Familiar Faces, Silent Voices

As I sit by the fireplace on these cold, wintry nights my mind often drifts back to earlier times.  When I close my eyes, I envision familiar faces from my youth...friends with whom I shared life's experiences in that far-away time and place known as "home." 

Here, I would like to pause and remember some of those friends whose faces are still so familiar to me, yet whose voices have been stilled by the passage of time. 

In remembrance of departed classmates, Triad High School Class of 1963:

• Otis Eugene "Gene" Burnett
• Virginia Mullin Kratky
• Cheryl Jean Crowder Evans Ground
• Marvin O. Watkins
• James "Jim" McCombs
• Larry Thomas Bahan
• Robert Kelly Loveland
• Robert Lowell "Bob" White

Hero: In Memory of Oliver P. Colwell

This year marks the 150th Anniversary of the Civil War, 1861-1865.  Many battle reenactments, special events, presentations, displays, and other activities are planned during the next four years.  In "Along Spain Creek" will be found, in weeks to come, special tributes to the men of the area who took up arms in defense of the Union.

Hero:  In Memory of Oliver P. Colwell

(c) 2009 Ralph Lowell Coleman, Jr.

All Rights Reserved

Heroes are made, not born. They arise and step forward when the situation calls for someone to do something heroic in nature. Events, circumstances, and opportunities are key ingredients in these situations.

The Civil War, which tore this nation asunder during four years of unrestricted warfare, provided numerous opportunities for heroes. Men who wore blue and men who wore gray were afforded ample events, circumstances and opportunities to show their mettle. Some were fortunate enough to live to tell the tale; others were horribly maimed or died as a result of their heroism. None of them should be forgotten.

Oliver Colwell was a farmer from the close-knit community of Woodstock when he left his home and family to enlist in the Union cause. He did not set out to become a hero, but he did so just the same. During the fierce fighting which accompanied the Union drive toward Nashville, Tennessee, this young man rushed forward in the heat of battle to capture a Confederate battle flag. This selfless action particularly inspired the men of his company.

In the process he was awarded this nation’s highest decoration for bravery under fire...the Medal of Honor.

What follows is his story. Of such humble surroundings come heroes.

The name of Oliver Colwell first appears in the 1850 United States Federal Census for Urbana, Champaign County, Ohio, in the household of his mother, Lavina Colwell, age 50. It was an active household, with no less than eleven people living under one roof.

The tenants of the house were recorded by the census enumerator. In addition to Lavina and the fifteen-year-old Oliver were other sons and daughters, to include Robert R. Colwell, age 30; Fletcher Colwell, age 19; Ross Colwell, age 17; Rebecca Colwell, age 12; and Frances Colwell, age 7. There were also servants who were listed as members of the household: William Boyd, age 63; Nandy Boyd, age 49; Hannah Boyd, age 14; and Fanny Boyd, age 11.

Why his father, Peter Colwell, was not listed in the household by the enumerator, Colin McDonald, during the census survey on that warm August day is not presently known. Perhaps this mystery is best left as a story for another time.

Little else is known about Oliver’s youth, or the circumstances in which he found himself as he grew older. He was probably hardworking and industrious; most young boys his age were generally brought up to acknowledge the value of hard work and honest effort. He came from people who had learned how to work the soil, and to reap the benefits of manual labor. His Colwell ancestors had settled in the farming areas of New York and New Jersey prior to the American Revolution. They had prospered there, yet felt the compelling urge to move west to the new American frontier. Ohio in the early part of the 19th century offered virgin soil, rolling plains and hearty woodlands. There was plenty of fresh, clean water. Fish and fowl, deer, wild turkeys, and other sources of meat were abundant in the forests. There could be found the raw materials of construction for solidly-built homes, barns, and other out buildings.

