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.
