George Parker died of grip at his home near Alfred, May 28, 1902. He was born in bondage near Murfreesboro, N. C. Slavery kept few records and the date is not known, but at his death he was probably not far from the allotted age of man. He was sold once. In 1863, along with others, he escaped from the small plantation and came to the union camp. A little later he was brought north by Prof. Sayles. The first money of his own was two pennies given him by a little boy. He worked for a number of different people, including Chandler Green, Valencia C. Baker, Amos Burdick and others. He was accounten (sic) an excellent hand. He became widely known and respected. He attended school several terms and, although it was hard for him to learn, he was deeply interested in education. He had an ambition for which he carefully saved his money until nineteen years ago when it was realized, and he bought the farm which was his late home. On May 10, 1885, he was married to Ellen Van Dosen Simons, who survives him.
He was converted in younger years. He loved to go to church, and attended regularly until failing health made the trip too hard. He had many friends. They say of him that he was perfectly honest, his morals were above reproach, his heart tender and appreciative. He did not understand being born again, but it was his purpose to serve his God and live right. In at least one of the homes where he worked he was counted one of the family, and when speaking of the young ladies of the family he would call them ” our girls.” Only kind words are spoken of him, and the feeling of many would be expressed in the words of one man who said: “Well, George and I have been friends ever since he came to this country.”
There was one occasion when he was always present, if possible, and that was Memorial Day. Probably this was the first time he has missed for many years. It was peculiarly appropriate that his funeral was held in the same place the next day, and that the same patriotic decorations were in place. Surely it was as he would have had it be. Under the flag whose stars and stripes thrilled his heart when he saw it floating over the Union camp–under that flag the last tribute of love and respect was paid to his memory.
Funeral service were conducted in the First Alfred Church Sabbath afternoon, May 31. A brief sermon was preached by James Dawes, the black missionary who has been attending the University. A short life sketch and tribute was presented by Pastor Randolph. A large and sympathetic audience was present. Interment in Alfred Rural Cemetery.
Published in The Alfred Sun (New York) on June 4, 1902.
died of grip: died of complications from influenza
the allotted age of man: George appeared in the 1865 New York State census with stated age of 22. He could have been between 55-60 years of age when he died.
came to the union camp: George was part of a group of refugees who arrived in Camp Suffolk’s contraband camp, Uniontown, in early 1863. [see post His Future Was Not Yet Written]
he was brought north by Prof. Sayles:Professor Ira Sayles was a well known educator of Allegany County.
he attended school: George attended the Preparatory Program at Alfred Academy, 1869-1870.
he bought the farm: the farm lay on the outskirts of Alfred, New York
he married: George married the widow Ellen Simons, and helped raise her son, William.
he was converted: George became a member of the Alfred Seventh Day Baptist Church, adherents of which keep the sabbath on Saturday. Alfred Academy and Alfred University were affiliated with the Seventh Day Baptist denomination.
Post photo of Alfred, New York countryside by Kay Strickland, 2013.
The Union army appeared to be making quick work of the southern insurgency as the United States entered the new year of 1862. Recruitment offices around the north just shut down. Why keep something open when it was so clear the war was going to end and soon?
But then came General McClellan’s attempts to capture Richmond, capital of the Confederate States of America. The losses on the battle fields of the Virginia Peninsula Campaign were staggering. Now the decision to discontinue recruitment seemed not only foolhardy but catastrophic. The foreseeable future was one, not of victory celebrations, but of a sustained, long war.
Soldiers, from every state, were needed.
In early July 1862, Lincoln put out a call for 300,000 volunteers; every able-bodied man between 18 to 45 was urged to enlist. As word of the Peninsula Campaign’s failures spread, enthusiasm for the cause waned. Enticements were added, money bounties increased.
Ira Sayles, a long-time abolitionist and ardent supporter of the War, answered the call, and used his position in the communities of Alfred, Whitesville, and Independence to alternately cajole and shame other men to come with him to Almond, to enlist in what would become Company H of the 130th New York Volunteers.
War Meeting to be held at the Methodisth Church in Whitesville, On Monday Evening August 4th 1862.
Recruitment broadside created by Ira Sayles, August 1862; shared by Roger Easton, Former Historian, Town of Independence, Whitesville, New York: The Independence Historical Society, 540 Main, Whitesville, NY 14897.
The poster directs citizens to attend a war meeting on Monday evening, the 4th of August, in the Methodist Church in Whitesville, the town in which his wife grew up and in which his brothers-in-law had businesses. I can hear his voice ringing from the pulpit:
In the extremity of its danger, our tottering Government appeals to each one of us, personally and individually; and implores us to rush to the rescue.
Her defeat will be our shame, her fall, our RUIN!
