The following reports are taken from
The Calhoun Chronicle archives:
When the smoky haze is o’er the
valley at twilight, white Americans seem to see in
it the council smoke of the red man, and call it
To the Indian, however, it is
“lazy-farmer time,” and his explanation of the name
and time is like this:
The Great Spirit sends the warm suns
of fall to ripen the corn and the pumpkins, and as
they turn golden he causes the leaves to fall to
show the Indian and the squirrels that harvest time
is at hand.
Most of the farmers and the animals
heed this warning and hasten to the work of harvest,
but there are some lazy humans and animals who
always say, “I shall do that tomorrow.”
So, to awaken these lazy folks,
Great Spirit calls on the North Wind to send down a
real blast and this makes the lazy folks realize
that winter is at hand and they have no harvested
stores. The lazy man and animal look upward for pity
and then the Great Spirit sends a few warm days so
that the lazy folks can do their delayed tasks.
After that comes the winter, and woe
betide that lazy man who did not catch the real
meaning of Indian summer.
More information has been received
concerning the line which Western Union Telegraph
Co. proposes to serve the Grantsville area.
In a letter to R.C. Flemming,
president of Rubber Fabricators, Inc., Grantsville,
district manager R.V. Warren told Flemming that a
teleprinter would be installed in the local plant’s
office. He said that all necessary equipment had
been ordered and installation could be expected by
the middle of next month.
Warren said that his company
intended to open an office for the benefit of the
people of Grantsville and vicinity. It would be
located in the Citizens Telephone Co. building, and
would give people the benefit of sending and
receiving telegrams without telephoning Spencer.
Pa took a match from off the
mantelpiece, struck it on the hearth, and put the
blaze to wood in the fireplace. It was a mid-June
day, but Ma said it was damp and cold in the room.
As Pa raised up from kindling the
fire, Ma said, “You’d better go fetch Aunt Bet.”
Aunt Bet lived at the foot of the
mountain. She never rode a horse, always walking,
carrying a stick as tall as she was, when she made
her rounds delivering babies and helping the sick.
“I’m too fat to sit side-saddle, and
I’m not about to wear breeches just to straddle a
Aunt Bet, as I recall, was born a
Gainer, but married a Wilson. She was born when the
Civil War was going on and had learned the art of a
midwife when doctors were scarce and difficult to
obtain. She knew the herbs that grew in the field
and forest, how to mix them into a tea, and how to
apply them to certain ailments.
In the early days, settlers had to
rely on medicines such as herbs and those they could
obtain in a country store, such as turpentine, Epson
salts, Yeager’s liniment, and castor oil. Whenever
it was time for a baby, Aunt Bet was summoned.
It was on that June day long ago
that I was born.
As I grew older, I remember seeing
her. She walked with a slight bend, slowly, but with
her face toward some designated place where a sick
person waited her coming. Aunt Bet passed away many
years ago. She was laid in the churchyard near her
Like Aunt Bet, many customs of our
fore parents have passed away. Too many politicians,
too many laws have deprived us of certain freedoms
our forefathers had. Perhaps some burdens were
relieved, but between the doctor and the midwife
there is a financial gulf as wide as the
Mississippi--and getting wider every day.