Daddy’s Heart

Harry Rowland’s Purple Heart is awarded 100 years after he was wounded in battle.

     
         Macon County native, the late Harry Pinkerton Rowland, was a decorated WWI veteran who was wounded in France. A patriotic man who loved his country, Harry was humble and never sought recognition for his service; he felt it was a duty and honor to serve his country.  


       Harry Rowland’s patriotism became a main part of his legacy that was passed to his living children.  His daughter, Shirley Rowland Palmer, recalled her father taking her to Pendergrass Store at Easter when she was eight years old. Mrs. Pendergrass took her upstairs and told her to pick out the dress she would like to have. Shirley picked out a blue top with little white stars and a skirt with red and white stripes. She thought it was her daddy’s gift for her birthday which was June 14^th which is also Flag Day.


       In those days, patriotism was high. It started in the school system with the children. The school day started with Bible verses, the Pledge of Allegiance, and patriotic songs. The students gathered around the flagpole and raised the flag for the day.


     During WWI and WWII, men were drafted into service. If a young man was seen walking down the street during wartime, often someone would ask him, “Why are you not over there fighting with the rest of the boys?” Sometimes the person had a medical waiver and couldn’t serve.


       Harry Rowland wasn’t drafted into service during WWI. He relished the opportunity to serve his country, so he volunteered. Harry joined the 61^st Infantry Division, nicknamed the Red Diamond Division and served in France. When his division entered an area between Argonne and the river Meuse, they encountered one of the most difficult tasks ever facing an American division. They endured eleven days of concentrated enemy artillery along with machine gun and rifle fire from three directions.


       On October 12^th, 1918 while his unit was being hammered by enemy fire, Harry Rowland was helping medics transport wounded soldiers. Severely wounded when he was hit by shrapnel in his left leg, another soldier began carrying him off the battlefield. The private started to lay him down after an enemy shell landed nearby. Sargent Harry Rowland pulled rank on the soldier and told him, “You better not lay me down!”


       After Harry spent two months rehabilitating from his injury at a New York hospital, he returned home to Franklin in October of 1919. As a disabled veteran, the government provided him vocational training in auto mechanics. He worked as a mechanic for many years, for the Civilian Conservation Corp at Camp Nathaniel Green located at Rainbow Springs, and he also worked for Alcoa (Aluminum Company of America) on the Fontana Dam project. Fontana Dam and the other projects spearheaded by Alcoa were critical to the manufacturing of aluminum and other products needed during the war.


        Although her father passed away when she was ten-years-old, Shirley Palmer has vivid memories of her father listening to war correspondent Walter Winchell during WWII. The family had a battery-powered radio. A copper wire, running through the window to a buried copper radiator, provided a ground. With the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the United States entering into WWII, Harry Rowland once again volunteered but was turned down because he had too many dependents.


       He was working at Fontana Dam as a mechanic, when he decided to pursue another job. He drove to Bryson City to leave his tools at the new job site. It was November 3^rd, 1942, the day of the midterm elections. Harry asked his good friend Lake Shope to hold the polls open because he would be returning to Franklin late. Returning from Bryson City via Highway 28, a logging truck crossed the center line and hit him head-on. Harry died the next day.


       Although it’s been seventy-seven years since her father’s death, Shirley’s memory of that day and the tremendous blow it was to the family, never faded. Shirley’s mother Nannie was left with six small children at home and a farm to work. Fiercely independent, she and the family farmed and survived with just Harry’s WWI disability pension, a small amount of Social Security benefits and much old-fashioned determination.


      After Harry’s death, he had no son old enough to enter WWII and carry on his legacy. His daughter Mary wanted to honor her father and joined the WAC (Women’s Army Corps), served honorably, and earned the Victory Medal and the good conduct medal.


     The years rolled by but Shirley Palmer’s childhood memories of her father, his warm embrace and his deep love for his country never faded. She recalled, “I could feel his love for me; in his eyes, I could do no wrong.”


