While living on the original homestead, Grandpap did teaming which helped to improve his finances.
The settlements along the foot hills of the Rocky Mountains were building up and needed food and products from the fertile lands of western Missouri. These products had to be hauled overland in heavy wagons pulled by mule or ox teams. This was a long and tiresome journey taking many weeks to complete the trip. Grandpap referred to these journeys as “trips to Pike’s Peak”.
At one time when he left on one of these journeys, they were building a new addition to the log house. Uncle John O. and others were left to complete the work of building a bedroom for Grandma as she was expecting a baby by early spring. The last day of March, 1859, they hurriedly finished the room, and Grandma moved into it. By morning April 1, William Ignashus was born.
Grandma said he was a dark, scrawny little baby, and she covered him up and kept him covered for six weeks until Grandpap got home and saw him for the first time.
At another time Grandpap was teaming with a man named Barney Thomas. They made their trip to Pike’s Peak where they sold their flour, meal, and other commodities, and while Grandpap was resting from his jouney, Barney Thomas went down to Denver, sold the wagon and oxen, and disappeared, leaving Grandpap knew the trail, and he knew the Indians. He carried tobacco and a few trinkets which he traded to them along the way for food and favors. Today we would say he hitchhiked his way home, but at that time it meant much more than lifting a thumb and stepping into a car and being whisked away covering many miles of a long journey in a short length of time. I have no record of the length of time it took or of the hardships Grandpap encountered on his way back home, but it all adds up to the rugged life which was lived by the early settlers and the indomitable character of your great, great grandfather.
During the ‘60’s political feeling ran high; Missouri was happily located between the free and the slave states, and the neighborhood seems to have fared extremely bad. First one side and then the other were in supremacy, calling each other Red Hot Democrats and Black Republicans. The spirit of friendship so peculiar to the early settlers seemed to be completely destroyed. Postmasters refused to hand out mail, and blacksmiths refused to do work for those who did not agree with them politically.
Bands were formed which drove off the stock and destroyed the property of the opposite party. These bands became so bold they would come to the homes and demand the man of the house who was usually hidden away out of their reach, but if he were found he was taken out and given rough handling at the hands of the outlaws. In the neighborhood these bands were called “Bush Whackers”. Women and children were afraid to stay alone unless the doors were barred and the muskets kept loaded.
Under these conditions Grandpap rented his homestead and moved with his family to Maryville, Missouri, where they lived until after the end of the Civil War. He later sold the homestead to a man named Dan Severs; the family always referred to it as the old Dan Sever’s place.
The remains of the old log house still stand on the old homestead west of Elmo as a symbol of early American History so dear to the hearts of every true American citizen.
While the family lived at Maryville, Robert was born in 1865 and Eliza Jane, June 1867. My father being crippled and unable to work, attended school regularly. He learned the three R’s, also grammar and history, as it was a one-roomed school with children from the beginner’s class to the advanced classes. He picked up much knowledge from hearing the older ones recite, and he always referred to his teachers as very learned men. The school room was crowded, and the older pupils occupying the seats in the center of the room; and the little ones sitting on hard benches around the walls, which proved to be very painful to my father’s crippled leg.
Amos Halsey’s old ferry on the Nodaway River was headquarters for the early settlers for a long time. He kept a little store, the only one west of Maryville at that time. And it was said, that he sold dry goods and wet goods by the yard.
He finally played out, and a man by the name of Mint Wallace started a little store on the ridge west of the old river ferry; and by the similarity of the man, the place was called Possum Walk. The town was platted in the year 1871.
In a small way it soon became a community center. A few cabin homes were built and a blacksmith ship was located there to accommodate the settlers who needed to have their horses shod or their wagons and meager farm implements needed repairs.
The clang, clang of the hammer against the anvil brought a ringing sound which was irresistible to the small boys as well as the casual loafer who had a few minutes to spare. They stood in awe and admiration as the ‘Mighty Man’ held the leg of a fractious horse firmly between his knees as he deftly adjusted a shoe. A wagonsmith was a man of skill and his was a thriving business.
A cemetery was plotted on the ground adjoining the village on the north. This is a smooth laying plot of ground, high on the ridge, from which one can se many miles in every direction.
After a time Lamars started in business at the same place and changed the name of the town to Lamar Station, but by many of the old settlers and their descendants the place is still referred to as Possum Walk. Probably due to tradition, or the serenity of the rolling prairie to the north and west, or the quiet tranquility of the timbered bluff receding to the east: “The name jus seems to fit the place”.
About this time the territory was being organized into a township, and a man named Chasteen wanted it named for him. John W. Lamar opposed the name and said, “If they were going to name it for a Republican, call it a good one, call it Lincoln”.
The county court, being Republican, named it Lincoln.
The first church in the township was Baptist. It was organized by Rev. A. M. Wallace who remained as pastor until his death. Prior to the organization of the church, meetings were held in the homes or in groves where families would gather from miles around and camp for weeks and attend the religious services.
The pastor would announce that the service would start at early candlelight. The congregation would gather, they would sing, and many would shout. The pastor would preach until the candles burned out; then they would be replenished and he would continue to propound the gospel on and on through the night. Often dawn was breaking before he folded his Bible and gave the benediction.
Grandma claimed affiliation with this church for many years. Although she could not read, I once came unexpectedly upon her as she sat with the large old-fashioned Bible open before her. She looked up at me and in all sincerity said, “Pop, I am learning to read the Bible, and I believe every word of it.”
A Methodist Church South was organized at Lamar Station about the year 1865.
In later years Grandma became a member of this church.
After the close of the Civil War Grandpap bought 560 acres of prairie land laying about five miles south of his original homestead. And to this place he moved his family, also his father, Great, Great, Great Grandfather Benjamin Colvin, and Great, Great, Great Grandmother Sophia.
He had been farming as well as teaming while he lived at Maryville, and had quite a herd of livestock to bring to this new location. When they were ready to move, Uncle John O. was sent on ahead with a herd of sheep and the children. They had to cross the Nodaway River on an old bridge which was in a sad state of repair. About every other board on the floor was either broken or missing and the banisters hung from the sides at the center and rattled in a distressing manner if the bridge was shaken. But Uncle John O. in his easy-going way managed to herd both sheep and children across in safety.
But when Grandpap came to the bridge and saw the condition it was in, he was very angry with Uncle John O. for taking the children across such a dangerous contraption, and when he arrived home he began upbraiding him by saying, “Them chillun might have fallen through them boards into the rivah and drowned in the water and quick sand!”
Uncle John O. replied good naturedly, “Now Ambrus, the chillun and the sheep are all thar; you count ‘em”.
There was a log house on this far which Grandpap set about improving by boxing the walls on the inside with boards from the sawmill; the floor was made smooth and even, and cottonwood shingles were nailed on the roof with wrought iron shingle nails.
The house was comfortable and had ample room. Grandpap gave up teaming and gave his full attention to farming and stock raising. He set out an apple orchard and tended it carefully, and in a few years it bore abundantly, snows, janets, and winesaps. The janets were buried under the ground in a bed of straw and were taken out in the spring, sweet and juicy.
Each child, boy and girl alike, had his work allotted to him—planting, plowing, and hoeing corn, herding the cattle and sheep, and doing various farm chores.
Thus, they settled down a relatively happy, prosperous family.
Great, Great, Great Grandfather Benjamin and Great, Great, Great Grandmother Sophie made their home in a little log house on Grandpap’s farm, but they lived there only a short time. I have no record of the time of his death, but Great, Great, Great Grandfather died during the late 1860’s. He was buried in the family lot in the Possum Walk Cemetery as were many other members of the family who died thereafter. When a new grave was made Grandpap took one of his boys with him, and as none of the graves were marked by tombstones, he placed a large rock at the head of the grave. He knew where each one was buried, and he expected the boys to remember; but time and inattention soon faded their memory and now all we know is that it is our family burying ground.
Grandpap also planted trees there. One old pine tree still stands. Its massive trunk is scarred by lightning, and its boughs are bent and twisted by wind and storm; but it stands majestically, giving cooling shade in summer to those who come in sorrow and in autumn it spreads cones and needles as a coverlet for the sacred earth covering those who lived so long ago.
Grandpap took his mother to live in his home after the death of her husband, and thereafter she was known as Grannie Sophie. She occupied a small room in the house, and it was the duty of the boys in the family to cut wood and carry it in to her room where she had a small stove to keep her warm. This caused a great deal of conflict as the wood box always seemed to be empty and Grannie Sophie was very exacting in her demands.
