Mrs. Mary Knierim Kuck

Mrs. Mary Knierim Kuck Values Old Friends Above All; Recalls Early Days in New Knoxville, Particularly the Escapades of Marvin Kuhns, Horse Thief and Murderer

“There are no friends like old friends,” is the experience of Mrs. Mary Knierim Kuck, widow of the late George W. Kuck of New Knoxville.  To have been life-long friends themselves, and then to have their own children continue a like friendship until death parted them, is the experience of Mrs. Mary Knierim Kuck and Mrs. Caroline Lutterbeck Eversman, two of New Knoxville’s oldest residents. 

Mrs. Mary Knierim Kuck was born April 16,1869 on what is today the Ferdinand Meckstroth farm 2-1/2 miles north of New Knoxville.  She was the oldest of a family of 14 children.  “I was so badly needed at home.  I went to school on and off until I was confirmed at the age of 14.  I walked those 2-1/2 miles to New Knoxville, and many are the dozens of eggs that I carried there on Saturday mornings.  I attended the former Lutterbeck school near by.”

Her own mother died when she (her mother) was 34 years old, after twins had been born.  The twins died several days later.  Her mother, she recalled, was born on the ocean while her parents were on their way to America.  Mrs. Kuck was 6 years old when her mother died and just faintly remembers when her mother’s casket stood in their home.  Her father remarried a year later.  When she was no longer needed at home she began “working out” at their neighbor, precisely, at the home of the late Henry Lutterbeck just across from the Lutterbeck school.  Their daughter Caroline Lutterbeck was about the same age and a life-long friendship developed between them.   It was not long and both girls had boy friends.  To make it still more interesting their boy friends were buddies, and would come calling on their girl friends together, George W. Kuck calling on Mary Knierim and Henry W. Eversman calling on Caroline Lutterbeck.  “O, we had great times together.  My husband had the first “Star” bicycle around there, the kind with a real tall wheel in front and a small one in the back.  George Wellman had one with the large wheel in the back.  My husband and B. E. Cook pedaled these contraptions all the way to Sidney a couple of times.  But anyhow, Mr. Kuck and Mr. Eversman would come together, and what wonderful times we four had together.  Sometimes they would bring us candy or bananas or peanuts, all of which were a real treat in those days.   Mr. Kuck and I were married in April, 1889.  We planted potatoes together in the morning and in the afternoon, we drove to Pastor Kuckherman and were married.  Then Caroline Lutterbeck and Henry Eversman said, “If you get married, then we’ll get married, too.”  So the very next month they were married.  Mr. and Mrs. Henry Eversman raised three boys, Ferdinand Eversman of New Knoxville, and the late Julius and Sylvanus, also both of New Knoxville.  Mr. Kuck and I raised three boys also, Harry Kuck, Reinhart Kuck and Ferdinand Kuck.  Caroline Eversman is a widow today, and so am I.  To this day we are very close friends and never once had any trouble between us.  Our sons, (Ferd Kuck and Sylvanus Eversman) were life long friends until Sylvanus died this past January.  I think this is so unusual,” Mrs. Kuck mused.

We asked Mrs. Kuck about the nick-names by which her sons are well known around New Knoxville, and if she liked it.  She laughed and indicated that the giving of nick names to which the New Knoxville community was given years ago “was not nice.  I don’t think that it’s nice at all.  Sometimes it’s very cruel.  I am glad that they don’t do that so much any more,” she said seriously.  No, she said she wouldn’t mind at all if I mentioned those of her sons, “since they’ve had them so many many years.”  Harry Kuck is familiarly known as “Boss,” Reinhart Kuck as “Sky” or “Skyhook,” and Ferd Kuck as “Stub.”

“And how did they get them?”  “Well, while Harry worked the local brickyard he was in charge of something at the yard.  They started calling him “Boss,” and he’s gone by that name ever since.  When Reinhart worked at the brickyard as a young boy some one sent him to Hoge’s factory to get a skyhook.  At Hoge’s factory some one told him “some one from New Bremen borrowed ours.  They may have one at Meckstroth’s garage.”  So he went there asking for it.  About that time somebody couldn’t keep a straight face anymore and Reinhart realized that he was on a wild goose chase.  Ever since that he’s been “Sky” or “Skyhook.”  When Ferd was just a boy yet, they were one day playing some kind of game.  I don’t know the name of it.  You kept the end of your stick in a shallow hole in the ground.  There was also a hole in the center of the ring.  One person would try to get a ball or something into that middle hole and others would try to bat the ball away.  The person in the middle would try to occupy the other person’s place.  Well, Ferd broke the stick he was using and in his excitement said,--“Look, I can’t play anymore.  I only have a stub left.”  And since then they’ve called him “Stub.”  But Mrs. Kuck believes that people should be called by the names given them at baptism.

