PRAIRIE SOD
First Part
The Story of My Mother's Life
by
Lois Elder Steiner Roy
PRAIRIE SOD
Bertha Ann DEWSNUP was born at Fillmore, Millard, UT, 20 Jul 1874, and
died at Raymond, Alberta, Canada, 13 April 1919. Her parents were Hyrum
Dewsnup and Emily Mace.
If I could have my choice of words out of all the English language engraved
upon my mother's tombstone, it would be this little verse. It was her favorite poem-the guide and rule that governed her whole life from beginning to end:
"It's easy enough to be pleasant
When life goes on with a song;
But the man worth while
Is the man who can smile
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble
And it always comes with the years;
And the smile that is worth
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The praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through tears."
If the test of the heart is trouble then my mother's heart was truly tested.
Far back in my memory I can still see that wonderful smile of hers shining into our
lives with warmth and love and tenderness whenever things went wrong.
Isn't it strange how we always think our own mother the best one that ever
lived? Someone has said, "Mother is the name of God in the hearts and on the lips
of little children." I would say, not only to little children, but we never outgrow the
worship we have for our mother. I read a poem once in which the author told of an
aged lady, 88 years old, whom her daughter found weeping and grieving pitifully.
When asked what was the matter, she answered with trembling lips, "I want--my
mother!" In the latter part of the poem the composer goes on to say:
"When we cross the line,
The borderline that bounds this mortal sphere,
Our paradise will not be comfort to our spirits-Wanting her.
Should she by some chance be detained
Elsewhere than at the gate we enter,
Our eyes will cast around,
Our hands reach out;
Our answer to the question, "Where?"
As came the aged mother to her child,
Will be our disappointed wail-"I want--my--mother!"
After my mother's death, my father asked me to take care of her diary for
him. He knew I would value it more than anything in all the world. And I did.
You cannot know my feelings as I stood and watched our house burn down
in the fall of 1922, and with it, my trunk which contained my treasure.
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In her diary she said, "I can still see the little brook winding in and out
among the willows where we used to wade and splash and play during the long,
golden hours of summertime. Very often Pa would take us with him when he
irrigated the fields and garden. How carefree and happy we were!"
Looking back over her life, I think her early childhood days were the only
ones in her whole lifetime that were ever carefree. When she was but nine years old
her father was hunted by the officers, as were all the men who had more than one
wife. Mother, being the eldest child in the family, was wanted as a witness. Very
often they would see the officers of law coming and she would be compelled to hide
for long weary hours out in the haystack. She told me about being taken in a wagon
to Salt Lake City to appear at a trial. But they could get no evidence from her.
When asked about her father's other wife, although only a child, she answered,
"Thank you, but I don't stick my nose into other people's business." This amused
the judges very much.
When Mother was about fourteen years of age she was taken to Salt Lake
City again. This time, however, she was taken into the home of President Wilford
Woodruff for protection, where, for a year and a half, she worked in his home. To
her it seemed as though she were in heaven. How she loved doing the many little
things for his comfort and pleasure--holding his coat, and helping him off with it
when he returned; or, getting his slippers. He showed his appreciation in many
ways. He would often call her in his study and talk to her about the Gospel and
teach her to honor virtue and true womanhood. She always remembered those
teachings. They were an inspiration to her throughout her lifetime.
One night she and Blanche Woodruff, President Woodruff's daughter,
decided they would sneak out and go for a little stroll around the block. A man
suddenly jumped out from behind a tree and started to chase them. He caught hold
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of Mother's dress and would have held on to her but a buttonhole was torn loose
and she escaped. They ran as fast as they could and when they reached their room
they locked the door and fell down upon their knees in thankfulness and said their
prayers.
During this time Mother earned from three to five dollars a week. Before
going home she bought gifts for her whole family, thinking of herself last of all.
Someone asked her one day what she was going to do with all her money. She
answered seriously, "I'm going to pay all of Pa's debts."
HER GIRLHOOD
An amusing incident happened one night shortly after she returned home.
