In the Valley of Hope
Faith Conquers Fear
Richard Weirich
Copyright © 2015 Richard Weirich
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1517304288
ISBN-13: 978-1517304287
DEDICATION
In the Valley of Hope is dedicated to two incredible people who first introduced me to a treasure called hope. They were my grandparents, Mable and Charlie Polk,
the stars of this story.
CONTENTS
Chapter I – The Players
Chapter II – Formative Years
Chapter III – Falling in Love
Chapter IV – Breaking Away
Chapter V – New Life
Chapter VI – Success
Chapter VII – Disaster
Chapter VIII – Rebirth
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some people have the unique ability to inspire us. They are like guideposts, pointing the way to great possibilities and encouraging us to be the best that we can be. I count them among my greatest treasures from God. They are the ones who tell us to keep going, who never give up on us, and help us believe that the best is yet to come. Thanks to them there is a Valley of Hope.
Chapter I – The Players
Friendship – Spring 1907
The rooster had not yet crowed to awaken the Polk family, but nine-year-old Charlie was already out of bed preparing to begin his morning chores. As usual he put on his clothes under a mountain of covers for a more comfortable transition from warm bed to the icy cold morning air. His reason for getting an early start was to complete his assigned duties before the five-mile walk to school and, more importantly, avoid another morning whipping from his father.
Every day, no matter the weather, his job was to feed the chickens, slop the hogs and milk the cows. Then he made one last stop in the kitchen where he dumped whatever he could find into a paper sack for his lunch. Today’s fare consisted of an apple, a hunk of hoop cheese and soda crackers. Soon after, as the sun was rising over the Shenandoah Valley, he began his journey to Stover School.
Unlike most children his age, Charlie Polk loved to go to school because it provided a refuge away from the hard work and abuse of home life. It also afforded him an opportunity to interact with his friends. Severe weather and sickness never kept him away. In fact, the only time he missed was during planting and harvest when he was required to labor from sunup to sundown.
Even taking advantage of a shortcut through the woods it still took him two hours to make the trip but he was never late and sometimes he was the first to arrive. Charlie dearly loved the land through which he walked and, although he had never been anywhere else, he believed that the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia must be the most beautiful place on earth.
The dogwoods were in full bloom as he followed the path through the forest where he could smell the smoke from a distant fire and crows signaled his arrival. He was happy to see Bailey Creek was no longer iced over, and he was always on the lookout for arrowheads left by the Valley's earliest inhabitants. His teacher told him if he found any fossils or seashells to bring them to share with the class.
Miss Beulah, the teacher at Stover School, taught that the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia was once an ocean and that the surrounding mountains were its shoreline. Conversely, his granny insisted that the region had a Biblical origin, formed by the receding waters of the great flood depicted in Genesis. He figured the debate could be settled once and for all if he could just find a seashell.
Once out of the woods he slid down a steep embankment to the dirt road that would take him to his destination. The log cabin schoolhouse stood at the intersection of Wissler Road and Orkney Grade where children from Edinburg to Mt. Jackson and the surrounding countryside received a first through fifth-grade education.
Some of the older children were allowed to ride a horse or a mule to school while others traveled with their parents in horse-drawn buggies or wagons. Many of them, like Charlie, walked to school and when they met up with their friends it resulted in great fun and occasional mischief. Old man Bauserman liked never to get rid of the stench caused by the dead skunk he found in his storage shed.
Standing on the front steps, Miss Beulah shaded her eyes from the morning sun with one hand while ringing a bell with the other. “Got a lot to do. It's ciphering day,” which resulted in immediate groans from the students heading to their desks.
For the next 3 hours, they worked on arithmetic that was, next to recess, Charlie's best subject. As the lunch hour neared, Charlie's stomach began to growl prompting some giggles from his classmates and a stern frown from the teacher.
When Miss Beulah dismissed them for lunch, Charlie and his friends sat together on the ground at their favorite meeting spot under a tree where the schoolyard ended at Stover Cemetery.
