Our Wedding Day and WW II

I remember that eventful hot day July 24, 1941 when Helen, my pretty young bride to be, who was not as nervous as me, along with mother, went to Huntsville, Alabama in our old sick 1936 Chevy, where I was first subjected to a blood test to detect venereal disease, girls didn't have such things back then, you know. Then we went to the courthouse, into Judge Jones' chambers and were duly married. After wrestling with our sick Chevy to Huntsville and back, having just been given a lovely new bride, I too, like the old car was sick from simple nervous exhaustion. "Indeed a day to remember."

When we married, we had every reason in the world not to marry and only one to marry, that one was "we loved each other," that cancelled out all the others. When we married, I had no job, World War II was going in earnest. The draft was on the way. People everywhere were going to the big cities hiring in to the defense plants. Dad had gone north, working his way up through Kentucky and Indiana towards Chicago.

Much talk on the radio (no TV then you know) about us getting into the war, storm clouds rolling in, much to worry about, unsettling times but we were so young and in love that we had no thought of not succeeding. Just wanted to be together. History repeats itself every generation.

I graduated from Nashville Aircraft School in the fall of 1940 as an Aircraft Sheet Metal Mechanic, schooled in reading blueprints, making templates, forming metals, riveting, etc. The aircraft plants were all on the west coast except Vultee in Nashville and they were not hiring, so what to do. Well, they were building Camp Forrest at Tullahoma. Some from Lincoln were working as laborers. Dad and I checked in at the employment office. I applied as sheet metal mechanic, dad as carpenter. We were hired and worked that hard cold winter helping to build Camp Forrest. It was the coldest, wettest, muddiest place on earth. We went back and forth each day from Lincoln, Fayetteville, Mulberry, Lynchburg, on by where Motlow College now stands, on to Tullahoma. A snowy cold, icy winter but the pay was good. The job cut some of my mid-week visits to see my sweetheart Helen. By the time we got home at night, it was 8 o'clock and had to hit the road at 6am. The jobs were completed in the spring of 41. Dad decided the place to go was north towards Chicago to sample the employment situation and report back.

It began to look like I had no chance at a decent job in Lincoln County and I needed a job in defense to get a deferment when I registered for the draft. We wanted to get married and I had no desire to be drafted as a foot soldier, if we should get into the war as it appeared we would. So we began to make tentative plans to marry when we got a report on the job situation from dad, our scout in Chicago.

1940 - Just before Tim and Helen were married.

Dad arrived in Chicago July 16, 1941, eight days before we married. He had worked his way up through Kentucky and Indiana doing odd jobs to pay his way. He had never been north of the Mason-Dixon Line. He had heard from others that the best way to get a job in Chicago was to go to an employment office. Dad paid O'Shea Employment Agency $10.00 for a $60.00 a month job at St. Luke's Hospital working in the kitchen. Meals free. He found by reading the want-ads in the Tribune that work was available on all fronts, not always what you would have liked, but it paid better than no job at all back home.

A New Beginning

The First Thirty Years Continues...

On July 24, 1941 Timothy Richard Marsh and Helen Joe Crawford were married in Huntsville, Alabama, in the courthouse by Judge Jones, in his private chambers.

Helen Crawford Marsh and Timothy Richard Marsh

I will interrupt the chronology of events here to give a brief background of our meeting and a brief genealogy of Helen's family.

Helen Crawford Marsh, the bride, was born November 21,1921 in the village of Flintville, down the lane toward the creek, on what was once the Yost place. This was where Helen and her brother, Lee Earl, grew up. Helen attended grade school in the old school down on the creek near the Flintville Baptist Church. She started to Flintville High School in the fall of 1936 along with me. We were the first class in the new school. Somehow I managed to be elected president of the senior class and editor of the school paper the "Kidoodler." Helen was secretary and typist. She played basketball during part of her tenure there. Some of the teachers boarded with Mrs. Jennie Braden, Helen's grandmother.

Helen and I were attracted to each other during our senior year, correction, seriously attracted, we became engaged May 10, while rehearsing our senior play "Aunt Susie Shoots the Works," that we gave May 15, 1940. This special event took place behind the curtains, in the east wing of the stage, at Flintville High School.

Helen's grandmother Jennie found out that I was a grandson of Lelia Beasley Marsh, her close friend while they both lived near Delina in Marshall County, Tennessee before and after their marriages, she to Harvy Braden and my grandmother to M.G. (Mike) Marsh. After that she was on my side. I made the eighteen mile round trip to Flintville for over a year, until our marriage. Wonderful time in our young lives.

Helen's father was Henry Clark Crawford (1897-1953), a N.C. & St. Louis Railroad section foreman, born at Howell, Tennessee. He was son of William Robert Crawford, grandson of Joseph Crawford, great grandson of Williiam (1780-1859) the first to come to Tennessee and Lincoln County. This William was son of William (1744-1792) a Patriot of the Revolution from Augusta County, Virginia, who was son of Alexander and Mary McPheeters Crawford from County Donegal or Tyrone Ireland, who came to Pennsylvania about 1730 and to Augusta County, Virginia in 1740. The Crawfords originally came from Scotland, around Crawford John. Alexander and Mary, the emigrants, were massacred by the hostile Indians in August 1764 near Churchville, Virginia. All were Presbyterians.

