Trafford Publishing: When the Days Were Not Long Enough

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When the Days Were Not Long Enough

by Frank LeBar

126 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0421; ISBN 1-55369-608-5; US$19.00, C$22.00, EUR15.50, £11.00

A memoir of boyhood in eastern Pennsylvania, along the Delaware River. With a keen eye for detail, Frank LeBar recalls the diverse activities of a traditional, turn-of-the-century life, including farming, fishing, trapping, lumbering, store-keeping, and accommodating the growing numbers of city-people on vacation.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

Frank LeBar recalls the richness of his boyhood, growing up in Shawnee, Pennsylvania (Shawnee-on-Delaware), at the turn of the century. Like many other families who were early settlers along the Delaware River, the LeBars combined farming with fishing, trapping, and lumbering in a traditional lifestyle sustained by hard work and the rich resources of the river itself. Frank's memoir encompasses a wide range of activities: his earliest memory of a barn-raising, the typical chores of a farm boy, and his experiences in the one-room Shawnee School. Although he is from a large family, Frank's particular companion is his older brother John, always ready for a practical joke or adventure. Together they delight in roaming the countryside, checking on traps, searching for Indian relics, or just "loafing." Together they also take a memorable raft ride down the Delaware to deliver lumber to the mills around Easton. In loving detail, Frank describes the village of Shawnee-on-Delaware and its inhabitants. His knowledge of people, land, and river is matched only by his abiding affection for his home.
The LeBars owned the Shawnee General Store, and so young Frank is also involved with commercial enterprises perhaps less typical of a Pennsylvania farm boy. Family efforts on the farm were on a large scale partly to supply the store, which served as a hub for community social and economic activities. Frank was in a unique position to observe both his neighbors and the increasing numbers of city people, from New York and other areas of the eastern seaboard, as they first began to explore this Pocono Mountain and Delaware Water Gap region on vacation excursions.
In 1903, a disastrous flood wipes out the family farm and the LeBar family fortunes change. Frank now strikes out on his own, and boyhood energy becomes a young man's ambition. As he tries his hand at numerous pursuits: teaching, banking, lumbering, feed and grain, and real estate--Frank paints a broad view of enterprise in the region, and his story has now expanded to include Stroudsburg as well as Shawnee. Frank's personal development reflects larger social changes. With the coming of the automobile, and the enterpreneurial activities of C.C. Worthington, the region is transformed into the center of tourism that it remains today.

About the Author

Frank LeBar (1884-1970) lived in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, for most of his adult life, working primarily in the real estate business. The editor of this memoir is his only son, Frank M. LeBar (1920- ), a retired anthropologist living in upstate New York and the author of several publications on Southeast Asia..

