by L. G. Harding
According to my memory of the record in the old Family Bible, Grandpa
Harding was born May 29, 1777, and died January 3, 1874, at the age of
97 years, 6 months and 4 days. He was born in Virginia - I do not
know the county or town.
As I understand, there were but three children in his father’s
family – Nancy, the oldest, William, second and Philip, the
youngest. Philip was killed at the age of 87 by poison thorn in his
heel. Nancy was alive and hearty the last time we heard from her before
the War of the Rebellion, at the age of 102. We did not hear when she
died as the war cut off all communications for so long.
Uncle Philip was a peculiar man, spending a great deal of his life with
his pipe beside the fireplace, going to bed, it was said, almost with
the regularity of the clock at midnight and rising at three in the
morning. Could not sleep over three hours, neither was he
contented to lie in bed – rather sit by the fire and smoke his
pipe. He was very industrious, and accumulated considerable wealth
for a farmer in those days. He had no education except that
gained by experience in life.
Aunt Nancy was a woman said to be loved by all whom she met, and that
number was not small as she made it her business to meet and know
everybody.
William Harding, my Grandpa, was a man nature did a great deal for. He
had no schooling, but seemed to meet the problems of life with more
ease than some favored with education. He was a born mechanic,
blacksmith, wagon maker and cooper. He would work in the shop that
needed him most, solving their mechanical problems. Mentally he was
above the average man of his day. He was known as local preacher, and
at all gatherings, whether religious, social, or political he was
called upon for a speech and always was well remembered and in demand
for all public gatherings. He was a bit too radical on the slave
question for the average Virginian. He had three slaves left him as an
inheritance, but he immediately set them free, even against their
own will, but he told them they would have to go as he could not
conscientiously own a human being.
Here I have to step to one side to show how, perhaps, the
slavery question more than anything else caused our very fortunate
move to Iowa before the War of the Rebellion, and Grandpa came
with us.
My father was a regularly ordained Methodist minister and could not own
a slave if he wanted to, and preach for the M.E, Church. And perhaps,
too, few know today that the Civil War of 1861-65 had it’s origin
in the Methodist Church and the Masonic Lodge. There was trouble
in the South many years before the War and Methodist preachers
were mobbed and silenced. But some wouldn’t “silence”
and some, too, like my father left the South and it finally caused a
split in the Methodist Church. I think they have united recently. My
father was ordered not to preach anymore at the Red Brush schoolhouse,
under penalty of death. This was altogether too much for a Harding who
believed God called him to preach. He was preaching when the leader of
the mob came to the door and gave him verbal notice not to preach any
more at that place. Father stopped long enough to tell him that there
was but One Power on earth that could stop him, and that was the Power
that called him, and that he “would be right there next Sunday,
the Lord willing”. The leader answered, “You’ll be
dead, man, if you do.” The next Sunday morning Father was on hand
and preached. The mob came to the door and ordered him to stop. Father
simply stopped long enough to say again, “The Power that called
me to preach is the only power that can stop me.” They threatened
to shoot. He told them to shoot and that if the Lord didn’t
turn the bullet it was Hiis will that he should go that way, and said,
“I am ready.” They didn’t shoot, but waited until the
service was over, then told him they did not wish to kill him, but he
must stop preaching there. He told them again, “The Lord willing,
I will be back next Sunday.” And back he went , but when in
sight of the spot he could not see the Red Brush School House,
which had been torn down, Not one log lay on top of another but the
people were there and placed the logs to make seats, and for a pulpit
placed two logs side by side and one on top of the other, and Father
said he never preached to as large a congregation in his life as at
that place. The mob came and skulked around in the brush, but did
nothing. Then Father told the people if they would do the work he would
furnish the material and they would build a church on his own ground.
They agreed, and so it was done, and soon reports were afloat that that
log church would be torn down. With the idea that the Lord helps
those that help themselves, Father went to town and bought a double
barreled shotgun and a rifle, and spread the news that that church was
his property on his ground and that he would defend it.
We had an old Negro living with us for five years before we left
Virginia, and he was with us at that time. One night there was a great
noise up at the log church, as though it was being torn down. Father
called “Uncle Davey”, the Negro, and gave him a grub hoe.
Father took the shotgun, kissed Mother goodbye and left her standing in
the door, praying, of course, while they solved the matter of tearing
down the church. There was a great commotion up at the church,
about 150 yards from the house. All was dark and Father and Uncle Davey
hurried on, went up to the door and hollered “Hello”!
What’s going on here?” They heard the knocking of loose
clapboard seats and found a lot of hogs. Father hollered, each one was
trying to get there first. Uncle Davey lay back and let out a Negro
“Ha! Ha!” that made those old Virginia hills echo –
and that wasn’t all it did either. It told Mother her prayers
were answered – the fight was over and nobody killed. I have
heard Mother say she had heard many a Negro laugh but none ever gave
her such relief as that one did.
My father was Grandpa’s oldest child and he did not want to leave
Virginia without Grandpa. Shortly after the building of the log church
Grandma died, so there was little left to keep Grandpa from leaving
Virginia, and in April, 1855, we started and Grandfather was with us.
We stopped at Mount Pleasant, Iowa, about 28 miles from Burlington,
where we got off the boat which brought us up the Mississippi River.
Aunt Betty, James G. Lash’s wife who lived in Mount Pleasant was
Mother’s sister. We stayed a few days and went to Henry County, I
think about ten miles from Mount Pleasant. We stayed there about two
years. However, previous to leaving there, Grandpa had gotten the
Central Iowa fever quite badly, so one day he took his hat and cane and
a personal grip – bid us goodbye, and away he went, afoot and
alone in his 82nd year for Ottawa, Iowa, ten miles east of Osceola and
14 miles north of Woodburn, Iowa, the station on the C.B. & Q.
where the town is now. (Ottawa is no more, not even a school house or
church.) This trip of Grandpa’s was about 150 miles and he got
through and figured it up he averaged a little over 32 miles a day.
