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The second oldest of four boys born to Frank "Pap" and Mabel 'Mum" Byerle Kelbaugh, Roy Kelbaugh was born in New Brighton and lived there continuously until 1976 when he retired to North Carolina. This is the third group of the many stories he would tell about the family and his own experiences. (Part 1 - The Early Years appeared in the Autumn 2001 issue of Milestones. Part 2 - Growing Up appeared in the Summer 2002 issue.)

It was August 7, 1929, and as usual for a Wednesday, Roy closed his barber shop promptly at noon. He walked the short distance along 9th Street hill in New Brighton to the home of his girl friend, Tina VanKirk. She was the daughter of Charlie VanKirk, Roy's mentor in the barbering trade, and she and Roy had been "going steady" for about a year. This, they had decided, was the day they would elope. Roy drove his Whippet roadster to pick up their witnesses, his close friend Harold Bucklin, and Tina's twin sister Catherine. The four young people then drove across the state line to Wellsburg, WV, where no waiting period was required. There they quickly found a Baptist minister who agreed to perform a small, private ceremony immediately in the parlor at the parsonage.

RR crossing at 5th Street and 5th Avenue,
New Brighton, looking West, in the early 1920s.

That evening, back in New Brighton, Roy parked the car at the curb next to his parents' home at the comer of 11th Avenue and 7th Street, and he and Tina slowly walked along the sidewalk toward the front porch where Mum and Pap were sitting. Pap called out a greeting and invited the young folks to come on up and sit down. As they climbed the steps to the porch Roy said, "We have something to tell you. We just got married." The news caused Mum to quickly burst into tears. Pap was slower and more constrained with his reaction. Eventually he said, "Kids, this is going to be a lifetime job. Do you know what you've done?" Roy quickly answered, "Yes, I think we do." Pap thought a few more seconds before replying. "I doubt it."

The next year, Roy and Tina became parents of their first child, a boy whom they named James William, after Roy's grandfather. Around 1934, Roy and Tina and young Jim moved into the same apartment on 9th Street, New Brighton where Tina's family had lived when Roy first met her. About the same time, Roy got a dog - a big black water spaniel that Tina named Nemo, after the captain in Jules Verne's novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Nemo had more strength and energy than most dogs, and Roy soon learned it was best to keep him tied to a large mulberry tree in the back yard. Roy's younger brother, Tay, then in high school, would often stop by the apartment or the barber shop to visit. One day, at Roy's suggestion, Tay hopped on his bicycle to take Nemo for some exercise. He fastened the dog's leash to the handlebar and started pedaling down the street. Soon he realized he was wasting his effort, as Nemo was pulling the bike faster than Tay could make the pedals go. So he just let the dog pull him around the neighborhood while he sat back and enjoyed the ride. Over time this became a regular routine, and Nemo took to it so well that Tay once allowed the dog to tow him all the way to Brady's Run, where they both took time out for a swim. Nemo probably got a lot more exercise than he wanted, but Tay surely had great fun!


A light snow had begun falling just before dawn. While the men rode out to Brady's Run and spent the rest of the morning hunting, the snow continued to fall. They didn't even see much game that morning, much less bag any. So, even as the snow continued in earnest, they went further out to another location, hoping for better results. In those days Brady's Run Road hadn't yet been paved, so the snow presented a greater challenge than it would today, particularly in low areas where water running off the hills would wash gullies across the roadway. They drove through more than one of those washes that morning, but they didn't think anything of it at the time.

