Ed Davis cow for $100 and three of her calves (one when it was two years old) for $80. So you see I did very well with her as she was a fine milker and her milk was very rich.
Olta and Ira took my stock to market, eggs and produce to town, and brought our feed and groceries (of course, we paid them). This was a great help to us and helped them, too.
Friends on Bug Ridge
Charley Watts and his father moved back to the farm in 1942. Two of his boys, Zeno and Freddie, came to me for three years till Zeno went to high school. Freddie went to me four years. I was very glad to see Mr. Watts, but I could see that he was getting feeble. He was out to see us two or three times. Charley brought him and the family out in his car, and we went out to see them several times. In the late winter of 1943 the old man took a severe cold, from which he didn’t seem to rally very well. Then one night he had a stroke, from which he never rallied.
So passed a very hard working man and a good friend of mine. So passed the third good old friend of mine on Bug Ridge—Uncle Daniel Huffman, Mr. Garrison, and Mr. Watts. Mr. Watts was the oldest, being 90 years old. The others were past 80. Uncle Daniel was my nearest neighbor and one of the best friends on the Ridge.
In our younger days we make friends; as we grow older they pass away one by one. In our old age, there are few left. And if, as I have done, you move when you are old, you have no friends at all. I am glad that I can be with some of my children and see the others every once in a while. I should not complain. I have had many friends and some close ones in several places. My rule has been: "Be true to a friend always."
Now that I have finished my teaching (and most everything else of importance), I will look back over my life. Maybe I can think of some things of importance to add to what I have already written.
I remember Father telling about some neighbors coming by there squirrel hunting one Sabbath. He gave them all the melons they could eat and one to take with them. That evening as they came home they stopped in the melon patch and pulled all the vines and piled them up.
One summer we raised a fine crop of corn, also a fine patch of melons. Ellsworth went up to Mr. Brake’s store, and Mr. Brake wanted to know how much corn we raised. Ellsworth told him 900 bushels. He said we ought to have raised a fine crop, for we spent all summer tending it. Ellsworth replied, "It kept us from stealing our neighbors’ watermelons." (His boys had stolen a bunch of our melons.)
Growing up on a farm, I learned to love the country and country people—I still do. Just give me a farm with stock, and I could be happy—if I were able to work it.
I am so glad Father and Mother taught me to be honest and truthful, to hate trickery and deceit, to select the better class of people as my friends, to be loyal to a friend and never try to injure any by malicious gossip or cowardly lies, to stand up for the right, and to be sure I was right and stick with it . I have learned to be careful what I say. I remember the Proverbs:
Answer not a fool. (Prov. 26:4, KJV)
Cast not your pearls before the swine lest they trample them under foot and turn and rend you. (Matt. 7:6, KJV)
Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him. (Prov. 26:12).
Jennie’s Stroke
My wife had a slight stroke in the last of September 1945, and Brady and Mary took her down there. Mary was taking care of Leortha, so I stayed at Brady’s and cared for Jennie. She was so she could walk about the house a little. We got along very nicely as Mary was at home to get breakfast and supper and Ruth would fix our dinner. They were all very nice to Jennie, so we had a fine time until after Thanksgiving, which was the third Thursday in West Virginia. Then Archie came after us, and we had a second Thanksgiving, which was the last Thursday in Tennessee.
The Milton Years—1946-1948
We stayed at Archie’s until the 14th of December, when Archie and Avis took us to Elmo’s [in Milton, Wisconsin]. This was a little the worst trip we ever took. There was a little snow on the ground in Tennessee. We got along very well till we crossed the Ohio River at Louisville, where we stayed all night. From there on it got colder fast. By 4 p.m. we could not keep the ice off the windshield, and Archie was so cold he said we would have to stop. We put up at a hotel, and Avis and Archie went out and got some bread, meat, coffee, cakes, etc., and we warmed it on the fire. We had a dandy supper with plenty left for breakfast. We waited till late to start the next morning. We had a very nice trip the rest of the way, although it was still very cold.
We got to Elmo’s about noon Sunday. Everybody was sure glad to get in where it was warm. We found it was 17 degrees below at Milton that morning. Some cold for December 16! Jennie did not seem over-tired by the trip, but later she proved to be.
It warmed up a little but stayed quite cold for some time. Jennie got along very well till the excitement wore off, when she took a severe cold and had a complete collapse.
Elmo’s said Dr. Crosley was a very fine doctor, so we sent for him and found he was one of the best. He told us that she blacked out on him (she really did) and that he would make no promises. He found her in a very poor condition, and she had but little strength on which to build. He said he would do all he could, which proved to be enough as he soon had her going around.
We have been very lucky in finding Dr. Condon of New York, Dr. Crosley of Milton, and Dr. Sullivan of Cleveland, Tennessee, very fine doctors. Jennie had two or three severe spells while we were in Milton. When we left there in the spring of 1948, she was much better than she was when we went there.