Pretty good for his age, carrying a heavy personal carpetbag, as they
were called. They had no “grips” then. By this time Father
had the Missouri fever. Quite a colony of Virginians had gone to
Missouri and wanted Father and Grandpa to come. But, Grandpa sent such
glowing reports back to Father, saying that he and found “the
garden spot of the earth”, that Father agreed to sell and go by
Ottawa where Grandpa was, and if he did not like if they would pull for
Missouri. But Father also was pleased when he reached Ottawa and
concluded to “locate”.
Grandfather located 80 acres of prairie land with his warrant from the
War of 1812, also 10 acres of timber. Father bought eight 40-acre
tracts of prairie and ten of timber from the Government at $1.25
per acre. I am not sure, but believe the timber land was higher.
Father’s land to the Southwest is _ mile north and _
mile east of Woodburn, Grandpa’s is _ mile further east just over
the line in Lucas County. Father’s land is in Clark County. We
first lived in a big barn of a house called Government Barracks and at
one time was occupied by soldiers. Several families lived in it. Then
Father bought a house in Ottawa, and my baby brother Beverly, was born
in it May 30, 1858, and I believe it was moved out on our land that
fall. (No! I am too fast – our first Winter was spent in a log
cabin a half mile south of Ottawa.) The house was 12 feet square and
there were ten of us in the family – eleven when Grandpa was
home. He stayed most of the winter at Joe Chamber’s. They had a
bigger house – frame. In the Spring Father bought the house in
Ottawa and it was moved onto our land in the Fall of 1858 or ’59.
The house Father bought had but two rooms. After moving it, two more
rooms were added, also a pantry and a porch. The south room, however,
was never finished and was used for a summer kitchen and storeroom.
Grandfather died in the East room. Father in the West room. My brother,
Beverly, was born in the middle room and “Daughter” thought
Mother was killed in the South unfinished room, but she wasn’t.
Lightening would strike every now and then in a certain spot in
the orchard, then, then in a certain spot in the Northwest part of the
yard, then on to the Southwest part, narrowly missing the house. Mother
was standing in the East door of the South room and got sufficient of
it to knock her down. The six-inch loose oak boards made quite a noise
when they came down as Mother fell. “Daughter Rowena” ran
to see what had happened at the time of the big clap of thunder. Seeing
Mother lying on the floor she, of course, supposed that she was
dead and went to lift her up but couldn’t as Mother weighed over
200 pounds. Mother wasn’t hurt a bit and was laughing so hard at
Daughter’s fright and actions she could not help herself, an
finally blurted out, “Daughter, Mother isn’t hurt,”
laughing fit to kill. Then Daughter thought the lighting had knocked
her crazy.
So it will be seen that Grandpa had been living with us since I was
about three years old. I want to say right now that a boy who
hasn’t a Grandpa to amuse himself with misses just barrels of
fun. Of course, the misery he causes his Grandpa does not concern him,
only to add as much as possible to his Grandpa’s grief.
When Father and Mother were away from home I thought it was my
religious duty to make life a burden for Grandpa. Many times it
wouldn’t have added to my health or happiness to have let him
catch me. When Father and Mother came home from church and found me
down at the stable I wasn’t fit to be seen, and when Mother led
me up for Grandpa to look at I presume no one was more surprised than
Grandpa. “Huh! Well really Mary, I didn’t think I was
hurting that boy so. Well, I shall never whip him anymore, but he id
make me so mad I lost myself.” I didn’t improve a bit, but
took advantage of Grandpa’s promise to be good, which,
boy-like, I thought was right and proper. I did not improve until I was
big enough or old enough to know something about what a Grandpa is,
and, strange to say, I became the favorite of all “Tommy’s
boys”, as he used to put it. I used to go home and keep him up
until late talking to him, and when I could get him out in the shade of
some building or tree (though trees big enough for shade were scarce)
there was where I would get the stories of his youth, which were fresh
in his mind, though he might forget what happened last week. He grew so
hard of hearing that few wanted to talk with him. I did not mind
that—my lungs were strong, and it was during these talks with him
I learned what happened long before I was thought of. I came to know
what he was and what he did. And I am not sorry I had these talks with
my Grandpa. It made me think altogether differently of him and to feel
differently toward him. When a boy, many times I chalked him down for a
real good licking if he lived until I got to be a man. But, when I got
to be a man, all I blamed the dear old man for was that he had not
killed me long ago. Though I do believe if Grandpa had tried real
hard he could have gotten on the good side of an original hard
crackling, uncultivated, turned out with strange uncivilized ideas,
blessed with one of his own attributes- to go ahead when he believed he
was right.
I have already said that mentally my Grandpa was a man Nature did a
great deal for. In plain words, he was born a man – that is,
naturally a manly man, blessed with good judgment, kind, generous,
benevolent, forgiving and free-hearted. He gave away too much to live
in or under a competitive system. He could not see one in want and have
a dollar in his pocket, and many times he gave when he needed it the
worse. He could not read, but if you read for him he could and would
tell you more about it than nine out of ten who would read for him
could tell – and he would remember it. He was far ahead of many
who had a fair education. On politics and religion he was a debater. He
reasoned well and few could beat him. People who heard him talk and did
not know he was uneducated thought that he was. He could not take his
pencil and figure anything, but could do it “in his head”.
Where hogs and cattle were being weighed and sold, if the price were
given he could figure the worth of the animal more quickly than anyone
else.
Physically, few men of his size (weight 165 to 170) were his equals. In
his day fighters were called Bullies. Now they call them Champions.
Then, they fought for fun. Now they fight for money. Grandpa was a
Bully of Virginia – in the ring with his fists, and with the
sword also. Then, they used their bare hands, now they use gloves. With
the sword exercise the used wooden swords with “Grabs” on
the points. The object was not to hurt a man, but the judges or
referees judged who got in the first out, thrust, jab, or stab that
would disable the opponent, or it counted as so many points. It was
only through my talks with Grandpa that I learned of this part of his
life. Father was a preacher and would never have told it, but I got
this along with the secret of fighting by Grandpa’s taking me
into his confidence on one of the occasions when we were having a good
old “Windup”, when they were perhaps all gone but him and
me. When I was older I was glad to talk to him instead of driving him
off the place.
