First, get yourself a mountain. David Ferguson Bean, was born November 19, 1842 among the steep, long hills of Hardy County, West Virginia. His parents, Margaret Anderson and George Bean (1), had settled there in the town of Fabius, and David was the first of nine children to actually make it to adulthood.
Just in time to try and get himself killed in America's Civil War.
The Beans of Hardy County were Virginians before 1862 and West Virginians after 1862. Whether they owned slaves is still unknown (2), but it's certain the family didn't take to President Lincoln and the Union.
David "jined up" with the Confederate Army, becoming a cavalryrman in McNeill's Rangers in 1861. McNeill's Rangers, like Col. John Singleton Mosby's Rangers, were formed to conduct raids on Union supply trains and outposts. John Hanson ("Hanse") McNeill was well-known and well-respected in Hardy County. David's obituary tells us, "He was with the famous McNeill Rangers, whose swift dashes created terror along the Mason and Dixon line" (3).
Hanse formed McNeill's Rangers in 1862, and the troop eventually numbered around 200.
In 1863, David's father moved the rest of the family into a ca. 1820 Federal brick house on the top of a tall hill (4). The house, of Flemish Bond brick, was modest but the rooms commodious, and there was a large clapboard addition that held a kitchen with a wide stone fireplace. Stand in that backyard, and you can see five counties and every mountain for miles around. David the "new" place whenever he had the chance. And that high hill, once used to watch for approaching Indians, became an excellent place to watch for approaching Union troops.
But then we come to David's most famous wartime adventure, taken from the Hardy County Family History. David was a man of small stature, "an advantage many times in making his numerous escapes." He came home to the mountain on leave once, and word slipped out to the federal troops nearby. They surrounded the house on the sly, trapping 21-year old David inside. As they came into the house, David kept his cool. He "sat down in front of the fireplace, pulled an old cap down over his head, [and] picked up a little [india] rubber ball." He started bouncing it and just "kept bouncing it around while the soldiers searched for someone that 'looked' like an enemy soldier" (5). And that's how David remained free to fight another day.
In the spring of 1864, an argument had erupted in Richmond over whether to allow these ranger troops, "Partisan Soldiers," to continue. A number of questionable acts had been committed (think Jesse James), and the Confederacy wanted to clean things up. But even legitimate raiders did unpleasant things to try to win an un-winnable war.
David's son, L.L., once told his own son he'd traced his lineage back to a horse thief and decided he didn't want to know more. Could be he was speaking of his father. Well, the Confederates might have had to steal a horse now and then, but, as Col. John Singleton Mosby once put it, "all the horses I had stolen had riders, and the riders had sabers, carbines and pistols."(6)
Between November '63 and April '64, David Bean switched his enlistment to the 18th Virginia Cavalry: could be he didn't like McNeill's actions or worried his troop would be dissolved (turns out, they weren't - in fact, by 1865 McNeill's and Mosby's Rangers were they only "irregular" troops still recognized by the Confederacy). On the other hand, it might be David just wanted to be with family: there were thirteen Beans in the 18th, and only one other Bean in McNeill's.
In any case, he switched. By September 30, '64, he's listed as absent, but his obituary says he served four years in the Confederate Army and the Confederate Service Cross on his grave says 1861-1865," so perhaps he went home to help with the harvest, as was the habit of many a farmer/soldier.
In April 1865, the war finally ended and David went back to his father's farm to work.. He was still there in 1870, when the census listed George, 64, as "farmer," his wife, Margaret, 46, as "Keep house," 27 year-old David as "Farm Labor" along with younger brother, Malon, 20. Also at home on the mountain were Emily,16, Ann,15, and Simon, 11 (talk about your mountain man: after Simon grew up and took over the George Bean property, that mountain came to be named after him).
Now, in the same area lived an 18-year old named Jemima Susan Heltzel who came from an interesting family. Her grandfather, John Charles Heltzel (1792-1866), emigrated from Germany to settle with his wife (Magdalene Grandstoff) in Trout Run Valley, Virginia - which eventually became Hardy County, West Virginia. "He made his living by tinning and firing iron ore furnaces" (7). John Charles also "forged" a nice little family of 12 - five girls and seven boys, one of which was John C. Heltzel, Jr., Jemima's father.
Little John, Jr. grew to a whopping six foot, six inches tall, earning the nickname "King Heltzel." He married Leah Myers and had five children, the oldest of which was Jemima. Jemima was 3 years old and David 19 when the Civil War began (8). Quite a stretch for a couple, until you note how many May-December marriages are listed in the census back then. David's own parents had a 15 or 16-year age difference.
The Heltzels were Lutheran, and David Ferguson Bean had "united with the Lutheran faith in early manhood" (9), so the families probably attended the same services. Later in life Jemima was credited with founding a Lutheran Church there (Missouri Synod), and David's obituary says "He was a consistent member of the Evangelical Lutheran Church."
In 1873 he married Jemima, and "they lived at the old brick house near Beans Settlement once called 'Coburn's Knob' "(10). By 1874, David and Jemima had a daughter, Cora Dell. Then came Leona Frances in 1876, Lorenzo Lee in 1880, Seymour (1883), Calvin (1884), and Minnie (1900). Seymour and Calvin didn't make it past toddler-hood, so L.L. became their only son.
It's been said when L.L. was born, David looked around their log cabin for inspiration and found a history of The Medici Family, thus the name "Lorenzo Lee." But Lorenzo was an extremely popular name in Hardy County. A lot of Lorenzos are listed in the roster of McNeill's Rangers and the 18th Virginia. Could be David named his son after a fellow-veteran of "the late war." Could be "Lee" was added in honor of his favorite General.
In any case, Lorenzo Lee was a beautiful little boy with blonde hair and clear, blue eyes. Lots of German there.
Like his father, L.L. was raised to be a farmer. I once asked his great-grand daughter, Elizabeth Bean Savels, what David raised on the farm, "Chickens?"
"Apples!" she replied.
"Oh, he had an orchard. He sold apples?"
"Lord, no, child," she laughed. "Granddaddy sold Apple Jack!"
Farming life was hard (the hills are so steep there, the old joke applies: cows' legs grow longer on one side, so they can stand erect), and running a still wouldn't be an unusual choice - especially if you wanted to improve your prospects. But this could be another clue to L.L.'s "horse thief" remark.
At an appropriate young age, L.L. began to attend school. The one-room, clapboard schoolhouse was all the way at the bottom of the mountain. L.L. had quite a walk, and it was hard on young L.L.'s constitution. Over time, he became weaker than the other boys at school, and, as a matter of course, started getting beat up on a regular basis.
