| Part I of Foster’s piece, below, Laurel Ridge Ordinary 1795, was initially published in the Foothills Writers Group publication, Into the Foothills 2001. Parts II, III and IV will be published through the week. The young lad's chin drilled into the back of his soiled hand as he viewed the spectacle. Both of his hands rested on a neck-high post that held the shingle break and helped to hide his 8-year-old frame at the side of the log cabin. He stared with wide-eyed wonder at the great-wheeled wagon that traveled Glades Path that day. His older sister by one year ran from the break, past a small laurel bush and fumbled with the wooden fob attached to the deerskin drawstring that opened the front door of the cabin. "Mamma, mamma, there’s a big wagon comin' down the path," she yelled as she pulled the string, opened the door and ran into the house. Moments later she reappeared behind the leg of her mother at the front of the house. They were soon joined by her brother who clung to the woman's opposite leg. The woman who looked much older than her 25 years turned her head to study the strange sight. Kessiah had seen other wagons before but this was the first one this year. Not since early winter last year could she remember a wagon coming their way. It had been very cold and the cursed snows had closed the path for months. Most of the wagons veered to the left of the great boulder which stood in the middle of the narrow trail which led from the Glades on the Berlin side of Laurel Hill to Cherry's Mill southeast of Mount Pleasant. If there was a lot of rain, a bottomless mud hole formed to the left of the big rock and wagoneers "geed" their teams to the right. As they continued into the cove, they passed the cabin that housed the pioneer family. Kessiah's husband, Creed had neatly chopped a v-notch ring around each tree from the cabin to the main road to cut off the life giving sap. This allowed the sun to shine on their meager crops. A short distance along this girdled tree field and the spur rejoined the main pike after passing one of the innumerable house-size rocks that dotted the western slope of Laurel Ridge. Kessiah wished her Creed were home. He would be sorry he missed the event, but he was hunting for meat. They had only mush for two days now and the family was growing weary at the thought of another wooden trencher of boiled meal. The butter was nearly used up and the milk cow was nearly dry. It was just that time of year. Things were always scarce in the spring and it had been a long winter. As the snow melted and water ran down the mountainsides swelling the rivulets to small streams, the family anxiously awaited the return of the spring greens. Fresh wild onions and poke would soon blanket the damp hollows. Another month and the ground would be ready for planting. Times would be better soon. She and her man had survived another winter. With the advent of spring the road traffic would increase and they both planned to make their home an inn, if it was God's will. They felt this was a good place for an ordinary, being so close the path. Creed spent much of the winter with his axe and az working tall lean tulip poplars into a fine log room. Many evenings around the fire they shared their dreams of entertaining proper folk from Philadelphia or Cumberland at their new establishment. Another 400 oak shingles and there would be enough to start the roof. They even dreamed of someday having glass panes for a window. Their greatest treasure, aside from their two children, was the thoughts they shared. Thoughts can be like that when the right couple is yoked together. They can even spread dreams to others. They both enjoyed the sporadic visits travelers made on their trip across the Allegheny Mountains. They relished news of events in the towns. In return they told travelers of visits to their home by bears and wolves and creatures that made the strangest sounds. The entertainment value appeared equally shared. When the mention of two Indians coming to the cabin for food last winter the scales bottomed to the favor of the pioneer couple. The wagoneers could tell some stretching tales, but the scalp-raising threat of the red-skinned people silenced even them. Most often men on foot and sometimes mule packs of a dozen or more animals made their way along the trail. The modern times had brought many luxuries and novelties to this part of Pennsylvania. It was unfortunate for the mountain people that most of these passed them by, bound for Pittsburgh and points west. A man told Creed that he had witnessed a contraption on the river at Pittsburgh, wherein a man propelled a boat without oars. The boat moved by him running his legs in a circular motion pushing footblocks that caused a great wide wheel to propel the craft along the surface of the water. After all, this was the year 1795, modern inventions were being created every day. "Hallo, have you room for the night?" a dark-haired lady boldly shouted. She carried a staff fashioned from a broken tree limb and was in fine dress. Mud ran up the folds of cloth to her shins. She held her head in a mild twist with a slight upturn of the chin. It was a determined posture. The brown around her bloodshot eyes and crimson windburnt cheeks told a story of a lady on the trail for several days. Her step was purposeful but awkward due to improper shoes and the cumbersome dress. She walked ahead of a large Conestoga wagon whose driver had dismounted from the lazy board and was walking along the left side of the rig giving incessant commands to the wheel horse named Tom. The wagoneer chewed on the stub of a cigar that had not seen fire for hours. The leads draped through his fingers and trailed on the ground along beside him. "Gee, Tom! Gee, Tom, eas - -y, eas - - y!" shouted the driver. The horse stretched the harness to the right and the other horses soon followed suit around a large rock nearly as big as the wagon. The sharp turn narrowed the road and the rear of the wagon caught on a lynn tree and the toolbox, grease bucket and wagon jack dumped onto the ground. The corner of the canvas cover tore with a loud ripping sound. It had been tied to a stay near the toolbox by way of a hemp rope and become caught between the box and the tree. "Whoa! Whoa, Tom!" shouted the wagoneer, spitting the stogie from his mouth and cursed a stream of insults directed at the wagon. The woman quickly turned and started back toward the wagon. "Ruben, are you alright?" she asked in a concerned way. "Yes, Mrs. Reed, I'm fine, but I'm afraid my wagon's had a day full. The best part of it twill be easy fixin, but the cover will have to be sewed to keep your personals dry," he replied. "Very well, let us see if we can seek lodging in the cabin ahead," she said. Kessiah witnessed the scene and slowly walked to the site with her offspring at her side. Click back on the beanerywriters blog for the continuing saga of Laurel Ridge Ordinary 1795, parts II, III and IV, to be submitted to this site throughout this week.
The segments will be stored under the blog category BW Visitor Writings. Rock Foster, Somerset, Pa., has authored two historical novels, When Gauley Ran Blood and On the Banks of Gauley. The books offer a life experience of children of the wilderness on the American frontier long before it reached the Ohio River. Journey with the Hughes family as they leave the security of the tidewater and travel into the forested Promised Land in western Virginia. Discover their dreams, joys and sorrows as they scratch out their forested empires. Discover how they found love in the midst of Indian captivity and lived to raise families whose true wealth lay in their faith in God and faith in each other. Relive the adventure, learn the history, and rejoice in the celebration of the lives of these early American heroes.
Information on the books, including the first two chapters of each, is available at:
http://www.lhtc.net/~rock/otbogpage.htm
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