This is the autobiography of my grandpa on my dad's side.  I did not meet this grandpa but I do remember my grandma.  Life back then was definitely different than it is today.  It also seems people were more religious back then than they are today.  I got a chuckle out of the statement where Grandpa says that playing cards is equal to serving Satan.  His near death experience was also intriguing.  When he died and went to heaven and found out he only had 13.5 points but needed 14 to get in and was then sent back  to earth is not normal Christian theology.  He eventually became a Christian but most Christians would consider a point system to get into heaven as heresy.  Anyway, there is a lot of history in the autobiography and Carla was able to find some supporting documents on the web that mention his home town and family tree.  Check out the Mennonite settlement he grew up in and the record of his birth.

Autobiography of John F. Heinrichs
Translated from German by John Esau (his son-in-law)
Copied to electronic format by Art Heinrichs (his grandson)
Edited by Carla Heinrichs (his great-granddaughter)

I, John Heinrichs, was born on May 24th, 1895, in the village of Neukirch, Southern Russia, Taurien. My parents, Frank and Maria Heinrichs, were farmers in the village of Schardau where they had a rented acreage. Besides myself, my parents had two other children at the time, namely Margaretha and brother Frank. Margaretha was older than I and Frank was younger. Because my parents only had a rented farm there, they decided to move farther north in the year 1900, thus moving into the Orenburg district. Here they settled in the village of Aliessovo. This Aliessovo now became my home! Here my parents purchased land and were busily engaged in farming. I, as the oldest son, had a longing to help my father wherever and whenever possible. Though there were sometimes poor harvests in this area, they were still able to send me to the village school. There were between 35 to 40 pupils in this school. Our teacher was Henry Regehr, from the village of Rueckenau, South Russia. Other beginners with me were: Gerhard Dueck, Frank Koop, Peter Dueck, Maria Warkentin, Suzanna Dueck, Katharina Dueck and Katharina Schmidt.

One day back in 1986, I said to my husband, Art,...”Art,” I said. “Let’s take a trip to the Black Hills.”

“Great idea,” he said. “Greater still, let’s borrow my dad’s motorhome.”

And so began our vacation from hell.

It all started when we excitedly got in the 1975 motorhome, eager to begin our journey from Regina, Saskatchewan, to Rapid City, South Dakota.

“What is that putrid stench?” I so delicately inquired as we got going. Art didn’t know, but was pretty sure it was nothing important and would go away soon. NOT! It seemed to get worse as we drove. However, a quick check of everything turned up nothing. So on we went.

Several hours later we had crossed the border and had made it to the thriving metropolis of Williston, North Dakota. We decided to fill up with gas before finding a campground. It was at the gas station that our timing chain went. Ouch! Not only were we blocking the gas pumps, we could find no one to help us; the American equivalent of the CAA had shut down a week previous. Shortly, two police cruisers arrived to help. To bystanders, it appeared as if we were being detained for a border violation or busted for drugs. Eventually all they accomplished for us was finding a 24-hour garage. (It was 9 p.m.) Have you ever seen a motorhome getting towed? So the first night of our trip was spent at an AMOCO auto repair—scenic! For the next two days and nights, 1 - 3 mechanics worked on the motorhome at a time. We mostly played cards while breathing in, this time, engine fumes.

On our first day there, after discovering that Williston (at that time) had no shopping mall, movie theatre, or bowling lane, we headed out to its only pool and tennis courts, which were, of course, across town. We hopped on the 10-speeds we had borrowed from family and had a relatively good time. As we headed back to our “home away from home”, I said to Art, “I think something is wrong with this bike...” at precisely the time the entire pedal fell to the ground. A couple hours later, when we had completed our walk across Williston, we were greeted with “You’ve got to be kidding” or “Do you guys buy lottery tickets?” from our buddies, the mechanics, who were now beginning to feel quite sorry for us. Later that night as we sat—you guessed it—playing cards, we heard a TWANG from the back of the motorhome. This time the gear shift of the 10-speed had shot off with no discernible cause. Good bikes.