• inner theater's Lee Engler brought Broadway to Salent

By Lois Firestone First of two parts

SOON, THE THEATER­goers, gussied up in their

floor-length gowns and dark business suits, will be dining at one or another of the eight round candlelit tables scattered around the second floor Red Room. Now, though, only the hostess, Susan Zeigler is there, making a final check.

Downstairs, producer and director Lee Engler - founder of this Memorial Building Din­ner Theatre the year before, in 1972 - is satisfied that every­thing is done that has to be done for the night's opening of Leonard Gershe's "Butterflies are Free," the sixth production of the fledgling drama group.

The auditorium, converted at other times into a basketball court for the town kids, glis­tened with fresh coats of yel­low paint on walls interspersed with newly-installed wooden panels. In the upstairs kitch­en, city parks and recreation manager Harvey Woods, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, is carving a ponderous slab of roast beef, the main offering of the three-course dinner to come. Nearby are rows of pink and green parfaits lined on trays for the evening's desserts.

Dave Macry has perused the professionally-designed prog­rams and inspected the uni­forms of the waitresses and usherettes. The backstage fly gallery, lighting and sound sys­tems are in running order and Carl Scott is preparing to go in to the box office.

Artist Michael Milligan has put the finishing touches on the paintings for the sets which are

being shifted by the stage crew, Daniel Zeigler, Judith Turner, Scott Theil, Judith Stoffer and Jean Tharp.

In a corner of a dressing room, Ruth Law is applying makeup to the cast, mother and son duo Dolores and John Vol­io, Jessica iv1archbanks and vet­eran actor and favorite of the local crowd Roger Gonda.

That night, Feb. 11, 1973, was a turning point for Engler - he had reached his goal of bring­ing the Memorial Building back to the theater it once was when it was a thriving town center. From a nucleus of four or five

· players, he had developed try­outs and casting which attracted newcomers from throughout the area. His now­realized hope had been to offer a springboard to acting hope­fuls who needed training and wanted to develop skills to enter the professional theater: he'd done this by casting ama­teurs with professionals in the­ater classics and Broadway hits.

Audiences liked the intimate small theater; ushers noticed that first-timers often slipped away to the box office before the curtain rose on the second act to make :reservations for the next show.

A town theater had been Harvey Woods' idea. High school plays had been sus­pended and there was no outlet for dramatics in the area. In June 1971, Harvey asked Lee to organize a drama program hosted by the Memorial Build­ing and managed by a board of directors. From the beginning, though, squabbling within the board dashed hopes for suc­cess. Harvey, irritated that his

curtain rose ~

in 1

Pausing for the camera after the dinner theater's 1972 production of 'Dracula' are cast members (from left) Sandy B':rg, Dan Lissman, Lee Campanelli and Loretta Scott.

dream had been torpedoed so quickly, disbanded the board and turned everything over to Lee.

"I have the building, you have the know-how, and that's all we need," Harvey told him. Lee came from a show business family. His mother was actress­comedienne Marie Call, his ear­lv coach and mentor, and his grandfather was theatrical impresario James H. Call. Lee's first professional appearance was a role in "Under Papa's Picture" when he was 14. His credentials included member­ship in Actors Equity, the American Guild of Variety Artists and the Directors Guild of America.

Today, Lee remembers the first tryout for eight cast mem­hers: not one person showed

up. Within months, though, casting calls were being answered by over 60 aspiring actors from surrounding towns and villages, extending to Youngstown, Alliance, Wells­ville and Pennsylvania.

"Dracula, the Vampire Play," the horror masterpiece Bela Lugosi made famous in 1927 when it opened in Manhattan's Fulton Theater (now the Helen Hayes), was Lee's choice for his first opening. "When no l\>ne came to the tryouts I got on the phone to find a cast." Lee says. "Kay Keslar was in charge of the drama department at Lis­bon High School, and she sent me two young people. I got Mark Arthur of Warren to, reluctantly, agree to take the title role, but he never showed up for rehearsals - or opening

night - and I was forced to take over the part myself."

"We had three different sets, all cardboard, and Harvey found some footlights at the last minute," he recalls. "Some­one had taken the gels for the spotlight, and Kent State wouldn't let us borrow theirs, so someone covered it with blue paint - the spot burst from the heat in the middle of the most dramatic scene." The gymnasium hadn't been reno­vated yet, either, and the prog­rams were makeshift sheets of typing paper, hastily put together that afternoon. Dis­tressed cast members, more apprehensive-by-the-minute, were asking, "Where is Mark Arthur?"

