Then the gunman turned his attention to Frank, Sr. “We're gonna start killing niggers if you don't get them out of here. What are you going do about it, boss man?”
Frank, Jr. realized that he was trembling so bad that the crate he was using as cover was shaking.
“Let me talk. Let me talk!” yelled Frank Heiser Wissler. “This madness must stop.”
“We've already shot two niggers. Better talk fast or we're going to shoot every one of them.”
“Tell me your gripe. What is it you want?”
“Here's my gripe you nigger lover!” At that instant, the angry man followed his insult with a shot that just missed Frank's head. “That was just a warning shot. If you don't give us what we want then next time, you won't be so lucky.
“Let the boss man speak his mind,” said another one of the gunmen.
Frank, Jr. remembered thinking that his dad was either the craziest man on earth or the most courageous. Even with the shot fired at his head Frank, Sr. continued to stand his ground.
“I'll talk as soon as you tend to those wounded men,” and then there was silence.
It was one thing to stand in front of an angry mob, but now Frank Wissler was making demands. Frank, Jr. said a prayer expecting the worst.
“Let us pass,” yelled several white workers who had gained the courage to follow Frank's instruction, presumably inspired by his refusal to give into their intimidation.
Thirty minutes after the uprising began there came another ruckus. The mob quickly dispersed as Major Magruder's militia swarmed the Furnace. Two mob leaders were arrested while others escaped to the safety of the rugged countryside. Of those who remained none was allowed to leave without interrogation.
Early the next day Frank again addressed the uninvited guests, and he offered them a deal. “I will fire the Negro workers if you will get me white men to fill their jobs. Immediately enough white workers stepped forward to seal the deal, and the black employees were fired.
Frank Jr. told his father that he felt sorry for the Negroes who were fired.
“The company always comes first. Always do what is in the best interest of the business. People matter but never more than the well-being of the business. Besides there are plenty of jobs out there. They'll have something new tomorrow.”
Although Frank Heiser Wissler lived to see another day he also made some enemies who vowed to get back at him one day. “You haven't heard the last of this. Better watch your back because one day you're gonna pay for being a nigger lover.”
Nothing had happened yet, but Frank, Jr. never forgot the threat. On the few occasions when he asked his father if he worried about what might happen he would say, “Ain't much good that comes from worrying about what might happen. Keep yourself busy making good things happen.”
When Frank, Jr. realized the late hour, he started to leave the room.
“Don't go leaving me now, “said Frank, Sr.
“You're awake.”
“What have we got to eat?” he asked. “I feel like I could eat something.
“Whatever you want,” said Frank, Jr. relieved that his father's condition was obviously improving. “How about some chicken broth?”
“And some of Miss Ruthy's sugar cookies,” said his father now mustering a smile. “Is the fruit cake ready yet?”
The Harvest - September 25, 1908
When the Wisslers purchased Strathmore farm in 1892, it had already gained the reputation as one of the leading farms in the Shenandoah Valley. Frank, Jr. first came to his father with the idea of converting from wheat and corn to apples in 1895, but Frank, Sr. called it a foolhardy idea. However, the word “no” was not in his eldest son's vocabulary and Frank, Jr. continued to persist.
Each time he approached Frank, Sr. he brought new evidence that apples would be considerably more profitable than grain. Frank, Jr. traveled all over the state and in particular to Winchester to learn everything there was to know about producing and managing a thriving apple orchard.
He ultimately devised a plan in which his father saw merit. The 1200 acre farm would be partitioned into ten 120 acre sections, and one section would go through a conversion per year. It takes five years to bring trees to production which meant that it would take fifteen years for all the land to be producing. There would still be sufficient income from wheat and corn sales to meet the financial obligations of the farm until the apple crop was turning a profit.
By the fall of 1908, Strathmore had realized Franklin Erb Wissler's vision by landing a contract to supply 6,000 barrels of apples to the Illinois Fruit Company. When his brother, John, heard about the size of the order he hit the roof.