       Many years later, Shirley noticed an article in The Atlanta Journal about a WWI veteran who applied for a Purple Heart at the age of eighty. During WWI when her father was wounded in battle, the Purple Heart program had been suspended and was unavailable for the 204,000 WWI veterans who were wounded in action. The program was reinstated during the 1920’s with a limited number of Purple Hearts created for those WWI veterans. Harry Rowland didn’t apply for his medal, partly because he didn’t seek recognition, and during the struggle of The Great Depression, a medal wasn’t a priority.


        In 2002, with old-fashioned pluck and pure determination,Shirley Palmer began a quest to have her father’s purple heart awarded posthumously. An avid genealogist, Shirley could find no record of Harry’s service in Macon County. She contacted Congressman Charles Taylor’s office, seeking their assistance; Shirley also contacted the U.S. Army Personnel Center in St. Louis Missouri. A fire in the 1970’s had destroyed a large number of military records, including her father’s.


     After a long search, Shirley located her dad’s service record through a genealogy search on the Internet. With the assistance of the Macon County Veterans’ Service Office, she again contacted the Department of the Army and finally received verification that Harry was truly entitled to the Purple Heart.

  
         In October of 2018, Shirley finally received her father’s Purple Heart, one-hundred years after Harry was wounded in battle. The award was an accomplishment on Shirley’s “bucket list” and has become one her most treasured possessions.


     When Shirley now holds her father Harry’s Purple heart, a ten-year-old girl and her father reach across the years and embrace. Time fades and the years disappear. The only thing present is a young girl and her father’s love for her.



Matthew Baker is the author of “My Mountain Heroes Stories of Inspiration and Courage from Macon County’s Greatest Generation” The book is available at Books Unlimited and The Macon County Historical Museum.

A Life of Service/George Moses Celebrates His 90th Birthday

                   A Life of Service                

            Sheriff George Moses Celebrates his 90^th Birthday

                

                                                                                                     Retired Macon County Sheriff George Moses 

and his wife Margaret have fond memories 

of Macon County; the home where they were 

born, attended school, and raised their family.  

Many of the people they cherish, have passed away, but it was



the citizens of Macon County that helped George Moses make



a huge career change in 1970. Looking back, George recalled,



“Macon County is a special place. I wanted to make a



 difference, and give back to the county that’s given so



much to me.”



        George Moses didn’t consider a law enforcement career



until he was forty-years old.  In 1969, he was working as a



mechanic at Beldin and his wife Margaret was a supervisor at



Van Raalte.  They had good jobs and a fifteen-year-old son and



were living quiet lives, but their situation changed drastically



when George committed to protecting and serving Macon



County.



         Several of George’s co-workers suggested that he run



for sheriff in the next election. He and Margaret began



discussing the possibility of his becoming the next sheriff



of Macon County and the sacrifices the job would require.  



After much thought and prayer, George told his wife, “I’m going



to do it!” “Margaret recalled, “I supported him because I knew



I had to do that. There was no way, with the demands of the



job, that he could serve without my support.”



       George Moses served two terms as sheriff, being elected



first in 1970 and later in 1982. The job was a family effort,



because Margaret often helped at the old jail with meal



preparations and their young son Wally shared his dad with so



many others requiring time from Sheriff Moses.

                                                                                     

       During the election of 1970, George defeated two-term



Republican sheriff, Bryce Rowland, in a close race. George



campaigned somewhat by radio but mostly by talking to people



about their hopes for Macon County.  He campaigned mostly



on combating illegal drugs such as hashish which had just



begun entering the county.



       George Moses took the oath of office for sheriff on



December 8^th, 1970. The sheriff’s office and the county that it



served were both in transition. Dixie Hall was prominent during



the Civil War and for many years, served as the justice center



in Macon County. Dixie Hall and the old jail would soon be



replaced when the current justice center was completed in



1972.



           George Moses’s chief deputy, who was living at the



old jail resigned. The Moses family, like Bryce and Alba



Rowland who preceded them, moved into the facility. “The



living arrangements at the jail were very uncomfortable, and



prisoners don’t make good house guests. We were thankful



that we were only there for six months,” George and Margaret



recalled.

