About the personalities and characteristics of the first three generations on American soil, we know practically nothing. There were no family historians to conveniently record for us any details of their lives; at least, not that we have thus far discovered. Perhaps a distant relative, unknown to us, possesses such treasure. These men, Conrad, John, and Samuel, were all farmers of modest means, rearing large families and undoubtedly had little time for anything beyond the routine of their agricultural chores. For the present, we must be content with what first-hand recollections we have been able to gather from older relatives, since deceased, involving the 4th and 5th generations.

Through the cooperation of then octogenarian and most congenial relative Harry Fasnacht in 1959, I had the good fortune of meeting with Joel Fasnacht (son of Joel, son of our direct forebear Samuel) at his home in Denver, Pa. a few months before his death. Keenly alert of mind, Joel remembered my great-grandfather John (his uncle) very well and recalled the following incidents concerning him.

John, it would appear, was anything but a conformist, wearing a straw hat all four seasons of the year. Having little patience with anyone he felt was prying into his affairs, when asked one winter day his reason for wearing the straw, he curtly replied, "To cover my head!" Perhaps such brusque treatment of inquiries was not, after all, unique; I have personally experienced this trait innumerable times among the Lancaster County "Dutch," and though disconcerting at first, one is eventually compelled to understand that no animosity is intended.

Beside farming, John hauled coal and building supplies from Ephrata to his neighbors in the Voganville area. In the course of this activity, he aroused the ire of the supply yard attendant by repeatedly playing tricks on him. Finally, after one of these incidents, the yardman informed John that the next time there would be no conversation beyond that necessary to conclude the transaction. On his next visit, John drew his wagon on the scales as was necessary before loading coal. When asked what kind of coal he desired, he replied, "Tobacco lath."

On another occasion, John asked a bartender whether a dollar would buy all the liquor he could drink. Since a dollar's worth of spirits in those days was more than any one man could down before meeting the floor face-to, the barkeep readily agreed to accept his dollar, and placed a bottle before him. John poured a "shot," drank it and turned to leave. Whereupon the bartender informed him that he was certainly entitled to more than one drink. "I'll be back tomorrow," John assured him. And so he was, continuing to return daily for subsequent installments of "all the liquor I can drink for a dollar." Joel did not know how long the bargain lasted, but we feel certain the bartender was extremely cautious of engaging in any propositions with John thereafter.

Joel also confirmed the record of a tragic incident involving his Uncle Jehu, brother of John. The following entry appears in Volume 24 of the Lancaster County Historical Society, page 124:

As my father remembered him, John stood about 5 feet, 7 inches in height, weighed about 140 pounds and had long white hair, curled at the ends. He smoked clay and corncob pipes. At his death in 1904, as was the general custom in the area, his body was placed in a box and iced down until shortly before the funeral. Contemporaries of that period have related how one, seated in an adjoining room, could hear the constant dripping of the melting ice as it fell into a pan beneath the corpse. On the day of the funeral, the undertaker arrived early and dressed the body for placement in the coffin and viewing. Just before the final ceremony, conducted by the Reverend Noss, coffee, buns, and cheese were served to the mourners.

One of my father's most vivid memories of his grandfather related to John's standing in the road outside his homestead one evening, excitedly waving down all horse-drawn traffic with the proclamation, "McKinley's been shot!" His role as newscaster followed upon the arrival of my father and grandfather, David, on a spring wagon to inform the elder Fassnacht of the incident. Just how they learned of the shooting, I failed to ask -- another of hundreds of minor omissions I have lived to rue.

John married Susanna Hehnly on August 7, 1845, subsequently siring ten children. Both John and Susanna are buried at the Voganville Union Meeting House, Voganville, Pa. where they were members of the Reformed faith. Following the custom of many Lutheran and Reformed women of the vicinity and time, Susanna wore a net cap similar to that of the plain sects today for both church and dress in general. She quite often smoked a clay pipe and occasionally enjoyed a cigar. Quaint though such behavior may seem now, lady pipe and cigar smokers were not uncommon, there being no lesser example than Mrs. Margaret Smith Taylor, wife of ex-president Zachary Taylor, whose preference for a corncob pipe is well documented.

On December 3, 1864, a son David, their ninth child (our 5th generation forebear), was born to John and Susanna (Hehnley) Fassnacht on their farm in Earl Township near New Holland, Pa. According to Klein's History of Lancaster County, he received a "common" education, and in his teens learned the trade of carpentry.

