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
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
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