Tum to ENGLER on page 7

By Lois Firestone Elma McGrew Starr was 15

when she started selling seeds for the Templin seed company at Calla. Ella's daughter, Hul­dah Stanley of Barnesville writes us that her mother wrote about those days in her memoirs: "For three years I was agent .. .In 1905 my pay was a 30-piece set of pretty red flowered dishes which was a pleasure to put in an empty cupboard."

Her mother, who was born and raised near Harrisville, Ohio, also kept a letter from the firm written in 1907: "It is our pleasure to ad vise you that through your efforts, which we heartily appreciate, you were successful in securing one of 30 prizes of $6 each in our depart­ment. Thank you for the work you have done. We solicit your cooperation and influence in the future."

Huldah and her husband Ray lived in the county for sev­eral years; Ray worked at the Deming Co. plant for over 30 years. About the dishes her mother received as pay Huldah says that "most of that set of dishes we are now using every day and they are still pretty."

For six years the Stanleys managed the Walton Retire­ment Home near Barnesville and stay in contact with people residing there, including Wil­son Morlan, a longtime Deming employee; and Jesse and Clara Starbuck, former Salem residents.

Are you living in a Sears home? There are dozens scat­tered around the area. We'd like to publish the picture of your house as it looks today, taken. by our photographer, and, if J:OU have it, a photo or drawmg of the original. Interested readers can call Lois at 332-4601, extension 37.

;1~~\9/;C'!i,'!1,

t-.Y esteiyears_'.;~ ~!- A historical jQUma/ : I: ;~f Published 2nd & 4th Tuesday ~~

i(· by the Salem News ,'.)' {~ Founded ~une 8, 1991 ~.V -:. · 161 N. Lmcoln Ave. 'f

~','.· Salem, Ohio 44460 1·;

I.;/ Phone (216) 332-4601 }~

-.::: Thomas E. Spargur {t: , ~;publisher/general manager '~s

f s::~ i editor ~ ;i.{~; ~-

-~.,. Linda Huffer iff;

~;;.,~~?&

Women crowd the counters of one of the first Sears, Roebuck and Co. retail stores in 1925. Previously they had been able to buy only from their "wish book," as the Sears catalog was called.

Sears catalog homes scattered everywhere

By Christopher Wills Associated Press writer

M ILLIONS OF Amerian households are filled

with items ordered from the Sears catalog. The town of Car­linville, Illinois, for instance, boasts an entire neighborhood where the houses themselves came from the Big Book.

As far as anyone knows, the 152 houses on nine blocks that constitute the enclave known as Standard Addition are the world's largest cluster of homes ordered straight out of the Sears catalog.

So the· announcement by Sears, Roebuck and Co. last month that the spring catalog would be its last stirred a parti­cular wistfulness in Carlinville.

"Everybody feels sad this institution and part of America is going to be gone," said Lin­da McGill, who is acting direc-

Paying too much? Get my quote.

For costs, benefits, exclusions, limitations

and renewal terms contact:

RANDALL D. HART

New York life 216-747-0731

YJMY_ Competitive Rates

Form #7756-B

Underwritten by:

Golden Rule Insurance

tor of the Economic Develop­ment Corp. in this town of 5,400 and lives in a Sears home.

Sears sold about 100,000 mail-order houses from 1908 to 1940, primarily in the Midwest and East. For a few thousand dollars, buyers got floor plans, pre-cut lumber, nails, paint, doors, light fixtures - every­thing they needed, all delivered to the nearest railroad station. Sears even provided the mort­gage services.

"It provided us an outlet for everything we offered," said Greg Rossiter, a Sears spokes­man. "If we could sell them a home, we could probably sell them everything that goes in it."

When Standard Oil Co. opened two coal mines near Carlinville 75 years ago, it sud-

Tum to next page ~

SENIOR CITIZEN DISCOUNT

Largest Selection In Area Return To Tlze Visit Tlze Future With Past With "Romantic Our Progressive Victorian Florals" "Designer Graphics."

We're Open Mon. & Thurs. 10-8 Tues.-Wed. & Fri. 10-6; Sat. 10-3

FREE SHOP 90 DAYS SAME AT HOME AS CASH

2347 S. Union (Rt 183) Alliance 2 blocks South of Rt 62

821-4600

[iO\. l VISA !

