Terry L. Harmon | Updates

UNCLE ZADE WILCOX (6/3/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 14:34:53 -0400

My multiple times great uncle, Isaiah “Zade” Wilcox, was born in 1796, and his own great uncle was the renowned frontiersman, Daniel Boone. Uncle Zade grew up as a farm boy in Wilkes County, North Carolina. Described as a natural genius, he learned to make wagons and to manipulate iron and steel, which enabled him to become a good blacksmith and gunsmith.

As an adult, Uncle Zade stood around 5’10” and weighed about 165 pounds. He was a good-looking man with a fair complexion, blue eyes, and straight black hair, but his shoulders were a little stooped and became more so as he aged. He possessed a quick temper and could become enraged, his agitation manifesting in his words and movements, but he could just as quickly control himself and return to a state of peace, pleasantry, and quietude. As a young man, he was occasionally challenged by his peers, who, via insults and blows, tested his manhood, and while he “did not seek pugilistic engagements, [he] accommodated those making a trespass on his good nature.” Politically, Uncle Zade was a “deep and dyed in the wool” Republican, who “believed in one government, one flag, one Constitution, and a government for all.”

Uncle Zade loved hunting and spent much of his time doing so. On one such excursion, he became acquainted with the family of William Greer and reportedly “became all broken up” over William’s daughter, Fannie, a tall, admirable young woman with a good head on her shoulders. After some courting and wooing, he married her, and, along the New River in Ashe County, North Carolina, they started a home and a family, which would eventually include a dozen children. Around 1820, on horseback and pack mules, the William Greer family (including Uncle Zade and Aunt Fannie) migrated to the Three Forks of the Kentucky River in what is now Owsley County, Kentucky. Within a couple of years, though, feeling homesick and fearing Indians, they returned to North Carolina.

Uncle Zade never had an opportunity for a formal education, but he managed along the way to learn how to read and cipher. He possessed few books, but one of them was the Bible, and when he began to immerse himself in it, he came to realize his fallen state. He “implored God’s mercy, received pardon, and was called to preach the Gospel that he had been reading.” At first, he had fought the call, but his mind was restless, and his soul felt no peace. Finally, he told God he would try, and in that moment of obedient surrender, the Holy Spirit enabled him.

Uncle Zade subsequently preached to many crowds and became well-known within the Baptist church. His heartfelt sermons and prayers for “those lost by Adam’s transgressions” were “made by groanings and utterings of the Spirit” and were “destined to reached the Courts of Heaven [and] pierce the ears of a kind Savior, Jesus Christ.” But Uncle Zade occasionally wrestled with his own sin nature, and there came a time that he forgot his Maker and exchanged his dependence on God for self-reliance. As he would state about himself, “Sometimes Old Zade gets into very deep water and 'tis with much difficulty he wades out!” Although he attempted to continue preaching, he had lost his strength in the Lord. “The enlightening Spirit had taken its flight.”

Feeling weak and wretched, Uncle Zade deserted his family and sojourned for a time – first, back to Kentucky, and then in the rough country surrounding the Elk River in what eventually became West Virginia. There, he hunted, trapped, made guns, and lived in dissatisfaction and relative isolation. Around 1847, his father found him and persuaded him to return to North Carolina, but Uncle Zade only made a brief reappearance there before returning to Kentucky and eventually going to Pound River, Virginia.

It was there, around 1850, that Uncle Zade met and took a second wife despite the fact that Aunt Fannie was alive and well in North Carolina and seemingly without a bill of divorcement. Wife number two, Sallie Mullins, was a tall, black-haired woman with dark eyes and a dark complexion. The couple had an agreeable marriage, and Aunt Sallie was very kind and devoted to Uncle Zade. Their eight children who lived to adulthood, as well as one or two sets of twins who died in infancy, brought Uncle Zade’s total offspring to more than twenty.

For a while, Uncle Zade and Aunt Sallie lived at Pound Gap, five miles below the top of the Cumberland Mountains. Uncle Zade worked as a blacksmith there until around 1854, when he and Aunt Sallie moved to Kentucky, where they settled on Shelby Creek in Pike County for nearly a decade. It was there, about 1856, that Uncle Zade returned to the Lord and resumed preaching the Gospel. In 1863, he and Aunt Sallie again relocated, this time settling on the Little Sandy River in Carter County, Kentucky.

Uncle Zade died in 1879. He had preached on a Sunday morning, subsequently contracted pneumonia, and died peacefully the following Wednesday. Dressed in his suit, he was buried on Thursday on a hillside along Little Sinking Creek, but in 1893, with the consent of his family, he was exhumed and taken to a family cemetery on Deer Creek, where he was reinterred beside one of his sons.

So, here's to the memory of Uncle Zade, pioneer smithy, hunter, and preacher, who was imperfectly human and full of wanderlust, but hopefully and ultimately found his eternal rest and satisfaction in Jesus.

[Reference: The journal of Uncle Zade’s grandson, Francis Marion Wilcox.]

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A GIRL FROM EL PASO (5/27/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Wed, 27 May 2026 22:09:49 -0400

Mary Frances was a poor girl from El Paso, who lived in a shack with her brother and their parents. Her father was a carpenter, who occasionally shot and brought home jackrabbits for their supper, and her mother took in laundry for extra income.

Toward the end of the Great Depression, the family moved from Texas to California. Mary Frances was seven at the time. A bit tomboyish, she preferred dungarees to dresses. As she entered her teen years, she admittedly had no money, no taste, and no training. She rarely dated and was only invited once to a school dance. In fact, she wasn’t even that great of a dancer. She also wasn’t thought to be particularly attractive, but by the time she was sweet sixteen, she had blossomed and hit her stride, even to the point of winning a local beauty pageant.

It was at that very pageant where two talent scouts spotted her. Both wanted her for their agencies, so they flipped a coin for her. Shortly after, Mary Frances embarked upon a movie career. Film executive Jack Warner rebranded her, changing her given name while retaining her surname. Going forward, she would be known to the world as Debbie Reynolds. She appeared in a string of musicals and had several hit records, but in 1952, she was given a co-starring role in what would become her highest-profile film – Singin’ in the Rain.

Fast forward to 2006, when I visited Australia for a couple of days. After lunching with a friend, I climbed the Sydney Harbor Bridge, where I gazed down upon the famous Sydney Opera House. Later, as I stood before its impressive edifice, I thought to myself that I should try to attend a show; it was unlikely I would ever be back that way again. I consulted a marquee and was pleasantly surprised to see that that night’s performer was none other than a fellow American – the legendary Debbie Reynolds. I purchased my ticket to what turned out to be a sold-out show.

This was Reynolds’ first tour of Australia in two decades, and she did not disappoint. She sang songs, told stories, cracked jokes, and did spot-on imitations of fellow celebrities like Katharine Hepburn and Barbra Streisand. But one of the more outstanding elements of her show was when she offered a retrospective of her movie career and shared and discussed clips from some of her films, including the aforementioned Singin’ in the Rain.

I’ve always felt that the song and dance numbers from that particular film are among the most fantastic in movie history, and others seem to agree. At one point, the American Film Institute ranked it as the fifth greatest motion picture of all time, and the Library of Congress has declared it to be among our nation's films that are “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.” Critics have touted it as a brilliant comic musical, a transcendent experience, top-notch entertainment, and a Hollywood masterpiece.

From the days when Mary Frances Reynolds received but one school dance invitation to when Debbie Reynolds was cast in Singin’ in the Rain, something that had not changed was her inability to dance. One of her co-stars, Gene Kelly, reportedly berated her for that inexperience and reduced her to tears. But a tenacious Reynolds worked extra hard, received tutelage from Fred Astaire, and, in the end, made dancing with Kelly and Donald O’Connor down staircases and over furniture seem effortless. The catchy “Good Mornin’” shoot took 15 hours, and Reynolds’ feet bled. She would later say that film and childbirth were the two hardest things she ever had to do. Perhaps this helped prepare her with the grit she would need for her memorable character in a subsequent film, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, which would earn her an Academy Award nomination.

In 1970, Reynolds, who was also a renowned film history preservationist, came to my neck of the woods in northwestern North Carolina, where she cut the ribbon for the grand opening of the “Land of Oz” theme park on Beech Mountain. As one of the park’s investors, she supplied it with a variety of original costumes and props from its inspiration, the 1939 classic, The Wizard of Oz.

I was only five years old in 1970, and in the absence of a driver's license, I missed this event. But I am happy to have seen Reynolds in person nearly four decades later and 9,500 miles around the world. It was worth the time and distance to be in the presence of the once poor tomboy from El Paso, who transformed into a leading lady and one of the world’s most talented and effervescent entertainers.

You just never know what unexpected opportunities a two-day layover might bring!

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WHAT'S IN A NAME? (1/25/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 16:40:17 -0500

Do you remember the comedic genius of Nathan Birnbaum and Mendel Berlinger? Or the graceful movements of Frederick Austerlitz and Virginia McMath? How about the cinematic offerings of Lucille LeSeuer, Issur Demsky, Frances Gumm, and Bernard Schwartz?

No? What about (in order) George Burns, Milton Berle, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Joan Crawford, Kirk Douglas, Judy Garland, and Tony Curtis? I get that only those of a certain age who are reading this may recognize these stage names, but to my point, it’s not uncommon for celebrities of any generation to change their names.

Some have done so in order to eschew their ethnicity and gain the acceptance of the consuming American public by means of something more mainstream and ear-pleasing. Some needed more memorable monikers. Take, for example, Arnold George Dorsey (aka Engelbert Humperdinck). That’s one you don’t soon forget.

Did you know Ralph Lauren’s birth name was Ralph Lifshitz? He and his brothers changed their surname to Lauren after being bullied. And I think that worked out well for Ralph. “Polo” by Ralph Lifshitz just doesn’t have the same appeal.

“Who are you wearing tonight?”

“Ralph Lifshitz.”

We’ve all heard of famous folks who named their children something outrageous or otherworldly, ranging from Frank Zappa’s kids Moon Unit and Diva Thin Muffin Pegeen to Elon Musk’s progeny X Æ A-12 and Techno Mechanicus.

No, thanks. Just call me Ralph Lifshitz.

I find name changes interesting. Many immigrants to the United States underwent them, becoming more anglicized. My surname evolved from “Hermann.” My “Farmer” ancestors were originally “Bauers,” “bauer” being the German word for “farmer.” Over time, the surname “Fritts” (at least near where I live) underwent one of the most remarkable transformations I’ve encountered, from “Treffenstatt” to “Stufflestreet” to “Fritts.” Thankfully, they bypassed “Snuffleupagus.”