She and her sister, Lois, shared the same bedroom. While Lois was out playing
during the evening, a friend of the family stopped by on his way through the town
and was invited to spend the night. He was given the girl's room and they were
shifted to another part of the house. When Lois came quietly in, everyone was in
bed and not knowing about the overnight guest, she undressed in the dark and
slipped into bed beside whom she thought was her sister, and was soon sound
asleep. In the morning she reached over sleepily and happened to touch the man's
head and was startled to find that her sister's hair had been cut. "Why Bertha," she
exclaimed, "When did you get your hair cut? Instantly she became aware of her
mistake and did a very fast disappearing act. The man, realizing her predicament
and embarrassment, kept perfectly still. Lois stayed completely out of the way until
he was gone.
Shortly after Mother returned home from Salt Lake City, she began keeping
company with a young man by the name of Rob Scott. One night at a dance a
strange boy came into the dancehall, and, although he was dressed in levi's and shirt
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with a red bandanna handkerchief tied around his neck, cowboy style, she instantly
"fell for him" as they say in these modern times. When she arrived home that
night she laughingly told her folks that she was in love.
The following week she went to the dance, again, with Rob and, again, met
and danced with the strange, new boy whose name she had learned was John Elder.
During the dance they slipped out into the summer night and for awhile amused
themselves by swinging in the high community swing nearby. Then, they became
recklessly happy and borrowed, without anyone's permission, a buggy that was tied
to a hitching post near the dance hall. At first it was just for a lark, but when they
returned, the dance was over and all the dancers had gone home.
Of course, Rob was very angry. Who wouldn't be? He was so angry he
wouldn't speak to Mother for weeks. Although she had no desire to go out with him
again, she knew she had been in the wrong. So one Sunday morning after Sunday
School, she waited for him. "Try and forgive me, Rob," she said, "I'm sorry I
treated you so mean. Can't we be just friends?"
YOUNG MOTHERHOOD
Six months later, 6 Jan 1892 at Deseret, Millard, UT, Mother and Father
were married. In her diary she described the dear little one-room adobe house they
made together. She loved to keep it clean and shining and everything in its place.
Morrell was born 17 Jun 1893. The following year, 18 Jul 1894, they made a
trip by wagon to the Manti Temple and were sealed to each other for Time and all
Eternity. They took Morrell with them and had him sealed to them. Those in
charge took care of him all morning during the endowment session. I remember
Mother telling us how they brought him up to the sealing room afterward and how
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they knelt before the alter with his little hand in theirs. After the ceremony was
over they climbed to the rooftop of the beautiful temple and gazed out over the city
of Manti.
That same year, 7 Dec 1894, Clarence was born. He was a beautiful child, as
was Morrell. Both had big brown eyes and curly brown hair. Whenever Mother
would take Clarence to Church or carry him along the street, people would always
exclaim over him. In fact, they exclaimed over him so many times that, as he grew
older, whenever he had a disagreement with his older brother, he would say, "Well,
I've got the prettiest eyes!"
One time Father found an old pewter spoon in his travels, and Clarence (4
years old took fierce possession of it. Whenever we sat down to the table we all
wanted that pewter spoon. He was usually the first one to reach into the oldfashioned spoon holder and pull out that particular spoon. If someone else got it
first he would quietly disappear and soon his big black eyes would peek out from
under the table. Here he would pout until we would finally give up and give him the
coveted pewter spoon.
Morrell was a venturesome child and Mother and I had many good laughs
while she related some of his escapades. One time when he was about 18 months old
he climbed up on top of the house. A neighbor woman called to her as she passed
by, "Bertha, your baby is on the roof!" He had taken advantage of the ladder that
had been left leaning against the house.
Another time when Clarence was just beginning to talk, Mother felt
impressed to go out in the yard and see what the boys were up to. Clarence was
leaning over and pointing down into the well, saying, "Pretty boat" Evidently,
Morrell had been throwing chips down into the shallow water at the bottom of the
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well and telling Clarence they were boats. Mother peered down into the well where
Clarence was pointing and there was Morrell down in that twenty-foot well! She
did not know what to do. Father was working over at another farm and there was
no one to help. She said she never knew how she got down there. There were no
steps and the walls were practically straight up and down. Probably there were a
few rough spots which gave her a good, firm toe hold. But, somehow she made it
and reached the top with her child in her arms. She truly believed that the Lord
helped her; that he heard and answered her prayers. Morrell was unconscious for
two or three hours.
