GRANDMA TROWBRIDGE'S NARRATIVE

An autobiography by a Trowbridge ancestor. This is a story by a pioneer woman about life in the years of 1790 to 1874 in Vermont and Ohio.

By: Sophronia Howe TROWBRIDGE
December 8, 1874

Reprinted by: Arthur D. Steele, Jr.
March 14, 1996
in Redmond, Washington


ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Click here to skip Acknowledgement and continue to story

This Biography was originally printed in 1875. It was found among some effects by O.H. Johnson on a visit to his home town, Gallipolis, Ohio, in 1938. Mr. Johnson mistakenly thought the author was his great-grandmother. In fact she was married to his great-grandfathers brother. Nevertheless, Orien H. Johnson had this marvelous story reprinted by his printing company, Union Publishing Company, Phoenix, AZ on 1 April 1940.

The copy of Mr. Johnson's book which I possess was found by our neighbor across the street, on Davis St. in Huntington, West Virginia, by a Mrs. Notter. She found it among her effects about 1946. Knowing that my mother's maiden name was Trowbridge, she gave the booklet to mother. Because I was the only one very interested in the book mother gave it to me, or perhaps I just confiscated it. I labored under the impression that the narrative was authored by an ancestor until 1972 when I discovered "The Trowbridge Genealogy" in the Boston, Mass. Public Library. Research into the genealogy of the Trowbridge's via this tremendous volume revealed that the Grandma who authored this precious tale was married to my, and to Mr.Johnson's, ancestor's brother, who also lived in the same vicinity as our story teller. The original book which I have is now in poor shape, but I managed to scan and OCR the text into a word processor and can now reprint it once more in a highly legible presentation. I have attempted to maintain the original text as I found it, including the unique spelling, punctuation and paragraphing which I feel add to the overall charm of her story. I want to acknowledge O.H. Johnson for preserving this valuable book for us and give thanks to him for his effort. Since Mr. Johnson was born in 1888, I assume he has departed this earth, but -- Thanks Orien!.

This tale is history as recorded by a living pioneer woman, not a scholarly historian or a self serving politician. This is a tale of the real world of the pioneer families who built this great nation of ours, the United States of America. Her tale is not organized properly and she is obviously not educated in the manner of a person who writes for a living. These attributes are a great deal of the charm of Grandma's narrative, for it is not the effort of a writer, but of a pioneer woman. A woman who bore and raised twelve children, helped her husband and worked for her family under the primitive circumstances of pioneer America. Sophronia Howe Trowbridge was eighty-four years old when she wrote this lovely tale. I only hope that I might be half so intelligent and perceptive as she, when I reach that age.

I hope others find this story of a pioneer woman and her family as charming as I do..

Arthur D. Steele, Jr.
14 March, 1996

Continue to Page 1 of Grandma's Narrative

Grandma Trowbridge's Narrative - page 1

MY FATHER was born in New Marlborough, Mass. in 1756, August 1st, and was the son of Nehemiah and Beulah Howe. His name was Peter; he had three brothers Abner, Joel and John, and four sister's - Olive, Candes, Phebe and Beulah. He served a time in the Revolutionary war, I do not know how long, but have often heard him speak of being in the battle of Bunker Hill. In 1780 he married my mother, Orinda Fuller, daughter of Peter and Submit Fuller. She had four brothers-Alven, Arnon, Miles and Marvin; and six sisters - Dorathy, Eunice, Submit, Lurana, Rachel and Matilda. My father purchased land and settled in Poultney, Rutland county, Vermont, and remained there until 1801. During that time they had 13 children; three died when Infants; the six oldest were girls. I was the sixth one, then two boys, and then two girls. Their names were: Dianthy, Delinda, Vilaty, Minerva, Lorille, Sophronia, Cyrenus, Sylvanus, Orinda and Lucinda. The oldest children being girls, father had no help, and they, as they got old enough, had to help in haying and harvesting. I was not large enough to do much, but I got so I could rake hay, and mow away the hay in the barn. Father used to make brick in the summer and we smaller children helped him In the brick yard; we could edge and hake the brick. Perhaps some do not know what that is; I can tell them; when the brick are made, they are turned down flat on the ground; when they are partially dry, we turned them upon the edge, so they could dry through; that we called edging them. When they were perfectly dry, we would carry them and pile them up regularly in long rows, which were called hakes; So thus we haked them. The mode of making brick in those days was quite different, more laborious and slower in progress, than what they have now. Father had a smooth spot of ground, perhaps twenty feet in diameter, and planked around, which he called a bed, he would put the clay, sand and water into it, then he would turn in his oxen and drive them around in there, so as to tramp up the materials and make them into morter; rather a slow process. Father thought he could invent a better way, so he got a stick of timber that would reach half across the morterbed, large at one end and tapered off to a few inches at the other, then he filled that full of cogs; then he set a post in the center of the bed, and fastened the small end of the timber to it with a swivel, and a handle at the other end to reach beyond the bed, then hitch the team to that and drive them around outside the bed. He found that much easier for the team; rolling that around in the bed, would mix the morter much faster. When he was making his machine, myself and the other young ones wanted to know what he was making; it looked so funny, a log all full of pins. He said it was a horry- co-morry; then we laughed, we thought the name as funny as the machine; so we always called it a horry-co-morry to tread morter. When he had got brick enough to make a kiln then he would burn them. I think it would take about a week to burn them; it was fun for us to go and sit in his little shanty and see the fires burn in the arches; for he had to keep it a burning day and night. We would often stay till bed-time.

We (when I say we, I mean the family), raised our own flax and wool, which made the principal part of our clothing, (for we seldom bought any foreign goods), and worked it all up by hand; carded, spun and wove the wool, hackled and spun the flax, carded and spun the tow, and wove it all; machinery was unknown in those days. We would make from fifty to eighty yards each yearly. I don't know what the girls would think at the present time, if they had to work up fifty or a hundred weight of wool and flax in a year; but then they thought it fun; were happy and contented; much more so, I think, than they are at the present time, doing nothing. They would try sometimes and see which could spin the most in a day; the one that could spin the most would have to brag a little over the others; but they did not care for that, but would try again.