So the Colwells had moved west to this new frontier, settling first in the area of present-day Franklin County before moving even farther west. They decided to make Champaign County their home, and planted their family roots in and around Urbana. Restlessness compelled some of them to move yet again, to the areas around Woodstock and Mechanicsburg. Here, they tilled the soil, planted the crops, and adapted to the lifestyle which was to be expected of hard-working farmers. Here Oliver became a man.

Oliver was still a relatively young man when he left the stability of his family home to marry. He had fallen in love with, and courted, an attractive young woman, Martha J. Corbet, who was the daughter of Amasa Corbet, one of the area’s prominent farmers. They were married in Urbana on September 20, 1857, in a short service conducted by S. G. Smith, Justice of the Peace.

At the time of the marriage, Martha’s father Amasa was about 51 years of age, presiding over a household of at least nine people. He was born in New York, but had migrated westward to the Ohio country. His wife, Experience, age 51, had been born in Virginia. Together the couple had seven children: John (1829), Lewis (1832), Ollie M. (1834), Martha J. (1836), Benjamin (1838), William H. (1841), Marion (1847) and Amasa (1850). The elder Corbets eventually relocated near the community of North Lewisburg and continued to prosper.

The young Oliver and Martha began their married life together, and were - over a period of time - parents of six children. Their eldest son, Charles, was born in 1856. A daughter, Flora, joined the family in 1857. A second son, William, was born in 1859. Two more daughters were to join the family—Jennie in 1860 and Mary in 1862. A third son, Frank, eventually rounded out the family in 1866.

The family made their home on property in Rush Township, Champaign County, which was adjacent to land owned by Abram Colwell—Oliver’s grandfather—according to a township plat map of 1874. This plot of land consisted of 63.5 acres of ground, and was located near the southern boundary of the township.

The whole country was aflame with bitter conflict as geographic regions were pitted one against another over the issues of the day. Even the quiet community of Woodstock and the surrounding Rush Township was divided on the issues of slavery and states’ rights.

Oliver Colwell was opposed to the expansion of slavery into the new territories of the West, and had seen firsthand the problems which involuntary servitude created for slaves. In April 1861 the controversy erupted into full-fledged war between the states which composed the Union, and those of the Confederacy. The war did not go well during that first year for the Union forces. What was at first thought to be a short struggle before the wayward Southern states were “whipped” back into the Union became something much more demanding. Resources were needed to fight the war...men, ammunition, foodstuffs, and other supplies. The call went out on a regular basis for more men to wage the war.

Oliver was undoubtedly a pro-Union man. He soon made his way to Columbus, Ohio, where he volunteered for enlistment as a Second Lieutenant in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry Regiment, on July 21, 1862. With little training to prepare them, he and the other men in his unit marched off to camp.

He received his official commission as a Second Lieutenant on August 19, 1862. Just a short time later, the unit was on the march toward Richmond, Kentucky. There Oliver and his comrades were exposed to the full fury of war; many of the men were wounded or killed outright. Most of the unit was captured by the Confederate forces in the lopsided battle. But prisoners were hard to maintain—to feed and to shelter—while engaging in war, so the captured men were soon paroled and exchanged for Confederates who had likewise been captured in battle.

Oliver was promoted to the rank of First Lieutenant on December 5, 1862. He continued to serve with distinction and valor as Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, moved across the landscape and engaged the enemy in pitched battles over the next two years.

During the struggle around Nashville, Tennessee, in December 1864, the brave Captain moved forward under harsh enemy fire and captured one of the opposing unit’s flags. He was cited in dispatches, and eventually awarded the Medal of Honor for his exploits.

He was promoted to full Captain on February 27, 1865.

He was mustered out of the service on August 14, 1865, after more than three years of selfless service, in Louisville, Kentucky.

Oliver P. Colwell, hero of the Civil War and resident of Woodstock, Champaign County, Ohio, died on October 12, 1872, at the age of 40 years 1 month and 12 days.  He is buried in a plot of ground, part of the oldest part of Woodstock Cemetery, Woodstock, Rush Township.   His grave site, surrounded by those of other family members, is marked with inscribed memorials.