On 26 Mar 1896, on a little farm near Hinkley, UT, I was born. I arrived two
full months before schedule. Father was working on a distant ranch and was not
expected home for a few days. One morning Mother decided to take her two little
boys and spend the day in town with her folks. She harnessed the horse to the
buggy and away they went happily on their way.
It was dark when she returned. As she approached the barn a herd of pigs,
bedded down for the night in a thick layer of straw, suddenly jumped up right in
front of her. She was terribly frightened. A few moments later she began to feel
labor pains and knew she must get help quickly. But, how? The nearest neighbor
lived about a mile away and it was dark.
There was only one thing to do. The Lord had helped her many times before
and she had faith that he would help her now. Morrell was just four years old but
the little fellow had no fear in his heart of the dark shadows as he followed Mother's
directions across the open field.
In due time he came trudging back with the neighbor woman. The first thing
she said as she reached up to the little shelf where the baby clothes were kept, was,
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"You'll never need these, Bertha."
I was what is called a "Blue Baby". At birth I was completely wrapped in a
transparent tissue, or veil. I was so small they could put me in a quart cup. When I
was six weeks old I weighed only six pounds with all of my clothes on. Today, I
would have been an incubator baby.
I was very frail all during my childhood. Mother told me that for the first
three years of my life she did not dare to leave me alone for a moment. I would hold
my breath and turn blue in the face. When the boys grew older they accused me of
causing them to get many "lickings". Everything I wanted, if I didn't get it
immediately, I would throw myself into a tantrum and hold my breath. I remember
distinctly making myself do this just to get my way.
On 19 Oct 1897, Leslie Clayborn was born. Somewhere along the way he
was nicknamed "Ted". Today we have all but forgotten that his real name is Leslie.
One morning Mother became very ill and thought she was about to die.
Father was away and she had no help. But, she remembered the Lord and prayed
fervently for him to send someone to help her. She had reached over to her little
bedside table and found her patriarchal blessing. Struggling for strength she
opened it and read it from beginning to end. Reading this blessing strengthened her
faith and she had the assurance that she would get the help for which she asked.
While she was praying, the Bishop, sitting in his home several blocks away, listened
to that still, small voice, saying to him, "Go and administer to Sister Bertha. He got
up immediately and started on his way. Then about half way to our place he met
another brother hurrying along in the same direction. "Where are you going?" the
Bishop inquired. Then the brother told him he had heard a voice say, "Go and
administer to Sister Bertha." They walked on together and found Mother nearly at
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death's door. After they administered to her she recovered in a very short time.
MOVE TO REXBURG, ID
Ted was the baby when the folks moved from Hinkley, UT to Rexburg, ID. ------------ That is about the time I started to remember. Mary was born 16 Jul 1899.
Elizabeth, nicknamed "Beth", was born 11 Jun 1901.
About the first thing I remember is my little towheaded brother Ted. He was
always following me around. When I would throw myself into a tantrum and hold
my breath, he would stretch out beside me and pretend he was holding his breath,
too. Sometimes I would open my eyes just a teeny weeny bit and sure enough there
he would be lying there with his eyes closed real tight and his little mouth open just
like mine had been.
Father worked up on the Rexburg Bench, hauling lumber and wood and
working on our newly acquired ranch. Mother, with six cows to feed, water, and
milk, had all the chores to do, drawing all the water up out of a deep well for stock
and domestic use. I can still see the snow and long icicles hanging from the eaves as
I sat before the window holding the baby in my lap, watching Mother as she trudged
through the deep snow. One evening as Mother was drawing water from the well,
she suddenly had a strong premonition of danger and hurried in the house still
carrying the bucket of water. Just as she entered the living room, a flame leaped up
the wall just above the lamp. She quickly doused the flame with the water and put
it out. Two-year-old Mary had stood on a chair by the little stand and had put a
celluloid comb down inside the chimney!
Grandpa and Grandma Dewsnup also moved to Rexburg about the same
time we did. I remember visiting them many times. I can remember everything
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about their home, the tall trees around their yard, the barn and corral, the cows and
horses and calves and chickens. I remember Grandpa's store. It was called "THE
PEOPLE'S STORE".
