The Great Marlinton Cow Crusade

 

Climate Warnings, a War on Cows, and a Fallen Surgeon: 4 Astonishing Stories Hidden in a 1960s Appalachian Journal

Old archives and forgotten journals are more than just dusty records of the past; they are time capsules, holding stories that can feel surprisingly relevant and powerfully human. The personal writings of Norman Price from the 1960s offer just such a window into the history of Appalachia. His handwritten pages are filled not with dry dates, but with vivid accounts of the people and events that shaped a community.

This article shares a few of the most impactful and unexpected discoveries found within these pages—stories of startling predictions, local feuds, personal tragedies, and hidden histories that resonate as clearly today as when they were first lived.

An Eerily Prescient Climate Warning from 1960

In a journal entry dated January 5, 1960, Norman Price noted a report he read in The Tribune. He recounts how reporter Roy Gibson quoted the President of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), Dr. Chauncey D. Leake, who issued a chillingly specific warning about the potential for a "disastrous flood" that would be caused by the "melting of the Polar ice cap."

The journal entry goes on to identify the cause with remarkable clarity: a "change in climate" resulting from the "accumulations of Carbon Dioxide gas in the atmosphere." Even more surprising was the solution proposed over six decades ago and noted by Price: "The 'remedy', planting more trees to absorb Carbon-dioxide." To find such an accurate and timely warning tucked away in a personal journal from 1960 is a startling reminder that the concerns of our present were being voiced long in the past.

The Great Marlinton Cow Crusade

Not all history is written on a global scale. Price’s journal captures a delightful and intensely local conflict that unfolded in the village of Marlinton around the year 1912. The story centers on Mrs. Martha Wilson, who led a passionate "Crusade" with a singular, transformative goal: to "banish Cows and other live stock from the Streets and Commons of Marlinton."

Price adds a personal note to the tale, admitting that as a "cow keeper," he was firmly on the losing side of this "municipal issue." He captures the outcome of this clash between rural tradition and modernizing sensibilities with a memorable quote from his journal:

"...the more refined who objected underhandingly to the useful Cow leaving her 'Calling Card' (dung) on Streets and side-walks, prevailed and the milk-Cow banished the City!"

This anecdote is a charming and specific illustration of a universal struggle—the tension between the old ways of life and the relentless push for civic progress.

The Tragic Fall of a Prominent Surgeon

The journal also contains stories of profound personal tragedy. Price recounts the life of Dr. Kenneth J. Hawrick, who for about twenty years served as the chief physician and surgeon at the Pocahontas Memorial Hospital—an institution he had helped establish as a "public trust." He was a pillar of the community who had acquired a "lauded estate, including the Shearer ranch of nearly one thousand acres."

His standing, however, came to a sudden end. In 1933, the community was shaken to learn that his surgical license had been suspended by the State Board of Health. The reason, stated directly in the journal, was "Confessed drug-addiction - Narcotics."

The consequences were swift and total. Public protest was of "no avail," his "fine Manors and lands" were liquidated, and after a divorce, he and his son moved away. This entry is a powerful reminder that archives preserve not just public triumphs and community milestones, but also the deeply human and often painful struggles of individuals.

The Pioneer Who Fled a Fatal Duel

Delving deeper into the region's past, Price tells the story of John McNeel (1744-1826), one of the area's early pioneers. The journal reveals the surprising and violent reason McNeel first came to the area, fleeing from Frederick County "to the wilderness." His flight was prompted by a duel in which his opponent was "supposed to be fatally wounded." Believing he had killed a man, McNeel escaped into the frontier.

Price reflects on this piece of family history, noting that he could have written more but chose not to, stating, "It is no credit me to write that early Progenitors... ran around wounded duelists." This brief but revealing anecdote peels back the romanticized veneer of pioneer life, exposing the complex and brutal realities behind settlement stories. It's a stark reminder that history is an act of selection, where the storyteller, consciously or not, shapes legacy by choosing which truths to illuminate and which to leave in the past.

Conclusion: History Is Closer Than You Think

From stark climate warnings to neighborhood battles over livestock, these stories show that personal journals are treasure troves. They prove that history is not a collection of distant, abstract facts, but a rich tapestry of human experiences that are surprisingly modern, deeply emotional, and powerfully resonant. The past is not just in museums; it’s recorded in handwritten pages, waiting to be rediscovered.

What unexpected stories about our world—and ourselves—might be waiting in an old box in your own family's attic?

Brutal Realities of Our Past

 

What a Handwritten Archive Reveals About the Brutal Realities of Our Past

There is a unique thrill in discovering old, handwritten documents—the faint smell of aged paper, the elegant script from a world before keyboards. These personal records are more than just artifacts; they are unfiltered windows into a past far removed from the sanitized versions found in history books. They connect us directly to the thoughts, fears, and daily struggles of those who lived before us.