When I Think of Snow and Ice

Once-upon-a-time, when I was much younger, and quite a bit more fool-hardy and foolish, I enjoyed snow.  I loved to get all bundled up in my warmest clothes to go outside to cavort in the white stuff.  I loved making "snow angels."  I loved making snowmen, with lumps of coal for buttons, eyes, and mouths...and carrots for the noses.  I loved snow forts, and the snowball battles which raged there abouts.  I loved trailing my sled ("Rosebud") behind me as I made my way to a nearby snowy slope, or all the way to the forbidden terrain of Buckshot Hill on the Reid farm. 

There came a time, however, when I was not quite ten years old that snow and ice became less playful and more threatening.  I was in the fourth grade at the elementary school in North Lewisburg - the old brick building which used to sit on Maple Street.  At the west side of the building there was a concrete ramp which provided a way into and out of Mrs. Morrow's first-grade room on the ground floor.  The ramp was almost always covered in snow and ice during the wintertime.  The outside entrance to the boys' restroom was nearby, so it was very easy to go from one spot to the other.  Boys gathered on the ice-covered slope, then pulled themselves hand-over-hand to the top of the ramp using the thick, metal railing.  At the summit, each boy pushed himself away from the brick wall, and went quickly down the ramp, slipping and sliding accompanied with all sorts of laughter and acrobatics.  It was slippery, it was fast, and it was dangerous - just what boys enjoy!

I had made several trips up and down the slope, having just as much fun as everyone else.  But on my last trip down the icy ramp, an older boy (I remember who it was, but won't embarrass him here) reached out toward me.  He gave me an extra shove...one which sent me spiralling faster and awkwardly off balance.  I fell on the hard ice and concrete with a terrific "thud" and CRACK!  Pain ripped through my body, and tears quickly welled in my eyes.  I knew that I was hurt; I just didn't realize how badly.

The old bell sounded the end to recess about that time.  The gang of boys broke ranks and headed toward their various classrooms.  I vividly remember the long, painful climb up the old metal fire escape back to my fourth grade classroom.  For some reason, my right arm did not work correctly, so I held it tightly against my side.  In the classroom, it was too difficult for me to remove my winter coat, so I merely sat down at my desk.  I still held the arm tightly while silent tears coursed down my cheeks. 

Mrs. Bertha Willis was our substitute teacher, temporarily replacing Mrs. Kline who had undergone some surgical procedure.  She noticed my discomfort, and asked me what was wrong.  I told her that I had fallen on the ice, and that my arm hurt.  She suggested that I walk across the street and go to the Principal's office, which was located in the old high school building.

Unescorted, I went back down the metal fire escape, across the playground, past the "ocean wave," and across East Street.  I entered the high school building, and went up the steps to the office.  There I  met  Mr. Mendell E. Beattie, principal.  He asked me what was wrong.  I repeated my tale of falling down on the ice and hurting my arm.  He stepped toward me, took a firm grasp on my arm, and quickly raised it up and down.  The action surprised me, and hurt like hell.  I let out a yelp just as he released my arm.  More tears flowed, brought on by the sudden rush of pain.

"Well," he said, "if it hurts you that badly I'll have Coach Tackett take you home."  He left the office and returned a few minutes later, Coach Tackett following along closely behind.  The coach escorted me out of the building and onto the parking lot.  He opened the door on the passenger side for me, went around to the driver's side, got in, and started up the car.  He drove me north to the far end of East Street, made a left turn, and then a right turn, and continued just a short distance to my home at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets.  He pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and knocked on the front door.  My Mom opened the door just as I exited the passenger's side of the car. 

As I stood at his side, Coach Tackett said "He's been hurt in a fall on the ice.  Mr. Beattie thought it was best to bring him home."

Mom opened the door wider so I could enter the living room.  "You might want to take him to the doctor," added Coach Tackett, as he returned to his car.  He got in and drove away, back toward the school.

