Handbook N-P - Fulton County Public Library

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By Job V. Pownall
In March, 1844, in company with my parents, I came to Fulton county by wagon from
Ohio, stopping for a time at Adamsboro, Cass county, where we moved into a log cabin on the
banks of Eel river. Tht same fall pap came on to Fulton county and entered a small tract of land
on the west line of Liberty township, within one mile of what is now called Marshtown. Here he
erected a round log house, twenty feet square, with a large fireplace built of stone and a stick
chimney. There was the customary clapboard roof laid on ridgepoles, a hewed puncheon floor,
and door hung on wooden hinges. There was a wooden latch on the inside, with a string to it,
which passed through a hole in the door and hung on the outside. Kitchen, parlor, bedrooms were
all in one, and we had no difficulty in making choice of place.
At the huge fireplace mother did the cooking. Our bread was baked in an oven which she
set on the coals, covering the lid with more live coals. It was mostly corn bread, quickly baked,
but on Sunday morning we always had warm biscuit.
The country was new, therefore a wildernss and swamps. We therefore contracted ague,
and had it to our satisfaction. It was an easy matter to kill squirrels, turkeys, pheasants and ducks.
I once killed a deer and immediately took a chill. Was told by Oliver Bryan that I had “buck
fever.” Where we once pulled cattle out of the mud and shot ducks and geese, is now the finest
corn land in the township.
One morning mother was salting the cows, not over ten rods from the house. Soon
afterward a deer was observed licking salt with the cattle. Mother stepped behind the house and
called to David BanBlaricom, who had just passed, going to the home of Uncle Erwin Barker’s.
Having his gun with him he came quietly to the front of the house, waited until the deer was
separated from the cattle, then fired and down came the deer. A dog belonging to VanBlaricom
was anxious to finish killing the deer, but his master would not consent, so began to reload his
gun, when up jumped the deer and ran away, and that was the last Dave saw of him.
Pap built a calf pen, joining it to the cabin, and in it was a young calf. One night when
pap happened to be away from home the wolves put in their appearance, apparently intent on
having a meal on fine veal. They made the air ring with their growling, but mother kept them
away by throwing fire brands out of the window. Thus the calf’s life was saved by the fire. Our
neighbors kept a few fine sheep for the purpose of raising wool, from which to make their
clothing. Strong pens had to be built, and the sheep put therein every night, to protect them from
wolves. From spring until fall was a busy time, especially during sheep-shearing time. Pap would
catch the sheep and lay them on a platform, where they were tied down, and mother would take a
common pair of shears and cut the fleece, which was washed, then picked to remove dirt and
burrs. It was then put in a sheet, which was pinned with a thorn, and sent to the carding mills.
When it was returned, mother would get out her old wool wheel and spin the rolls into yarn. It is
forty years since mother was called to her heavenly home, yet in my imagination I can still see her
as she tripped back and forth across the puncheon floor, spinning, spinning the yarn that was to be
converted into clothing for her children. When finally done, the yarn was colored blue, then taken
to her sister, Mrs. Edwin Barker, who wove it into jeans for the men’s clothing and into linseywoolsey
for herself and daughter.
Pap sowed a small patch of flax. After it matured it was pulled, spread on the ground to
rot sufficiently to break on the flax break. It was then skutched, then heckled, and then it was
ready to spin on the flax-wheel. In this way mother made her own flax thread, and it was far
superior to the flax thread of present day manufacture. With it she made our clothing. Pap made
all our shoes, making his own wax and shoe pegs. A pair of shoes was supposed to last a year, for
we went barefooted Sundays and week days.
When we needed a doctor, that meant a trip to Logansport, and when we went to mill, we
went to Springcreek mill, run by Henry Miller. Pap had some of his Virginia meal sacks which
held three bushels. They were home-made from the flax of their own raising. He would put a
grist in a sack, throw it over the gray mare and set me on top and start me off for the mill. Those
were the happiest days of my life.