                                                                                                                  

        The jail had living quarters and a kitchen. Margaret



 cooked for the prisoners and watched over the jail while



the deputies were on patrol. Often, the Franklin P.D. helped out



  while the county deputies were on an important call.



        Late one afternoon, Margaret heard a loud noise. One of



the prisoners were attempting to join the list of escapees that



the jail couldn’t hold over the years. Margaret remembered,



“The inmate had broken a sharp metal piece off the bedframe



and was digging through the wall toward daylight.”  If the



prisoner had successfully dug through the jail wall they would



have been free, because modern security, such as cameras or a



fenced prison “yard” were unheard of.



        In the 1970’s there were very few regulations at jail



facilities like there are today. The old jail had no air-



conditioning and had seven cells. The older jail held



more inmates than the new justice center did when  



it was built in 1972. At the older jail, each cell held as many



bunks as the space would allow, and multiple inmates used



each cell. The old jail’s capacity increased on the weekends,



when a few drunks came through the doors.



       The county that George served in the early 1970’s was very



different than Macon County is today.  There were a few



summer homes, but the Florida migration was much smaller.



Macon County consisted of families that had lived here for



several generations.  Family names such as the Henrys, Rays,



Fouts, Higdons, Brysons, and Rabys were very familiar and



longtime friends about whom George and Margaret cared



deeply.



       Macon County consisted of hard-working country folk



with good sense, and much of the time deputies could reason



with them.  George recalled, “Many of people the Sheriff’s



department dealt with, we knew well and often we made a



friend during a call to a home.” Of course, often the calls were



much more serious and didn’t have a happy ending.



       In law enforcement, spouses rarely get the deserved credit



for what they must endure and the support they give behind-



the-scenes. Margaret Moses remembered that, “When I was



was aware of a serious incident taking place, I often waited by



the phone at 2:00 A.M. or 5:00 A.M.” She would walk the floor,



waiting for Sheriff Moses to call her and let her know he was



okay. When the incident was completed she was relieved!

      

           In the early 70’s prior to the 911 addressing system,

                                                                                                                  

dispatch was handled in a private residence. A call would be



answered and the question was asked, “Who do you live



near?” The directions would often be something like “A short



piece above Tom Henry’s or Garmon Raby’s!” Radios often

                                                                                                                  

didn’t operate in remote parts of the county and there was



rarely backup, if it was needed.



       The predominant crimes in the early 1970’s were a rash of



larcenies at the homes of out-of-state summer residences. With



the limited resources of the Sheriff’s Department, officers



mostly concentrated on larceny and the new drug problem in

                                                                                                                  

the county. 



       The Sheriff’s Department had very few resources in



1970. Today, the budget for the Sheriff’s Department is six



million dollars, but in 1970 it was 250,000 dollars.  Most of the



special law enforcement units that we know of today, such as



SRO’s, Canine units and DARE officers didn’t exist in that era.

      

          The entire staff of the Sheriff’s Department consisted of



Sheriff George Moses, deputies Claude Curtis, Dewalt Hyde,



and Carl Zachery. The officers provided their own uniforms



and weapons. There was rarely backup on a call, and it was a



real challenge to patrol the remote communities of Macon



County. 



       The job of a rural sheriff was much different than that in



urban areas. In those days, the sheriff made $8000 a year, had



no secretary, and no computers. Police reports were kept in



manila folder. Most of the time, Sheriff Moses was just out



patrolling the county with the other three deputies who helped



keep Macon County safe.



        Considering the limited resources available to the



Sheriff’s department in the early 1970’s, George and his



three deputies did an amazing job protecting Macon County.



“We worked hard and just did the best we could with the



few resources that we had at the time,” George remembered.



       Those teenagers who remember Sheriff George Moses

                                                                                                                  

recall that when he’d speak to them on Main Street, he’d ask,



“Whose boy are you anyway?” He often knew their father



and the rest of the family too. A call to Dad normally



straightened out any rowdy behavior.



       The county police cars of the day were Fords and Dodges.

                                                                                                         

One young boy, who saw Sheriff George’s patrol car on Main



Street, looked up at him and said, “My big brother told me that



your car would burn rubber and scoot real fast!” “Not as fast as



that antenna right there,” George told him.