Recently, a personal archive from rural America offered just such a window. Its pages don't recount grand battles or political movements in the abstract. Instead, they capture the often-harsh realities of life through the eyes of one individual. The journal entries detail the lingering bitterness of war, the terrifying prospect of a toothache, and the sudden, brutal nature of everyday existence. This post shares four of the most surprising and impactful takeaways from these remarkable records.

The Civil War's Wounds Ran Deeper Than We Imagine

Decades after the Civil War officially ended, the personal and community trauma remained vivid and raw. The archive introduces us to Mr. Clark Killeson, a career soldier who served in the regular cavalry. His memory of the war was not one of distant glory, but of profound devastation, shaped by years of conflict that extended far beyond the battlefields of the 1860s.

Killeson recounted how General Philip Sheridan's army desolated the Valley of Virginia in 1864, a strategic move designed to cut off a key supply source for the Confederate Army. For the people who lived there, it was an act of total destruction. Mr. Killeson’s assessment of his former general, stated with emphasis long after the war was over, is a powerful testament to this lingering bitterness.

"a very bad man, in burning and desolating the Valley of Virginia in 1864, effectively cut off the principal source of supply for the Confederate Army."

This simple, damning statement carries immense weight, especially when we learn Killeson's service didn't end in 1865. He remained in the cavalry, and the journal notes that a battalion of his Seventh Cavalry was "wiped out under Colonel Custer in 1872." His harsh judgment of Sheridan wasn't just a memory of one war; it was the perspective of a man who witnessed decades of American conflict, from the Shenandoah Valley to the Great Plains.

A Trip to the Dentist Could Be a Terrifying Ordeal

The journal provides a stark look at the state of early dentistry, a field of jarring contrasts. On one hand, there were skilled professionals like Dr. James H. Weigmorthy, whose expertly placed gold fillings made the author "very proud." This was the best care one could hope for.

On the other hand, the more common experience was far rougher. The author notes that "Country doctors were expected to extract teeth" using forceps, despite the fact that they were "not trained to the business." The standard fee for this often-unskilled work was a shockingly tangible sum: twenty-five cents per tooth. For more serious cases, the solution was even more crude. The journal describes the use of Chloroform for "mass extractions," a risky procedure sometimes administered by a "nervous Nellie." The image this conjures—of multiple teeth being pulled for a dollar or two under primitive anesthesia—is a chilling reminder of the physical grit required for everyday life.

Medicine Was a Wild Mix of Discovery and "Quackery"

In an era before standardized medical training and regulation, the line between legitimate medicine and folk remedies was often nonexistent. This is perfectly embodied by the eccentric character of Dr. George Irvine, a man known locally as "Cedar oil" George.

Dr. Irvine was a study in contradictions. He was "very deaf and almost blind," yet he worked for many years as a "surveyor's assistant" to the County Surveyor, navigating the rugged local terrain. He had a "natural bent for medicine and surgery" and made a "discovery" of cedar oil as a botanical medicine. He produced this remedy himself by distilling a "tar or disagreeable acrid extract" from cedar stumps.

However, the author of the journal, while acknowledging Irvine's natural talent, ultimately described his practice as "quackery." Dr. Irvine's story highlights a fascinating period of medical history, where earnest discovery, local tradition, and questionable practices all coexisted, and patients often didn't know which one they were getting.

Everyday Dangers Were Sudden and Brutal

The journal vividly illustrates just how fragile life was. With little in the way of modern safety measures or emergency medicine, fatal accidents were a shockingly common occurrence, and the stories reveal that the initial injury was only the beginning of the battle for survival.

The end of Dr. George Irvine’s own life was as unconventional as his career. His badly decomposed body was found on a railway track, where he was "apparently killed and dragged by an engine." Tragedy also struck his son, Edward Irvine, years later. Edward was crushed when a large flat stone rolled down a hill, leaving him with a "fracture of several ribs, extensive bruises, and concealed hemorrhage in the pleural cavity." When the author finally reached him days later, he found the young man "in extremis; traumatic pneumonia and septic infection." The accident was brutal, but in a world without antibiotics, the real killer was the infection that inevitably followed.

These accounts are shocking, but the author reflects on the incredible resilience required to survive such a world.

"Note: I can well understand the type of endurance in bodily injury practiced by those living in primitive sections. Having survived serious injury, contusions, bruises and putrifying sores - without benefit of surgery, other than first aid."

These stories are a powerful reminder that for our ancestors, survival depended as much on sheer endurance and luck as it did on skill or medicine.

Conclusion: History Is Written in the Details

Grand historical narratives give us the outline of the past, but it is in these personal, unfiltered accounts that we find its true texture. The memories of an old soldier, the fear of the dentist's chair, and the stories of sudden, tragic accidents provide a visceral and deeply human understanding of what it was truly like to live in a different time. They show us a world of hardship and resilience that is both alien and intimately familiar.

These glimpses into a forgotten world prompt a final, lingering question: What forgotten stories of hardship and resilience might be hiding in our own local archives, waiting to be rediscovered?