“Teacher says we need to work real hard in school, so we don't end up like that fella,” said one of them as a grave-digger grunted and heaved another shovel load of dirt.
Ten-year-old Franklin Hickman Wissler III, son of Franklin Erb Wissler, Jr. and Caroline Ann Hickman Wissler was undoubtedly not destined for such menial physical labor. He was, after all, born into a family of means and lived in the lap of luxury at Strathmore, one of Virginia's most prestigious farms. Nonetheless, Frank never flaunted his privileged status. He fit in just fine as one of the gang.
“Ain't worried about ending up like no grave-digger,” replied Mable. “Ain't never been any girl grave-diggers and I don't expect there ever will be none,” she said admiring the growing pile of dirt.
Mable Shown was the ten-year-old daughter of Moses and Mary Shown, who lived next to St. Mary's Pine Church, where her daddy worked as the caretaker of the church and its cemetery. “There is men's work and there's women's work. That's men's work.”
“Hey, Mister! How deep you going to dig?” yelled Charlie snatching a pickle from Frank's hand.
The worker stopped digging and straightened up peering over the dirt pile for a look at his audience. “Bout six feet,” he responded. He stood there a minute catching his breath and inspecting his work while chewing on a wad of tobacco.
“How do you know when you've hit six feet?” yelled Priscilla as the man unleashed a projectile of spit toward the dirt pile.
“Well...I'm about 5'7”. So, I dig them just a little taller than me.”
Priscilla Miller, or Cilla as her friend's called her, was the mischief leader of the group. She was cute as a button and as hyper as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Her daddy was Russell Miller, who owned one of the larger farms in the area. Miller Farm wasn't in a league with Strathmore, but the Millers were better off than most.
Only a few days previous nine-year-old Priscilla sought retribution against a fifth-grade bully who had been teasing Frank Wissler the Third about his name, repeatedly calling him “Frankie the Turd.” Priscilla patiently waited until the boy relieved himself inside the school's two-seater outhouse. Once inside she jammed a stick through the latch in the door making it impossible for the freckle-faced ruffian to get out.
“Did you go to a special school to learn your job?” inquired Frank seeking confirmation of the teacher's claim.
“Nope!” said the man followed by another well-placed wad of spittle. “Never had any time for no learning. Waste of time.”
“Told you so!” declared Frank to his cohorts feeling vindicated by the worker.
“Do you cover them up too?” asked Charlie.
“Yep,” said the man followed by three quick spits of tobacco. “I dig 'em...and I cover 'em up.”
“What do you do when you're not digging graves?” asked Mable.
; “Lord almighty you kids got anything else to do?” the grave-digger growled while walking closer to the children. “If you ain't gonna let me work I'll just come over here and tend to what's on your minds.”
He removed his hat revealing a very bald head that beamed brightly in the sunlight. The beard on his face was well-coiffed, and he smelled of sweet cologne unexpected of man in such a profession.
“My name is Weezer Beatty,” he said wiping his brow. “And who might you be?”
“Frank Wissler III is my name, sir,” Frank replied with a bow. The others laughed.
Weezer responded with a wide toothless grin. “Who's your daddy?”
“Frank Wissler,” Frank announced proudly.
“Not old Frank Wissler from over at Strathmore?” asked the grave-digger.
“Yes, sir. One and the same.”
“Been cutting your daddy's hair for years. One of the best tippers in these parts.”
“What about my daddy?” asked Priscilla. My name is Priscilla Miller, and my daddy's name is Russell. Ever cut his hair?”
“Yes, 'em. Cut his hair a time or two for sure.”
The others gazed at Charlie signaling his turn to identify himself. “My name is Charles Fletcher Polk. You can call me Charlie and my daddy is Bill Polk.”
“Bill Polk, huh? Yes, sir. I cut his hair once. He fussed about the way I cut it and got right up out of that chair and marched out the door. Didn’t pay me one red cent. Ain’t holding my breath till he pays me neither. And what about you young lady? What's your name?”