At around age 12, Jemima Heltzel Bean decided if she kept sending L.L. down the mountain, the day might come he didn't make it back up. So she decided to keep him home to work on the farm for a year. She picked the right age to try to grow a Bean, because he had a "King Heltzel" sprout that year - all the way up to six feet tall. He now towered over his father.
To give you some idea of the kind of work he might have done that year, Elizabeth Heltzel Walters (a descendent of King Heltzel), recorded her years growing up on the farm in the 1920s: "By today's standards, people would think we were deprived when I was growing up. We lived on the farm in the same area as "King Heltzel" once lived. We had water in the house, we were one of the few that had a car, but best of all we had an ice house. We had a large building with sawdust between the walls for insulation. My father and Uncle Willie would go to the river and saw ice, about 18-20 inches thick, and haul it back, cover it with layers of sawdust, and as we needed it in the summer we would keep ice water in the house. Drippings came down in a milk trough and kept milk, cream and butter cold. But best of all we had a big freezer full of ice cream every weekend."
Yep. Hauling ice and a few other like chores would do it: L.L. grew strong as an ox.
And when his mother let him go back to school that fall, he systematically beat up every-son-of-a-farmer who'd ever touched him.
Perhaps it was then the boy realized he wasn't going to stick around Hardy County. After all, the same boys he'd been fighting would have been fellow-farmers - the ones who were supposed to come over and rebuild your barn after a disaster. Not likely. Add this to the fact that his father sold Apple Jack and his mother was a straight up Lutheran who founded one of the churches in the valley, and you can understand why L.L. might have decided to leave the hills. Less confusion all around.
But L.L. did have some friends at school. This we know because great-grand daughter, Virginia Bean Hylton, said the lack of masculine conversation at home caused L.L. to develop an interesting habit: he took his lunch to school but ate it only on the way back up the mountain at the end of the school day. That way he could spend the entire lunch break talking to his friends.
And he had some unusual friends. At some point, Hardy County saw railroad tracks laid through the mountains above Moorefield, West Virginia. One of L.L.'s buddies was a man of few words, but his pronouncements -when they finally rose to the surface - were thoughtful and profound.
So when the railroad tracks were done, and the train was about to make its first run, L.L. walked his friend up the mountain and stood with him near a train tunnel - just waiting to hear his first opinion. The train came roaring through the tunnel and whipped past them. His friend remained silent. L.L. finally had to prod him, "So, what'd you think?"
His friend began to shake his head slowly. "That thing shore' would 'a made a mess if it'd come through sideways."
At some point, L.L. decided on his means of escape from Hardy County: a Moorefield, WV Business School. But first he'd have to raise the money.
Stereoscopes were all the rage at the turn of the century. These were hand-held picture viewers that interpreted side-by-side photos in three dimensions when you looked through the binocular-like device. In his free time, L.L. walked up and down the steep hills of Hardy County selling stereoscopes, but the fund-raising was hard going.
One day, he came upon a farmer who'd broken his leg. The farmer looked L.L. over and said, "I don't need one of those, son; what I need is someone to bring in my hay."
"Sorry I can't help you, sir. I'm just looking to make the money to attend business school."
"How much you need?" When L.L answered, the farmer said, "I'll give you that if you'll bring in my hay."
So L.L. stopped selling stereoscopes, brought in the man's hay and headed off to a business school (eventually he also gained a degree from Eastern College in Front Royal, Virginia). In the West Virginia school, he learned bookkeeping and used it to pay his way until his graduation. At that time, he was the youngest student ever to graduate.
Then his career took an odd turn: he became the Principal of a large school.
Among the staff was a young lady who was in her second year of teaching the second grade. She was Adelaide Dortch, five years L.L.'s junior. Adelaide Wingfield Dortch was a proper young lady who'd been born at "Oak shades" (the family home place), in Meredithville, Brunswick County, Virginia. The town was named after Adelaide's relations. She was raised in Lawrenceville, Virginia and graduated from Blackstone Women's Seminary in Blackstone, Virginia.
In those days, a starting teacher taught younger classes, and was promoted up the grades on merit. L.L. soon fell in love with her and asked her to marry him. But a teacher had to quit teaching in order to marry in those days, and that Adelaide would not do. She loved her job. So she said no. Several times.
At the end of the school year, Adelaide came to L.L. with the list of students to graduate to third grade. He looked over the names and found one of interest: a boy who was an absolute terror. Adelaide had taught the little hellion two years in a row, and now, although she knew she shouldn't, she was ready to send him up the ladder.
L.L. smiled and placed the list before him on the desk.
"I see you've decided to graduate Tommy to the third grade."
"Yes, Mr. Bean" she said in her sweet southern drawl (in Meredithville, "yes" is a two-syllable word).
"Well, Miss Dortch, you've done an excellent job with our second grade."
"Thank you."
"And that is why I'm pleased to tell you that I plan to recommend your promotion to the Third Grade teaching slot at the very next school board meeting."
There was a long pause.
"Mr. Bean, I accept your proposal of marriage."
They married in Washington, D.C. July 9, 1908 - he was 28, she was 20. L.L. wanted to start things off on the right foot, so they honeymooned at the newly-re furbished, high-styled Willard Hotel. With their prospects so bright, L.L. might have expected to provide a similarly fine lifestyle for Adelaide the rest of their days.
They headed back to Moorefield, where L.L. took a job as Bank Bookkeeper (11), but he soon moved with Adelaide all the way to Fort Meade, Florida to begin work as a Bank Cashier. There they began a family. Elizabeth Harrison ("Libba") was born in 1911 - the same year L.L.'s mother passed away, "a kind and affectionate wife, a fond mother and a friend to all." In 1914, Helen Virginia ("Virginia") was born and in 1916, a son: Lorenzo Lee Bean.
L.L., Jr. (or Lee as he came to be known) was a Bean with the dark eyes and dark complexion of the Welsh. And with a name like Lorenzo, he was sometimes taken for an Italian child.
Lorenzo Lee's first memory came at the end of World War I. L.L. had served in the home guard, and when the boys came home from "Over There," the town came out to greet them. Lee's first memory was of standing on the butt of his father's rifle to see the World War I veterans marching through Fort Meade - a sight that left a deep impression on the toddler. The Beans' house is still there, a one-story white clapboard cottage with a long porch on one side - typical of all others in the neighborhood. Set around the property is a very short, white brick wall (about 8" tall) - an odd little thing the children loved. It was perfect for a rest. Around the short wall L.L. planted nasturtium - his wife's favorite flower. They became Lee's favorite flower, as well. And in the back yard stands a huge tree dripping with the indigenous Spanish Moss, the bane of mothers who like to keep tidy children.
