Autobiography of Charles Gass, edited version

This is an undated autobiographical account by Charles Gass (1882-1972), son of Jacob and Louise (Wille) Gass. Laura "Pete" (Gass) Beaty, one of Charles' daughters, furnished a copy of the original to the Comfort Heritage Society on 8 June 2004. The copy of the handwritten account contains some illegible words and a few blank places (most notably partial dates) suggesting that Mr. Gass intended to supply a few details that he could not remember at the time of writing. The editor has performed the usual sort of editing but has attempted to retain the original meaning and flavor. Charles Gass was buried in the Comfort Cemetery and his headstone appears in Section 7, Row H, Number 23.

"I am Charles Gass, fifth child of Jacob [1845-1913] and Louise [Wille] Gass [1857-1945]. My oldest sister was Ida [1875-1965]; second, Mary [1876-1935]; third, Emelie [1878- ? ]; fourth, Emma [1889-1977]. Then followed me and my brother Otto [1895-1974]. After 8 years, Jetta, Louise, and Hanna were born. Of these, two have passed away. Number nine, Hanna [1897-1918], died from flu during the First World War. Leo Johns [1888-1984] was her husband and she left one son, Herbert [1918?-1986?]. Mary died in the year 1935. She married Dan Schellhase [1874-1951] and they had 2 children, Ida [1898-1991, spouse Otto Johns, (1889-1974)] and Carl [1900-1993]. Ida [and Adolph 1884-1976?] Zoeller's son Max died 19__. He had asthma trouble all his life. My mother, Louise Wille, was the second girl born in Comfort. Her sister, aunt Augusta Wille Doebler [1856- ? , spouse Oscar Doebbler] was the first. Julious Lind, Mike's dad, was the first boy [born in Comfort].

When Grandpa Herman Wille died as blacksmith, my dad [Phillip Jakob Gass] was working in Boerne for his brother-in-law, Jacob Theis, for his board, learning his trade, which he held onto till he died. He did hold a job with the government shoeing horses and mules until he was honorably discharged 18__ . After taking the blacksmith job in Comfort and boarding with Grandma Wille, he married Mama [Louise Wille] when she was about 16 yrs old. Mama had one older sister, Augusta Doebler; two brothers, Otto and Hugo; and sisters Bertha Anderson, Hermine Norris, Sarah Karger [1859-1929], and Ida Brauner. Grandpa and Grandma Wille lived on the Guadalupe river. Where the railroad bridge crosses the river, they had little grocery store where they traded honey, hides, etc. for coffee, tea, sugar, and so on.

Dad landed at Indianola with his father, two sisters, and two brothers. Dad's mother was buried at sea. Sailboat travel took months sometimes to cross the ocean. When Dad was 8 years old, his sister Katherina married Wetz. They had one son. After Wetz died of an injury, she married John Doehne and they had 10 or more children. Aunt Minna and Jack Theis also had 10 or more children. Uncle Frederick Gass of Twin Sisters had 10 or more children, too. Uncle Charles Gass, of Helotes or Culebra, had 10 or 12 children. Once or twice a year the three brothers met either at our place in town (at present Schleiffs) or we drove by hack to either of theirs. Once Dad hitched 4 mules to the hack and I had to hold the wheelers' reins, Dad the leaders. We were off for dealing either the big pair, 16 hands high, for $150 or the little span of 14 hands at $60. It took me two months or more to break the little pair. Did I say "little"? Yes, little–but plenty loud. When I rode them they would grunt, snort, and paw the dust over my ears but I stuck to ‘em. I can't do that presently. Yes, I took 3 trips down to Helotes in one day to prove their worth. I rode each one bare or saddled. And I worked each one singly on a 5-row cultivator or gig or whatever was handiest to hitch to. I closed the deal at the end of 2 days with 10 shining silver dollars. The rest was paid after 3 years without interest but finally here came my pay for breaking them, riding, working single and double, and with narrow escapes from getting killed by the score. It's coming--hold your ears--I was the happiest 12 or 14 year boy of the Gass family. (I had only one brother.) Otto would tell Dad, "Ride them yourself."