Helen's mother was Vertna Mae Braden (1902-1990) born at Ostella, Marshall County, Tennessee, daughter of Harvy and Jennie Ray Braden. She was the granddaughter of John W. Braden (1804-1871) who was born in South Carolina and probably came to western Lincoln County, Tennessee with his mother Cassandra in the early 1800s.

A more detailed account of our ancestors may be found in the book Lincoln Community that we edited in 1988. [I will share from that publication in the future]

Places around Lincoln - Part 3

This is the last section of places listed on the Lincoln Map (See May 17 post).

The Old House at Lincoln

Number 33
The Rush Place. Mr. Woodie and Mrs. Rush moved from across the creek, where they had been our neighbors, to the next farm above us on the opposite side of the road two or three years after we built our house. Woodie was not privileged to a formal education. He could not read or write but he had a deep desire to become a "radiotrician," a term coined by the N. R. I., a radio correspondence school. Woodie enrolled in the N. R. I. home study course. As he could not read or write, Ruth studied the course, reading them to him and filling out his exam papers. I have a few of the text lessons he studied back then in the 1930's. Along with Woodie these simple lessons whetted my appetite to study the deep mysteries of radio and later to consider going to radio school As Ruth studied the lessons with Woodie, by the time he graduated, she too had a good working knowledge of radio servicing. There was a parallel here as later when I was going to Coyne, Helen typed my class notes for my master workbook. So by doing so she too gained a general working knowledge of radio.

The Rushes had a house full of girls. "I lost count." I think I got my first insight about girls by associating with the Rush girls while growing up.

Reflections
Here I end all of the descriptive numbered details of Lincoln. Reflecting back upon my youth in this rural community, one of the things that stands out in my memory, is that like all small communities we knew every person in the area for some miles around. It was like one huge family made up of all possible personalities and classes, wealthy, middle, poor and dirt poor, good, bad, and trash, we knew all of them, warts and all.

Remembrances
I remember the crash of '29. I was 8 years old. We had no money to lose. Helen's grandmother Braden did lose her savings in a Fayetteville Bank. She was always understandably bitter at old man Eslick in the bank and Hoover who was the"do nothing President," who fiddled while the country sank into the depths of despair. Two wheel Hoover cards drawn by starving horses is a picture engraved in my mind when I think of the depression. Not a pleasant memory.

I also remember during the great depression (nothing great about it), the unfortunates came by just about every day, with overcoats on, even in summer, all their possessions on their back, a lost, desperate, but apologetic look on their face as they politely knocked on our back, never front, door. I remember mother never said no, never turning one away without a dipper of cool water, a glass of buttermilk, a piece of cornbread, a sweet potato that she daily baked and kept in the oven of the old wood stove, for us and the unfortunates who passed our way. Most of them were not tramps or beggars but were good American who had been abandoned by an administration that even then held to the time worn trickle down theory. History repeats its self, doesn't it?

Blanche Marsh at the House in Lincoln

R. A. Marsh at the House in Lincoln

I remember the old rickety peddling truck with the coal oil tank on the back and the chicken coops on the top that came down the dusty road twice a week. I remember buying coal oil for our two lamps and flour and sugar for thickening gravy and the tea cakes, or molasses cookies, this in exchange for a chicken or two from our flock.

I remember my 9th birthday in 1930, when mother caught one of our chickens (chickens were our only cash crop) exchanged it for a box of animal crackers and a box of Cracker Jacks with a frog snapper inside as a prize. My birthday present, I understood.

I remember when a dozen eggs brought six cents and remember when dad and I cut and hauled wood for a dollar a rick, a gallon of gasoline cost eleven cents, when a shiny new Chevy cost $533.00.

I remember when Christmas by necessity was two oranges, two apples, a bag of sugar orange slices and best of all an aviator cap with ear flaps and plastic goggles. I understood, as most of my friends were in the same boat. We had been in hard times so long that we youngsters began to think this was normal.

I remember dad and mother purchased a used 1928 Chevy in 1936 and none of us had ever driven a car. I remember teaching mother to drive, I was 15 and could not be licensed. I had never driven but I had known for years how to shift and clutch. After mother learned, we taught dad, but he never drove as much as mother. They purchased the car to go into the fruit tree and nursery selling business for Mr. Underwood and Will Flanders in McMinnville. Of course, I being 15 going on 16, was glad to get some wheels in the family.

I remember when in 1932, F. D. R. was elected overwhelmingly over Hoover who at that time was the most hated president in history. He was pragmatic, believed the the government had absolutely no place in extending help to the people in their time of need. Handle it, handle it, handle it, don't bother me.

I remember when F. D. R. was elected and when the New Deal with its massive jobs programs under the National Recover Act (NRA), that included a nation wide jobs program under the W. P. A. and C. C. C. - gave hope to a desperate nation. Looking back now those days seem so distant, yet sometimes so close, like yesterday.

Places around Lincoln - Part 2

Sharing more places around Lincoln, Tennessee as recalled by my grandfather Tim Marsh.

Number 27
Pryor's Mill, abandoned before my time. Lincoln was once called Pryor's Mill long before the Civil War. Passed here on the way to Pickett's when the creek was up over the foot logs during the rainy season.

Tim Marsh and Orville Pickett 1939

Number 28

Tom Delap Cotton Gin. We carried our cotton here to be ginned, getting to the grounds by three in the morning, before the line got too long.