She kept accurate account of the affairs of the household, the community, as well as of all of the misdeeds of the young children. These she would repeat to their father when he came in from work in the evening. For this reason, she became quite unpopular with the young generation by causing them to feel the sting of the father’s “shillelagh”.
Grannie Sophie was a sprightly little person, whether it was a woman’s intuition’ or a keen insight into business ventures, she always seemed to know when and what to buy and when to sell. And in this respect Grandpap usually consulted with her. She was a bright, witty conversationalist; her contribution to the household duties was principally confined to helping to knit the countless scores of socks and stockings worn by the family of growing children. She could knit three socks a day with ease, and she talked incessantly as she plied her needles in the soft homespun yarn.
When Grandpap drove cattle and hogs overland to the market at St. Joseph, he usually brought home a jug of whiskey which he kept in the house for family use during the ensuing year or until the next time he sold stock. If he found a good market and animals sold well, he might bring the whiskey home in a wooden keg.
Grannie Sophie always required a certain portion of it for her own special use. Sometimes she mixed it with quinine which she took for colds. At other times she brewed cherry tree back to make a tea which she mixed with whiskey to make what she called ‘bitters’; this was taken as a “spring tonic”.
She kept her whiskey hidden away in her room and no one except herself dared touch it.
It was being talked around that the “Bush Whackers” were raiding people’s homes and stealing their whiskey which was a treasured possession among the settlers in the outlying territory.
Grannie Sophie heard this rumor and was very indignant. She told Grandpap and his family that “No Bush Whackah is gwine to steal my whiskey!”
Grannie Sophie had a small china vessel which she kept hidden away under her bed, to be used for her own private convenience. The lid to this vessel was also made of fine white china and sound proofed by a knitted cover which fit snugly around the rim. When she thought the “Bush Whackers” might be coming, she spent a long time washing and scouring the white china vessel with water and Grandma’s strong lye soap.
Then she carefully poured her whiskey into the spinning vessel. As she stood holding the lid in her hand, she called to Grandma who was frying doughnuts in the next room, “Lila! Send one of the chillun in with a coupl’a them twistahs; I want to drop them in mah whiskey. Them Bush Whackahs ain’t a gwine to tote off my whiskey!”
Although the war had been over for some time, there was a band of unscrupulous men who, under cover of the ill feeling, took advantage of it for their own gain as well as vengeance toward the southern sympathizers. The leader of this gane of hoodlums was one ZekeWhoos’it. Grannie Sophie, being and alert, inquisitive person, kept her ear to the ground for the bits of news which made her southern blood boil.
As time went on, law and order was restored and neighbors on both sides began to see their folly and have some minor dealings with one another.
In one of these transactions Zeke Whoos’it refused to pay Grandpap $17.00 that he owed him. About that time a revival meeting was being held at Old Bethel Church, and Zeke Whoos’it was among the converts. A rally day and testimonial meeting was planned to be held at the ‘meeting’ house on Sunday night. Grannie Sophie learned the details of this meeting and was unusually silent during the week as she sat and pursed her lips as she knit.
Sunday evening, about sundown, she donned her best alpaca dress, tied the strings of her little black bonnet under her chin, and announced to the unsuspecting family that she was goin’ to meetin’. She bribed one of the boys to go with her and sit by her during the service.
She found a seat just to the left and in front of the one occupied by Zeke Whoos’it. She was very attentive during the long sermon after which the testimonials started. Different ones arose and gave their various experiences regarding the emotions of their salvation.
Zeke Whoos’it was a large, pompous man with a flowing beard who seemed very self confident and proud of himself as he arose to give his description of his salvation. In his lengthy discourse of the power of the Holy Spirit, he said his soul was washed as white as the driven snow. Just at that point Grannie Sophie arose, pointed her finger in his face, and exclaimed, “Hold on thar, Zeke Whoos’it! How about that $17.00 you owe my son, ‘Ombus”, and refused to pay him?”
Thus, standing before him shaking her finger in his face, she enumerated all of the mean, dishonest things she had ever heard of him doing. She then turned, gave her escort’s sleeve a twitch, and went immediately home.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Chapter 3
I'm going to post Chapter 3. I hope everyone else is enjoying reading this as much as I did.
Chapter III
During the years of the early ‘50’s Grandpap farmed his land and ‘got a start’ of cattle, sheep and hogs. He fed his corn to the hogs and steers when they had reached the mature age of two and three years and could carry weight and travel well, as they had to be driven across prairie and timberland to St. Joseph to be marketed. This was a distance of some seventy-five miles, and sometimes it took two weeks to make the trip. They usually brought back provisions sufficient to last until the next trip.
As his herds of cattle and sheep grew in numbers, they would often stray away and join other herds that were, likewise, permitted to run loose on the prairie.
The only fences were made of rails which were split from the trees which grew along the streams and lowlands. These fences were used for making enclosures which held the mules or oxen used for work on the farm.
The oldest cow and ewe in the herds usually wore a bell strapped around their necks, which tinkled as they grazed on the quiet hills, thus guiding the children as they went in search of them at evening time while Grandma stood waiting with her milk pail on her arm.
As the herds grew in numbers and the children grew in size, they were sent out each day during the crop season to herd the cattle and sheep. While they were all small children, the boys, accompanied by Catherine (Kitty), went together in a group and separated only to round up the animals that had become scattered. They had very little with which to amuse themselves until one warm day one of the boys observed a tumblebug rolling a ball. It seemed to be walking backward and rolling the large ball with its strong hind legs, and to a small boy that looked interesting. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket. When he rejoined his brothers, he put his hand into his pocket and brought out the bug which clung to his finger with its sharp little claws. It seemed to be very much disturbed and showed a tendency to want to fight when they prodded it with their bare toes. This gave the boys an idea. Next time when they separated to round up the animals they were herding, each boy came back with a tumblebug in his pocket. By the time the grass was pulled off to make a smooth “arena’, the bugs were in a very bad humor, and when they were placed together on the ground, a fight would ensue which highly amused the boys, and it would last until Kitty, who was the mischievous one, would run into the ring and give the bugs such a boost with her toe that they would take off in opposite directions, and Kitty would run with the boys chasing her. She was a strong, athletic girl, and it usually took all of the boys to get the best of her. If they did, she would get even with them in some manner. One of her favorite schemes was to run home in advance of them, and when she could see them coming, she would call their hound pups around her and pick them up by their tails, and one by one she would lash them with a small switch until they howled so piteously that the boys came running to their rescue; and then a tussle ensued which Grandma had to settle.
Often emigrants passed through on their way to seek homes farther west. At one time a number of wagons followed by a large heard of cattle and sheep camped near Grandpap’s home while they rested their mules and oxen and grazed their cattle and sheep on the open prairies. One night a fire got started in the tall grass where the sheep had laid down to rest. Some of them were so badly burned that they died and others were unable to travel. The emigrants moved on and left the burned sheep. As the boys were herding a few days later, they found these sheep in a very pitiable condition.
When they told Grandpap about it that evening, he told them to bring the sheep in and doctor them, and if the emigrants never came back to claim them, the boys could keep them for their own. The boys were filled with enthusiasm at the hope of having the sheep to claim as their very own and could hardly get to sleep that night for thinking about it. They were up early and out next morning to the place where they had found the sheep. A few of them could hobble along, and these the boys drove home, and then they went back and half dragged, half carried the others in. They were very tired but had no time to rest. They washed the sores with warm water just as Grandma instructed and then they greased them with turpentine mixed with hog lard that she prepared for them.
The wounds healed, and by the time the weather turned cold, the wool had grown long and covered the scars; and the boys were very proud of them. Grandpap admitted they were a better breed of sheep than his own. But the boys’ pride in the ownership of the sheep was short lived. When Grandpap rounded up his cattle, sheep, and hogs to drive to market, the boys’ sheep were driven away with them. My father was both angry and broken hearted. But Grandma tried to console him as best she could, and as a special favor she told him he might stay up with her the night she expected Grandpap to come home.
They heard the wagon wheels screeching in the snow long before he came into sight. When he drove up in front of the door with his load of provision. My father ran out to investigate what was in the wagon. Grandpap walked around the back of the wagon and pulled out a pair of little red topped boots and gave them to my father who was dancing around so overjoyed he reached over and licked his tongue against the wagon tire. His moist tongue froze to the wagon wheel and there he stuck until Grandma came with a teakettle of warm water and thawed him loose. Despite the sore tongue, he enjoyed the new boots which partly reconciled him to the loss of his sheep.