In 1942, in the midst of the world war, a distant cousin of mine was born and given the first and middle names Hitler Stalin. Talk about setting a kid up for failure! For the life of me, I can’t fathom what his parents were thinking. Sadly, the boy died at the age of one month from influenza, but had he lived, and had he not chosen to change his name, imagine what his life would have been like.

And Ralph Lifshitz thought he had it rough.

Many names have meanings that can be traced to ancient origins. My given name, “Terry,” seems not to have any meaning of its own, but it’s believed to be derived from the Latin “Terence,” which means “soft,” “smooth,” or “grain thresher,” or from the Germanic/French “Theodoric” or “Thierry,” meaning “powerful” or “ruler of the people.” My man card is inclined to choose powerful over soft, but, believing a "real man" can and should be confident and assertive yet sensitive, I’m finding satisfaction in the combination. After all, I could have been named Byron, which is derived from an Old English word meaning “cowshed.” Shed! I said shed! (My apologies to all the Byrons out there.)

Some people have short names; others have long ones. An example of the former is “J,” a child born in India in 2013. Compare that to the man who holds the Guinness World Record for the longest personal name, featuring more than 2,200 words. For short, he goes by “Laurence Watkins.” [“Just call me Larry.” Not sure how to explain his brother Darrell and his other brother Darrell. I guess the parents exhausted their creativity on Larry.] There is also Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff Sr. [You mean there’s a Jr.?]

And then there’s Rhoshandiatellyneshiaunneveshenk Koyaanisquatsiuth Williams, which is the abbreviated version of a 1,000-letter woman’s name. [I like to imagine she married Bob Tnjhcdykesurkzfnkrdytersjgdrlkhdjhfkesurthlrkfnglkdfhweutyeduew and hyphenated her name.]

Some people have humorous names. Another distant cousin of mine, Russell Pipes, was called “Rusty” for short. When I worked in a university registrar’s office, I knew of a student named Heiny White, whose academic records, when filed last name first left a whole new impression. Then there was another student named Angela Corn, who was not at all amused when one of our staff told her he thought he knew her uncle, Jimmy Crack.

On a more serious note, I’ve recently been studying the Biblical book of Luke which contains, in part, Jesus’ initial encounter with Simon, who would become one of his disciples. “Simon” means “hearing” or “listening,” and Luke depicts Simon as one of the first individuals to really comprehend what Jesus was saying about Himself as the Messiah and the fulfillment of God’s promises.

Matthew’s Gospel informs us that, later on, when Jesus asks Simon, “Who do you say that I am?” and Simon responds, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God,” Jesus says, “Blessed are you, Simon…I also say to you that you are Peter [derived from “Petra” meaning “rock”], and on this rock [not Peter himself, but the truth that he spoke about Jesus] I will build my Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

The Bible also speaks about the importance of having a good name – not in the sense of a pleasant- or strong-sounding name, but in the deeper sense of who we are as people. When others hear your name, what comes to their minds in terms of your character and your reputation? Scripture teaches us that a good name, in these contexts, is more precious than great riches and precious ointment, and it stresses that the way we conduct ourselves and relate to others is critical. It speaks of our honesty, our integrity, our love and compassion.

Many years ago, my paternal grandfather gave me a mail-order plaque. It doesn’t have great monetary value, but it has enormous intrinsic value to me because it expresses something he believed to be important enough to impart to me, and here is what it says:

“You got it from your father; it was all he had to give. So, it’s yours to use and cherish for as long as you may live. If you lose the watch he gave you, it can always be replaced, but a black mark on your name, son, can never be erased. It was clean the day you took it and a worthy name to bear. When he got it from his father, there was no dishonor there. So, make sure you guard it wisely, after all is said and done, you’ll be glad the name is spotless when you give it to your son.”

Granted, I don’t have a son to pass the plaque or the name on to, but it’s the principle behind the plaque that matters.

In Romeo and Juliet, Juliet asks, “What’s in a name?” The implication of her question is that a name is merely a label and not something that defines one’s essence.

I don’t care if you’re Mendel Berlinger, Ralph Lifshitz, Techno Mechanicus Musk, Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff Sr., Heiny White, or Thierry Hermann, in light of the increasingly divisive, cold, and often times cruel world we inhabit, the thing that truly matters is not what you’re called but who you are.

My prayer is that we all, more and more, would have our name associated with the Name of Jesus, that we would reflect His character, and that we would love as He has loved.

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A GOOD SKULL-CRACKING (1/6/2026)

Terry L. Harmon — Tue, 06 Jan 2026 22:22:46 -0500

Once upon a time, I got my skull cracked.

It was not an accident or an attack but a premeditated skull-cracking that I assented to with foreknowledge.

Someone recently asked me how long it had been since said skull-cracking. “Around seven years?” she asked. “At least seven years,” I responded. Later that evening, I dug into my archives to pinpoint the timeframe and was shocked to discover it was FIFTEEN years ago this month.

In January 2011, I was the proud recipient of a craniotomy. The preceding fall, I began experiencing frequent headaches, pressure and sharp pains in my head, and bouts of dizziness. An MRI determined I had a mass in my cerebellum, originally thought to be a brain tumor but ultimately found to be a tumor-like cyst. A week after its discovery, I was on my way to the skull-cracking party.

Within a 1.5-hour window of time, Doctor Sawbones (in reality, a marvelous neurosurgeon) cut through my skin, muscle, skull, and brain covering, at which point the mass, under great pressure, almost leapt out of my head with the force of the “Chestburster” in the movie Alien.

𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 – 𝘀𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗹-𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱.

The mass was so large that my surgeon thought it likely I had had it for years; it may have even been a developmental mutation from my carefree days as an embryo before mortgages and taxes.

𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 – 𝗮 𝘀𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗹-𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝘂𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁.

After the skull-cracking was complete and the mass removed, it left a void, technically described as a defect.

𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 – 𝗮 𝘀𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗹-𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱, 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁.

My stubborn cerebellum, unlike a can of Great Stuff, refused to fill in the space between my ears.

𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 – 𝗮 𝘀𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗹-𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱, 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲, 𝗺𝘂𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱.

Using twenty heavy duty staples, the skull crackers closed up the incision, resulting in a Frankenstein-esque line running from the base of my skull down the length of my neck. All I lacked were bolts sticking out.

𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 – 𝗮 𝘀𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗹-𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱, 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲, 𝗺𝘂𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁, 𝗮𝗶𝗿-𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿.

Taking the place of my missing portion of skull was titanium mesh, held together with screws.

𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 – 𝗮 𝘀𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗹-𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱, 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲, 𝗺𝘂𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁, 𝗮𝗶𝗿- 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹-𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿.

I had been told that the titanium in my head could potentially set off metal detectors and airport alarms.

𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 – 𝗮 𝘀𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗹-𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱, 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲, 𝗺𝘂𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁, 𝗮𝗶𝗿- 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹-𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁.

Humor aside, the most wonderful news followed when the pathology revealed there was no malignancy and no further treatment needed. While recovery had its rough moments, overall it went well and quickly, and I’ve had no repercussions for the past fifteen years. A most gracious God answered my prayers as well as those of a multitude of caring family and friends.

𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗜 𝗔𝗠 – 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗬 𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗙𝗨𝗟!

And never once has TSA had to take me down or tase me.

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SHERIFF MILT MAST & THE SUPPOSEDLY TWICE HANGED, TWICE SPARED OUTLAW BILL LONGLEY (12/30/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Tue, 30 Dec 2025 01:48:38 -0500

Over a period of decades in the 1800s, branches of my family moved nearly a thousand miles from the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina to Nacogdoches, Texas. One of the first to make the trek was my 4x great-granduncle, Jacob Mast, who arrived there in 1828. Shortly after, he took a wife and started a family, his third child being Milton “Milt” Mast.

Milt was a farmer, waggoner, Confederate captain, retail merchant, and postmaster, eventually being elected as the sheriff and tax collector for Nacogdoches County. It was in his capacity as sheriff in 1877 that he gained particular notoriety. That June, in a Louisiana parish, Milt, with the assistance of a deputy and a constable, apprehended a man claiming to be Bill Jackson. But Milt knew this was no Mr. Jackson; rather, he was renowned outlaw “Bloody Bill” Longley, and ever since Milt had been made aware of his description and the reward offered for his capture, he was on Bill’s trail. Once he had his prisoner securely manacled, Milt whisked him back to Texas.

Bill Longley was born to devout, God-fearing parents and was a good-hearted, well-liked boy, who was baptized into the Christian church. Unfortunately, by his mid-teens, he had become quick-tempered and unpredictable as well as a crack shot with a six shooter. He had quit school and his chores at home and began drinking and living wildly. In the tense Reconstruction days following the Civil War, he and other young white men clashed with now emancipated blacks, and some of the subsequent murders that Bill committed (the first when he was seventeen) were racially motivated. For some time afterwards, he drifted among various states, gambling in saloons, robbing settlers, stealing horses, and committing more murders.

After an unsuccessful stint with the U. S. Cavalry in Wyoming Territory, which ended in court-martial and desertion, Bill returned to Texas, where, between 1873 and 1876, he committed four more murders. Although seven murders were officially attributed to him, he claimed to have killed thirty-two people.

Bill ultimately fled to Louisiana, where Milt Mast took him into custody. He was imprisoned at Giddings, Texas, tried in Lee County, and sentenced to death. While awaiting execution, he told many tall tales and made fantastic claims about himself and his exploits, including having been previously captured and lynched but spared when a lucky gunshot severed the rope he was hanging from.

Interestingly, while in jail, Bill wrote letters to Milt, and Milt answered them. In one such letter, Bill told Milt (who he referred to as “Captain”) that the people of Lee County had threatened his father’s life if he attempted to visit or employ a lawyer for his son’s defense. Bill also said Lee Countians wouldn’t even permit correspondence from his parents for fear they would saturate their letters with poison, enabling him to circumvent the public’s satisfaction of seeing him hang, but Bill said he would never be his own murderer.