Oh, that million dollar smile on the face of my dear old mother when told me [that I was about to get the rest of my pay]. Of course that was only when she had a big crowd to feed at home–a big turkey dinner with all the fixings: dressing, mashed ‘tatas, maybe sweet ‘tatas, all kinds of vegetables, and always enough gravy for me to eat till sometimes she would tell me it would run out of my ears, so I thought better quit so I'd have a little appetite for the next meal, which I seldom ever missed. Her cooking--I'm telling you! No matter what we had--stuffed possum, coon, alligator, armadillo, or big fat hens–anything that came to her she could cook it. Hey, hey--did I forget that easy? Corn! Dad finally handed me a new quarter. I called it "two bits"; that sounded like more money to me.

Yes, Dad was raised by his oldest Sister (Katherine Wetz, who later married John Doehne). At age 14 or 16 he was appointed mail carrier. He rode horseback 35 or 40 miles once or twice per week from New Braunfels to the surrounding neighborhoods. Not having a gun or six shooter furnished by the government, the only weapon he carried on his mail route was a hatchet. One day out in the wilderness a long way from home, his horse tired and weary and not aware of the danger, Dad began hearing Indians afoot trying to get him, his horse, and whatever he had. He pulled his horse from the old trail into thick brush where there was more grass cover on the ground so the Indians couldn't trail him as easily. He used his hatchet to cut a switch but--hard luck–his hiding place was entered by Indians. He cut his knee cap and not only lost lots of blood but lost all his joint water, making his leg crooked for the rest of his life. He endured six or more months of suffering without a doctor until he was able to ride the mail again for awhile until a government job was offered. This crooked leg put him in blacksmith job. He set tires for government wagons, cannons, etc., but mostly shoeing horses and mules sometimes for weeks at a time--so many hours every working day but one [day off]. A certain number of hooves were assigned to each man. The mule or horse was buckled to tilting table and laid down. A certain amount of shoes had to be finished. Dad was always first to finish. "Crooked-legged So-and-So" was his nickname in the Army. After he started blacksmithing in Comfort, his old Friend Henry Weber had a wheelwright shop across the street from Dad's shop, which was where Ingenhuetts Grocery Store is now. Dad's first shop was where the Mohler Building is now. But later he built the rock building now being used as a museum. Dad and Weber bought a section of land and divided it. Dad's half was on the lane where Jake's and Ed Allerkamp's fields are. So Dad was a blacksmith as well as a farmer and rancher.

Having his own wood and coal bin, Dad burned all his coal for the shop and some men would exchange work cutting cord wood for him to use his in his charcoal bin to burn and charcoal to sell in San Antonio to buy beans, sugar, salt, coffee, etc. My older sisters and I had to have charcoal to the shop on Saturdays and Sundays so my sisters missed no school. But "strong Charles" had to get into the hole which was 10-12 feet deep with Rock sides to keep the walls from crumbling down. Many a night if the wind would change, Dad pulled me out of bed at 2 or 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning or most any time during day to help him refill the coalbin, which took 3 to 5 loads to refill, according to how crooked the wood was, whether it was dry or green, and what kind of wood it was–black-jack, post oak, elm, hackberry, or walnut. Any kind but rotten wood he used.

Poor Mama had to use rotten wood and little limbs and trash to cook and wash clothes for four kids. She worked most of the farm when the kids were not going to school with one horse hitched to the big farm wagon from Schleif's place, where we had a big rock pen with cows and a wild horse and mules, where Mother milked sometimes 12 to 15 Texas longhorn cows of all colors and sizes. They were most dangerous when having baby calves. I wanted to help so I would rope the calves off the cows while Mama and my sisters milked them. So one morning I had a toothache and Ma wrapped my head with a big red flannel, with part of it hanging over my shoulder and back. They were nearly through milking and I turned in. One cow had a baby calf about 10 days old. Her hair coat was mixed with all colors. Those Texas cattle were ranged from brindle to calico, red, roan, yellow, etc. Every color but green, which I saw plenty of in her eyes when she dashed towards me. I went over the ten-foot rock fence, clearing--to my judgment--another 3 or 4 feet. In middle of the street I landed on my feet cussing blue strings and stripes. My sisters said, "Chally are you going to let that calf get all the milk?" I answered "No." They had at least 3 quarts of milk from 10 other cows. I roped the calves of those cows with my red flannel wrappers on–except for that mean one (well, for a few seconds). I did not know what hurt more–my tooth or being pitched over the fence. A happy life with a few ups and downs.