In Grandpa’s time, Saturday afternoon was a half –day off.
It was considered about as bad to work Saturday afternoons as Sundays.
They would muster, “rassle”, pitch horse shoes (quoits, I
believe, is the correct name), but the dictionary says it is a
different game. A heavy, flat ring, not open like horse shoes. They
would throw heavy weights and other feats of strength, box
(self-defense), etc. They would fight, not because they were mad, but
to see who was the best man. For example, some man would come up to me
and say, “ William you are a good man, so am I. Let us see who is
the best man.” We would clear our ring, choose our judges, then
we would go. One would be knocked down. Give him your hand and help him
up and laugh at him – and at it again. Finally, one or the other
would get enough and say, “Well, I am a good man but you are
better.” That settled it as good friends as ever – maybe
better. Grandpa said some of his best friends were men he had
“licked”. “Six men”, he said, “came to my
shop at one time and told me I had to have a licking. Some of them were
strangers. I was to choose the time for taking on each man, one after
another, with one day or more between.” (That was to give him a
fair chance if he was hurt to get well again before taking on another.)
“So I accepted and chose first the one I thought to be the best
man, but found him very easy. After three minutes’ rest I took an
another, and inside of two hours the six were “done for”.
Satisfied they had tackled the wrong man, he made friends of them that
were strangers – and those who knew him, knew him better. All
that he told me would make a good sized book. I can only relate one of
his stories now and then. For example, I will never forget the time he
took me into his confidence and gave me a secret which he reckoned had
been handed down through the Harding family for hundreds of years
–from one to another chosen by the one who held the secret, and
every now and then comes along a Harding that always gets away with his
man – but not that we are better than anybody else.
“Levious”, he always called me – Lev-i-ous. You
know my name is Lebbeus – “But there is a secret to it and
now I am going to give you the secret. I am not going to give it to any
other of Tommy’s boys but you,” he said.
He drew a long breath and said, “In the first place, Levious, be
sure you are right. You can fight a great deal harder for the right
than for the wrong. I never challenged a man in my life – never
picked or nagged at a man. Attend to your own business and stand for
the right. When I was challenged I had to fight to defend the honor of
old Virginia, being the Bully of the State. Let the other fellow force
the fight, you do the fighting, and when you go into it go into it to
win or die – there’s where it is Levious. Many a man has
hollered, “Nuf ,” when I was glad to hear it. When it seems
that all is against you and you can’t win, just remember, it is
win or die. Give up ? – No, never. Lay to, stay with him –
“It will win”. And my experience in life tells me that this
is the case in all life’s problems – “Lay to , stay
with it,” will win. Grandpa did not think this kind of fighting
was wrong – just to see who and where the good men were. They did
not fight for money. In fact, it was just a rather rough way to see who
was the best sinewed man. They were as easy as could be, generally.
The most regrettable thing that ever happened to him was his fight with
Tom Branner, the Bully of Kentucky, in the sword exercise. Tom came
over riding a big bald face Kent stallion – a fine looking man
and a fine looking horse. He came ten days before the fight to get his
horse used to the ground at the Fairgrounds on Cedar Hill in Culpepper
County , Virginia. “I took him home with me,” Grandfather
said, “and Tom and I had a good time telling of our fights, etc.,
and every day he took his horse out to the grounds. And when the
day for the fight came, there was said to be 5,000 people out to see
it; -- Kentucky against Virginia.” Grandpa had a little pony for
his horse. He said, “I had been offered a big price for that
pony, but no money could buy him. He knew as much about that business
as I did, and after we started into the fight I always dropped his
bridle reins on the pummel of my saddle and never touched them during
the fight. I knew he would attend to his business if I would to mine,
and he would carry me through to victory if I did my part as wee as he
did his. But I must have looked very insignificant when we rode out
into the ring – I with my little pony beside Tom and his fine
Kent stallion. Tom was a big man-weighed over 200 pounds, I about 165
or 170. We rode around the ring together, and when the word was given
each of us took opposite sides and the battle opened. We met
about the center of the ring with a cut and a thrust at each other,
which we both expected to be caught and pared off, and was. But
my pony knew what he would do - turned like a flash and came back, and
as quickly I made a cut at Tom's head, and his horse got scared at my
pony's actions, and jumped. Between the jump and blow, Tom lost
his balance and fell, and before his horse could be stopped, poor Tom
was dead, and that put an end to our fun for that day." That
seemed to be the only thing that ever happened in his life that caused
him regrets, and he blamed that on Tom's fine horse, then said, "Is it
a wonder that I wouldn't sell my pony?" He knew what to do and
did it to perfection. I have many times risked my honor and
reputation on his judgment, and he brought me through to victory.
I never had such feelings in my life as I did when I accepted that
challenge. I felt that one or the other of us was going to get
it, but it was poor Tom that got it. If Tom had a horse as safe
as mine, it would have ended in just a victory for one or the other -
Kentucky or Virginia, without either one being seriously hurt."
No one else in the ring or with the sword exercise ever was even
seriously hurt.
This seemed to be the only occasion for regret. He never
was conquered, as he called it, but once in his life, and then he found
the excuse: "You know, Levious, I told you that you can fight for
the right a great deal harder than the wrong, and the only time I was
ever conquered was when I was wrong. Negros used to run away and
try to win their freedom. Negro owners paid for a patrol to watch
the plantations day and night, as well as public roads, and if a Negro
was caught out after nine o'clock at night (or away from home in
daytime) without a pass, he was arrested and taken home. No
excuse, he must have a pass from his master, or one in authority, and
if a Negro escaped this patrol they would offer a reward, depending on
the value of the Negro and the doubtfulness of the case, ect.