        The patrol cars had very little equipment other than

                                                                                                                  

a billy stick, a weapon, a radio, mace, and briefcase with



paperwork. Sheriff Moses didn’t carry a weapon most of the



time, but kept it under the seat of his car.



      In those days, radar guns and speeders were the domain of



the Highway Patrol. In the early 70’s the pin system became



available allowing law enforcement to call dispatch and check a



tag. “In the days before the pin system, if I stopped a vehicle, I



didn’t know if the car was stolen or if the driver was a suspect



because you couldn’t run the tag,” George remembered.

        

        Much of the information that the Sheriff’s Department



received came from a someone in the community, who had



seen or heard something. In 1973, a tip led to surveillance of



Middle Creek, an area located near the Georgia state line,



where an illegal liquor still was operating. The men who were



working the liquor still came riding by in their own trucks, near



where the deputies were standing. The ATF handled the



investigation and estimated that the still was a “whopping”



one-hundred gallons. It was one of the biggest ever “busted” in



Macon County. 



        The men were making rot-gut whiskey, distilled through



radiators and sold to victims in Atlanta or Greenville, who had



no knowledge of how it was produced. The bounty was later



poured into the storm drains on Main Street, and the



confiscated equipment was auctioned on the courthouse steps.

        

       One of the many characters that George and the Sheriff’s

                                                                                                                  

Department tolerated, were Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mast.



They arrived in Macon County from Texas in the early 1980’s,



driving two dark-colored Cadillacs. The couple camped in



Swain County at Deep Creek Campground but spent much time



around Franklin, posing as evangelists and seeking donations.



       The pair was impossible to miss because their Cadillacs



had colorful Bible scriptures painted all over them with sayings



like “God’s Chariot of Salvation” or “Car Approved by The



Almighty God!”

         

       The Cadillac’s would cruise into a service station on



Highlands Road or Georgia Road, and George recalled,



“The driver of the Cadillac often asked the station attendant,



“Do you want to give a tank of gas to God?”



       Later, a call came from law enforcement in Texas, seeking

                                                                                                         

information about the two characters. It turned out that their



two “Cadillacs by God” were stolen, and Mr. and Mrs. Mast



were extradited back to the Lonestar State. Charles Mast left



Macon County with one last blast of wisdom, saying “God



told him to steal two black Cadillacs!”



        Thinking of the court cases and the characters that



George Moses encountered in his law enforcement career



brought back memories of those he helped, and the ones that



he couldn’t help. George couldn’t give many people a break



because their crime was to serious.  Some of the youngsters he



was able to help, and those individuals have found success.



      Recently, George spoke to one of those adults in town



that had gone astray as a teenager but today has found



success. George recalled that, “it was rewarding to see a



success story, and someone that had turned their life around!”



      George Moses left the sheriff’s office in 1986 after being



defeated by Homer Holbrooks in the election. Many citizens



thanked Sheriff Moses for being treated with respect and



dignity. Superior Court Judge Friday had a long career, knowing



many Sheriffs in the local region. He commented that, “Sheriff



Moses was a good man who served Macon County well.” Judge



Friday told Margaret Moses that, “He had never met or worked



with a sheriff who worked harder, cared more, or was more



conscientious about his job than Sheriff George Moses.”



       Law enforcement is quite different today from what it was



in 1970, but in one profound way it hasn’t changed at all. Today



in 2019, it still requires men and women of strong character



who sacrifice their lives for a job that is often “thankless” but



very rewarding. Thankfully, a few good men and women still



care, work hard, and are willing to give their life for others, as



George Moses exemplified during his law enforcement career.



(Matthew Baker is the author of “My Mountain Heroes: Stories of Inspiration and Courage from Macon County’s Greatest Generation.” The book can be purchased at Book’s Unlimited or the Macon County Historical Museum. For more information about the book call 828-347-6164)



      

     





      



          



       







                           



                                        





             

                              The Stanfield Tunnel

By Matthew Baker

matthewbaker335@gmail.com

 

www.mymountainheroes.com

 

 

         The late Robert Preleau Stanfield was proud of his roots. 