One day sister Emma and I went to the field to help Cousin R. Theis move some old barbed wire off a corner. So he hitched one horse to one wire to pull around the stumps and bushes. He told sister Emma and me, "If I rest the horse and you see wire cutting into the stumps, pull it loose and put it over." I had good hold with both hands on the wire when he started the horse. It jerked both my hands against the stump and I lost half of my middle finger on the right hand and stiffened the middle finger on the left. I was 5 or 6 years old. Emma, who was two years older, she tore her apron and wrapped my hands and drug me to the wagon half a mile away. Cousin hitched the horses up and galloped to town. Mother saw the horses running, coming by the Meyer Hotel. She opened the gate at home, seeing blood all over the front wheels, where it had run through bed of the wagon and over the wheel. She took me in her arms and I saw tears running down her cheeks while she was carrying me to house. They told me later that I asked her, "Are you hurt, Ma?" and she said "no." So I said, "Why are you crying." I said, "Ma I cried a little when my finger was going with the wire but since I am with you I will not cry any more." But three days later I was making mud pies with bandaged hands. I tell you I bawled when that stick hit my back and rear end.

I was eight or ten years old when dad had [what is now] the museum building for a second blacksmith shop. The first was a wooden structure next to the two-story rock store building of Ingenhuett. Old man Jacob Loobear from Sisterdale built the first story. It took him one year. He walked home Saturday nights and layed in bed Sunday while his wife washed all his shirts--although seldom was he wearing them very much-- just walking to and from the job he wore his only pants and shirts. At work he wore a rawhide apron from waist to shoes, which were also rawhide and with rawhide soles and had buckskin straps to hold onto his feet. My oldest sister hauled every single rock in that building from this hill where we live and others further up the pasture. I opened the gates and helped operate the brake. After one year or better of hard work, J. Loorbear was real white where sun could not hit his skin where apron was tied around his body. But his face, shoulders, and the rest of body looked like a negro. He hewed rocks from daylight till dark for 1 buck. One dollar per day. At the same time Bruno Schott & David Cortiadors put up a rock building were woodwork is done now. It used to be a saloon many years. When they finished that, they moved the winch or derrick over and put the second story on museum in 8 or 10 days, most rocks being hewed and trimmed. After we had used the building for maybe ten years Dad sold it for $2000.00, including all the land where the improvements were: shed, swimming pool, big residential property back of the wool house up to the next cross street, having paid the old man better than 1,000.00 for the first story. All he kept back was one building 10 X 18 feet, which was the barber shop and old residence of Grandpa Wille. These two buildings he moved across the street. He rented the barber shop to some old man who paid $1.00 for a month's rent. Hill country had to feed him for several years but Dad got nothing. I moved the barbershop out to the ranch. I hooked 8 horses and 8 mules to a pair of logs. We backed up to the house and fastened the house on ‘em. The river had several feet of water in it, which floated the house. We came near losing it. The Wille residence Dad made his third blacksmith shop. That was on the corner where now the drive-in station stands. After Dad passed away, Mother rented the blacksmith shop to Udo Letz's father for six bucks per month with all tools–saws, hammers . . . maybe several 100 dollars worth. Horse shoes, new iron, etc. One night after I had heard at different meetings that Mr. Ingenhuett had said that "sore-eye fire trap" should be burned . . . which really happened. Nothing but melted brass, tin, an iron pile of ashes and a vacant lot was left of the third shop.