My father told me that story many times, the last time just a few months before his death. I think that all of his life he carried a feeling of resentment against Grandpap for breaking his promise to him.
It was said of Grandpap that he was scrupulously honest in all of his business dealings, and he put forth a great effort to instill honesty into the minds of his children. And whether or not he did right regarding his disposition of the sheep brings up a question which, at some time, confronts almost every farm family.
When you’re Great Grandfather Platte Colvin (whom I shall refer to as my father) was a young boy, he was playing with the other brothers, and he fell as they were jumping from the low roof of an old shed. He seemed to be only slightly shaken up. Grandma pronounced it only a slight bruise, gave him a loving pat, and told him to lie down and take a nap and he would be all right. No more was thought of it until a few weeks later he began to complain of his hip hurting him, and in the course of time an abscess developed on the front of his hip joint which would not heal. At that time it was called White Swelling and was very painful for many months, and his life seemed to be in danger. But Grandma cared for him and carried him gently about until the wound finally healed. But for years he could walk only bent forward with his hand on his knee. Thus disabled for work, it gave him the advantage of going to school while the other children in the family had to stay at home to assist with the farm chores, which were allotted to them.
In the year 1858 a large stationary sawmill was built by Abraham Hagey four miles north of Quitman, Missouri, on the west side of the Nodaway River. (Nodaway was an India name meaning placid.) This mill did much toward furnishing lumber to the early settlers. This lumber could be used for roofs, floors, window and door castings for the log houses, and from it furniture could be made, and to the great delight of herself and Missouri, Grandma got a new spinning wheel. Abraham Hagey had a turning lathe, and he made it himself, as he did many others.
The discovery of gold in California had created a great deal of excitement among the early settlers of Nodaway County by the year 1849. The news of discovery had spread to all parts of the United States, and fabulous stories were told of the immense wealth to be found there. Thousands of men from the ‘states’ could be seen wending their way to the golden strand of the Pacific coast in search of the precious metal.
This must have been a dazzling picture to the hard pressed ‘settlers’ of Northern Missouri who were breaking the wild prairie land, or clearing the timber and thick underbrush. Many equipped wagons joined the many thousands who were California bound.
To gain some idea of the vast number of men who went West during the gold excitement days in California I will give the number who crossed the river at St. Joseph and other places from April 1 to June 15, 1849. The number of wagons crossing at that ferry port was one thousand five hundred eight. The number of men averaged four to the wagon, or about six thousand men. At Duncan’s ferry, about four miles above St. Joseph, six hundred eighty-five wagons crossed. At Bontown, Savannah, and other nearby ferries as far up as Council Bluffs, there were two thousand wagons more, making a total of four thousand one hundred ninety-three wagons. Ten thousand persons had crossed at Independence, making a grand total of twenty-seven thousand. There were about eight mules or oxen to each wagon, making the total number thirty-seven thousand five hundred forty-four mules and oxen.
For those who remained at home, gold was the topic of conversation as the farmers gathered around the stove in a little store or under the trees while they waited for their plows to be sharpened at the blacksmith shop. Neighbors talked of it leaning across the fences, as the horses rested at the end of the furrows.
But as time passed, interest wore down until the year 1859 when John H. Gregory struck the rich vein of gold near Central City, Colorado.
When this news reached them, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. Colorado they knew was not nearly as far away as California, forgetting the fate of so many who had gone ten years before, a group of the most venturesome ones, Grandpap included, decided to form a wagon train and drive to Colorado to seek an easy fortune. Wagons were loaded with meal and salt port for food, powder and bullets for loading the guns which would be used for shooting wild game for food, also for protection against hostile Indians or bands of horse thieves which were not uncommon at that time.
Other wagons were loaded with grain to feed their horses when they stopped to camp at night. Jugs of water were packed, as many stories had been heard of the people who perished for water while crossing the desert. And a few “jugs” might have been hidden under the dash boards, just in case a driver might need emergency treatment, such as snake bite or eye strain.
The night before they were to start the following morning the wagons were assembled at the starting place with all of the tongues pointing west. The horses were curried and brushed; the harness was mended and freshly greased.
A meeting had been held and a leader chosen whose authority all had agreed to obey. And, according to the story, this agreement was kept during the entire journey.
During this meeting they had each disclosed their fondest hopes of riches and much merriment had been displayed, possibly to build up their morale as well as to hide the undercurrent of uncertainty (a trait that the masculine members of the early settlers never permitted their neighbors to see).
The womenfolk were less confident as to the outcome of this adventure; but, as they were well disciplined wives who had given ear to the glamorous hopes of their husbands, consented by their silence, and bravely went ahead with the duties of keeping the home, caring for the young children, overseeing the farm work and the herding of the livestock by the older children of the family.
The wagon train started at the crack of dawn one fine morning with the leader driving the first wagon. He was equipped with a compass to guide him as to the direction. Each night when they pitched camp they unhitched “and left the wagons with the tongues pointing west”.
The first day they had a cross country road to follow and reached the Missouri River which they crossed by ferry.
As the days passed the road became a cow trail, and that dwindled into a buffalo trail. The sun became hotter and hotter, and the wind blew dust into their weary, suntanned faces. When the trail led away from the streams, it was difficult to find water for the tired horses. Once when one of the men was going down a gulch hunting for water he came upon the bones of what appeared to be a pair of oxen. On going a short distance farther he saw the skeleton of a man—he couldn’t tell whether it had been a white man or an Indian. When he went back and told his companions about it, they decided it had been a white man on his way to California ten years earlier. Had it been an Indian, members of his tribe would have carried him away for burial. But still that night all wagon tongues were left pointing west.
Late summer had arrived, and one evening when they had pitched camp, the horses were tired and thin; the men were tired of travel and cooking wild game by camp fire with no fuel except dry buffalo chips. Far in the distance the high snow-capped ridges of the Rockies could be seen to the west of them, and nothing except dry prairies behind them, something, not mentioned, became predominant in the minds and hearts of these men. All knew it, but no one mentioned it.
Just before retiring to their blankets, the leader called all of the men together around the dying embers of the campfire and in a toneless voice said, “Men, in the morning we will drive in the direction our wagon tongues are pointed”. And, would you believe it? Next morning every wagon tongue was pointed east.
Not much was ever said of the return of the wagon train, but my father told me how the crops had been harvested and the supplies had been “laid in” for winter. The apples, potatoes, and cabbage had been buried within a heavy layer of straw or slough grass with a few feet of dirt thrown over the top.
For weeks Grandma had been spinning and knitting by day and late into the night and every little while she would go to the window and look anxiously out, brush away a tear, and return to her task.
One evening in late autumn just at dusk (the first snowflakes of the season had begun falling), Grandpap came driving in. He unhitched his tired horses with no regard as to which direction the wagon tongue was pointed. If Grandpap had ever started to a place he never believed in turning back; he thought it would bring bad luck. If he started to town to mail a letter and when he got outside the gate he noticed he had forgotten it, if he couldn’t call to Grandma or one of the children to bring it to him, he would go on without it. It was an old superstition, but he made it a duty to abide by it.
Some weeks later when Grandma cautiously mentioned his turning back from his trip to Colorado, he turned on her with a glare and said, “Woman, that there subject makes my face burn!”
Chapter III
During the years of the early ‘50’s Grandpap farmed his land and ‘got a start’ of cattle, sheep and hogs. He fed his corn to the hogs and steers when they had reached the mature age of two and three years and could carry weight and travel well, as they had to be driven across prairie and timberland to St. Joseph to be marketed. This was a distance of some seventy-five miles, and sometimes it took two weeks to make the trip. They usually brought back provisions sufficient to last until the next trip.
As his herds of cattle and sheep grew in numbers, they would often stray away and join other herds that were, likewise, permitted to run loose on the prairie.
The only fences were made of rails which were split from the trees which grew along the streams and lowlands. These fences were used for making enclosures which held the mules or oxen used for work on the farm.
The oldest cow and ewe in the herds usually wore a bell strapped around their necks, which tinkled as they grazed on the quiet hills, thus guiding the children as they went in search of them at evening time while Grandma stood waiting with her milk pail on her arm.
