Volume XXVIII, No. 1, February 2011
FRAZIER HUNT REMEMBERS—PART I
NORTH MANCHESTER, 1893-1903.
Frazier
Hunt graduated from Manchester High School in 1903. As a successful war
correspondent, radio commentator and author, Hunt traveled world-wide,
interviewing all kinds of persons, from American Presidents to revolutionaries.
A historical sign now stands in front of the large brick house on North Mill
Street where he lived for ten years during his youth.
Hunt even has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, being inducted in
1960.
In a fascinating autobiography published in 1938, One American and His
Attempt at Education, Hunt recalls his formative years spent in North
Manchester, Indiana. This article
highlights several observations made by Hunt in his vivid recollections about
living in our community during 1893-1903. Hunt’s writings are italicized. Note:
Because Hunt’s recollection was not perfect when it came to names of local
people, streets and business establishments, information is sometimes inserted
inside brackets for clarification or correction.1
Frazier Hunt was born on December 1, 1885, in the northwestern Illinois town of
Rock Island on the Mississippi River. His mother’s name was Amanda Frazier; his
father’s name was Jasper Newton Hunt. Frazier had an older brother named Jasper
Newton Hunt, Jr. Seventeen days after Frazier Hunt was born, his mother
tragically died.
My brother and I were to go to Martha and Joseph Mathews. My father’s schoolbook
business was taking him to Chicago as headquarters, and since he would be away
most of the time it had been my mother’s last request that Aunt Martha and Uncle
Joe raise her two boys….We did not talk much about my mother and her untimely
death, but when we did a mood of futility seemed to settle down on the whole
household. Gay and full as my boyhood was, there was always a hidden sense of
incompleteness about it. And to this touch of mystery was added an unspoken
conviction of the ultimate cruelty of life. I was brought up to believe that my
mother was one woman in a million—as I believe to this day—and that her death
was one of infinite pathos and incalculable loss.
Martha Mathews was a sister to Frazier Hunt’s mother. The Frazier family had
migrated in the mid 1840s from Ohio to Illinois.
…Grandmother and Grandfather Frazier drove their two wagons overland from the
old homestead at Hubbard, in northeastern Ohio, southward to the Ohio—the river
the Indians called the Beautiful River. Here they loaded the wagons, four
horses, two cows, the crude farm instruments, household effects, and their
eleven children on board a flat-bottomed, paddle-wheel steamer.
Joseph Mathews in 1851 at the age of seventeen had left his home in New
Hampshire for the gold fields of California.
He remained there four years, and returned to “the States” only after a mine had
caved in on him and all but crushed his right leg. With four thousand dollars in
gold in his money belt, he made his way back across the Isthmus. In 1855 he
migrated to the Mississippi River country, and settled on a rich section of
Illinois prairie. Here he met my mother’s favorite sister, Martha, and they
promptly married. When the Civil War came he tried his best to go with Bob
Ingersoll’s Third Illinois Cavalry, but his bad leg barred him. So he and Auntie
did their bit for the Union by distributing wagonloads of potatoes and
vegetables, hams and quarters of beef, to the widows of soldiers. It was about
this time that they went into the business of raising other people’s children.
There were plenty of war orphans in those days.
The Mathews family moved from the Illinois prairie to Arkansas, where Joseph
bought a fourteen-thousand acre cattle ranch outside Hazen, about twenty miles
east of Little Rock. Mathews then engineered a land swap that provided the
opportunity to move near Centralia, Missouri, and eventually to North
Manchester, Indiana.
The ranch, with good will and poison grasses thrown in for luck, was swapped
sight unseen for two farms in Missouri and one in Indiana. We now migrated north
to one of these farms—a rolling quarter-section lying on the edge of the
pleasant little town of Centralia, Missouri.
The Mathews family lived in Missouri five years. Yet another move was made to
New Boston, on the Illinois bank of the Mississippi.
It was here that Grandfather Frazier and his eleven children had landed, almost
a half century before. Uncle’s and Auntie’s only daughter, Tillie, newly married
to Chart Gregory, was teaching school here.
Frazier Hunt recalls that it was thrilling to be on the Great River.
…with the water moving always and endlessly, it made you think queer thoughts.
You wanted to go along. Life didn’t stand still as you were doing now: it had
motion—it was restless and moving. …I knew all about Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.
Cousin Tillie read us both books that year on the river….I pretended I was Huck.
It was wonderful to make dream voyages down the river with Tom.
Hunt was going on eight years of age when the Mathews family finally moved from
the Mississippi to the Eel River.
