Page 60 - Humanism 2019

Finally, with great reluctance, Pa agreed to go to bed and Millers, and the Geists. They were all there that day. Ma
said he was feelin’ tired some. just stood weeping as they lowered Pa into the ground. It
was a sad day fer everyone. Many people knew Pa and
It was a hard several months since he cut his hand. Pa got were saddened by his quick passing. I guess ol’
worse. No one could go see him. The Doc said not to Mr. Perkins was right. Smallpox is worse than drought or
have people near him ’cause of it spreading. I wanted to a wildfire. After the funeral, many people came to visit us.
see him. Once, his door was open and I saw he was They brought food, quilts, baskets — so many things. It
slouched over in bed. I could barely recognize ’em with all took us all a long time to adjust. Ma had to decide what
those sores and rashes o’er his body. My days were spent we would do and where we would go. Ma told Jonny that
in the field plantin’, hoein’, and suckerin’ the tobacca she wanted him to work the fields and pick up where Pa
with Johnny. Johnny and me spent a lot time together. My left off. So, Jonny did. Ever since Pa died, my brothers
older brother, Henry, worked with us. I could see he was and I had helped Jonny with plantin’ and harvestin’. He
worried too. My other brother, John was two years my taught us a lot when we were kids. We had a few other
younger, and couldn’t do much. He was a young one of hired men helpin’ us and Uncle Henry helped us too.
six and too small to be out in the field with the men. Pa Soon, I was eighteen years ol’ and still helpin’ out on the
had to hire s’more hands that year to get all the crops in old farm. I wanted to stay and help Ma, but wanted to
the field and harvested.
have my own farm. Henry was the oldest and would get
’Twas January of ’62 when Pa finally passed away. I the family farm. I didn’t want to stay on the farm. I
remember the day when he was buried. There was the looked around fer a farm and found one in Lancaster
two Herr black Percherons that pulled the hearse up to fer sale.
the top of the Millport cemetery hill. Family and friends “Was it our farm, Granddad? The one fer sale?” said
come from ’round that day. The Landises, the Herrs, the
Arthur as he put more wood in the cast iron stove.

This is the 60-acre farm that I live on now. When my great-great-grandfather built the house and bought the farm, it was originally 132 acres.

This is the barn that my great-great-grandfather built. Our family believes that he built this before (or at the same time as) the house. At that time it was
painted a golden harvest yellow color. Today, my grandfather had Wayne Fettro (a local artist) paint a mural with a six-horse team pulling a Conestoga
wagon on it in memory of the people who lost their lives in the French and Indian War.

57 HUMANISM IN THE HEALTH SCIENCES 2019 • VOL. 22