As the herds grew in numbers and the children grew in size, they were sent out each day during the crop season to herd the cattle and sheep. While they were all small children, the boys, accompanied by Catherine (Kitty), went together in a group and separated only to round up the animals that had become scattered. They had very little with which to amuse themselves until one warm day one of the boys observed a tumblebug rolling a ball. It seemed to be walking backward and rolling the large ball with its strong hind legs, and to a small boy that looked interesting. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket. When he rejoined his brothers, he put his hand into his pocket and brought out the bug which clung to his finger with its sharp little claws. It seemed to be very much disturbed and showed a tendency to want to fight when they prodded it with their bare toes. This gave the boys an idea. Next time when they separated to round up the animals they were herding, each boy came back with a tumblebug in his pocket. By the time the grass was pulled off to make a smooth “arena’, the bugs were in a very bad humor, and when they were placed together on the ground, a fight would ensue which highly amused the boys, and it would last until Kitty, who was the mischievous one, would run into the ring and give the bugs such a boost with her toe that they would take off in opposite directions, and Kitty would run with the boys chasing her. She was a strong, athletic girl, and it usually took all of the boys to get the best of her. If they did, she would get even with them in some manner. One of her favorite schemes was to run home in advance of them, and when she could see them coming, she would call their hound pups around her and pick them up by their tails, and one by one she would lash them with a small switch until they howled so piteously that the boys came running to their rescue; and then a tussle ensued which Grandma had to settle.
Often emigrants passed through on their way to seek homes farther west. At one time a number of wagons followed by a large heard of cattle and sheep camped near Grandpap’s home while they rested their mules and oxen and grazed their cattle and sheep on the open prairies. One night a fire got started in the tall grass where the sheep had laid down to rest. Some of them were so badly burned that they died and others were unable to travel. The emigrants moved on and left the burned sheep. As the boys were herding a few days later, they found these sheep in a very pitiable condition.
When they told Grandpap about it that evening, he told them to bring the sheep in and doctor them, and if the emigrants never came back to claim them, the boys could keep them for their own. The boys were filled with enthusiasm at the hope of having the sheep to claim as their very own and could hardly get to sleep that night for thinking about it. They were up early and out next morning to the place where they had found the sheep. A few of them could hobble along, and these the boys drove home, and then they went back and half dragged, half carried the others in. They were very tired but had no time to rest. They washed the sores with warm water just as Grandma instructed and then they greased them with turpentine mixed with hog lard that she prepared for them.
The wounds healed, and by the time the weather turned cold, the wool had grown long and covered the scars; and the boys were very proud of them. Grandpap admitted they were a better breed of sheep than his own. But the boys’ pride in the ownership of the sheep was short lived. When Grandpap rounded up his cattle, sheep, and hogs to drive to market, the boys’ sheep were driven away with them. My father was both angry and broken hearted. But Grandma tried to console him as best she could, and as a special favor she told him he might stay up with her the night she expected Grandpap to come home.
They heard the wagon wheels screeching in the snow long before he came into sight. When he drove up in front of the door with his load of provision. My father ran out to investigate what was in the wagon. Grandpap walked around the back of the wagon and pulled out a pair of little red topped boots and gave them to my father who was dancing around so overjoyed he reached over and licked his tongue against the wagon tire. His moist tongue froze to the wagon wheel and there he stuck until Grandma came with a teakettle of warm water and thawed him loose. Despite the sore tongue, he enjoyed the new boots which partly reconciled him to the loss of his sheep.
My father told me that story many times, the last time just a few months before his death. I think that all of his life he carried a feeling of resentment against Grandpap for breaking his promise to him.
It was said of Grandpap that he was scrupulously honest in all of his business dealings, and he put forth a great effort to instill honesty into the minds of his children. And whether or not he did right regarding his disposition of the sheep brings up a question which, at some time, confronts almost every farm family.
When you’re Great Grandfather Platte Colvin (whom I shall refer to as my father) was a young boy, he was playing with the other brothers, and he fell as they were jumping from the low roof of an old shed. He seemed to be only slightly shaken up. Grandma pronounced it only a slight bruise, gave him a loving pat, and told him to lie down and take a nap and he would be all right. No more was thought of it until a few weeks later he began to complain of his hip hurting him, and in the course of time an abscess developed on the front of his hip joint which would not heal. At that time it was called White Swelling and was very painful for many months, and his life seemed to be in danger. But Grandma cared for him and carried him gently about until the wound finally healed. But for years he could walk only bent forward with his hand on his knee. Thus disabled for work, it gave him the advantage of going to school while the other children in the family had to stay at home to assist with the farm chores, which were allotted to them.
In the year 1858 a large stationary sawmill was built by Abraham Hagey four miles north of Quitman, Missouri, on the west side of the Nodaway River. (Nodaway was an India name meaning placid.) This mill did much toward furnishing lumber to the early settlers. This lumber could be used for roofs, floors, window and door castings for the log houses, and from it furniture could be made, and to the great delight of herself and Missouri, Grandma got a new spinning wheel. Abraham Hagey had a turning lathe, and he made it himself, as he did many others.
The discovery of gold in California had created a great deal of excitement among the early settlers of Nodaway County by the year 1849. The news of discovery had spread to all parts of the United States, and fabulous stories were told of the immense wealth to be found there. Thousands of men from the ‘states’ could be seen wending their way to the golden strand of the Pacific coast in search of the precious metal.
This must have been a dazzling picture to the hard pressed ‘settlers’ of Northern Missouri who were breaking the wild prairie land, or clearing the timber and thick underbrush. Many equipped wagons joined the many thousands who were California bound.
To gain some idea of the vast number of men who went West during the gold excitement days in California I will give the number who crossed the river at St. Joseph and other places from April 1 to June 15, 1849. The number of wagons crossing at that ferry port was one thousand five hundred eight. The number of men averaged four to the wagon, or about six thousand men. At Duncan’s ferry, about four miles above St. Joseph, six hundred eighty-five wagons crossed. At Bontown, Savannah, and other nearby ferries as far up as Council Bluffs, there were two thousand wagons more, making a total of four thousand one hundred ninety-three wagons. Ten thousand persons had crossed at Independence, making a grand total of twenty-seven thousand. There were about eight mules or oxen to each wagon, making the total number thirty-seven thousand five hundred forty-four mules and oxen.
For those who remained at home, gold was the topic of conversation as the farmers gathered around the stove in a little store or under the trees while they waited for their plows to be sharpened at the blacksmith shop. Neighbors talked of it leaning across the fences, as the horses rested at the end of the furrows.
But as time passed, interest wore down until the year 1859 when John H. Gregory struck the rich vein of gold near Central City, Colorado.
When this news reached them, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. Colorado they knew was not nearly as far away as California, forgetting the fate of so many who had gone ten years before, a group of the most venturesome ones, Grandpap included, decided to form a wagon train and drive to Colorado to seek an easy fortune. Wagons were loaded with meal and salt port for food, powder and bullets for loading the guns which would be used for shooting wild game for food, also for protection against hostile Indians or bands of horse thieves which were not uncommon at that time.
Other wagons were loaded with grain to feed their horses when they stopped to camp at night. Jugs of water were packed, as many stories had been heard of the people who perished for water while crossing the desert. And a few “jugs” might have been hidden under the dash boards, just in case a driver might need emergency treatment, such as snake bite or eye strain.
The night before they were to start the following morning the wagons were assembled at the starting place with all of the tongues pointing west. The horses were curried and brushed; the harness was mended and freshly greased.
A meeting had been held and a leader chosen whose authority all had agreed to obey. And, according to the story, this agreement was kept during the entire journey.
During this meeting they had each disclosed their fondest hopes of riches and much merriment had been displayed, possibly to build up their morale as well as to hide the undercurrent of uncertainty (a trait that the masculine members of the early settlers never permitted their neighbors to see).
The womenfolk were less confident as to the outcome of this adventure; but, as they were well disciplined wives who had given ear to the glamorous hopes of their husbands, consented by their silence, and bravely went ahead with the duties of keeping the home, caring for the young children, overseeing the farm work and the herding of the livestock by the older children of the family.
The wagon train started at the crack of dawn one fine morning with the leader driving the first wagon. He was equipped with a compass to guide him as to the direction. Each night when they pitched camp they unhitched “and left the wagons with the tongues pointing west”.
The first day they had a cross country road to follow and reached the Missouri River which they crossed by ferry.
As the days passed the road became a cow trail, and that dwindled into a buffalo trail. The sun became hotter and hotter, and the wind blew dust into their weary, suntanned faces. When the trail led away from the streams, it was difficult to find water for the tired horses. Once when one of the men was going down a gulch hunting for water he came upon the bones of what appeared to be a pair of oxen. On going a short distance farther he saw the skeleton of a man—he couldn’t tell whether it had been a white man or an Indian. When he went back and told his companions about it, they decided it had been a white man on his way to California ten years earlier. Had it been an Indian, members of his tribe would have carried him away for burial. But still that night all wagon tongues were left pointing west.