This is the front cover of the 1908 edition of Modern Homes, the first catalog of mail order homes sold by Sears, Roebuck and co. The most expensive model "the Magnolia," featuring ten rooms, sold for $5,140. Sears is discontinuing its "big book" catalogs which people in this country have perused and ordered from for decades.

This home which could be bought by mail appeared in the 1926 Sears Roebuck catalog.

• HAND CAR WASH & RECONDITIONING

24-Hr. Towing and Road Service

Cars • Trucks • Vans • Campers

Bob McCracken, Owner Theresa Loshinsky, Manager

106 Benton Rd., Salem

24-HOUR DISPATCH (216) 337-3551

What a Pharmacy

Was Meant To Be! Store Hours:

9-6 Mon.-Fri., 9-1 Sat. Offering Free Delivery and

Fast Friendly Service

Yest:eryears 'Tueslfay, Jebruary 9 1993

• IS arren Har prese ed as once was

By Jennifer Brooks Thomson News Service

I F THE HARDING HOME in Marion doses due to lack of

funds, Marion will lose a per­fectly preserved slice of turn­of-the-century America.

President Warren G. Hard­ing's 102-year-old home has been preserved almost intact from the time he and his wife and stepson occupied it.

Visitors can catch a glimpse of Harding quite beyond the paragraph devoted to him -or, more likely, to the Teapot Dome scandal - in history textbooks.

Here is a man who collected toy elephants and liked speech­es so much he built a podium into his front porch. Here is a newspaper publisher who made sure every Marion resi­dent had his or her name in The Marion Daily Star at least once a year. Here is a U.S. pres­ident who let his dog sit in on cabinet meetings. ·

Warren G. Harding built the home, for the then­astronomical sum of $3,700, while he was courting Florence Kling DeWolfe in 1891. They were married in its front hall, at the foot of the stairs, on July 8, 1891.

Florence was a divorced mother, five years older than her suitor. Her first husband, Peter DeWolfe, had abandoned her and their son, Marshall. She was the daughter of Marion's richest resident, Amos Kling, who held a very low opinion of the 26-year-old Harding.

As publisher of the Daily Star, Harding butted heads constantly with Kling. Amos Kling was so disgusted with

his daughter's choice of hus­band, he refused to speak with her for the next 14 years. Not until Harding was elected a U.S. senator did Kling admit that the young man- might amount to something after afl.

This anecdote is just one of thousands tour guide Dick Brown is eager to share with visitors to the Home. There are a thousand stories in the Hard­ing Home - one for every tea­cup, toy elephant and top hat in the building.

Take Harding's front porch, site of the famous Front Porch speeches that helped win him the presidency.

"Harding was a very fine speaker. It was one of his great­est gifts," Brown said. "Even if people didn't agree with what he said, they'd come to hear him. In those days there was no radio, no TV - they came for entertainment."

So fine were Harding's speeches, Brown said, that they were the downfall of the first Front Porch - a much smaller version than the grand white porch that stands today. Dur­ing his campaign for lieutenant governor, Harding gave a par­ticularly good speech from the old porch.

"Well, he must have pumped them up more than usual," Brown said. "Because people started crowding and crowding up on that porch, more and more, and nobody was leaving. And that old porch collapsed right under their feet."

Harding, recognizing that this sort of speech could take him even further than the gov­ernor's mansion, rebuilt the porch in grand style, with a built-in podium, convenient for

American Indians celebrate Little Big Horn monument

By the Associated Press

AMERICAN INDIANS ARE celebrating the new name

of a monument on the banks of the Little Bighorn River where Indians wiped out Custer's troops.

Congress last year approved changing the name from the Custer National Battlefield to the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. Indian leaders demanded the name reflect the Indian victory rather than Custer's legendary last stand.

"Two victories have 'been won here 116 years apart," Lionel Bordeaux, president of Sinte Gleska College in South Dakota, said.

Indians from Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota and Col­orado gathered at the site recently where they formed

color guards and performed songs of victory and ho~?r. During a victory song, partiop­ants danced and fired rifles into the air.

Warriors killed Lt. Col. George Custer and 265 soldiers on June 25, 1876 as the party retreated after attacking a Sioux and Cheyenne village. About 100 Indians died in the battle.

Bordeaux said the warriors fought the Battle of Little Bigh­orn "to protect their homelan~, their way of life and their honor."