One day the three little Bean sprouts were invited to attend a birthday party. Adelaide dressed each child in crisp, clean white: Lee wore linen shorts and shirt, and his sisters had lovely dresses of fine lawn and cotton.
As Lee walked down the sidewalk, he decided to pass through a slick of Spanish Moss. He didn't make it and went down on his backside, covering his fine outfit with green slime. He sat there in the slick moss and began to cry, while his sister Virginia laughed and laughed. Then Libba walked up. She'd missed the show, so Virginia decided to demonstrate Lee's pratfall - and wound up on her backside beside him. They cried in stereo.
Such is the sad tale of the white birthday outfits.
Adelaide loved her family well, but she was an over-protective mother - with penchant for tidiness. This put a strain on little Lee, and around age eight, he developed colitis. A doctor and family friend recommended he be sent to a quiet, farm environment during the summer. Probably made excellent sense to L.L., as he'd done well by having to stay on the farm as a young man. Lee spent two summers there, and, sure enough, these "visits" cleared him of his troubles; he loved farms ever since.
L.L. took Lee hunting, now and then. L.L. had always instructed in the finer points of good sportsmanship. For instance, Lee was never, ever to aim at anything on the ground for fear of hitting a human.
One day the two were out dove hunting. They'd walked away from each other for a bit when Lee heard a welcome sound. He came up behind a palmetto bush and looked over to see a dove cooing from a clearing. He thought for a moment about his father's words... then something caught on his eye on the other side of the clearing. There stood his father, L.L., behind another bush, his gun pointed down at the dove. Lee had just enough time to hit the deck before L.L. got off a shot. Then Lee stood, unharmed, and stared at his wide-eyed father.
They walked home in utter silence, the weight of a new understanding carried heavily between them.
Lee was not L.L.'s only hunting partner - he used to go out with his friends on long weekend hunting forays. They would set up camp and one of them cooked for all. The rule was this: whoever complained about the food had to cook. One night, a fellow decided to try to get L.L.'s goat by pouring salt into his coffee when he wasn't looking. L.L. took a big gulp and spewed the contents all over the campfire as he bellowed, "SOMEbody put SALT in my coffee!"
Everyone held their breath as the cook looked up in anticipation. L.L. quickly added,"But it sure is good, though!"
L.L. was a man of pride. To a fault, you might say. He never said I'm sorry. An example of his unnerving obstinacy can be found in the family's regular Sunday Drive. Back then, folks would pile into their Model T Ford's and just drive about the bumpy roads and enjoy the shaky view; at some point they'd stop and have a picnic, and then they'd pile in the car and trundle back home.
He always got lost.
Adelaide would inevitably point this out, and then she'd always hear the same answer: "Adelaide, we are not lost! I know exactly where we are: we are in the great state of Virginia!" and the discussion thereby ended.
In 1920, the Beans received notice that L.L.'s father, David, had passed away. His obituary described David Ferguson Bean as 77 years of age, "a man of unassuming manner and friendly to everybody, and very close to his friends of whom there were many. He was a man of great tenderness of heart and was generous to the poor. He held the respect of all who knew him and his acquaintance was large." His services were given at Asbury Lutheran, likely the very church Jemima founded. He was interred alongside his wife in the family plot behind the George Bean house.
It's said L.L. only returned to West Virginia a couple times in his lifetime, and one of them was his father's funeral. Maybe L.L.'s parents had always wanted him to stay in West Virginia and they'd had a falling out when he left. Perhaps L.L. was embarrassed that his father sold Apple Jack (a friend to all, indeed...). What's certain is that L.L. was tight-lipped on the subject and chose only to relate the more pleasant stories of his youth to his children.
In 1924, he moved the family to Lakeland, Florida and got into Real Estate and Insurance.
Then came the Great Depression.
Sales and banking died, as did the remains of L.L.'s business hopes. Like so many of his day, he headed home for comfort - but not to his home. Adelaide's relations lived in South Hill, Virginia. That's where they headed in 1932. L.L. took a job as a Bookkeeper at the South Hill Grocery Company.
Lee, a teenager, liked South Hill, and South Hill liked him. A natural athlete, he spent every waking minute playing baseball or football.
The Bean/Heltzel growth spurt had kicked in and Lee had risen to a thin, wiry 6'1". He developed a crush on a pretty young girl named Ruth Montgomery. Ruth was the sister of his best friend, C.V., and she had the look of a 1930s Beauty Queen: round, pert face, short, wavy hair and big beautiful eyes. She invited Lee to her birthday party, and he was pleased to accept the invitation - but he had a friend coming up from Florida that weekend. "Could my friend come as well?"
"Oh, yes."
Then Lee had a devilish thought. "That's swell, but there's just one thing you need to know about Fred. He's a bit deaf. So, if you could speak up when you meet him, I'd be grateful. Then he wouldn't have to be embarrassed about it."
"Oh, all right! I'll remember that."
Lee greeted his friend at the train station and told him about the party. When they came to Ruth's porch, Lee paused. "Now, Fred, Ruth's a fine girl, but there's just one thing you ought to know..." and on he went.
Lee knocked, and when pretty Ruth came to the door, he exclaimed very loudly, "RUTH? This is FRED McDONALD, FRED? This is RUTH MONTGOMERY!" and then he backed away from both of them.
Ruth and Fred began to yell salutations back and forth, until Ruth became so flustered, she yelled, "Well, there's NO NEED TO YELL AT ME! I'M NOT DEAF!"
Fred shouted back, "We'll, I'M NOT DEAF EITHER!"
At this point both turned to look at Lee, who was about to fall off the porch laughing.
Ruth didn't speak to Lee for days.
Lee entered Hampden Sydney College in 1933, and it was a perfect fit for him. He joined the Hampden Sydney Tigers football team, led by a quarterback named Homer Hatten from West Virginia. Lee and Homer, whose nickname was "Moose," became fast friends - the sort of friends you see at reunions and exchange Christmas cards with the rest of your life. Lee also joined Chi Phi Fraternity and made another set of lifelong friends. And, in his spare time, he honed his Prankster Skills among equally clever devotees of the art.
Fall at Hampden Sydney began with a ritual: when the apples were ripe, the bravest boys ran to a nearby apple orchard, climbed the trees and ate their fill... all night long.
The trip was a hoot for the boys but an annual disaster for the apple orchard owner - who happened to be a professor at the college. And that year was the year he decided he was going to fix things.
When the apples were just about ready, he went to his orchard and laid in wait for the thieves, his trusty shotgun and a pile of little paper pellets by his side.