Mable hesitated and then shyly responded, “Mable. Mable Shown and my daddy's name is Moses Shown. Sometimes he digs graves just like you.”
“Well I suppose everybody knows Moses Shown,” said Weezer wiping his brow. Best doggone storyteller in this here valley. His mama is old lady Teeny Shown. She's a card if there ever was one. Well, I'm pleased to meet all of you?”
Sunshine gave way to the shade of a passing cloud and a slight breeze as he continued. “Now as for me...most days...I'm a barber over in Edinburg. Got a special deal going right now too. Call it my dying and digging special. For ten bucks, I'll come to the dead man's house and give him a shave then dig his grave. If you hear of anybody needing my services, send 'em my way.”
“10 bucks! That's good money,” reasoned Charlie.
“Ain't you afraid of some haint putting a haunt on you?” asked Priscilla. “I hear just stepping on a grave is bad luck.”
The man laughed but before he could respond to Priscilla's concern about ghosts the school bell rang. “Any hard work is respectable work! If you want to eat...you got to work,” he called out as the children ran toward the schoolhouse door.
Like mice scurrying through a maze, the children ran into the one room schoolhouse and found their places. First graders in the front, followed by second graders, and so on to the taller fifth graders in the back of the room.
“Lunch is over. Time to get down to business,” ordered the teacher. No talking, sit still, and listen to my every word and if you don't do as I say you know what will happen to you.
Beulah Stover had ruled over the Stover School for the twenty-three years of its existence, and no one had ever heard tell of a single child misbehaving. She was taller than most women and many of the men of her day. At six feet tall with broad shoulders, massive hips, and a tightly wound bun on her head she was a most intimidating figure.
The disciplinary arm of Miss Beulah's curriculum was prominently displayed at the front of the room hanging on the wall behind her desk. At least once a month she reminded the children about the Board of Education “specially designed for making boys and girls who misbehave truly sorry for their actions. Notice how the holes in the paddle minimize resistance allowing me to hit hard! And often!” she would say while repeatedly slamming the instrument against her desk. “Imagine how this perfectly designed instrument would make you feel if generously and powerfully applied to your hind quarters?” Even Priscilla Miller, known for her nonstop talking and rambunctious shenanigans, exercised surprising control in Miss Beulah's classroom
“Now open your readers,” ordered the teacher and like a well-trained military regiment the students snapped open their books.” Once the reading began the only sound in the room was the slow, deliberate footsteps of Miss Beulah patrolling the aisles. She rhythmically slapped a wooden ruler against the palm of her hand ready to pop any child on the back of the head who fell asleep.
Thirty minutes into the lesson the schoolhouse door swung open and a man stood in the doorway silhouetted by the afternoon sun.
“Can I help you,” snarled Miss Beulah irritated by the interruption.
“I'm here to pick up my boy,” the man said with slurred speech as he came forward. As he walked the harsh odor of cigarette smoke and alcohol filled the room prompting some of the children to cover their noses.
Oh, no, thought Charlie Polk responding to the agitated voice of his father. This can't be good.
William Henry Polk was short in stature with leathery skin, an unpleasant demeanor and looked to be considerably older than his 43 years of age. Folks said that Bill Polk got his hard ways from his daddy who was “messed up from Fighting in the Civil War.” James K. Polk, Bill's daddy, saw his father, Simon Polk killed at Harpers Ferry in 1862 and then lost his leg in the same battle. He came home forever changed by that horrific experience.
Now standing in the front of the room Bill Polk stood with hands on hips seemingly ready to do battle with Miss Beulah.
“Come on Charlie. Time to go,” he said glaring at the teacher.
“Class isn't over for another hour,” objected the teacher. “He hasn't finished his work.”
The students were now on the edge of their seats anticipating a showdown that they were certain Miss Beulah would win. Priscilla looked at the Board of Education expecting it to be used any minute.