The name of the battlefield, 60 miles southeast of Billings, officially changed on Dec. 10, when President Bush signed the bill.

···> Th~ skle!ll N"~Vif s <•···• · · ···. . $ets Results > >·······

speechmaking. So while his speeches continued to bring down the house, the porcn remained intact.

It is difficult for people today to imagine the effect of Hard­ing's presidential campaign on tranquil 1920s Marion. The town's service industries were

completely swamped by the thousands who flocked to curry favor with the candidate.

"There wasn't room for them in the hotels, the restaurants couldn't feed them. (Visitors) slept on people's lawns, in their cars, they brought their lunches in brown bags ... 25,000 people came to one speech - same as the town population," Brown said.

Harding gave more than 40 campaign speeches from his grand front porch, and an esti­mated 600,000 people came to hear.

Inside the house, the greatest men of the era came to call -Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, Andrew Mellon, Harvey Fire­stone, Al Jolson.

Every time one of these dig­nitaries arrived at the Marion train station, the city threw a parade. The city leaders dressed in their best, the local marching band struck up and everyone marched from the train yards to the Harding Home. Along the way, all the lampposts were lighted and decked with bunting.

Almost every object in the home has been preserved from

Restaurant and

Antique Shop 627-9971

Open Mon.-Sat. 6 a.m.to 8 p.m. Sunday 7 a.m. to 3 p.m.

• Homemade Soups and Pies

• Interesting Antiques for the Collector

denly needed homes for its workers. The company ordered what it needed from the 1918 Sears catalog.

Standard Oil erected the houses in Carlinville, in central Illinois, then rented the houses to its workers.

"It's just a real neighbor-

hood, still. It has that old feel­ing," said Danley Vlasich, who recently sold her Sears house after 13 years. "There are young couples with children, and then there are older couples."

The neighborhood has a mass-produced uniformity to it, right down to the standard­issue two trees in the front yards.

The boxy houses have changed over time - an extra room here, an enclosed porch there, some aluminum siding, a red, yellow or blue paint job -but most still have "character that will long retain popular favor," as the catalog put it.

Rooms are small, basements sometimes leak, and most sec­ond floors are unheated, own­ers say. But the houses, which go for $20,000 to $40,000 today, are sturdy and require few

the original Harding estate. The Hardings put all their posses­sions into storage when they left for Washington, and in storage they remained while

~~}· DRUG CO.

337-8727

Serving The Area

Since 1917 and still serving

the nicest people

with "RED CARPET TREATMENT" 229 N. Ellsworth,

Salem, Ohio Monday-Friday 8:30-8

Saturday 8:30-7 Sunday 10-1

Closed Holidays

Free Delivery

repairs. "They're good starter homes.

A lot of people buy them when they're starting a family," said Jean Goodman. She and her husband, Ron, moved into their three-bedroom house 12 years ago with an infant; they now have a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old.

"It would be nice if the house was a little bigger," she said.

Disdained by architects as vulgar jumbles of style, mail­order houses filled the need of thousands who could not afford an architect or builder, according to author Alan Gow~ ans, who examined the subur­ban housing boom from 1890 to 1930 in his book "The Comfort­able House."

Sears had ,competitors in the mail-order house business. The Aladdin Co. of Bay City, Mich., became one of the biggest sup­pliers of homes by mail, selling 3,600 in its best year, 1926. Montgomery Ward & Co. also sold mail-order houses. The Ladies Home Journal became the best-known suptlier of housing plans by mai .

various nieces and nephews fought over the estate for decades after their death.

The home was converted into a museum in 1965.

Stark AfemoriaC: Inc.

1014 E. State St. Salem, Ohio

332-5139 RusselC.loudon

Yes! /would like

Name ____ _

more information Addres~-----­on funeral options and City ____ Code_

your services. TelejJhone. --~----

---------------------

an made • In

Philipp German

Wirsching immigrant

A WIRSCHING ORGAN in Queen of All Saints

Roman Catholic Church in Brooklyn is one of three excep­tional and historic American pipe organs featured on a new CD recording of organ works by the 19th century composer Josef Rheinberger.

Philipp Wirsching built t~e organ in his Salem factory m 1913 expressly for the church which is located along 300 Van­derbilt A venue in the Clinton Hill section of the city. The instrument, which has been in regular use since it was installed by Wirsching, was refurbished in 1988 by exper­ienced, professional organ buil­ders, members of the Organ Historical Society.