Number 29

This was the Presbyterian Manse. It was here that frequent wiener and marshmallow roasts were held during the pastorship of Rev. Walter Quinn. Governor, as I was called, was always in attendance at all these functions with shoes shined and Vitalis on my hair.

Number 30

Dumping Ground. In this field, when I was about 14 or 15 years old, dad and I were dumped under a wagon load of corn fodder about 10 o'clock one Fall night, after the dew had fallen, so we could work the fodder. We had the fodder piled about eight feet above the frame and we were on top, dad in front with the reins, me stretched out on the back looking for the north star, heading for the barn. It was a harvest moon night but not light enough to see the hole that had washed out from the last rain - wheel in hole - wagon tongue snaps - fodder on top - mules going to the barn dragging the tongue behind them. Not a good day for the Marshes. Many arrow heads and fossils found here when plowed.

Number 31

Barrons. Pronounced "Barns," locally by the natives. It was a vast area of small white oak trees with huckleberry bushes everywhere and plenty of copper heads, never been cleared except by burning, abundance of wild turkeys here in the 20's and 30's during the winter time. Each Fall the Barrons would catch fire either by lightning or carelessness of man. All the farmers in the area would converge on the Barrons with hoes, shovels, rakes and wet tow-sacks to establish back fire lines and extinguish the fires. It was always an eerie sight from our back porch at night.

The Marsh Family in the 1930's
L-R: Michael Goodrum Marsh, Lelia Beasley Marsh, Timothy R.Marsh (front),
Richard Austin Marsh (back), Blanche Marsh, Maybelle Hardin (Grady's wife) and Grady Marsh

Number 32

J. J. Dunston Place. Mother and dad purchased their small farm from Mr. Dunston. Mr. Nelson later purchased this place. Mr. Nelson was not cut out for farming but he was a devoted Associate Reformed Presbyterian. He moved out from Fayetteville to become a gentleman farmer. This was no place for a gentleman farmer in the 1930's. he had a son Ed. who was a Southern Presbyterian preacher. He pastored at our church for a time. The thing that impressed me the most about Bro. Ed. was his shiny new Model A Ford that I was privileged to ride in to and from church as he passed by our house on the way to his father and mother's. My impression was that this will be the best car ever made and they would make this car forever with no possible improvements.

The elder Nelson had a daughter, Frances, who taught me French in high school, a waste of time. Mr. Nelson was close with his money, who wasn't. He found out that my mother was a pretty good barber so he would drop down and hint he sure needed a hair cut. Mother would sit him on the front porch and trim him up with her clippers. Other recipients of her generosity were me, dad, granddad, Johnny B. Marsh, Bob Mansfield, Mr. Dunston, Woodie Rush and Bro. Snell.

Mr. Nelson, as I remember, was so frugal that when he carried a three cell flash light to church with him at night, on the way walking home, he would only use the light switched on a few seconds at a time to conserve the batteries. He looked like a huge lightning bug going down the road. Often during the hot summer, drought would be upon us and the Elders and family would go to church at night after supper to pray for rain. Mr. Nelson would always holler for us on the way down to the church and we would all go down together. He would always bring his umbrella with him even if there was not a cloud in the sky. As far as I know, his umbrella never got wet.

Mother had a pioneering spirit. She helped build houses, worked in the fields, cut wood, cooked, washed, milked the cows, killed snakes and climbed the roof to put out a roof fire when a defective flue caught it on fire. If it needed to be done, she did it.

R. A. Marsh and Blanche Marsh 1935

A Young Richard A. Marsh

A Young Timothy R. Marsh

Places around Lincoln - Part 1

The next few paragraphs tell more about some of the home places, stores, and mills in and around Lincoln. They are marked on the map (See May 17 post).

Number 13
The Smith Water Mill, located on the branch called Cottrell, (once Pugh), about a half mile west of our house on the Old Goshen Road. The mill was build by Mr. Rozell about the time of the Civil War, was later run by Beavers. We all pronounced the name RAW-ZULL. In my childhood was run by Arthur Smith.

Mr. Arthur and Sarah were Yankees from Pennsylvania. I knew them well. They were staunch Northern Presbyterian who joined the ARP Church. While strong supporters, their ideas often clashed with the more southern philosophy of the other members. It was to this mill that I carried my first "turn of corn." The term "turn" as then used by all, meaning to transform from corn to meal. Old Jude was always my beast of burden. A horse powered sorghum mill with cooking pans were located across the road form the mill. We had our cane processed into molasses here. During the depression molasses was an important food and used liberally by all. The old wooden overshot wheel, powered by a holding pond and race from Cottrell's Spring was replaced in the early 1900's by Mr. Tom Beavers, then owner of the mill. He purchased the mill from Sears-Roebuck in kit form, picked it up in wagons at Brighton near Flintville, hauled it home, assembled it on the spot, breaking his arm in the process. The mill house and wheel are still standing today, having been converted into a residence.

Number 14
Old Williams' Place on the New Hope Road. It was at this place while grandfather and grandmother Marsh lived there (1923-24) that I remember seeing my great grandfather John W. Marsh, just before his death. He had a long white beard reminding me of a sketch of Moses.

