Thursday, July 1, 1971
Mrs. Irene Hammons Townsend died Sunday, June 27, 1971, from injuries sustained in an auto accident. A native of Pocahontas County, she was a daughter of Edden and Elizabeth Schaffer Hammons. Burial in the Sharp Cemetery on Stamping Creek.
Mrs. Mary Mabel Gillispie Conrad, 74 of Arbovale, a daughter of the late James and Florence Cooper Gillispie. Burial in the Arbovale Cemetery.
Mrs. Pearl McCarty Sheets, 78, of Fairmont, formerly of Droop, a daughter of the late George and Rebecca McCarty. Burial in the Sunrise Cemetery at Droop.
Herman Ervin, 58, of Cleveland, Ohio, formerly of Mill Creek. Funeral service at Clover Lick Methodist Church with burial in the Ervine Cemetery.
From the Archives
OLD HOME MEMORIES
Dear Cousin Calvin;
Enclosed find money to continue The Times for another year.
For some years I did not see The Times and had forgotten the joy it brings – editorials, field notes, personals, auction sales. I long to go to each auction sale advertised. This must be a bug of some description for I remember my father liked auctions, too.
Recently, while reading one of Cousin Susan’s articles, my mind began to bring to the front memories of Pocahontas. We who have moved away probably have stronger and clearer memories of things which were, than those who spend their lifetime among homeland scenes. I started an article and I expect to add to it other “Memories of Pocahontas County.” My trend of thought ran something like this:
The first sled ride with hot bricks and straw, beautiful team of farm horses, with the bells ringing out in the bracing air of winter.
Then the one horse sleigh, which Jerry, the family horse, found sport in turning over, apparently merely to hear us children scream.
Meeting the train at Seebert, especially when it was Uncle Win, and the thrill of having my favorite uncle in the house.
Sleigh bells and being dumped in the snow, the memory still sets me a tingle with joy.
The time of the busted boiler of the heating plant at the school building, so we could not go to school. Snow and ice covered the ground, and I got stranded in Mill Point at Cousin Tom Beard’s. What a wonderful time we had. Cousin Tom and his fun; Aunt Sally Stewart and her stories; also food “to the youngun’s taste.”
Then the many memories of Christmas. The tree in the church; oranges like I have never smelled since; candy in little boxes made like houses; Mr. Enoch Moore singing Christmas carols.
The outstanding Christmas was the year Dad was Santa Claus at the church tree. A suit had been ordered for him to wear. We watched the mail daily. This was no hardship for me, for I loved Mr. Tom Smith, the mailman, so I would walk to the opposite side of Hillsboro to meet him in the afternoon and ride back in the mail hack. The suit did not come, so Liza Hinkle, Aunt Sally, Florence Tibbs and no telling who all, helped sew cotton all around his blue sweater. He was superb; the most perfect Santa Claus.
Then Christmas dinner at the home of Aunt Julia and Uncle Lee McLaughlin, with more thoughts of school and playmates too numerous to mention.
Now for spring time. The beautiful dandelions; coming from school and picking every one I could find, hearing something, I looked up – Gypsies! Did I run! All the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not have caught me. As I screamed for Liza, she came to the front gate, picked me up and carried me to the house and locked the doors. The Gypsies went on by. So I ate my lunch and went back to school. On my return home, the Gypsies were camped in the field below the house. Typical of my father, Dad would give the shirt off his back and be kind and gentle to all who came to him in want.
It was in the war spring of 1917. We children were playing on the school lawn. And old man came by, terribly big, whiskers, and according to us children, he talked German. We all ran into the schoolrooms yelling “there is a spy out there, we cannot understand him.” That day at lunch time each little child was escorted home by a teacher or high school boy. When I went into the house, there sat the old man in front of our open Franklin stove, warming his hands. Liza said he was kin to Grandpa McElwee. So I, the big one, went back to school. “Don’t be afraid, he is a cousin of mine.”
Truthfully, from that day to this, the phrase, he is a cousin of mine, has been used by me more than any other one complete phrase – they, like him, she is a cousin of mine. I love kin folks; that is why I like Pocahontas.
Another spring memory is the apple orchard in bloom. House cleaning with everything out in the yard. Mr. Sydney Payne’s runaway horse. It ran into the gate post at Cousin George Callison’s. That post had a nest of robins in it. I was not worried over the rider, nor the horse, nor the post. I almost fainted trying to get to the poor mother bird and her four young. They survived the shock and lived to fly from the nest.
The many fires which happened in the spring. Worst of all, sitting in church one Sunday morning. Aunt Matt Tibbs came in and called Fire! Fire! Fire!
Dad was the first out. She told him it was his house. He gave a long whistle and Jerry, the family horse, responded by breaking the hitching strap and coming tearing with the surrey behind him. Dad jumped in and was off.
To be continued…