The winter of 1920 had wrapped the Governor Mifflin area in a blanket of white, and on this particular Christmas Eve, young Thomas Kohl pressed his nose against the frosted window of Kohl’s Mill, watching the snowflakes dance in the golden light that spilled from his father William’s three-story frame building.
Unlike the other homes in the valley, Kohl’s Mill shone brightly in the darkness—its 12-foot water wheel churning faithfully, generating electricity when the company lines had gone dark in the storm. Truckers passing by on the road between Mohnton and Gouglersville would slow their horses and marvel at the glow. Tonight, that beacon seemed especially warm, like a lighthouse guiding weary travelers home for Christmas.
Kohl’s Mill, 1981, built in 1890
“Thomas,” his mother Bertha called from the kitchen, wiping flour from her hands, “your father says we’re expecting company.”
Indeed they were. On winter evenings, Kohl’s Mill served as more than a store—it was the heart of the community. Neighbors would congregate around the pot-bellied stove to sit and talk, to discuss the joys and problems of the day. Tonight, William had set up his prized possession near the counter: one of the first radios in the valley. The magic of radio would fill the old mill with Christmas carols for all to hear.
Meanwhile, up on Wyomissing Avenue, the Mohnton Hotel bustled with warmth and cheer. Augustus R. Anderson, the popular proprietor known throughout Berks County for his integrity and kindness, had outdone himself this year.
“Seventy-five cents, all you can eat!” he announced to the travelers who’d sought shelter from the storm. His sister Mae and their mother had been cooking since dawn—roast goose, fresh bread, and pies that filled the dining room with heavenly aromas.
Augustus was a man of principle. He wouldn’t serve minors, and he ran an honest business—always had, always would. But Christmas Eve was special. Tonight, even the members of his baseball team, whom he fed free meals at the hotel throughout the year, had gathered with their families.
“Mr. Anderson,” said young Luther Mohn, clutching his cornet case, “the band is ready.”
Augustus smiled. The Mohnton Band had been practicing in the Lyric Auditorium on South Church Street—that beautiful 50 by 100-foot hall finished in yellow pine and hardwood with its artistically equipped stage. Tonight, they would play Christmas hymns for the community.
Luther took his place alongside the other musicians: Martin Ludwig with his clarinet, Solomon Mohn with his cornet, Homer Landis conducting, and Herbert Matz with his trombone. As the first notes of “Silent Night” rose into the cold December air, the people of Mohnton paused to listen.
Not far away, in a modest home on Candy Road near Angelica, old Harry C. Ohlinger sat by candlelight with his worn 1895 Bible—that impressive, huge book with gold-edged pages and pressed leather cover. Harry was the valley’s beloved faith healer, a man who never charged a penny for his work.
“It’s Christmas Eve, Harry,” his wife said softly. “You should rest.”
But a knock came at the door. A young mother stood in the snow, her child wrapped tight against the cold, wheezing with each breath.
“Please, Mr. Ohlinger,” she whispered. “The asthma—it’s gotten so bad.”
Harry welcomed them inside without hesitation. People lined up to see him—bankers, lawyers, plain folk alike—but tonight there was only this mother and her little one. He placed his weathered hands near the child, spoke words of faith learned long ago in France during the Great War, and prayed silently.
By the time the church bells of Grace Lutheran began to ring midnight, the child’s breathing had eased. The mother wept with gratitude.
“God is good,” Harry said simply, pressing a small bundle of dried herbs into her hands. “Merry Christmas.”
Down at H.N. Noll’s Store in Mohnton, the last-minute shoppers had come and gone. The general store, which sold everything from hardware to farm implements to wire fencing, had been decorated with pine boughs and red ribbons.
H.N. Noll’s Store
Young Ephram Werner had finished his final delivery run, his wagon laden with wooden shipping boxes of Christmas goods. His horse, tired but faithful, knew the way home by heart.
At the Reformed Church on Wyomissing Avenue, families gathered for the midnight service. The Kohl family arrived together—all eight children bundled in wool coats, their family tree painted on the wall at the mill serving as a reminder of generations past and future.
And over in Shillington, teenagers gathered one last time at Stephens’ Sweet Shop on East Lancaster Avenue. Walt Stephens served hot cocoa and hamburgers to the young people who’d become regulars—a friendly place to go after school or in the evening.
The former Stephens ‘ Sweet Shop and Shillington Post Office building at 34-36 East Lancaster Avenue is pictured on the left in February 1990.
As the snow continued to fall, and the Mohnton Lyric Auditorium fell silent after the band’s final carol, the people of the Governor Mifflin area made their way home.
At Kohl’s Mill, the radio played softly as the last neighbors departed into the white night. William Kohl stood at the door, watching the truckers’ lanterns disappear down the road toward Alleghenyville—where he attended church every Sunday.
“The mill still shines,” young Thomas observed.
“Always will,” his father replied. “That’s what we do here. We keep the light burning, especially when everyone else is blacked out.”
And so, in this corner of Pennsylvania, Christmas came as it always did—not with grandeur, but with community. With honest businessmen like Augustus Anderson, faithful healers like Harry Ohlinger, and gathering places like Kohl’s Mill where friends could meet and discuss the joys and problems of the day.
For as Barry Nelson would later write about his own childhood Christmases in nearby Adamstown: “Laughter; a living room covered with children, gifts and wrapping paper; and an afternoon nap in my favorite chair… my childhood Christmases were the best.”
Leave A Comment