John W. Marsh (1835-1923) and wife Sarah Louisiana Davis (1848-1918)

John W. Marsh and his wife Sarah Louisiana Davis

Number 15

Old Jim Stephenson Place. Grandfather Mike and grandmother Lelia Beasley Marsh once lived here. He ran a print shop and I often turned the huge fly wheel while he fed the press. I was fascinated at the wonderful masterpieces that came out of the mouth of this monster. It was here that I saw grand-dad clear a five foot fence, shuck his trousers when a black racer snake went up his pants leg. They moved from here to a tar paper house, that mother and dad built for them on our place above our house.

Michael G. Marsh Property

Number 16

Grandmother Lelia Marsh died here in 1939. She was a good grandmother. They had moved here when grandaddy Mike had a tiff with dad.

Annie Lelia Beasley (1876-1939)

Number 17

Grissom's Store. This was run by old Mr. Grissom, later by his son-in-law Charles Ross Kennedy. It was here that I heard my first prize fight, Jimmy Braddock and Max Smelling, here I had my first Coca Cola, Strawberry Nehi, had my first Baby Ruth, Snickers Bar, put roasted peanuts in a RC Cola, ate a Moon Pie, pitched at the crack, sold our first rick of stove wood we had cut from the wod lot back of the house to buy a stand of lard, made my first phone call on an old wall crank phone, purchased my first gallon of gasoline for 11 cents to go see Helen in our old used Chevy, purchase gasoline here for the 36 Chevy for Helen and I to go to Huntsville to get married in 1941.

When I was in 7th grade in school, located just above the store, on hot September days our teacher, Neb. Jones would send me down to the store to get him a Coke. He averaged four a day. He would proceed to drink the cold icy Coke in front of the class as we sat with parched throats, torture at it's worst.

Number 18
Dad leased this land for cotton for two years.

Number 19
My friend Buddy Shelton lived here.

Number 20
My friend Shirley Bain lived here.

Number 21
My friend Clayton Rutledge lived here.

Number 22
Here dad picked up a bundle of corn tops in the field in 1938 and a copper head snake slithered out. Not sure who was more shocked that day.

Number 23
Got hair cut here by Tommy Jones, the day before Helen and I got married.

Number 24
Charles Ross Kennedy Store. Often walked to this store to catch the school bus to Flintville High School. It, at that time was Towery Store, at the time I was born it was run by Steve Mitchell.

Number 25
Old Horse Shoe ground, where great games were played, lots of tobacco chewing and spitting.

Number 26
Used this lane as a short cut from home to school.

The Picketts

Number 12 on the map is labeled "Picketts."

My grandfather shares his memories...

"Ah yes Picketts." To go to Picketts was an adventure in itself. It entailed going up the New Hope road, cross the first branch past the first curve, go right into the dense woods, crossing several foot logs that spanned Flint River and it's sloughs, finally crossing the old race dug by John Pryor in 1820 to feed his mill located near the bridge, on the Vantown road, passing the spring where Pickett got their water and where Mrs. Pickett kept her milk and butter, on a short distance to their old house that sat flat on the ground a short distance from the river. Edgar and Higby Pickett, who were first cousins, had five sons, Dan, S.T., Edgar (Pots), Charles (Morty) and Orville (Frog Eye).

Charles (Morty) and Orville Picketts were two of my best friends. They owned a couple of flat bottom boats that they kept on the river, or creek as we always called it, that they used to fish in, run trot lines, go frogging in and to play in. Most of my gang that I will call the Lincoln Mafia, for like of a better word, were the aforementioned Pickett brothers, Jack Simms, Buddy Shelton, Shirley Bain, Harold Stevenson, Clayton Rutledge who we called "Sugar," Charles Mills whom we called "Lardo," and myself that they all called "Governor." I was given the name by the Pickett brothers, as when a decision was to be made or activities coordinated, they would say ask the Governor - so the title just kind of stuck. When I had a mutual friend in Nashville call Morty Pickett recently (1993), to see if he was the right Pickett, so I could call and talk to him, the friend Wayne Stafford, who was raised at Lincoln, said to Morty on the phone, "I am inquiring about your welfare from an old friend of yours that was raised in Lincoln." Question by Pickett: "What is his name?" Answer by Stafford: "Timothy Marsh." Answer by Pickett: "Oh for God's sake you mean the Governor! Haven't seen him for forty years."

The Lincoln Mafia was on the river most of the weekends, swimming, fishing, frogging, boating or ginseng hunting. We would put the ginseng roots on an old tin roof, cure it and carry it to Fayetteville on Saturday and sell it to a fur dealer on West College Street. About this time we killed a big rattler while hunting ginseng in Teel Hollow between Kelso and Crystal Springs. We cut the 12 rattlers off, carried them to Fayetteville the next Saturday to the Fayetteville Observer Office and we got a write-up in the paper. [I tried to locate this article, but was not successful.]

The Picketts though poor, like most of us then during the Great Depression, were the most hospitable people I ever knew.

Blanche Marsh and Timothy R. Marsh at the house in Lincoln.

The Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church

"Number 8" from the Lincoln County Map (see post from May 17) shows where the Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church was located.

Below are pictures of "then" and "now."