In one of Bill’s letters, he mentioned Milt’s telling him that some of the citizens of Nacogdoches County felt sympathy for him and would be willing to sign a petition asking the Texas Governor to commute his sentence to life in prison. And while Bill expressed sincere appreciation for this demonstration of mercy and said a life sentence would be preferable to death, he felt that the overwhelming opposition against him would make it a futile endeavor. Bill believed he had not received a fair trial, “but it is done,” he wrote. “I have no friends, and everybody, it seems to me, [is] itching to hear the sounds of the hammer that is to drive the nails into my coffin.” Bill questioned what his future would be beyond the grave. Would it be one of happiness, or would there be eternal punishment? He stated that no minister ever came near him, and he had rarely read the Bible. “I have spent my life from a fifteen-year-old boy in the wildest parts of the country, and in the company of the most reckless class of men on earth. But with all, there has always been a spark of Christianity in my heart.”

Despite being apprehended by Milt, Bill wrote, “I still say, Captain, as I have always said, that I cherish no ill will against you for capturing me; I can’t blame any officer for doing his duty, but, on the other hand, if I had been armed at the time and had killed some of you, I should have looked at it in the same way. I would have believed that I was doing perfectly right.” Bill considered himself and Milt to be friends and guessed they would meet again when Gabriel blew his horn.

Following an unsuccessful appeal and a feeble attempt at escape, twenty-seven-year-old Bill Longley was led to the scaffold to “stretch hemp.” Around 4,000 spectators traveled by foot, horseback, buggy, and wagon to witness the event. Bill, cigar in mouth, spoke a few last words, stating that he regretted to die but knew he deserved it. He asked for forgiveness and said goodbye. Dropping through the trap door, six-foot Bill’s feet hit the ground, his knees bending. Law officers had to raise him three times in order for his body to swing clear. After eleven minutes, a trio of physicians pronounced him dead. Once his body was cut down, one of the physicians turned Bill’s head entirely around to verify that his neck had been broken, and a deputy repeated the test. The body was then placed in a coffin, transported west of town, and buried in a hillside cemetery.

But was Bill Longley really dead? Nine years later, his father stated Bill was alive. He claimed that Bill’s uncle had bribed the Lee County sheriff, and that a special leather harness concealed beneath Bill’s clothing had supported his weight and caught the noose on an iron hook, preventing his neck from being broken. After his “corpse” was taken to the cemetery, Bill arose from his coffin and left town. Some claimed to have later seen him in Mexico, others in Austin, and even others in Central America.

At least by 1937, there was talk of opening Bill’s grave. Attempts to pinpoint its exact location were made in the 1980s with some certainty of success in 1998, when remains were exhumed and sent to the Smithsonian Institution for DNA testing and skull reconstruction. Finally, in 2001, the announcement was made that the remains were, indeed, those of Bill Longley.

Twice hanged? Doubtful, but perhaps. Spared once from the rope? Maybe. Spared twice? Negatory.

As for Cousin Milt, the sheriff outlived the outlaw by nearly three decades, dying at Melrose, Texas in 1907.

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CAST ALL YOUR CARES ON HIM, BECAUSE HE CARES FOR YOU (12/28/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Sun, 28 Dec 2025 21:11:14 -0500

The typically carefree boy had recently become less so. Worries, some of them irrational, had gradually crept into his mind. He became preoccupied with thoughts about war and dying, and he was concerned by the possibility of getting sick while away from home. He worried about his life and the future.

These disturbances carried into the nighttime, and even his sleep had become troubled. One night, after some tossing and turning, he got out of his bed and went to his mother in the family’s den, where he poured out his burdens to her.

The boy’s mom was loving, caring, and attentive, and after listening to him share what was on his heart and mind, she, in turn, shared something with him – something she had recently been reading:

From a hillside, Jesus had spoken to a large crowd and told them how their heavenly Father cared for birds and flowers and met their needs, and if He did that for birds and flowers, how much more He would take care of people and meet their needs.

And, as the boy’s mom pointed out, these were promises for all of God’s children, including him. This was a turning point for the boy. He slept well the remainder of the night and was finally able to let go of those things that had troubled him.

That boy was me, and this is a retelling of how my wise mother helped me more than fifty years ago, using the truth of God’s Word to ease my mind and encourage my heart, teaching me a lesson never forgotten.

Thank you, Mama.

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A COWBOY-ZOMBIE-MILK DRUNK CHRISTMAS (12/19/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 29 Dec 2025 20:27:36 -0500

Okay folks, here’s another gem from the Christmas vault a la late 60s. Here you see three American children in front of their bedecked tree, but me thinks there is more to the story. First, I (the child in the middle) apparently failed to receive the cowboy attire memo. That aside, judging by my wild-eyed expression, I may be a little inebriated. I’m pretty sure I was on the bottle till I was about five, so I could very well be high on Sealtest, or perhaps, in order to induce nap time, my mom may have slipped me a bit of the illicit hooch that our neighbor obtained for her from our local jail for use in her rum balls. Meanwhile, my sister has clearly become a Zombie. In our defense, if you saw yesterday’s post and the picture of our frightening encounter with so-called “Santa Claus,” our conditions are obvious after-effects – me taken to drinking and she joining the walking dead. My brother, however, was spared that photo op with Krampus, so here, he appears to be well-adjusted, ready and able to barrel race at will.

Oh, to be a child again!

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LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH, SANTA! (12/18/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 29 Dec 2025 20:14:43 -0500

This photo of my sister and me with “Santa Claus” always evokes an odd mix of both horror and amusement. At the time of the event – maybe circa 1969 – we were terrified by this masked stranger who entered our home and took us upon his knees. Okay, maybe horror and terror go a bit too far. As I scrutinize the image, I think my wide eyes and my finger in my mouth definitely portray some sense of “What in the figgy pudding is going on here?” My expressionless sister, on the other hand, seems nonplussed. If you’re not familiar with “nonplussed,” it’s a great word and perfectly fits the occasion – “surprised and confused so much that they are unsure how to react.” Only sometime later were we informed that the person underneath the costume was our great uncle, and today, we are (somewhat) entertained by the memory.

This brings to mind a funny story my Grandfather Harmon once told me. He said years ago, there was a family living way back in the sticks, and they had always been too poor to buy Christmas presents. In fact, their son had never even heard of Santa Claus. After some passage of time, the parents made financial progress to the point that they could finally afford gifts, and they told their son that Santa Claus would be coming to see him. By now, the boy was pretty good-sized and getting some years on him, and because he had no prior familiarity with this mysterious visitor, it caused him no small amount of angst. Finally, unable to contain his concern, he told his parents he knew Santa would scare the “H-E-double hockey sticks” out of him, and he wished he would just come on and get it over with!

May you have a very Merry, non-traumatic, Christmas!

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FROM SPUR TO SPACE (12/16/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Tue, 16 Dec 2025 12:25:09 -0500

In the midst of the Great Depression and World War II, a boy named Herff, from Spur, Texas, was brought up in a very religious home, due, in part, to the influence of his Presbyterian minister father. Hoping to become a pastor himself, Herff earned an undergraduate degree in philosophy with an eye toward seminary. In the interim, he met and married Ann, a fellow Texan who had graduated from a Christian women’s college in North Carolina. Later, in the midst of his theological studies, Herff changed course and decided to pursue a music career. He became the music director at a Presbyterian church in North Carolina, and while living in Gastonia in 1953, he traveled to the small town of Blowing Rock to lend his baritone voice to a wedding ceremony at Rumple Memorial Presbyterian Church.

The following year, Herff was drafted into the U. S. Army, and after a two-year stint, he moved to Colorado, where he earned a graduate degree with a focus on musical theater. After a subsequent, unsuccessful attempt to launch a professional singing career in New York, he became assistant professor of voice and director of the choral organizations at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa.

In 1963, during a summer break from school, Herff and Ann returned to North Carolina, this time to Boone, where Herff served as music director for the town’s outdoor drama, “Horn in the West.” He also sang bass in the show’s chorus, while Ann sang alto. By this time, the couple had two sons, who also had parts in the show, and they rented a home on the western side of the county, near the Vilas and Cove Creek communities. In 1964, Herff returned to Boone, bringing his Alabama collegiate group, “The University Singers,” to perform at Appalachian State University.

Soon after, things began to fall apart for Herff. He lost his job, and he and Ann divorced. Herff returned to Texas, and between 1965 and 1970, he obtained a position in another university’s music department and served as the choir director at an Episcopal church.

By the early 1970s, though, Herff began having emotional problems, including severe depression, and mounting debt. In 1972, he checked himself into a psychiatric hospital, where he met nurse Bonnie Nettles. And that’s when things really went off the rails. Together, they explored and promoted a bizarre form of spirituality, intertwining mysticism, reincarnation, UFOs, and extraterrestrial life with Biblical scripture and prophesy, and over time, known as “The Two” and eventually as “Do” (Herff) and “Ti” (Bonnie), they recruited followers.

After Bonnie’s death, Herff continued to lead the cult, which ultimately assumed the name “Heaven’s Gate,” and in 1997, over a three-day period inside a California mansion, Herff and his followers (39 people in total), donning black uniforms and Nike shoes, committed the largest mass suicide ever on U. S. soil by taking applesauce mixed with barbiturates, washing it down with vodka, and asphyxiating themselves by placing bags over their heads – all in an attempt to launch into space and ascend to what they referred to as the “Next Level.” In the estimation of some, though, Herff had already been in “outer space” for quite some time before his demise.

And so, this was the tragic end of the complicated life of Marshall Herff Applewhite, Jr., who, for a fleeting moment, had a connection to my hometown in rural North Carolina.

Fact is, indeed, often stranger than fiction.

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DEAD RINGER (12/15/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 15 Dec 2025 12:01:43 -0500

In May 1953, a tall and very thin man with graying hair walked into the Calhoun, Georgia jail, asking for a place to sleep. His request was granted, but he was found dead the following morning, the victim of a cerebral hemorrhage.

Apparently, no one had asked the man’s name, and as authorities began to investigate his identity, they learned that he had told a waitress he had a wife in Maryville, Tennessee. This somehow led them to Ova Shore, who, when shown a picture of the deceased man, identified him as her estranged husband, Frank.

Ova contacted her brother-in-law, Ballard Shore, of Virginia, and the two traveled to Georgia to examine the body. Although there was some degree of doubt in their minds, Ballard thought the deceased man looked very much like his brother, having two scars exactly where Frank had scars and having odd-shaped ears that were identical to Frank’s. Feeling confident enough that the deceased man was Frank, they shipped his body to his hometown of Boone, North Carolina. There, he was further identified by his mother, sister, and another brother. A funeral service was conducted, and despite the preacher’s disbelief that the man in the casket was Frank, Frank’s loved ones wept for him and grieved their loss.