Mom asked me what had happened as she gently removed my coat.  She let out a quick sigh as a shocked expression crossed her face.  Sticking straight out of the shoulder of my flannel shirt was a bone, bloody red and ragged.  She quickly tossed the coat back over my shoulder, grabbed her own coat and purse, and moved toward the door.  She opened the back door of our old 1947 Chevrolet, and helped me sit on the back seat.  She opened the front door, started up the car, put the gearshift into reverse, and backed up the slope from our driveway onto Sycamore Street.  As fast as she thought prudent, she drove down the street toward "downtown."

A few minutes later, we arrived in front of Doctor John R. Polsley's office.  She parked the car, and quickly extracted me from the back seat.  We walked the short sidewalk from the street to the doctor's office building, a small cottage-like structure which stood adjacent to his family home.  By this time, I was in horrific pain, tears and cries of distress all co mingled.  I was rushed right in to see the good doctor.

Whatever happened next has been, thankfully, erased from my memory.  Perhaps the pain was just too much; perhaps I fainted; perhaps he did something to ease my suffering.  I only know that my next conscious thought was of sitting on his examination table, bare to the chest, as he fitted huge gauze pads under both of my armpits.  He then wound what seemed to be yards and yards of "Ace" bandages in a figure-8 pattern over and under my shoulders.   The loose ends were clamped into place with some sort of metal butterfly-shaped clasps.  My arms were slightly askew from my body, held out in place by all of the padding.  Mom was given some kind of pain reliever to administer to me as the day progressed, and told to return me for a followup a day or two hence.  My shirt was loosely fitted over my shoulders, and just one or two buttons secured before my coat was likewise tossed over my shoulders.  Mom and I made the trip back home.

It had been determined that I would not return to school for several weeks - six weeks as it eventually turned out - while my clavicle healed.  I thus celebrated my 10th birthday, a few days after the accident, with one of the last birthday parties I was ever to experience.  While many of my friends were there, I never saw most of my classmates at school for a full grading period.  I did my homework assignments in the comfort of my home, and sent them back to school via my brother or one of my sisters.  And, as I've sometimes pointed out to my own children, I still managed to get "straight A's" on my grade card during the fourth grade.  (I have the card to prove it!)

I passed the time with homework, with lots of reading (especially comics and "Mad Magazine"), with lots of morning and afternoon television, and with getting out of just about every conceivable chore which might have been required of me.  I was pampered and otherwise treated royally during my whole recovery period. Over the many weeks, I periodically returned to Doctor Polsley, who changed the bandages and followed my progress as the bone knitted. 

Fifty-six winters have come and gone since I took that icy fall in February 1955.  As time has passed, so too has my appreciation for snow and ice and cold.  I never indulged in skiing, nor snowboarding.  After years in the military, and those excruciatingly cold winters in Korea, Colorado, and upstate New York, I no longer have any desire to track  about in the snow.  I don't like cold weather; I don't like cold drafts; I don't like mounds of snow.  So, happy, happy I will be when winter finally abandons us at my present home in Utah.  Sunshine, oh blessed sunshine, I long for thee!

A Parent's Lament

American men and women serve our nation faithfully in far-flung corners of the world.  Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan - each of these names conjures up ideas of the gallantry, dedication to service, and self-sacrifice with which Americans defend the people of these lands.  The cost for our country has been enormous in terms of dollars and cents, equipment lost, and the tragic number of American servicemen and servicewomen who have been wounded or killed in the process.  This original poem, first published in 2005, is displayed here to honor these brave men and women, and to pay tribute to their parents who wait wistfully at home.

~

A Parent’s Lament

© 2005 Ralph Lowell Coleman, Jr.

My son put on a uniform,

Then went away to war.

He crossed the sea to serve on foreign land.

He lived with all the hardships

Of the desert’s cold and heat –

The monotony of the shifting, burning, sand.

He did not shirk his duty,

‘Though he sometimes questioned “Why?”

He tried to do what needed to be done.