Sample Excerpts

One: Trapping (From Chapter Four)
During the winter my brother John and I trapped. We had about twenty-five traps, caught skunks, opossums, raccoons, muskrats and mink. I didn't mind helping with the traps, but I always prevailed on John to skin the skunks. This worked fine until he went away to school, after which I ran the trapping business alone. I don't know how I managed to skin those skunks and muskrats. I remember my father took pity on me and helped me; it was no job at all for him.
I was ten years old the fall I first started trapping alone. I decided to concentrate on muskrats and mink, and later on skunks, since the river had not yet frozen over. I put out a line of traps, as I remember about thirty, along both sides of the river for a distance of one-half to three-quarters of a mile. As I was rowing along the shore (on the Shawnee Island side) I noticed the muddy bank full of tracks. I thought they looked large for mink, muskrat or raccoon so I used a No. 1 spring trap, putting the tongue of the trap one-half inch under water and tying the chain to a large root. I fastened a piece of apple on a long stick so that the apple was about eighteen inches above the trap. I used this bait for many of my traps. As school opened at nine o’clock, I would get up well ahead of time, leave the house at seven, go down to the boat landing, get my boat and row up the Pennsylvania side first.
As I remember this particular morning, I had several muskrats, no mink. Then I crossed the river, near the head of Shawnee Island, and floated down to Muskrat Cove; called that because the water was still and deep, with large trees along the bank providing many roots, and an ideal place for muskrat and mink. As I glided into the cove I saw a large animal near the shore. As I drew nearer I discovered it was in my trap, and a raccoon. Well, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I knew I had the grandfather of all raccoons. And he was in a fighting mood. I grabbed the pike pole and proceeded to hit him over the head. When I thought he was dead I unfastened the trap, lifted him in the boat and if he weighed a pound he weighed twenty-five. I was so excited I forgot all my other traps and pulled for home.
Well, all at once Mr. Coon got up on his feet; I jumped on the seat, grabbed the pike pole and that coon was really mad. I started hitting him over the head and finally managed to kill him. When I got home I found my father shoveling sawdust out in the ice house, getting it ready for ice harvesting later on. Well, when he looked Mr. Coon over, I knew I must have a prize because he said he would make a special drying board and do the skinning himself. This was the first time he had offered to help with any of my catches. I took the skin over to a Mr. Stone who had a blacksmith shop at Marshall's Creek. He bought all kinds of skins, shipped them to New York and always paid a fair price. When Mr. Stone examined the skin he said it was the largest one he had ever bought and he was going to give me $1.25, a lot of money then. The prices we received for skins were as follows: muskrat, 15 to 20 cents; skunk, No. 1 black, $1.00; skunk, three-quarter stripe, 75 cents; skunk, one-half stripe, 50 cents; mink, $1.00 to $1.50; opossum, 25 cents; raccoon, 50 cents.
How did we know which holes had skunks, muskrat, mink, and so on? Well, muskrat holes are near the water's edge; they have a series of holes with outlets at different levels, arranged so they won't get caught when the river rises. The main holes always go up near the top of the bank. Mink holes are along a stream, but always near the surface, as a mink does not like wet holes. Also, we could tell by the tracks, especially a mink track. In the fall, around November first to December first, we would get a tracking snow, say one to two inches. This snow would lay on the ground over night, and early in the morning John and I would make a circle, going down along the river. We kept about three hundred feet apart, looking at every hole to see whether skunks had gone in or out. This way we could mark a hole for future trapping. We would go down to the end of our woods, near Ace’s Riverside House, then up by "Red Ann" Overfield's Gap View House at the top of Shawnee Hill, along the hillside (the former Cullen Yates property), then on until we were opposite the Mosier's Knob road, then up as far as the Snyder place. I would say we covered four or five miles. By then it would be school time and we would finish our trip at the school house.
Two: A Raft Ride (from Chapter Seven)
In the spring of 1896 my father told my brother and me he was going to give us a ride on a log raft from Bushkill to Easton. I was twelve and my brother John fourteen. He didn't tell us the exact day but one evening after finishing supper he said, "You boys go upstairs and get to bed. I will call you in the morning." It seemed to me we had only slept a short time when he opened the door, told us what clothes to put on, 'the warmest we had, ' and when we came down the men were already eating. We left the house at six o'clock in a three-seated wagon for Bushkill. I remember it was a clear day but chilly.
We had a large wooden shoe box from the store which they nailed to the logs in the center of the raft, then two or three blankets and a large box with a lunch that my mother had fixed for us. At seven o'clock the men untied the ropes, which were fastened to trees, rolled them up on the raft, and my Dad called "Ready to leave." It was a four-oar raft, two oars front and two rear. There was one man to each oar, the steersman (my father) standing at the rear of the raft, Pennsylvania side; this was the position all steersmen occupied. My father called "hold" (i.e., rest oars) and we started to float with the current. We were fortunate as we had a high river and this meant we would make wonderfully good time. We sighted two rafts quite a way up the river, floating down. We didn't see any ahead of us.