On the 14th day of June, 1885, he was married by the Reverend Darius W. Gerhard to Susan L. Snader of Earl Township at Seltenreich's Reformed Church, New Holland and for the next several years worked as a cigarmaker at his brother's small cigar factory nearby. At this time, cigarmakers earned 20 cents per hundred for cigars retailing at a penny each. Shortly thereafter, he began making cigar boxes in a shop set up beside his home near Voganville, where for the next 18 years, members of the family and neighbors were employed fabricating wooden boxes for the many cigar manufacturers of the region. Cigar making in those days, entirely a hand operation, was an important part of the local economy. Boxes were shipped as far as Pottsville to the north and Philadephia to the east, hauled to the railroad station on a spring wagon pulled by the family's 3-gaited horse, Charlie. Charlie, according to my father, was gentle and good riding, even though he was never saddled.

Operations at the box factory commenced at 5 A.M. each morning. Young sons Paul, Harvey, and Raymond began pulling nails and trimming excess material from the hinges they had glued to boxes the day before. The boys continued at this task for two hours before leaving for school at Hinkletown. After school, they would return and apply glue to strips of muslin which were positioned along one edge of each box and its lid, tacked down and left to set until the next morning. Here also, labels for the boxes were turned out on a small printing press.

Banking was done in Lancaster. Deposits were sent and payrolls received via stagecoach, county trolley lines having not yet been established. Stages carried the mail and also transported goods and merchandise for businesses, hotels, and individuals located enroute.

For a period, David served as a township school director. One can imagine his mortification when three of his children, Raymond, Anna, and John were sent home because they had not been vaccinated.

Life about Voganville had its lighter side as exemplified by the typical Saturday night's recreation of teenagers Harvey and Raymond. After a week of five twelve-to-fifteen-hour days plus eight hours on Saturdays, the boys would hike the 2½ miles to Hinkletown, the closest hamlet where, at Messner's Restaurant, they would indulge their 10-cent weekly allowances on such delicacies as baked beans or ice cream, varied on occasion with cold tongue, cold heart, pretzels, cheese, and cigars.

In 1906, David sold his box factory and moved the family to Reading, where he worked as a carpenter for his brother John, who had become a building contractor since selling his cigar factory.It was in this city that his last two children, Miriam and Catherine, were born. Five years later he was presented with the opportunity of purchasing the planing mill business at Ephrata from which his brother-in-law, John Stephen, wished to retire. He was not long in pondering a decision, and in 1911 moved to Ephrata to take over the mill then located on the west side in the middle of the 100 block of South State Street, present location of the Pioneer Fire Company.

Being of active temperament, he soon plunged into local civic affairs, serving as a borough councilman from 1919 to 1923. He contributed to many other groups, as well, and was a member of the consistory of Bethany Reformed Church. In 1923, business prospering, he began construction on a new, larger one-story mill on West Fulton Street. This building was erected over a run which passed through the boiler room. I have recollections of being scared half out of my wits as a boy by frogs or toads that frequented the darker recesses of that chamber.

Even though he employed, as business warranted, between twenty and thirty people including all of his sons at the mill , David could usually be found working in the shop, his six-foot frame clad in bib overalls and battered hat. He was especially skilled at glazing and spent many hours with glass, sash, and putty after everyone else had gone home. These were the days just before the mass-production and national distribution of standard-sized window frames and doorways came into being -- a decided blow to small producers of custom millwork.

The Sunday dinner table in the 1920s at the Fassnacht home, still standing at the southeast corner of State and Fulton Streets in Ephrata, Pa., typified the culinary achievement for which the Pennsylvania Germans have been noted. A representative spread consisted of roast chicken, in the days when chicken was a luxury, seasoned with and yellowed by saffron, boiled or mashed potatoes, at least one gravy, numerous cooked vegetables, the inevitable chow-chow and apple sass (as Grandpa would pronounce "sauce" for the amusement of the younger guests), all topped off with your choice of one of Grandma's tantalizing pies or cakes. And there were still more dishes to sate the appetites of the family and weekend guests, often totaling twelve or more people. Although memories are, as a rule, in graphic form, those of "down home" are featured in aromas; the smokey essence of hams hanging in the basement, the sweet smell of apples being peeled by Grandma as an evening treat for the small fry, and the unforgettable fragrance of saffron, used so liberally by Lancaster County queens of the kitchen.

All of the 5th and 6th generations, which once made that house an abode of vibrant domesticity, are now deceased but will ever live in the memories of those of us who once were so fortunate as to have played a minor part in the scene.

Grandpa, according to recollections of his late daughters Mabel and Catherine, did not approve of the latest fashion in hair styles of the mid 1920s, popularly known as "bobbing," or the cutting short of female tresses. When daughter Miriam came home one day with her hair cut short, she was sternly scolded. Shortly thereafter, Catherine began wearing a boudoir cap in his presence for a week or so. He probably suspected the worst because when she finally removed the cap, revealing her short cut, he simply looked at her but said nothing. He was never one to waste words; he didn't need to. His eyes said it all.