I was not large enough to spin and weave at this time, but I could pool, and quill, and do chores, and wait on the older ones while they done the carding, spinning and weaving; but I was one to help. The wool made our winter clothing, the flax our summer, bed-clothes and all. Mother and the girls would have one calico dress each; they would wear it only to meeting or on particular occasions, and when they came home, would take it off and lay it away ready for the next occasion. They made diaper for table-cloths and towels; but we did not use tablecloths every day, but ate on bare table, which saved a good deal of labor and expense. For breakfast, we generally had some kind of warm drink; would scorch a crust of bread, or an ear of corn, or a little meal or flour and make coffee, or a sometimes have sage or thyme tea, sometimes brown some rye for coffee; we had tea cups and saucers for our drink; we would fry our meat, then cut it up into mouthfuls, and put it on a dish - for we used no plates for breakfast - our vituals was all cut up and each one helped themselves with their fork out of the same dish. For, dinner we had boiled vituals; would put on a large dinner- pot, hung on a crane in the fireplace, then put a piece of meat, then put in a corn meal pudding in a bag, then when it was time, put in the sauce, potatoes, turnips, cabbage, beets, parsnips, or whatever we had; when it was done, the pudding was turned out on a platter, and the rest of the vituals on another platter; we had large pewter platters that would hold a good deal, and pewter plates or wooden trenchers to eat on; we generally had beer to drink for dinner; had a quart pewter mug, filled it and set it on the table, and every one drank out of the same mug; now, each one must have a glass by himself - it won't do for two to drink out of the same glass. For supper, we had hasty pudding and milk, bread and milk, milk porrige, or bean soup, which we ate in pewter basins; mother would fill a two-quart basin. and set it on a bench, or stool, and three or four children would get around it, with each a spoon, and thus ate their suppers. It was a general custom to brew and bake every Saturday; we would brew a keg of beer and bake bread enough to last a week. We had a brick oven in the chimney, by the side of the fire-place, that would hold five or six loaves; when they were done, would heat the oven again, (the way we heat the oven was to fill it with fire wood and burn it.; when it was burned down, then shovel out the coals and sweep out the ashes with an oven broom), and fill it with a corn meal pudding, an iron basin full of meat and beans, pies and cakes, and anything else we wished for the next week. The greatest share of our bread was made of corn and rye meal, mixed, raised, and baked in loaves; the best bread there is made, I think, and the healthiest. I don't see any such bread in these days.

We had plenty of snow in Vermont; sometimes it was two feet deep on a level; it would settle and become crusted, so we could run all over the fields on the crust; sometimes we would break through, that was not so funny; but that did not prevent our running again. In time of going to school, we all had fun, sliding down hill on hand sleds. There was a hill, of a gentle slope, across the road from the schoolhouse, so we could slide down the hill and go straight into the schoolhouse door, whack against the chimney. We used to build snow houses, roll up large snow-balls and lay up a wall around and arch it over, leaving a door to go in; it would be quite warm in those houses. Going home from school one night, we saw a track in the snow, that appeared to come down the hill, cross the road, and go off across the meadow. It was such as none of the children ever saw before; there were several scholars along, but none of them ever saw such a track before! We thought it must be some wild animal, and concluded it must be a bear that had been along. When we got home, we told our parents that we saw a track across the road that we thought must be a bear track; they asked what kind of a track it was, so we described it the best we could. We said it was ten or twelve inches long, and not as wide as it was long, and run out to a point at the heel, and was all in checks. Oh, la! they said, there had been some person along there with snow-shoes on. We had heard of snow shoes, but never thought they made such a track, so I always remembered the snow-shoe track. We made all the sugar and molasses we wanted from sugar-trees; scarcely ever saw any other kind. Sometimes we would try a loaf of white sugar, but very seldom, it cost too much.

Young folks were not afraid to walk any reasonable distance, say two or three miles, those days, and when it was too far to walk, and more than one wanted to go, they would ride two on a horse. Nearly every one that owned a horse and saddle, had a pillion also, that was a cushion to put on behind the saddle, and fasten to it with a strip of board suspended in front by a couple of straps to rest their feet on, so they could sit there, the same as sitting in a chair, but in the winter, we had excellent sleighing; nearly all traveling was done in sIeighs. When father and mother went visiting to our grandfathers, or any of our uncles, they would generally take some of us children with them. I enjoyed such a trip very much; five or six miles' ride in a sleigh was fun.

In 1799 and 1800 some of father's acquaintances moved to Ohio, (the far West) and wrote back such glowing accounts of the country, how very rich the soil, how much easier one could get a living there, that father and mother, concluded they had better sell out there and go to Ohio; so in 1801 he sold his place and made preparations for moving. My oldest sister being married, she and her husband concluded to go along, and three other families made up their minds to bear us company; so our company numbered thirty persons. Father bought two two-horse wagons, and my brother-in-law one; mother and the girls spun and wove a piece of tow and linen cloth, then they got it painted, and made covers to the wagons, so they were well secured from rain. I was then eleven years old, and my youngest sister six weeks. The neighboring women tried to make mother think she could not stand the journey, that she never could live to get to Ohio; if she could, the baby couldn't, such a journey would kill it; but mother said she was not afraid to risk it, and they were well and hearty all the way and the baby grew fat and as fast as any baby. We set out on our journey, the ninth of September. It was only a pleasure trip for me, and likewise the rest of the children. We could ride sometimes and run on foot sometimes, and seeing new things all the time. We saw a chestnut, tree standing by the road, the first time we had seen any chestnuts growing, so we had to stop and gather some chestnuts. We continued our journey without anything extraordinary taking place for three hundred miles, then the men of our company were advised by some others to go across about thirty miles, to the headwaters of the Allegheny river make canoes there and go down by water, it would be easier and cheaper than traveling by land, so they concluded to do so. We had to go that thirty miles through the woods, where there was no road, except a bridle-path; one or two men turned out as pilots and to help clear a road. We made ten miles that day. When night came we had to pitch our tents and camp out. They set some crotches in the ground, then laid a pole across them, then laid some slanting on it, then took our painted wagon-covers and spread over the poles. They made up a big fire by the side of a log, and all cooked their suppers and ate, then made our beds on the ground, after putting plenty of leaves under them, and went to bed and slept as well as if we had been in a palace. Got up in the morning, cooked our breakfast and ate, then was ready for another day's journey. There was a man along who was going through to the settlement that day; it would take the wagons two days, as they could make only ten miles a day; mother said if some of the girls would join her she would go through with that man. Two of my sisters said they would go; so they started and walked through twenty miles and carried the baby. Those with the wagons had to camp out another night. On the third day we got through to the settlement. It was quite new, only three or four families there. A man by the name of King first settled there, and it was called King's settlement. One man of our company, and one they hired, took the horses and started through the country with them to Marietta, our place of destination, and the rest went to work, digging out canoes. We were there nine days; they made six canoes. It was on a creek that emptied into the Allegheny. I don't know how far we were from the river, but should judge it was three or four miles. Then they lashed the canoes together, two and two, making three pair; two canoes that were larger than the others, lashed together, and the three families that were with us went in those canoes; then they loaded up, put the things in the canoes, then laid the wagon wheels on top, letting the hubs go between the canoes, that kept all safe and steady.