“Even if there are 6,000 barrels on the trees we don't have enough workers to get it done. Our workers are already overworked. You have lost your ever-loving mind!”
Not one to shy away from a challenge Frank, Jr. inquired, “How many workers do we need?”
John did the math and offered up a number with a caveat. “It would take one hundred extra workers starting right away to do the job and even if you could get that many laborers, they are already stretched thin bringing in the harvest on their own farms. Just can't be done.”
Frank, Jr. didn't like to hear “can't” any more than he liked to hear “no.” In fact, he hated it. He began to write something on a piece of paper while John considered his intent. Moments later he threw the document at John. “Here, place this order right away. We've got work to do!”
On the paper, John saw a long list of supplies that would be needed by the workers to complete the project. What on earth is this? he thought. If he wants to destroy the business might as well let him.
As soon as Frank, Jr. arrived at Strathmore house he placed a phone call to a printer in Edinburg. “How quick can you make me two hundred posters?” “That ain't fast enough.” “How fast can you get it done if I double your money?”
Early next morning Frank, Jr. returned to the orchard, hitched up a wagon, and solicited the assistance of five workers. Without explanation, he told the men, “We're going to Edinburg. Hang on.”
A large horse-drawn wagon is not known for its speed, but that made no difference to Frank, Jr. His riders held on for dear life as he negotiated the crooks, turns and potholes leading to Edinburg.
Once in town he stopped in front of the print shop and ran inside. Moments later he came out carrying a big box of posters. For the remainder of the day he and his companions hung posters throughout Shenandoah County from Mt. Jackson to Tom's Brook and the surrounding countryside.
“Apple Harvest at Strathmore. Start Work On Monday. Get Paid Monday. Come Back Tuesday. Get Paid On Tuesday. Get Paid Every Day Until the Job is Done. We Pay Top Dollar. 100 Workers Needed Per Day.”
True enough, it was a busy season for local farmers but the promise of quick cash was too good to ignore. By seven o'clock Monday morning, Franklin Erb Wissler had more than enough hired hands to meet his needs and by eight he was turning workers away. “Try again tomorrow but get here early,” he would tell the rejects.
Bill and 11-year-old Charlie Polk were fortunate enough to make it to Strathmore in time for inclusion in the workforce. With the other newly hired workers, they were issued ladders, bags, and buckets and then assigned sections of the orchard to work.
Frank, Jr. had enlisted the services of his entire family to supervise the effort. Seventy-year-old Frank Heiser Wissler helped register the incoming workers. Ada and Carrie looked after those assigned to inspecting the apples. John, Jr. directed his regular work crew to assign duties to the temporary pickers. Even twelve-year-old Frank III got involved by showing the workers where to carry the apples.
And Frank, Jr.'s brother John, well he sucked up his pride, apologized for rejecting the idea, and imagined the excitement of telling his influential friends and acquaintances about how he accomplished the impossible. People will be talking about this for years, he thought.
John was on the Board of Director's for Shenandoah
National Bank, and he knew all the employees at the Mt. Jackson office. When withdrawing funds sufficient to make the day's payroll he made it a point to tell the clerk and the manager about the big doings at Strathmore.
Among the hired hands at Strathmore Orchard, there were no stragglers, no loafers, and no ne'er-do-wells. Everyone worked hard, and the atmosphere was festive, even fun.
“Charlie Polk, is that you I see up in that tree?”
Charlie looked down from the top of the ladder to see his old friend Frank Wissler III.
“Hey, Frank. Long time no see.”
“Why don't you come on down from there Charlie and help me do some supervising?”
Charlie gladly accepted the invitation but as he started down the ladder, his father ordered him to stop.
“Where do you think you're going, boy?”
“Frank asked me to help him.”
“You ain't running off with no kid. This ain't play time.”
“It's alright, sir. I'm Frank Wissler III and this is my family's orchard.”
“You mean to tell me you're my boss,” snarled Bill. “Now if that don't beat all.”
