My brother Frederick Edwin was born July 30, 1898, the twelfth child in our family. I was nine years old when Fred was born. He weighed twelve pounds at birth and was a fine big boy. I wanted to name him. My favorite name for a boy was Robert, but Mama said, “No, I have always wanted to name one of the boys Fred and had to wait till my twelfth child. His name shall be Frederick Edwin.” Edwin was after Mother’s brother.
Fred grew like a weed. I had to help care for him as Mother and Ruth had much to do with washing and cooking. I remember carrying him all around and him so heavy I could hardly wag him, but diaper washing I hated. I had to do some of that but always got out of it if I could.
When Fred was a year old, my father developed granulated sore eyes. They were red and inflamed, and he finally decided to go to St. Louis to see what could be done. He and Mother took Fred and were gone about three weeks. We were left in Will and Ruth’s care and got along fine, but we missed our Mama and Daddy. We were very glad to see them when they got home.
The doctor told my father he couldn’t work over the forge anymore as the intense heat would make his eyes worse. His condition had been caused by bending over the forge, the-never-ending heating of shoes for horses and tires for wagon wheels which loosened on the wheels in dry weather. (There were no automobiles in those days).
All transportation was by horse and wagon, horse and buggy or horse back riding. For the tires he would build a huge fire and heat the tires red hot, submerge them quickly in water and then hammer them on the wheels smoking hot. I used to love to watch this procedure. I and perhaps a playmate or two would watch but always with great caution, as there was some danger.
I also loved to watch my father shoe horses. Some would be so wild and unruly that we children would not be allowed in the shop, but some were very gentle and seemed not to care or even flinch when nail after nail was driven into their hooves. Of course it was not supposed to hurt them as there is no feeling in the hoof of a horse’s foot, but a poor blacksmith could make a horse lame by not setting the nail properly.
My father was a good smith and rarely had any complaints from his patrons. By this time my brother Will was fifteen years old. My father had bought the shop from Mr. Peyton and my brother was taking a hand in the shop, when he wasn’t in school. This was a great advantage when Father’s doctor in St. Louis said he would have to give up blacksmithing. So with great misgiving and heartbreaks, we had to leave our comfortable, though not palacious home and move out in the country where Father would try farming again.