If you load a shotgun by replacing the lead in the shotgun shells with balled up paper pellets, you will get a satisfying kaboom and a flash of something akin to a fireball. Terrifying to behold.
Each night he loaded up the weapon and waited.
The third night, they came... Lee Bean among the hopeful apple wranglers. They whispered as they walked, watching for the Professor. They crawled over his fence. He waited. They carefully chose their trees and climbed. He waited. A sentry was posted at the gate, turning his head side to side to watch the night. The rest began to ate fruit, and soon began to chat with one another tree to tree. They started laughing and singing and throwing apples at one another.
Still he waited.
Waited until he was sure they were perfectly, perfectly relaxed. Waited for the sentry to turn his head away from him one more time.
And then he rose up from his hiding place and watched the sentry turn back and catch a glimpse as he yelled out, "I GOTCH'OU NOW!" Ka-bloom went the shotgun. And as he reloaded, he listened.
They yelled in fright and fell from the branches in terror.
"YOU AIN'T GONNA' GET OUT'A HERE ALIVE, I TELL YA'" Ka-bloom.
The boys screamed as they ran, holding their busted arms, stumbling over the fences as they made their escape.
One more "ka-bloom" toward their frantic retreat, and the work was done.
Downed branches lay all over the orchard.
His apple crop was destroyed.
Yet he was a happy man.
There was only one thing left to be done.
The next morning, he walked the paths of Hampden Sydney, and every time he met a young man with a black eye, a head bandage, a limp, or an arm in a sling, he took off his hat and greeted him with, "Good morning, Mister Black. How d'you do, Mr. Evans. Fine morning, Mr. Bean" - and extended the same kindness to the bandaged students who sheepishly appeared in his classroom.
From then on, the professor's apple crop was left unmolested.
But, like the true grandson of a McNeill's Ranger, Lee Bean was not going to give up on raiding over a few shotgun blasts.
One night, Lee and his best friend and room-mate Bobby Richardson decided they wanted some ice cream. They knew just where to get it. The Dean of the School was holding a Faculty Ice Cream Social. The freezer was in a second story room of the Dean's home, and the kitchen had an open window - right next to a sturdy drain pipe. That ice cream was practically begging to be snatched
The boys took off their shoes, rolled up their pants and shimmied up the pipe, crawled inside and crept toward the freezer. The goal almost reached, they could almost taste the creamy home-churned confection - when the Dean's wife stepped into the kitchen.
"Oh!" she cried, but quickly recovered. With her best Virginia manner, she drawled, "Mr. Bean! Mr. Richardson! What a pleasure to have you drop in. You simply must come greet everyone."
"Oh, no, ma'am, we couldn't."
"Ou-our feet! No shoes!'
"Oh, that doesn't matter at'all. Ahh know they'll just love to see you!"
There couldn't have been a more perfect punishment. Shoeless, pant legs rolled, their intent obvious to all, the boys had to walk in to that party and be formally introduced to each of their teachers and all the important persons present, in turn. Next, she had them sit upon her delicate antique chairs and eat ice cream from her fanciest dishes. With a final flourish of hospitality, the Dean's wife sent them off through the front door.
Obviously Lee Bean needed his ethics readjusted. For that, there was compulsory Religion Class.
Religion was taught by one Professor McGee, known among the students as "Ole' Snapper" (due to his striking likeness to the sound, look, and sudden fury of that venerable form of turtle). Snapper's classroom was in an upper story, turret-like room (no doubt chosen for its proximity to heaven), with a winding staircase much like an old castle keep. As you'd expect, Snapper was a punctilious man who never missed a class - unless it snowed. A rarity in southern Virginia, any amount of snow stilled all campus activity. You only had to go if your Professor made it to class, and Snapper was too old to manage snow.
One winter morning the students awoke and rejoiced to see to see Mother Nature had blessed the campus with a thick, white blanket of frozen freedom. So certain they had the morning off, they lounged about the dormitory in their pajamas... until a young man glanced out the window at about two minutes to 8 a.m..
"SNAPPER!?!"
His comrades rushed the windows.
Yes. Ole' Snapper was headed for the turret. It was a miracle. He was walking on top of that deep snow as though he was walking on water. As he got closer to the dormitory, the miracle took shape: two humongous snowshoes - Canadian tennis rackets - strapped to Snapper's sure and steady feet. Ole' Snapper was smiling as he walked.
The boys were late, but they came.
Snapper looked about, grinning foolishly ; he knew he'd caught them all. They stood at their desks, waiting to be seated still wearing their winter coats (mere pajamas don't provide much protection in a drafty, cold turret in the dead of winter). Snapper smiled all the more at their unusual attire, and then he bade them sit and begin.
Come spring, Snapper's boys planned their revenge. Most of the young men had grown up on farms, so they knew something about cows: like the odd fact that a cow will go up a stairwell, but she won't come back down. Young Mr. Eggleston - who didn't confess his crime to officials of the school until his 40th college reunion - was the one to lead a cow up the turret stairs.
The cow had never trod such boards, she'd never seen a turret, and she was very unhappy.
In fact, she made known her deep unhappiness all over the classroom.
As the boys stood at their desks before class, they were a little unhappy themselves. This particular stunt had, uh... backfired, so to speak.
But they began to enjoy themselves again as they heard Snapper's plodding step upon the stair.
Snapper entered the room, observed the cow mooing forlornly in the corner, and walked up to his desk without a word.
The students' faces fell.
Snapper's desk stood on a raised platform, and no one thought to walk the cow up on to Snapper's platform. The Professor's portion of the room was smelly - but otherwise pristine.
Sadly, this could not be said of several of the boy's seats.
Snapper looked about the room and told everyone to be seated.
And therein lay their punishment. Those who could sit, did. Those who could partially sit, partially sat. Those who couldn't sit, stood beside their desks the entire class - one hand taking notes, the other holding their noses.
After Snapper gave his lesson and left the turret, the students went to a great deal of trouble to arrange to have the cow taken out a window.
You'd think after these disasters, the students would have learned to leave pranking alone. But, no.
There was a farmer who had a strawberry field. Come May, Lee and his friends decided to raid the strawberry patch. The farmer was ready for them.
When they'd filled their hats to the brim with fresh strawberries, the farmer stunned them by stepping out from behind a tree. He carried an elaborate tray, which he raised as he spoke these words: "Them strawberries taste much better with cream and sugar, boys."
Seems all the clever men of Lee's youth were farmers. Conversely, all the fools were those who called themselves important.
Lee never talked down to people, and he never bowed and scraped to those made it a habit to overestimate their self worth.