Let no man stop to count his dollars, nor the profits he leaves; for, the Triumph of this Detestable Rebellion, come Anarchy, Confiscation, Bankruptcy, Vassalage, Slavery, SEMIBARBARISM. Our flocks, and our herds, and our pleasant homes, will be seized upon as plunder of War! Our school-houses, our academies, and our colleges will be emptied. Our rail-roads and our canals will be destroyed and will forever lie in ruins. Our ships will rot at their docks. Our factories and our mills will lie idle, and fall into utter decay. No one need flatter himself with the hope, that those things will not be so.
The History of all Anarchies Testifies to the truthfulness of this Picture.
Let Each Able-Bodied Man between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, subject to Military Duty, feel that the suppression of this terrible rebellion, and with it, the slaying of all these evils, may depend, under God on his single individual arm; and that their triumph will be chargeable to him alone, should he now refuse to rally to the ? Of our Noble Beleaguered Government.
My friend, nay my brother, let me beseech you not to turn away from her agonizing cry for help! Are you a husband and a father, look on those dear ones—dearer than life—and remember, that, if you go, it is to avert all this overwhelming run from them;that, if you stay, it is to invite it on them; that they and their children, and their children’s children will pronounce your name, with grateful pride, if you now peril your life in your country’s cause; but that if you remain at home, like a cowardly craven and contemptible slink, these same children, your posterity, will blush with burning shame, whenever they are reminded of your base poltroonery.”
“Who would be a traitor knave, Who would fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base to be a slave…Let him stay at home”
[from Robert Burns’ patriotic song “Scots Wha Hae”]
To the true patriot, the advanced bounty, twenty five dollars and the advanced pay, one month’s wages, making the little sum of thirty-eight dollars is of no consideration that yet if he is to leave behind him a dependent family, this little sum, together with the monthly wages, the remaining bounty, seventy five dollars, and the one hundred and sixty acres of land secured to himself or his ? May be matters of some account.
Let Allegany send from her hills and her valleys a brave and a Loyal Regiment ready to meet the demoniac yells of those southern semibarbarians, with a cool, steady, dauntless courage.
Let each gray-headed father, as he sees his brave son arm for the deadly strife, bless God, that He has given him such a son to represent Him in the bloody hour. Let each mother, wife, betrothed, or sisters, as she bids her loved one farewell, shrink from the awful sacrifice; but rather bid him God speed, shedding no unwomanly tears.
Let all who can not go, either on account of sex, age, or infirmities, or other causes justifiable before God, assist the destitute families of those who do go, and pray, if they ever do pray, for God’s protection of the Just and True—all do these things,except the cowardly dastards who can go and ought to go, but dare not; let them hide their craven heads and eat dirt.
Brave Hearts of Allegany, I do not say to you ”go,” but “come!”
I go as one of you, to share with you the soldiers’ fare, the weary march, the bivouac, the picket guard; with you [rest of line unreadable]
On the evening of 29 June 1898, Private Sherman Sayles of the 3rd Missouri Regiment complained of a headache to the night nurse, who notified Camp Alger medical attendant Private Lake. While Lake went to the dispensary to mix some morphine, Private Sayles pulled out a penknife and sliced open his left wrist. Fellows in nearby cots yelled, and someone ran to retrieve Private Lake. By the time Lake and the attending surgeon, Major Stunkard, got cot-side, Sherman had lost a great deal of blood.
The wound was tended, and by morning Major Stunkard pronounced the soldier out of danger, physically. Clearly Sherman Sayles needed further care, care that tended to his mental health as well as his physical well being. Stunkard transferred the soldier to the hospital at Fort Myers (Virginia) where further evaluation determined that Sayles required intensive therapy.
As quickly as orders could trickle through bureaucracy Sherman was transferred across the Potomac to the Government Asylum for the Insane, locally known as St. Elizabeths Hospital, in southeast Washington, D.C.
On 5 July 1898 Sherman Sayles walked across the campus of St. Elizabeths under the shade of red oaks, silver maples and tulip trees, past vegetable and ornamental gardens, and chicken houses and pigeon coops. He climbed up the steps of a three-story brick building, crossed its white-trimmed porch and entered Oak Hall. A nurse guided the 36-year-old to a large room brightly lit by enormous windows. Beds lined the walls, each with its own privacy screen. From this crowded ward Sherman Sayles, my great-granduncle, would begin his treatment for acute suicidal melancholia.
Several months passed before his brother–my great-grandfather–paid the former soldier a visit. It was the week before Thanksgiving, and trees were now bare. Clifton D. Sayles crossed the St. Elizabeth’s campus, leaves crunching underfoot, and climbed the steps to the entrance of Toner Hall, the convalescent residence to which Sherman had been moved. He was shown to a pleasant sitting room, filled with light and plants and rockers. There he met a brother he probably hadn’t seen in years. Clifton had remained on the family farm, raising his own kids in the Mecklenburg County, Virginia community, while Sherman had moved from Virginia to New York to Missouri. The man that sat before him on that November day was not one he remembered. In fact Clifton was alarmed by his brother’s appearance and behavior. Cliff returned home and consulted with his mother, Serena C. Sayles, sitting to pen this letter to Sherman’s attending physician the following Tuesday.