Thus we started on our journey of five hundred miles, down the river in canoes. We were about five weeks on the river, camped out every night; we would land sometimes at an Indian settlement and go up into their wigwams, out of curiosity, to see how they appeared. It looked rather funny to see the young ones running about entirely naked. One of my sisters took a baby from its mother one time to see if it would stay with her, but it cried and screamed and would not stay with her at all. We enjoyed our trip very well the most of the time but we had some misfortunes. We came to a riffle one time, where there was a large rock, about the middle of the river; we had a man in the fore end of the canoes to look out and tell where to stear; when we got to the riffle he said stear to the right of the rock, but just before they got to it, he says no! no! we can't go to the right, turn to the left; so they turned to go to the left, and when turned to go to the other side, they had got so close, the current came with such force that it took the canoes broadside against the rock, ran one up on to the rock, and the other sank into the water. Mother with the baby and some more of the young ones besides myself, were in those canoes; we clambered up into the canoe that was on the rock, and some got on to the rock, and had to wait until the other canoes could be partially unloaded, and come and take us ashore; then they managed to get the canoes ashore; then we had to stop for that day, the things were all wet that were in that canoe, that went under water, and had to be taken out and unpacked and dried; so they made up a big fire and staid till morning; then they got the things all dried and packed ready for another start.

We went on very pleasantly for a day, but it was not many days before another accident happened; the canoes that had the three families, ran on each side of a rock in a riffle, and split one side of one canoe off, and tore them apart, and let everything into the river, men, women and children, goods and all, but the water was not so deep but that the men and women managed to get ashore, taking two children each with them, except one woman, who managed to get herself out alone; one boy, eleven years old, got hold of the canoe that was split and turned over, and pulled himself upon it. Just as he had got on to it, his mother's baby floated along in reach of him, he got hold of it and pulled it up on the canoe with him; the other canoes were ready to take them ashore, and save the goods that were floating. This woman, who got out by herself, was mother of the baby, and had four children younger than the one that caught the baby, but she never thought of any one but herself. When she got out of the water there, said she, I told them when we started, that I never should live to get to Ohio in the world; the other women told her she was not dead yet, she might still live to get to Ohio, and she did, and a good many years after.

Now they had to find another canoe, or make one; they went down the river about a mile, and had the good luck to find a man who owned a very large canoe, or what they called a peerogue (Ed. note: pirogue - hollowed out log used as a canoe. ), that would hold as much or more than both their canoes. So they traded with him, let him have the one they had left, and paid the balance and took the peerogue, and brought it up to where we were stopping, and had to stay till the next morning. By that time they had got their things dried and packed. They lost but few things, the most of the things were in boxes, or tied up in bundles that would float, so they caught the most of them; they would dive down and pick up those that went to the bottom, and take them ashore.

There was nine children under eleven years old, that went into the river, and they got them all out alive, and safe, and no one hurt, which they considered a providential circumstance. They got all fixed up and loaded up and started on our journey again. Had no more serious accidents and landed at Marietta on the twelfth day of November, having been nine weeks on the journey, but were all in good spirits, cooked and ate our own victuals, and lived at home. I did not hear one complain of not feeling well, during the journey.

Now, the men had to look around and find places for their families to stay, whilst they could go out into the country and find them homes, which was not a hard task, as there was plenty of land to be had. Father procured an old block house in the stockade, up the Muskingum about a mile from the Ohio River, for his family to stay in. He went up the Muskingum four and a half miles, and purchased some eight-acre lots (the land was laid out in eight-acre lots along the Muskingum,) and went to work and cleared a place, cut logs and laid up a cabin; during that time, my sisters - older than myself - found places to work so that saved their board, and got something besides, which was a help. Mother found a place for me, where she got thirty-three cents a week, besides my board. I was not large enough to do a great deal, but could wash dishes, sweep house, make beds, milk the cow, and such like chores. I stayed there three months. I went there about the first of December. Sometime in the last part of December, father had got a place cleared, and a cabin laid up to the chamber floor, and split out long shingles, or what they called clapboards, for the upper floor, then they moved into it, for father wanted them there, so he would not have to hire his board; then he put on two or three rounds more of logs on the cabin, and then put on the roof, but we did not have a Vermont winter to contend with; it was warm and pleasant and the roads were dusty like summer the most of the time through the winter; it did not appear like winter at all. We had some pretty cold spells, and three or four little flurries of snow, but they came in the night and was all gone before the next night; it did not appear as if we had any winter at all. The peach trees were in full bloom in March, and were full of peaches in the fall; it was all new to us, we had never seen the like before; there was plenty of fruit here at that time, both peaches and apples.

About the last week in February sugar-making came on. We had a very pretty sugar orchard, although it was small, but we made a good deal of sugar. We generally made from three to five hundred weight in a year. That first spring sugar-making continued until into April. It was fine fun for me to stay out in the sugar camp, and help to keep the sugar-water boiling.

We had not much to do in the house, having no wool or flax to spin, so they got a loom. I do not remember how they got it, whether father made it, or whether they bought it, but it makes no difference; they got it someway; father generally did all his carpenter work. We got plenty of weaving to do, that would keep two hands pretty busy, one to weave and one to spool and warp and wait on the weaver. In the course of two years after we came into the country my two oldest unmarried sisters were married, so there was but three of us left at home, large enough to work, and I could not make a full hand yet, but there was plenty of work that I could do. When I got to be large enough to go into the loom we would sometimes borrow a loom, and so keep two looms going, for we could have all the weaving we could do, and more if we could do it. I remember one lonely walk I had when I was about twelve years old; mother had had a piece woven for a woman living two miles below us, on the opposite side of the river; she wanted me to go down there and get some butter she was to have for the weaving. It was all woods, no one lived on the way; I said I was afraid I would get lost; if I kept between the hill and the river, that the first house I came to would be the one. So they set me across the river, (we always kept a canoe to cross the river in, whenever we wanted to,) and I started ahead; there was no road, only a path where foot-people traveled; two miles through the woods, and all alone, looked a long road to me, but I was not long in going it, for I stepped pretty quick and light, saw nothing and heard nothing except now and then a squirrel or bird, until I came where I could hear the chickens crowing and the sheep bleating, then I knew I was getting pretty near the place. I felt very much relieved. Well I went to the house got my butter, and went home; the road did not seem as long as when going.