He served with pride and honor

Befitting his young years,

As he trained beneath the scorching desert sun.

Then, when the shooting started,

When the fighting took its toll,

My son was one who sacrificed his all.

He died amidst the struggle

For a tiny, desert town –

He answered his last patriotic call.

They sent his body home to us,

He rests beneath the sod.

He’s home again, his earthly journey’s done.

He did his part for freedom’s sake,

He paid the highest price,

To guarantee the victory was won.

And, when the fight has ended,

And our sons have crossed the sea,

To be welcomed home with pageantry and cheers,

My son will lie beneath his stone –

He will not hear the bands,

Nor see my eyes which overflow with tears.

Dedicated to the men and women of the Armed Forces of the United States

who serve in Kuwait, Afghanistan, and Iraq,

and to the parents who wait at home.

God Bless America!

At the Movies

The old movie theater was located in North Lewisburg on south Sycamore Street, just south of the present (2011) tire store, in a building which I believe was owned by Mr. Lloyd Glendening.  The theater was previously managed by a Mr. Huffman, but by the mid-1950s it was managed by my parents William Robert "Putt" and Kathleen Impson Forsythe.  Mom generally served as the ticket seller, and then concession stand attendant as the movie got under way.  Putt worked primarily in the cleaning and maintenance of the theater, and managing the concession stand inventory, which consisted of popcorn, various candy bars, assorted boxed candies, and bottled pop.  He also worked in the consession stand as part of the evening chores.

The popcorn sold for 5 cents per bag; the bottled pop...in those old 6 oz glass bottles...sold for 10 cents.  Candy prices varied from 1 cent to 10 cents, depending upon the item.

Candy and bottled pop were purchased from wholesale distributors who delivered the product to the theater on a regular basis.  The tins of popcorn kernals were purchased from James Claude Dunham, father of Claudine Dunham Vallery, who sold the popcorn out of his house in Woodstock.  We would drive the short distance from North Lewisburg to Woodstock on a regular basis to pick up two or three large tins of the kernals, and the cooking mixture which gave the corn its great flavor.  An old-fashioned electric drum-type popper was kep busy preparing the delicious treat.  The fresh-popped odor traveled throughout the theater, and brought lots of patrons to the concession stand. 

Popcorn was sold in those pre-printed, white paper popcorn bags...the product scooped out of the popper using a large metal scoop.  It was generally salted while popping, with a salt shaker standing by for those patrons who wanted a little more salt on the finished product.  Extra buttery flavoring was liberally poured onto the popcorn for those who requested it.

Soda pop...Coca-Cola, root beer, orange and other flavors was sold by the bottle.  There was a deposit on each bottle of soda (which I believe was 1 or 2 cents at the time).  Empty bottles were retrieved and placed in old wooden storage racks which held 24 bottles.  The clanking bottles were returned to the pop distributor when he returned later in the week with his dolly to cart them back to his truck.  My folks received "credit" from those returned bottles toward that week's pop purchases.  The bottles were then trucked back to the bottling plant where they were cleaned, to be used again and again (an old-time recycling practice).

The bottled pop was "ice cold" when sold at the concession stand.  They were stored in an old refrigerator just for that purpose.  There were no cups, no lids, nor ice with which to contend.  The metal cap was popped, and straws were provided to those patrons who required them to sip their favorite beverages.

The movies were in 16 millimeter format.  They came to the theater via a distribution route which included deliveries in North Lewisburg.  The films for the next day or two came in large, flat, metal canisters which displayed the title of the film, the film number (like "1 of 2"), and other details.  Large advertising posters were delivered at the same time, and placed in the glass-enclosed frames at the front of the theater, or in the lobby.  There were also smaller flyers which listed the movies to be shown over the next week or so...coming attractions.  These flyers were reproduced at an area print shop, and were cheap enough for distribution to the general public.  The posters were the property of the film distributor, and were taken down and returned along with the film at the end of its run.  Sometimes these posters were not returned, but were collected by fans.  (Some attics, basements, garages and barns within the community may yet hold some of these old, collectible movie posters!)

