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Deshler Family


Census records from Washington County, Newport Twp. OH


Fredrick Deshler 39, Farmer, born Wurtenburgh German

Catherine Deshler 36, born Prussia Germany

William 8 yrs.

George 6 yrs.       

Albert 3 yrs.

Edward 1 yr.

Catherine Deshler 64 [likely Grandmother]



J.F. Deshler 48, Born Wurtenburg, Germany, parents born Wurtenburg, Germany

Leah Deshler 26, born VA, parents born MD. [new wife]

Wm R. 18 yrs.

Geo P. 15 yrs.

Albert 14 yrs.

Edward 11 yrs. [all these sons born Ohio to first wife by record of parents birth]

Fred A 6 yrs.

Otto 5 yrs

Arthur 2 yrs

Sarah 9/12 [9 months old] [all these children by second wife]



Fredrick 68, b. June 1831, m. 28 yrs., Immigrated in 1840, a naturalized citizen

Leah A. 46, b. Aril 1854, m. 28 yrs. B. Va, parents father b. Md, mother b. Pa. [different from the 1880 record]

Edward 31, b. Dec 1868, widowed. Merchant

Arthur 22. B. Dec 1871, single

Sarah 21, b. Sept 1879

Nellie 19, b. June 1881

Earl 17, b. June 1883

Frank 15, b. Aug 1885

Raymond 13, b. July 1887

Carrowl [sp?] a son 9 yrs. b. Sept 1891

Maggie granddaughter, 7yrs. b. May 1893 in PA

Edward Jr, Grandson, 3 yrs. b. Sept 1897 in PA. [Edward and Dora lived in PA. He must have moved back when his wife died.]


In 1910 Edward is not listed. Fredrick is listed as Jacob F. Deshler. The grandchildren are still with he and Leah.


From Eileen’s files

Carl Deshler m. Mary Lillie Kesselring b. Jan 1891

Otto Deshler m. Cary Hanlon, children Otto Jr. Walter and an unnamed Daughter.


Hope Elaine Deshler m. Norman Eugene Barnhouse, Children, Frank Edward and Rebecca Joy.



“Daddy Told me So”

From the St. Mary Oracle—Pleasants County Leader, Sept. 7, 1978

By Hope Deshler Barnhouse

                I have always believed implicitly in what my father told me!  Perhaps I should say—“in what Daddy told me”—because I do not recall calling him anything except “Daddy.”  But some of the tales he tells do have a tendency to stretch a little over the years, in the telling and retelling!

                Daddy came from a large family of eleven children, and this does not include his four older half-brothers.  Hence, one can see that the stage was always set for some incident of humor or pathos.  With such a cast of characters, and I DO mean characters, someone was always playing a joke on another or dissolving into fits of laughter at some comic situation. 

                Speaking with a drawl which we accept naturally, Daddy tends to prolong a conversation.  Many people, hearing him speak for the first time, think he is “pulling their leg” a little.  One such person was a school chum of my sister Helen. On her initial visit to our home, Esther had not heard Daddy talk until his arrival home from work, whereupon we sat down for the evening meal.  Passing a serving dish to her, Daddy asked:  “Esther…do…you…want…some…beans?”  With a puzzled look, she drawled in reply: “No…thanks…I…don’t…care…for…any!”  Needles to say, Esther was very changrined to find this was Daddy’s normal way of speaking, and was always a cause for embarrassment to her!

                I’ve heard Daddy tell countless times of a man who lived in a houseboat moored along the Ohio River.  He must have been away from home when a rise in the river came; the boat was left tied to its moorings and consequently sunk.  Next day an acquaintance came along the road; seeing only the roof and the smokestack protruding from the water, he ran down the river bank calling excitedly, “Wherry!  Wherry!  Are you in there?”

A German Grandmother

                I sometimes wonder how they managed to feed all the hungry mouths through the cold winter months on the hilltop farm overlooking the Ohio near the mouth of Davis Run and Grape Island.  Of course, they had their root bank where potatoes, turnips, parsnips and various vegetables were buried beneath mounds of earth with a covering of straw for protection.  The cellar was full of all kinds of preserved produce, barrels of sauerkraut, sorghum, pickled beans and apples; the meat house was rich with tender pink hams and shoulders, cured by long, slow hours of hickory smoking. 

