R. J. Funkhouser (1885-1965)
The
Lord of the Manse
(A web site on R. J.
Funkhouser is at http://www. libraries.wvu.edu/funkhouser)
R.
J. Funkhouser was probably 20th century Jefferson County’s greatest
legend. A leading Charles Town resident
and banker once observed that: “before R.J. came to town, there was nothing
here in the way of big business or industry.”
“R. J.” launched Ranson and restored five decaying Washington homes.
Born
in 1885 in Cherry Run, WV, and growing up at his father’s prosperous store on
the railroad tracks in Big Pool, MD, he became a lifelong dream-achiever. There and later working as a telegraph
operator at the Shenandoah Junction train station, R. J. felt called to a bigger life stage “Somewhere,” whence
came the whistling trains, their smartly dressed conductors, and exotic
cargoes. He vowed to live a big life:
with an office on Park Avenue and penthouse on Fifth Avenue in New York City;
as owner of many businesses and then retiring at the age of fifty – like his father
– to become a country gentleman. He
stormed for years toward his goals with protean smarts, guts, and drive. He
first sold railroad crossties at nineteen with a sixth-grade schooling.
He
then partnered with his accountant-brother, Elmer, to expand Victor Products, a
refrigeration company in Hagerstown. He
made and left Victor by the early 1950s into one of the leading makers of
beverage-vending equipment.
(Dixie-Narco and Royal Vendors have been here because Funkhouser
relocated part of Victor Products’ operation to Ranson).
Buying
up mining interests and selling the stony grains for roofing shingle and
high-quality tennis courts made him a fortune, all of which was sold to
Rubberoid Company in 1958.
Of
the eighteen companies R. J. at one time or other controlled, two ventures
stand out: his purchase of the Baltimore Trust Company, the city’s then tallest
building in the late 1930s, and his charge of the largest maker of shoe heels,
the O’Sullivan Rubber Company in Winchester.
Having
achieved all his goals handsomely and then some, R. J. – thriving as ever on
self-dramatization - retired at the avowed age and moved back “home to be with
my people.”
A
large spread in the Saturday Evening Post in 1943 captured R. J. at his zenith
– as he jumped into state politics as a Republican, running for both governor
and U.S. Senator using his wealth, preaching powers, and influential newspaper
“The Jefferson Republican” to directly reach the people. During these glorious times, he lived at
Claymont, discovered by chance by his son and wife on a motorcycling ramble
over back roads. He restored this
34-room mansion and lived there while also restoring Blakeley, Happy Retreat,
Cedar Lawn, and Locust Hill – all homes owned by members of the Washington
family.
Claymont
was furnished and decorated with extraordinary taste by professionals using
purchases at the auction of the estate of William Randolph Hearst. The long stately entrance from the north was
bordered its full length in spring by tulips.
Any Sunday, the public was welcome to come by and visit, add to the
perpetual festivity and witness R. J.’ s mandated softball game.
Always
preaching impromptu the word of God, while thrice-divorced, Funkhouser required
family to hear him read all of the book of Luke before they could plunge
into piles of Christmas presents.
Charles
town residents remember with a mixture of envy and resentment the royal arrival
to the Asbury Methodist Church on Sunday mornings of the Funkhouser “entourage”
– disgorging from a motorcade of fancy cars, all family and grandchildren,
Carroll Jones, the chauffeur, Aunt Lucy, the nanny, and more. R. J., often wearing an operatic cape over
his tailored suits, led his retinue into church to occupy much of the front
rows.
Two
visits to his plants say much of R. J.
Once, a worker told the editor, that he was working at Victor Products
in Hagerstown when R. J. came into the plant, supposedly
“anonymously.” “What are you doing?” R. J. asked this man,
who shrewdly quipped: “Makin’ money for
R. J. Funkhouser!” Quite pleased,
Funkhouser gave him a phone number and said that if he ever needed a loan, to
make an appointment with a certain officer at R. J.‘s bank, the Blakeley Bank. The man later found R. J.’s promise was
good.
A
greedier, less astute employee met R. J. on a similar unannounced visit to the
Ranson factory. He said: “ Say R.
J.! Could I get a raise?” R. J.,
redirecting himself, said over his shoulder: “Your reward will be in Heaven!”
The
ineradicable tale of R. J. known by seemingly all of Charles town’s older
residents was when the town’s leading ladies paid a welcome call on R. J. at
Claymont – to find him playing cards with two of his wives, one his first and
mother of some of his children, Merle, the other, his third and last wife,
Flora Morningstar. True or not, his
family finds such a scene hardly unusual at Claymont in the 1940s.