Soon after, Ballard began having misgivings and was troubled by the fact that, only two days before his brother died in Georgia, Frank had written him a letter from his home in West Virginia. So, to alleviate his suspicions, Ballard traveled there and knocked on the door. Surprisingly, Frank answered. According to Ballard, it was like seeing a ghost.

The family was, of course, overjoyed that Frank was alive but disturbed by their error. Who had they buried in the family plot? One newspaper headline comically read, “Man Buried At Boone Just Wasn’t Himself.” As Ballard would tell a reporter. “It’s a shame about that other fellow. I hope they find out who he is. At least we gave him a nice church funeral.”

Fortunately, the FBI was able to use the mystery man’s fingerprints to identify him as 53-year-old John Wallace Lynn, a “restless rambler,” who had lived in multiple states and worked various jobs until he became homeless and drifted through the southeast. Following his identification, he was returned to his hometown of Mitchell, Indiana, where he received a second burial.

As for Frank Shore, well, he lived another twenty-two years, dying for real in 1975.

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SANTA'S FIRST RUN (12/12/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 09:46:02 -0500

My paternal grandfather, Iris Harmon, had a great sense of humor and was a natural storyteller. Around 1971, most likely for the benefit of his three grandchildren (my brother, my sister, and me), he assumed the identity of a young, wet-behind-the-ears Santa Claus, eager to make his mark on the world and recorded the tale of his debut sleigh run and how he came to have white hair and a white beard. I hope you enjoy it!

“If you’ll get you a seat and be right quiet, I’ll tell you about the first trip I ever made deliverin’ toys. I was raised at the North Pole, and the old man John Claus was my daddy’s name, and he had carried toys for years and years. Well, the winter of the big snow, my daddy said, ‘Santa, you’re gonna have to go out with the toys tonight. I’m gettin’ too old to make the run.’ So, that tickled me to death. I had never made the run before, and I was wantin’ to go the worst in the world. So, I went outside, got the sleigh and the reindeer, and loaded up the toys. I was a happy boy.

“Well, I had delivered toys all night, and it was gettin’ up toward morning. I just had one house to go, but there was a boy in that house that was so mean I just about decided I wouldn’t take anything to him. Well, I had some toys left, and I decided I would take ‘em over to him and, maybe by next year, he’ll be a good boy. I went over there, parked my sleigh and reindeer on the roof, and started down the chimney. I got down a ways and got stuck. I couldn’t go down and I couldn’t go up. There I was wallowin' around in that soot, tryin’ to get out. Well, I reached down and grabbed ahold of my bootstraps and gave a terrible hee-ho, and I popped out of there like a cork comin’ out of a bottle of mountain dew. Back on the roof, I took ahold of that bag, and I dumped every toy I had right down that chimney.

“When I got outta there, it was snowin’ so hard you couldn’t see a thing – darker than a pile of black cats. Well, I worried about how I was gonna find my way home, and I happened to think of Rudolph’s nose. So, I went around, switched it on, and it was as light as could be. So, I headed out for home. I got in about daylight, and my mother said, ‘Santa, what is the matter with your hair and beard?’ I had it full of soot. She said, ‘We’ll have to wash that out of there.’ So, she mixed up a potion of some kind. I don’t know what it was. It might have been some that stuff Eddie Albert and Arthur Godfrey advertise – maybe even some of Rosemary’s stuff could have been mixed in it.* I don’t know what it was, but she put me in to soak and set the thing on that floatin’ action. Well, it ran so long and kicked off; I was still a-floatin’, but I had almost quit actin’. She got me out and ran me through the dryin’ machine, and when I got out of there, my hair and beard were as white as snow, and it’s been that way ever since. But I kind of like it; it’s a lot of fun.

“Well, I guess that’s about all ‘til next Christmas. I’ll try to see you then. Be good and goodbye. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho…ho…ho….ho.”

* For context, TV personalities Eddie Albert, Arthur Godfrey, and Rose Marie, advertised, respectively, Biz, Axion, and Tide detergents. My grandpa referred to Rose Marie as “Rosemary.”

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UN-AMERICAN EAGLES (11/21/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Wed, 10 Dec 2025 10:04:46 -0500

This week, as I have watched the new Ken Burns documentary on the American Revolution, I’ve been reminded what a complicated time that was, and probably no more so than for those who refused to embrace the fight for independence – those who preferred the status quo and maintained their loyalty to the King of England. Although I have a few other Loyalist relatives, one in particular – a 6x great-grandfather, to be precise – has been on my mind, and this is his story.

John Eagles resided at White Plains, in Westchester County, New York. In March 1776, four months before his state’s approval of the newly drafted Declaration of Indepenence, John, at the direction of Gov. William Tryon, raised up 52 like-minded men for the York Volunteers in support of the British cause. In recognition of this, Gov. Tryon recommended him to Sir William Howe, commander of the British troops. Howe issued a warrant for John to raise a company for the Queen’s American Rangers (QAR), a Loyalist military unit named in honor of King George III’s wife, Queen Charlotte. Howe also asked John to carry dispatches to Sir Guy Carleton, who was commanding British troops in Quebec. As John would later recall, though the distance was great between New York and Quebec, and though he had to travel through armed rebel territory, he carried the dispatches securely and faithfully. On his return, though risking his life, he brought with him 143 men. Consequently, on August 25, 1776, Howe commissioned John as one of the captains of the QAR. Although John was to have had a commission as a lieutenant in the York Volunteers, he resigned that opportunity for the QAR commission, serving under Lt. Col. Robert Rogers.

In September 1776, near Flushing Bay, New York, the QAR apprehended Nathan Hale, who had volunteered for an intelligence-gathering mission for the Americans. The British found him guilty of espionage and hanged him.

In October 1776, Gen. Howe landed troops at Throg’s Neck (aka Frog’s Point), New York in a flanking maneuver intended to trap George Washington’s American forces in Manhattan. As part of Howe’s movement, the QAR was ordered to take the right flank of the British forces to New Rochelle in Westchester County. There, John and elements of his company were ordered to attack the town and were the first Rangers to enter it. They successfully took it without opposition or shots fired.

The following day, Lt. Col. Rogers and the bulk of the QAR were ordered to capture Mamaroneck (also in Westchester County), and they encountered little opposition from the local militia. Meanwhile, John and 60 of his men remained at the New Rochelle outpost. That night, a detachment of 750 Americans was sent to attack the QAR at Mamaroneck, but in the pre-dawn hours, they unexpectedly encountered John and his men, who had just settled in. The Americans called on them to surrender; some were willing, while others resisted. Confusion ensued as the forces tangled in the darkness, and while John directed his unit’s defense, he sent some of his men to warn Rogers of the impending attack. “The attack was overwhelming, and the Rangers were in danger of being overrun…. Some Rangers adopted a ruse that worked very well in the dark – in the midst of almost hand-to-hand fighting, they began shouting curses at Rogers and the other Rangers as they withdrew. This tactic fooled the American raiders and pulled them closer to the main body of Rangers as they chased the withdrawing Rangers.” John and about a third of his men fell back to their main camp. The remainder were overpowered, and John’s lieutenant and 23 other men were killed. Still, the Americans’ advantage of surprise had been thwarted, and they retreated. According to John, he was afterwards publicly thanked by Gen. Howe for his “spirited behavior” in this endeavor.

That same month, Gen. Washington’s Continental troops clashed with Gen. Howe’s British and Hessian forces in John’s hometown of White Plains, and it was there that John was wounded.

Later that fall, elements of the QAR conducted a patrol in Bedford, New York and returned with several naval prisoners, captured en route, and with a 120-man company of Ranger recruits, which they met on the way back. In mid-November, the QAR were camped east of New York, where they resisted an attack by Gen. Charles Lee’s forces, which included Gen. John Glover's Marblehead Mariners. In mid-January 1777, elements of the QAR were located at Fort Knyphausen when it was attacked by an American force. When the British rejected the American demand to surrender, the Americans withdrew.

Over the course of the winter of 1776-1777, the QAR’s force was reduced – mostly by desertion – to one-fifth of its original strength. In January 1777, a new Inspector General of Provincial Forces, Alexander Innes, was appointed by the British Army to review Loyalist units, including the QAR. Innes sometimes incorrectly reported the backgrounds of the QAR officers and complained that its ranks included “Negroes, Indians, Mulattos, Sailors, and Rebel Prisoners.” Innes was also believed to have agreed with the sentiments of the regular officers who looked down on Lt. Col. Robert Rogers and his Rangers. “The regulars held Ranger officers in low regard since they, unlike the British ‘gentlemen,’ had not purchased their commissions but had earned them from Rogers based on his assessment of their worth.” Rogers’ “resulting battalion comprised men who were nowhere near the standards of the Rangers from the French and Indian War…. What [he] ended up with were farmers and townspeople who scarcely knew one end of a gun from another” and few had any experience as soldiers.” With no uniforms and serving in the clothes on their backs, “the Rangers…pretty much looked like the troops they were fighting.” Innes wrote that many of the officers recommended by Rogers had been bred as mechanics; others had kept public houses (inns), “and one or two had even kept bawdy houses in the City of New York.”

In February 1777, Innes reported to Gen. Howe that Rogers had brought persons into the QAR who were very improperly qualified to hold commissions, and Innes found their conduct to be flagrant “in a thousand instances.” Innes thought these men to be of lowly background, who allowed their men to rob and plunder, and whose conduct was so much despised by the rest of the army that no other officer would be seen with them. Innes deemed the QAR to be in a “wretched situation” and recommended that Howe reform it. That same month, Howe decided that Rogers should retire and relieved him of his command. Although Rogers had been a celebrated hero of the earlier French and Indian War, he had become an alcoholic, his honesty and financial integrity had suffered as a result, and his loyalties were sometimes questionable.

Another fallout of Innes’s report was that John Eagles and 26 other officers, including Capt. Daniel Frazer, were, without benefit of court martial, replaced in March 1777. Sworn testimonies of men from their companies stated that both John and Frazer had cheated them out of their pay. Innes wrote that Frazer was “an illiterate, low-bred fellow. Another, Captain John Eagles of Westchester County, New York, was still more illiterate and low bred than Frazer.”