For my growing years I needed a quieter stream than the great Mississippi. This
was to be the little Eel. It, too, was to get into my blood. Its gentle flowing
waters were to set the pace for ten years of my life. It was a slow and dreamy
pace, part and parcel of the mood of a time that is gone, and of a place that is
changed beyond recognition. The spell of that mood is ended as well. It had to
do with jogging carriage horses, dusty gravel roads, the smell of plowed fields,
wood fires, kerosene lamps, ice-cream socials, church cantatas, the poems of
James Whitcomb Riley, and the books of Tarkington, Eggleston, and Nicholson.
Joseph and Martha Mathews retired and settled in North Manchester. Their son
Lloyd did the farming on land southeast of Liberty Mills that had been acquired
from the Comstocks.2
[Auntie] had lived on farms and ranches all her life, but now that she and Uncle
had retired and settled in North Manchester….Uncle was a year or two over sixty
when he finally retired and moved to Indiana. He thought he’d done his full
share of hard work. Then, of course, it was quite a task in itself to take care
of another set of orphan boys.
Hunt remembers his older brother Jasper.
He grew like a weed, and by the time he was fourteen he was almost six feet
tall. Shy, awkward, and overgrown, he couldn’t stand all the endless talk and
excitement of summer guests. He liked to be alone, or with Ed Butterbaugh, the
Dunkard boy who lived next door. He was happy, too, at Cousin Lloyd’s and Cousin
Rouie’s farm at Liberty Mills, three miles up Eel River
.
Hunt remembers the Eel River.
The little Eel wound and twisted like some giant namesake through this Hoosier
town of North Manchester….Eel River ran along one side of the town and then
suddenly twisted in a short U-curve and cut in directly back of Main Street. The
stores on one side of the street clung to the high riverbank.
Hunt remembers the Mathews house on north Mill Street.
Our red-brick, two-story house stood at the corner of Maple Avenue and Eighth
Street
[sic; actual address was 508 N. Mill St.3].
Great maple trees locked their branches together in the middle of the wide
graveled street….We had a comfortable house but there were no electric lights,
telephone, bathroom, furnace, or city water—except a hydrant for watering the
lawn. Behind the house we had a garden and a barn with a double carriage room….I
thought we had a pretty big house. There were a kitchen, dining room, sitting
room, parlor, and spare bedroom downstairs. Under the kitchen and dining room
was a cemented cellar, and here in the fall were stored bins of potatoes,
cabbages, and turnips, and barrels of apples and pears. Upstairs were three
bedrooms.
Hunt remembers the outdoor privy.
At the far end of the grape arbor was a little building painted the same color
as the barn. It had a crescent in the door and stars high up on the two
sides….Auntie always had a roll of toilet paper that she kept hidden in the
bottom of a dresser drawer. When Aunt Addie or some of the high-toned Chicago
relatives came down she hung this cherished roll on a string in the little
building at the end of the grape arbor. …Of course, Uncle would have nothing to
do with it. He had his own ideas about such high-falutin nonsense. He was a
great corncob man. The rest of us compromised with last year’s Montgomery & Ward
catalog.
Hunt remembers Uncle “Posy” Mathews.
From the opening of the earliest May buds to the fading of the last bloom of
summer Uncle went about with a rose in his mouth. Forty and more years before,
when he was breaking the tough sod on his section of land in western Illinois,
he would pull up his horses and cut wild roses from the fragrant bushes. While
his strong hands gripped his breaking plow he carried the roses in his mouth.
Later, in the little Indiana town of North Manchester, many of the inhabitants
called him “Posy” Mathews. And when he drove along the shaded residential
streets in his wide-seated phaeton, with his rose balanced on his great white
beard, they smiled a little and shook their heads.
Hunt remembers his Uncle’s gentlemanly demeanor and his propensity to recite
poetry and snatches of song.