The Old Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church at Lincoln

The Lincoln Memorial A.R. Presbyterian Church

My grandfather's story from The First Thirty Years biography are as follows:

We went to church here. It was the Associate Reformed Presbyterian, a blue stocking Presbyterian denomination that was a reformed group formed in South Carolina that believed in singing Psalms. Dad, Mother and I joined in 1923, I believe under the pastorship of Rev. Snell, a big tall man with a kind heart and hands as big as a country ham. He was a Champion of the Poor. He drove an old Model T. Ford and visited all over the area culling and even the infidels and bootleggers welcomed him into their homes. Each Sunday afternoon after church at Lincoln, Bro. Snell, dad, mother and myself would go to Quick school house west of Lincoln, in his Model T and hold services. There was a deep mud hole in the road just off the Goshen road, there was no way to go around it, just aim down the middle, give it gas and hang on. We always got stuck in the mud. After a couple of times doing this, Edgar Brown who lived in a log house on the hill above the mud hole began to hook up his team of white nose mules and wait for us to come by so he would be ready to pull us out. He never went to church, this was his contribution to the Lord's Work. I took up the collection, handed out the Psalm books and funeral home fans in the hot months. I was about seven when this started, by the age of ten was reading the scripture before his sermon. As dad would say, "he was a good man."

Dad was an Elder in the Lincoln Church, mother was a Beginners Sunday School (we then called it Sabbath) teacher. As previously stated, the congregation sang Psalms, with piano or pump organ accompaniment. The mothers publicly breast fed their babies during the service, a practice that was accepted by this rather conservative church. There was one problem, one woman, well endowed, delighted in feeding her baby boy numerous times during the services. She nearly foundered the little sucker. As I recall, some of the sisters talked to their husbands, who were elders, about the problem but they appeared slow to pick up on it, or perhaps they wanted the diversion from the dull sermons, what ever, the subject was never brought up in session. To add to the exasperating problem, the baby had a burp that could be heard all the way to Smith's water-mill a mile away. Whether by divine intervention or otherwise, the problem was solved when they started going to the Methodist Church up the road.

I have fond memories of the community Christmases held at the church, real cedar tree with popcorn strings. By necessity of the times, the gifts were inexpensive and limited.

It was here that on one Sabbath morning, during a revival meeting, Brother Lauderdale, a renown revival preacher from Erskin College at Due West, South Carolina, failed to completely knock out his old crooked stem pipe when he put it back in his pocket after intermission, as he began to pray the smoke began to boil up, he cut short his communion with God to take care of more pressing problems. He had no serious burns, only a bruised ego. But as dad would say, "but he was a good man."

I sang in the choir and was youth leader and soloist. Mother was often song leader when Bro. Nelson, a neighbor up the road from us, was away. Each Easter we had egg hunts for the children behind the church, then kind of a thicket, where the new section of the graveyard is now located. I was not too good at egg hunting and soon found that it really didn't matter because the lady promoters of the event always had a sack of candy eggs that they would give out to the backward ones who did not find any real eggs, besides I wasn't too keen on eating eggs that someone else had boiled, having once gotten one that was kind of runny.

Mother and dad, Mr. R.A. and Mrs. Blanche, were laid to rest in the cemetery beside the church, in the Marsh plot, dad in 1980 and mother in 1992.

Summer Fun in Lincoln, Tennessee - 1930's Style

There were three places my grandfather mentioned in The First Thirty Years that he and his friends played as a youngster. See the map from May 15 post for the location (numbers 9, 10 and 11).

Number 9

Bucks Mill Pond. The community swimming hole where I learned to swim. This was the "Poor Man's" corn pone community recreation park. Back in the 30's it was equipped with a convenient leaning tree, with a steel cable and hoe handle that had been installed by Tip Stewart, who lived near-by. It was on this contraption that the older boys performed miraculous acrobatics to the envy of us younger ones.

Us younger boys were exposed to our first burlesque shows when the young men of courting age with their girls, with morals beyond reproach and children of our most respected families of this community on occasion go skinny dipping in the pond, while us younger boys hid in the bushes with eyes bugged out, this practice of playing super spy ended abruptly when Jack Simms crouched down buck naked behind some bushes in a patch of poison ivy. Even today when I see one of the parties, then involved, it is hard to keep a straight face.

Number 10

"The Bluff." A swimming hole closer to the village and home, the main disadvantage was that it had no swing and access to the water was through a patch of stinging weeds.

Number 11

The Bridge swimming hole (we did a lot of swimming, didn't we). This was at the main bridge of Flint River on the Vanntown-Flintville road, easy to get to when we needed to take a quick dip, to just cool off.

I don't have any photos of the places being describe above, so I am sharing a few photos of my grandfather at about the age he would have been during this time.

The House at Lincoln
L-R: Timothy Marsh, Blanche Marsh, Richard Marsh and Della Flanders

Timothy Marsh and mother Blanche Marsh

Timothy Marsh and mother Blanche Marsh

Driving Manual from 1936

As you may/may not know, I am now living in my grandparent's house. While I was cleaning out a closet a few days ago, I found a neat booklet way back in the back on the top shelf.

It is a small handbook from General Motors, dated 1936. I thought it might be fun to share the "Rules of the Road" from 84 years ago.

This tiny 36 page manual was the guide for driving at the time. A few years ago I had to take the written test to get my drivers license renewed. That giant, dense tome one has to study can make your head spin. This guide is SO refreshing in its simplicity.

Cover from "We Drivers" published in 1936 by General Motors

Inside Front Pages

In the back of the booklet, it had a list of milestones in the automobile industry. My how things have changed! Sorry if some of the margins are cut off a bit. I was having difficulty placing the book on the scanner.