I do not remember very much about Grandpa Dewsnup, but no wonder, it is
all so far back in the maze of my memory. He was always busy. As I remember
him, he had large, brown eyes and looked distinguished. I can't remember his ever
speaking to me or playing with any of the other children. Mother wa the eldest of
his children and the only one out of twelve with blue eyes.
They were grey rather than blue. He was also the father of several children
by his 2d wife. When she died, Grandma took care of them just as though they were
her very own.
Grandma Dewsnup was a saint if there ever was one. In describing her there
is one word that fits her perfectly. She was "regal". She held her head up high and
her shoulders straight. Grandma never slumped. She was always well-groomed.
Even as a small child I noticed these things. When she visited us in the little prairie
town of Tabor in Alberta, Canada, the women, I have learned since, talked about
her because she used powder. It was in the days when make-up was unheard of
and Grandma used talcum powder!
Morrell was her first grandchild and I used to think he was her favorite. I
probably just imagined it. In Rexburg, Morrell was still a venturesome little rascal.
He would amuse all the kids in the neighborhood by climbing up on the barn roof
with a huge umbrella--such as used on a buggy in those days--and, holding it high
over his head, he would jump off the barn and come floating gently down to the
ground. One afternoon Grandma was keeping us at her house while Mother was
away. As usual Morrell was showing off. As leader of the gang he was playing the
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game "Follow the Leader". And as usual the neighbor kids were there with us and
we were having the time of our lives. The roof of the shed where the cows were
milked and fed was covered with straw. Over this precarious area Morrell was
leading us into all kinds of contortions. Then, something happened! Suddenly the
straw gave way and Morrell fell through, right down into the deep, wet manure!
We were pretty scared. But Grandma, without a word of censure, prepared a tub of
warm water and lovingly washed him from head to toe.
You will get the idea just how far back in my memory I have gone when I tell
you that "Rick's Academy" was then under construction. One spring our aunts
took us all up there on an Easter egg hunt. What a wonderful time we had that
memorable day.
Oscar Kirkham came to our home many times with Uncle Ed. The boys were
great pals. One time they talked Mother into going out electioneering just before
the town election. As far back as I can remember Mother was interested in politics.
She loved public speaking and was so well-informed she could speak with very little
preparation. She never sat down to nurse a baby without having an open book in
her hand. She had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge as long as she lived. The
day before the election Grandma kept us all to her place while Mother was out
making speeches. I can remember, as though it were yesterday, when she came
home that night. Her voice was completely gone. During the evening a neighbor
came over to see how the day had gone. Mother tried so hard to speak to her, and
when she couldn't make a sound, she started to cry. She was exhausted.
One summer we moved up on the ranch. Our little mountain cabin was built
down at the bottom of a ravine along a creek. On one side was a sloping wooded
hillside, up which the boys would drive the cows to pasture each morning. There
were many cow trails winding in and out among the tall trees. One evening I started
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to follow Morrell when he climbed the hill to bring down the cows for their evening
milking. Often, in my upward climb a pretty flower along the trail drew my
attention; a bird now and then twittering sleepily in the treetops took my mind
completely from my resolve to help bring the cows home. Suddenly I realized how
quiet it was and that Morrell was nowhere in sight. I did not dare to go back no did
I dare to stop climbing. I knew that I was lost.
When I reached the pasture at the top of the hill I was very frightened. A
high barbed wire fence ran along the whole length of the pasture. I found myself
running along in the cow trail next to the fence. When I realized I was running in
the wrong direction from home, and that it was getting dark, I threw myself down in
the dusty trail and hid my face in my arms. Every shadow was a bear or a lion and
I did not dare to utter a sound.
After a long, long time I heard the most wonderful sound in the world--my father's
voice from far away down in the canyon. Closer and closer it came. The
encroaching shadows all around me seemed to press closer. In my childish fear I
did not dare to cry out or answer him until he was almost upon me. Dear, dear
Father. He picked me up in his arms and held me so tenderly all the way back down
the hill. And, how lovingly Mother bathed me that night and washed away the tear
stains from my face.
Father always wore a mustache which Mother detested. One morning as he
was sitting quietly reading the newspaper, she sneaked up behind him with the
scissors and whacked it off! Of course, he had to finish the job and shave it all off.