Half the time Uncle was either humming a little tune or reciting poetry. He had
a verse or two that seemed to fit almost everything. In the morning he’d come to
the bottom of the stairs and in the kindliest of voices recite: “Up, men, he
cried, today yon rocky cliff please God! We’ll pass.”…Whenever we’d be driving
with him behind old Nellie and we’d pass Mr. Baker’s blacksmith shop, there
wasn’t any question about it at all. If it was in the summertime Uncle would
take the rose from his mouth and begin: “Under a spreading chestnut tree/The
village smith stands….” But if it was autumn and we were driving by the fields
of yellow corn out to Cousin Lloyd’s farm….He could either do [James Whitcomb]
Riley’s “When the frost is on the pumpkin/And the corn is in the shock” or he
could go straight into Longfellow’s Yankee classic: “Up from the meadows rich
with corn/Clear in the cool September morn….” But I think Uncle really delighted
most in Whittier. The poet was his own mother’s second cousin, and he held a
teaching certificate signed by the gentle old New Englander. Naturally this
doubly endeared him to Uncle.…He liked to hum when he was driving, and while our
old mare would jog along he’d work away on his own version of “Dear, dear, what
can the matter be?” If he were driving in town he had a way of bowing low and
touching his whip hand to his hat in a graceful salute when he passed
acquaintances. He had the same elaborate greeting for men and women alike. I
suppose the fact that his large, well-shaped head was entirely bald had
something to do with the fact that he never actually raised his hat.
Hunt remembers his uncle’s fervent views on Prohibition.
Uncle sure was death on liquor. As a matter of fact he had three pet cranks:
prohibition, woman suffrage, and tobacco. His own father, a merry little man who
could putter around his tool shed in Illinois and sing all day long on a few
swigs out of a jug, had, oddly enough, made Uncle a violent Prohibitionist.
Somehow or other, Uncle figured that tobacco led to drink, so he eventually
turned against the weed, as well. He felt that only woman suffrage could do away
with these two mighty evils.
Hunt remembers his uncle’s political activities.
Uncle was the leading member of the Prohibition party in all that part of
Indiana and consequently he was an authority on liquor. He was a friend and
ardent supporter of John G. Wooley, who was the perpetual candidate for
president on the Prohibition ticket. Uncle was the perpetual candidate for
congressman from our district, just the same way. Every four years, when the
national election time rolled around, Uncle’d got excited. He’d reorganize the
local Prohibition party, and they would rent the opera house and import a
speaker and maybe a quartet from the headquarters in Chicago. I say “they” would
do all that, but it was really Uncle who did the big part of it. There were a
few true believers who’d put up two or three dollars each—maybe as much as five
dollars—but Uncle had to take a good deal of that out in trade….The most
exciting time that Uncle ran for Congress was in 1900, when McKinley and
Roosevelt ran on the Republican ticket and Bryan ran on the Democratic
ticket….Uncle spent quite a little money that year. He went all over the
Congressional district, and had a speaker and quartet from Chicago.
The local Prohibition committees helped some but it wasn’t so very much.
Auntie hinted that she’d like to take a trip back to Uncle’s home in New
Hampshire rather than have him spend so much money on his campaign for Congress.
I guess it was about the only time that Auntie ever had to chide Uncle for
spending too much money. But Uncle was adamant. He wouldn’t tell how much he was
spending or where the money was going. In fact, he wouldn’t confess anything….On
election day Uncle was pretty busy hauling old people and cripples to the polls.
We used to tease him afterward by saying that some of them must have voted for
McKinley or even Bryan. It wasn’t until late the next evening that we got the
total returns from all the five counties in the Congressional district. The
Republican candidate received more than twenty thousand votes, and the
Democratic runner-up got somewhere around fourteen thousand. The best count they
could give Uncle was 184 votes.
Hunt remembers soothing home health remedies.
It was always a joy to be just a little sick when Auntie was around to take care
of you. Not that I particularly liked to soak my feet in a mustard bath or to
have my throat rubbed with goose grease and wrapped in a red flannel rag, but I
did like the outpouring of affection and concern. Toward evening Auntie’d come
into the bedroom with a pan of warm water, a washcloth, and a towel, and ever so
gently she’d bathe my face and hands and comb my hair. Then she’d disappear and
in a few minutes return with a tray with a white napkin over it, and there’d be
a poached egg, milk toast, and a cup of sassafras tea.
Hunt remembers the hired help.
Molly was a black nursemaid from Arkansas who delighted in telling ghost stories
and scaring the Hunt boys out of their wits. Molly’s health failed and she
returned to Arkansas. The new hired girl was a neighbor, Rettie Grossnickle.
According to the 1894 Wabash County Directory, Retta Grossnickle lived at the
corner of Walnut and Sixth Streets.
Rettie was fat and good-natured, and ran over the outside heels of her shoes.