Late summer had arrived, and one evening when they had pitched camp, the horses were tired and thin; the men were tired of travel and cooking wild game by camp fire with no fuel except dry buffalo chips. Far in the distance the high snow-capped ridges of the Rockies could be seen to the west of them, and nothing except dry prairies behind them, something, not mentioned, became predominant in the minds and hearts of these men. All knew it, but no one mentioned it.
Just before retiring to their blankets, the leader called all of the men together around the dying embers of the campfire and in a toneless voice said, “Men, in the morning we will drive in the direction our wagon tongues are pointed”. And, would you believe it? Next morning every wagon tongue was pointed east.
Not much was ever said of the return of the wagon train, but my father told me how the crops had been harvested and the supplies had been “laid in” for winter. The apples, potatoes, and cabbage had been buried within a heavy layer of straw or slough grass with a few feet of dirt thrown over the top.
For weeks Grandma had been spinning and knitting by day and late into the night and every little while she would go to the window and look anxiously out, brush away a tear, and return to her task.
One evening in late autumn just at dusk (the first snowflakes of the season had begun falling), Grandpap came driving in. He unhitched his tired horses with no regard as to which direction the wagon tongue was pointed. If Grandpap had ever started to a place he never believed in turning back; he thought it would bring bad luck. If he started to town to mail a letter and when he got outside the gate he noticed he had forgotten it, if he couldn’t call to Grandma or one of the children to bring it to him, he would go on without it. It was an old superstition, but he made it a duty to abide by it.
Some weeks later when Grandma cautiously mentioned his turning back from his trip to Colorado, he turned on her with a glare and said, “Woman, that there subject makes my face burn!”
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Chapter 2
Chapter II
No record was kept of the dates of birth of Great, Great, Great Grandmother Sophia’s children. If she ever had kept them, they were lost in moving.
When Grandpap Ambrus Colvin was some eighteen years of age, he moved with his family westward to Platte County, Missouri, and settled between Weston and Fort Leavenworth. He enlisted in the army at Ft. Leavenworth and served four years. Part of the time he spent at Ft. Kearney, Nebraska, where a guard was kept as a protection against Indian uprisings.
He was discharged when his time expired, but when war with Mexico broke out, he was called back into the army and served as quartermaster teamster.
He always claimed the distinction of having driven the first cannon into the city of Mexico. Soon after the war ended Grandpap was given his discharge from the army and a land patent from the government for 160 acres of choice land in Nodaway County, Missouri.
Thus endowed Grandpap hurried back to Platte County and the little gal whose image he had carried in his heart as he drove the mules pulling the cannon across the prairies and into the captured city.
According to his own expression: “I God, she shore looked purty settin’ thar by that spinning’ wheel”.
The little girl was Delilah Fulks. She had come with her parents from North Carolina and settled near Beverly, Missouri, in Platte County. Neither she nor Grandpap could read or write, but they managed to communicate by having a third party write the letters, and they were carried by a messenger who happened to be going that way.
They were married in 1847 soon after his return from Mexico. She told me she spun and wove the material for her wedding dress, and it was so fine she could pull it through her wedding ring. The she pursed her lips and added, “And it was white, the color it should be”.
On December 17, 1848, their first child named Missouri Ann was born, and on June 4, 1850, they came to Nodaway County and settled on the land granted him by the government. It was rolling prairie land located a few miles west of where twenty-nine years later the town of Elmo was started.
Grandpap built a log house on this land; it was some thirty feet long and less than half as wide. There was one large room below and a half story attic above where the children might sleep. A hold was cut in the logs at one end of the large room below and a great chimney was built of sticks and mud; this made a fireplace which was equipped with dingy “andiorns” with a spooky looking iron crane. There your great, great grandmother did her cooking. The fire had to be kept burning as they had no matches and a new fire had to be started by striking flint rock among wood shavings, which at times required a great deal of effort. During warm weather when cooking was done she let the fire burn down to embers and then raked ashes over them to hold the fire until time to cook again. At times, if neighbors lived near enough to one another, coals of fire were covered with ashes and carried in an iron kettle.
Venison and other meats were cooked by hanging it over the fire in the fireplace where a dripping pan placed under it caught the drippings from which gravy was made.
The corn bread was baked in a covered pan which was placed firmly on the coals of the fire with more coals raked over the top of the pan and ashes raked over the coals to hold the heat. It evidently took an experienced hand to know just how to select the burning embers for the baking and how long it was required to bake under different conditions of the fire. But, according to her children, your great, great grandma never missed perfection on her corn bread, gravy, and meat. The youngest child in the family was usually given the privilege of sopping its bread in the gravy that was left in the pan, while the older ones looked on in envy.
It was universally conceded that green hickory wood made the best fire for cooking, and the smoke that puffs of wind sent spiraling back into the room had a very pleasant aroma. A sweet syrup cooked out of the ends of the green hickory logs that were sticking roomward out of the fire. These made coveted lollypops for the young children who sat warming their shins around the fire. The fireplace not only furnished heat for cooking; the fire warmed the room, and its flickering flames lighted the room at night. There were no glass windowpanes; the windows were covered with cloth which was oiled or greased with tallow or hog lard.
While Grandpap was busy breaking the virgin soil, planting corn which was dropped by the hand and striving to get a start of cattle, sheep, and hogs, he found that raising hemp was a money-making sideline. At one time he sowed as much as forty acres of hemp, and hauled it to St. Joseph where he sold it for making rope. One day while Great, Great Grandma was out helping break hemp to be loaded on the wagon she left her two little girls in the house alone. Virginia was playing about the room when she picked up a broom and started sweeping around the fireplace. A spark from the fire popped out and caught her clothing on fire, and she was so severely burned that she died June 7, 1853. She was buried on the farm where they lived, and four years later another child, Ambrose, was buried beside her.
On February 11, 1854 the weather was cold and your great grandfather Platte Colvin came with a snowstorm. Some of the chinking had dropped from between the logs on the side of the house, and Great, Great Grandma said the snow had to be shaken from the top of the blankets on her bed the next morning.
During the next nine years Catherine Anne, Ambrose, William Ignatius, John Boureguard, and Frances M. were born, and the rounds of the ladder leading to the attic were worn slick by the many little feet as they climbed them at night when going to their one-legged bedstead which was made by cutting a stick the proper length, boring holes at one end and one-half inches in diameter at right the length and breadth desired for the bed, in which were inserted poles. Upon these poles clapboards were laid, or lynn bark was interwoven consecutively from pole to pole. Upon this primitive structure their beds were laid.
Being the oldest, Missouri became a source of great help to her parents; she was quick, active, and a willing worker. During the cornplanting season she would walk in front of Grandpap and drop the corn from her hand while he followed with the hoe and covered. This would continue all day for many days until the corn was planted. All agreed that it took a good one to keep up with her.
She also learned to spin and wave and knit and sew. She did the major part of the spinning, working late into the night after the other members of the family had retired. Whir, whir went the old spinning wheel as she ran back and forth, back and forth with her strings of yarn. If the candles burned out, she threw more wood into the fireplace and worked by its light.
She was in demand at the quilting parties; her stitches were small and neat, and her block was soon finished, which gave her an opportunity to slip out and speak to some of the young men who were taking part in the house raising or log splitting which was being done by the men of the neighborhood.
Grandpap was stern and very severe with his family if they disobeyed him. If the children were running and playing noisily in the room and he stepped in, at once all was quiet as a mouse until he went out again.
One evening just as the family was sitting down to supper, a stranger pulled the latch string and stepped courteously into the room. He asked if he might feed his mule and put up for the night. Grandpap looked suspiciously at him and started to demur, but no stranger was every turned away from the door of an early settler, so-----Grandpap told him to “Come in, set up to the table, and eat a bite”. He readily accepted the invitation and visited with the family as he ate heartily.
Grandpap observed him silently, and it was with reluctance that he went out with him to bed down the mule for the night. (Grandma said, “He walked behind the stranger all the way to the stable and back to the house”.)
When they returned to the house, the supper dishes had been cleared away and the hearth swept clean. Grandma was settling down with her knitting, and Missouri was washing out the stockings that she had knitted off that day.
The stranger found a stool on the opposite side of the room, and as he seated himself the children gathered around him and began asking many questions which he answered quite entertainingly.