Charlie grinned from ear to ear wondering which authority figure he should obey.
“Come on, Charlie,” urged Frank. “There's lots to be done.”
As Charlie scampered down the ladder, he could hear his dad mutter something under his breath. “You and me will settle up later, boy.”
“So, what all does a supervisor do?” inquired Charlie.
“Ain't all that hard. You just tell people what to do. It's the easiest job out here.”
“I reckon I can handle that,” Charlie said while Bill continued to gripe.
I'll supervise your sorry self when I get you home, thought Bill.
It didn't take long for it to occur to Charlie that he was now his dad's boss but decided it would be best just to keep that thought to himself. Wouldn't it be something if he could make his father work hard all day with no supper? Maybe then he would know how that feels.
“Sure have missed seeing you and Mable and Priscilla at school,” said Charlie as they walked briskly down a path leading out of the orchard.
“I ain't been back either,” said Frank III.
“No kidding. What happened?”
“Mama and Daddy hired a private teacher for me and my brother, Harold.”
“How about that. So that just leaves Mable and Priscilla.”
“Yep. Wonder how that's working out? Priscilla's probably got Mable in some kind of trouble by now.”
“Yeah,” laughed Charlie. “I can still see Freddie Updike hopping up and down when Cilla stuffed a bullfrog down his skivvies.”
Now at the main barn Frank III explained the operation. “The good apples go over there, get washed in the processing bin, and then get stored in shipping barrels on the loading dock. Labels on the barrels show the different varieties. I'm partial to the Granny Smiths. The bad apples are carried over there to that big old press and squeezed into cider. Drink too much of that stuff and it'll give you the backdoor trots.”
“I heard that. So, what do you want me to do?” asked Charlie excited by the bustling operation.
“We've got eight wagons going in and out of the fields, and the drivers must be directed to the proper field. Take these here cards numbered one through ten. When an empty wagon comes out of the barn, hold up the next number. Then they'll know which field to go to next.”
“Sounds easy enough. How long you expect you'll be needing workers?”
“Daddy says if this many workers keep showing up we should be done in a week.”
A barn door opened behind the boys. “Hey, little Frank. Who's your friend?” called Frank, Sr. walking their way.
“This here's my old friend Charlie Polk from Stover School.”
“Please to make your acquaintance Charlie Polk. What you think of our little orchard?”
“Never seen nothing like it,” said Charlie as a worker led a horse into the barn.
Their conversation was interrupted by an angry man who was cussing like a sailor while attempting to pull a horse into the barn.
“Mr. Frank, we got us a problem,”
“What's going on?” inquired Frank removing his hat.
“The old girl give out. Can't get her to pull her load.”
“Every horse in the stable is working today. We'll have to do without her,” said Frank. “Maybe she's just getting ornery.”
“Mind if I have a look?” said Charlie as he circled the horse and patted her head gently while looking into her eyes. He then hugged the horse and appeared to be whispering something in her ear. Frank III and the two men stepped out of Charlie's way stunned by his strange behavior.
“What's her name?” asked Charlie still hugging the animal.
“Hannah,” said the worker.
Again, Charlie walked around the horse, picked up an apple from a barrel, and fed it to the animal. “She don't like the way you been treating her,” said Charlie, which prompted Frank, Sr. to laugh.
“Did she just tell you that?” said the worker sarcastically.
“She wants another driver. Switch drivers and she'll go back to work,” said Charlie as his audience grew irritated with what they perceived as nonsense. Even Frank III was embarrassed at Charlie's behavior.
Charlie’s suggestion that the problem was the driver and not the horse resulted in another cursing tirade from the worker. “Ain’t got time for this nonsense. Got work to do.”
“Suit yourself,” said Charlie as he inspected a wound on Hannah’s left side and then he glared at the man. “Animals don’t like whippings any more than people do. Mr. Wissler, if you need a good day's work out of Hannah then hitch her to somebody else's wagon. If it was up to me, I would be finding me another driver.”