As the day wore on the temperature kept dropping, and the snow kept failing and piled even deeper. The wildlife, exhibiting more sense than the men, stayed under cover and was nowhere to be seen. Young Jim felt miserably cold and wet, and was ready to "call it a day" long before the men decided it was time to head back. When they finally reached the car, Jim quickly jumped into the back seat and huddled up in a wool lap robe his grandfather kept there. The men unloaded their guns, stowed them away, and stomped the snow off their boots. They shook the snow off their caps and brushed it from their shoulders, Roy's red and black Woolrich jacket, and Charlie's khaki-colored canvas one with the corduroy collar. Both jackets had a large pocket in the back for carrying game, but both were empty that day. Roy started the car and slowly pulled onto the road, as Jim thought of the warm house and splendid dinner awaiting them. Shortly Roy said, "The car seems to be steering awfully hard, and it keeps pulling to one side. Something's not right." He came to a stop and said to Charlie, "You get out and watch the wheels on your side, and tell me if they're turning or not." Charlie got out and Roy slowly moved the car farther down the road. He stopped again and asked Charlie what he saw. "You're right, Roy. Neither one of these wheels is turning. What would cause that?"

Roy thought a bit, then said, "I'll bet you the brake pads are frozen to the drums. We went through a lot of water this morning. Just get back in." Charlie climbed back into the car and Roy drove a little farther, alternately pumping the brake pedal and holding it down as they went. Again he pulled to a stop and said, "This isn't working. If we keep going like this, by the time we get to the hard road your brake lining will be shot, and maybe your tires, too. We've got to find a way to thaw out those brakes." Charlie asked, "How are we going to get them warm enough to thaw?" Roy thought a moment then said, "Well, the only thing I can think of is, let's p_ on them!" With that they all got out of the car. Each man stood next to a wheel, unbuttoned his pants, and sent a warm yellow stream onto and around the brake mechanisms. When they had finished, young Jim took aim to add his small contribution. They all got back in the car and waited. Minutes later Roy started the car again, shifted into gear, then happily announced, "That did it! They're free!"

By this time every one of them was chilled to the bone and, despite the severe warning from the ladies, no one was ready for the long, cold drive home. So Roy headed for his Uncle Ed Kelbaugh's farm, less than a mile away. He pulled up next to the barn and they quickly headed for the house, trampling through more wet snow as they went. Memory of the conversation in the farmhouse has faded long ago. Jim remembers only how good it felt to remove some wet clothes, especially his shoes and socks, and huddle close to the coal stove in the sitting room. In due time they bundled up again and trudged out to the car. On the way back to town the men worked out a story to tell the ladies about why they were so late for dinner.

Pap's eldest sister Stella married Wiley Frame. Like Pap and his brothers and sisters, Wiley was born and raised on a farm in Jackson County, West Virginia, then migrated to New Brighton in search of employment. After their wedding, Wiley and Stella stayed in New Brighton for a while but, farmer at heart, about 1930 he took Stella and their younger daughter Margaret back to West Virginia and the farming life. Elder daughter Edra graduated from NBHS with Roy in the class of 1928, and had a good job by then. So she remained behind for several years. Later, like so many others, she lost her job in the Great Depression, and she then joined her parents on their farm.

Uncle Wiley's farm was one of the places where members of the extended family would stay during annual trips to the Kelbaugh Reunion in Parkersburg, WV, each Labor Day weekend. An interesting attraction on Uncle Wiley's farm was his dog Bosco, a mixed breed of collie and chow. Bosco's main claim to fame was his ability as a squirrel dog. Wiley would take Bosco to the woods and turn him loose. The dog would quickly run into the forest and in a short while would start barking with obvious excitement. The men would just follow the sound. When they found him, Bosco would be staring up into a tree, excitedly wagging his tail. All that was left for them to do was follow the dog's eyes upward to spot a squirrel, waiting to be picked off with a shotgun.

During World War 11, the tremendous increase in demand for raw materials and other resources brought on by the war effort required that many common commodities and products be rationed among the civilian population. For example, families were limited to two pairs of shoes annually per person, and the purchase of each pair required a ration stamp. Stamps were issued to heads of households based upon the number of household members. Roy and Tina's younger child, Christine, was born just prior to the start of the war, and so she was beginning a period of rapid growth when rationing began. Likewise, son Jim was a young teenager experiencing similar growth. Roy often said of those days that every time the family would qualify for a shoe stamp Christine or Jim had outgrown their old shoes and needed new ones. As a consequence, Roy had to have his old work shoes resoled time after time, and the war was nearly over and rationing had ended before he finally got a new pair.