Church organist Bruce Ste­vens chose the Salem organ for use in the recording because of its stylistic link to instruments

for which composer Josef Rheinberger wrote his organ sonatas. "Wirsching, its builder learned his craft in Germany during the end of Rheinber­ger's life, and worked with sev­eral great masters of Romantic organ building, including Friedrich Ladegast of W eissen­fels whose organs were known by Rheinberger," Stevens said in an article published on Jan. 11 in Brooklyn's Park Slope Courier.

Stevens said that few if any unaltered and truly romantic organs remain in Germany and in the tiny duchy of Liechtens­tein where Rheinberger was born and served in his teens as organist of a parish church.

The 19th century American organs retained many charac­teristics of classical organs, with brilliant and cohesive ton­al choruses as well as beautiful

• @

al em In use ID r solo stops - most organs built during half of the 20th century aspired to an orchestral nature.

Also, the 19th century organs were better in many ways when compared to earlier clas­sical precursors because the materials and construction of their interior mechanisms were much improved, Stevens says. He adds that they bring to ulti­mate refinement the completely mechanical "tracker"actions

introduced centuries before. Stevens' two previous CDs of

Rheinberger organ sonatas have been praised for their musical authenticity in that the variety of 19th century Ameri­can organs upon which he plays are in complete sympathy with the music - he plays from manuscript or first edi­tions rather than from a popu­lar and later edition prepared and altered from the original by an Englishman.

Volume III of Sonatas for Organ by Josef Rheinberger is on the Raven label and the Organ Historical Society which

is distributed by Albany Records to record stores throughout the country. The CDs are available bv mail for $16.85 postpaid from' the Organ Historical Society at PO Box 26811, Richmond, VA 23261.

The society, a non-profit edu­cational society of 3,500 organ historians, was founded in 1956 to research America's contribu­tions to the art of pipe organ building. The society publishes magazines and books and pro­duces recordings which explore America's pipe organ heritage.

Wirsching was born in Ben­sheim, Germany on Feb. 7, 1858, son of Jacob and Kather­ine Krick Wirsching. After studying for seven years at the gymnasium at Wuerzburg he became an apprentice in an organ building business. Dur­ing his four years there, he con­tinued his studies in mathema­tics and drawing, cultivating a natural mechanical talent which he later utilized in his instrument making.

Leaving his native Germany, he came to Salem in 1886 and

0 lyn opened his organ company two years later. Later, he left the city and worked in Detroit and Chicago for four years.

Returning to Salem, he organized The Wirsching Organ Co. in 1905 with $30,000 in capital stock. William Deming became president; W. W. Mulford, secretary and trea­surer; Wirsching, superinten­dent and vice president; and Delmar Davis, C. C. Snyder, Charles T. Brooks and Walter Deming served on the board of directors.

The business quickly grew and the plant was expanded. Four buildings comprised the complex, including a metal pipe department, voicing sec­tion, erecting room anmd machine shop. Wirsching's building methods, unique from other organ makers, were patented.

Wirsching married a Salem girl, Anna A. White in 1887. The couple had five children, Arthur, Clarence Eddy, Eli­zabeth H., Mary and Charles Philipp.

m m er the Hatfield-McCoy feud? By Martha Bryson Hodel Associated Press Writer

FOR DECADES THE OLD timers in this gritty coal

town knew things about its old timers in this gritty coal town knew things about its dark and bloody past they felt were bet­ter left unsaid. Now they're hoping to tum a skeletons' closet into a tourist payoff.

Helen Dawson, for example. Now 83, she was a 12-year-old girl when she witnessed the assassination of Matewan Police Chief Sid Hatfield and told her father what she saw.

"He told me never to tell," she said. "He said it would put the whole family in danger." All those/ears, she never told.

Hatfiel was a hero to strik­ing coal miners. Coal company agents shot him dead in broad daylight on the steps of the McDowell County Courthouse. That was Aug. 1, 1921.

From that killing erupted the largest of the little-known coal field battles of 1920-21. It ended only after President Warren G. Harding sent federal troops to disperse the miners, about 20,000 of them, who meant to organize a union. By whatever means.

Mrs. Dawson, who now serves as city recorder in near­by Kimball, was but one of many who kept their counsel. What finally loosened their tongues was the 1987 movie "Matewan."

"There was enough violence on both sides that for about the first 20 years after it happened people kept their mouths shut

just because they were afraid of getting shot," said John Sayles, who made the film. "Once you dam up that long, it's tough to get out of the habit."