The projectionist usually arrived at the theater about one hour before the night's showing.  He loaded the first reel of film into the old arc-lamp projector, which was housed in a projection room at the rear of the theater, above the concession stand area.  There was a young man who usually ran the projector.  Unfortunately, I don't recall his name now...but I believe he lived in the Whitehead house on north Sycamore Street.  He generally walked to the theater from his home.

The price of the movies at the time was probably about 35 cents.  A ticket stub was issued to each patron from a large roll of tickets kept in the "booth," which sat directly in front of the theater.  These stubs had printed numbers on them, and were used periodically for special prize drawings during some movies.  The stubs were mixed in a hopper, then drawn out individually.  The stub number was called out, and the patron who had that winning number was awarded some inexpensive prize...like a free bottle of pop, popcorn, candy, or a free pass to the theater. 

Prior to the time my folks managed the theater, similar drawings had been held, but with a few differences.  Between features, the house lights would come up and a stub drawn out of a large box or hopper.  The number was called out, and the winner was asked to go to the stage at the front of the theater.  Displayed there was a large, wooden, A-frame board.  There were several brightly colored discs which hung on pegs attached to the board.  The lucky winner then selected one of the discs, and received the prize which was located behind it.  The prize was often a free pass to the movies, or a crisp $1, $2, or $5 bill!

The night's entertainment usually consisted of a series of previews of coming attractions, or "trailers."  These previews were followed by a black-and-white newsreel of that week's major state, national and international news.  The mood in the theater changed as a colorful cartoon..."Tom and Jerry,""Mickey Mouse,""Goofy,":Andy Panda," or "Woody Woodpecker"...flashed upon the screen.  These humorous antics were then followed by the feature attraction.  Sometimes these were in black-and-white; other times, they were in color.  (I vividly remember watching the most recently-released Abbott and Costello, Ma and Pa Kettle, or similar comedies).  There were many dramas and adventure films, as well as the traditional westerns with the familiar faces of John Wayne, Tim Holt, Lash LaRue, the Durango Kid, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers.

On some weekend evenings, an additional late-night feature rounded out the evening's entertainment...but usually not on school nights.

There were also occasional solicitations in mid-evening for various worthy causes.  A short film was shown...possibly one to deal with polio and the March of Dimes, or muscular dystrophy, or even the old actors' home in California.  After some tear-jerking scenes, commentary, and sentimental background music, the house lights came up.  Volunteers who were assigned to do so passed up and down the theater aisles collecting freewill donations - often nickels, dimes and quarters -  for the various causes.

The featured movies were often seasonal in theme.  Holiday movies were shown primarily in the time span between Thanksgiving and New Years.  War movies were generally booked around patriotic holidays like Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Veterans Day.  Sentimental movies were shown early in the week when crowds were generally light, the patrons were older (or more romantic), and young people were involved in other activities.  The "blockbuster" movies...the ones which cost little bit more to rent and show...were held in reserve for the weekend movie-going public.

Very little in life was as satisfying as a "full house" with every seat in the theater filled.  Sometimes, a second showing of the feature took place immediately following its first conclusion so other folks could see it. Occasionally, there was "standing room" only as the seats and aisles filled up to accommodate the crowds who showed up to see a new western feature. 

At the end of the night, the projectionist rewound the films and put them into their metal canisters.  Other materials were gathered up.  Everything was set out in front of the theater for the distributor to pick up later, or first thing in the morning.

The theater closed for good sometime between 1955-1957...I'm a bit hazy on the exact time frame.  Mr. Glendening had decided to sell or donate the old building to the community for use as the new fire hall and civic center.  (It sits abandoned today, much as it appeared in the late 1950s).  The projection equipment, the guts of the theater, and everything that was part of that wonderful world, was torn out and discarded to make way for storage of the fire engines.