John was incensed by his dismissal and spent the next several years seeking the restoration of his commission. In 1779, he wrote to George Germain, 1st Viscount Sackville, who was England’s Secretary of State to the American Colonies. John entreated Germain, telling him that his “company was most ungratefully and unjustly taken from him” and begging him “to consider the extraordinary outlines of his case.” John told Germain that, from the beginning of the rebellion until the present time, he had “risqued [sic] his person, employed his interest, and sacrificed his property in support of the Laws and Constitution of England.” John stated that he had behaved himself in a soldier-like manner, and that Gen. Howe had publicly recognized him for it. John further stated that he had raised nearly 200 men for the British cause and had “hazarded his life in the open and secret services of his King,” but in the end, he was stripped of his company and bestowed with “unmerited infamy.”

It is unknown if Germain responded to John, but John and others proceeded with a lawsuit at some point. In the midst of it all, John remained loyal to the Crown, although he stated he was distressed by the rebels. He lost four cattle at the Battle of White Plains but thought British troops had taken them. He also lost fifteen sheep, three hogs, furniture, and farm utensils. One of his mares was stolen from Manor of Fordham, New York. In 1780, the French and rebels destroyed his crop of wheat at Morrisania, New York, where a Dutchman stole a fine mare from him and sold it to a rebel officer.

In the end, John received no satisfaction or reparations for these injustices. Although the Siege of Yorktown effectively ended the war in 1781, the Treaty of Paris would not be signed until September 1783. That July, the same month that his daughter ironically married a Patriot, John Eagles, no doubt disillusioned by it all, left New York, bound for Annapolis County, Nova Scotia. Distressing weather, however, drove the ship to Bermuda, a British island territory in the mid-North Atlantic, just before Christmas. He remained there until April 1784 and would have gone from Bermuda to England, but because he could not catch a ship to Europe, he reverted to his original plan, went to Nova Scotia, and arrived in Annapolis in May 1784. The following year, he petitioned for land in Queens County, New Brunswick, just across the Bay of Fundy from Nova Scotia. Based on documents, he appears to have settled at Saint John and to have been granted 271 acres of land in Sussex Parish, Kings County, New Brunswick in April 1787.

This is the end of my knowledge of John Eagles, who is my only known Canada-dwelling ancestor. So, how did I manage to descend from him? That daughter of his – the one who married a Patriot former soldier in New York City, soon after traversed down the Great Wagon Road to North Carolina and carved out a new life and home in the wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains. These were my 5x great-grandparents, Nathan and Elizabeth Eagles Horton, and we’ve been here ever since.

I consider it a privilege to be a citizen of the United States of America, a great, albeit imperfect, nation. I am also thankful for my forebearers who fought for independence. And even though I don’t espouse the Loyalist views of John Eagles, perhaps that is easy to say almost 250 years post revolutionary victory. Choosing sides when things were so fragile and tentative, so tense and risky had to be difficult. I am not his accuser nor his judge. At this point, I am merely a teller of his story, and without him, I would not be here to do so.

Rest in peace Grandpa Eagles.

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DANIEL BOONE AND SOUTH SUDAN’S INDEPENDENCE (10/24/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 24 Oct 2025 17:24:51 -0400

Yes, you read that correctly. Daniel Boone and South Sudan’s independence.

“But wait,” you say. “Boone, that great American, who helped blaze a trail to what would become Kentucky, died in 1820, and South Sudan did not gain its independence until 2011. And to my knowledge, Boone never left his continent and certainly never traveled to Africa. What the heck are you talking about?”

Well, your facts are accurate, and perhaps I should clarify (read: admit) that Daniel Boone did not personally have a hand in South Sudan’s independence. I’ll explain further, but first, a backstory.

John Garang, a poor boy from a Sudanese village, was orphaned by the age of ten. Thanks to a relative who paid his school fees, he received a foundational education. While he was a student, a civil war broke out in his country, and when John turned seventeen, he joined the rebels who were fighting for representation and autonomy for his county’s southern region.

But even the rebels could see that John was a smart boy with much promise, and they encouraged him to continue his education. Following their advice, he completed high school in Tanzania and won a scholarship to attend university in the United States. In 1969, he earned a bachelor’s degree in economics from a college in Iowa and was subsequently offered another scholarship to pursue graduate studies in California. Instead, he returned to Tanzania to study as part of a fellowship program.

Still, John was not done being a rebel, and while in graduate school, he was affiliated with a student political group advocating for liberation movements in Africa. Soon after, he returned home and rejoined the rebels. He was sent to Israel for military training, and when a peace agreement was achieved in 1972, he became part of Sudan’s army. Within eleven years, and after completing an advanced course for officers at Fort Benning, Georgia, John rose through the ranks from captain to colonel. While in the United States again, he completed his master’s degree and followed that with a PhD.

John continued to hold on to the idea of a “New Sudan,” one in which all cultures, religions, and tribal ethnicities within the country could dwell together in unity, and he supported revolution to that end. When a second civil war erupted, he became part of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. After more than two decades of war, a second peace agreement was reached in January 2005, and that same day, John was sworn in as the First Vice President of Sudan, the second most powerful person in his country.

Six months later, while retaining his vice presidency, John also became the premier of southern Sudan. Three weeks after that, he was dead, the victim of a tragic helicopter crash. Some claimed it was accidental; others believed nefarious elements were at play. What is not debated is that John’s advocacy for a “New Sudan” was a contributing factor to South Sudan’s ultimate independence that was gained six years after his death.

“So, what does all of this have to do with Daniel Boone?” you ask (and perhaps demand at this point).

In the early 2000s, John Garang visited my workplace (an international evangelical relief organization) in Boone, North Carolina, and I had a brief encounter with him. Following a small gathering at our office, my boss handed me the keys to his SUV and asked me to drive Mr. Garang to his hotel. In our less than half hour of making small talk en route to his accommodations, the topic of the town’s name came up, and thus ensued a discussion of Daniel Boone. At the time, I had no knowledge of Mr. Garang’s American education, and to my surprise, he told me when he was in the States in the late 1960s, he watched the “Daniel Boone” television show. We smiled as we conversed about this one of few commonalities between us – me, a small-town North Carolina boy who had achieved some degree of middle management, and him, a Wangulei village boy who had reached the upper echelons of one of Africa’s largest nations.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the actual Daniel Boone who played a role in South Sudan’s independence, but I’d like to think it was his indominable patriotism and independent spirit that had some reinforcing effect on Mr. Garang’s similarly held convictions. Like John Garang, Daniel Boone was a rebel and a revolutionary. Perhaps, while pursuing his early college education in Iowa and watching TV during his study breaks, Mr. Garang found some inspiration in Fess Parker’s portrayal of the great frontiersman…one pioneer’s influence upon another.

Who’s to say?

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MISS CONYERS (10/11/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Sun, 12 Oct 2025 01:53:19 -0400

This morning, on the outskirts of our local farmer’s market, I met a lovely, elderly lady, tall and slender, with short, stylish, salt and pepper hair. Dressed in what appeared to be comfortable lounge wear, she sat her handbag down in order to zip up her long, “puffer” overcoat against the cool October breeze.

I started our conversation with, “That’s a nice coat,” followed by asking if she was having a good day. Her daughter had dropped her off at the entrance to the farmer’s market while she parked the car. The lady gave a hesitant half frown and slight shoulder shrug in response to my inquiry. “I can’t walk very far these days,” she said.

I asked if she was from the area, and she shared that she had come from Asheville, North Carolina, but she wasn’t from there either. Conyers, Georgia was her home, and she had lived there for decades. She had taught first and second grade for thirty years and had been retired another thirty years before moving to North Carolina, where her children had relocated. And where her children went, no doubt pursuing their own lives and following career paths, she, as their aging mother, presumably in need of care, ultimately had to follow. “It was a mistake,” she said.

Our brief encounter did not allow for an in-depth exchange about why it had been a mistake, but last year’s Hurricane Helene was a contributing factor with its devastating impact on Asheville and the surrounding area. A large tree had crashed into their small back yard, and they had boiled their water for more than fifty days. She missed her old home.

Moments later, having procured parking, her daughter, a seemingly caring person, arrived on foot and tenderly asked her mom if she was ready to enter the market. I bade them farewell and wished them a good day. I never caught the lady’s name, so I am choosing to call her “Miss Conyers,” similar to how I called all my own elementary school teachers - Miss Glenn, Miss Ellison, Miss Shipley…. In my brief interaction with Miss Conyers, my impression of her was that of a sweet and lovely person, and I’d venture to guess she was a good and dedicated school teacher, who made a difference in the lives of many little ones.

My heart goes out to her and all like her who once had a career, raised a family, and made a home in a community dear to their hearts, but out of one necessity or another, had to leave the familiar for the foreign in order to be cared for during their twilight years. Those decisions and choices can be difficult, even heart-wrenching.

So, my prayer in this moment is for all those who are aging, especially those who must be uprooted, and for all those providing care for their elderly and often health-compromised loved ones. May God’s grace strengthen and sustain you in whatever bittersweet circumstances you may find yourselves in today. And God bless Miss Conyers. May she find Your silver lining.

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MOSES (9/22/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Wed, 24 Sep 2025 19:30:04 -0400

In the spring of 1891, an elderly patient was brought into Boston’s city hospital. Seemingly dressed in everything he owned – four shirts, three pairs of pants, two overcoats – and accompanied by his dog Pete, the man was a curious sight. He suffered from a bad heart and bad kidneys, and when he died, faithful Pete had to be dragged from his side. The old man was buried in a pauper’s grave.

His beginning was as regrettable as his ending. Born into slavery around 1815 in Caswell County, North Carolina, he was the offspring of a half white mother and her white master. He would later write, “A few months before I was born, my father married my mother's young mistress. As soon as my father's wife heard of my birth, she sent one of my mother's sisters to see whether I was white or black, and when my aunt had seen me, she returned back as soon as she could, and told her mistress that I was white, and resembled [my father] very much…. Not being pleased with this report, she got a large club-stick and knife, and hastened to the place in which my mother was confined. She went into my mother's room with a full intention to murder me with her knife and club, but as she was going to stick the knife into me, my grandmother happening to come in, caught the knife and saved my life. But as well as I can recollect from what my mother told me, my father sold her and myself, soon after her confinement.”

At the age of seven, the boy was separated from his mother, and by the time he was twelve or thirteen, he had been sold half a dozen times, eventually being bought by a South Carolina cotton planter. For a few weeks, the planter had treated him kindly but then commenced flogging him severely on an almost daily basis. Over time, he attempted as many as twenty escapes, but he was captured and cruelly punished. On one occasion, he was stripped, tied to a rail, and whipped with 200 lashes.