So silence became a way of life in Matewan, a hard-times town backed up against the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy Riv­er on southern West Virginia's Kentucky border.

"I was 28 before I even heard about any of this stuff," said Margaret Casey, a Matewan businesswoman who was born here well after the coal war.

"Somebody said something about the 'Matewan Massacre' and I said, 'Matewan what?' I knew some of the folks who were tried, but as long as a grandparent or Uncle So-and­So lived, nobody talked."

And not because there wasn't plenty to talk about.

The shooting began on May 19, 1920, after 12 coal company detectives came to town to evict striking miners from their company-owned homes. Hat­field sided with the miners.

As the detectives waited for a train, miners and townspeo­ple led by Hatfield and Mayor Cabell Testerman opened fire from rooftops and second-story windows. The mayor, two min­ers and seven detectives were killed.

The miners and townspeople were found innocent of murder in a sensational trial, but Hat­field and Testerman's succes­sor, Ed Chambers, were ambushed a year later.

So much drama for such a little place.

Today, Matewan is another struggling mountain town of about 620 people. The coal industry, about the only indus­try, is undergoing major tech­nological changes that fre­quently mean layoffs.

But Mayor Johnny Fullen has big dreams. He and others see a future Matewan as a national historic park where visitors can trace the Appalachian past from the Indian inhabitants of about 2,300 years ago through the mountains' industrial rise and fall in the 19th and 20th centuries.

Fullen is convinced visitors will find their way to Matewan even though it's about 100 miles from the nearest Inter­state. In fact, you have to drive 13 miles along a narrow, twist­ing road from the nearest four­lane highway. Still, some are curious enough even now to wander through.

But before the new Matewan can live, Mayor Fullen believes, the old Matewan must die.

"I got a card in the mail that just said, 'Please let the past die.' That's all. No signature," the mayor says.

"But there's a story here to tell and if you get some dis­tance from it, it has a different appearance. The things that happened here were important. This is where people stood up to the coal operators, where things began to change.

'1t's not just our history. It's the history of the industrial age."

Filmmaker Sayles was among the first to tell the tale.

"The media of the time," Sayles says, "painted the Mate­wan Massacre and the mine wars that followed as the work­ings of an out-of-control mob rather than anything like the push-and-shove situation that it was.

"That image has lingered in the memories of peopfe down there."

By 1920, Matewan had already had its share of publici­ty. At the tum of the century, nearly a generation before the mine war, big city reporters descended on the area to write about the famous feud between the Hatfields of West Virginia on one side of Tug Fork and the McCoys of Kentucky on the other.

The feud gave Appalachia a reputation that still lingers.

Tradition has it that the Hatfield-McCoy feud began as a dispute over ownership of a pig and escalated into outright war through some misguided sense of family loyalty by inhe­rently violent people.

Historians say there was more to it than that. They see the feud as a larger dispute over land and its timber and mineral wealth, perhaps the first rumblings of a conflict between an agrarian, self­sufficien t society and the industrial era.

"The Hatfields and McCoys thing has never helped," Sayles says. "It has always been por­trayed as some sort of back­woods feud, when really the causes were as much political and economic as anything."

The Hatfields and the McCoys were not illiterate peo­ple, Sayles says. "Those fami­lies were some of the most important people in the area."

The 1987 release of "Mate­wan" was a turning point for many residents, who for the first time saw their history por­trayed in a sympathetic, even heroic, light.

Referring to the coal com­pany "detectives," Sayles says, "There were things that the Baldwin-Felts agents had done, things so Simon Legree-ish that if I had put them into the screenplay for 'Matewan' no one would have believed it."

For example, he said, com­pany agents intercepted a Red Cross shipment of milk intended for the children of striking miners and added kerosene.

"Other people told us about growing up in a coal camp where owners and supervisors would just shoot through the coal camps to show them who was boss," Sayles says. "That kind of fear is hard to grow out of."

Company-owned coal camps, as they were called, sur­rounded Matewan, which was an independent community. In the coal camps, company con­trol was total.

Owners told their employees where to live and where to spend their money, often pay­ing wages in company scrip that could only }:)e spent at the company store. The companies

Turn to FEUD pg 8

Ron Riegler (left) and Roger Gonda perform in the 1970s production of 'The Sunshine Boys.'

Lee Engler presents ~uth Law wi~h the. Director's Special Award for her work m the theater, mcludmg make up duties.