The sections of this publication include: How Accidents Happen, Curves and Turns, Night Driving, Mist and Fog, Our Brakes, Driving on Hills, Power and Speed, Slippery Weather, City Traffic and Country Driving, but I thought one about "driving on hills" was fun to read and thought I would share. 

I can relate to the hill story. At one point, my stepfather Ray Markiewicz took me out in the neighborhood in his manual truck and was helping me learn how to drive a stick shift. I was doing okay until he took me to a pretty steep hill (it seemed like the Matterhorn at the time) where there was a stop sign. It was a challenging thing for me indeed. After rolling backwards and stalling out a few times, I finally managed to get through the intersection. Good thing there wasn't anyone behind me!

My First School - Tim Marsh

"My First School"

Number 7 on the Lincoln County Map (see post from 17 May).

First School I attended in 1927, Miss Ila Simms was my first teacher, finished eighth grade here. Mr. Burt Mansfield was the Principal. The rooms were cold in winter and hot in summer, out-door toilets and drinking fountain. Capital punishment was the order of the day. Ruth Hudson was the worst I ever saw, she surely enjoyed switching the 4th and 5th grade kids. Her favorite trick was a lick for each letter in the word you misspelled. In the thirties, after FDR became president, the children were given free hot soup to all who wanted it. This was part of the New Deal. Several grades to each room, which really worked out quite well, by the time you got to the upper grade you knew spelling, history and geography by simple exposure.

I finished eighth grade here. It was a two year high school. Most of the kids around Lincoln opted to go to Flintville by bus, as it was a four year high school. this I did. It was literally four hard years. As the hard bus seats were unpadded planks, only the bus driver had a padded seat. I can still smell the assortment of smells coming from the lunches, wrapped in newspaper and paper sacks, fried corn on soggy biscuits, sausage and biscuit, or ham, fried pies, baked sweet potatoes or chicken and apples. Each time a different kid got on the bus the smell changed. All the food odors mixed with body odors presented quite a challenge to ones stomach.

This old school doubled as a community center, a meeting house, a movie theater of sorts. I saw my first movie here, "The Girl of The Limberloss." Here pie suppers and cake walks were a favorite event in the community, particularly among the younger crowd. The young eligible ladies would bake their favorite pies and the young men would bid on them, the highest bidder getting the privilege of eating the pie he bid on with the girl who baked it. Often the girls would drop a hint to the boy she was struck on, some times he took the bait, sometimes not. Sometimes two girls would bake the same kind of pie then mass confusion. One old crazy girl once baked a turnip green pie, put it in a box labeled egg custard. There was a new Romeo type who had just moved into the community, making time with some of the girls in the church, that we boys were protective of. One of our group of young blades dropped a hint to Romeo that Crazy Annie's turnip green pie marked egg custard was prepared by one of the young belles in the ARP Church. Romeo bit on it, was highest bidder - so he had to eat that horrible pie with Crazy Annie, while all of us boys hung our heads and snickered to ourselves.

Timothy Richard Marsh at the Lincoln school in 1930.

The "Old Field"

The "Old Field"

Number 6 on the Lincoln County Map from The First Thirty Years.

This was part of our small farm we called the "old field." We generally planted it in black eyed peas or sorghum cane, it was too poor to grow cotton or corn. it was referred to as the "old field" as early as 1830 in the deeds. An abundance of arrow heads were always found when we planted the field. It was adjoining a swamp that never went completely dry and may have held wild game once, that would account for the arrow heads. I made a path through the south east edge of this field from the time I was in the third grade, as I often visited my best friend Jack Simms who lived over on the Fayetteville Road. Helen and I used this same path in July 1941 shortly after we married, as we went over to Picketts on Flint River to go swimming. I remember on the way back to mother and dads it came up a cloud-burst and we got soaking wet. Guess this was part of our honeymoon.

A few pictures to share today:

A Young Timothy R. Marsh

Timothy Richard Marsh

Timothy Richard Marsh the day before marrying Helen Crawford Marsh (at her house)

Helen Crawford Marsh and Timothy Richard Marsh in 1942

"Old Jude" and Other Stories

I hope you are enjoying reading about my grandparents. I am going to share Number 5 from the Lincoln County map (see older post) with you today.

NUMBER 5
1924, Dad and mother purchased a small tract one half mile west of Lincoln, started planning construction of our house. We moved into the house on October 19, 1925, on mother's birthday. They had the lumber sawed by Mr. Bud George of New Hope. They built the house by themselves. I carried the nails, picked them up when dad bent them and threw them into the grass. The house still stands (1993). the property was purchased from Mr. Dunston, a neighbor up the road. In the fall of 1925, we moved to the Lincoln Mill Village in Huntsville, Alabama, where dad worked in the mill to earn enough to move back to Lincoln on March 26, of 1926, in time to start a crop and make payment to Mr. Dunston. I will quote from Dad's notes: "1926, made cotton crop for Tom Sims," it was across from Grissom's old store. I remember Mrs. Maude, Tom's wife, kept me at their house and played hully-gully with me using grapes from their vineyard.