                Any persons born and bred in the country knows the hard work entailed in butchering a hog and preparing the meat for curing.  After killing the animal, it is scalded to clean the outside and the bristles removed.  The carcass is then laid upon a table or board across saw-horses, all preparatory to making the various cuts of meat.  This brings to mind Daddy’s somewhat pathetic tale concerning his younger brother’s reaction at the time of their Grandmother Deshler’s death. 

                She was born in Wurttemburg, German, Dec. 12, 1805, and came as an immigrant to settle in Monroe County, Ohio, around 1840.  When Grandfather Deshler came to settle on the 140-acre farm on sections 24 and 18 in Newport Township, Washington County, she lived in her own small house next to the main house on the farm.  Being still in the horse and buggy days, an undertaker was long in coming (if at all), and they would lay a corpse on a board or flat surface, often with large pennies on their eyelids to keep the eyes closed.  A similar procedure was followed at the passing of Daddy’s grandmother in 1891.  My Uncle Ray, then only a lad of four or five, upon seeing her still form stretched out in this manner, turned to their mother and cried in anguish, “Oh Maaa….I can never eat her!”


                These old rocky hills of Ohio seem to be a good habitat for copperheads, one of our most poisonous snakes.  Daddy and my uncles had many experiences with these reptiles, and they held a healthy respect for the “coppers.”  Gathered together one evening on a visit to a neighboring Ohio town, Daddy and four uncles sat talking of the copperheads—“they weren’t as numerous as they used to be;”—“they’d never been seen in or around this particular area;”—they weren’t as large as in years gone by,” and numerous homily observations. 

                The day following this discussion, as we climbed the concrete steps from busy Pennsylvania Avenue, a through street in East Liverpool, O., to my uncle Carl’s tiny front yard, someone creamed.

                “Copperheads!”  Sure enough, into the hedge crawled a copperhead!  In the mad scramble a hoe was secured and the snake quickly dispatched.  But did they let that reptile rest in peace, as all dead snakes should?  Oh, no!  He was gently put into a box and tenderly carried out into the country the next day; there he was “cunningly planted” in the path by Daddy, while Uncle Carl talked with Uncle Earle, requesting a look at the favorite foxhound.  They managed to put Uncle Earle in the lead down the path so he would “chance” onto the snake.  I can’t say how high he jumped nor how loud he yelled, but from all reports, it much have been some kind of record!  Now with Uncle Earle in on the plan, they went on up the road to pull the same trick on Uncle Ray, who was especially afraid of copperheads.  As they had shown the snake around to everyone interested, the decision was to let Ray “kill it!”  When Uncle Ray saw the snake, he managed to grab a shovel that happened  to be standing “conveniently “ nearby, and proceeded to beat the snake to a pulp, while Daddy and my uncles stood by convulsed with laughter!  One gets the impression that over the years Uncle Ray was often the brunt of their jokes. His brothers always accused Daddy of bringing that snake to the East Liverpool area!  Foolish idea!

                                                                                Boyhood Days

                The farmers in this locale always used to grow tobacco, usually for their own consumption.  The tobacco leaves were hung in log buildings or barns to dry and age, the space between the logs affording a chance for the air to pass freely between the suspended tobacco.  One such barn stood alongside the road Daddy and the others took downhill to the store and defunct post office at Murphy, O., near the mouth of Reynold’s Run.  At the residence, living with his mother, was a youth who could not talk plain, having a definite lisp.  On passing the barn, Uncle Ray would reach between the logs and get a handful of tobacco; this probably gave him a chance to try the forbidden art of chewing tobacco.  Apparently it had gone on for some time as a shortage had been detected by the owners.  One day in passing, Uncle Ray reached through the logs as usual, and much to his surprise and consternation, his wrist was securely grabbed, and the youth inside bellowed loudly, triumphantly, “Ma…Ma…I’ve caught the ’fief!”