Grandpap settled himself in the easy chair in front of the fireplace with his back to the rest of the family, stretched his legs to the warm fire, and began whittling and hollowing out a corncob pipe.
Soon the stranger was teaching the little boys tricks with string. Missouri, attracted by the fun, hastily finished her work and came to stand with hands on her hips as he tossed the string over Catherine’s (Kitty’s) head, gave it a jerk, and it slipped right off. Then he laughingly told her he had cut off her head; then they all laughed as she felt of her head to know if it was still in its proper place.
Just then Grandpap called in a loud voice, “Woman! Bring me that wire with the twist in the end of it”. Grandma got hastily to her feet to do his bidding. She fetched the wire from a niche near the cupboard, gave it to him, sat down, and picked up her knitting. He thrust the end of the wire into a bed of coals in the fireplace, and as he did so he hitched his chair to one side so that he could see what was going on in the room.
The end of the wire was soon red hot, and he proceeded to burn the pith from a small stick that he was going to use for a pipestem. It required several heatings and burning before the stem was open, and he was quite busy with it, but all of the time, from the corner of his eye, he was watching the antics of the stranger.
After the children had seen all of his tricks with the string, the stranger told them if they had a white curtain on the wall he would show them some shadow pictures. Missouri hurried to the chest and brought out a bleached flour sack which she fastened to the logs on the wall. The candles were placed nearby, and he sat between them and the curtain.
He put his hands together, held them up, and there was the exact likeness of an eagle’s head on the curtain, then the head of a snake licking out its tongue. The children were spellbound, and Grandma dropped some stitches in her knitting.
Then came a cow’s head with horns. All at once! up hopped a little rabbit with its nose and ears wiggling, and as it hopped it went squeak, squeak so real that the children looked around to see if there could be a real rabbit some place in the room. Grandpap forgot to pick up his wire that lay red in the coals as he sat watching and forgetting his pretense of indifference.
Then the stranger rubbed his hands together, blew through his fingers, and quick as a wink, a pig’s head came racing across the curtain; it opened its mouth and let out such a squeal that it brought Grandpap to his feet thinking surely it had come from his own pigpen. He stood glaring at the stranger for a moment as the children ran to Grandma, and she started knitting so fast her needles just clicked together.
Grandpap pointed the pipestem he was holding in his hand at the stranger and said, “Lookie heah, sir, wh-what was that? Did you do that?”
The stranger laughingly to him that he did, and the he was a ventriloquist; he could throw his voice. With a “Hump”, Grandpap sat down in his chair and slowly went ahead burning the hole through his pipestem.
The children were sent up the ladder to bed, Missouri helping Frances as she was so small she could hardly reach from one round to the next.
Grandma layed a bed for the stranger who was soon sleeping soundly. Then she, too, retired, but Grandpap sat late into the night slumped in his chair rousing only to fill and refill the cob pipe from the box of tobacco that sat by the fireplace. The pipe was a good one, and the stem drew well; the room became so filled with smoke it caused the stranger to cough in his sleep.
Finally when the fire had burned down until there were hardly enough coals to light his pipe again, Grandpap got up and put fresh wood on the dying embers, raked ashes around them, and he, too, retired for the night. But the frown was gone from his face, and there was a shrewd twinkle in his eyes as he glanced toward where the stranger was sleeping.
Next morning Grandpap ate his breakfast in silence, hardly seeming to notice the stranger who also seemed puzzled by the queer behavior of his host.
The children were nervous from wanting to ask for more pictures or tricks with the string but were afraid of arousing their father’s anger. When breakfast was finished, Grandma herded them away from the table as she, too, expected something to happen.
When there was only Grandpap and the stranger left at the table, Grandpap called, Woman, bring us another cup of coffee”. A hushed silence fell over the room. The stranger appeared to be the most surprised of all, but being a jolly, good natured fellow, he felt equal to almost any occasion and remained silent, waiting.
Grandma hurried to pour their coffee and when the cups were emptied, Grandpap turned to the stranger and said, “Lookie heah, young feller, how would you like to stay around heah a few days? I calculate to butcher some hogs as soon as the moon sign is right, and you might give me a lift at it”.
The stranger, thinking of the warm bed and the good vittles, quickly accepted. Then Grandpap began asking him many questions: How and where he learned to throw his voice that way, and could he make a pig squeal outside as well as in the house, and many, many more.
When they left the house together to go out to feed the mule and do the other barnyard chores, they were so chummy that Grandma could hardly believe what her eyes saw. And the children stood by the little white curtain trying to make shadow pictures.
At different times in the past Grandpap had missed hams and other pieces of meat he had hanging in his smoke house, and in talking with other people around about, he had learned that they too had lost meat—it just disappeared when they were away from home, it seemed. Now the early settlers were an honest class of people who endeavored to help one another instead of taking away from their neighbors. But there was an old man named Eli Flint who lived down the draw a mile or so; he had a large family, and they always had meat on their table and lard to cook with, at least, they had every time Grandpap had happened to drop in about meal time. He never seemed to butcher any of his own hogs, and Grandpap had become suspicious.
Grandpap and the stranger talked a lot with their heads close together, and they laughed more when the stranger threw his voice into the pigpen and the old sows came “boo, booing” looking for the pig that was caught in the fence. They took long walks down the draw, walking single file. They soon had a path worn in the snow right toward Eli Flint’s house.
After two or three days Grandpap seemed to be pretty well pleased with his plans, and he just happened to be passing Eli Flint’s place, and Old Eli was out feeding his hogs, dumping the corn over the fence and calling, “Pooie! Poo—ee”! Grandpap stopped for a chat; he admired the hogs Eli said, yes, they were fat, and he was going to sell the last dang one of them a-fore they took cholera and died on his hands.
In parting Grandpap said he had to hurry along home; he had to get his kettle and scalding barrel ready to butcher the next day, and he was going to let his meat hang outside all night to cool out. He didn’t think anything would bother it, and Eli agreed with him.
Next day Grandpap and the stranger killed the hogs, scalded and scraped them clean, and hung them on a pole which was fastened between two trees near the smokehouse. They cut them in halves, tied them up by the hind legs with the heads hanging down, and there they were left to cool.
Grandpap made the children go to bed early that night, and he said he didn’t want to hear a whimper out of them. The stranger rolled up his sleeves and pitched in to help Grandma and Missouri strip the fat from the entrils which had been placed in a tub. Grandpap sat by the fireplace smoking. By the time it grew dark outside he got up and opened a crack in the door to let in some fresh air, said, “The smell is bad”. He seemed rather nervous and went to the door for air several times.
When the fat was all taken off, Grandpap and the stranger put on their coats and caps to take the tub outside and look to see that the hounds were securely tired. When everything became still and the moon was sailing high in the sky, making a weird glistening sheen on the white skin of the hogs hanging on the pole, Grandpap and the stranger took on last look around and slipped down the draw and hid in a heavy clump of underbrush close by the trail they had made in the snow a few days before. They kept very still and, sure enough, just as they expected, footsteps could be heard crunching in the frozen snow, and Old Eli Flint came cautiously up the path stopping now and then to look and listen, but all was still and he prodded on.
Grandpap got so cold from sitting crunched down in the snow waiting that he was afraid the stranger wouldn’t be able to have any voice to throw by the time Eli got back, but by and by here he came with a half a hog thrown over his back, him a holdin’ to the hind leg of it and the head almost dragging the ground. And just as he got even with that clump of bushes that hog grunted a time or two, then gave such agonizing squeals that Old Eli jumped almost out of his tracks; he looked around behind him and saw that hog’s head and he was so scared that he dropped that half a hog and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
Grandpap and the stranger let him get out of sight down the draw, and then they picked up the hog, carried it home, and laid it on a table in the smokehouse to be cut up and salted next day. They didn’t laugh at their joke as they came back into the house and went to bed. Grandpap said, “I God, that hog looked so ghostly there in the moonlight that it skeered him, too”.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Continuation from last post
It was late in the summer of 1814. A small girl stood on the banks of the Potomac River; her small hands were raised above her eyes to shade them from the bright sunlight as she watched the ships of the British fleet as they sailed up the river. Her name was Sophia McBaine. She was a small child, but her bright eyes and serious face, to a keen observer, could have belonged to a child much beyond her age of eight years.
Her mother whose maiden name was Herrick had related many thrilling stories of her early life in Maryland. She was a member of the Roman Catholic Church and had her daughter Sophia christened in that faith. But it was from her father that Sophia had inherited the spirit of the "Fightin' Irish".