When I was 12 or 14 yrs I helped Henry(?) Ingenguett often when maybe some man came in from a 3-4 day trip. Them days these salesmen had to hire livery stables' teams with drivers to travel from town to the next place to sell whatever their line of goods would be. So one night about eight o'clock, freezing all night, I had to take a salesman to Fredericksburg, a big gas and whiskey drummer. Mother put on 3-4 pair woolen socks of Dad's and I had to wear his Sunday shoes, mine being too little to fit over all those socks. Three pairs of pants was what I possessed. Travelled [unclear] till roosters were crowing and answering at Fredericksburg. Next morning all [unclear] rivers were frozen over with ice. Horses' hair was off their legs to the knees and even the long hair around their noses was iced from their breath. About 7 a.m. I fed the horses--and myself 1 egg and 1 cup coffee. For the team was ready to carry his sample satchel from one saloon to the next. By 6 he had picked up a friend selling another line off goods. Off to Kerrville we went, getting there about 10 or 11. They woke a man up who had a saloon in the Krause store with a camp yard. So both drummers were drunk all day. They bought 10 cents worth of oats for the horses and dinner and supper for me. Five cents worth of sardines with few crackers was my dinner and supper. After both were through cussing such sorry-hair horses (poor things had sore shoulders and were wore out from long trek they had just come in) when I had to take this on. I had to come home and came into Comfort about 3 or 4 the next morning. Ingenhuett paid twice per year. So after six months my Dad before Mother had supper ready handed me 25 cents across the table. It made me so happy that without supper to bed I went, under the pillow. The 25 cents went not to get cold as I was without sleep 2 nights even with lots of socks and pants. Six months before he said Ingenhuett paid for the trip you made 6 months ago. Now they strike for higher wages every once in a while.

Yes, these smart hired hands. Once a young man rode up to ask Dad for work, which dad always had plenty of--all kinds--but he wanted to pasture his pony too while working. Dad said, "You can stake your pony close to you while cutting wood." But smart Englishman said he'd rather turn him loose. Dad said, "I advise you to stake your horse. I have a stallion and some mares, and that stud is mean. He might bite your pony." "Oh," said Smarty, "that's a racing pony. That Stallion could never catch that fast pony." "O.K.," said Dad, "he is your pony but I am warning you." So by night Smarty rode his horse to town plenty mad. Our stud had bitten his pony's tail off, not even leaving a long hair. "Don't cry to me. I warned you. He should run faster now not carrying that long tail."

Now a little of my foolish stunts. One day after a week of hard rains that put the river our of its banks and put our telephone out of service for days, my old neighbor George Schulling came horseback to the house. We were living at that time where Jake lives now. George talked me into swimming the river in my birthday clothes. I was through the worst current when a knot in a wire caught on a tree and pulled me back into the main current. Here I fought half choked by the wire tied around me. Pretty soon here came a big pile of drift logs--timber--over my head. Half drownded and 7/8 exhausted, I reached back and untwisted the wire and a half mile down river, barely able to hold my nose out of the stinky, muddy river, finally I caught the limb of a big tree where I rested a long time until I gathered enough strength to swim to the bank. So neighbor brought my clothes and helped me on my horse and took me to house and put me to bed and wait for it tomorrow. [Unclear.] After 5 minutes rest in bed, the big Jack (mule) broke loose and started running the big mules, so I had to forget being sick and catch Jack. A fine exercise for change that was.

When I was about 18 years old I played second cornet in a brass band with Bill Roemer as leader and with 4 or 5 other instruments. We played for masquerades and dances at Ehlers and Meyer Hall (which is now Rock Hall, used later for sorting and grading mohair). Well, we stared playing in the saloon and in front of same at 5 o'clock P.M. on Saturday and we and kept playing till 6 o'clock A.M. Sunday. My lips never fit that mouthpiece too well and it was a cheap nickel-plated horn so I was plenty sick the next morning, having a very bad cold, eyes running and nose even worse. I went to bed with "La Grippe"--what they call flu now. Three or more weeks getting from bad to worse. Dad said to Ma I am going to San Antonio to describe how I took sick, knowing Old Doc Schnell would soon have me 6 feet under. So we went to Dr. Ferdinand Harff, who was 75 or 80 years old. He said, "That boy has something in his breast." My right breast--which Dad described to him was swollen and puffed out. So he said, "I am too old but my son Adolph can take care of it." But he had six other operations to make the next day. So they called Dr. R.A. Goeth to the old doctor's house and in the morning he took the train to Comfort. Between the time the train went to from Comfort to Kerrville and back, they operated on me and took 6 quarts of stinking green puss out my right breast, which rotted out within 3 years and 6 operations. I was wearing tubes of all kinds, the doctor having taken 2 ribs 8 inches long to hold tubes 17 inches and 15 inches long to hold the wound open. The tubes were to flush the puss out 4 or 5 times daily, which took 3 years. The tubes [unclear] were cut little by little until they were 3 inches and 1 ½ inches long when I went hunting with Emil Allerkamp. He killed a big 8-horned buck. I got one with the points 1 inch long. They teased me so much that I never shot another deer since. While carrying the little buck to the house I rode through the pasture and I lost the tubes. The wound healed without any more tubes. Yes, I hope after all the suffering as a young man and not loafing too much after raising five children to be proud of and their offsprings to be with and around, I feel happy to live.