                Daddy journeyed down-hill from the ridge several miles to the one-room schoolhouse where he, with my aunts and uncles, received at least the equivalent of an eighth grade education.  They would often remain in school following their eight years, reading and absorbing as much more learning as they could acquire.  The schoolhouse was set near Reynold’s Run, and here they read their McGuffy readers, studied geography, had their spelling bees—in other words, learned their “reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic.”  The schoolhouse still stands today, remodeled into a residence, but basically the same structure in which Daddy attended his lessons these many years ago.   One of his favorite teachers was Mr. Fletcher, a colored man, which must have been unusual for that time. 

                During the local oil boom, Daddy worked in the oil fields.  He worked with a man that was deathly afraid of dynamite.  One day during the lunch-time, another worker, knowing of his great fear, carelessly tossed a couple of sticks of dynamite near the first laborer.  Leaping up in surprise and managing to transpose the syllables in dynamite, what he actually cried angrily was, “Now look-a-here!  Daminyte is daminyte, and daminyte is dangerous and not to be fooled with!!”


Childhood Memories

                From the time of my birth, we made our home with our maternal grandfather Louderback, who we simply called “Grandpa,” our paternal grandfather having passed away years before.  Grandpa smoked a pipe, occasionally a cigar, but at most times the house reeked of the deep, rich smell of Kentucky tobacco.  He was not content, however, with blends he could buy in the stores, but would send to Kentucky for bundles of tobacco leaves.  These came periodically, in dark brown wrapping paper, whereupon Grandpa would sit down, newspaper in lap, and proceed to crumble the leaves to the texture he liked.  This, in turn, he stored away in tins or humidor. 

                In his lifetime, Grandpa worked at many things—gardening in hotbeds, and selling the early produce to the river packets or shipping things to Wheeling, W. Va., for sale.  Sometimes he would row in his skiff down behind Middle Island to St. Marys for sale of garden produce.  He spent many years at the cooper’s trade, going from orchard to orchard in the northern panhandle, building barrels needed for shipping apples.  At one time, probably around the early 1880s, Grandpa had a dish boat which he would have towed upriver to the pottery town—Wellsville, East Liverpool or Chester—where he took on a supply of ware for sale at the stops on his way back down river.  A john boat and the river current were the sources of “power” on his trip home.  We have one hadnbill stating that “A.C. Louderback will be at your landing with a good supply of pottery, dishware, etc….” He lived a busy, interesting life while rearing a family of seven children, one of whom is my mother, Iva Louderback Deshler. 

                Along came the local oil boom and Grandpa held interest in many wells, some good but some, dry holes.  He often worked on these wells, as a tool dresser or pumping them when they did srike oil.  In working at an engine one day, he caught the index finger of his right hand, and was forced to jerk it from the machinery to keep from losing his whole hand.  The doctor did a good job, for this finger was neatly and smoothly rounded at the first joint.  Many are the times that Daddy told us that Grandpa had burned his finger down to a stub from tamping tobacco in his pipe!  I was just a child then, but I believed it, for after all, hadn’t Daddy told me so?  I suppose that my face wore the same expression of awe that I was to see in later years on the faces of my nieces and nephews, as they were told the same story by Daddy. 

                                                                Our Elderly “Kin”

                It seems as if young people today often miss the fellowship, the companionship of older people.  A development of concern for one who is elderly is bypassed, and far more than a generation gap exists!  Not so, when we were youngsters!  We were not permitted to call these “senior-citizens” by their first names; they were “Mr. and Mrs. So and So.” Or more likely, Aunt or Uncle, though no family relationship actually existed.

                My life as a child held a series of these so-called “kin,” with whom I felt a comradeship, an esteem that seemed mutual.  Our next door neighbors, Aunt Kate and Uncle Ed, were especially near to my sisters and me, as was Uncle Clem.  He was a brother to Uncle Ed and resided in his home.  Uncle Clem was a retired school teacher with a great knowledge of historical and natural points of interest, especially in Ohio.  They often toured these sites, including us in the picnics and expeditions—but that is a story in itself!