We still continued to use our own feet for traveling; most frequently walked to Marietta - a distance of four miles - to meeting and back the same day. One time my sister (older than myself,) and I went home with our brother-in-law, a distance of nine miles, all the way through the woods; no person lived on the road; it was in the winter, and pretty cold, we could not stop long to rest, but had to keep traveling to keep warm. But we got through safe and sound. We stayed about a week, visiting some Vermont friends, that had settled in that neighborhood, we stayed the last night three miles from our sister's, got up in the morning and went there to breakfast; after eating our breakfast and resting awhile we put out again, walked eight miles to Mr. Stacy's, whose son married our sister; they had two daughters about our age; we stayed there till after supper, then the girls went with us to their brother's and our sister's, stayed the evening, then they went home; sister and I stayed all night. We traveled thirteen miles that day; it was a very cold day; it was noted - "the cold Friday", but we did not feel the cold at all. The next day we walked home, about five miles. I was no more fatigued any day than I generally was after doing a day's work of spinning. Some times three or four girls, with one beau, would walk two miles to attend a ball; when the going was too bad to walk the gentlemen would get on their horses, take their girls behind them and go to a ball party, dancing school, or anything that was on hand; it was not considered a disgrace to walk to a ball or ride two on a horse in those days, but now the most of the young ladies, or what call themselves ladies, think it would be a disgrace to go out to any kind of a party without a particular attendant of their own, and a buggy or some kind of carriage to ride in. I think if they would practice walking, and stir out in the open air more than they do, they would be more healthy and stronger than they are, but you can't, make them believe it, or if they do they would not do it; oh no, it would be ridiculous to be seen walking off two or three miles to meeting, or any other place; girls are not near as healthy now as they were sixty or eighty years ago.

My father used to make all of his farming implements, that is, all the wood work, plows, harrows, cradles, rakes, scythe snathes, ox yokes, and all such things; also, all our brooms and baskets, and bottomed all our chairs; he framed a barn for himself, got it raised, then hired some help to cover it; then he went to work and made brick and built a house; did all the carpenter work himself, and laid a great share of the wall; he hired a brick mason a few days, and he and the boys worked with him till they thought they could do the work, then they finished it themselves. I expect the house is standing there now, it was the last I heard of it; it was built in 1810 or '11.


Grandma Trowbridge's Narrative - page 2

In 1813 I was married to David Trowbridge. He came from Vermont to this State in 1809, bought some land on the Muskingum, about a mile from my father's; it had a cabin on it, in which we commenced housekeeping; the high water of the Ohio would set up the Muskingum and overflow the bottoms for five or six miles. In 1814 it was predicted that we would have high water that winter; my husband said he thought we had better leave before we were driven out, so we moved to his father's, about half a mile back on the place. Sure enough, the water did come, all over the bottom; it was two feet deep in some of the cabins; so we found it was a wise plan - our leaving there in the fall. My husband concluded we had better stay there until he could build a house back from the river, on high ground, so he went to work and put up a hewed log house large enough for two rooms, got it so we moved into it the next fall. We stayed there two years, then he concluded he wanted more land, so he sold what he had there and purchased a quarter section in Athens county, on what was called Federal Creek.

In January, 1818, we moved on to it, then we had land enough; we could raise our own wool and flax, spin and weave, and make the most of our clothing, but the wolves were pretty troublesome at that time; they would come and howl in the night within a few rods of the house; we had to shut our sheep up in a tight pen, covered over so the wolves could not get in; sometimes they would be left out and the wolves would get among them and kill eight or ten at a time; but we managed it so as to have about as much as we could work up. I soon had girls large enough to spin, our oldest child being a girl, and also our third one. Carding machines were getting plenty so we did not have to card our wool, but we had to card our tow. I taught my girls to work, to spin, weave, kit and sew, and do all common work, as well as house work. I still kept up the practice of walking; many times I have walked two miles, and carried a babe eight or ten months old, made my visit, and back the same day. The girls would often walk three or four miles to meeting, or visiting, and think nothing of it. I used to go out to the Muskngum to visit my parents and sisters, occasionally, say once in one, two, or three years, but it, never cost me anything but my time and the horse's time. I always improved the opportunity when some one was going in that direction, so as to have company. I would get on my horse, take my babe in my lap, my dinner in my pocket, and go ahead; when about half-way on our journey we would stop on a little run to rest, eat our dinners, and let our horses feed on the grass along the run. When we were pretty well rested, then go ahead; it was twenty-six miles to where one of my sisters lived; I would stop there, stay all night, the next day go eight miles to another sister's, and stay all night, then two miles to another sister's and stay all night; I was then on the river about six miles above my father's; the next day I would go there, make my visit, call on some of my old neighbors, and then start home by the same route. I would be gone generally from twelve to fourteen days, but did not go very often.

We did not have snow enough in those days to make much sledding; when we went far in the winter we had to go horseback. We got up one winter morning, about the last of December, in 1820; it was snowing, and the snow was four or five inches deep. Now, says Pa, (I shall call my husband Pa after this, it will be handier than to say my husband every time I speak of him,) if it keeps on snowing it will be a good time to go to your father's; if you want to go I will fix up the sled and we will start tomorrow. I said, I would like to if he thought it would do to risk it. He went to work and fixed the sled, (we did not have snow enough to pay for keeping a sleigh,) we had to go in a big sled when we went on the snow. The next morning the snow was about a foot deep, and pretty cold. Pa said he guessed we would risk it, so we fixed up and started, took two of our children with us, the oldest, six years, and the youngest, ten months; went on first rate that day, about eighteen miles, to where a cousin of mine lived, and put up for the night; was then about half way of our journey. Next morning started on our way, but the weather began to moderate, and clouded over and appeared like rain. Pa said he didn't know but we would have to turn back. When we had got seven or eight miles it began to sprinkle, then we took the back track, we could not go home that day so we stopped at our half-way place and staid that night; in the night the wind changed again, and in the morning when we got up, it was as cold as December, for it was the last day of December; then Pa said, I guess we will go ahead, so we fixed up and started, went to Marietta, crossed the Muskingum on the ice, and went up to my father's. The next day, (New Year's day) was as cold a day as I have ever experienced in this country. The next morning was a little more moderate; then we started for home; we dare not trust the snow any longer, it would take us two days to go home any how; we went to my cousin's and staid another night. In the morning, the sun shone out warm and pleasant as spring; then we said we would have to hurry home, and we were none too fast, for the last few miles on the south-side hills where the sun had a fair chance, the sled dragged in the mud, but we got home, and concluded as it was the first time it would be the last time we should undertake to go there on the snow; but I went another time. My brother, who lived near us, was going there with a sled. I thought it would be a good chance for me to go, so I went along; we were gone about a week, had good sledding all the time. Those were the only times I ever went any distance except on horse back.