As the British fleet came farther up the river she stamped her small, bare feet and clenched her fists in rage as she turned and ran to her mother demanding the use of the musket that she might fire upon the enemy.
Her mother folded her in her arms and explained to her the futility of one little girl taking a stand against the British fleet when the combined militia of Maryland and Virginia had failed to halt the British army under General Ross, and even the capitol buildings in Washington were in smoldering ruins.
The war of 1812 ended in 1815. At its close immigration to Missouri set in more rapidly than perhaps was ever known elsewhere in the United States up to that time. The rush was greatest from Virginia, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Tennessee.
But coming from Maryland the road was extremely rough and rugged.
The story is told of how the wagons drawn principally by oxen inched their way up the sides of the mountains and when on top they locked their wheels, unhitched the animals, and people, wagons, and animals all slid down the mountain sides. When the mountains were finally crossed the people were often confused and disagreed as to the direction they would take into the great unknown wilderness.
They all finally agreed to hold up sticks and drop them, and the direction the stick pointed when it fell would be the direction they would go.
Evidentally, little Sophia McBaine's stick pointed toward Missouri and Boone's Lick when it fell, as Boone County proved to be the destination of the McBaine family.
Many wagons joined together and formed long trains. There was the huge wagon filled with the family's plunder drawn by three or four yoke of oxen. Next came the herds of cattle and sheep, each with many bells making a beautiful chime, and as this mingled with the dull thud of the wagon, the coarse voice of the harder and the driver, a peculiar impression was made which you, my dear grandchildren, will never be able to appreciate.
Sophia McBaine married your great, great, great grandfather Benjamin Colvin II about the year 1820. She had been accustomed to slaves in her own home until the time of her marriage; therefore, she knew very little about housework and little did she dream of the duties she would have to fulfill. But in planning their marriage she and her equally inexperienced husband decided to go to a home of their own and live by themselves. All went well until all of his homespun and woven white linen suits became soiled, and he asked her to wash them. She said she took them down to the stream and splashed them in the water and scrubbed them on the stones; then she dried and folded them neatly on a chair and sat on them until they were pressed just as she had seen the slaves do in her home. But when she presented them to her new husband, he would not wear them.
Feeling none to happy, she took them back to the stream and scrubbed them again until her hands were blistered and her arms ached, but the more she tried, the worse they seemed to look.
Early the next morning she ordered her horse saddled to go home and get her "niggah".
Of their life together I know very little, only that they reared a family of nine children. Your great, great grandfather Ambrus Colvin being the oldest. My generation called him "Grandpap", and thus I will refer to him through the remainder of my story. Then there was a son Ignashus, who ran away from home at an early age and joined a party of emigrants and drifted to the state of Washington. There he lived among the Indians for a time and married an Indian girl who, it is said, came to his rescue at a time when his life was in danger. After the death of this wife and their son, he married a fine American girl, and they reared a most worthy family of sons and daughters.
He acquired a fortune in the heavy timberland in the state of Washington.
There was a third son, Uncle Jerry, who was mentally underprivileged. After his father's death, Grandpap brought Uncle Jerry to his home to live. He spent his time around the house and often helped your great, great grandmother with her household duties, but she never felt that she could trust him with the care of the small children. She always kept a watchful eye
There were six daughters, Nellie, Catherine, and Nancy. Of these I know only that they lived in Platte County in or near Weston, Missouri. Then there was Henryetta, Julia, and Manda.
Henryetta, Aunt Hettie we called her, married and lived in Columbia, Missouri. She was a dressmaker by trade, and as she had no children she kept herself so well groomed the rest of the family rather considered her an aristocrat. She was a handsome woman and a dynamic character. She spent twelve years from 1864 to 1876 on the west coast in the states of California and Washington. At that time that was considered a long way off.
After the death of her husband Dave Gordon, Aunt Hettie was still living in Columbia, Missouri. She had done so much sewing in her younger years that now her eyesight was failing, and to help earn her livelihood she kept roomers. At one time three young medical students occupied her rooms and were attending classes at the university. And as it was quite common in that day, there was an old shed on the back of her lot, which was equipped with a large iron kettle that had been used to heat water for butchering.
One Saturday the three young Medics were not in their rooms studying as was their custom. Aunt Hettie began looking around for them, and as she did so she noticed smoke coming from the old shed by the alley. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she peered out toward the shed. She hadn't given anyone permission to use that shed for butchering; her curiousity got the best of her. She walked shyly out to the shed and peeped in.
She let out a loud scream and went running to the house. Lawd Amassy! Them three young Medics was bilin' a niggah in that butcherin' kettle!
It is needless to say there were "For Rent" signs in their windows the next Monday morning.
Aunt Julia married Sam Owens, and her home was near Ainsworth, Nebraska.
Aunt Manda was a lovable character, tall, stately, regular features, dark hair and brown eyes. At the age of seventy her body was as lithe and willowy as a young girl. She spoke with a strong southern accent as did all of Great, Great, Great Grandmother Sophia's family.
Aunt Manda's married life was not an easy one. I will speak of her husband and Uncle John O. who was the easy going type, who spent much of his time hunting and fishing along the stream. At that time the early settlers helped one another and even shared provisions. In that way they got along.
At one time Uncle John O. and Aunt Manda lived with their family in a little house near the Nodaway River. It was late fall and they had laid in a barrel of sorghum molasses for winter use. As they were crowded for room, they had placed the barrel by the chimney. One morning the chimney began to issue clouds of smoke into the room, and Aunt Manda decided it was stopped up. So she persuaded Uncle John O. to clean it out. Quite obligingly he undertook the job by laying a loose board on top of the barrel of sorghum to stand on to reach the source of the trouble. As he stepped on the loose board it slipped and and he fell headlong into the barrel of sorghum. Aunt Manda came to his rescue and as she helped him out of the barrel, she said tearfully, "Oh, John, you sp'iled that whole barrel of sorghum". He inspected his clothes and good naturedly replied, "No, Manda, I didn't hurt it any. All that touched me stuck to me".
Aunt Manda once told me of the time Grandpap invited her to come to his home and dry apples. His trees were full, and they were dropping and going to waste.
She left her children at home and went and stayed almost a week. She worked diligently; she peeled, cored, and quartered the apples and spread them in the sun to dry. When they were dry she had a flour sack full.
The Wabash Railroad had just been put through, and as she had never ridden on a train, she thought it would be quite an adventure to get on at Dawson and ride some two or three miles to Burlington Junction where she lived.
When the train came to a stop, the conductor took the sack of dried apples from under her arm and placed them in the baggage car. Aunt Manda, thinking she was being robbed, started to climb into the baggage car with them. After some argument the conductor took the sack and put it on the passenger car with her.
She said she thought of them po' chillun' at home that never had a taste of fruit.
Okay, that is Chapter 1. I hope you all enjoy it.
Her mother whose maiden name was Herrick had related many thrilling stories of her early life in Maryland. She was a member of the Roman Catholic Church and had her daughter Sophia christened in that faith. But it was from her father that Sophia had inherited the spirit of the "Fightin' Irish".
As the British fleet came farther up the river she stamped her small, bare feet and clenched her fists in rage as she turned and ran to her mother demanding the use of the musket that she might fire upon the enemy.
Her mother folded her in her arms and explained to her the futility of one little girl taking a stand against the British fleet when the combined militia of Maryland and Virginia had failed to halt the British army under General Ross, and even the capitol buildings in Washington were in smoldering ruins.
The war of 1812 ended in 1815. At its close immigration to Missouri set in more rapidly than perhaps was ever known elsewhere in the United States up to that time. The rush was greatest from Virginia, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Tennessee.
But coming from Maryland the road was extremely rough and rugged.
The story is told of how the wagons drawn principally by oxen inched their way up the sides of the mountains and when on top they locked their wheels, unhitched the animals, and people, wagons, and animals all slid down the mountain sides. When the mountains were finally crossed the people were often confused and disagreed as to the direction they would take into the great unknown wilderness.
They all finally agreed to hold up sticks and drop them, and the direction the stick pointed when it fell would be the direction they would go.
Evidentally, little Sophia McBaine's stick pointed toward Missouri and Boone's Lick when it fell, as Boone County proved to be the destination of the McBaine family.
Many wagons joined together and formed long trains. There was the huge wagon filled with the family's plunder drawn by three or four yoke of oxen. Next came the herds of cattle and sheep, each with many bells making a beautiful chime, and as this mingled with the dull thud of the wagon, the coarse voice of the harder and the driver, a peculiar impression was made which you, my dear grandchildren, will never be able to appreciate.