His appearance was completely changed. He didn't look like the same man.
Afterwards he thought he would have some fun. Aunt Lois, Mother's younger
sister, was clerking in Grandpa's store. She looked up when she noticed a strange
man standing just outside the window, staring at her. He kept it up so long that she
became very much annoyed. "The old fool!" she kept thinking to herself until
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Father came inside and identified himself.
Clarence, the little tyke, was always playing tricks on us. Innocent though
they were, several times caused real trouble. One day he picked up the hatchet and
said to Morrell, "Put your finger on the chopping block and I'll bet you can't jerk it
away before I bring this hatchet down." Morrell put his finger down on the block
so sure he could jerk it away. Clarence was ahead of him, though, and down came
the hatchet. Morrell ran howling into Mother with his finger hanging by the skin.
She carefully spliced his finger back on, wrapped it in bandages, and, in a few weeks
it was just as good as it ever was. I can remember just how it looked, actually
hanging by the skin.
Then there was the time Clarence divided some mud with me and told me to
sneak up behind him and when he counted three, to daub it over a hornet's nest.
Instantly the hornets came out of their nest and swarmed all over us. Our screams
brought Mother on the run. I never went near a hornet nest again. one of his
innocent childish pranks almost ended disastrously for two year old Mary. One day
we were playing a game wherein he was the doctor. I was the mother, and Mary
was the sick child. Clarence put a little lye on a teaspoon and told her it was sugar.
It burned a hole right through her cheek and she would have died had it not been
for the immediate help of the neighbors and the quick response from the doctor.
Clarence was five years old and I was four--too young to realize what we were
doing. We did have a feeling of guilt, however, and hid down in the back lot until
things quieted down.
PRAIRIE SOD
One day Father came home and broke the news to us that we might move up
to Alberta, Canada. Mother was all for it. It didn't take long to dispose of our
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things and before we knew it we were actually on our way. Grandpa and Grandma
felt terrible. They thought we were going to the end of the earth. Father shipped
his horses and other live stock and implements by train, in a boxcar. Behind the
feedbags he smuggled two boys, Morrell, 7 years and Clarence, 6. From all reports
it was quite an ordeal. But, eventually they arrived in the brand new prairie town
of Raymond, Alberta, Canada. The rest of us came on the train.
The last memory I have of Rexburg, was Grandpa's and Grandma's house as
I stood with Mother on the rear platform. We watched it until it was lost to view.
All the way on the train Mother was very ill and when we stopped overnight
at Great Falls and Butte, she had to remain in bed and I had to run errands for her.
One time I became confused in the hotel hallway and couldn't find our room.
There were so many doors and they all looked alike. Finally I picked out one and
when I cautiously opened it, a big, burly man yelled at me to get the hell out! It just
about scared me to death. I started crying as though my heart were broken until a
maid came to my rescue and took me to the right door.
Father and the boys were waiting for us at the little railroad station at
Raymond. He had bought a lot right in the middle of town and had built a little
two-room house on it. That was in the spring of 1902. How glad we were to be at
the end of our long journey and to see Father and Morrell and Clarence.
Canada! Dear, dear Canada! I shall always love that big, prairie country,
for:
"Like a vase in which roses have once been distilled,
You can break or destroy or whatever you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still."
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So, is Canada, filled with sweet memories; memories of Father and Mother;
brothers and sisters; neighbors and friends. But most of all, memories of Mother.
This is her life as I remember it year after year after year.
Every child came with a blessing and with each one the mother-love grew
and so completely filled her heart that one wondered how there could be room for
more. There was always land to pay for and machinery to buy, and, although crops
were usually good, it took every cent to pay the accumulated bills. After each
harvest Mother would say, and I can still see the look in her eyes, "Oh, well, maybe
next year we can have some pretty curtains and things."
Raymond had a two-story school house. We had to be vaccinated before we
were permitted to enter. They allowed the fathers to do the vaccinating on their
own families. Father had a hard time catching us when each of our turns came.
Our parents were among those who did not believe in vaccinations, and Father only
slightly pricked the skin on each of our arms. Clarence was the only one who got a
full dosage. His arm was swollen and the vaccination mark was twice the size of
anyone else.