Sometimes that reward would run as high as four or five hundred
dollars. I had been home but a few hours with a runaway Negro and
got $150.00 reward, when here came a man with a written handbill to put
on the shop door - $400.00 reward for Big Negro Fred. I went to
the house and said "400.00 waiting for me Betsy." There was a big
Negro settlement in Kentucky, and the Virginia Negros would go for
that, and if they got to that settlement they were considered 'gone
Negros'. They would hide and feed them for months. Fred had
been gone for so many days. I told Betsy first where I would find
him - on the side of a certain mountain near Kentucky, and that in
another day and night he would be in Kentucky and gone, so I must make
haste. "Ah William", said Betsy, "You'll go for the wrong Negro
yet, and I am afraid it will be this time. You know Big Negro
Fred is said to be the strongest Negro in Virginia." "Yes, yes"
said I, "but Betsey, I am a scienced man and Negro Fred isn't. I
can master him." So away Grandpa goes with his little pony, and
found Negro Fred not over 50 yards from where he told Betsy he would
find him. For all Grandpa wouldn't own a slave, he had followed
catching them for so long he knew their route and what they did.
They would pull off their shirts and grease their arms and bodies so
the mosquitoes wouldn't bite them, and so white men could not hold so
well, or tie them. Grandpa said, "I said, 'How-do-you-do,
Fred'. Fred did not answer me. I got off my pony and said,
"Fred, you must go home." I die fust, Suh, was his answer.
"Now, Fred," said I, "You better go home and save any further
trouble". "I die fust," was all I could get out of him, though he
looked like a monster as he stood their naked to the waist, and his big
muscles did look powerful - but I had to take him home. I found
that I could knock him down faster than he could get up. While
Fred was a mighty man, he did not know a thing about self defense, and
I was beating him as I wished, but seemed to gain nothing and I was
wearing myself out. I couldn't knock him out. I could knock
him down but he would come up again. I tried to knock him
out. So we fought until I called for a rest, and Fred was
willing. I began to reason with myself: "Here I have been
fighting Fred fair and according to rules. It is my business to
capture Fred and take him home. I looked around and close to me I
saw a pine knob about the size of my two fists, with a long, tapering
handle, or heart about three feet long - dry pitch pine and almost as
heavy as lead. Without giving Fred any notice, I jumped and
grabbed that knob and I did think I would beat him into a jelly, but in
the tussle, I dropped it and Fred got it and paid me back. We
were both bad off and winded. Fred proposed a rest and I was
willing, and as soon as I could I said, "Fred, have I got to kill you
to get to you?" "Yes suh, I die fust, I die fust," and I believed
him. I said, "Fred, have you got any money?" He said,
"No suh, I'ze hungry." I ran my hand into my pocket and got a
silver dollar - pitched it to him and said "Go." Fred lost no
time, though he could scarcely get up. Off he went, staggering as
he walked, but thanking me for that dollar. I watched him and
then got up and on my pony and started for home, not so good-looking as
when I left. That pitch knob was my undoing. There, you see
Levious, I was wrong. One was fighting for freedom, the other for
money. Freedom got it, but if I had left that pine knob out I
believe I could finally have worn him out and captured him. But
right will prevail, sooner or latter." "But, what became of the
pine knob?" I asked Grandpa. "Fred took that with him, and
well he might, it won him his freedom." And when Grandpa got
home, poor old Grandma had a chance so dear to a woman - man, to,
sometimes - "I told you so, William." And William said, "Well
Betsy, that is my last. Others my catch runaway Negros, I'm
done." But, Levious, up to the time I brought the pine knob into
it I hadn't a scratch fighting on the wrong side, but bringing that
pine knob into it was my undoing," and poor old Grandpa couldn't smile
a bit when he said that.
I will say a word about Grandma. She was three weeks younger than
Grandpa, and died at 77 - not a grey hair in hear head. She died
of dropsy. It is said that she could not have weighed over 25
pounds. Everything went to water . I was about three
years old when she came to our house the last time. She had on
the prettiest dress I had discovered in this little old green world,
which is perhaps what made me remember it. Grandfather believed
that really good 'matches' were made in heaven or by some unknown
power. "If they were not I never would have married Betsy," he
said. "I loved another girl better, and I'd say to myself, I'll
go home and not have an appointment, and so it went until I married her
- and a mighty good thing I did. We always lived 'at the top of
the pot'. "Grandma's maiden name was Daggett. She had a
hunch-back and was universally loved. "Just the one for
William," I have heard Grandpa say many, many times.
Grandpa was a cider drinker - never any other kind of drink. He
said he has had from one to twenty barrels of cider in his
cellar. He had won in pitching a game of horseshoe for a barrel
of cider - about as small a thing as one would want to wager on a game
and put up anything at all. A barrel of cider was worth $1.00 and
the barrel. Now the barrel is $2.50 and cider, I guess is thirty
to forty cents a gallon. In Grandpa's time, if one had a barrel
they could go to almost anybody's orchard, gather the apples, and run
them through the press and fill your barrel. When you would ask
how much, the owner would say, "Oh, come again!" The work was
considered the only cost. Apples were free.
Financially, Grandpa always made money, but it went too freely.
He gave away more than a fortune. He was always
industrious. When he was near 90 he wanted a blacksmith bellows
and anvil. He would make the balance of his tools. We tried
to dissuade him. Father said it wouldn't pay for the little time
he would use them, but he met that argument with, "Yes, Tommie, but I
shall not take them with me when I go. You'll have them left and
can use them." No knocking it out of his head. Lumber was
got, shop built and bellows and anvil and hammer and a pair of tongs
and Grandpa went to work making other tools, and he would work just as
though he had too. I have seen him with his pocket full of
gimlets and four to six 'Nogans'. (A nogan was a wooden dishpan
with one stave on each side funning up, say three inches higher than
the balance. In these two staves he cut an oblong hole and worked
it up to fit the hand. This was used for a handle in carrying the
water. It was about the size of a dishpan and had two hoops on
the bottom and one on the top.) With the gimlets in his pockets
and the nogans on his back he would start out on what he called his
circuit and say, "Now Mary he (that was Mother) don't look for me until
you see me." And that circuit was no small thing - six to eight
miles either way. When he sold out he would come back for another
load, and you might as well buy a gimlet and nogan today as tomorrow,
for buy you would before Grandpa would let up. And the children
in that circuit were just as tickled to see him coming as though he
were their own Grandpa - and many didn't know the difference. He
would make their fathers buy gimlets and nogans, then give the money or
most of it to the children, and when he left they would say, "We'll go
with you, Grandpa, and help you carry your things," - and they would go
to the next neighbors or part way, depending on the distance. In
those days, farms did not all join each other - usually from a quarter
of a mile to several miles apart.