She was a Dunkard girl, about nineteen years old. She got $1.50 a week and did
the washing and ironing. Except when we had company she ate with the
family….[when we had company] Rettie would wear a neat white apron, and pass the
plates and things from the left side. Naturally she ate in the kitchen….It was a
great blow to our household when Rettie Grossnickle, our hired girl, decided
that she would go to North Dakota and take out a claim. Rettie had a regular
beau, who was a hardworking dunkard farmer boy, and after a lengthy courtship it
was finally decided that the two would set up a pioneer home together….Rettie
and her young man sensibly agreed not to marry until they had filed separately
on their individual half-sections of Dakota wheatland. First, they chose claims
that lay together. Then they built a double cabin, resting half on one claim and
half on the other. After paying the ten-dollar government fees, they were
married. During these first years Rettie used to write Auntie now and
again….Without her my boyhood would have lost much of its color.
Hunt fondly remembers Nellie.
…without Nellie, our old mare, those Indiana days would have been incomplete.
Nellie was all things to all boys. At one time or another she was family
carriage horse, Indian pony, cavalry mount, cow pony, circus and trick horse,
race horse, and general utility mare. Nellie was not always happy in her various
roles. Most of all, she resented the Indian fights in which she had to take
part. At the World’s Fair in Chicago, in the summer of 1893 just before we had
moved to Indiana, my eyes had practically popped out of their sockets at Buffalo
Bill’s Wild West show. It was here that I had received much of my inspiration
for Nellie’s various horse acts.
Hunt remembers the trees, the woods and gathering nuts.
…Nellie really enjoyed the Saturdays in autumn when Jasper and I went nutting.
We’d jog along some country road until we came to a woods. All this part of
Indiana was once covered with hardwood forests, and even at this date the
countryside was dotted with thirty- and forty-acre tracts of timber. Among the
oaks and maples were black walnut and butternut trees, and the ground underneath
them would be literally covered with the green-barked nuts. We would tie Nellie
to a rail fence, leaving the slipknot loose and easy so that one jerk would free
the rope. Then, with two or three empty sacks under our arms, we would shinny
over the fence and hunt out the walnut trees. As a rule we had to keep a sharp
eye out for the farmer and his dog. If we saw or heard them coming we would make
a run for Nellie, throw our sacks in the buggy, and be off in a cloud of dust.
Hunt remembers the buggy rides and the autumn colors.
The rides home in the autumn twilight were always the loveliest part of the
nut-gathering days. The sumac and hazel bushes that fringed the graveled roads
blazed with color. The maples, oaks, and elms were like bright Scotch plaids of
brilliant reds and crimsons, burnt browns and maroons. Soon a little chill would
come in the air and before long a few brave stars would be twinkling in the
great, dark blue dome above….I wonder if anything in the world is as beautiful
as an Indian summer twilight in Indiana. There was nothing to hold back a boy’s
fancy on those rides home. You could put your feet on top the curved dashboard,
lie back in the old leather seat, and just dream away. Maybe for minutes at a
time Nellie’d seem to catch your own mood: she’d stop jogging and walk along
lazy as anything: probably she was dreaming too.
Hunt recalls his Uncle’s love for horses, storytelling, and boxing.
He knew all about the trotters and the pacers, and the champions like Maud S.
and Nancy Hanks, Lou Dillon and Star Pointer. Uncle used to hold forth, too, on
the great prize fighters. Of course, John L. Sullivan was really Uncle’s
favorite, but young Jim Corbett had a place in his affection because he set
young men such a good example in clean living. That Saint Patrick’s Day in 1897
when lanky Bob Fitzsimmons knocked out Gentleman Jim in the fourteenth round was
a sad day for Uncle. He had told us that Bob couldn’t do it. It was one of the
few times that Uncle was wrong.
Hunt remembers his Uncle’s favorite stories.
My brother and I never were sure quite just what period of Uncle’s life we would
rather hear him spin yarns about—his own boyhood in New Hampshire, his
California gold days, his early years on the Illinois prairies, or his
adventures in the cattle country. It was the California days that won most of
the time….I suppose our favorite was about the time when Uncle was mixed up in
the mutiny on the ship going down to Panama in the gold-rush days. Still, it
wasn’t exactly a mutiny because Uncle was only a poor eighteen-year-old farmer
boy, traveling steerage to the gold fields. The third-class passengers couldn’t
eat the terrible food they were given. So one day they broke into the bakery
shop, slugged the bakers, and escaped with armloads of pies and cakes. Then the
poor fellows had a battle with the ship officers, which ended only when my uncle
and two other men dragged the captain to the rail and threatened to throw him
overboard to the sharks. These ferocious, man-eating sharks were thick in that
part of the Caribbean, so the Captain promised to give the men good food if they
wouldn’t toss him overboard….sometimes he’d tell us two or three wonderful tales
of California: about the bearbaiting and the rattlesnake pits, the stagecoach
robberies and the hangings, or the coming of the vigilantes. But the prize story
that he never did tell more than a few times concerned a prospecting trip he and
six or eight other men made in California in the wintertime. A blizzard swept
down on them. They lost the trail and ran out of food. One man froze to death
and a second gave up, and they were forced to leave him dying, with his cocked
revolver by his side. They simply couldn’t bear to shoot him themselves.