He finally succeeded, though, escaping in 1824 and gradually making his way north to New York, where abolitionists helped him gain passage to London. Once literate, he wrote his autobiography, an illustrated narrative that recounted the horrors he had suffered in America. Soon, the former slave began lecturing in churches and town halls throughout Great Britain and Ireland and making the case for the abolition of slavery in the United States. He took a British wife, and they made their home in Canada, where their four daughters were born.

But hard times eventually once more befell him. By 1871, he and his wife were divorced, and he became seemingly estranged from his children. He returned to New England and began taking whatever employment was available. He was working as a farmhand when his strength gave out and, with around $100 in his pocket, he was placed on a train to Boston. It was there, at the city’s station, that he was found unconscious and transported to the hospital where he died.

So, who was this remarkable man? His name was Moses Roper, and by all accounts, his slave master father, Henry Roper, was a first cousin to my 5x great-grandfather, Hugh Yates, Sr., whose mother, Jemima Roper Yates, had come from Caswell County to present-day Wilkes County, North Carolina around the time of the American Revolution.

Moses’ memoir, "Narrative of the Adventures and Escape of Moses Roper from American Slavery," was his firsthand testimony of slavery’s abuses and would eventually sell more than 38,000 copies. I am proud to claim him as my kin.

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THE MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD (9/8/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 08 Sep 2025 15:28:06 -0400

Remember that popular Dos Equis marketing campaign with the debonair, silver haired and bearded gentlemen that proclaimed him to be the most interesting man in the world? The slogan soon became part of our cultural fabric and generated numerous parodies and memes. Well, that fellow aside, I think I may actually know the most interesting man in the world.

I first became aware of Kenney Isaacs in the early 1990s. I didn’t know him personally, but his adoptive father and my father were second cousins, and I included Kenney’s biographical data in a family history I was writing. In part, it stated he “graduated from Watauga High School in Boone, NC and is now a well-driller for Samaritan’s Purse.” Concise and to the point, I had no clue at the time how much that description underportrayed him. (Okay, “underportrayed” is not an actual word, but it should be.)

All that changed when I went to work for Kenney at Samaritan’s Purse in the late 1990s and got to personally witness his abilities. I have never been his direct report – at least two or three levels of management have separated us through the decades – but I have worked closely with him at times, and his door has always been open to me. Beyond our professional relationship, he is my friend.

Kenney recently achieved a long-time ambition, which was to write his autobiography. It was officially released last week and is titled "Running to the Fire: Helping in Jesus’ Name." I was honored to receive an inscribed, advance hard copy from Kenney himself, but I also purchased the audiobook because I wanted to hear the story in his own words.

Kenney has led an amazing life. Even if he were not a follower of Jesus Christ, his worldwide adventures – the places he has traveled and the things he has seen – would make an incredible story. On the other hand, had he not followed Jesus, probably most (and perhaps none) of these things would be part of Kenney’s experience. While adventure stories are compelling, when you add Christ to the mix, they become extraordinary, almost to the point of unbelievability. But for those of us who also follow Jesus in faith, we get that.

Having an almost 30-year front row seat to both Samaritan’s Purse and Kenney’s work within the organization, I have a particular appreciation for this new book. I am personally acquainted with many of the people and places mentioned, and I have experienced firsthand some of the amazing projects and events that Kenney discusses, although I am far less traveled and storied than he.

I’m a person who enjoys history, and Kenney’s book did not disappoint in that regard as it is a mostly comprehensive account of the major involvements that Samaritan’s Purse has had around the world. I say “mostly” because Kenney could (and hopefully will) fill subsequent volumes with additional stories and experiences, especially considering that his ministry is ongoing.

I had previously heard or personally known of many of the accounts Kenney shares in his book, but I didn’t know all the details and backstories, so this has been an education of insight for me. Aside from the adventure, history, and nostalgia this book afforded me, it more importantly touched me in deeply spiritual and emotional ways, which I believe is a fulfillment of Kenney’s heart and intent for this work. This was especially true of the audio version, and here, I’ll give you a bit of a spoiler alert if you intend to listen to the book.

There are moments when Kenney actually weeps, and his voice cracks and chokes with emotion as he relays some of his most heart-wrenching life experiences, ranging from what he witnessed during the Rwanda genocide to the death of his dear, godly wife, Carolyn – a lovely lady who I had the great privilege of knowing. But beyond these trying situations, there are other Spirit-filled moments when Kenney becomes emotional as he recounts the mighty hand of God upon his life and his life’s work, including divine deliverances and appointments, evidence of the Master’s providence and grace. I admit that, when Kenney became emotional, I did as well. But whether you read or listen to the book (I recommend both), it’s raw and real - an honest account of both the joys and the heartbreaks of not just a humanitarian worker, but of one in possession of an eternal perspective.

Kenney is a fascinating study in terms of his rise from “blue collardom” to bearing witness to and participating in some of the world’s major events and defining moments. I mean, who would have thunk that a small town well driller from Appalachia, with only a high school diploma, would one day brief a U. S. President, testify before Congress regarding various humanitarian crises, and become an expert on geopolitics? It’s by no means a typical story. And even though these things lend support to my claim that Kenney is, perhaps, the most interesting man in the world, it is evident through his writing that he does not view himself in these terms; rather, he sees himself as one who, if there is any marveling to be done about him, ascribes it all to his relationship with Jesus. While Kenney is a central character in this book (an obvious expectation for an autobiography), the true underlying and overarching “character” is Almighty God.

My take-aways from this book include personal self-reflections concerning my walk with the Lord – the degree to which I am submitting and surrendering to His will and contemplation of whether I am living what I proclaim to believe and how I can best be used of Him, all of which I believe are among Kenney’s hopes and aims for his readers.

I taught Sunday School at my church yesterday, and one of the focal passages was Proverbs 3:5&6 – “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.” Kenney’s book mightily affirms these verses and that the old song had it right – “trust and obey, for there’s no other way.”

I hope you will read this book and be blessed.

https://a.co/d/fDXTbUS

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THE PASSING OF A GREAT MAN (8/22/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Mon, 08 Sep 2025 15:30:15 -0400

In 1989, I made my first visit to Willow Valley Baptist Church, where a Wednesday night Bible study was being led by the pastor, Reverend Ray Greene, more commonly and affectionately known as “Preacher Ray.” The way in which he mined the scriptures and brought forth gems of insight took me to a new level of biblical understanding that, along with the wonderful church family there, led me to join their congregation within the following year.

As I got to know Preacher Ray better, I would learn that he had been a basketball star during his growing up years in East Tennessee, and he could have had a lucrative career in sports, particularly in the world of professional refereeing. But God had other plans for his life, and he was obedient in responding to God’s call for him to preach the Gospel.

For many years, he was bi-vocational, working a full-time job while pastoring. I can only imagine how tired he must have been at times after putting in a long day at work and then traveling many miles to preach revivals or conduct services, not to mention the hours he spent visiting the sick and in private communion with his Heavenly Father, opening his heart and mind to the divine inspiration that would become his sermons.

I also came to know that Preacher Ray was a man of great reputation. Well-known, well-regarded, and highly respected, he had a good and honorable name. His character and integrity were without blemish or scandal, and we were proud to tell others that he was our pastor. The consistency with which he lived his life was an outcropping of his walk with the Lord. Kind, loving, and good-humored, he readily extended his friendship, encouragement, and counsel to others.

Sadly, Preacher Ray passed away yesterday evening at the age of 83, about nine months after he had resigned from the pulpit. Health concerns had led to his retirement, but he had pastored Willow Valley for an extraordinary 48 years – an accomplishment that is practically unheard of these days. He was my pastor for 35 of those years, and through those decades, he was there time and again for me and my family.

Preacher Ray seems to have been part of a dying breed…one of the last of the old time Baptist preachers. For some, that might conjure images of a “hellfire and damnation” preacher, angrily yelling or shouting, pounding his fist, or shaking his finger in accusation at wayward souls, but that was not how he operated. Rather, he preached out of love and compassion and concern – the fullness of his heart for others that had been born within him ever since his own acceptance of Jesus as his Savior.

Still, we could ALWAYS expect and rely upon Biblical truth from Preacher Ray. He did not sugarcoat anything by glossing over the reality of hell and the repercussions of rejecting salvation. Rather, he gave the full picture of those things while simultaneously emphasizing God’s great love for mankind, the extension of His mercy and grace that resulted in Christ’s death on Calvary, His blood that paid for our sins, and His resurrection that promises us eternal life.

As a good shepherd of the flock entrusted to him, Preacher Ray was careful to protect his people from those who might speak or teach anything contrary to the Word. He was very deliberate and discerning in terms of who was invited into his pulpit, and we are the thankful beneficiaries of his thoughtful watchcare.

I’ll always fondly recall that, during particular Spirit-filled moments, Preacher Ray might offer a high-pitched “Whoo!” or a “Well, glory!” At other times, he might threaten to take off running, jump the pews, or “have a spell.” In contrast, when things were lacking in Spirit, he often classified them as “drier than last year’s corn shuck.”

Although Preacher Ray had a great disdain for cucumbers – something we enjoyed teasing him about, he was passionate about music. For many years, he sang in a gospel group, and his love of music endured throughout his lifetime. He sang tenor in our church choir, and at times, he would encourage us, saying, “Now, on this next verse, do your very best…give it all you’ve got.” With certain songs, he liked us to hold the long notes until we ran out of breath. One of his favorite hymns was “The Haven of Rest,” the chorus of which says, “I’ve anchored my soul in the Haven of Rest, I’ll sail the wide seas no more. The tempest may sweep o’er the wild, stormy deep; in Jesus I’m safe evermore.”

It seems surreal that Preacher Ray’s time on earth and his long ministry have ended, and it’s hard to say goodbye to someone you’ve known for so long, whose life was such an integral and impactful part of your own. But he has entered his eternal rest, he is safe evermore, and he is finally in the presence of the One in whom he anchored his soul and spent the bulk of his life proclaiming.

Rest in peace, Preacher Ray. You have fought the good fight. You have finished the race. You have kept the faith. I am thankful and blessed to have known you, and I take comfort in the fact that your legacy lives on and our separation is fleeting.

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SLEEP TALKING (8/15/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 15 Aug 2025 11:38:51 -0400

August Schroeder was dead.

His widow, Dora, had found the prosperous forty-one-year-old farmer hanging in their barn on a summer morning in 1900 in rural Iowa. He left no note, but all Dora could figure was suicide.

The pair had married a decade earlier. August, a German immigrant, was more than a dozen years older than Dora. They had three children – two boys and a girl – ages 9, 7, and 5 at the time of their father’s death.