If ever an old man had friends in Southern Iowa it was my old
Grandpa. Old and young loved him. After tin dishpans came
they set the nogans out in the yard for the chickens to drink
from. I've seen three and four of them at one place. And
gimlets - I'll bet there were families in that circuit that had half a
dozen of them - nogans at $1.25, gimlets 35 cents. What of it,
the money went back to the children. Grandpa kept up this
practice until he started having what he called weak spells and would
fall in the road when he would walk so far and Mother would not let him
go alone. Mother had good control over him. He thought that whatever
Mary said was law as well as gospel. I have heard him say many times,
“It is a mighty fine thing, Mary, that I cast my lot with you and
Tommie.
Mary Timms (Robertson)Harding
Rev. Thomas Sharp Harding M.D.
Born: August 19th , 1816
Born: July 30th, 1803
Died: January 19th, 1885
Died: December 21st, 1880
None of my other boy’s wives would have done for me as you have.
And Rowena, my youngest sister, four, nearly five years older
than I – she was God’s best.” And let me add, Grandpa
was correct. When Grandpa did argue a question a bit with Mother, let
Rowena appear on the scene and Grandpa was done for at once –
when Mary and Rowena both said so. I shall never forget the time
Grandpa took a notion he wouldn’t change his under ware oftener
than once every two weeks, for no other reason but to keep Rowena from
washing them. Mother was not at home – at my oldest
sister’s, Lemira. Rowena did her best, told Grandap she would
rather wash them every week than every two weeks as they
would wash so much harder but Grandpa could not see how one
washing could be as hard as two – anybody ought to know better.
Then Daughter (as we called her) went into the room where Father was
and told him Grandpa’s notion, and asked him to try to get
Grandpa to change. He came in with a book in his hand and specks on his
nose and leaned down over Grandpa, who sat at the old fireplace and
said, “Father, you must change your clothes. It isn’t
healthy to sit around in clothes so long, even if they are not so
dirty, and Rowena says she would rather wash every week than every two
weeks for you. They wash so much harder by wearing them so long. (There
was but 25 years between Father’s and Grandfather’s ages,
and Father was about as white as Grandpa.) Grandpa raised himself up,
looked at Father and said, “Tommie, I’ll let you know
I am your Father yet , even if you are white-headed.” And
neither shall I forget the look on Father’s face, He straightened
up, book in hand, looked over his glasses at the door from whence he
came and started for it – like a little boy the calf ran over
– hadn’t a word to say and Victory perched on
Grandpa’s Flag, at least until Mary came, which was the next
morning. Mary went at him with her best arguments and Rowena
joined in, but for the first time they both failed. Grandpa knew one
washing wasn’t as hard as two, and even Mary and Rowena
needn’t tell him that. Mother says, “Well Grandpa,
it’s been a long time since I have had a baby, and if I’ve
got to take one in my old days, why here I go,” and she threw him
on the bed and commenced stripping him. Grandpa said, “Ah, Mary,
there’s no getting away with you nohow, I’ll change. You
are a devil anyhow.” Mother sat down and cried. Grandpa changed
his clothing, went and sat down in his place close to
Mother’s. He tried to twirl his thumbs and hum a tune and
pat his foot and let on the war was over. But those thumbs
wouldn’t twirl; his foot didn’t work right; and the
tune didn’t fit the meter, and he couldn’t help but watch
Mary cry. Finally he got up, stepped over to Mary, leaned down and put
his hand on her head and said, “Mary, honey, did I hurt your
feelings?” “Yes you did Grandpa – to think what I
have done for you and be called a devil for pay, hurts me.” It
didn’t take Grandpa long to set Mother all right. War was over,
and no more trouble on that score as long as he lived. Grandpa was
always willing to do anything for Mary and Rowena, This was the hardest
round I ever knew them to have, and it was meant for kindness by both
or all three, and Father thrown in.
Grandpa was a soldier in the War of 1812, and so like many in that day
he could not read or write. The paymaster took advantage of that and
had a number of them sign a receipt (or his mark) that they were paid,
telling them that went into the Government that their money would come.
