Authors: Justine Felix Rutherford
Another man we used for a bank during this period was Harry Gebhardt. He lived on Union Ridge. I knew Harry well. I saw him every day when I went to school at Pine Grove. He sort of looked after us kids.
Harry and his wife Hazel owned a small grocery store on Union Ridge, and they farmed as well. I say “they” farmed because for as long as I can remember Hazel worked right along beside him in the hayfield or doing whatever else he needed done. The boys nicknamed Harry “Rags” because when his denim overalls wore out or his overall jacket wore out, he just put another raggedy outfit over top of them. He was always clean, but he looked like a tattered scarecrow. I think he really liked to be called ‘Rags.” These people are all gone now, but the memories of them linger on.
Bad News
One day I overheard my mother and father talking. I was always all ears. I’ll never forget. They were both sitting on this log in the backyard. My dad had been painting Stewart Baker’s barn roof. He said to my mother, “I had to tell Stewart today I couldn’t finish his barn roof because I wasn’t able.” He said, “I had to leave the job today.” I looked at him and saw tears in his eyes.
For the first time, I really knew fear. Could anything happen to my dad? Not to my dad who whittled out my dishes from hickory nut hulls and who patched up my wounds and hurts. He was the man whose lap I always crawled up onto in the evening to catch a nap. Not my dad who was always there for all of us. What would happen to us if anything happened to Dad?
Today I think divorce is the scariest thing for children, but back then it was the death of a mother or father. I remember my husband Doyle telling years later that he was so scared something would happen to his mom or dad that on the way to school he would lie down in the road ditch and cry.
My dad went to the doctor a few months later. The doctor couldn’t find anything. I was relieved, but I watched my dad get thinner and thinner. I knew something was wrong, although he kept right on working when he could. My mother knew also. The doctor finally put him in the hospital. They found he had lung cancer. He got to come home for a few months. I remember going to the road in a sled to pick him up. He had two grapefruits—one for me and one for my younger brother Arnold. I had never seen a grapefruit. He helped me peel it. I didn’t tell him, but I didn’t like the grapefruit.
Again I remember the kindness of our friends and neighbors. Among the kindnesses I especially remember that Harry Gebhardt came to visit Dad and brought him a rocking chair. He said, “Walter, this was my mother’s. Hazel and I thought maybe you could use it.” Dad sat in that chair until he died. I remember Dad telling Harry, “I got my farm paid for.” He was so glad he could leave us the farm “free and clear,” as he called it. We bid farewell to my dad in March, 1938. I was eleven years old. He left four of us children and mother at home. I remember coming home from Dad’s funeral and going into the house. I couldn’t stand the quiet. I slugged my brother, and we got into a scuffle. My mother separated us and said, “Please don’t do that.” Anything was better than the deadly silence that seemed to be closing in all around us.
My mother was soft and gentle, but I knew she was as strong as steel. I wiped away my tears and resolved to myself, “I’ll help my mom. We all will help Mom, and we will be all right.” My two older brothers, Alvin and Warner, were strong enough to work. They kept the farm going. We were all healthy and strong and able to work. I never heard my mother complain. She kept us together, sure enough.
My mother always discussed things with us and told us what we had to do. The first thing we needed was a new team of horses and a new barn since the old barn was about to fall down. Roosevelt had started several farm programs, among them the Agriculture Extension Service. This group helped my mother. She was able to borrow four hundred dollars. This was a farm loan that she had to pay back, but she was given sixty dollars as a gift. With this money she bought a team of horses and built a new barn.
In 1939, my brother Werner joined the CCC. He went to Parsons, West Virginia. He was in the Forestry Service. He received a salary of thirty dollars per month. He got to keep five dollars to buy cigarettes, washing powder, soap, and other necessities. The other twenty-five dollars he sent home to my mother. My brother Alvin kept things going at the farm until Werner came home from the CCC. Things began to pick up as the defense plants started to put people to work. Anyone who wanted a job could have one. We began to plan for war, but the Depression was finally over.