She recalled the threshing and well drilling days of her husband, first in partnership with the late William Eversman and later the late George Lutterbeck.  In the neighborhood of 175 wells were drilled by these partners in the general area, of which number 30 are artesian.  The latter are in the village itself and are believed to have their source in the underground river that flows from the mountains in the Carolinas up to the Great Lakes.  The water supply of the city of St. Marys is also obtained from this underground river.   

Asked about “exciting recollections” in her life time, she related the Marvin Kuhns escapades which took place in the fall of 1890 and her husband’s connection therewith.  Marvin Kuhns had engaged in a terrorizing shooting escapade in the village.  After a brief initial encounter with only one shot fired by him, he was ordered to leave town.  This he promised to do.  But on second thought he returned and decided to shoot up the town.  He menaced every one in sight, shooting near this one and that one, but apparently being careful to hit no one.  He deliberately shot right over the head of one citizen, scaring him half to death.  He knocked another one off his feet with his fist, shooting near him at the same time, making it appear as if that person had actually been shot.  By this time the villagers were running for their guns, but the desperado had also slipped away, on horse back.  That night a warrant was issued for his arrest.  The village constables were detailed to serve the summons.  The next morning, armed with legal summons and otherwise, they went forth to bring him in.  They found the desperado where they expected him, at the home of a friend on the Washington pike.  The gun man was in the act of dressing when they arrived, received the men courteously and consented to go peacefully along with them, but asked for time to dress up.  Waiting a little while outside, they suspected they had been tricked and began walking around the house.  They saw Mr. Kuhns in the orchard headed for the timbers.  However, they were able to persuade him to go with them to New Knoxville, which he did.  In the “court-room” the marshal, singlehanded, informed the gunman that it was the wish of the court that he be searched for arms.  In answer Mr. Kuhns sprang to his feet and with back to the wall, brandished two evil looking weapons and commanded everyone to move out.  All obeyed promptly, pell mell, helter skelter.  Mr. Kuhns came out last, shooting into the air as he emerged from the court room.  He untied his horse with one hand and kept the other on his gun, firing occasional warning shots.  The local officers fired at him point blank but it all seemed to have been a case of no hits and many errors.  Thereupon the gunman drove furiously out of town, headed for Botkins, no one having either the horse or the courage to follow.  For some of this information we are indebted to George Kattman.  And now comes Mrs. Kuck’s part of the story.

At that identical moment when Kuhns was fleeing out of town, headed for Botkins, George Kuck and  William Eversman were returning from seeing a customer out Botkins way.  Both were on horse back and both carried loaded shotguns, hoping to encounter quail along the highway.  They saw Mr. Kuhns coming pell mell towards them.  They recognized him, but didn’t know what had happened.  They looked at Kuhns.  Kuhns looked at them.  They passed each other.  They looked back but kept going.  Kuhns looked back but kept going.  And that was that.  Not till they got to New Knoxville did they realize the significance of that chance meeting.  It was when Mr. Kuck got home that “excitement that we’ll never forget” reigned in the Kuck household.  “We didn’t eat much supper that night!” Mr. Kuhns, it turned out, was a notorious horse thief, later was convicted of murdering his male companion-in-horse-thievery, escaped from jail, was recaptured, was sent to the Ohio State penitentiary, received a pardon, lived respectably for a while, reverted to horse stealing and was finally killed by pursuing officers.

Mrs. Kuck lives quietly and alone at her home in New Knoxville, is a faithful church member, and likes to have her sons as well as her 6 grandchildren and 4 great-children visit.

NOTE:  An extensive account of the wild escapades and the eventual demise of Marvin Kuhns begins on page 100 of the 1936 New Knoxville Centennial publication written by Mr. George Kattman.  Reprints of this publication are available from the New Knoxville Historical Society.