But being a receipt for their pay, he drew it and kept it, meaning to
leave the country before he got into trouble, but was taken sick and
died within three weeks – and the boys, soldiers, did not get
their pay. I do not remember the year, but believe he was near 90 when
the soldiers were pensioned, if they were so fortunate as to have lived
that long. He went to Osceola, Iowa, and employed Billy Wilson, an
attorney, to look after it for him. They kept sending for him to tell a
thousand impossible lies, wanting the signatures of men who had been
dead 50 or more years, and all such red tape, the old man got his
Virginia blood up and asked us to write a letter for his attorney to
send to Washington. I would give considerable to have a copy of the
letter that he dictated. I will give the words as best I can from
memory: He told them he had served his country to the best of his
ability; that his paymaster beat them out of his pay and he never got a
cent. Now he had lived all these years without any pay. He wrote
– “And now you ask me for the signatures of men who have
been dead for 50 years or more – my Captain and Chaplin who died
shortly after the war, and I don’t know of one comrade living. I
have furnished you evidence. I am William Harding and the records at
Washington will show my birth and age, agreeing with what I have sworn
to, and have given you sworn statements, and witnesses that I am the
man that answers to this old Family Bible record. And now, if the
Government Can live with my pay and pension I can finish up the few
years I have left without it, and I am done with it. I will not go to
anymore trouble or have anything to do with it. I am done.” He
dictated the letter and had it sent to his attorney, Billy Wilson, and
he fired it into Washington – I think to our Congressman –
and in a short time here came his pension. It had run so long it
amounted to $155.00 before it came. I was talking to him about it
and he said he would never get anything. I asked him what he would take
for the chance. “One dollar, Levious, - yes, give me a dollar and
you can have what I get.” I gave it to him and he held it in his
hand and said, “Now, Levious, is it right for me to take this
dollar? You’ll never get anything.” I said, I’ll risk
it , Grandpa, that’s all right.” “Well, he said,
“maybe it is, if you get anything, but I don’t think you
will.” I knew it had come and was waiting for some of us to go
after it – an eleven mile journey then. When it came I counted it
out to him on his knee. “There it is Grandpa,” wondering if
he would say any thing about its being mine. He gathered it up in his
hand , shook it and said, “Well Levious, there’s the first
cent I ever got for my services, I worked pretty hard for it but
it’s yours – you bought it”. “No, no, Grandpa,
I won’t take it “. “Yes,” he says, “A
bargain is a bargain. I never went back on my word in all these years
and I am not going to commence now – it’s yours”. And
he handed it to me, I told him I knew it had come before I bought it.
Then his countenance changed and he said, “Ah, well, Levious, it
wasn’t a fair bargain then, so it’s mine”. But he did
not forget my dollar. The next thing was what to do with his money.
After studying it over several days he couldn’t think of anything
but Mary and Rowena, they could use a new dress each and himself a soft
pair of shoes. So Father was going to Charlton [Chariton], Iowa, for
some family supplies and to pay taxes, etc., and Grandpa was going
along – 17 miles, an all day job. So that morning we ate
breakfast by candlelight and off they went. About 10 p.m. they got
back, and for Rowena’s whit dress he had whit bleached muslin,
and when Mary told him what it was he was going to walk to Charlton
alone and tell that merchant what he thought of him, and if he did not
make it right he would teach him a lesson with his cane. Mother told
him she would give him the money for it as she had plenty of use for
it, and he could get Rowena’s dress some other time. So it was
fixed up that they would go to Osceola soon and get it there. They
didn’t want Grandpa to see that Charlton merchant, because
Grandpa had told him he wanted the finest white truck he had in
the store, and to serve him that trick must be settled for. The Osceola
trip was a success. Rowena had the best whit dress that could be bought
in Osceola, and Grandpa had quite a roll left and didn’t know
what to do with it. Finally he turned it over to Mary to keep for for
him, with instructions to want for nothing as long as it lasted, and
that there would be more coming in before she and Rowena would want
another dress – “or me a soft pair of shoes”.
To tell all I remember about Grandpa would make quite a book. I just
give you some of the stories to let you know something about your Great
Grandpa, who was, up one side and down the other, a good man. Very
“set in his ways”; when William thought he was right. Stood
his ground and yielded nothing when he thought he was right. I told you
he was a cooper. He had worked up enough oak trees to know what an oak
tree was by looking at it. In his day a cooper took the tree whole,
sawed staves, reefed out with a frow and a one-handed mall; split out
whatever he wanted, from a nogan to a hogshead (a large barrel, equal
to 3 to 6 barrels). He would reef out the staves so straight and
even that they needed little but slight shaving with a draw knife on
the “horse”, a machine to hoed the staves.
Grandpa, in addition to his prairie land, had ten acres of timber, and
there was one very large oak tree that he saved and watched for years.
Finally he went down to look at it and “build castles in
the air” about how much more it was worth each year it grew, and
when he would cut it, etc., and it was gone! That tree was worth $500
to him and some thief had stolen it. “Huh! Can it be possible
anybody would do such a thing?” He would make it a very dear tree
to them if he find who had cut it down. He walked and talked and
offered a reward for the one who stole it. He went to the small sawmill
to fine who had brought the biggest and finest oak tree there,
but all in vain. No one would tell him if they knew as they did not
know what Grandpa might do. There was a young married man living half a
mile north of us by the name of Milt Ashpa. He and his wife both
thought Grandpa was the best ever, and there was no love lost, for
Grandpa thought “Brother and Sister Ashpa” were not to be
beat. He would go over and they would keep him two or three days. After
supper they would give Grandpa the big armchair. They would take a seat
on either side, facing him, so each could talk in his ear and get
Grandpa started on the stories of “when I was young”. There
were three happy people.
There was another too, an old man, who lived one and a fourth miles
west of us by the name of Bartlett Burrows. He was larger than Grandpa,
and some years younger. (The two oldest men in the county.) Mr. Burrows
owned ten acres of timber joining Grandpa, and Milt Ashpa told Grandpa
that Bartlett Burrows stole his tree. “Brother Ashpa, you
don’t tell me!” “Well, I shall see Brother Burrows
right now”, and away he goes to settle with Brother Burrows who
happened to be standing out at his gate when Grandpa was within a
Quarter of a mile of him. He looked at the man coming down the road and
thought he looked like Grandpa, but his cane was going in the air and
he was stepping as spry as a man going to get married. (And here I was
down to see Grandpa the day before yesterday and he had such a pain in
his back he “reckoned” he never would get out anymore.) The
closer he came, the more sure, he was that it was Grandpa Harding, so
he stood there until he turned to come to him. “I knew something
was wrong. He came up, tapped me on the head with his cane hard enough
to let me know he was there and said, ‘What did you steal my tree
for?’ “Why”, said Mr. Burrows, “I didn’t
steal a tree from you.” (I got Mr. Burrows’ story of this
from Mr. Burrows himself.) He said he began to put more space between
himself and the fence and Grandpa. Mr. Burrows said, “I backed
out, begging him to tell me who told him I stole his tree.”