Down in Florida there'd been a boy who'd been named after six rich uncles in order to inherit from them upon their death. Yukson Haben Obergat Teban Earnest Fleming Cox thought he was King of the Hill. And he was the meanest boy in town. They called him Yuk for short. The kids used to come to his front yard, form a circle and chant his name until he came bolting out of the house, hoping to catch one and beat them senseless.
Sure enough, by high school Yuk inherited from two of the uncles. So then he was the meanest and the richest boy in town.
No friends, no respect, lots of money: To Lee's mind, useless.
Conversely, in South Hill, Virginia, a truck drove through town with a full load and got stuck under the town's overpass. Everyone came out to try to try to fix the problem. Police, firemen, town council - all the "important" people, and the neighborhood, too. Dismantle the cargo from the back, take apart the truck - you name it, they thought of it.
Along came the town drunk. He surveyed the situation from his slanted point of view and blurted out, "Why don'chou let the air out o'them tires!"
No friends, no respect, no money: yet incredibly useful
Well, there was a particular snob at Hampden Sydney who got on everyone's nerves. He was easy to pick out, because he was the only student who'd brought a car - his own car, as he readily pointed out - to school. A brand, spanking new Model-T Ford.
One weekend, this young man went to visit relations quite a distance away. In light of the Model T's thin tires and the rough roads, he wisely decided take the train.
As soon as the whistle blew on his departure, the students went to work. Those boys might not have owned their own Model-T's, but they sure knew how to take 'em a part and put 'em back together (Mr. Ford made it a point of pride to design the Model T in such a way that anyone could learn how to manage the car themselves - and many did).
When the fellow returned Sunday afternoon, he looked for his car and screamed bloody murder. Who stole it, he demanded.
Nobody, came the calm reply. There it is. A finger pointed skyward.
He looked up to find his gleaming Ford - perfectly rebuilt - straddling the high ridge pole of a three-story dormitory.
The train was an important part of students' lives. If a boy couldn't get a date at nearby Longwood College (girls only), he'd arrange for a an old girlfriend to come in by train.
One friend of Lee's, a dashing cavalier, invited a girl to come in for the weekend only to realize he'd double-booked himself. He had a Longwood Girl set for the weekend's events, as well.
He begged Lee to help him. Lee didn't care for the arrangements, but he did his duty by his friend. Lee met Train Girl and took her around campus while his friend shared a soda with Longwood Girl, etc., etc. Lee thought up a great excuse for the boy while he escorted Train Girl to the school dance in his friend's place (while he was dancing elsewhere with Longwood Girl).
The weekend went off without a hitch; Lee sent Train Girl off at the station Sunday afternoon and sighed relief.
And then Donny Juan made a mistake. He wrote thank you notes to both girls, and - perhaps guided by his deep inner conscience - slipped Train Girl's letter into Longwood's envelope, and vice versa.
He neither saw nor heard from Miss Train or Miss Longwood again.
Ah, Longwood. A short walk for the fellows on a Friday night. If you didn't already have a date lined up, you could always take your chances at Longwood. Fellows lined up outside the girls' dorm, and the lassies came to the windows. Now the lights would be on inside their rooms, so all the fellows could see was the girls' silhouettes. You had to chat up and make arrangements for the evening with a silhouette. Eventually the silhouette would come down, and you'd find out whether you'd guessed right. Some silhouettes could look so promising in that second story window. It was like playing the lottery every Friday night... or Russian Roulette.
But the best story to come from Hampden Sydney was the Bell Puller tale.
Ah, the morning bell. 6 a.m. every day, without fail. A huge, fifty-gallon bell sat high atop a twenty foot stand (so the sound could reach every sleepy ear). One long rope came all the way to the ground. One man, The Bell Ringer, came each day at five minutes to 6. Everyday he watched the second hand on his wrist watch until the time came. And he would pull. And the students would groan and get up, up, up.
Then a student hatched a brilliant plan. One night the students went out into the dark and used ladders to hoist themselves up that tall bell tower. They tipped the bell upside down and used wooden boards to loosely hold it in place. Then they formed a bucket line from the creek and filled the bell to the brim with cold, fresh creek water.
The next morning, the boys set their alarm clocks for 5:50 a.m. Everyone got up to wait by a window. The Bell Ringer came at five minutes to six. He stood at the base of the bell and looked at his watch. The boys waited in appreciative silence. And then, at six precisely, he pulled the rope and a dorm full of boys watched a grown man scream as 50 gallons of cold water hit his head and wash him to the ground.
And the boys hung out their windows and laughed and laughed
The Bell Puller was furious - so furious he stomped to the Dean of the School and demanded the guilty parties be expelled.
The boys from the dorm were lined up outside for hours and hours as the Dean waited for the guilty youth who planned the assault to step forward. But he never did. And no one ever told. And the Dean couldn't send them all home. So, that was that.
For one brief, shining moment, they'd beaten the daylights out of the 6 o'clock wake up call.
Lee went home happy after freshman year. Back in South Hill, he and Ruth had become an item, so summer wasn't looking to bad. In order to be his physical best for football the coming year, he thought he ought to take a demanding job. He began work at his Uncle Sam Dortch's Ice House (shades of Hardy County). He worked hard, coming and going from a freezing building into 90-100 degree heat.
But one morning he woke up to searing pain shooting through his arms and legs. He couldn't move.
Lee had contracted polio.
The ice house job that was meant to keep him strong had actually lowered his resistance.
Years later, he told his youngest daughter that the pain he felt those first three months was so excruciating, if he could have found a means to kill himself, he would have. He fell into a deep depression of self-pity, a young man with great prospects facing the loss of every happy expectation - no more football, no more pranks - even Ruth quietly pulled away from him, unable to cope. What was there to live for?
But his friends and family rallied around him. Particularly his father. Lee's self-pity may have been understandable, but it did not sit well with a mountain man like L.L. Bean.
From the very beginning, his father's words were unremittingly harsh: get over it, get up, get on with life. Quit feeling sorry for yourself; get up and DO something! The words struck Lee as nothing less than cruel... but they were just what he needed.
His father's rough exhortations were tempered by the daily visits by his mother. Adelaide now used her over-protectiveness to help Lee make a new life.
The doctor said there was a small chance Lee could regain the use of his arms and legs, but it would take daily movement - painful daily movement and then long sessions of exercise.
Adelaide was up for the task.
She came to his room every day to massage the failing muscles and then help Lee push himself to his limits. The exercises were hideously painful, and, for his legs, the efforts were futile. But the hard work on his arms paid off. Over the course of two-years, his arm muscle returned and he learned to walk on crutches - Canadian Canes, they called them at the time. His legs - which grew thin to the point of skin over bone and nothing more - were fitted with strong metal braces, and he used his old agility to learn to move with quick grace on metal legs.
