To all interested Woolsey family members: The Reverend William Bonaparte Woolsey lived south of the Nolachucky River in Greene County, Tennessee. He married Alice Bird and had a large family. His grandson, a missionary to India, Rev. Paul Woolsey, wrote of the Woolseys in his book GOD - A HUNDRED YEARS and A FREE WILL BAPTIST FAMILY, a copy of which was graciously sent to me by Rachel Brewer, of Florida, for which I am most grateful. I particularly enjoyed the following story from the book: p. 27 ff. "Southern Hospitality" was not a mere phrase or just a custom, but a Christian privilege in this home. Although the home was situated away from the thoroughfares, agents, now and then a traveler, sometimes a sight seer and visitors of various types and occupations made their way to the valley through which Little Lick Creek (known locally as "Mud Crick") ran and on which the Woolsey home was located. At least one home would be open to them. On one occasion just before dusk, three home missionaries of the Mormon or Latter Day Saints' Church appeared and made inquiries about lodging for the night. Father Woolsey bade them welcome but made the condition that they should refrain from any discussion of their beliefs before his family. They agreed and accordingly soon were sitting down to an old fashioned supper that Mother Woolsey could so well prepare. It was early winter and had been "threatening" rain all day. While they were sitting around the large open fireplace enjoying its warmth, the rain came with a rush. It was true that the Mormons had agreed to be silent about their beliefs but they had been sent out for that very purpose and surely no one, particularly one who had proven such a genial host, could expel them on such an impossible night. Therefore they soon began their "mission work" on the whole family. Father Woolsey sat quietly listening for a few minutes, then arose, opened the door and bade them be gone. At first there seemed to be some inclination to question his decision; however they were soon set right and were on their way over the muddy roads on a dark, rainy, cold winter night. End of story: Though one can sympathize with the tired, cold, and hungry missionaries, I'm afraid I am with the Reverend on this occasion. The missionaries had agreed not to preach and they should have kept their word. Their word should not have been overturned by their zeal. I wonder, as that story has been told by the family, down through the years, how the Woolsey family members were affected by the actions of those Mormon missionaries. I also wonder how they would have been affected by the telling of the story if the missionaries had kept their word. Sometimes it doesn't take much to affect an individual or an entire family, for generations. It would have been much nicer to read, that after dinner, the good Reverend shoved back his chair, and then noting that the missionaries had kept their part of the bargain, said something like, "Boys, tell us about that Mormon Church of yours. Do you really have ten wives each? Now you can tell us something about yourselves." The above story reminded me of a story my father used to tell about his "Mormon mission" in Montana. In those days (1917), they went "without purse or scrip", meaning they paid their own way and hoped that people in the neighborhood would give them food and shelter for their daily needs. He and his companion were trudging down a snowy, wind-blown country road, asking for an evening meal and shelter for the night, at each house they came to. But were rebuffed, sometimes politely, sometimes not, everywhere they went. It was growing dark and getting much colder. After being turned down again, my father resolved that they had to have shelter at the very next place they came to, so he said to his companion, "Let me ask at the next house, we've got to get in out of this cold!" His companion agreed. After walking about a mile, they saw the warm comforting lights of a house, which they approached with quickening steps. They turned off the road, and walked down a little lane, across the yard, up the steps, onto the porch and my father knocked on the door. A big, dour-looking man, with a scowl on his rugged face, pulled the door open, and demanded, "Whadda you want?" My father, a big burly man himself, stepped right up to that gentleman, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "We are two ringy-tailed, horned Mormon polygamists from Utah and we need a place to stay this winter night!" The homeowner's eyes opened in surprise, his features softened and he grabbed my father's hand and shook it, pulling him into the house at the same time. "Wal, I'll be danged," he said. "I've wanted to talk to you boys for some time about that church. Come in. Come in. You're welcome here." Of course, my father and his companion were not polygamists. It had been outlawed some years before, and they were only 19 years old. The "horned" reference was to the current rumors that "Mormons" had tails and horns which they kept concealed. But that bold approach worked for them that night. Holiday wishes to each and everyone. Sincerely, Wilford W. Whitaker