“Milt Ashpa told me,” said Grandpa. “Why, Grandpa,
don’t you know Milt Ashpa told you that just to see us old men
fight?” (I am a bit fast. When Mr. Burrows first said he did not
steal Grandpa’s tree, Grandpa said, “You are a liar and the
father of a liar. Just come outside of that fence!”) Then, Mr.
Burrows said, “Don’t you know that Will Ashpa is as full of
mischief as his hide will hold and he said that just to get us two old
men to fight? If I stole your tree I would pay you ten times for it.
Grandpa! I wouldn’t steal anything from you. I’ll bet Milt
is watching us right now to wee the fun.” Mr. Burrows said
Grandpa’s face changed color and he said, “Do you reckon so
Brother Burrows?” “Why, of course he did, Why, Grandpa, you
ought to know I wouldn’t steal anything from you. Now come
in and sit down and let us talk about it.” “No ! I shall
see Brother Ashpa at once”, replied Grandpa an he wheeled and
away he went. Mr. Burrows said he was too glad to see him go to say
anymore, and he thought the fence saved him from getting a caning. And
Milt was doing just what Mr. Burrows told Grandpa – watching the
fun. When he saw Grandpa starting back Milton took through the corn
field for home and told his wife to tell Grandpa he came home form his
house and went to the timber and would not be back till late –
that he wanted to cut some logs. He slipped out to the barn, hitched up
and flew. Grandpa stayed all night to see Brother Ashpa, but Milt
skipped out in the morning before Grandpa was up. Grandpa tried hard
and long to see Brother Ashpa, but Brother Ashpa would not let him.
Finally, Milt came over after Grandpa cooled off and stuck his head in
the window close to where Mother and Grandpa sat, and called to him,
“Grandpa, Old Bart Burrows did steal your tree”. Grandpa
said, “you devil, come in here”. “Oh, no! Milt says,
“I haven’t time today, Grandpa, but say, you come over
– Jennie wants to see you and so do I. Stay two or three days
– yes, a month. Good-bye Grandpa, come over”. Over Grandpa
went that afternoon, and Milt and his wife fixed Grandpa all right
– kept him for several days. Grandpa was an entertainer. He could
give you his whole life up to near 90; after that his memory of the
‘young days’ remained, but what happened last week did not
concern him enough to remember it. But everything in “his
time”, political, religious and social, he had indelibly fixed in
his memory.
To know him was to love him, and children everywhere fairly worshipped
him. The day he was 90 we had a big dinner, I cannot recall how many
generations were there – and there were neighbors’
children. We went down to the creek, cut the longest switches we could
find, marched up to the house and ordered him out to run the gauntlet.
We formed two lines around the house. He was to run through between
them. He came to the door and said, “Huh! Why, you will kill
me!” All he got did not hurt him, but the children had great fun,
and the old one in his second childhood was one of them.
I have many times seen men who used tobacco pull out their plug to take
a chew shake it, look at it and say, “I’d give the world if
I could quit this ‘stuff’.” I will show you how easy
it was for Grandpa , when he had used it ever since he was so young
that ;Memory had not chalked it down. His father was a
‘tobacconist’ and he crawled about it and learned to eat it
when a very young child. But when he was 84 years old, his native
Virginia pride was aroused as he was primping before the glass to go
see Mother Abrams, 78 years old, and was looking at his white beard
stained with tobacco – a streak from each corner of his mouth. It
did not look good, he thought, and took out his plug of tobacco and
threw it into Mother’s lap and said, “There, Mary, you can
keep that – I am not going to have those streaks of amber in my
white whiskers.” “All right , Grandpa, I’ll keep it
for,” said Mother, “but it won’t be long before
you’ll call for it.” “Maybe longer than you think,
Mary,” he said. ”My beard must be white, without the
stains.” He lived about 14 years after and never called for his
plug. The fact is, when a man wants to quit the least little bit more
than he wants to follow any habit, the deed is done. The only trouble
is to bring yourself to the point that you really want to quit. I used
to smoke and chew too – fifty cents a day for tobacco, and it
made me nervous. I propose to be ‘Boss’ of this body while
I carry it, and it was, Oh, so easy to quit. I was ready to quit even
before I began the job.
Well, Grandpa and Mother Abrams got to ‘buzzing’ like human
beings will. Do you know, he would tike his hat and cane after primping
and brushing up, and away he would go to Mother Abrams’.
The boys – her two baby boys were twins. Their father died and
they ran the farm and took care of ‘Mother’. Of course they
were men then, and always made so much of Grandpa, he would
sometimes stay there for days. While the boys were out working the
farm, the old folks would ‘buzz’ and just how they did I
don’t know, neither does anyone else except God, so I am without
further information on that point. True, Grandpa would tell Mary how he
would weed the garden and churn while Mother Abrams did other things,
and that they got along “at the top of the pot”. One day
Grandpa asked Tommy and Mary to sit down – he had something to
tell them. He asked them what they thought of him and Mother Abrams
getting married. They discouraged him and he said, “Well, maybe
it’s better to let it go as it is – friends only”. So
they did. Two years after, Mother Abrams died, and Grandpa was glad he
mourned the loss as a friend and not as a wife, and that he did not
change his home.