And all during that difficult two-year rehabilitation period, he kept up with his studies - ever hoping to graduate along with his friends at Hampden Sydney.
And, amazingly, he was allowed to join his senior class. Though he could tool around quickly on crutches and braces, there was no "handicapped access" anything back then, so certain classrooms were seemingly out of bounds. That's when a good old friend from the football team, Homer Hatten of West Virginia, provided a solution. Homer, aka "Moose," offered to pick Lee up before class - literally. Moose threw Lee over one shoulder and ran him around campus. And that's how Lee Bean, Jr. completed his education at Hampden Sydney.
He was graduated in 1937, along with the classmates he'd begun school with four years before.
By then he'd decided to become a lawyer. There are a large contingent of Bean cousins practicing law back in Hardy County, West Virginia, so it could have been DNA at work. In any case, he was accepted to The University of Virginia Law School and began in 1937. But he needed extra cash in order to assist with tuition.
Enter the New Deal.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt's Works Progress Administration created millions of new jobs, and Lee Bean was one of the lucky recipients. He became an assistant to Dean Ribble, Dean of the Law School.
One afternoon late in his second year he was standing at the counter collating when he overheard the Dean's voice rising from inside his office: "I am TELLING you, you cannot FAIL the SON of the President of the UNITED STATES!"
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Junior was a law student at UVA... and not a good one.
As Lee stood there, mouth ajar, the door swooshed open and the Dean's head appeared.
"Bean?"
"Yes, sir?!"
"What's your average in Contract Law?"
"96."
"Get in here."
Yes, Lee wound up tutoring F.D.R., Junior so he could pass Contract Law and graduate.
This turned out to be no easy task, because F.D.R., Junior had two baaaaaad habits: women and drink.
Lee lost hair that last month of law school. Every week Lee struggled to help Junior understand contract law, and every weekend Junior would disappear to enjoy his dissipations. Every Monday, Lee was there to try to pick up the pieces and start again.
By golly, F.D.R., Jr. passed Contract Law and was set to graduate along with Lee in June of 1940.
But, first, Junior's father wanted to thank Lee personally.
The opportunity came on June 10 when the President came to give the UVA Law School Graduation Speech.
Lee was told to be at a certain place at a certain time. A large limousine arrived. The chauffeur came to the back door, opened it and asked him to get in.
He did. And there was the President, sitting beside him.
What Lee was thinking, one can only imagine. Knowing the President also suffered from polio had to be a huge inspiration. As L.L. would say, nothing should hold a man back, and here he was two feet from the truth of that notion.
He sat in that limousine, and the President thanked him, and then he asked if Lee had any hobbies.
"Yes, sir. Philately." He'd collected stamps since he was a boy.
":Ah. Well, I'll send some stamps around, then."
Lee left the limousine, beaming.
F.D.R. went on to provide the speech to the law school graduates. The war news was grim that day: Italian troops had just invaded southern France, and so President Roosevelt put a message in his address. He described Mussolini's invasion as a "stab in the back," and so that speech went down in history.
According to the Biographical Directory of the United States Congress, F.D.R. Junior went on to be "admitted to the bar in 1942, called... to active duty as an ensign in the U.S. Navy and served in North Africa, Europe, and the Pacific... [was] awarded the Purple Heart Medal and the Silver Star... vice president of pres. Truman's Committee on Civil Rights in 1947 and 1948," served in congress, etc., etc. You'd have to say things turned out all right for him.
As for the promise of stamps, Lee never really expected such an important man to bother with details. So he was shocked when three months later a huge plastic bag arrived - two-foot by two-foot - stuffed full of stamps from all over the world. With it was a letter from the Post Master General Farley of the United States, stating the President had personally wanted to thank Lee with this gift of stamps.
There was enough there to fill a lifetimes' worth of philately books. In Lee's living room, a glass bell used to house that letter and an ancient charter from the Bean family. Over time both were lost.
Upon Lee's graduation, he took a job with the government, but he always regretted being unable to serve his country during World War II. His friends were becoming Air Force Fighter Pilots, and that would have been Lee's choice as well. Several of his college buddies died during the war.
As for Lee's father, L.L. wasn't done "getting up and getting on" with things. Always ready to push on with new ventures, in 1943 he moved to South Boston (in business for himself, with a partner, Mr. Allred) to begin "Southside Wholesale Distributors." Eventually he wound up back in South Hill and once served as Mayor of the town, so things turned out all right for him as well, the self-made mountain man.
Meanwhile, Lee took a job as a lawyer with the Department of Agriculture and wound up best friends with a fellow named Tom O'Reilly.
By 1942, Tom and Lee had been sent out from Washington, D.C. to St. Louis, Missouri. Lee was 26 years old, happy with life and law.
Then Tom and Lee started noticing the office mail girls: there was a tall, thin, striking-looking with auburn haired, and a short, perky blue-eyed blonde. The gentlemen promptly struck up a flirtation.
In the weeks that followed, Tom developed an eye for the short, blue-eyed blonde, Jean, while Lee also developed an eye for the short, blue-eyed blonde. She looked just like Ruth Montgomery: pretty eyes, perky, rounded face.
"Too late, Lee. Already got a date with her," said Tom one afternoon, "but I think I can set you up with her friend, Maxine." Maxine was the auburn-headed, tall one. She was shy and equally pretty and laughed at all of his jokes, so Lee got to thinking that might be all right after all.
Maxine Hay, for her part, liked Lee Bean from the start. Whenever she came through the offices, he'd put aside his paperwork to chat. She loved his laugh, his smile, his good looks, and the way he always had his shirt sleeves rolled up, the dark Welsh complexion a beautiful contrast to the crisp white starch of the sleeves.
By the time he stood up and she saw he was on crutches, it was too late to matter.
Some of life would be hard, yes, but what was the point of thinking like that when you could have those dark brown eyes to gaze into, and his laughter, and his heart. Really, what did anything matter when you were in love?
Well, the matter turned out to be Maxine's mother.
Virginia Hay was vehemently opposed to Lee. As they dated throughout Maxine's college years, Virginia continued to tell her what a poor choice she was making. "Only think what you're doing! Throwing your life away on a... on a LAWYER!"
She couldn't admit Lee's handicap was a problem, so she blamed his doctorate of jurisprudence. Eventually she demanded Maxine quit seeing him.
The months that followed were the most miserable of her young life.