Milton Church and Friends: For the first time in years we had a chance to go to our church on Sabbath, and it was so nice. The people were so friendly and nice to us. I will never forget the way they treated us and the nice things they said about Elmo and Madeline. We soon got acquainted with the people. The women were so nice to Jennie, and we were invited to the homes of many of our people. We met some of our old ministers—Dr. Ben Shaw, Rev. Van Horn, and W. D. Burdick. These have all died since we left Milton.
I picked apples with W. D. Burdick two falls for Prof. Stringer. He was a small active man who was past 80 years old. He would go up into the trees like a man half his age. He was a very high-class Christian gentlemen and minister.
There were several very nice widows well up in years for whom I did some little work. I enjoyed this work very much.
I must not forget to mention Prof. Stringer, who was teacher of vocal music in the college and was church chorister. He had a fine young apple orchard two miles out. I helped him pick apples both falls I was there. The limbs would be hanging to the ground with fine, big apples, which I picked so fast that it was fun. The last year I was there, I made nearly $40 and then gathered apples he left that lasted Elmo’s nearly all winter. How I would have liked to have been there to pick apples this fall!
We found our Seventh Day Baptist people very sociable. In fact, they were as fine, nice people as I ever met. I will mention just a few who were especially nice to us—Dr. Crosleys (his wife was a sister to W. D. Burdick and very nice); Rev. W. D. Burdick, than whom there were none finer; Milton and Mary Van Horn; the young dentist (he and Milt hunted with us a lot); Prof. Cy and his wife; Prof. Stringer (who was very nice to me); a young Shaw who was very nice to us; Miss Clark and her brother; Mr. and Mrs. Lowther; and two widow ladies for whom I did a lot of work. They were so very nice to us. In fact, there were so many that I should mention that I will say all of the Seventh Day Baptist folks treated us like old friends and neighbors. But I should not forget the two Hurley families who were very nice to us.
Fishing, Hunting and Gardening: Elmo and I went fishing some, but I did not have very good luck. One day we were out Elmo caught two wall-eyed pike; one weighed 2¾, the other 3¾ pounds. Once when I was not with him, Elmo caught a cat that weighed 6¾ pounds. A fine cat!
I enjoyed duck hunting very much. The second fall we had excellent hunting. The season opened at noon. Four of us went out together, and we came in that evening with 20 birds. The most of them were nice-sized ducks. We had duck to eat for several days. It is great sport to go out with two or three congenial companions and hunt or fish. I have missed this since coming to Tennessee.
I did some work in the garden; in fact, we raised some fine gardens. The last year we were there, we had all the green beans we needed to eat and can and had more sweet corn than they wanted, so they sold some.
Rabbit Enterprise at Milton: Elmo had just moved a number of rabbits (New Zealand Whites) into the back yard. He planned for me to care for them and share in the profits. I enjoyed caring for the rabbits very much (the fact is, I always enjoyed caring for animals).
We raised a large number of rabbits, but we could not raise enough to supply the demand. We bought several more rabbits and were just getting ready to buy all pure-bred rabbits and make good money when we decided in the spring of 1948 to go back to West Virginia. We bought a large number of young rabbits to butcher to hold our customers. We made good money on those we bought, and it also paid those who raised them. Before we left, Elmo sold the whole outfit for $150. The venture paid very well and gave me something to do. I am very glad I had this experience with rabbits.
A Teaching Experience in Milton: I will give a little experience I had in teaching a pre-kindergarten pupil. Johnnie [Elmo’s son] (who was also named after me) was past four years old. In the fall before we left I told Madeline, if they wanted me to, I would teach Johnnie to read. She said, "Why don’t you?" So I went to work. Ann brought home some pre-primers. Johnnie would climb on my knees, and I would tell him a word (he did not know his letters) and turn to another page and tell him to find the same word there. He soon got so he could find the words anywhere in the book. Then I would teach him a new word. As soon as he began to get restless, we would quit.
There were two chief reasons why he learned so well: he is bright and wanted to learn, and he was all alone so it gave him an extra game to play. Oh, it was fun for each of us! He soon learned every word in the first book and could really read every story in it. Then we took up another one. He finished three pre-primers. Then in the same manner we did three primers. When we finished these, we took up a first reader, which we had about finished when Jennie and I left for West Virginia. I have wished so often that I could have taught him for another year! I would have taught him spelling, writing, and arithmetic so he would have been ready for the second grade when he was six years old.
In life there are many disappointments, but there are also many pleasures. The teaching of Johnnie will always be a bright memory, with a lot of other bright memories in my teaching life. It often happens that teaching is a thankless job. There is some compensation when in later life your old pupils come to you and say (as several have done to me) that they first became interested in getting an education from me. I know that I got many interested in getting a high school and college education. I hope I have helped several to live better, fuller lives.