After discovering her husband's suspended body, Dora cut it down and summoned his brother, Adolph. Friends and neighbors found August’s taking of his own life curious, and certain things didn’t sit right with Adolph either.

For one thing, August was in his stocking feet – no shoes to be found in the barn – and the bottoms of his socks were clean. How could he have walked through the wet and muddy yard between the house and the barn without getting his socks dirty?

Adolph also noticed marks around his brother’s throat, which he felt were inconsistent with hanging and more of an indication that he had been manually choked.

Finally, the joist from which his brother had hanged had a deep indentation, deeper than would have resulted from August hanging himself, and more like rope being pulled over it with a steady weight attached.

These suspicions resulted in Dora being indicted for her husband’s murder, but August’s live-in hired hand, another German immigrant named Charles Rocker, testified in her defense, and she was released.

Charles would also come under suspicion. At the time Dora had made her gruesome discovery, Charles was reportedly in his room, sleeping off a bender from the night before, but when Adolph Schroeder had roused him, he smelled no liquor on Charles’s breath.

Although they had no proof, Adolph and another brother, Fred, suspected Charles of playing a part in their sibling’s death, and they accused him of it. Charles was arrested, and it was now Dora's turn to come to his defense. At the preliminary hearing, she reasserted her belief that August had taken his own life, and the investigation ultimately resulted in Charles’s acquittal due to insufficient evidence.

Opinions of Dora were mixed. Some found her testimony so convincing that they felt she had nothing to do with the crime, or if a crime had even been committed. Others, including her brothers-in-law, believed her to be complicit – that she loved the similarly-aged Charles more than she loved her older husband and had helped plot the latter’s murder.

Shortly afterwards, Charles went to South Dakota, where he purchased a farm on Dora’s behalf, using money she had received from August’s life insurance policies. Charles also filed an unsuccessful false arrest and defamation suit against August’s brothers, requesting $10,000 for damages to his character.

Dora and her children followed Charles to South Dakota, and Adolph and Fred Schroeder traveled there to determine if she and Charles were living together. The trip confirmed their suspicions, and a shotgun-wielding Charles chased them from the property. Dora and Charles eventually married and had a baby of their own.

All the while, Adolph and Fred stayed hot on Charles’s trail, leaving no stone unturned in their continued search for evidence against him.

During his preliminary trial, Charles had stated he was a single man, but the Schroeder brothers discovered he had been twice married – once prior to leaving Germany and again in Minnesota without the benefit of divorce from his first wife. He also had four children by his second wife, who he also had not divorced. This information led to Charles being arrested for perjury.

With Charles behind bars, Dora wrote a letter to authorities, stating that, although they had been happily married for a time, Charles eventually became an abusive husband and father. After their daughter was born, he had wanted to throw the infant down a well, and he began cruelly mistreating Dora. He also got angry with one of his stepsons and struck him on the head with a monkey wrench. The blow fractured the little boy’s skull, almost killing him.

Dora and Charles frequently fought about Charles’s mistreatment of his stepchildren and his associations with women of ill repute. After he struck his stepson with the wrench, another argument ensued, and Charles went to town and got drunk.

Dora said Charles returned home at 2 AM the following morning and came to bed. Both of them slept restlessly as Charles muttered and moaned and tossed and turned. Finally, he sat upright in the bed and struck Dora, bloodying her nose. Still asleep, with his eyes closed tight and his hands around her throat, he declared, “August, you ‘blankety-blank,’ I’ve got you now.” Dora’s screams awakened him, but he soon returned to sleep.

Although still shaken and frightened the next morning, Dora said she asked Charles for an explanation, but he denied the previous night’s events and threatened her, telling her she talked too much and should keep her mouth shut. But Dora persisted and asked him again later in the day what he had meant by “getting August.” She recounted that Charles then confessed to murdering him, provided her with the details, and, after placing a revolver to her head, threatened to kill her if she ever told anyone.

According to Dora, August and Charles had attended a farmer’s picnic together and afterwards visited some saloons. On their return, Charles provided August with a bottle of whiskey mixed with chloroform and morphine that Charles had purchased from a drug store earlier that day. They reached home in the wee hours of the next morning, and Charles put up the horses and assisted a semi-intoxicated August into the house before returning outside. August went to bed but complained about not feeling well. Dora had been waiting up for him, and after serving him some coffee, she turned in as well. As the poisoned whiskey began to take effect, August became sick and went to the porch, where he vomited. Charles had anticipated this, and he joined August on the porch and gave him more of the whiskey. Drowsy and nearing unconsciousness from the chloroform and morphine, August sat down on a beer keg. Charles then took him by the throat and choked him to complete unconsciousness or perhaps even death. He also placed a chloroform-saturated handkerchief over Dora’s face while she was sleeping so that she would have no awareness of what had transpired. Charles then wheeled August to the barn in a barrel cart, tied a rope around his neck, and hoisted him to the rafters to make his death look like a suicide.

Following Dora’s statements, Charles was indicted for first-degree murder, but in a surprising turn of events, she was indicted as well. A grand jury felt she had aided Charles, and there were even reports that she had confessed to helping hang August’s body, but in the end, the state chose not to prosecute her.

Charles’s trial revealed that there had been preexisting enmity between him and August Schroeder. Charles had reportedly been infatuated with Dora, and the two fell in love, became intimate, and frequented dances together. As a result, August claimed Charles had invaded the sanctity of his home.

A physician testified that, based on the condition of August’s body, he did not believe he had committed suicide. He believed that marks on August’s throat and back were consistent with Dora’s story of him having been choked and his body carried on a cart. Additionally, August’s features indicated death by poisoning rather than hanging.

The prosecution was able to prove that Charles had purchased chloroform and had asked for doped whiskey at two saloons.

But the most damning evidence was Dora’s testimony that Charles had confessed the murder to her.

At the trial’s conclusion, the jury convicted Charles and sentenced him to death – ironically, by hanging. His case was appealed to the state supreme court, and a half hour before his execution, he was given a stay.

In 1906, Charles was granted a new trial on the basis of some prejudicial things that had occurred in his original trial, but he was once more found guilty of first-degree murder. This time however, he escaped the gallows altogether and was sentenced to life in prison. A subsequent appeal was unsuccessful and his conviction and sentence were upheld.

In 1913, an attorney who was sympathetic toward Charles and his case started an unsuccessful movement to have him pardoned.

Finally, in 1919, Charles Rocker escaped from the penitentiary. It was the last recorded trace of him.

Moral of the story: If you talk in your sleep, it’s probably best to sleep alone!

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NINEVEH AND EPHRAIM'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE (8/12/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Fri, 15 Aug 2025 11:37:18 -0400

As young bachelors in 1840, my great-grandfather’s great uncles, Nineveh and Ephraim Ford, left their native Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina for Missouri, but this would prove to be a temporary stopover as their attention was next drawn to Oregon.

Nineveh’s appetite had been whetted by the scenic descriptions within Lewis and Clark’s account of their great expedition some forty years earlier, and his intention to venture further westward was cemented by information he gleaned from traders and trappers who had been there.

Although it had not yet been fully determined what right the United States had to land west of the Rocky Mountains, a private movement arose in the spring of 1843 among settlers in Platte County, Missouri to colonize Oregon. Fully aware that there was no assurance the federal government would assist or protect them, and that they would be responsible for their own choices and actions, they organized a mission that would become known as “The Great Migration/Wagon Train of 1843.” Between 700 and 1,000 people (including the Ford brothers), with approximately 120 wagons drawn by six-ox teams, and several thousand loose cattle and horses, would be among the first to cross the plains from Missouri.

Before this time, “two or three missionaries had performed the journey on horseback, driving a few cows with them. Three or four wagons drawn by oxen had reached Fort Hall [Idaho]…but it was the honest opinion of most…that no large number of cattle could be subsisted…or wagons taken over a route so rugged and mountainous. The emigrants were also assured that the Sioux would be much opposed to the passage of so large a body through their country and would probably resist it on account of the emigrants destroying and frightening away the buffalo, which were then diminishing in numbers.”

It soon became evident that a group this size could not make satisfactory progress without dividing into two columns – one with cattle and one without – although they continued to travel withing supporting distance of one another. After successfully passing through Indian country with no more trouble than having some animals driven away or stolen, they split into even smaller parties better suited to the narrow mountain paths.

When they came to the Platte River, they made boats from their wagon beds, covering them with cow and buffalo hides, and they swam their animals from bar to bar to gain footing until the crossing was accomplished. After stops at Fort Laramie and Fort Bridger, and after mountainous crossings, including the Black Hills, they reached Fort Hall.

Until this time, they had been led by John Gannt, a former Army officer turned fur trader, who agreed to pilot them there for $1 per person. Afterwards, William Martin succeeded Gannt for a brief time until he parted company at the intersecting California Trail. Although the settlers had been encouraged at Fort Hall to abandon their wagons and use pack animals for the remainder of the journey, Dr. Marcus Whitman, a Christian missionary, who had joined the wagon train at the Platte River, believed they could make whatever road improvements were needed along the way, enabling their wagons to pass through. He volunteered to lead them as far as possible before branching off alone to Walla Walla, Washington, near where he and his wife, Narcissa, had established an outpost that aimed to evangelize the Cayuse Indians.

Near American Falls, at the first crossing of the Snake River, Whitman advised the expedition to fasten their teams together, and everyone except Nineveh Ford followed his instruction. Thinking he had a strong carriage that could hold its own, he fell in behind the other wagons and teams, which, as they entered the river, caused the water level to heighten. Soon, the current pressed so hard against Nineveh’s team that it almost drove them over the shoal where several persons and animals had been known to drown. Sensing the danger, he leapt from his carriage, pressed himself against his team, and held his lead ox in place until the other wagons had completely crossed over and the water lowered.

Riding back, Whitman threw Nineveh a rope and told him to place it around the lead ox’s horns. With the other end of the rope tied around his saddle, Whitman towed the team across the water while Nineveh steered his carriage. (Nineveh felt Whitman had saved his life, and he particularly contemplated this four years later when Whitman, his wife, and eleven others were massacred by the Cayuse at their Walla Walla mission.)

Although Whitman had to leave the wagon train en route, he did not abandon them but instructed them how to proceed from place to place until they reached the Grande Ronde Valley, at which point he sent an Indian to guide them onwards to Walla Walla.

