“THE CENTURY OLD
FIRE” IS OUT
C. O. Hewron
(In Spartanburg Herald)
The “Century Old Firfe” is out.
The hearthstone is cold in the
cabin of William Morris, under
the hill, on the Holbert Cove Road,
about 3 miles from the post office
at Saluda, N. C.
Monte Dedman, tells me. Yes,
he’s tellin’ me.
I knew it, but I just din’t want
to tell anybody.
At William’s deafjh about 3
years ago, Mrs. Ida Owens, a rela
tive became custodian of the fire,
and of William’s place, a little
mountain farm. She kept the fire
burning until a month ago, when
because of illness she was taken
to a hospital.
William Morris was a neighbor
of ours in the mountains. Three
generations of us have scratched
in the coals of William’s fire place,
but never failed to find a blaze
or deen red coals.
William s story was that the
fire' was kindled, with flint and
steel, long over a hundred years
ago, when the family settled in
Saluda Branch of Green River. In
those days it was essential to keep
the home fires burning, else they
might have to travel far to a
neighbor’s house to get coals in a
kettle. When the family moved
from Saluda Branch to the site of
the present cabin, the coals of
that original fire were carried in a
pot and put down on the hearth.
His grandmother never let it go
out. His mother never let it go
out and so long as he lived he
never let it go out.
William never married. After the
death of his mother, more than
20 years ago, he lived alone. On
his farm he raised vegetables,
corn and had apple trees. And al
ways a mule, a sled, a wagon, a
dog and a few hens. There was
no hurry about the place. From
dawn to dark he performed his
chores, drove to town in his wagon
on Saturday.
However, farming and patching
a garden, along a stream that
passed his house, were not the
things that brought distinction
and recognition to William. Wil
liam was a sentimentalist- and a
fiddler. A romancer and a music
ian. His fiddle, in its case, leaned
just inside the door and when we
got set on the porch, he didn’t
have to get out of his split-bot
tom chair, just legged it over,
about a step, reached in and the
concert was on.
His favorite was “Napoleon’s
March—Back from Moscpw”. It
was a dirg. It had no^beginning
and no ending—just trudged right
on, until some one called for
“Turkey in the Straw” or “Ar
kansas Traveler,” and that would
break the march.
William went to New York and
appeared on the radio program—.
“We, the People”. He gave the ex
perience of his life, and came back
with a battery radio, the prize he
won.
It was over that radio, in Wil
liam’s house before the fire on
Sunday morning I heard the King
of England declaring war on Ger
many—and World War II was be
ginning. I had walked over the
mountain with Wylie Goforth and
had suggested that we pay our
respects to William.
“Is your radio working?” I ask
—Continued on Page Fourteen_
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