An aside from the story...
I remember me and my brother playing hully-gully with my great-grandmother Blanche Marsh. She had this drawer full of buttons, spools, sequined items, brooches and other miscellaneous items that she had collected through the years. I remember sitting on the floor and playing "Hully Gully." It was a game where you would pick up several small items and hold them in your hands and say "Hully Gully...how many." You would then proceed to guess how many items the other person had in their hands. As you can see in the picture below, she was not afraid to get in the floor and play with me and my brother Timothy. What fun! This may sound strange, but when I see this picture, I can still "smell" how those buttons smelled. Funny how memories and your sense of smell are forever linked....

Melissa Edwards, Timothy Edwards and Blanche Marsh

Now, back to my grandfather's entry...

Dates from Dad's notes:
1927 - made crop on Bob Mansfield place. I remember hearing about Lindbergh flying the Atlantic. I kept looking up at the sky for him, we went the wrong way did he not?
1298-29 - made crop for Mr. Shantyfelt, a man from up north. His farm joined us on the north. This was later the Mooneyham home place.
1930 - made crop for Elmer Shelton (a good man).
1931-1932 - made crop for Zeke Mooneyham who had taken over the Shantyfelt place. Cold spells in early May could keep cotton seed from sprouting, which meant replanting a late crop, so I remember when we had cold snaps in May regardless of how cold, Mr. Zeke would come to church in his shirt sleeves while everyone else wore coats. He would not admit it was cold and killing his young cotton sprouts.

1933. Dad furnished himself, he bought "Old Jude" a cripple mare mule for $40.00 in Fayetteville on first Monday. Old Jude had caught her foot in a fence when a young mule and had incurred a bad injury that resulted in a big knot just above her hoof that made her lame. She was slow and would not bring a good price. She was slow but gentle. I plowed her a lot. Old Jude was the one I was riding to Kennedy's store at Lincoln one afternoon with a dozen eggs in a sugar sack, plan was to trade them for a tin of aspirin for mother. Old Jude hit a rock in the road in front of Mr. Burt Mansfield's house, fell to her knees, over her head I went eggs and all, results egg omelet a la dirt. We had no money in the house, mother needed the aspirin - what to do - try crying, which I did. Mr. Burt, who was a Latin and History teacher and later taught Helen and me at Flintville, saw my predicament. I told him the whole story while drying my eyes. Mr. Burt said I'll be back in a minute just wait, he came back and handed me a dime. I went on to the store, purchased the aspirin and never told mother. Needless to say I have always respected Mr. Burt. Hope Old Jude went to mule haven and Mr. Burt was welcomed by St. Peter.

A Young Tim Marsh

More stories from The First Thirty Years.

Below are more of the stories from my grandfather in the biography. Please refer to the previous post for a map showing the location of the different events. Here are "Numbers 2, 3 and 4."

NUMBER 2
I fell into the fireplace here when about a year and a half old, burning hands and face. This cabin belonged to Mr. Tom Beavers, a Justice of the Peace for the 22nd District [Lincoln, County, TN]. This little house was across the Goshen (Lincoln) Road from the water mill. Dr. Dickey doctored me.

NUMBER 3
October 1923, we moved to the Zack Wells house (later McCrory) at Lincoln across the road from the school. I was then two years, three months old, this is my first memory, I recall looking out the front window, while sitting on an old trunk, at the children in the school yard that fall. Later the same fall, Dad, grand-dad, Mr. Wells and Bob Mansfield killed two hogs in the back lot, this I remember, also just before Christmas the same year, I remember Mr. Buck Wells carried us in his Model T Ford to Flintville to catch the train to McMinnville to visit mother's folks. It was cold as whiz, Mr. Wells had eisenhower curtains on the windows. We had bricks warmed and wrapped in lap rugs to help keep us warm. I remember him telling dad what that middle peddle on the floor was used for. I remember grandpa Collie Cantrell came on the train at McMinnville and carried me off. Next day we went to Dibrell with Mr. Flanders to visit mother's family.

While living at Mr. Wells' house, dad worked for Mr. Zach Wells at his farm, later the Burt Mansfield place. It was here that mother and I had our first picture made together. Dad rode his wheel (bicycle) back and forth to work, remember he put one of mother's garters around his pants leg because he kept getting them caught in the sprocket. Funny about the strange things you remember.

NUMBER 4
Moved here January 1924, it was the Clarence Mitchell place. We referred to it as the place across the creek (Flint River). It is still standing today. Its on the old road to Flintville. It was here a year later that I heard my first radio. It was WSM's broadcast of the whistle of the Dixie Flyer passenger train as it passed the big WSM tower south of Brentwood at 5:10 each afternoon. Woodie Rush, a poor farmer with a house full of girls, owned this radio, an Atwater-Kent. Woodie set his clock by this broadcast, more about Woodie later.

Below are two photos I wanted to include with this section. The first photo is of my grandfather's parents and the second is of my grandfather with his parents.

Richard A. Marsh and Blanche Marsh: 26 Apr 1919

Richard A. Marsh, Timothy R. Marsh and Blanche Marsh

My Grandfather the "Map Man"

My grandfather was a "map man."

In most of their research books about county histories and their own ancestral heritage, you can find maps. I can see him now standing at the old drawing desk where he had rulers, rub-on letters, typed labels, adhesive dots and a myriad of other items as his map "tools." You could always find him buried in USGS Topographic maps and aerial photos such as the ones I will describe below. Whenever we went on a trip to a city or place, he would always have self-made maps indicating points of interest.

