It seems that he and Leet, on one of their trips of exploration in Tyler County went b’guess and b’gosh to Wilbur, W. VA., beautifully situated high in the hills, no way to get there but up.

Five roads leading in from as many directions and all of them up.

Once there, the magnificent view in every direction, makes the climb well worthwhile. It is a community that has produced people who have made a place for themselves in American life. Most of English descent.

My purpose in writing this is to correct two bits of information given Ralph by someone who did not have the correct answers.

After more than forty years it probably does not make much difference, but to a few ones still left who will be interested.

First, the old Wilbur Fairview Church is not Baptist, never was.

There are two churches at Wilbur, Wilbur Chapel at Cemetery and Fairview, both United Brethren, later united with Evangelical making the Evangelical United Brethern, and finally uniting with Methodist Episcopal, making them now United Methodist as everyone knows.

My grandfather Daniel Weekley, father of Bishop William M. Weekley, mentioned in the article, was instrumental in getting the first U.B. Church established in the community, and services were held in a log barn on his farm just back of where the Fairview Church now stands.

In those days sermons lasted an hour or longer, elements of Communion were passed from hand to hand, a common cup from which each sipped, a loaf of bread from which each took a bit.

It had been my understanding that Grandfather gave the ground, and helped in the construction of a new building, Fairview, still standing, and still being used.  My grandparents with their 10 children were active in the church as long as they were living in the community, he being S.S. Superintendent for twenty four years, and teacher of the beginners class. I should know, I was in it, and have a good reason to remember because he turned me over and administered a good spanking, right in meeting, because I would not stop crying when he told me to.

He was a wonderful man, and I adored him, but had to learn the hard way the Grandpa was, “no hand for foolishness.”

Why was I crying?  Who knows!

Another bit of incorrect information was that Bishop Weekley was born in the area of Camp Mistake, not true. He was born on the home farm, a short distance down a hill from Wilbur, where the farm lay in a lovely valley.

When living there as a small child, I well remember when Wilbur Grimm lived, had store, and probably post office.

He and my uncle, Rev. Martin Weekley, were bosom pals, and known to each other as, “Barney and Bill.”   Mr. Grimm was Bill, taught me to call him uncle, and as long as he lived was my beloved Uncle Bill.

A vivid memory of my nearly 84 years of life is of the roaring revivals that lasted sometimes three weeks.

In those days everyone attended.  They came out of the hills afoot, in wagons, buggies, riding horses, children in arms.  They came to worship and be revived.

At that period in time preachers got right down to the nitty-gritty of what it was all about – salvation, or else.  From one end to the other the altar was always crowded, usually with young adults, praying long and loud for forgiveness of sins, then when someone “received the light” everyone joined in the rejoicing.

Maybe, just maybe we could use some of that brand today.

I was too young to be in attendance at night, but remember one time I was allowed to go.

We were late, church was packed, and we sat in the front row.

When people started circulating and shouting, I panicked, got on the seat and getting a strangle hold on Dad’s neck screamed for him to get Mommy back.  She had gone “out among them.”

She had a cousin who was called Stutterin Bill, for the very reason that he did stutter, terribly.

During every revival poor Bill was pestered into going to the “mourners bench,” and being a very obliging soul he always went, winter after winter, but it did no good. When his knees got tired he got up, sat on the bench and whittled on a pewter ring carried in his pocket for that purpose.

He had one other consolation, the community “Character” who never failed to go by and slip a few walnut meats into his hand. She always had a pocketful for that purpose.

Before Bill passed on he did unite with the church.  Bishop Weekley said to him, “Bill, I hear you finally joined the church,” Said Bill, “Yes, they pestered me till I thought I’d just as well git in the d--- thing.”

In his last days this housekeeper, listening, heard him announcing himself to the Almighty, “It’s W.T. Weekley, Lord, it’s W.T. Weekley.” I’m sure St. Peter had the gate open for him.

So many memories came crowding in, but enough.

Frances W. Smith