                Then there were Aunt Barbara and Uncle Gil.  Aunt Barbara was called in to care for Mother at home after the doctor’s visit when my sister Helen and I were born.  For about a year following their marriage, Mother and Daddy lived in East Liverpool; during this time, Aunt Barbara would often come in to clean or do some cooking for Grandpa.  She lived next door in the house that was once Grandpa and Grandmother Louderback’s home, where Mother was born.  She had a vast knowledge of the relationships of the families in our locality, plus a store of old wives tales.  If I were to believe that a child could be marked, then I would say that Aunt Barbara marked me!  Later I was to have an avid interest in genealogy, particularly those of our surrounding community. 

                There was also Aunt Alice, the widow of my great uncle, though she remarried following Uncle Bernard’s death.  Her sister and husband, Aunt Sis and Uncle Elmer, were equally close.  When I was very young, and only vaguely remember, there was Aunt Hattie.  She was plump and jolly, and at the time, was engaged to Grandpa.  Aunt Hattie had been married before also, with children and grandchildren, but death claimed her before they were wed.  I think hers was probably the first funeral that I ever attended.

                My two sisters and I always felt at home in the residences of these various “aunts and uncles;” I was as much at home sitting in the kitchen with Aunt Kate, drinking fresh buttermilk, as if I were at home!  She lived in the house that my great-grandfather, James H. Louderback, built in the late 1860s or early 1870s.  He was a river boat pilot, and the stairway in his home was constructed similar to those on a steamboat, going up from a wide front door with glass panes on each side of the door.  It was a favorite place to play when I was small.   You could imagine all sorts of things lying on the wide steps that you could stretch out on and have room to spare!

                My eldest sister, Genevieve, whom we always called Vevie, is an avid reader.  When we were young she was usually curled up somewhere with a book, often chewing feverishly on numerous toothpicks, which we accused her of swallowing.  Daddy said she would end up with a wooden leg!  She was six years my senior, so as a tot, this seemed logical to me, too!

                Many jars of fruits and vegetables were preserved when Daddy was small.  On one occasion when Grandma was canning peaches, he questioned as to when they would eat them.  Grandma simply replied, “When the snow flies,” and busied herself with her work.  That year when the first snowflake fell, Daddy ran in excitedly calling, “Get the peaches!  Maa…get the peaches!”

                Yes, they are simple tales that we have heard many times, but they have become a part of our heritage, as even within my childhood, there are incidents that color my memory.  A neighbor boy, near my age—about eight or nine then—on hearing that his mother was going to the funeral of a great-aunt, wanted to go also.  When he found he was to stay with another lady, he broke into great sobs, and with tears coursing down his cheeks exclaimed, “I’ve never seen Aunt Toots!”  How well I know what he meant!  There have been endless situations that have arisen, when those same words expressed my dismay at not being able to go somewhere or see something!

                The mother of a family was coaxed for the last of the cookies—maybe it was a piece of pie.  I don’t know!  Finally, in exasperation and thinking of the son away from home, the mother said, “Oh, all right, take it!  Poor Otto won’t have any.


                                                Heritage of the Past

                The things that we did as children would seem mighty hum-drum to the young people of today!  We lived a slower pace, in the era when radio was new, the “Model T” was popular and the women, in their short fringed dresses, were dancing the Charleston.  I don’t actually remember seeing anyone dance the Charleston, except in movies and later on television.  The first movie that I recall seeing was “The Covered Wagon;” I can see yet, in my mind’s eye, the dust from the rolling wheels, the galloping horses, and the attack of the howling, feathered Indians!

                We often went to the live shows on the old showboats that plied the Ohio River—the “Cottonblossem,” the “Majestic” and others whose names I forget.  The last performance that I attended was on the Majestic when she was docked at Marietta and summer productions were given by the students of Hiram College, Hiram, O.  The joy of hearing the huge steam calliope play the old familiar tunes is a childhood memory to cherish.

