Root Jumper

by Justine Felix Rutherford

  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.

  The Hill Churches

  “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, espec
ially 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.

  Traveling Old Roads

  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.

  There were also the Miller and Oswald families. These people had large fruit orchards. They also were farmers. They sold fruit from their orchards, but much of their fruit was given to the community. People came to Union Ridge to get fruit to can and to make apple butter. The peaches were so lovely. People have told me how delicious their fruit was.

  My dad and mother, Walter and Julia Felix, lived here for a short period of time during this period. I have heard my family speak of John and Flora Miller and of how good the Millers were to them. The German fences always seemed a little straighter and the barns a little sturdier. As a child, I walked all over this area barefoot.

  Leading from Union Ridge to the left was Hoop Pole Ridge. It is now known as Fairview Ridge. This ridge was where workers cut hoop poles for making barrel hoops. These were tall straight hickory timbers which the hill people would cut and put in bundles of approximately fifty to take to the river for shipping. The roads became very muddy during this time, and in the winter they had great ruts in them making it rough to travel on them. Oxen were often used in winter time to haul out their loads of hoop poles, animal skins, and fifty gallon barrels of sorghum molasses heading to Greenbottom to be shipped by boat to Cincinnati.

  In addition to the cutting of hoop poles, men also cut barrel staves to take to a stave mill at Greenbottom. There was also a grist mill on or close to Fairview Ridge. This was where people took corn to be ground for bread. Many times you had to wait all day to get your corn ground. Cornbread was the main bread we used. We seldom had wheat bread, which is what we called white bread.

  This was a bustling community. When you travel Fairview Ridge today, it is very quiet with only a few homes. Back in the day the Fairview community had a church and a school which were very active. The school was called Fairview and the church was called Vincent Chapel.

  These people did a tremendous amount of work, but they had a good time. There were house raisings and barn raisings. There were community get-togethers. There were weddings in which everyone participated. After the wedding, there occurred what they called “bellings.” People gathered together with something to make noise. The couple appeared together, and the crowd began yelling, ringing cow bells, whistling, blowing or beating on an object such as a can. Occasionally someone would fire a gun in to the air. After the belling, the groom was expected to treat the crowd. If he didn’t treat, he was threatened to be ridden on a pole. I never knew of anybody not treating. Usually the treat was candy passed out to everyone present.

  Most people living on Fairview Ridge lived in log homes. Their barns were built from logs as were their outbuildings. The only house I remember on Fairview Ridge was the Sherman Short house. I can remember the family slightly. Someone bought the old log house, tore it down, and moved it somewhere else.

  My Aunt Lenora Spurlock Cooper lived on Fairview Ridge with her family. She was my grandfather’s sister. I don’t remember any of the family except Cousin Lillie Jackson. This family later went to California in a covered wagon. Cousin Lillie came back to visit a couple of times that I remember.

  Cousin Lillie’s father left her mother and the children. He didn’t tell them where he was going—he just left. Soon a letter came saying he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t live in those hills any longer. Also, soon a man came saying he had come for the cow. Her father had sold the cow for seventeen dollars. That was a terrible blow since the cow was their main support. Her mother was so upset she cried. Had it not been for the goodness of her mother’s brother, they would have starved. That was my grandfather William Spurlock. Everyone called him Uncle Billy. He urged them to move down on Spurlock Creek and he would build them a log house. This they did. Uncle Billy built them two nice big log houses with a roof connecting them. One room was a living room with a ladder to climb up on. The boys slept up there. They had it almost carpeted with hides and sheep skins tanned with the wool on. The hides were
those of wildcats and foxes. Cousin Lillie’s mother worked for other people for whatever people gave her. Sometimes this was meal, flour, or a little piece of meat when she helped them render lard. They worked very hard, but she said they had lots of fun with all the cousins. They still had their cane mill, and they made a lot of sorghum molasses. The boys were hired by Uncle Billy.

  Then came the rumors from out West. The boys thought they could make lots of money if they could just get out West. Uncle Billy came and talked to them after he couldn’t keep them from going. He would buy their cattle. Plans were started. They had one horse, but he was what you call wind broken. When pulling a load, he would puff and blow. But her brother decided the horse would do. They got another horse and an old wagon. They traded a yoke of steers for some things and sold a fifty-gallon barrel of molasses for ten cents a gallon. They finally got it together.

  They left for the West with fifty dollars and no cover for the wagon. They took a fifty gallon barrel of sorghum molasses with them also. They had a cook stove, a few cooking utensils, some food supplies, quilts and furs to sleep on since all of them would not be able to sleep in the wagon. The boys would have to sleep on the ground.

  On a beautiful spring afternoon in 1897 at about three o’clock in the afternoon, they left their old log house on Spurlock Creek and headed west. There were four children under twenty years of age and one small child plus Aunt Lenora and Cousin Lillie. What a brave woman Aunt Lenora must have been. They crossed over the hills to Greenbottom that first day. They crossed the Ohio River the next morning. They headed straight for Dayton, Ohio. Upon reaching Dayton, they sold their fifty gallons of sorghum Molasses and had the bows and cover made for their wagon. So now they had a cover. I never saw Cousin Lillie after the 1960s. She made a couple of trips back to West Virginia. I remember her son, Roy Jackson. He graduated from Annapolis with the class of 1929. In 1943 he was a commander living in Washington, D.C.