I did not tell you about his getting drunk on his wedding day. On the
morning of his wedding he had to go ten miles for his license. He got
several friends to go with him, all on horseback. At that time every
grocery sold both hard and soft drinks, and there was a grocery at
about every crossroad, and the boys with him got the grocer to put
whiskey in his cider. Grandpa did not suspicion anything wrong until he
got so much it nearly ‘knocked’ him. Perhaps you
don’t know that whiskey and cider mixed is a ‘coming’
drink – keeps coming. He said, “When I got in sight of
Betsy’s house I straightened up and felt of myself and I was
getting drunk. They put the horses into the barn and I slipped up
in the loft. The boys went to the house and told Betsy what they
had done, and that William had got too much. Betsy knew me and
said, “Where is he?” They came out and found me hid in the
hay. They got me to the house. Betsy says,
“It’s too bad, William” and got a pan of cold water
for me to bathe my face and head, so I did, and when I went to the
glass to comb my hair I couldn’t part it good – there were
two parts. Betsy ran away for a minute and I slipped into the old
Negro cook’s room, lay down on the bed and went to sleep. I
knew that would be the last place they would go look for me, so I felt
quite safe. But here was Betsy ready, dinner ready, the Parson
ready and I drunk and hid away, but it was done and could not be helped
then. So they put off the wedding till supper time- had to, as they
couldn’t find me. About three o’clock the old Negro
cook came into her room for something, and there I was, on her bed
asleep. She hollered out – “De Lordie Godie Mighty,
here’s Massa William! Here’s Massa William! They got
me out and I was drunker than when I lay down. But here came Betsy, got
me into the kitchen and a pan of water again, and went out for
something. I flew out the back door and into the back yard. Her
father was cleaning up four acres of brush piles and had it piled ready
to burn. I crawled into one of those brush piles and went to
sleep and the old Negro cook found me about five o’clock and
Betsy says “I won’t leave you no more,
William!” They got supper and called for Betsy and me to
come out. I don’t know where it was done on purpose or not,
but when Betsy and I got to the door of the front room the old arm
chair with a high back was near the middle of that chair, and with
Betsy on one side and the old arm chair on the other I stood up and the
Parson married us. We got down to the table, of course the Bride
and Groom were waited on first. The first thing I did was to
upset my plate with its load into my lap, then that muss was to be
cleaned up. But that seemed to sober me and we got along good
after that, and it wasn’t late when Betsy and I went to
bed. Next morning I put her on a horse and took her
home. Had the cage all ready for the Bird. Took her
in. Now, said I, Betsy, you take care of the inside and I will
take care of the outside – and Betsy and I always lived “at
the top of the Pot!!” I could go on and on telling stories
– but why? I don’t suppose you think you are getting
pay for the time you are reading them. But to let you see
how much Grandpa thought of me when I was a boy, I’ll tell you
this:
Mother and Father were away from and I, boy-like, thought it my
religious duty to make Grandpa vacate too – then I would be
“Master of all I surveyed,” so I did. He went over to
Uncle Davy Danner’s a half mile east, and when anybody in the
neighborhood was talking to him about Father’s family they would
say, “What are they doing over at Tommy’s?” or,
“How are they over at Tommies?” etc. So Uncle
Davy said to Grandpa, “How are all over at
Tommy’s?” “Well enough, Brother Dan(as he
always called him) – well enough, but that Levious –
Brother Dan, do you know what I would do with that boy if he were
mine?” “Yes, I do – of course I do, Grandpa,
you would be good to him, of course.” “Yes, I would
be good to him! I would tie a rope around his two big toes and the
other end to the tail of the wildest horse I could find and turn them
loose on the prairie and set the dogs on them – that’s the
way I would be good to him!”
I can’t forget how I used to plan that when I got to be a man I
would tan his hide for him – but when I got big all I blamed
Grandpa for was that he hadn’t killed me long ago. If I had
not lived or he either until I was big enough to know what a Grandpa
was, our recollections of each other would not have been very pleasing
of each other, or affectionate. But I did live. I was
twenty-three when he died, and I would walk as far and dive as deep to
see Grandpa as any man on earth, and I am not sure Grandpa did not make
his first call to see me after he died. He died at 9 a.m. I
was working in Osceola, Iowa, ten miles from home. It was Court
week and the landlord told me if I would sleep in the third story with
his son Frank, it would be quite an accommodation to have my room and
that it would not cost me anything as he could get two dollars a day
for my room during Court week. I did as he asked me, and on
Sunday morning I generally lay abed until just time for dinner.
The bed Frank and I had was located back beside the banister around the
stairway – come upstairs, turn to left and right straight back
about six or eight feet, and there was our bed. Grandpa came up
those steps, turned around and walked back to my beside and said,
“Hello, Levious, in bed yet?” Never heard
Grandpa’s steps or saw him any plainer or heard his voice
plainer than that at that time. It was 9:10, and I was so wide
awake I couldn’t sleep anymore and I got up. All day my
mind was on Grandpa. There were no telephones then. Next
morning about ten o’clock, Dan Randolph came in the shop where I
was working, “Grandpa is dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” he says, “and I came up to get a coffin.
Who told you he was dead?” “Grandpa came to see me
yesterday morning,” I said. “At what time?” he
asked. I said “9.10.” “Well,” he
said, he died at 9 yesterday morning, so they told me.” Dan
(brother-in-law) lived in town and Grandpa died out home on the farm, a
mile and a half. Time pieces may vary some, but it would seem
that Grandpa lost no time in looking up Levious.
Now the story of his death: I was not home as you can see –
about twelve miles away, but I got this from Mother: He lived
just like a machine until some part wore out or broke – that
happened to be his kidneys. They failed to carry the urine and it
circulated in the blood and caused death in about 24 hours. He
wanted to get up and sit by the fireplace. Mother went to help
him dress. “Oh, no, “he said, May, I help myself
yet.” He put on his pants, slipped his feet into his
slippers, through his coat over his shoulders and went and sat down by
the fire. Mother said he sat there talking to her for about
a half an hour. “Well,” he said, “I must lie
down and this is the last time.” Mother said that when he
sat down on the side of the bed he had dropped his pants and was going
to pull them off – and Mother grabbed a leg of his pants with
each hand and pulled them off; grabbed each of his ankles with her
hands and turned him around into bed and began to cover him. As
she finished covering him he muttered something and she asked him what
it was and stooped to catch it, but he was gone.
Now I am not short of material to write, but I am tired of writing, and
I will gather up the remainder of those old letters, put them in the
old Bible and “fire” them sometime, I think this
week. (“Fire” meaning he would send them.)
Uncle Leb
William Harding
Lebbeus
– born May 29th, 1777
-born May 25th, 1852
- died Jan 3, 1874
-died April 28th, 1931
Editors note - Barclay Burrows was a supervisor of Jackson twp. several times.