My grandparents had their own copy machine before they became a common household item. He would make copies and painstakingly do his "Marsh Magic" and before long, he would have a masterpiece!

One of the things my grandparents did in the early 1990's was create a document called The First Thirty Years: A Biography. It covers their lives from 1921 until 1951. Many of the stories you will hear will come from that document. I remember them telling me some of the stories when I was younger, but I am so thankful to have it in writing. My mind isn't always good at recalling information without a prompt.

The maps below are the ones created by my grandfather for this biography. Both of them were born in Lincoln County, Tennessee and all the numbers relate to places and stories within the biography.

I am going to share the section under "Number 1" on the first map. I hope you enjoy this story and will come back for more.

This is verbatim from my grandfather and as always, typed by my grandmother.

NUMBER 1
I was born June 12th, 1921, two miles west of Lincoln Village, Lincoln County, Tennessee (as indicated on the accompanying map by Number 1) in a two room shanty, on the Tom Walker place to Richard A. and Blanche Mathis Marsh. Mother picked blueberries the day before I was born and baked a pie, an event she never forgot until a year before her death, when a stroke caused her memory loss. She chopped cotton the day I was born that evening at 5 o'clock. When her time came to deliver, dad walked three miles to Lincoln Village to get Dr. Ed. Dickey, when they arrived back in the buggy I was already born with only mother attending.

My mother, Blanche Leann Marsh (1901-1992), born in McMinnville, Tennessee to John T. and Mary Lou Cantrell Mathis of McMinnville, Tennessee. Her grandfather Mathis was Thomas. Her grandfather Cantrell was Lemuel (Collie), the first was Richard of Derbyshire, England, landing first at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in 1689, children migrated to South Carolina, then to DeKalb County, Tennessee. Mother's father John was killed in McMinnville by a fall when he was carrying a small tree on his shoulder. Mary Lou remarried Mr. "Pap" Flanders, a Primitive Baptist Preacher. I believe her life could be eulogized by a single epitaph "family first at all costs." Those that knew her know this to be true. I appreciate her great sacrifice.

My father, Richard Austin Marsh (1899-1980) was the 1st son of Michael Goodrum and Lelia Beasley Marsh. Dad was born near Delina in Marshall County, Tennessee. His grandfather was John William Marsh, his great grandfather was Michael (1800-1859) and Elizabeth Landin (1800-1875) of Hertford and Gates County, North Carolina. Michael and Elizabeth came to Bedford County, Tennessee in 1828, settled at Bedford Community. This Michael's father was George born about 1750. Dad's Beasley paternal ancestors were: David, Liberty, Archer and John of Nottoway County, Virginia. The Marshes are English, opinionated, quick to categorize, quick to anger, slow to make lasting friends, true friendships limited to a proven few, good at spotting phonies and a very, very dry sense of humor.

I would like to say here that many of the exact dates and events used herein by me were possible because of my father, Richard A. Marsh, generally known as "Mr. R.A." had an exceptional memory for events, places and dates that I will not challenge, recording many of them in a dog-eared journal that he kept for years. I have often found notes written by him and mother on the inside covers of books, on furniture, often noting events, activities, dates and weather, things that were important to them. I am thankful for his compulsion to record those important mile stones in our lives and hope their intent will be reflected by me, their son. "Dad saw good in most and evil in few."

An Introduction

My maternal grandparents, Timothy Richard Marsh and Helen Crawford Marsh were historians, genealogists, researchers and recorders of county histories and so much more. They were well-known to family researchers in the Middle Tennessee area for their publications. During their lifetime, they compiled, transcribed, abstracted and indexed records which resulted in approximately seventy publications. To me, however, they were simply "Grandmother Helen" and "Poppa Tim."

As a young child, I remember going with them on several outings as they navigated their way through the Middle Tennessee countryside searching for cemeteries. From large city cemeteries to small ones with only a few markers, they tasked themselves to find all of the cemeteries in several counties. They copied the information on each stone, typed up that information and created books that they made available to other researchers. A lot of this was done in the 1970's. Some of the markers (and even the cemeteries themselves) have since been lost to erosion, time, and lack of maintenance. Because of my grandparent's work, the information found in those cemeteries and the people interred within has been preserved for future researchers.

One of their first books was titled Cemetery Records of Lincoln County, Tennessee. That is the county where they were both born. I remember when they were putting that book together...literally! I recall carrying a light-weight cardboard box and walking up and down between dozens of tables, picking up one page at a time from each stack and putting them in the box until the set was complete. A set had 684 pages and I think they had several hundred copies published. If they had step counters back in the day, I can't fathom how many steps were taken to collate that book! To this day, the smell of glycerin brings back fond memories of that time because we used that on our hands to make it easy to pick up the pages.

In the early years, they self published their own books under the name Marsh Historical Publications. Their later works, as well as reprints of earlier ones were published by Southern Historical Press. I think most of their publications are still available through that company.

The original logo created by my grandfather for their self published books is below.

I now live in my grandparent's house. I have made it my home, but it is also a treasure trove of their publications, family history research, county histories, photos and lots of items I want to share. Thus, "Melissa's Ancestral Musings."

I miss them both dearly. As I do my own research, I still find myself saying "I need to call Grandmother Helen or Poppa Tim and get their advice." Oh how I wish I could...