The only thing Maxine looked forward to was the marriage of her best friend, Jean, to Tom O'Reilly. She was to be Jean's maid of honor. Lee was to be Tom's best man.
When the wedding day arrived, it had been twelve long months since Maxine and Lee had seen each other. After the ceremony, Lee approached Maxine, looked into her eyes and asked in his sweet southern drawl, "How you been, sugar?"
After that, Virginia Hay was just going to have to find a way to get over it.
Maxine and Lee were married in 1949 at Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg, Virginia. Their film footage of the moments before they left on their honeymoon. reveal Lee's parents looking on with pride... and the somewhat sour look on Virginia Hay's face. And there's Maxine, smiling like the sun just rose for the first time, and Lee, with a lovely grin, rushing to the getaway car so quickly his crutches all but disappear.
And now they're driving off together, a look of deep satisfaction on their young faces.
When they returned, they moved to Arlington, Virginia where Lee set up a practice right across from the Court House. Maxine had urged him to set up private practice, since he'd become so disgruntled working for the government. Things went well in Arlington, and they began to raise a family: Rebecca, arrived in 1950. Lorenzo, in 1952, and, seven years later, Meredith Bean McMath (who keeps the middle name in honor of her father, the storyteller).
Lee Bean was a rarity: an honest lawyer. He was remembered for his crutches, but he was honored for his integrity.
During the Civil Rights movement, Virginia schools were in an uproar, and the racist faction in Arlington wanted to make certain desegregation never happened there. The U.S. Supreme Court had formed integration into law. Virginia had decided it did not have to integrate.
It was time to stack the School Board in favor of racism - to make certain the Supreme Court would not get a toe-hold in Arlington County.
A group of men, led by Mr. Robert Peck of the once well-known Peck Automobile concern in Arlington, asked Lee to serve on the Board. They took for granted that a boy raised in Florida and Southern Virginia would see things their way. That, and the fact that, as a lawyer, he'd be in danger of losing his law license in Virginia if he went against the Virginia Court's decision, seemed to seal the deal. There were two "liberals" on the board - one of which was Elizabeth Campbell who went on to found WETA Public Television. And there were two "conservatives." And there was Lee.
A man of fairness.
He voted with the liberals, and won integration for Arlington schools.
The family soon received anonymous phone calls in the dead of night. Death threats. But Lee pressed on, standing firmly by what was right and fair.
Then there was a second vote to be made. Now that they'd won for integration, they wanted to integrate as quickly as possible. Lee felt integration needed to be slowly invoked over time. He feared that the poor education the black children had had left them unprepared for public white schools. They would fail, he thought. He lost the vote, and the newspaper came down on him hard - as if he'd changed his mind on the issue.
But he was right. A huge number did fail.
In any case, he remained a hero to integrationists. His youngest daughter can recall the strange excitement of finding herself in the car on a Sunday heading out into the far hills of Virginia where Lee would attend a small, black church and give the sermon.
Lee went on to greatness in law, writing a book on Domestic Relations for the Virginia law books, becoming President of both the Virginia Trial Lawyers and the Virginia Bar Association (only one other lawyer - Tom Moynihan of Winchester - has accomplished the same). Lee was often called upon as a speaker. And therein lies a tale.
One evening he found himself at a lawyers' conference where he'd just been given a fine introduction. Lee approached the podium, looked down at the stand, and quickly looked back up. "I thank you so much, Jim, but I have to say... you've left me absolutely speechless." There was mild, appreciative laughter. "I mean to say, Jim, you've accidentally taken my notes, and I have no speech."
Lee was best known in law circles for the way he helped people. His first question for a person intent on divorce was always have you tried counseling?
In the 1980s, Maxine went to New York with a group of women to see the Kipps Bay Showhouse. The women knew each other only a first name basis. As they sat talking over lunch, the conversation veered to the realm of their respective nasty divorces. Harsh words for ex-husband, but even harsher words for the useless lawyers they'd had to represent them. But one lady kept saying she'd had a great experience - that her lawyer had done everything for her, and she was deeply grateful for his efforts.
Who was that, they all wanted to know.
Lee Bean of Arlington, she replied.
Maxine jumped in her seat a little, then leaned over to the woman next to her and whispered, "That's my husband!"
He was a friend to all. The family once drove back to South Hill for a family reunion; Lee pulled up to the gas station and struck up a conversation with the attendant using a suddenly thick drawl - as though he'd only left town yesterday. It was clear he wanted to make an old friend comfortable talking to this fancy lawyer in a Lincoln Continental.
Lee, like F.D.R., never liked to think of himself as handicapped. He appreciated handicap access - that was only fair - but otherwise, he let the subject drop.
On the other hand, where there was humor to be found in being handicap, he'd find it. One time a yippee dog came running after him as he walked along. Sure enough, the dog ran up and chomped down... on Lee's metal brace.
"Aiy-Aiy-Aiy!" all the way home.
And Lee had a good laugh.
But in the very back of his mind, Lee never got over his being handicapped. Especially the lost opportunity of serving his country. Then an opportunity arose.
A college buddy approached Lee to ask him if he'd like to help the C.I.A. with a little project. Could Lee set up a cover business in Miami Beach, Florida to hide a covert rescue operation? In Castro's "new Cuba," intellectuals, doctors, businessmen - anyone a part of the old guard - were being hunted down, jailed, tortured. Many disappeared. The CIA was sending PT boats to Cuba in the middle of the night to get these people out of there.
Lee was happy to oblige and the Bean family had an odd Christmas spent in tropical Miami as Lee set up a business called Anderson Securities. A.S. shredded documents for a fee. They made a lot of money. It was a very successful business.
In the early 1970s, there was a "cleaning up" of the CIA. The CIA was involved in domestic covert operations, it said, when its mandate is an international espionage. The Washington Post muckraker, Anderson, heard about Lee's covert operation, and wrote all about it in his column. The CIA was involved in domestic espionage, he said, noting the shredding of secret documents at Anderson Securities in Miami, Florida (a shady place indeed). Of course, Anderson couldn't know about the covert operation - Lee wasn't allowed to speak of it - so there was no defending the allegations.
Anderson made the whole thing sound horrible.
"Large sums of money passed through Mr. Bean's hands." Well, yes. It was a profitable business, but Lee was paid for his services at a base rate. Mr. Anderson finished an article, saying, "Mr. Bean could not be reached for comment, as he is vacationing in Europe with his family." Ai-yi-yi. Yes. For the first time in their lives, Lee had made enough to take his family to Europe. It was 1972. And it's a good thing he was in Europe - reminded him there was nothing to do but relax.
Things blew over. Of course nothing more was done on Anderson's story, because there was "no there there."