Joseph Mathews often had a moral at the end of his stories.
Uncle would say, “Both the poor devil who froze to death and the one we had to
leave behind were heavy drinkers. They might have been living to this day, boys,
if they hadn’t been drinkers.”
Hunt remembers the Methodist church and his aunt’s religiosity.
She offset [Uncle’s] race-horse reminiscences by her own ideas about running
horses. Everything that had to do with the runners was immoral, she contended.
The horses were doped and the races crooked, but even that wasn’t the worst of
it—the jockeys were fed whisky when they were boys so as to stunt their growth.
Auntie was a little troubled about our religious training, but Uncle wasn’t….he
was bitter against the organized church because of its conservatism. He
contended that it had been largely against the cause of abolition. And he
believed that most preachers, and certainly most national church organizations,
should come out boldly for temperance and woman suffrage. Their failure to do
this settled Uncle’s churchgoing. Only under the strongest pressure from Auntie
would Uncle stir out on a Sabbath morning….Consequently, except when Uncle
Easton did his annual preaching or there was the annual Methodist sermon against
dancing and cardplaying, Jasper and I had only to attend Sunday school. On
Sabbath mornings we would be decked out in our best suits and Uncle would
ceremoniously hand each of us a nickel for the Sunday-school collection. Unless
we voluntarily chose to go to church we were supposed to report home as soon as
Sunday school was over. Auntie would usually dress in her black silk, with the
pretty lavender and lace trimmings, and her black gloves with the white seams
showing on the back, and with her best bonnet on she’d proudly sally forth to
the Methodist church. Uncle would stay at home and read the Sunday Inter-Ocean
or The Herald.
Hunt remembers “the call of the wild” on a Sunday morning.
If the weather was uncertain Jasper and I would dutifully report at Sunday
school. In due course of time we’d relinquish our precious nickels to the red
plush maw of the collection basket. But if it was a lovely spring or summer day,
the call of the wild was usually too much for us. We’d head straight for town
and the fleshpots. These were mostly of two varieties—peanuts from Crip
Johnson’s peanut wagon on the corner of the vacant lot beyond the post office,
or a salmon sandwich soaked in catsup, at the Star Restaurant
[sic; possibly Tilman’s. Oddly, on page 74 Hunt also refers to a Star Restaurant
in the small Illinois town of Alexis where he briefly owned and edited a
newspaper.]. I never could get enough salmon, and as for catsup it was
strictly forbidden on our table. Auntie claimed that such things as catsup and
even vinegar were craved only by drunkards.
Hunt remembers table etiquette.
Uncle always insisted on having his pie on the same plate that he had used for
his meat and potatoes. He always said it tasted better that way. He liked to eat
pie with his knife, too. Auntie scolded him a good deal about it and told him
that it was a bad example to set for us boys. But he stuck to his colors. That
is, except when we had company from Chicago—and especially Uncle’s rich sister,
Aunt Addie. Auntie tolerated no foolishness from Uncle then. He had to eat his
pie with his fork. And he had to carve and serve just as if he always did it.
(to be continued)
_____________
Endnotes:
1 The
assistance of Allan White and Joyce Joy in understanding Frazier Hunt is
gratefully acknowledged.
2 On
December 23, 1885, Joseph S. Mathews of Prairie County, Arkansas, bought 36.22
acres for $2230.20 from John and Phoebe Shaubut and Horace and Bertha Comstock.
See Wabash Co. Deed Book 42, Pages 47-48. On December 31, 1885, Mathews
purchased a large amount of land from Henry and Melissa Comstock for $11,100.00,
totaling 297 acres. See Wabash Co. Deed Book 42, Pages 49-51. On April 26, 1887,
Lloyd G. Mathews purchased 174 acres for $7,000.00 from his parents, Joseph S.
and Martha F. Mathews of Prairie County, Arkansas. See Wabash Co. Deed Book 44,
Page 381.
3Lot
11 in Edmund Halderman’s Second Addition to North Manchester.
On April 3, 1893, J.S. Mathews of Wabash County acquired the property for
$2500.00 from John and Dora Domer and John and May Curtner. See Wabash Co. Deed
Book 57, Page 365.
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