CHARLES EDWARD KROTH
by
Stella Kroth Manuel


     They have asked me to write of our father, Charles Edward Kroth, who was the oldest of the six Kroth boys. He was born, at Easton, Kansas, near Leavenworth, June 22, 1858.
     Leaving his family home to start on his own he spent a year working around and in the mines of Colorado where they obtained ore. Speaking of those days he often mentioned Leadville and Cripple Creek.
     On July 9, 1882, he married Margaret Nicholas. They lived in the Avoca district not far from his old home place.
     Twelve years later, they and we five children moved north into the Bucks Grove community. Our farm was a mile east of the Bucks Grove Church.
     Charles Kroth, or C. E. Kroth, as he would always write as his signature, was a man of integrity. The dictionary explains integrity as a noun meaning uprightness, virtue, honesty, soundness.
     He was a combination of all those. I can't recall any of we children having to be taught honesty the hard way, for that was his creed and he knew no other.
     He planted a big garden but think he would be classified as a horticulturist, first, for he was always buying and planting fruit trees, berry bushes and strawberry plants.
     I can still recall the large apple orchard, various peach orchards, for the peach tree lives only a short time, the two rows of cherry trees, plum and pear trees, raspberry, blackberry, gooseberry and currant bushes. And come September grape vines hung heavy with fruit. A long row of mulberry trees, there when we bought the place, served as a windbreak. Though they bore heavily, we kids felt they were for the birds, having so much other fruit to our liking.
     And watermelons, well a summer wasn't complete without them. Quite some distance from the house, a low spot near a slough was his favorite melon ground. He would tell how the darkies said to plant watermelons May 10 before sun-up.
     I well remember going along and dropping the seed. In the late summer when we children would each start to tote one home, and if sometimes a Tom Watson or a Keckley Sweet (accidently?) slipped out of our grasp, it was by no means wasted.
     We lived on a main road, now known as Highway 16, and south of our house across the road and extending on east were long rows of maple trees making an ideal camping spot for the many, many covered wagons that were continually crossing westward. This grove belonged to the J.S. (Jerry) Bottom farm. We children could hardly wait until the people broke camp and started on their way the next morning in order for us to see if they left or dropped anything of value. All I can remember were half-burned sticks, ashes, and egg shells. But it was fun, and maybe another time!


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