I was heartbroken that I would not be able to walk the short distance from home each evening to enjoy the free movies!  A consolation came to me in the form of all of the unsold candy and pop inventory.  Most of these things were taken to our house and placed in a spare bedroom.  The pop was stored in our covered back porch...the wooden cases stacked almost to the ceiling.  My family, friends and I enjoyed that bounty of goodies for many, many months!

The old movie theater provided a much-needed escape from the cares of the everyday world.  For a few hours, we gathered there with family, friends, and other townsfolk to see - via the flickering images on the great, silver screen - news from around the world, documentaries, hilarious cartoons, and entertaining "moving pictures."  We escaped...and let our imaginations soar with new adventures - and at affordable prices.

Today's movie theater experience, in contrast, is not so much an escape as it is production-line entertainment.  First, there's the unrealistic price of admission, with tickets selling at $7 or more!  A 5-cent bag of popcorn now markets at $4.50...and comes in a big, laminated tub which 1) can't be blown up and popped behind some unsuspecting girl's head; and 2) just doesn't taste the same.  Candy is an expensive luxury, even for the old, familiar brands we grew to love - like Juju Fruits, Dots, and Boston Baked Beans.  Now, they are much too expensive to toss at the back of the head of that friend half-way across the theater.  And the theaters, themselves...no longer the big, big room with the wide aisles and wall-to-wall seating.  Now, we are forced to sit in rooms the size of crackerboxes, with small screens which rival the size of our flat-screen televisions at home.

But, maybe there still exists out there, somewhere, a very, special person - someone who is not interested in making a huge profit, but who would like to restore some nostalgia to the lives of a whole generation of new movie-goers.  Maybe there is someone who will build a smalltown theater in North Lewisburg, with reasonable prices, quality popcorn and sodas, and some good, old-fashioned movies, cartoons and documentaries.  Build it...and we will come!

Mulberry

Spain Creek begins its meandering course in the vicinity of Mulberry, an original railroad town which sprang up as a result of the construction of the Atlantic and Great Western Railroad in this part of Ohio in the 1860s. The rails traveled through Urbana, North Lewisburg, and on to Marion, connecting the rich, farm land with the urban areas of Cincinnati and other points on the map. The railroad brought progress to this rural area, and for a short period of time it was a “boom town,” where hard-working entrepreneurs provided goods and services to the folks who lived in the vicinity.

But look for Mulberry on a map of Champaign County, and it will not be found. The community is still there, but it has gone by a different name – Mingo – for many, many years. It has a unique history, population, and culture which all blends together to make an attractive place to live, and a close-knit community of both young and old.

The area was well-known for a number of years before it became a gathering place where people could sink roots. Native Americans undoubtedly traversed the plain and the surrounding wooded hills and dales prior to the arrival of the first white hunters and settlers. Tales are told of the various tribes which hunted and lived off the land long before the new adventurers encroached upon their territory. But, as the years passed the virgin forest and unplowed ground gave way to a tide of people.

Ebenezer C. Williams is credited with platting the town along about 1866. Even before that, however, industry had come to the region. There was at least one grist mill in the area to grind the grain into much-needed flour. There was a sawmill to rip and plane the lumber to be used in the construction of the houses, stores, churches, school, barns and other outbuildings. There was an early grocery store, and even a post office was operational before Williams had completed his task.

A review of a list of the business establishments which once thrived in Mingo conjures up images of the past and a life-style long gone. There were demands for coal, salt, harnesses and other tackle for the horses and oxen. Horses needed to be fitted for iron shoes. Buggies and wagons needed to be crafted for transportation of people and supplies. People needed shoes, shirts, dresses, groceries, medicines, flour, liquor, and religion.

There were excursions by foot, horseback, buggy, or railroad to the neighboring communities of Urbana, Middletown, Cable, Kingscreek, and North Lewisburg. People sought social outlets and entertainment with church groups, fraternal organizations, and town gatherings to enjoy the bounty of the harvests or the spirit of the holiday seasons.