2?.gceive ']'Csteryears the Secona ana :Fourth 'Tuesaay

every month When you su&scribe to

S a{em :J\(g,ws

Ca{{ 332-4601 Start receiving aff the ~ws

Past - Present - :Future

aeaveremyour aoor aai!y.

C.)~E l l ;-.~ .y,;F:;:( Engler ~s:, ..

..,.;.£>;;Continued from page 1 g,9< · ~<"<~··· v.>..;.,,;··

·:~~µ· Lee Eng_ler and John Kenley pause during a Kenley Players production. Engler was associated with Kenley for W years.

The first production was dedicated to Carmen McNicol, a major patron of the theater, and David Macry had been eager to act as master of cere­monies to introduce her. Sud­denly he panicked, forgetting the tribute he'd carefully pre­pared lauding the "lady of the theater and patroness of the arts." Later, his memory restored, he pulled it off with elegance and wit, according to Lee.

Because he inundated news­papers and town bulletin boards with publicity about the opening, Lee was concerned that people might expect more than they were going to get. Bu_t the audience responded to the story about the Transylva­nian count. They liked the "dia­bolical" touches: the registered nurses standing by to revive watchers who might be fright­ened to death, and the casket in the lobby, transported backs­tage later for the final scene. The eveni~g wasn't costly; $3 bought a ticket for the dinner and play. Later, when the diners were moved downstairs to the stage area, prices went up to $6.

In 1976, restauranteer Harold Jones hired Lee to produce and direct a year-round profession-

al dinner theater in his night­club, Heaven, along Youngs­town's Fifth A venue. It was the first of its kind in the city. The first production was a Neil Simon comedy, "The Last of the Red Hot Mamas" which opened on March 30, 1976. Lee took along four of his resident players from the Salem theater: Roger Gonda, Toni Manzetti, Barb Hoyt and Penny Lane.

That same year he opened another year-round dinner the­ater at Rgbert Lolli's Supper Club alortg State Street in Alliance. Later, he signed con­tracts with Holiday Inn and Ramada Inn - six hotels in Ohio and three in Pennsylvania - and set out the initial shows and assigned detail directors for the productions.

For a time, he directed sum­mer stock productions for David Fulford at Canal Fulton. "The theater was in an· old barn," he says, "and the roof leaked so bad that people had to put newspapers on their heads. Skunks were every­where. We had a theater in the round, and I worked with Dor­othy Gish, Fay Bainter, Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca. Eve Arden- was a favorite of mine."

When Fulford heard that Loblaw's markets were moving

• Wall to wall carpeting • Clubhouse with game and party room • Walk·in closets ·Complete laundry in each building ·Appliances, air conditioning • Security patrol and electric security system • Swimming pool, tennis courts • limited number of aprts. with balconies

OPEN EVERY DAY 11 :00-5:00 Sor : No Pets

out of a building in Ravenna, his backers, the Timken daughters from Canton, bought it and opened the Carousel Dinner Theater there. Lee went along to direct Fulford's stars, among them Allen Jones, Jo Anne Worley, Robert Cum­mings, Joseph Cotten and Patri­cia Medina. Often, Lee would take local actors to meet the performers: one of the dozens of news clippings he's kept shows a photo of Jo Anne Wor-

Tum to next page ~=

Arbaugh-Pearce

RAY J. GREENISEN 332•4401 OWNER

PERSONAL RECORDS & P ING BOOK

Because your last wishes are so important

~~:!'' - I

FREE 1·· ,) l'r1··f').>ll\Ulll

T1::·1~ 1 ~::::,"i:1/'.;~~~ll I ~ .,)• 1, ....... .i "'""""'""'""'"'""' '.\::·,;_·:_:._:_:_:·.>·' y .. ur l.umly will ll••1•.! ,. :

.1fkr vou"r,• 'l"I\" 1,,.,.1,.,.,, of v1t.1l p.lL"'fS. w1lb. \,,1uk ,l((O!Jnl\. Ul\tH,l•K•' /J.\jWo\, !" ... !.•t I ti> .. f.,11r1•i pou .. !oh

ll\h vi !J,..ud~ ,Hu] ro·l .. 11vl'> J., .... ., 1,, 1i.,· '"·Jllc-,1 •i<1Jd'

W<lh ptu;i\l" l\Ulll\"'f~ ,11111 n .. u .. ~r ~""' f.,_1,,ll;•

,,d.i1~•\\··~. plus Y"'L' l,\\1 .. 1 "'""\ ·'''I • , .... ·" 1 ........