After a number of years, I do not remember how long, but it was some time, my father sold his place on the river, and went out, he and mother, and lived with my youngest brother. He lived two miles from us; then I could go to see them when I pleased; could take my babe in my arms and go it on foot. My oldest brother bought a place also on Federal creek, three miles from us, so I could visit them often.

We built a log cabin on our place when we moved on to it, and lived in it twelve years; the cracks were chinked but never plastered; the snow could blow in on us when we sat by the fire, but we had a big fire-place and plenty of wood so we did not suffer with the cold. Our children would go barefoot all winter, and never appeared to mind the cold, were all well and hearty, had but little sickness all the time. One little girl had a short spell of fever, lasted a week or ten days, then she was about again. We had one little boy, eleven months old, die with the flux, but that disease prevailed in that settlement at the time; a good many died with it.

After twelve years, Pa got a frame cottage erected, and we moved into it, where we lived until 1836, when Pa had got tired of a rough farm; he said be wanted a level farm to work on, so he sold that place and came down into Gallia county, and purchased a hundred acre lot on the Ohio bottom, sixteen miles below Gallipolis. We took our goods to Belpre, then got a small flat-boat and got aboard of it and came down by water; the boys took the horses and cows by land. We had then ten children, five boys and five girls; we landed at our place on the 22d of June, all safe and sound; there was a frame house on the place, but it was not finished; we went into it; we had land enough cleared. We kept a few sheep, but never raised any more flax; our two oldest girls taught school the most of the time in summer, the others could find enough to do at home.

I will have to give the names of our children, so I can call them by their names. They are as follows: Sophronia Abigail, Alonzo Victor, Augusta Caroline, Cyrenus Chaney, Levi Melville, Lucy Melcena, Vesta Lorille, Francis Marion, Rollin Mallory, Eliza Rowena and David Strong. We had a good deal of sickness after we came down here. I had several spells of the ague, and several of the children had it. In 1845 Augusta had the congestive fever and died with it. Pa, Chaney and Rollin had a severe spell of fever, but all got well; the children all had the measles; seven of them had them at the same time, and I had them all to wait on, but they all got well. In 1847 Lucy was married to Hilas Bay, and in 1849 they moved to Iowa, and Marion went with them. In 1848 Alonzo married Eliza Ann Trowbridge, and in 1852 they went to Iowa.

There was a lot of 80 acres on Swan creek, about a mile from the river, with a good mill site on it, for sale; Pa thought he would like to own a mill, it would be more profitable than a farm, so he purchased the lot, and built a mill, then he found he could not attend to the farm and mill both, so he sold his farm, and in 1853 moved out to the mill place. That summer Pa and I went to Iowa on a visit. Abigail went before that, and staid more than a year. In 1855 Lucy came back on a visit, and Vesta went home with her; that was in the spring; in the summer Chaney went out there, to see the folks and the country, and he and Vesta came back together. Rowena went one time and staid 18 months; Rollin went out there, staid awhile, then came back, and in the spring of 1854 went back again, and Dave went with him, so the boys had all gone to Iowa except Chaney, he staid with us.

In 1856 Abigail was married to John D. Kennedy, and lives in this county. In 1857 Chaney married Calphurnia C. Wood, and in 1859 they moved to Iowa, and Dave came back to live with us.

In July, 1860, Rowena was married to John C. Wilson; the next spring they moved to Iowa, and the following fall he volunteered and enlisted in the 2d Iowa cavalry, and she went to his father's in New Brighton Penn., to stay whilst he was in the army. The next May, 1862, he was shot and instantly killed by the rebels. She had a son born April 17th, just three weeks before her husband was killed. As soon as she was able, she came back to us on Swan creek, and has staid here most of the time since.

In the spring of 1865 my sister, then living in Belpre, came down here on a visit, then she was going out into Hardin county, to visit our youngest brother and his family. His children, all except one, were settled near him; his wife being dead, he lived with one of his daughters. I concluded to go with her. We got on a boat went to Cincinnati, then got on the cars, and went to Forest, Hardin county, got there about daylight. Our brother lived two and a half miles from there; we looked about to find some conveyance out there, but found none, then we took our satchels and started out. We had gone about half a mile, when a boy came along with a yoke of oxen and wagon, and was going just where our brother lived; we got him to give us a passage, so we went the rest of the way very easily. We had a sister living in Marion county; our brother wrote to her that we were there, and she came there. We three were all the sisters that were then living, and the one living in Marion county has died since.

Whilst we were there, my oldest sister observed that she would like to go out to Sandusky, and go over on the lake to Johnson's Island, where the rebel prisoners were confined. I said I would like to go too, my other sister said she would too, so we concluded, if we could make up a company, we would make the trip. Two of our nieces and their husbands concluded to go, so they, with my two sisters and myself were seven. One of my niece's husband had some relatives living about five mile from Sandusky; he wrote them to meet us at Sandusky, at a certain time. My brother took us to the depot in a wagon, then we got on the cars and went to the city. My nephew's cousin met us there with a wagon and took us out to his father's. We staid that night, the next day, and the next night, visiting his relatives, then they took us back to the city. The packet boat that plied between the city and the island, went out at eleven o'clock, ,and returned at four; we were there ready, and went over; it was three miles from the city to the island.