With all the precaution to keep us free from disease, there was an epidemic
of "ring worm" which spread over the whole community during that first year. Ted
had one that spread over his whole head and caused all his hair to come out. But,
that did not make any difference to me as far as pride in my little brother was
concerned. One day while Mother's back was turned I took hold of his little hand
and took him to school with me. The teacher was horrified! Needless to say we were
sent home immediately. Father had several bad ones on his legs and Mother treated
them with a strong solution of Carbolic Acid. He nearly went crazy. He jumped all
over the furniture; rolled over and over on the floor; kicked and screamed and
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ranted and raved for over an hour. I shall never, never forget it! He always wore a
pair of long underwear over his regular garments and that is what he was wearing
at the time. His "ring worms" healed in a hurry after that treatment!
From the time I started school at the age of six I was subjected to "nose
bleed". I had no vitality and would go to school two or three days than would have
to stay at home the rest of the week. Mother took me to a doctor and was told not to
be alarmed, that I would eventually outgrow it and I eventually did. But Mother
always pampered me and would never allow me to over exert if she could help it.
There was one thing we looked forward to most of all--Grandpa Dewsnup's
letters. They were always beautifully written and sometimes contained poetry of his
own writing. Mother would read them over and over and cry each time.
Soon after we moved to Canada, Grandpa and Grandma moved from
Rexburg to Gridley, CA and lived and died in that beautiful land of plenty. There
were long, glowing letters from Grandma always filled with praises of California.
She made it sound heavenly--a land of milk and honey. One time, years later, when
Grandma was visiting us, a neighbor of hers from Gridley had moved to Canada
and was living near us in the same town. On hearing that Grandma was visiting
with us, he came over. Grandma had done a pretty good job in selling Gridley to us.
Just before he left that day, he put his head inside the door and said, "Sister
Dewsnup, have you told them how hard it rains down there and how we have to go
in boats to cross the streets?" Well, Grandma looked as though she would like to
box his ears! He dodged and left on the run!
My uncles and aunts, from all reports, were good Latter-day Saints and held
important and responsible positions in the Church. I was always sorry I didn't
know them better.
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Joseph Franklin was born 24 Feb 1903. He was born during a Canadian
blizzard. Our home was still that little two-room leanto, to which Father had first
brought us. I remember how the wind howled and shook that little tar papered
shack. I also remember how kind and dear the neighbors were. Dear "Aunt Polly"
lived across the way. During all the years that followed, one after the other, she was
always the first to come in times of sickness.
We were one of the more fortunate families in the area. Some of the people
lived in "dug outs". Many times I went with Mother when she visited them. They
had dirt floors covered with bright, home-made rag rugs. They always had homemade cupboards and curtained off wardrobes for handing clothes.
The rooms were cozy and clean and warm. Many people picked up Buffalo
chips from the prairie to burn in their little wood and cook stoves. In the banks of
some of the creeks they dug out slack, or, fine coal. Tabor, a little town about forty
miles from Raymond, was the coal mining center of Southern Alberta. There were
many mines under operation.
Rachel was born 26 Nov 1905--also in the dead of winter. We had moved out
from Raymond about two miles, on a ten-acre tract of beet land. Our house was
built of rough lumber and was unpainted. But, it was larger than our first home in
Raymond. There was an attic that was used as the boys bedroom. It was reached
by climbing a ladder.
One morning Mother was doing the washing, when suddenly she felt
impressed to climb the ladder with a bucket of water. Just as she reached the top a
flame caught on to the roof around the stove pipe and started to burn. Her
premonition and quick action saved the house from being destroyed by fire.
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Mother used to knit our stockings and mittens. At first by hand and later
with a knitting machine put out by some of the Church brethren. One bitterly cold,
icy morning she was trying to finish a pair of mittens for me to wear to school, but
was able to finish only one of them. That night Father came to meet us on
horseback as we were struggling home after school and brought me the other
mitten. That same winter she made overcoats for the boys out of two heavy woolen
blankets.
In the early days a huge sugar factory was built about three miles from
Raymond, by the Church, in order to bring employment to the Saints. The farmers
always hauled their beets to the factory for processing, always taking some of their
pay out in sugar. One day I rode on top of a load of beets when Father made his
delivery. He stopped a few feet under an electric light fixture. It was the first one I
had ever seen and I was afraid if I touched it, it would kill me like a streak of
lightening.