One day after I was home from the San Antonio Hospital after the third operation, wearing tubes in my side, Dad said we have to take some baled hay to the cattle if the river is low enough to cross. So he hitched the dun mule (14 hands high with a black mane and a big stripe across his back to tip of tail) to the express wagon with eight or ten bales of hay. Mother said, "Why does he (that was me) have to go?" Dad said, "To hold the bales from falling off. A little fresh air will do him good." He drove Kritty, a mare mule, into the river till just the tips of her ears stuck out. "Can't make it here. Have to go way up there where the river's much wider but not so deep." We crossed water and got safely to this side bank, which was 3 or 4 feet straight up. The mule tried two times but slipped back. On her third try, she broke the harness, dragging Dad into the river and up the bank. He had wet hands and the reigns slipped through hands. So the mule took off with the harness, rolling in the best mud hole she could find, leaving me holding down the bales. It took Dad two hours to catch Kitty. He tied her to a tree to watch Dad build a bridge to the front end of the express wagon. Then I, weak as hummingbird, rolled the bales over the bridge, still as dry as when they were loaded out of the barn. We loaded onto the express, hitched Kitty up with the harness tied up with baling wire and ropes and we were off for a new start. About twenty feet away was a water pool one or two feet deep. We had to cross; there was no other way around. For safety first, I stayed off the load of hay as I felt it in my bones poor Dad had a good baptize coming. And believe it or not, he shore got it. Dad went headfirst into the water and all the bales but 2 or 3 stayed on the express. But he held onto the ringers and Kitty was getting very impatient with me holding her while poor Dad was wading in two feet of water, fishing the bales out. We had to load the bales three times and still there was a rough stretch of road to travel where finally the cattle should eat them. But, nay, Dad said. It's too wet and muddy. So we backed the wagon down, Kitty jumped the bank, took us through river, and brought us home without broken bones after 6 or more hours. Poor Mother was worried the mule and all had drowned and washed away. So Dad says, "We just had a little swim. Everything's O.K. The hay got wet--but not in the river."

Some fifty years ago the Letzes bought a place from Fritz Spenrath. That tract of land where Jim Biershwael lives and all the land up to Otto Krauses and even more used to belong to the Letzes. They had 60 or more beehives and sold honey. I used to stay with my sister Mary Schell. She tended to my side when I had the tubes in and at that time George Bierschwale kept a stallion and a jack in Dan Schulle's barns and pens. I had to water and feed because Bierschwale lived at Block Creek. Well, Schullhaus had a nice hack and a good pair of horses and mules. So one day sister Mary told me, "I want you to meet a good-looking gal. So on the way home"--I had to take eggs and cream to town--"you stop at Letzes and buy some honey." Which I was glad to get for her. At the door, Aunt Mildred Letz met me, called me in, and introduced me to . . . she said, "Meet my sister Laura." She was sitting with her back turned towards me at a sewing machine sewing a girl's wedding dress. She would hardly turn her head to meet me. Aunt Milly took a long time getting the honey ready, with me sitting like a dummy. Bashful, neither one of us said one single word. Finally here comes the honey. I paid her. She carried the bucket to the yard gate. While walking to the gate I asked Aunt Milly, "Would you put in a good word, asking your sister if she would ride with me and Cousin Bertha (Doebler) to Otto Cowen's at Grapetown" where she stayed for her health (she had T.B.). All this arrangement was made by sister Mary. On way the way home, alone, it did not look as I was doing much good. I new she made several dates driving the best livery stable buggy on Sunday with MAX FLACH. Then Emil Schwethelm, who had best looking team, a rubber-tired buggy, etc. After two months at sister Mary's, I spent that much time in Waring with Sister Ida and she talked me into writing a few lines to the two-legged honey at Comfort. Which I did. A few days later, sister Mary and her kids brought her sister Ida. So two letters a week. And the ice was broken.