We rambled over the island to see all their fortifications and soldiers' tents; the soldiers were at work as if they were going to live there always, digging up stumps and leveling the ground; they made it look nice as far as they had worked. We went to see where the prisoners were kept; it was a piece of ground, I should think, a quarter of a mile square, but it might not have been half that large; at any rate it was a pretty long walk to go round it; we went nearly all of three miles; the wall was made of split timber or puncheons, set in the ground, and I should think fourteen or fifteen feet to the top; then there was a walk all round it three or four feet from the top, where the sentinels were stationed, one or more on each side; the timbers were far enough apart so we could see through; they had huts or shanties scattered about over the ground, to live in, had plenty to eat and to wear, to be comfortable, but the sentinels would not allow us to go close to the wall, we had to keep at a proper distance. The prisoners appeared to be busy, working the ground, making garden, or planting something. I thought there must be some difference between their situation and that of the Union prisoners in rebeldom, where many were starved to death, and badly treated every way, from all accounts. I did not witness it, but have heard evidence enough of it. The prisoners had the privilege of going to the grave yard to visit the graves of their comrades, a certain number every day (I think, attended by a guard,) to ornament their graves or fix them as they pleased. The most of our company (all except one of my sisters and myself,) went to see the burying ground; we thought we had rather sit down and rest whilst they were gone. I think they said it was about half a mile; they said it looked very nice. The sun was shining pretty hot, so we thought we would go and sit in the shade of the prison wall, but the sentinel came along and said we must not come that near, so we had to go and sit in the sun. We could have told him we did not go to aid the prisoners, but they didn't know who to trust, and any one could slip a paper, or anything else through the cracks if they were not watched. Then we went to see the place where they kept their ammunition; it was a place dug down into the ground twelve or fourteen feet deep (I should guess), and forty or fifty feet in diameter; they had a room built with plank set up on end, and slanted up together at the top, and a door in one side, then it was covered with earth a foot thick or more, and in that room they kept their ammunition; then on the surface above there was a space six or seven feet wide, and back of that was a breast work of earth, three or four feet high, all around hollow; then there was a cannon mounted on each side, to fire over or through this breast-work.
By this time It was four o'clock and we had to return to the boat.

We went over to the city, put up at a hotel, and stayed till morning. By the time we had eat our breakfast the cars came along and we set out on our return to Forest, got there about noon, found brother there with a wagon waiting for us, and took us home. I was very well satisfied with the trip, and all the others appeared to be; saw enough to pay for all the trouble, had pleasant weather all the time, a pleasant ride on the cars, and safe return, visited our relatives in that place a few days, then went to Mt. Fietory, where our brother had two sons living; stayed there a few days, then went on the cars to Marion; went to an artist and had our likenesses taken, then got on the cars and returned to Cincinnati; got there at eight o'clock in the evening, went to a hotel, stayed till morning, then went to a relative's I had living in the city, stayed there a few days, then got on a boat and came home; sister went on to Belpre to her home.

In May, 1866, Vesta was married to James McCormick, and lives in this county. In the fall of 1867 Pa went to Iowa, to visit our children that were living there, made his visit and returned. In March, 1868, he was taken sick with typhoid pneumonia, and lived but a few days. He died March 14th, aged 81 years, 9 months and 1 day.

I will now speak of my father and mother. In the fall of 1835, my mother went to Belpre to see her daughter that was living there; she was taken sick, and lingered along about six weeks; she died in October, aged 73. That summer before she died, she could walk 2 miles without much fatigue, could spin a day's work in a day and cook for father and herself. My father was feeble for several years before he died, but was able to go about the most of the time. He died in December, 1842, aged 86.

Now I will return. In March, 1874, Rowena purchased a small lot, and she and her son, John C., went to living by themselves, he being 12 years old the next month. She thought they could manage to live by themselves. In June following, sister Loring came down to Swan Creek on a visit. She stayed here about ten days, then Dave took us up to Vesta's and Rowena's, to visit them. We had been there two weeks when sister concluded to go home; she wanted Vesta to go as far as Amesville with her, to visit our oldest brother, who was living in that neighborhood; so she concluded to go; they had to go about 20 miles to the railroad, then on the cars to New London, near Amesville. There was a man going to the depot with an express, said he would take them there; so on Tuesday morning early, they started for the depot. When they had got within half a mile of the depot some of the harness gave way, and frightened the horses; they jumped and turned the express over onto the women; the driver had managed to get out before it turned over. The women were badly injured, Vesta fatally -- she lived only till Thursday morning; sister was not so badly injured but that she got well again. Mr. McCormick got news that evening and started out the next morning; got there about noon; Vesta died the next morning. Then he had her corpse brought back home, and he brought sister back in a buggy; she was just able to sit up and ride in the buggy. Vesta was buried the next day, Friday, the 10th of July. Rowena and I went there the day they came back, and stayed there till Saturday morning, then they took sister and I to Rowena's; sister stayed till Tuesday; then Rowena took her to the river in a buggy, and she got on a boat and went home. It was a hard task for her, but she thought she would feel better satisfied to be at home.

In September, Rowena concluded she could not live on her place very comfortably, thought she could live easier in town, so she sold her place, and moved to Gallipolis. I went with her; I think she can live there better than she could on her little lot of land. I stayed with her eleven days; then I had an opportunity to come back to Swan Creek, so I came, and calculate to stay here through the winter. Dave bought out a store at the mouth of Swan Creek and moved in there. John Kennedy and Abigail have come to live on the mill place, so I will stay with them.

Well, I believe I have got pretty near the end of my little book, but there is one thing more I want to tell, that is the different kind of work I have done in my days. Now to begin: I have spun and woven hemp; hackled and spun flax; carded and spun tow, cotton and wool; woven plain cloth, kersey, diaper, jeans, counterpanes, coverlets, shawls and rag carpets; have knit, sewed, crocheted, made netting, tatting, embroidered, and worked several family records on perforated paper, besides flowers, birds and animals, made caps and bonnets, braided and sewed straw hats and bonnets, made bobbin lace, made brooms, bottomed chairs, made willow baskets, helped my father make ropes (he always made his own ropes) and I generally help him to spin the yarn and twist up the ropes, have carded and spun some wool every year until this, and have carded some this year, but not spun any. I am about through with hard work. My work now is piecing quilts, knitting stand covers, making chair tidies, lamp mats, door mats, hearth-rugs, ottoman covers, cut and sew carpet rags, and numerous other things too tedious to mention.

I have eighteen grandchildren (so they say), but I have seen but four of them. Chaney living in Iowa, has three children, two daughters and one son; their names are: Catherine America, Ledotia Ann, and Francis Marion. Lucy, living in Iowa, has six - three sons and three daughters; their names are: Charles Hayden, Ziba Newton, Francis Marion, Eva Sophronia, Lucy Ann and Hilas Lindley. Rollin has gone to Oregon, family and all; he has five children, two sons and three daughters; their names are: David Francis, Altamira Ernestine, Miron Cyrenus, Laura Adaline, and I do not know the name of the other one. Rowena, living in this county, has one son, his name is John Cornthwait. Dave, living in this county, has one son; his name is Dwight Howe.