About 1953, as he approached his mid-40's, Roy came down with a strange illness that defied medical diagnosis. Never a heavy man, he gradually lost weight, grew weak and listless, took on a pallid complexion, and suffered frequent periods of nausea, amid other symptoms of physical disorder. Trips to doctors and hospitals in Beaver Valley and Pittsburgh yielded no definitive answers. Eventually his symptoms progressed to the point that he had lost much weight and was physically unable to work. It was then that his doctor referred him to the Cleveland Clinic for evaluation and diagnosis. Extensive tests there still showed nothing conclusive. At one point the doctors were convinced he had some sort of tropical disease and, supposing he was a war veteran, they pursued a line of questions to determine where he had been stationed. Eventually the doctors at the clinic diagnosed the problem as an undefined disorder of the central nervous system, most likely to be multiple sclerosis. But they even had reservations about that diagnosis and stated that if it were MS, he should expect the symptoms to get progressively worse. (That never occurred, and years later other doctors totally discounted that diagnosis.)

Over the next six months or more Roy was seen at the Cleveland Clinic many times. On each visit he was subjected to new examinations and tests, given many pills, and told to return in a month. Each time he returned he would be told to discard the old pills, begin taking new ones, and return in another month. After several such trips he finally announced that he would not be back again.

On his next visit to the family's physician, Dr. A. E. Chadwick, Roy was asked how things had gone in Cleveland. "Doc", he said, "I don't think those people and their pills are doing me any good at all, and I told them I'm not going back." After more questions and some reflection, Dr. Chadwick told Roy that he couldn't blame him for the decision. He added that, in his opinion, one cause of Roy's debilitation was he didn't have enough flesh covering his nerve endings, and he thought Roy would never recover until he gained some weight. Roy asked what he could do about that, and the doctor suggested he drink a chocolate malted milk shake every day. As soon thereafter as he was able, Roy began a daily routine of walking several blocks to the local drugstore for a milk shake at the soda fountain. He also began a series of visits to a chiropractor for regular spinal adjustments.

Then one summer day in 1955 a violent thunderstorm passed through town bringing with it much lightning and thunder. A lightning bolt hit a transformer on a utility pole at the end of the block where Roy was living, causing a tremendous noise and much flashing and sparking. Power lines broke loose and fell to the street, and the air was filled with the smell of electricity. Almost immediately Roy felt uncharacteristically energized, to the point that he invited daughter Christine to walk with him to the comer to have a "look-see".

Soon after that incident Roy had recovered sufficiently that he was released by the doctors and was allowed to return to work for the first time in nearly two years. From that day on his health steadily improved, and he always maintained that the lightning strike was the turning point in his healing. For the remainder of his life he was bothered by stiffness in the back, pains in his joints with changes in the weather, a somewhat unsteady gait, and slight finger numbness. But the other symptoms completely disappeared, and he worked continuously at the steel mill for another 20 years until 1975, when he retired at age sixty-five.

Roy and Tina were married for over 65 years, until Tina's death on Dec. 28, 1994. During her funeral service at Campbell's Funeral Home in New Brighton, when the minister invited family members to share final reflections on her life with those who had gathered, Roy, then halfway into his 85' year, struggled to his feet and made these comments:

"I hardly know what to say on such an auspicious occasion. Tina was my wife, my best friend, and my life. I'll miss her. When I was courting Tina, I would go to her house. She would sit down and play the piano, and I would sit there and listen to her playing for two hours or more. Finally she'd stop and say, 'I'm sorry; I've been ignoring you.' I told her, 'It's all right, Honey, I was with you every minute.'"