He was born on January 13, 1922, to Harley and Esther Holland



Stanfield in the Cullasaja community of Macon County. Robert



lived in several different places, serving overseas during WWII,



and worked in the automobile industry in Michigan for many



years, but Macon County was his home. 

 

     
        One afternoon, Robert sat in his recliner and looked out of



his living room window upon the apple orchard and the fields



of Cullasaja. He worked hard there as a youngster, plowing



with a team of mules, or working in the family orchard.

 

         Robert spent much of his youth in the Stanfield apple

orchard.  Apple-growing is a Stanfield tradition which dates

to the late 1800’s.  Harley Stanfield’s father and grandfather

harvested apples on land that Robert managed until his death.

      
       When the first Stanfield harvested an apple, none of the

varieties that we are familiar with such as Striped Red

Delicious, Black Twig, Winter Queen, Red Delicious, or

Golden Delicious apple trees existed in the Stanfield

Orchard; it was simply called the Cullasaja apple and was

 

native to the region.  In 1956, there were only two


Cullasaja trees left in the orchard, and for many years

after they were gone, folks would ask, “Do you have

any of those great tasting Cullasaja apples left?”

       

       At one time, the apple orchard had about a thousand

trees, and stretched nearly from Peaceful Cove to Nickajack. 

During a healthy harvest, the orchard produced plenty of

apples, paid the bills, and kept the Stanfield family up

during lean times.

     
       Apples were a staple in the country kitchen during the

Great Depression. Apple butter, apple preserves, apple

dumplings, apple pies, and more treats were common

recipes of the time.  In those days, a bushel of apples

sold for one dollar.  There was very little cost in growing

apples because the trees had to be sprayed only a couple of

 
times a year.  Most of the pests that now frustrate apple

growers did not exist in those days. 

       

       When Robert was old enough, he drove apples to the

market in Atlanta to be sold and often rode to Bryson City

and Yellow Branch where his father had a store and sold

apples. Robert’s father had a Model T truck with tall side

railings that was loaded with apples, candy, and drinks. 

They would stay an entire week in Bryson City, selling and

 
trading.

      
        In 1929, when Robert was eight-years-old, his father

faced a huge problem.  The orchard was ready to produce

an early crop and a bountiful one.  The previous building

that he had used for storing and preserving the apples

had fallen apart, and he didn’t have the money to

build a new concrete one like he wanted.  Harley decided

to dig a tunnel, a naturally-refrigerated storage unit,

to preserve hundreds of bushels of apples.  In winter

and summer, the apples needed to be stored at a

consistent fifty-five degrees to be preserved.

        

      Harley Stanfield picked a location within shouting

distance of the apple orchard where there was very

little rock in the dirt. The soil consisted of vermiculite,

a mineral that’s soft and easy to dig through.  Harley’s

wife told him that it would take to the next growing

season to dig through that hill.  A neighbor, Andy Evans,

got word of the project and flatly told Harley, “It can’t be

done. You‘ll miss the middle by a mile!”

        
       Robert’s father had mining experience and knew a lot

about moving dirt. He had worked in a mine several years e

arlier in eastern Tennessee when a mining shaft caved in

on him and his coworker. Harley and his friend were trapped

for two days, and his friend died.  Harley lay in a hospital

in eastern Tennessee for weeks, near death.  He was crippled

for the rest of his life, but somehow, when it came to dirt

 

and digging ditches or tunnels, he came alive.

     

       Robert’s father called him and his brother, Buddy,

together, and they started digging one August morning at

dawn.  The only tools used in the digging were a pick,

shovel, and a wheelbarrow.  The tunnel was dug from


each end to limit the amount of dirt that had to be pushed. 

 

No instruments were used to keep the tunnel in alignment

and so the two ends would meet in the middle.

      

        Harley told his boys to go to the cornfield and collect

some corn stalks.  Two metal posts were placed at each

end of the tunnel project, and the cornstalks were laid

in a straight line between the posts.  Harley checked

frequently and made sure he was digging at the right


place. His only tools were a pick and a mattock.  The


tunnel was not a community project. “No one else

struck a lick,” Robert recalled. “Just Dad!” 