The settlers encountered no serious trouble from Fort Hall to the Grande Ronde, and although they sometimes had to climb mountains, battle sagebrush and sandy ground (which tended to bog down the wagons and tire the teams), or choose which divide would take them in the right direction, it was mostly open country.

The settlers had timed their expedition so that they left Missouri in the spring, traveled throughout the summer, and reached the Grande Ronde in September before encountering snow. Crossing the Grande Ronde and the Blue Mountains meant nearing the end of their journey. By the time they crossed the Grande Ronde River, they were met with an early snowfall, but the two inches quickly melted. The country was so beautiful that, if they had had the necessary provisions, they might have elected to colonize there.

Upon encountering the Blue Mountains, they had to chop their way through thick timber. It was a laborious task. Their axes had become dull as they had no access to a grinding stone since they departed Missouri, and their hands were blistering and tender. Though getting late in the season, the lazier men dropped back, claiming the need to rest their cattle, while the bulk of the work fell upon the shoulders of forty men, who persevered in driving the wagons and cutting out a road. The timber became lighter and more scattered near the top of the mountains, and the descent down the other side was comparatively easier.

From there, they proceeded to Umatilla and then to Whitman’s Station near Walla Walla. All the while, they had followed the guidance of the Indian that Whitman had sent to them. Ironically, as Nineveh would recall, this was the very Indian who later killed Whitman.

After a few days at Whitman’s, they continued down the Columbia River. Some of the party attempted to make the journey in canoes constructed of unmanageable cottonwood, and, traveling to The Dalles, most were capsized, some being thrown onto the rocks, while others were sent down the rapids, resulting in a loss of both lives and possessions.

Meanwhile, Nineveh had remained with the wagons, leading the caravan with his own wagon, which was the first to reach The Dalles. This was as far as they could go by wagon, because the Cascade Mountains separated them from the Willamette Valley, and there was no road around Mt. Hood. Several of the men went into the pine forest, obtained trees, used their oxen to haul them to the river, and constructed rafts. They then took their wagons apart and placed them, alongside their possessions, on the rafts to continue their journey until their landing at the Cascades, where they spent two weeks making a wagon road around the mountains.

Nineveh subsequently brought the first wagons down the river below the Cascades, and he did so by lashing together four canoes to make a raft, using five wagon beds to make a platform on top of the canoes, and placing the wagons’ disassembled running gears and baggage on top of the platform. In the center, he hoisted a mast with a wagon sheet for a sail.

The odd craft drew a great deal of attention and comical remarks; some observers doubted it could withstand the trip. But Nineveh was confident in it and his ability to manage it, and with the assistance of two Native American men and two white men, they successfully sailed to Vancouver, Washington. The first man to meet Nineveh once he stepped ashore was Dr. John McLoughlin (later known as “The Father of Oregon”), who complimented him for his perseverance – for traveling as far as possible by land and then inventing a way of traveling further by water.

After gathering supplies, the five men continued down the Columbia River to the mouth of the Willamette River, where they encountered a strong gale of wind that generated six-foot high waves, slushing over their raft, cargo, and heads. As Nineveh steered the raft and attempted to keep it in the smoother, middle portion of the river, his four comrades went to bail water out of the canoes. They traveled very quickly upstream until they reached the rapids below Oregon City, where the winds subsided and they docked for the night.

The following morning, November 10, 1843, they towed the raft over the rapids with ropes and reached Oregon City, bringing the first cargo of wagons that ever reached that location by land or by sea.

Uncle Nineveh Ford (whose picture as an older man accompanies this post) subsequently married and had a large family, helped establish the first Baptist congregation in the Northwest, fought in wars against the Cayuse and Nez Perce Indians, settled and farmed in the Walla Walla Valley, and served three terms as a state senator and twice as a county commissioner. He died in 1897.

As for Uncle Ephraim Ford, he was a very pious man, who settled in Yamhill County, Oregon, married there, and raised a family. In 1857, he suffered what seems to have been a sort of mental breakdown and was on the verge of being placed in a California asylum for the insane; thankfully, the episode lasted only two months. Seven years later, in 1863, after losing control of the horses pulling his carriage, he jumped to avoid crashing and broke his leg. Sadly, gangrene set in, and the limb was amputated, but he died following the surgery.

What remarkable things these pioneering brothers must have seen and experienced during their transcontinental journey from North Carolina to Oregon!

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A BOY AND HIS BIKE (8/7/2025)

Terry L. Harmon — Thu, 07 Aug 2025 01:01:54 -0400

As children, my mother and her siblings were not allowed to have bicycles. Their father forbade it – not as a form of harsh parenting that denied simple enjoyment, but, in his estimation, as a means to lovingly safeguard their wellbeing. His decision was rooted in what had happened to their cousin, Gordon Spainhour, Jr., who died almost a full year before my mother’s birth.

In the fall of 1938, as a freshman at North Carolina State University, seventeen-year-old Gordon and a friend were sharing a nighttime ride on a double-seater bicycle when it collided with a truck. Gordon was thrown from the front seat of the bike into the truck’s windshield and suffered a fractured skull and serious lacerations. Never regaining consciousness, he died a few hours later at a nearby hospital.

This was a tragic ending for someone who had already experienced his share of sorrow. Almost a decade earlier and about a month shy of his eighth birthday, Gordon suffered a heavy double loss in one day. His father died that morning at age thirty-five in a Washington, DC hospital, the result of a malignant lung tumor, and his maternal grandfather died that evening of heart trouble in the midst of his son-in-law’s funeral arrangements.

Gordon’s mother and grandmother, having become simultaneous widows with extra attention to spare, lavished it dotingly upon the young, brown-eyed, brown-haired Gordon – an only child and eldest grandchild – and attached much promise to his future. In a poem that he would write five years later, he stated that he was named for his father and that he desired to be like him in more than name. He also related his desire to be a help to his mother and grandmother, to be a good boy, to please them by obeying their instruction and meeting their expectations, and to bring them joy and happiness as he grew to manhood.

And, in fact, Gordon became a model young man – kind, joyful, good-humored, and loving, and he was happiest when doing for others. He was also an exemplary student, excelling in English and extemporaneous speaking, becoming the valedictorian of his high school class, and graduating with honors. At the time of his death, he was studying engineering and had just joined the Young Men’s Christian Association.

Although he would soon thereafter meet his demise astride a bicycle, it was that very vehicle that had brought him such pleasure throughout his childhood and such notoriety the year before his death.

In 1937, between the tail end of the Great Depression and the beginning of World War II, Gordon embarked on a rare and ambitious excursion. It was all the more extraordinary considering he was sixteen at the time. Desiring to see and learn more of his native North Carolina, he biked, unaccompanied, a distance of more than 1,700 miles during his five-week school break.

When he first broached the subject of the trip, his family strongly objected, but with much persuasion, he won them over. To help smooth his path and facilitate connections, Gordon’s uncle, a local merchant, provided him with a letter of recommendation to present to those he would encounter along the way:

“To Whom It May Concern: I have known the bearer of this note, Gordon Spainhour, about 15 years. He is a boy of good reputation in our community – a member of a good family – a student of good record in our local High School – a model Sunday School and Church attendant, and in every way worthy of respect. Any kindness or assistance that you may render him will be appreciated by him, and the community will also remember you kindly.”

In preparation for his adventurous trek, Gordon compiled his packing list in a spiral-bound notebook: 4 shirts, a sweater, a sweatshirt, 2 ties, 3 pairs of pants, 6 pairs of socks, 4 pairs of cotton underwear, 2 towels, a washcloth, 10 handkerchiefs, a blanket, dry goods, a road map, hair tonic, a toothbrush & paste, gauze & tape, Mercurochrome, shoe polish, a pen, pencils, postals, a flashlight, a thermos, soap, a comb & mirror, safety pins, a rope, a needle, thread, buttons, a knife and a whet rock, a can opener, pliers, 4 wrenches, sunglasses, a watch, and a Kodak camera.

At 7:20 AM on June 14, he left his home on Cove Creek in Watauga County and traveled 100 miles on the first day, eating by the roadside and arriving in Mars Hill, North Carolina thirteen hours later at 8:20 PM.

Throughout his excursion, Gordon, with an open eye and receptive mind, noted some of the things he observed and was impressed with: clay soil and numerous mica factories at Mars Hill; beautiful floats and magnificent bands at the Rhododendron Festival parade in Asheville; the pulp mill in Canton; fishing and boats at Lake Junaluska; the Nantahala Forest; rich farmland in Hayesville; the abundance of peaches and cotton in South Carolina; a fish hatchery and game preserve outside of Fayetteville; the perfectly clear water at White Lake; and the Wright Brothers Memorial at Kitty Hawk. But, Gordon would state, what appealed to him more than anything else was the kindness of others.

Along the way, he collected signed “affidavits” from the mayors, city clerks, and other officials of various cities he passed through as proof he had been there, but his most prized souvenir was the signature of Governor Clyde Hoey, which he obtained in the state capital of Raleigh.

At various points, he stayed with relatives and family friends in private homes, or in tourist camps, although when those accommodations were not available, he was equipped to sleep in the open. He kept his expenses down by avoiding costly meals, but he occasionally took in shows, did laundry, and got a haircut. His total expenditures during the trip totaled $35 - $1 a day for his 35 days on the road.

Amazingly, Gordon traveled through Banner Elk, Spruce Pine, Burnsville, Mars Hill, Asheville, Canton, Clyde, Waynesville, Hazelwood, Balsam, Bryson City, Topton, Andrews, Marble, Murphy, Brasstown, Hayesville, Franklin, Highlands, Etowah, Hendersonville, Brevard, Chimney Rock, Spindale, Forest City, Shelby, Kings Mountain, Charlotte, York (SC), Rock Hill (SC), Albemarle, Badin, Biscoe, Candor, Pinehurst, Southern Pines, Samarcand, Fort Bragg, Fayetteville, Tar Heel, Elizabethtown, White Lake, Wilmington, Wrightsville Beach, New Bern, Washington, Williamston, Nags Head, Kitty Hawk, Roanoke Island, Manteo, Fort Raleigh, Currituck, Norfolk (VA), Rocky Mount, Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill, Greensboro, High Point, Thomasville, Winston-Salem, Wilkesboro, Boone, and lots of places in between. With little to no bike trouble, he averaged around 80 miles per day, and by the time the trip was concluded, he had visited more than a fourth of North Carolina’s one-hundred counties.

Despite his life being cut short, Gordon’s memory and legacy lived on among those who knew and loved him.

And so does the story of that remarkable summer journey he made across the Old North State.

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