Sophia McBaine married your great, great, great grandfather Benjamin Colvin II about the year 1820. She had been accustomed to slaves in her own home until the time of her marriage; therefore, she knew very little about housework and little did she dream of the duties she would have to fulfill. But in planning their marriage she and her equally inexperienced husband decided to go to a home of their own and live by themselves. All went well until all of his homespun and woven white linen suits became soiled, and he asked her to wash them. She said she took them down to the stream and splashed them in the water and scrubbed them on the stones; then she dried and folded them neatly on a chair and sat on them until they were pressed just as she had seen the slaves do in her home. But when she presented them to her new husband, he would not wear them.
Feeling none to happy, she took them back to the stream and scrubbed them again until her hands were blistered and her arms ached, but the more she tried, the worse they seemed to look.
Early the next morning she ordered her horse saddled to go home and get her "niggah".
Of their life together I know very little, only that they reared a family of nine children. Your great, great grandfather Ambrus Colvin being the oldest. My generation called him "Grandpap", and thus I will refer to him through the remainder of my story. Then there was a son Ignashus, who ran away from home at an early age and joined a party of emigrants and drifted to the state of Washington. There he lived among the Indians for a time and married an Indian girl who, it is said, came to his rescue at a time when his life was in danger. After the death of this wife and their son, he married a fine American girl, and they reared a most worthy family of sons and daughters.
He acquired a fortune in the heavy timberland in the state of Washington.
There was a third son, Uncle Jerry, who was mentally underprivileged. After his father's death, Grandpap brought Uncle Jerry to his home to live. He spent his time around the house and often helped your great, great grandmother with her household duties, but she never felt that she could trust him with the care of the small children. She always kept a watchful eye
There were six daughters, Nellie, Catherine, and Nancy. Of these I know only that they lived in Platte County in or near Weston, Missouri. Then there was Henryetta, Julia, and Manda.
Henryetta, Aunt Hettie we called her, married and lived in Columbia, Missouri. She was a dressmaker by trade, and as she had no children she kept herself so well groomed the rest of the family rather considered her an aristocrat. She was a handsome woman and a dynamic character. She spent twelve years from 1864 to 1876 on the west coast in the states of California and Washington. At that time that was considered a long way off.
After the death of her husband Dave Gordon, Aunt Hettie was still living in Columbia, Missouri. She had done so much sewing in her younger years that now her eyesight was failing, and to help earn her livelihood she kept roomers. At one time three young medical students occupied her rooms and were attending classes at the university. And as it was quite common in that day, there was an old shed on the back of her lot, which was equipped with a large iron kettle that had been used to heat water for butchering.
One Saturday the three young Medics were not in their rooms studying as was their custom. Aunt Hettie began looking around for them, and as she did so she noticed smoke coming from the old shed by the alley. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she peered out toward the shed. She hadn't given anyone permission to use that shed for butchering; her curiousity got the best of her. She walked shyly out to the shed and peeped in.
She let out a loud scream and went running to the house. Lawd Amassy! Them three young Medics was bilin' a niggah in that butcherin' kettle!
It is needless to say there were "For Rent" signs in their windows the next Monday morning.
Aunt Julia married Sam Owens, and her home was near Ainsworth, Nebraska.
Aunt Manda was a lovable character, tall, stately, regular features, dark hair and brown eyes. At the age of seventy her body was as lithe and willowy as a young girl. She spoke with a strong southern accent as did all of Great, Great, Great Grandmother Sophia's family.
Aunt Manda's married life was not an easy one. I will speak of her husband and Uncle John O. who was the easy going type, who spent much of his time hunting and fishing along the stream. At that time the early settlers helped one another and even shared provisions. In that way they got along.
At one time Uncle John O. and Aunt Manda lived with their family in a little house near the Nodaway River. It was late fall and they had laid in a barrel of sorghum molasses for winter use. As they were crowded for room, they had placed the barrel by the chimney. One morning the chimney began to issue clouds of smoke into the room, and Aunt Manda decided it was stopped up. So she persuaded Uncle John O. to clean it out. Quite obligingly he undertook the job by laying a loose board on top of the barrel of sorghum to stand on to reach the source of the trouble. As he stepped on the loose board it slipped and and he fell headlong into the barrel of sorghum. Aunt Manda came to his rescue and as she helped him out of the barrel, she said tearfully, "Oh, John, you sp'iled that whole barrel of sorghum". He inspected his clothes and good naturedly replied, "No, Manda, I didn't hurt it any. All that touched me stuck to me".
Aunt Manda once told me of the time Grandpap invited her to come to his home and dry apples. His trees were full, and they were dropping and going to waste.
She left her children at home and went and stayed almost a week. She worked diligently; she peeled, cored, and quartered the apples and spread them in the sun to dry. When they were dry she had a flour sack full.
The Wabash Railroad had just been put through, and as she had never ridden on a train, she thought it would be quite an adventure to get on at Dawson and ride some two or three miles to Burlington Junction where she lived.
When the train came to a stop, the conductor took the sack of dried apples from under her arm and placed them in the baggage car. Aunt Manda, thinking she was being robbed, started to climb into the baggage car with them. After some argument the conductor took the sack and put it on the passenger car with her.
She said she thought of them po' chillun' at home that never had a taste of fruit.
Okay, that is Chapter 1. I hope you all enjoy it.
Introduction
Hello everyone! I'm going to start with a brief description of what I'm doing with this blog.
Recently my grandparents moved from the apartment they were living in and needed to get rid of a lot of their stuff. Due to me being bitten by the family history bug a lot of the family history stuff was passed down to me to take care of. While going through all of this stuff I came across a memoir written by a family member from the 1800's. Her name is Delila Bucker. In this memoir she writes down her memories and stories she had heard growing up about living in the 1800's. I'm going to write her memoir word for word with a few exceptions (changing spelling of the occasional word). I hope you all enjoy.
Recently my grandparents moved from the apartment they were living in and needed to get rid of a lot of their stuff. Due to me being bitten by the family history bug a lot of the family history stuff was passed down to me to take care of. While going through all of this stuff I came across a memoir written by a family member from the 1800's. Her name is Delila Bucker. In this memoir she writes down her memories and stories she had heard growing up about living in the 1800's. I'm going to write her memoir word for word with a few exceptions (changing spelling of the occasional word). I hope you all enjoy.
Soil and Sand
by
Delila Bucker
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to my grandchildren. I have tried to tell them the true story of their ancestors who, from generation to generation, moved from frontier to frontier enduring the hardships, enjoying the freedom of primitive life. In their struggles to maintain a livelihood they knew the smell of new "Soil" and the sting of blowing "Sand".
Delila Bucker
1954-1956
Chapter 1
Come, my dear grandchildren, and sit by my knee as I tell you the stories as they were told to me by my elders, or from my own memory as I have lived them.
Seven generations ago, about the year 1768, your great, great, great, great, great grandfather Mason Colvin came to America from England and settled in Culpepper County, Virginia. He had a son Benjamin Colvin who was born in Culpepper County, Virginia. He (Benjamin) moved to Missouri before the country was settled. There being no post office, he could not write back to Virginia--so his family was lost sight of.
In the early 1800's he pushed westward through Missouri to Boon's Lick, which was then a wilderness. While his lot was romantic, yet it required stern hardihood to endure it.
Howard County was organized in 1816. It at first included all that territory from which since have been carved thirty-one counties, twelve south of the Missouri River and nineteen north of it. The first seat of justice was Cole's Fort on the south side of the river in Cooper County. In 1817 it was moved to Franklin and in 1823 to Fayette. It was long the center of political influence in the State, and before the civil war "Howard County, the mother of Missouri Democracy" was often heard.
Around Franklin as a center, population rapidly increased; and in a few years it spread out into what afterward became Boonie, Callaway, Cooper, and Chariton Counties. All central Missouri was being transformed from a wilderness into happy homes.
On May 28, 1819, The Independence, the first steamboat to ascend the Missouri River arrived at Franklin. Soon steamboats became common on the rivers and assisted much in the speedy delivery of the mails.
In the year 1840 Great, Great, Great, Great Grandfather Benjamin Colvin helped build the first university at Columbia, Missouri. His wife was a Coleman of Welsh descent. Their youngest son was also named Benjamin Colvin.
I'm going to stop here for today. If you all could let me know if you want me to continue that would be great. Have a great day!
I'm going to stop here for today. If you all could let me know if you want me to continue that would be great. Have a great day!
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