'"'l'll'\I\

DO !hi~ for the rnw-... \'tlU l1w~'

"'pi;a; ~nd v°';: - - - - - - - - - - - - - -0 The Family Personal Record Book 0 Information on tnflalion-Proof Funeral Pre-Plan 0 Information about funeral oosts, proo:tdures 0 Book on Social Security & Medicare

, _____ ___;.•p ___ _

Judith Waugh production.

ley with Lee and Salem actors when she appeared in "Good­bye, Charlie" at the Carousel.

He was elated when Fulford signed Josephine Hull and Jean Adair to pfa.y their original roles of the sisters and Bela Lugosi the Boris Karloff part of the brother in "Arsenic and Old Lace." It never happened, though, because Lugosi died of morphine poisoning a few weeks before the opening. Then Lon Chaney of "Wolfman" fame took over the role. Cha­ney was another old film great, and Lee was excited about directing him. However, Cha-

built the schools and hired the teachers.

David Corbin, a West Virgi­nia historian who has written two books about the mine wars, said he grew up ignorant of his state's history, including the shootings at Matewan.

"Our real history was bur­ied/' he says. "First shame, then ignorance, kept it buried."

John Alexander Williams, a historian at Appalachian State University in Boone, N.C., who is working with Mayor Fullen, says his plan for Matewan' s historical redevelopment includes a theater for regular screenings of "Matewan."

The film, he says, depicts the events leading to the shootout "with a seriousness and dignity too rarely seen in film and tele­vision treatments of Appalac­hian people."

.~(;~~fq\ ":;;:)~ ··>..;'.'> "~1~~·gcontinued from page 7£.§f:r .:.;~!~7

ney died of Parkinson's Disease a few weeks before the play date. They finally chose Peter Lupus of "Mission Impossible" fame who stayed healthy throughout the run.

Lee's association with John Kenley and his Kenley Players summer stock continued for 20 years, starting out at the 3,000-seat War Memorial build­ing in Columbus, and then in the 2,000-seat · Packard Music Hall in Warren. Later, a hall in Dayton was added to produc­tion sites.

The 1972 season with Kenley was typical. Ann Miller starred

"Cinematic treatments of the Hatfields and McCoys in parti­cular and mountain people i.n general tend to run to comic­strip stereotypes."

Williams' plan calls for a park much like the one at Har­pers Ferry, near Washington, D.C., where people and businesses mingle with the historic.

The Army may help. The Corps of Engineers plans to build a floodwall around Mate­wan, protecting the town from the ravages of the Tug Fork.

The Tug is mostly a stream where kids can wade on an August afternoon. But 36 times in the last 43 years, the Tug Fork has crippled Matewan. -

Williams' plan would take visitors from pre-history to the first exploration from Virginia by Robert Fallam, who turned

:Yest:eryears 1uuiay, 'February 9 1993

in "Can Can," Joel Grey in "1776," Jane Powell in "Meet Me in Saint Louis," Gordon McRae, Kaye Ballard and Patri­cia Morrison in "Milk and Hon- Twirling a parasol in the dinner theater production of 'Char­ey," John Davidson in "Oklaho- ley's Aunt' is Dolores Volio while Eloise Miller stands in the ma," and Bobby Vinton and background. Ruth Buzzi in "Good News." Comedy shows featured Karen Valentine, Ben Murphy, Lyle Waggoner, Bill Bixby, Gary Collins, Mary Ann Mobley and Phyllis Diller.

Meanwhile, the Memorial Building's Engler Productions flourished, until it was the largest semi-professional thea­ter in the tri-state area.

To be continued

back at present-day Matewan in 1671 when he found "moun­tains and hills rising like waves one piled upon the other."

Wflliams also proposed a portrayal of the Hatfield­McCoy feud "emphasizing the events and personalities of this famous series of :ncidents, but also the social and environmen­tal history of the pre-industrial inhabitants of the valley."

Fullen and Matewan Deve­lopment Center Director Paul McAllister Jr. believe Matewan and its residents will benefit most, however.

"People have been so beaten down by the constant, count­less negative images of this area that they're almost embarrassed to admit they're from down here," McAllister said.

This photo of Lee Engler was taken when he waS' director and producer of the Memorial Building Dinner Theatre.