 
     Robert moved dirt with a little red wagon, and

Buddy had a bigger wagon that he could ride down

the hill when it was full.  Robert remembered that his

father dug from sunup to sundown, stopping only for lunch

and supper.  He would return in the evening with an oil lamp

 

and work after daylight was gone.

       

     Harley dug a one-hundred-thirty-foot tunnel with

a ceiling height ranging from seven to eight feet, in eleven

days. With the help of his sons, he moved nearly twelve

feet of dirt per day.  There were no supports or framing

put in the ceiling to keep it from caving in, and there

still aren’t any in the tunnel today.

      

     Robert was standing beside his father, loading dirt into

the wagon, when his father broke through the middle

of the tunnel with a blast of air rushing through.  The

work Harley and his boys completed without any

instruments was precise; the ends of the tunnel met

in the middle without an inch of error.  When Harley

had the tunnel in, he remembered the man who had said, “It can’t be

done!” Then Harley hollered at Andy Evans, “The tunnel is in and you got

to come see it!”

      

        A door was placed at each end of the tunnel.  They

were kept closed in the winter and kept open in the

summer to regulate the temperature.  Bill Bryson

built several wooden boxes that lined the walls of

the tunnel and held the apples.

      
       Shortly after the tunnel was finished, some mining

experts from out of the state came to look at the tunnel

and see for themselves the tunnel that Harley Stanfield

had built.  They scratched their heads and proclaimed,

“There is no way one man could have built it!”  Harley

 

never fully recovered from his mining accident, yet he

accomplished what no other able-bodied man was willing

or able to do.

      

        The tunnel was a naturally-refrigerated storage unit

that worked like a charm. Once Robert left some apples

there for two years, and remarkably the fruit was in

perfect shape, just like it was the day it was picked.

 

      At the age of ninety-two, Robert was still amazed at

what his father accomplished. “It’s especially amazing

to me, and I was there each day to see what was going on!”

     
        Eighty-six years later, the tunnel is a testament to

old-time craftsmanship and dogged determination,

characteristics that were required for survival in those

days.  The Stanfield tunnel still stands today, each swing

of the pick still visible on the tunnel walls.  One evening

as I was walking through it, I asked my guide, Gary

Stanfield, “Is it safe?”

      

       “Well, it’s been holding for eighty-six years through

many a storm. it will probably be here another eighty-six!”

Gary replied.

       

        Many things have become easier with progress,

but tending to an apple orchard is much more difficult. 

Today, only a few of the apple trees that Robert’s father

planted in 1921 still exist.  Growing apples, like any other

form of agriculture, is much more expensive today. 

Cutworms and Maggie-worms, two major threats to apple

 

crops, didn’t exist when the Stanfield orchard was planted. 

As a result of intensive spraying and crop losses due to

frost during the last several years, apples cost about

twenty-dollars a bushel, a little more than the


dollar-a-bushel they cost in 1921.

        
      Robert sat in his easy chair, smoking a cigarette and

gazing over the old orchard, the memories seemed to

roll by like the wind on a cool autumn day. “Could

anyone today accomplish what you, your father, and

your brother did?” I asked.

      
          The old man rolled his eyes and said, “I don’t believe so!”

      
          How could one crippled man and his two boys

accomplish such a feat as the Stanfield tunnel?  In those days,

folks were tough, and boys hauled dirt in red wagons.  Hard

work, determination, and guts, the traits that were common

then but rare today, got the job done.

                                                      ****

        (I was fortunate to know Gary Stanfield as a co-worker,
and I sat with Robert for several hours and listened to his
memories.  Gary passed away on August 10, 2013, and his
father, Robert, died a short time later on April 22, 2014. 
They are both gone but not forgotten.)

(Matthew Baker is the author of My Mountain Heroes;
Stories of Inspiration and Courage from Macon County’s
Greatest Generation.  He will be signing books at the Read
Local book fair which will be held at the Macon County
Library on September 8^th from 10:00 A.M. until 1:00P.M.)