As I was compelled to leave Washington without seeing you, I have taken the liberty of writing.
The second time I went to see my brother he either did not, or would not recognize me; and acted in a very suspicious manner altogether.
Now I do not claim to understand his mental condition; but I do say this, he acted very ungratefully to say the least. I have consulted with my mother since my return and we have come to the conclusion that the place for him to remain is right where he is. I would consider it unsafe for him to be here at liberty for years to come. Of course, I am entirely ignorant as to how long the U.S. Government will take care of him. I am also ignorant as to whether or not his regiment has been mustered out of the service: but he was certainly in the performance of military duty at the time of his mental attack. I do not wish to give you the impression that we are acting in an unnatural manner towards him; but I will never forget to my dying day, the tigerish glare he gave me the second time I went to see him.
Clifton ended his letter with a plea:
Whenever in your opinion he is sufficiently recovered to rejoin his regiment, we think that is the proper place for him. We would be very grateful indeed to you if you would take the trouble to write occasionally in regard to his condition. Please withhold nothing.
I feel such empathy for Clifton, for I have also been in the position of traveling all day to reach a loved one who found themselves in an disconcerting place, with strangers, living with unrelenting need and suffering.
I can vividly imagine Clifton trying to share family news only to be mocked; or suggesting a walk to enjoy the view over the Anacostia River only to be mimicked. I can envision that moment when Cliff gathered his coat to leave that first day, and Sherman melted into his chair, hands covering his face. And weeping.
His hands brushed the words over his body.
“I’m sorry for ALL of THIS.”
Across the ages I can imagine Clifton’s promise to return, a swirl of questions around family duty and his brother’s needs accompanying him to his night lodgings. And ALL of the queries settled upon his next visit, when Sherman sat as if ready to pounce–shoulders hunched, face contorted, with a fixed tigerish glare.
In that instant there was the heart-rending recognition that he couldn’t care for his brother.
Clifton had to leave him, there, helpless to escape his condition. To be tended by strangers who may or may not have cared. But there, where he would be fed, and clothed, and washed, and watched over–where he would be safe.
The Sunday after his brother’s visit, Sherman packed his belongings and followed an attendant from the second-story ward in Toner Hall to one of the Oaks buildings, to yet another ward chock-a-block with beds.
In spite of the hydrotherapy, music and art opportunities, and the beauty of the grounds, Sherman continued to have suicidal thoughts and delusions that someone was out to hurt him. He frequently refused to eat his meals, for fear that they contained poison. Sometimes he would eat, only to purge immediately afterward.
By September of 1900, Sherman was emaciated, weighing in at only 110 pounds. Still the staff kept encouraging him to eat, dodging his verbal assaults and the occasional thrown glass.
This was an era of immense overcrowding at St. Elizabeths Hospital. In spite of the efforts to treat patients for recovery, many remained institutionalized, unable to recapture their ability to live on their own. And the acute cases continued to be admitted.
The need for caregivers far outstripped the supply of trained nurses and attendants. The bare minimum was probably all that each patient could be assured of–clean clothes, clean linens, three meals a day, and assistance with morning and evening ablutions.
There was no extra time to make sure that patients kept in touch with families, or that families were kept apprised of their loved one’s condition. Nothing in the patient record indicates that Clifton was ever made aware of his brother’s disordered eating or suicidal ideation; or that family news of the deaths of their mother and Cliff’s wife, Anna, reached Sherman. And with Washington, D.C. a series of train rides away, Clifton and his kids were not able to just drop by.
Sherman lived without a strong social support network, in wards intended to hold 18 beds and bedside tables but kitted out at the turn of the century with 30 to 40 beds; and 30 to 40 men’s perspiration, farts, snores, grunts, mutterings, sneezes and coughs, guffaws and shouts.
Sherman was surly when interacting with staff or other patients, and prone to withdraw from the hospital’s social life. Nurses would find him sitting on the side of his bed with his face buried in his hands, or haunched in a corner.
Month after month passed. As more patients were admitted, chronic patients like Sherman were moved from one building to another. After one such relocation Sherman appeared to improve a bit, taking his restless agitation out for long walks most every day. His thinking seemed more rational, his cooperation more consistent.
But the contrary behavior reappeared, with Sherman loudly refusing to cooperate in treatment “considered beneficial for his condition.” Occasionally he threw his food and dishes across the dining hall. He deliberately provoked his fellow patients. His language was often profane and vulgar. When the former private was “high-tempered” he beat himself on the face and body and claimed that his attendants struck him. Other times Sherman stole out of bed when he thought the attendant wasn’t watching and “slyly struck other patients who were unable to defend themselves.”