“What a lovely bridge between old age and childhood is religion. How instinctively the world begins with prayer and worship on entering life, and how instinctively, when quitting life, the old man turns back to prayer and worship, putting himself again side by side with the little child.”
Bulwer
Most of our hill people were Methodists or Baptists on Spurlock Creek where I grew up. The church I attended as a child was Methodist. The preacher had four churches on his circuit, and he visited our church once a month. Everyone became excited and looked forward to the preacher coming.
Each community usually had what they called a “one-horse preacher” to help fill in. This label was not necessarily derogatory. It could mean several things. It might imply that the man was not ordained or that it was an extra horse as was sometimes needed. I can still remember the preacher traveling by horse back or walking. Sometimes preachers walked for miles. I can’t remember my grandfather William Spurlock at all. Everyone called him Uncle Billy. All my life people have told me what a wonderful man he was. He didn’t preach, but he traveled around to other churches just to help out any way he could. I don’t think there is anyone left who remembers him today. I can still remember a couple of old preachers.
In those days a man was not supposed to preach unless he was “called to preach.” By this calling, he was supposed to hear an audible voice directing him to preach. Some claimed to receive this call through a night vision. Some merely saw or experienced something they took as a clear message to carry the gospel to their fellow man. When the people were skeptical of a man who was allegedly called, they were apt to scorn him by calling him an “escapee from the cornfield.” This meant he was a lazy fellow who wouldn’t work.
Normally, the people were very appreciative of their preacher. They paid their preacher to the best of their ability. Sometimes he was paid with a small amount of money, but vegetables out of the garden, buttermilk, eggs, chickens, and so forth made up the balance of his income.
When it became our turn for the preacher, everyone became excited, and he would receive several invitations for dinner. We kids were always happy to see the preacher come because that meant “good eats.” The preacher always brought his kids to our house. They were even meaner than we were.
We kids would run down a couple of chickens from the back yard. Mom would fry them up and serve them with mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans plus a wonderful dessert or two. There was one thing about it—the preacher kept the chicken population down!
Usually our preachers were of two types—the Hell Fire type and the Godly Love variety. The majority were the Hell Fire type, and they were generally considered the most effective. On a clear evening with the church windows all open, you could hear them for miles. These preachers were in demand.
No one could ever imagine the revivals we had in the hill communities sixty years ago. Our church was relatively quiet. We didn’t get the Spirit, I guess. But oh the revival we had when other churches came to visit. All the churches came together for revival. The church would be full. People came from across the hills and hollows carrying their lanterns for light.
The altars would be lined with people “getting religion.” Other people would be beseeching them to “pray through.” One man got so excited that he was heard to tell the man to “pray like hell.” People would be shouting and laughing. Some of the ladies wore in their hair what they called “rats.” Their hair was wound around the head and pulled up over the hair pieces. They would get so happy and jump around so much that the “rats” would come loose. Most of the ladies had long hair and their hair would be swinging back and forth. Their handkerchiefs would be waving. The men would be jumping up and down, sometimes jumping over the seats.
I remember these two ladies who always came to the revival. One was about six feet tall and the other, her mother, was ninety years old. The mother was a tiny little lady, but they both could dance like you wouldn’t believe. This little ninety-year-old could dance forward and backward with the most intricate steps. She looked like a little pixie with her grey hair flying. We kids danced too. Sometimes we played jacks under the seat. Sometimes we found some old paper and drew pictures. When we got tired, we crawled up onto the hard seats and went to sleep. Often these meetings lasted for hours if they were having success. The revival would go on for weeks. They wanted everyone to receive the “Spirit.” There was this one night when the large lady picked me up and swung me around. I hung on for dear life. I knew if she let loose of me, I would wind up smashed against the wall.
After we got saved, we were expected to testify. I remember when I got saved that the children were expected to testify also. I pretended for weeks to be sick to keep from testifying, but I finally got nerve enough to testify for my Lord. Sometimes the kids would testify for ten minutes. One older boy was testifying and he got so carried away that he said he was so “damned happy.” When he realized what he had said, he was really embarrassed. It was a long time before he had the nerve to testify again.