We were gone but a short time when I noticed my father getting very active. As our raft was about 120 feet long with a width of some twenty-five feet, he had a responsibility on his hands. We were entering the narrow channel below Bushkill with very swift water and some dangerous rocks in the channel. As a heavy log raft took at least a foot and one-half of water, it was necessary to avoid any rock that didn't have two feet of water pouring over it.
In order for the two front oarsmen to obey his orders, my father used his arms as well as his voice; for the Pennsylvania side he held out his right arm and for Jersey his left. To signal for "hold" he held his arms straight up.
The raft had gained speed and we were shooting along at a rapid pace, the rocks towering up on both sides and large boulders sticking out of the water, some with water pouring over them. I marvel now how they managed to get those huge rafts through such rifts without an accident, but in no time we were opposite Wallpack Bend and entering Sambo and Mary Rift. We shot through that and then they called to my brother and me to "watch for VanCamp's Nose." Sure enough, on the right side we passed a large rock sticking out of the water, the shape of a man's nose. Before we knew it we were passing Heller-Dimmick Ferry and as we neared Tock's Island we looked back up the river and counted seven rafts. We went through Walters’ Eddy and Trach's Eddy and in a short time were down to Walker's Ferry at Shawnee. As we entered to go down back of Muskrat Island I looked across and could see our house and barn. Many a day we youngsters stood up by "the post" as we called it, right near our home, where we had a wonderful view of the Delaware and could watch and count the rafts going down the river; right where our raft was at that time. I wish I could describe in words the feeling it gave me; one of the highlights of the trip.
We soon sighted the New York, Susquehanna and Western Railroad bridge and I noticed my father was getting very active again. The piers under the bridge were quite close together for a large raft; also the rift right below the bridge caused a current and there was a strong wind blowing. He had to take all these things into consideration. I noticed the oarsmen were watching him very closely. Well, we went sailing through under that bridge and then the rift, which I later learned was a dangerous one as the current tended to throw the raft to Jersey and the oarsmen had to work to keep the raft from hitting the rocks along the shore. We were really going and to this day I get a thrill thinking about it. Then through the Delaware Water Gap on a raft. My, those mountains seemed high to me. Well, there wasn't a dull moment.
We entered the rift just below the Gap and in no time sighted the old Portland covered bridge--again a narrow place to pilot a raft between the stone piers. A swift flowing rift just below Portland, and then in one-half hour we were nearing Foul Rift about one mile below Belvidere the most treacherous rift of any in the Delaware, with the greatest drop. More rafts "stove up" (i.e., broke up) in Foul Rift than any place on the river. Years ago the government spent considerable money to make the river navigable for boats and rafts, and as you pass through Foul Rift you can still see dynamite holes in the rocks along the shore.
As we sighted the rift my father told us to stay on top of the store box and keep our feet up on the box. Well, even though I was twelve years old, I noticed the men at the oars were watching my father very closely. He was looking straight ahead, giving orders with his hands and arms. The roar of the water was such that the men couldn't hear his voice. I can see that rift just as it looked that day. The river being very high, it seemed as though we just shot along. The roar of the water was indescribable. Half way through, where there is a sudden drop in the river, the front of the raft dove under, causing about eighteen inches of water to come over the logs. I knew then why my father nailed that store box to the logs and why he told us to keep our feet on top of the box.
We were through the rift in no time and all was peaceful and calm again. In about one-half hour we entered Saundt's Eddy; very deep water and no drop or fall in the river for a distance of five miles. For the first time the raft didn't make over three miles an hour. Half way through the eddy my father called "Pennsylvania," and the men pulled the raft to shore. They threw out the ropes, tied up the raft and he said, "Now you boys get out on shore, run around and get some exercise. The men have one hour rest and we will go up and get our dinner." It was a farmhouse and they served meals to the raftsmen. It was one o'clock, meaning that the men had stood at those oars for six hours and most of the time busy. In a short time more rafts were landing back of us and my father seemed to know all the steersmen. What a time they had visiting and telling about things that had happened on the trip. Some of the rafts had been two and three days on the way, coming from up in York State on the East and West branches of the Delaware. My brother and I got lots of attention as we were the only boys on any of the rafts.
We left at two o'clock and my father said we would reach Easton at five and get the six o'clock Pennsylvania train home. When we finally pulled out in the current again I don't know how many rafts were tied up for dinner and more coming. Some of them didn't stop so we now had rafts ahead of us and in the rear also. When we got to Easton we could see both Jersey and Pennsylvania shores were lined with rafts. We pulled in at the first opening, and by the time my father finished his arrangements for selling the raft it was train time. My uncle met us at the Delaware Water Gap station with the three-seated wagon but I never woke up until we reached home.

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