                “GerneralWood,” “Senator Cordell,” and later, the smaller “Liberty—these were all river packets passing our home weekly on the run from Cincinnati to Pittsburgh.  The Liberty would sometimes stop at the old Shuster’s Landing, across from the head of Grape Island, to take on some cattle or logs for market.  An occasional passenger would board for New Matamoras, or one of the numerous towns or landings upriver; likewise for the downriver trip to Marietta or points south.  In later years the “Gordon C. Greene,” with its beginnings at Newport with the famous Greene family, plied these waters.  Now, we look forward to the annual trip of the beloved “Delta Queen” each summer!  Even yet, there is the excitement of piling into the car and going to a good vantage point or the Willow Island dam, the better to see her regal passage, to hear her mellow steam whistle!  A nostalgic chapter of Ohio River history is all but gone!

                I wonder how many a child learned to roller skate in the dining room on a linoleum rug?  Or played “Hide and Seek” on a bright moonlight night with their parents?  What a joy it was to bundle up in a mass of heavy clothes, boots and mittens to sleigh ride on an old homemade bobsled!  I still recall how we walked gingerly behind Daddy across the frozen Ohio, while he tested the ice before him with a long pole!  I guess that must be what everyone refers to as “the good ol’ days!”

                What modern child has sat upon an open hilltop at night and listened to the baying foxhounds as they chased the fox over hill and down vale?  While the chase went on, Daddy, who was familiar with the lay of the land, would give a running commentary:

                “They’ve crossed the Hoffman…now they are going down the Brown hill…Rock is ahead—now Pat is chiming in…they’re going up Davis Run…will probably ‘hole up’ before long…No, they are still going…up Clyman point…out past the Yonally!”  By that time they were getting too distant to hear, and we made our way down the road from Abicht’s Orchard by the light of the old lantern.  It’s now just a memory that means little to anyone except a privileged few!

                Our childhood held a series of foxhounds, each finding a place in our hearts. Pat and Rock; Ranger and Blazer; Sort and finally, Nip and Tuck, the last two hounds that Daddy had.  I think that the twinges of rheumatism had set in, putting an end to sitting on a cold hilltop on a damp, summer night!

I’m a little curious as to what Daddy’s reaction to this recitation might be, but I don’t think that I’ll ask him!  He’d undoubtedly say, “No, Hope, this is the way that story goes,” and then give me another version of the same, old tale!

Or perhaps he might reply as he did on a recent occasion.  I had an opportunity to let another party know my thoughts and feelings on a certain subject; later, in telling Mother and Daddy of that conversation, with the remark that I didn’t think I’d said anything to offend the party, Daddy stared at the floor and rocked quietly in his chair for a few moments.  Looking up, he drawled gently, “Well, Hope,…as…a…general…rule; when…you…say… anything, you…usually…say…too…much!”


NEWPORT - Hope E. Barnhouse, 89, of Newport, passed away at 3:45 p.m. Tuesday (Feb. 22, 2011) at Highland Oaks Health Care Center in McConnelsville.

She was born Nov. 6, 1921, at Wade, Ohio, to Frank S. and Iva L. (Louderback) Deshler. Hope was a 1939 graduate of Newport High School, and a member of Center Valley Baptist Church, Marietta Chapter of NSDAR and New Matamoras Historical Society. She was a homemaker and enjoyed genealogy and local history.

On Aug. 21, 1948, Hope married Norman Eugene Barnhouse, who preceded her in death on Dec. 8, 1978.

Surviving is her son, Frank Edward Barnhouse, and her daughter, Rebecca Porter (Jeffrey), both of Marietta. A sister, Helen McMahan of New Matamoras, and several nieces and nephews also survive.

In addition to her parents and husband, a sister, Genevieve McKown, preceded Hope in death.

Funeral services will be held 2 p.m. Friday (Feb. 25) at McClure-Schafer-Lankford Funeral Home with the Rev. Frank Conley officiating. Burial will follow in Newport Cemetery. Visitation will begin at the funeral home 3 p.m. Thursday.


In the 1898 Directory J. F. Deshler is listed as a farmer living at Murphy [now Reynolds’ Run]