The man had heard enough and just as he pulled back his arm to slap Charlie, Frank Wissler intervened. “We’ll be having none of that. Grab you a bucket and go pick some apples. And for God’s sake, get that temper under control or we won’t be needing your services around here anymore.”
Frank had a new problem. In addition to an unproductive horse he was now without a driver. “Charlie, you reckon you could get her to work for you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Charlie while patting the horse. “You’ll work with me, won’t you Hannah?”
“Hitch her up and let’s see what you can do,” said Frank.
For the first time in Charlie’s life he was doing something that made him feel important. He was particularly excited when he was directed to drive his wagon into the field where his father was working. Maybe now his daddy would be proud of him. But, true to form, Bill Polk showed no interest in his son. When Charlie tried to talk to him, Bill didn’t say a word, dumped his apples in the bed of the wagon, and walked away.
Just before sundown the workers were called out of the field and paid their wages. Charlie caught up with his dad and as the two headed for their wagon Frank III called out to Charlie to stop. “Wait. Got somebody who wants to talk to you.”
Bill and Charlie Polk turned around and saw Frank III and another man walking their way.
“Who'd you piss off today, boy?” growled Bill.
“Daddy, this here's the boy granddaddy was telling you about.”
“Frank Erb Wissler, Jr. is my name.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wissler,” said Bill with uncharacteristic politeness. “Bill Polk's my name. Sorry, if the boy caused you any trouble today.”
“Trouble?” replied Frank, Jr. smiling. “He actually saved us from trouble. If not for him we would have had a wagon out of service today and that would have cost us valuable time and money. Frank, Sr. told me that you just took matters into your own hands. Just wanted to thank you personally.”
“Thank you, sir. It wasn't nothing.”
“That's a good boy you have there Mr. Polk,” said Frank, Jr. as he pulled a dollar from his pocket. “Here's a little something to show m
y appreciation.”
“Wow, thanks,” replied Charlie.
“Hope I can count on you fellows showing up tomorrow.”
Charlie looked at his dad to get his reaction. “Yes, sir. Be here bright and early.
“Glad to hear it. You all get you some rest and have a good evening.”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate the work.”
“See you tomorrow, Charlie,” said Frank III.
As the two Franks headed back to the barn, Charlie couldn’t help but notice that the father had put his arm over his son’s shoulder, hugging him as they walked. Wonder what it would feel like to be loved like that? thought Charlie.
Bill Polk popped Charlie on the back of his head. “Get your butt in the wagon and give me my money,” and then he snatched the dollar from Charlie's hand. “Maybe you'll go poking your nose into business that ain't yours tomorrow and make me some more money.”
Who's Your Daddy? - May 1908
The summer of 1908 was a miserable time at Strathmore. Everyone in the household was continually on edge and at each other’s throats because they weren't getting any sleep. Peaceful slumber had been replaced by all night screaming from two colicky babies.
Carrie was particularly put out by the state of the household because she now had to do the chores typically handled by the maid who just happened to be the mother of one of the newborns. Frank, Sr. and son ridiculed Carrie's unfortunate lack of cooking skills. However, they quickly learned that complaining about the unsavory cuisine made Mrs. Wissler even harder to tolerate.
The only members of the household who had gained some benefit from the unseemly circumstances were Frank III and Harold because their teacher was unable to perform her duties.
Back in October when John, Jr. brought his friend home from school and persuaded Frank, Jr. and Carrie to hire her as a private teacher for the children, there was yet another important detail to his request. Marie Johnson was with child.
In those days, it was disgraceful to be an unwed mother. If a girl became pregnant, she was sent away in the hopes of avoiding a scandal. In fact, the word “pregnant” was considered improper and never used. A woman was either “with child” or “in a family way.” If she was unmarried, then both she and her child were considered the lowest life forms of society. One day, when and if she could find a husband, she may then be allowed to return home. No such rules applied to the men involved in conception.
In the Valley of Hope Page 3
