Thursday, July 8, 1971

Ferrell Gene Kelley, of Clover Lick, with his father, brought in a giant egg his hen laid; it measures eight and a quarter inches end ways and six and three quarters around the middle. This young man, age 9, and in the third grade, has about 16 White Rock hens, bought at Southern States; the one laying the egg is going on two years old.


Born to Mr. and Mrs. Philip Shafer, of Marlinton, a daughter, named Philippa Oleta.

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Lonnie Lee Gragg, of Souderton, Pennsylvania, a son, named Lonnie Lee, Jr.

Born to Mr. and Mrs. David E. Marsh, of Richwood, a son, named Lawrence David.

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Carl Sparks, Jr. of Morganton, North Carolina, a daughter, named Angela Carol.

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Skip Thacker, of Charlottesville, Virginia, a daughter.

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Ellis Jordan, of Marlinton, a son, named Michael Lee.

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Robert Edward Hinkle, of Marlinton, a son, named Robert Edward, Jr.


Joe Cecil Ralston, 61, of Marlinton, a son of the late Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ralston. Burial in Mountain View Cemetery.

From the Archives
July 1946
Old Home Memories
Dear Uncle Calvin;

Church has a big place in my memories; summer, fall, all too many to put down in this chapter.

There was the wedding reception of Cousin Mary Edgar Beard, when the guests got sick. The death of little brother, Andrew Matthews. The wedding of Laura Callison Edgar. Blood hounds to track a thief. Looking at the Fortune Book; put a drop of ink, fold the paper and behold an imprint of your spinal column. Miss Anna Wallace, Mr. and Mrs. Matthew John McNeel. How she would profit living today in this “battery hearing” time. She sat on a shawl in church and had a black ear trumpet. She was very popular with us children; we loved to yell into the trumpet.

Then rabbit hunting in the fall with Dad and Mr. Browning. We used a ferret, too. We thought that great sport. Eating salt risen bread, butter and apple butter and drinking fresh buttermilk at Florence Tibbs’ who lived on the place.

Getting ready for the horse show in the fall. This is a separate chapter in my life. As I tell the children stories of the horse show and the different people remembered in connection therewith, they think it near a book.

Then I feel sorry for the people who have never known the thrill of riding a horse just before a summer storm. How he quivers and gets tense as he wants to head for home and beat the storm. The hail catches you, the gingham dress is cut from your back, fear arises in you. Pangs for home, but thrilled to the toes with wild excitement, as you ride at mad speed. People are running to get in their turkeys; shutting windows. You do not care, you are wet already. You horse lays himself down in real running. There is no race track; only the whip of lightning, the urging on of thunder, and the stinging of rain. Is there any other thrill to compare?

Then I feel sorry for the child who knows no horses, traps, surreys, spring wagons, carts, sulkies and buggies. Also for the person who does not remember the first car which came to town. I had been up town for the evening mail, just after dusk. We had been reading of monsters with eyes as big as dinner plates and which breathed out fire and smoke and roared. This night, I saw it coming right up the big road! It was between me and home. I was right beside a barbed wire fence. Forgetting all about clothes, I went over. It made no difference, if the dragon caught me, the clothes would go anyway. As I lay, my heart pounded on the ground. The dragon shook the earth. The world was flying around, so I asked the Lord to help me. He did. The dragon went on without smelling me. I was finally able to arise and, shaking, I crept home. Everyone was on the porch looking at the dragon. My father, whom I adored, said he was going to get one as soon as they were sold here.

Daddy, you, a dragon?

No, an automobile!

Then Chautauqua week. It took us eight hours for the round trip of a couple dozen miles from Hillsboro to Marlinton and back, ending by getting home at midnight on four rims and singing at the top of our voices.


Your cousin,
Katherine McLaughlin Groseclose.
(Note: Katherine McLaughlin Groseclose was the daughter of Edgar McLaughlin, of Hillsboro.

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