“It's over when I say it's over!” Bill Polk said. “And he won't be coming back. Not tomorrow...maybe not ever,” he said yanking Charlie from his desk and pushing him toward the door.
“Wait, I need my books,” said Charlie frantically while holding up his arms to avoid a smack on the back of his head.”
“You won't be needing 'em anymore,” said his father harshly.
From the doorway, Charlie glanced back at his friends and saw Mable crying and Frank and Priscilla sadly waving goodbye.
“Bye guys,” said Charlie fighting back tears.
“Shut your mouth!” shouted Bill. Then he shoved Charlie so hard that he fell to the ground.
“Stop blubbering like a sissy. Git up and git in the wagon fore I tan your hide.”
Across the yard, Charlie saw his mother sitting in the family wagon with her head buried in her hands and weeping loudly. “What's going on?” asked Charlie upset by the turn of events. “Why do I have to leave school? Mama, why are you crying? What's going on?”
Bill Polk mounted the wagon and took hold of the reigns. “Time for you to start earning your keep.”
As the wagon pulled away and onto the little dirt road that led back to the Polk farm at Conicville, Mary Polk looked sympathetically back at Charlie. “Everything's gonna be alright, son. Everything's going to be alright. You're daddy's just having a bad day. You know he can't help it.” Charlie stared sadly at the schoolhouse as it faded from view. Surprisingly Miss Beulah, not known for kindness and compassion, waved farewell. All the way back to the farm Charlie thought about his friends, and he wondered if he would ever see them again.
A Curious Request – October 1907
Few homes in the Valley rivaled the grandeur and beauty of Strathmore House. It took two years to build the impressive structure with all the labor handled by Valley craftsman utilizing only materials produced on the estate.
Strathmore was a delightful combination of Victorian charm and Southern comfort with an inviting wrap around porch and four acres of evergreens, flowering trees, and a stunning English garden. A cob
blestone pathway led from the house through the garden and onto a lovely gazebo overlooking the two hundred foot Meems Bottom Covered Bridge crossing the Shenandoah River.
Here everybody who was anybody in the Valley gathered for extravagant social events and conducting the business of the day but to the Wissler family it was home sweet home, at least that's what everybody thought. In reality, Strathmore was a house divided.
The patriarch of the Wissler clan was widower, Franklin Heiser Wissler (69) who lived at Strathmore with his son, Franklin Erb (42), daughter-in-law, Carrie (34), grandsons Franklin Hickman (11) and Harold Earnest (9). Carrie's brother, John Hickman and his wife Mary also lived in the same abode along with servants Mary Berry and Addy Lewis.
When the Wisslers purchased Strathmore in 1892, they believed that the five-bedroom mansion would be suitable to house the extended family. However, they soon learned that living in peaceful coexistence with so many people under one roof was an exercise in futility. Between Frank, Jr. and John's intense sibling rivalry and the constant bickering between their wives Strathmore had become more like a battlefield than a home.
Frank Sr.'s solution was to build a second home on the property far enough away from the main house to keep the peace. Even that led to another battle over which brother's family would inhabit the new house. They settled the matter in a card game that Frank, Jr. won. He elected to stay at Strathmore and sent his brother John and his immediate family to the newer, smaller, and less lavish quarters a half mile east of the mansion.
With the help of farmhands, John Levi Wissler (45), his wife Ada Bartlow (41), their children John Levi, Jr. (17), Mary Ada (21), and Maud (19), settled quickly into their new home.
Ada always believed, and no one could persuade her otherwise, that Frank, Jr. cheated in that card game, and she vowed to get even. Aided by John's considerable fortune she made certain that all the new amenities, imported furniture, custom draperies, and modern appliances received special attention in the social section of the Shenandoah Herald newspaper. In less than a year, she turned Wissler House into the talk of Mt. Jackson and often said to John, “This is one card game that Frank Wissler lost fair and square.”
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