Now, my dear grandchildren, I expect you would all be pleased to see grandma's little book; If so, I hope you may enjoy that pleasure some time, if I can have the good luck to get it printed.



FAMILY RECORD

David, son of Levi and Hannah Trowbridge, born June 13th, 1786 ; died March 14th, 1868.
Sophronia, daughter of Peter and Orinda Howe, born August 27th, 1790; married March 7th, 1813.


CHILDREN'S NAMES

Sophronia A., born September 12th, 1814; married Nov. 9th, 1856.
Alonzo V., born June 7th, 1816; married June 18th, 1848.
Augusta C., born March 24th, 1818; died Nov. 18th, 1865.
Cyrenus C., born February 28th, 1820; married June 25th, 1857.
Levi M., born August 13th. 1823, died June 18th, 1824.
Lucy M., born August 13th, 1823; married November 25th, 1847.
Vesper L., born October 13th, 1825; died October 21st, 1825.
Vesta L., born October 13th, 1825; married May 23rd, 1866; died July 9th, 1874.
Francis M., born September 18th, 1827, married September 13th, 1855.
Rollin M., born July 5th, 1829; married April 28th, 1861.
Rowena E., born July 22d, 1833; married July 22d. 1860.
David S., born June 23d, 1835; married November 12th, 1868.



Memorial to Peter Howe

Now I will add a memorial of my father: Peter Howe, the subject of the following memoir, was born in New Marlborough, Mass., August 1st, 1756; he was a soldier in the Revolutionary war, and was in several battles; was in the one in Bennington, where the Americans conquered the British forces, and drove them from the battle ground. The British had some Hessians in their army, and when the Americans were returning to their place of rendezvous, and passing over the ground where the men were lying, some dead, some wounded, they saw a Hessian soldier that was wounded, and lying on the ground with his head raised up against a tree, and one of the soldiers shot him again and his head fell down, and they left him supposing him to be dead, but Peter Howe came along in the rear and the Hessian was yet alive, and had raised his head against the tree again, and so Howe went to him, and gave him water to drink, and got help and took him to the house where the soldiers were stationed, which was a double log-house, and they heard the man who shot him the second time, say in a boasting, way, that he put one d--d Hessian out of his misery. So Peter Howe left the Hessian in care of the surgeon and nurses, and not knowing his name or whether he got well or not.

After the war he was married to Orinda Fuller, and settled in Rutland county, Vermont, where he remained until 1801, when he moved to Washington county Ohio, where he lived about 25 years. His children having all married and left them he and his wife went to live with their youngest son, Sylvanus, in Athens county, where they remained the most of the time while they lived. He was the father of 15 children, and at the time of his death, he had 61 grandchildren, 44 great-grand-children, and 1 great-great-grand-child, and in the spring of 1842, he sat at the table with his eldest child, his eldest great-grand child, and his only great-great-grand-child, all daughters. After the repast, he arose and said -- arise, daughter, and go to your daughter, for your daughter's daughter has got a daughter. He was a father to the fatherless, and the widow's help; he was a philanthropist and a republican; he led a Christian life, and was a worthy example of morality before his children and neighbors. As his earthly body was fast failing, and he was about to cross the river death, his prospects for a better and happier state of existence grew brighter and brighter, and while laboring under his last illness not a murmur was heard; all was quiet, all was peace; and his mind was clear and tranquil, and he testified to all that a virtuous life disarms death of his sting, for he was patient and submissive to the will of his Heavenly Father, to the end of his earthly Journey, leaving his friends to mourn their loss, but in the firm belief that their loss was his eternal gain. He died December 19th, 1842, being 86 years, 4 months and 18 days old. His wife died seven years previously. But a few weeks before his death, he found out that an old woman, who was about 90 years old, and two of her sons, who were living in the neighborhood where he then lived, were the wife and sons of the wounded soldier whose life he was instrumental in the hands of Providence of saving at the Bennington battle, so the Hessian soldier, who was shot twice by the Americans at the Bennington battle got well, and married, and settled in New York, and died there, and his wife and two of his sons moved to Ames township, Ohio, where Peter Howe spent his last days.

Now I will bid you all good-bye.

SOPHRONIA H. TROWBRIDGE

December 8th, 1874.

The Saga of the Hessian Soldier
It was August 16, 1777. A young German soldier named Johann Michael Kasler was a Private in the "Hessian" troops of the Duke of Braunschweig (Brunswick), Germany who had been sent to America to aid King George in his war against the Colonists. Michael, as he was always called, was embarked upon an unbelievable journey, as we shall see.

The British General John Burgoyne's invasion of New York had progressed as far south as Fort Edward (immediately east of Glens Falls). The plan was to capture Albany and join with other British forces advancing from New York City and the Mohawk Valley. The state would again be under British control and the rebellious colonies would be divided.

However, Burgoyne's supply lines from Canada were growing longer and less secure. His German mercenaries, mostly Brunswickers (the Americans tended to call all such mercenaries "Hessians") had no cavalry horses and his army was short of beef, wagons, and draft animals. With little regard for the rebels' military skills, he proposed that Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Baum lead an expedition into Vermont and New Hampshire to forage for supplies. Hearing that the American storehouses at Bennington, Vermont were poorly defended, Burgoyne ordered instead that Baum capture them. Half of Baum's troops were Brunswickers; the remainder were Canadians, British sharpshooters, Tories and Indians.

The intelligence Burgoyne had received was inaccurate. General John Stark had arrived from New Hampshire with 1,500 men and had a smaller force of Vermont Rangers (militiamen) known as the Green Mountain Boys under Seth Garner. They were near Bennington as Baum's forces approached. The battle was fierce and hard and the Americans soundly defeated the Hessian troops, killing Baum, whose Indian and Canadian troops had fled when the battle started.

Michael Kasler was one of the wounded Hessians. Michael had received a musket ball in his leg, breaking the leg. He had pulled himself over to a tree stump and sat up against it to await the battle's end. The battle was over and the wounded lay about when some American troops passed by returning to their quarters. Michael motioned to the troops, pointing to his Canteen and to his mouth to let them know he was thirsty. A Vermont militiaman approached him, yelling at him and obviously very angry but Michael knew not what he was saying, as he knew no English. Instead of giving Michael a drink of water, the militiaman shoved his gun to Michael's chest and shot him. That was all Michael was to remember of that scene.