Political
defeat and a third divorce quieted this giant who holed up in palatial Pioneer
Point on Maryland’s eastern shore. He lived out his final days from a renovated
home, the sometime Supertane building, with his past-time – Ranson. He died in March, 1965.
Moving
in and out of grand settings, R. J. always took with him only his bed and a
few things, even when he sold Claymont.
All the extraordinary trappings of Claymont were scattered in auction. R. J. knew you could not take it with you.
His
fortune disappeared more or less after his death, amid a thicket of lawyers and
court appointed representatives. His
legacy are the treasured Washington homes, the Jefferson Memorial Hospital’s
first incarnation, the Blakeley Bank, the Victor Products factory (later
Dixie-Narco), the endless stories, and what some students say was the first
shopping center ever built in the country.
Its then-president says R. J. also saved Alderson-Broaddus College in
Philippi, WV.
A
small-town’s ambivalence toward R. J.’s flaunted power and wealth wickedly
expressed itself. When, after R. J. had
an x-ray taken at the hospital he built largely with his own money - they sent
him the bill. R. J. worked very hard in
winning the Greater Game, though.
R. J. “lives” for his family
in an old hymn he wanted sung at his funeral:
When the trumpet of the lord
shall sound,
and time shall be no more.
And the morning breaks eternal, bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore,
And the roll is called up yonder, I`ll be there.
On that bright and cloud-less morning
when the dead in Christ shall rise,
And the glory of His resurrection share,
When His chosen ones shall gather to their home beyond the skies,
And the roll is called up yonder, I`ll be there.
Let us labor for the Master from the dawn till
setting sun.
Let us talk of all His wondrous love and care,
Then when all of life is over and our work on earth is done,
And the roll is called up yonder, I`ll be there.
What
follows are some of his writings and views taken from his book,
"RJ
Sez," Whitney & White, Ranson, West Virginia, 1957; by permission of
the Funkhouser family.
Years
ago, I clipped some verse from a newspaper, which seemed to fit into the plans
that I formed very early in life. I carried this clipping in my pocketbook
until it became tattered and torn and almost illegible:
"Lord, let me live like
a Regular Man,
With Regular friends and
true;
Let me play the game on a
Regular plan
And play it that way
through;
Let me win or lose with a
Regular smile
And never be known to whine,
And I want to make it mine.
Let me live to a Regular
good old age,
With Regular snow-white
hair,
Having done my labor and won
my wage
And played my game for fair;
And so at last when the
people scan
My face on its peaceful
bier,
They'll say, "Well, he
was a Regular Man!"
And drop a Regular tear!
The
Trains of Childhood Shape a Dream – and a Vow
“The
trains that passed (Cherry Run) stand out vividly in my memory. While I love
the scenes of my childhood home, I knew, even as a small lad, that
opportunities to realize my dreams of a measure of success were restricted in
that small community, which I still hold in fondest memory. The trains told me
that away ‘out yonder,’ where they mysteriously came from, big and interesting
things were going on. They told me of a swift action coming to the world that
would never let me catnap my life away, where opportunities were unlimited.
When the ‘'local’ stopped at Cherry Run, to unload the barrel of brown sugar,
keg of salt-fish, horseshoes and nails, axle-grease, and the big, square box of
button shoes, calico and gingham, I watched with an interest that brought
dreams of a swifter action ‘Somewhere.’ While the magic lantern, brought to the
schoolhouse from ‘far-off’ Hagerstown, only had pictures to offer, here was
evidence of the real thing!
“The
engineer who stepped from the cab of the engine with his long, shiny oil-can,
was a ‘furriner,’ as strange as a visitor from Mars. He wore no plow-shoes or
boots, and his clothes were unpatched. His overalls were uniform in neatness,
required in this strange, far-off land. If the imagined picture of the 'outside
world' was poetically extravagant, I now look back and find it more or less
true. I am not the least ashamed to say that sentiment still allows me to see
visions from the goods the trains brought to the old country village store. It
is probably of interest to no one when I say I have traveled over a
considerable part of the world; however you may be interested in knowing the
odors in my Father's village general store - from tea, spices, and all the things
come from foreign lands, blended, let me, in fancy, ride Sahara camels, sail on
dreamy waters through the Straits of Singapore, and touch the romantic shores
of Borneo . . . but I know now the dreams were greater than real.”