[This tale jumps ahead to a time after Charles and Laura Schleyer had married (which occurred Apr. 28, 1906) and had three daughters.] By request of Joyce, here's one for her mother because she thinks it may be she inherited that sleeping from her side. Well, here goes. When we used to milk 14 to 16 or more cows, the 3 girls Adelheid, Pete, and Helen [Charles and Laura's daughters] had to help milk. So one night I come home about 1 o'clock or later from a singing meeting and saw light coming up the road. I worried what could have happened but, as usual, Helen was making lessons for next school day. We had a radio with different kinds of batteries (A, B, and C) which had to be charged with our own light plant (not having line electric). As soon as I came into the yard I heard the light plant going "put-put." Coming into the kitchen, there was Limber Lumpun (?) behind the stove sound asleep, holding some school book in hand. Well, I thought, no use fussing at her. I had to have a little sleep, too, so I turned out the light since at 4 o'clock I had to milk cows in order to meet the truck here at the gate. At 6 or near that time, I called her, "Let's go." Pete and Adelheid had to bring in gallon cans and milk buckets while I fed the hogs, started the old Dodge, etc. Without waking Limber Lumpun, in sound sleep, I put her in the car. I had to feed the stud and the jack mules and mares, so they would be ready to hitch at sunrise. Pete and Adelheid had to put out feed for the cows. They put Helen under the easiest milking cow and told her to hurry, Sleepy. There were 8 more cows to milk, yes, but Pete and Adelheid had to milk their cows plus her share and even the one they had placed her sound asleep. Booga. Ha! She was mama's helper. J.G.'s baby boy many times was late to school because he likes to sleep yet as well as you and your dear mother. They say sleep is good for the complexion.

First Dodge 4-Wheel Touring [Car]. When we traded for this thing we gave three brown-tail outlaw mares with suckling male colts and several mules and three hundred bushels of oats. With one lesson from A. Schwethelm, from the wool house to our Gate at the mail box was all, I was put at the wheel. I took Schwethelm home and the deal was made.

Next day I drove to Fredrickburg to the Otiwa Striegler ranch and traded one 2-year-old jack colt for a big Hereford bull and two nice cows with nice big heifer calves. Next day or two later I took Adelheid almost to Waring where the outlaw mares were in Seidenstricker's pasture. I took a saddle in the car. With a bucket of oats I caught one mare and saddle broke her. After Adelheid helped get all of them on the road I drove them home. Most of them went on the car deal. So Adelheid had to take the wheel for the first time in her life. After killing the motor 3 or 4 times before it started rolling, I had to give her a good cussing. Finally off she went. After I got in with the horses she had parked the car under shade trees and was helping Ma washing clothes. Six or 8 years later, we bought a new Case tractor and thresher. Otto Holenkamp had the agency at that time. I was too busy cutting grain. We had a big crop that year so Adelheid had to go to town and help put the tractor together (put cleats or lugs on the wheels) and Case's agent had to teach her to operate the tractor. She drove the tractor with the thresher home and with that we threshed 5 or 6 hundred bushels of good oats. We that year threshed 5000 bushels of our own and sixty or seventy thousand bushels for other people. That year after, Case Co. gave a nice trophy for writing the best essay on "Why Case Threshers Are Best" and the big one [Adelheid] was lucky to win the trophy--for which I was more proud as she was. As I told her before, "You'll hear the worst cussing of your life." Which she did not get.

I hope to be on Liedertafel Float [this year] as I am the oldest member and belong over 50 years to that club. I have lost four old friends besides 5 or 6 leaders of that same club."