Fortunately for Michael another Vermonter saw what had happened and went to him. Peter Howe was a Private in Ebenezer Allen's company of Colonel Herrick's regiment. He had enlisted in that year of 1777. Peter Howe gave the gravely wounded Michael a drink of water and called for other men to help carry him to their quarters where there was a surgeon. Peter Howe left the wounded Hessian in the hands of a surgeon, Dr. Jacob Roebeck (Ruback), and then departed from the scene to fight in several more battles in Allen's company. Dr. Roebeck has told of the badly wounded soldier and his tales are published in the "Vermont Historical Gazetteer."

Michael Kasler was unconscious for three weeks when he woke up to see a doctor dressing his wounds. According to Dr. Roebeck the shot missed Michael's heart but had went completely through both lobes of the lungs, invariably fatal in the words of the Doctor. Michael Kasler lived, but had no idea of being saved or whom the man was that saved him.

The Americans at that time didn't build stockades to hold prisoners of war. Instead they assigned them to local families to work for their keep and the family would see to their wounds, house and feed them and guard against escape. Michael was assigned to such a family and eventually married the woman who was his nursemaid. After his death in 1839, Kasler's widow moved to live with one of her children near Athens, Ohio. While living there, one of the widow's neighbors learned of her husband's past and offered her his personal account of the rescue. It was Peter Howe, the individual who had rescued her husband so many years ago.

The legend of the kind American soldier saving the German soldier was passed from generation to generation of the Kasler family, but the name of the soldier was lost over the following 160 years after the encounter.

While searching the Internet in November 2000, Michael Kasler, the great-great-great-great-grandson of Johann Michael Kasler found an account of the incident of the Aug. 16, 1777, Battle of Bennington written by Peter Howe's daughter Sophronia Howe Trowbridge.

Sophronia Howe Trowbridge wrote her autobiography in 1874 when she was 84 years old. She ended her exposition with a memorial to her father, Peter Howe. Her autobiography is entitled, "Grandma Trowbridge's Narrative." The details of the battlefield incident as related by Grandma Trowbridge in the memorial to her father meshed perfectly with the data and the details the younger Michael Kasler had gleaned for his family information.

"Grandma Trowbridge's Narrative" was published on A & A Steele's web site, which deals primarily with genealogy for the Steele, Trowbridge and Gidlund families. Then, in addition to Michael's discovery, a couple of Peter Howe descendants also discovered the Steele's web site and Grandma's Narrative about June 7, 2001. Linda Rae Lind, of Bremerton, WA and Eileen Shulenbarger, of Spokane, WA are descendants of Grandma Trowbridge's sister, Diantha S. Howe Prouty. Linda Lind was scheduled at the time to return to Ohio to take part in a DAR ceremony to place a marker on Diantha Howe Prouty's grave on June 24!

Michael Kasler noted in the local (Kenton, Ohio) paper that a ceremony to honor Peter Howe's daughter was to be held. He could hardly believe it, he had lived near Kenton for nearly ten years and had no idea that the daughter of the man who saved his ancestor was buried so close to his home. He felt the need to thank the Howe family. He was put into contact with Linda Lind and she invited him to take part in the DAR services.

"This is an amazing coincidence," said Kasler. "There were only two times our families have come in contact. Except today. This is the third time. I live in the same county as Diantha S. Howe is buried. Her father's compassion saved my great-great-great-great-grandfather's life. Without him I wouldn't be here."

Therefore, "Grandma Trowbridge's Narrative," an autobiography written by an 84 year old woman in 1874, has brought together, in year 2000, these two families who were bonded by an act of kindness and compassion in a war 223 years before. A war known as the American Revolution.

Yet � without the modern technology known as the "Internet", would this reunion have occurred? I doubt it.

A Welcome from A & A Steele

We are Arlene and Arthur Steele. We live in Redmond, Washington, just down the Street from the infamous Microsoft Company that is probably being sued by your home State. We are about ten miles east of Seattle in an area known as the Eastside - east of Lake Washington across from Seattle. Arlene was born and raised in Seattle in a Scandinavian neighborhood known as Ballard. That was appropriate since Arlene's father was from Kiruna, Sweden (north of the Artic circle!). Arlene moved to the Eastside in the 1960's. Arthur was born and raised in Huntington, West Virginia but has spent more years living on the Eastside in Bellevue and Redmond than he did in his hometown. Nevertheless, Arthur remains a diehard Marshall University Thundering Herd fan.

We are both retired and have enjoyed our �Golden Years� immensely by traveling a fair bit. We have taken wonderful cruises in the Mediterranean Sea, of New Zealand & Australia, from Mexico to Hawaii and from Vancouver, BC to the Hawaiian Islands. Plus we toured Paris France, Copenhagen Denmark and southern Sweden to attend the wedding of Arlene's cousin in Sweden. We spent a week in Cozumel, an island off the Yucatan peninsula of Mexico and in another year we spent a week on Maui in the Hawaiians. This past December we flew to Mobile, AL to enjoy the Gulf Shores for a week and to attend the outstanding Football bowl game in Mobile that was won by Marshall U in an unbelievable comeback 64 - 61!

We have also taken numerous trips inside the USA and will celebrate this year by driving our own car from coast to coast and back again. We did that in 1987 and we feel it's time to do it again. Our cat, Kitty-Dog, will probably divorce us if we take too long! We hope to see friends and enjoy the sights of this wonderful country of ours. A visit to Arthur's kids in Wisconsin & Philadelphia plus his High School reunion in Huntington will govern the scope of this motoring trip. Football games at Marshall Stadium in Huntington, WV and the new Lambeau Field in Green Bay, WI will add to the fun.

Two Personal Histories

There are two personal histories published here. They can be selected in the Index to your left. Just click on the title in the index and the story will be called up.

The first history is Grandma Trowbridge's Narrative, an autobiography of a Trowbridge ancestor that is available for reading on-line. This "narrative" is a beautiful piece of primitive writing by an 84-year-old woman in 1874 describing her frontier life. It covers her life between the years of 1790 to 1874, including her trip in 1800 from Vermont to the west, which then was Marietta, Ohio. If someone would like to receive a copy of Grandma's Narrative for off-line reading via E-mail, just drop me a note in e-mail and I'll try to send it to you promptly.

The second history is the Saga of the Hessian Soldier, an unbelievable tale that involves the father of Grandma Trowbridge. Peter Howe, Grandma's father, helped to save the life of a Hessian soldier in a Revolutionary war battle and the tale is alluded to in Grandma's narrative. But there is more to it than Grandma's little tale. This Saga has an unbelievable outcome - be sure to read it while you are here. If you wish, I can email you a copy of this story - just ask me for it..