They waded, swam, and fished in the waters of Spain Creek, and harnessed the stream’s power to run the early mills. They were born, grew up, married, worked and farmed, raised families, died and were buried all within a short distance of that ancient waterway.

For generations, Mingo has survived. And the people who live there today rejoice in that survival. Just another of the many wonders to be found along Spain Creek.

Interested in knowing more about Champaign County and its environs?  Get your hands on a copy of "A History of Champaign County, Ohio," published by W. H. Beers & Company, Chicago, 1881.

The Last of the Doughboys

An era came to an end on Sunday, February 27, 2011, when Frank Buckles, the last of America's "Doughboys" - the young men who went off to serve in World War I - died at the age of 110 in West Virginia.  Buckles was born in Missouri on February 1, 1901. He enlisted at the age of 16, and was an ambulance driver in France during the "Great War," often referred to as the "war to end all wars."  By the end of the war, in November 1918, Buckles had been promoted to the rank of corporal.  An exception to policy has been approved to honor Buckles with burial in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors.

A total of 4,734,991 Americans served in uniform during World War I.  Of this number, 116,000 were killed in action while serving in France.  An additional 204,000 service personnel were wounded.

North Lewisburg contributed its share of "Doughboys" who served in World War I.  Their names were recorded on the original Service Roll which was painted on the exterior wall of a downtown building during that conflict.  Later, their names were cast in a bronze plaque which was affixed to the flag pole at Maple Grove Cemetery.  Now, these same names appear on the marble monument which stands in the Veterans Memorial park on East Street, in North Lewisburg.


Andrews, Fred

Ayres, Alonzo

Bahan, Travis

Barker, Earl

Beltz, Cecil

Benedict, Arthur

Bennedict, Emmett

Bishop, Bernice

Burris, Chester

Carter, George

Chapman, Charles

Chapman, Murell

Chapman, Olin

Cook, Bernard

Cook, Edson

Cooksey, Harry

Creviston, Louis

Creviston, Merle

Durnell, Aaron

Durnell, Frank

Embry, Francis

Evans, Donald

Ewing, Will

Fout, Clyde

Freeman, Harry

Glendening, Paul

Glendening, W. R.

Goldsberry, William

Hackley, Frank

Hackley, George

Heston, Hobart

Holycross, Isaac

Holycross, Pearl

Hunter, Robert

Immel, Howard

Impson, Justin B.

Inskeep, Harold

Jordan, Harold

Judy, Carl

Judy, Roy

Kennedy, Charles

Kennedy, Glade (died in service)

Kerns, Merle

Louden, Russell

Massey, George

McColly, Charles

McCrery, Chester F. (killed in action)

Morrow, John

O'Brien, Frank

Overfield, Lester

Poling, Clyde

Sager, Wayne

Snuffin, Ralph

Spain, Basil

Spain, Chester

Spain, Jesse

Spain, Theo

Steinberger, Alf

Townsend, Charles

Wilkins, Malcolm

Winder, C. B.

Wolford, Ralph

Note:  I created this list, in alphabetical order, when I last visited the Veterans Memorial in August 2009.  I am hopeful that I did not omit any names.  If so, I apologize.

The name of Chester F. McCrery is one of those names inscribed on that memorial.  Young Chet was born in 1898, and served with the 166th Infantry, Allied Expeditionary Force (AEF), in France.  He was killed in action in 1918, at the age of 21.  His remains were brought home to North Lewisburg.  He rests today in Square 8, Lot 2, Site 1, in the "old" section of Maple Grove Cemetery, his grave site shaded by nearby trees.  The local American Legion Post was previously named in his honor for many years.

They are all gone now, those four-million plus who answered the call to service.  They have all joined a grand parade of men and women who have worn the uniform of the Armed Forces of the United States.  It is well that we remember them - Frank Buckles, Chet McCrery, and so many others - and thank them most respectfully for their devotion to duty in the cause of freedom and liberty.