And Lee got on with life as usual.
Lee was a creative father: he couldn't hunt with Renz, but he encouraged him to join the NRA Shooting Clubs and took him to their meets. And he fished with him. He couldn't throw his children up on his shoulders and carry them around, but he could lay on the floor and let them come at him to try and tickle him. He always won. By middle age, Lee had become as powerfully built as L.L. In truth, the fact that Lee had to exercise everyday as he pulled his own weight around, throwing his hips forward to take every step, probably served to prolong his life. So, while other dads played "airplane" by laying on their back and flying the little ones on their knees, Lee just lay on the floor and flew his children by holding them high. But the childrens' favorite past-time was the dessert that came after dinner: listening to Lee's stories from his youth and his father's youth.
Besides all these years as a prominent lawyer, a wonderful Dad, and a great friend, Lee kept up with hobbies: there was Philately, and The Optimists Club (while at college, his youngest treasured the quick notes, tucked with a five dollar bill and a list of the Optimists Club Newsletter jokes - all his favorite jokes checked off), the J.C.'s, and the Barbershop Quartet. He had a lovely voice. He and his wife loved all forms of music, particularly swing, classical and Jazz (Maxine and Lee had gone to Eddie Condon's Club in New York City during their honeymoon).
As for Lee's parents, L.L., and his Adelaide retired in South Hill, Virginia in the 1950s, and L.L. grew a little quieter and a little forgetful in old age. In fact, he once drove all the way to church, stepped out the car and walked around to open Adelaide's door only to find her seat empty. He went back home to find her standing - and fuming - on the front steps.
L.L. never forgot his farmer roots: he had a ritual of spending several hours gardening each morning. Then he'd come in and enjoy a huge breakfast of Adelaide's biscuits with syrup. He'd pour too much syrup on the biscuits, and as he'd finish them he'd say, "Adelaide, I've poured too much syrup on these. I need more biscuits!" Half way through the next set of biscuits, he'd say, "Adelaide, there's not enough syrup for these biscuits!" and on it went.
L.L. suffered several strokes before his death in 1965. He managed the strokes by lying down for a while, and then, as soon as he was able, he'd get up and get on with things. He did that six or seven times - a mountain man to the end.
In 1966, Maxine and Lee purchased a farm in Fauquier as a weekend retreat, and Lee took to farm life like a duck to water. "Bridle Tree Farm" in Sumerduck, Virginia, is now the home of Lorenzo Bean, III, his wife, Valerie and their son, Lee... the fourth, of course. Lorenzo is a succesful, 6'7" lawyer... King Heltzel, with a lovely voice.
Lee Bean passed away in 1989, a few months after the birth of his first grandson, Palmer Lee McMath (taken from his grandfathers' middle names). Lee always loved his work as a trial lawyer (there's an actor in every Bean), and he never wanted to miss a day of work, despite 50 years of walking with the help of Canadian Canes. In the end, he nearly got his wish.
A third heart attack took him at age 73; he'd only missed half a day.
And on it goes.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
1) "The name 'Bean' is found at Norwich, England 1622. James Bean settled in Virginia: now Hardy County The name occurs several times in Dandridge's American Pioneers of the Revolution... The Scotch emigrants settled at St. Marys County, Maryland. Before 1794 they moved to the virgin forest of what is now Hardy County near North River... The George Bean old brick home site is on top of Simon Bean Mountain and gives a wide view of the area. Very typical of the Scottish Hilander Laddies. They moved into this house in 1863." Hardy County Family History to 1990, p. 73 under "George Bean." (ref. book from Hardy County Public Library).
Extrapolated from "Lorenzo Lee Bean FAMILY DATA, from his record in his own Bible": Robert Bean and his brother emigrated from Wales to Maryland on a boat with Lord Calvert's younger brother. Robert had many children. His son, James, went west for more land. He settled west of Moorefield and founded Bean Settlement. He had many children including son George, father of David Ferguson Bean (In the possession of the Hylton/Bean Family). Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
2) We do know that in 1870, George and Margaret Bean had a 17-year old black farm laborer by the name of George Willis (1870 Census of Hardy County, Capon Township, http://hardycounty.martin.lib.wv.us/ ). It's likely they relied on slave labor - whether rented or owned - before the Civil War. Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
3) Obituary of David F. Bean,"Moorefield Examiner," Thurs., 1/29/20 and Hardy County Family History to 1990, (ref. Hardy County Public Library), p. 73 under "George Bean." Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
4) The hill came to be known as Simon Bean Mountain. The George Bean federal brick home (known as the Simon Bean Farm) stands there still - although the clapboard kitchen has fallen in as of 1998. It's located 9 1/2 miles from Crider Store east of Moorefield, 11 1/2 miles off Route 55. The property was owned by the Orndorffs as of 1998 (information from The Clan M.A. Bean in N. America, pg. 182, Hardy County Library, Moorefield, WV). Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
5) Hardy County Family History to 1990, (ref. Hardy County Public Library), p. 73 under "George Bean." Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
6) The Memoires of Col. John S. Mosby, Charles W. Russell, Olde Soldiers Books, Inc. (1987) Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
7) Hardy County Family History to 1990, (ref. Hardy County Public Library) under "Heltzel Family Name." This could well be the home on the high hill purchased by David Ferguson Bean in 1863. Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
8) 1860 Census of Hardy County, (West) Virginia - Hardy County Public Library:
447-453:
George Bean 55 Farmer
Margaret 39
Mary E 20
David F 16
Lucretia 14
Hannah F 13
Mahlon 11
Emily J 7
Minerva A 4
Simon S 2/12 (author's query: 2 1/2?)
395-401:
John C. Heltzel, Jr. 44 Farmer
Leah 31
Jemima S 8
Mary M 6
Paul 2
Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
9) Obituary of David F. Bean,"Moorefield Examiner," Thurs., 1/29/20, Hardy County Public Library. Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
10) Hardy County Family History to 1990, (ref. Hardy County Public Library) under "Heltzel Family Name." This could well be the home on the high hill purchased by David Ferguson Bean in 1863. Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
11) L.L.'s work experience was taken from a typed summary of the information: "Lorenzo Lee Bean FAMILY DATA, from his record in his own Bible." Whereabouts of the Bible are unknown, but a typed summary is held by Meredith Bean McMath. Back to "How to Grow a Mountain Man."
Author's note: the majority of stories from L.L. and Lee Bean's youth were provided by Lorenzo Lee Bean, Jr. himself to the author, Meredith Bean McMath, on occasions too numerous to count. They were re-verified by Lee's wife (the author's mother), Maxine Bean.