There were two preachers that I just barely remember. One was Henry Schlegel. He was always talking to the congregation about swearing. He was always extolling the people, especially the young people, how wrong it was to “cuss.” One evening after plowing ground all day, he was preaching and he said, “I was using the root jumper plow today. It hit me in the side and I said ‘umm.’” These men worked all day at the farm, cut timber for their fire wood, and walked for miles to carry the word of God.
A lot of men had fox hounds. At one time, they needed the fox pelts to sell for an income. Also the foxes would raid and clean out a chicken house in one night. I think that later these men just liked to hear the fox hounds run. This one particular night, Preacher Schlegel was preaching. All the windows were open to get a little air through the church. He was laying right into his sermon when he heard the fox hounds coming over the hill. The great deep baying of the fox hounds was coming right through the windows. Preacher Schlegel walked over to the window, stuck his head out the window, and said, “Tolbert’s in the lead.”
I was talking to Harvey Mount, his grandson, the other day. Harvey is eighty-years old. Harvey was telling me about his grandpa coming to his house and asking, “Which one of you boys is going to help me cut cane wood?” This was wood used for making sorghum molasses. Harvey said he told him he would help him. Harvey said he was thirteen years old and he wanted to help his grandpa. They were cutting the wood with a cross-cut saw. Harvey said that after a couple of hours, he said, “Grandpa, aren’t you tired?” His grandpa said he wasn’t. Again after a couple more hours, he asked his grandpa if he wanted or needed to rest awhile. His grandpa said, “No, I’m not tired.” Harvey said he cut wood all day with his grandpa with a cross-cut saw. The other minister I remember was Preacher Smith who lived on Union Ridge. He walked to Sunrise Church to preach every Sunday or whenever he was needed. I remember him as being almost blind. He would take his hat off and feel the wall with his hat to find the nail to hang his hat on. We kids thought this was funny. We kids helped Preacher Smith. We walked him through mud puddles, ditches, and water. Kids were cruel back then.
Most of our preachers were sincerely dedicated men of God. They labored heroically in the vineyard. Their circuits were grueling, and they made very little money. They smote the devil high and low several days a week with all their warfare. To their credit, they powerfully restrained the power of sin. The devil is a “ tough old bird,” and he is still with us, despite all that good preaching.
I love to travel old roads. There is nothing better on a Sunday afternoon than to get on an old road and let the memories wash over you. Curt and I do this often. For instance, we live on Union Ridge which is an old road. If old roads could talk, what tales they could tell.
I think about people who lived here many years ago. Starting on the eastern end of Union Ridge, there were the Bakers—a lovely family. As a child, I went to Sunrise Methodist Church with them. Coming this way lived the Gebhardts. They owned a grocery store and ran the post office. They also were farmers. This began the area of the German people. There were the Dilleys, who were farmers. Then there was the Felix family, of whom I am a descendant. My grandfather, Arnold Felix, was born in Switzerland in 1843. His family was of German descent. He came to America sometime in the 1840s with his parents James and Julie Salome Felix. They settled on Union Ridge sometime in the 1840s. He and his father were surveyors and painters.
There were the Telgerniers. My husband’s great grandmother, Agnes Telgerniers, came from Austria—Germany as it was called at that time. I remember Doyle telling me this story about his great grandmother. The Germans loved mushrooms. They always picked the wild ones, and sometimes they were a little unsure if they were getting the good ones. Her granddaughter lived with her. Grandma had picked these beautiful mushrooms, but she was a little unsure. She told her granddaughter to eat some and if they didn’t hurt her, then she could eat the rest. The reason she would let her granddaughter eat them was that she knew how to doctor her if the mushrooms were bad. She herself might die, and there would be no one with her granddaughter. The granddaughter ate some mushrooms, and they were fine.