And always the food or the medications were suspected of containing poison. Only certain doctors and nurses could successfully cajole Sherman into consuming them.
In June of 1903 Sherman developed chronic diarrhea. Bedridden he also developed pressure sores.
As the Thanksgiving holiday approached, the diarrhea suddenly stopped, replaced by intermittent nausea and vomiting. Though increasingly debilitated, Sherman managed to vigorously refuse any attempts to take his temperature, or to give him hypodermic or oral medications. In the evening of 18 November, Sherman’s speech was reduced to a whisper; he grew still, only his chest moved with shallow, rapid breaths.
There was no last visit from Clifton, no one to sit bedside, to keep final watch over Sherman. Only a nurse bore witness to his final exhale.
A headstone in St. Elizabeths East Cemetery marks the grave of Private Christopher Sherman Sayles.
Christopher Sherman Sayles, QO1-563669951, St. Elizabeths Hospital (Washington, D.C.) patient record, Case number 10778, created 1898-1903; copy from National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, D.C., received February 2020.
On this date, 28 February 1883, my great-grandmother Kathryn Elizabeth Roahrig was born in Linton Township, Ohio.
Her son, Carlos, was interviewed by the Coshocton Tribune (Coshocton, OH) the summer of 1985 and gave these details about her life.
History contest winners named
Coshocton County’s oldest native resident and longest held parcel of land have been named by the Coshocton County History Book Committee.
Kathryn Elizabeth Roahrig Bradford, 102, of South Seventh Street, was the oldest resident found by the committee… Mrs. Bradford was born Feb. 28, 1883, in Linton Township, the daughter of John and Matilda (Klein) Roahrig. On Oct. 16, 1904, she married the late Charles Ross Bradford.
She had three children: Thelma, wife of H. Paul Joseph, is deceased; Kerma, widow of Donald Minor and of Albert Hoge; and Carlos. She has seven grandchildren, 23 great-grandchildren and 3 great-great-grandchildren.
She resides with Carlos and his wife Betty on South Seventh Street in Coshocton.
She has always lived in town and is a member of Grace United Methodist Church. She worked for a short period of time, when her children were small, at the Old Glove Factory.
Bradford is not in good health and was unable to be interviewed; however, her son’s reply, when asked to what he attributes his mother’s longevity was, “It runs in the family.”
History contest winners named, Coshocton Tribune (Coshocton, OH), 26 July 1985; newspaper clipping a part of D Kay Strickland Family Collection, 2021.
Our dinner table in southwest Virginia was always full. Mother and Daddy at either end, us four kids seated two across from two on each side. In the center, sat two vegetables, a starch, a meat dish or casserole, to be passed to the left until all were served. At each place was a glass of milk and a small bowl of canned fruit, preferably fruit cocktail with maraschino cherries which had to be equitably divided among the four of us.
The highlight of every meal, though, was dessert. My mother was a terrific cook; her baked goods, however, were whole-other-level fantastic. Homemade cookies or brownies or cakes of all sorts were a daily staple of my childhood memories.
Among the recipes in my mother’s Recipe Accordion File was a hand-written page of directions from her sister’s mother-in-law, Cora Carroll of Waynesburg, Pennsylvania. This Texas Sheet Cake is one of the most sweet-tooth-satisfying cakes I have ever bitten into.
Try it. You’ll like it, I’m sure!
Texas Sheet Cake
Sift altogether in large bowl:
2 cups granulated sugar ½ teaspoon salt
2 cups all-purpose flour 1 t baking soda
Melt 2 sticks of margarine [or butter], 1 cup water, ¼ cup cocoa. Bring to a full rolling boil.
2 eggs (beaten) 1 teaspoon vanilla
½ cup buttermilk 1 Tablespoon vinegar
Add everything to large bowl. Mix lightly. Pour into greased jelly-roll pan (15 ½ x 10 ½ inch)
Bake 20 minutes at 400°.
Ice while warm with Chocolate Icing:
[Mix together] 1 pound confectioners’ sugar, 1 egg (beaten), ½ cup melted butter, 2 squares melted unsweetened chocolate, 1 teaspoon lemon juice. [spread over warm cake]
I transcribed the recipe as Cora wrote it out for my mother, baker to baker. I made sure to translate anything that seemed confusing, like measuring abbreviations, but other than that this is how the recipe was handed down.
I have another recipe for this cake from a 1980 edition of A Heritage of Good Tastes from Historic Alexandria, Virginia that uses a mix of shortening and butter instead of margarine in the cake. And in that version the Icing recipe substitutes 6 tablespoons of milk for the egg.
And you, my reader. Do you have variations of this Sheet Cake? What are your favorite childhood dessert memories?