Back to West Virginia, March 1948
We left Milton on March 31, 1948, and got to Brady’s April 1. We spent a year in West Virginia, mostly at Brady’s although I spent about as much time at Ashby’s. For a while I milked the cow and tended the garden. In the late summer they decided they did not want to be bothered with the cow (she was our cow), so we sent her up to Olta’s as they were glad to have her. She was a very fine cow. Late in the fall we sold her for $150. This was the last property of any amount we owned except one-half interest in the farm on Bug Ridge.
We had intended to go back to the farm that summer, but we found there were no household goods to keep house with, and Brady’s were very much opposed to it. So we did not go to the farm. Jennie worked faithfully on Alma and Mary Ellen’s wedding outfits. Alma was married in their church. Jennie and I went up to Huffman’s so we were not there (at the wedding). After Jennie got the sewing done for Mary Ellen, we went to Ashby’s till Brady’s family came back from the wedding at Washington, D.C.
About the first of September Archie’s came by Ashby’s and offered to take us back to Tennessee with them. We decided to wait till later in the fall. Instead of going to Tennessee, we went to Brady’s for a while.
Before we got ready to go (on October 6), Jennie fell one evening and broke her hip. We took her to the hospital at Sutton, where she stayed for 33 days. I tried to make things as bearable for her as I could by going down by 8 or 9 a.m. and staying till about dark. This kept her from being lonesome. I would go out and get my dinner. Jennie did not eat much, and it would often hurt her. It got so everything, nearly, hurt. They gave her penicillin till she was so sore.
After she came back to Brady’s, they got her a hospital bed from Bill’s, which made it nice for her. She would seem to get better, but then she would take spells of terrible pain. They finally gave her a course of streptomycin, which seemed to help.
On to Tennessee
I came to Tennessee the 3rd of April. Archie, Avis and Alois went up two weeks later and brought Jennie back on a cot in the back part of the car. I was surprised at the way she stood the trip. She got along fine for a few weeks, then she got worse. We got a very nice doctor who was so nice to her. He would give her dope to ease her suffering and medicine he thought would help her. When it didn’t, he would try something else; nothing did any good for long.
My father, the most patient man and the best teacher I ever knew, passed on November 10, 1953. Mother, the most economical and best cook I ever knew, died April 23, 1962. Both passed on at Sister Avis’ in Cleveland, Tennessee. Dad went so quietly at the breakfast table that Mother, Avis, and Archie thought he was reaching for his kerchief to wipe food from his mouth. Mother also went easily with a short heart attack.
Descendants of Alois Preston Fitz Randolph and Jennie Mae Sutton Fitz Randolph as of November, 1963, are listed below.
Three sons and a daughter grew to adulthood—Brady, Ashby, Avis, and Elmo.
Brady married Mary Jurgens, and to them were born Brady Jr., Ruth, Mary Ellen, Alma Jean and Wilma June. Brady Jr. married Evelyn Hill, and they had two sons, David and Criss. They were divorced in 1958, and Brady Jr. later married Marie Izevorski. Ruth married Frank Adkins; their children are James P., Brady R., Lawrence B. and Joseph C. Mary Ellen married Robert Shank, and their children are William B. and Robert Randolph. Alma Jean married Gene Weitzel; they have one son, Philip. Wilma June married Lawrence B. Lyon, and they have two daughters, Kristinia and Marianna.
Ashby married Ruth Bond; their children are Ashby Bond, Xenia Lee, Alois Edmond, Elsie Mae, Edna Ruth, Rex Main, and Cleo Elizabeth (Beth). Ashby Bond married Ruby Oldaker; they have four sons—Gregg, Michael, Stephen, and Jeffrey. Xenia Lee married Edgar Wheeler; to them were born Annita, Robert, Ruth, Richard, Helen, Leon, William and Catherine. Also included in their family is a foster daughter, Noel. Alois married Mary Ann Young; their children are Dianna, Cynthia, Bryan and Douglas. Elsie Mae married Harry Lewis, who died in 1961. Their children are Ellen, Mark, Jane, and Gary. Edna Ruth married Donald Richards; to them were born Daniel, Timothy, Elizabeth DeAnn (Betsy De), and Donetta. Rex married Phyllis McClain; their children are Suzette, Pamela, Drenda, Randall, and Rex Ian. Beth married Joe Boyd; to them were born Rodney, Christina and Joe Allen.
Avis married Archie Swiger, and to them were born Alois, LeMoyne and Kermit. Alois married Mary Sue Jones; their children are Stephen, Gwenda Sue, Stanley Randolph, Gene, and Kenneth. Kermit, married Norma Dean; they have three children—David, Lynn and Tammi.
Elmo married Madeline Alice Watts. Their children are Anne, Daniel, John Preston, Catherine, Deborah, Stephen (who died in 1963), and Matthew. As of November, 1963, their only child who is married is Anne. She married Marvin Edwin Triguba. Ann and Marv are the parents of Teri Sue and Mark FitzRandolph Triguba.