It is a wonder we did not die with ulcers of the stomach the way we ate sugar.
Almost our only dessert was a syrup made by browning the sugar in a sauce pan
and then adding water and boiling it until it was thickened. Sometimes all we had
for our school lunch were two slices of home made bread put together with sugar
and water. I used to slip away by myself to eat my lunch so no one would know how
poor we were. Poor little sensitive me! Had I known, perhaps many of the other
children had the same thing.
Mother could afford to dress us in only the plainest of clothes. But she
believed and taught us that the Lord was displeased with vanity. How I used to
envy the rich little girls with their long ringlets and pretty ruffled dresses and dainty
slippers. One night, after I had slipped into bed, I took some rag strings I had
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brought with me to bed, and rolled several curls across the front of my hair. A little
later Mother came into the room and noticed what I had done. She sat down by my
bed and lovingly unrolled all my precious curls, explaining to me how our Father in
Heaven felt about such things. After she went out of the room I covered up my head
and cried myself to sleep. Later on in life she allowed us to curl her own hair. We
would arrange it in curls all around her head. She had thick, dark, lovely hair and
we thought she looked young and as pretty as a picture.
One morning the teacher announced that we were going to have our pictures
taken during the noon hour in front of the school. I could not remember ever
having had my picture taken and I was thrilled and excited. At last it was noon. As
I was tripping down the upstair hallway, I noticed two of the little rich girls ahead
of me. I was usually very shy but I was in a happy mood and hurried to catch up
with them. My hair was straight and unadorned; my dress was plain, grey flannel.
When I was even with them I said, happily, "Are you going down to have your
picture taken?" Instead of answering me with a smile, they put their heads together
and started giggling. One of them turned around and said, haughtily, "Hm! If I was
as ugly as you I wouldn't want my picture taken!" Then they ran down the stairs
away from me. I stood there as though petrified. I tried so hard not to cry, but it
seemed as though I couldn't endure the terrible hurting all over inside of me.Blindly
I groped my way down the back stairs, fighting desperately to hold back the
sobbing.
At last I stumbled into the janitor's store room, knowing I would be alone
and no one could hear me cry. Surrounded by heaps of black coal I finally cried
myself to sleep. At the end of the day the teacher found me and washed the coal
dust from my tear-stained face. The most pathetic thing about the whole thing was
that I actually believed I was really ugly for a long, long time afterwards.
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In the summer time Father would take us all out to thin beets. I hated it with
all my heart and soul. The smell of the beets and bending over or crawling in the
dust would nauseate me. But the beets had to be thinned and I probably got off
easier than the others. After a little rest now and then along the long rows of beets, I
would feel better and start crawling again.
Some of the girls wore overalls while they were thinning bets--but not me! I
thought I would just die if I had to wear overalls. One day Father and my brothers
decided they were going to make me wear them. I fought and kicked and scratched
until they finally let me go and gave up in despair.
Sometimes Mother would pack a lunch and we would all pile in the wagon
and go out to the potato patch to pick potato bugs from the vines. If let go, the bugs
could strip all the leaves from the vines in just a day or two. One time the Stake
Patriarch came from his farm late one Saturday night. Sunday morning, when he
walked out in his garden, the potato vines were covered with bugs. As people
passed by on their way to Sunday School they saw what Bro. Fawns was doing and
criticized him severely. He was the talk of the whole town. The Bishopric and the
Stake authorities met together with Bro. Fawns, hoping to settle the matter once and
for all. It was finally agreed that "The ox was in the mire" as the Bible teaches and
Bro. Fawns was back in good graces again.
We loved these outings with Mother and Father and looked upon it as a
grand picnic regardless of the amount of work or the kind of work we did.
Mother was a good neighbor and was always generous and kind to those who
were less fortunate than we were. I remember one time hearing Br. Fulmer, a
neighbor of ours,say to her, "Sister Elder, your bread will return some day, and
when it does, it will be buttered on both sides."
20
During the beet harvests, Indians came in large numbers and set up their
tents nearby. We children were terribly afraid of them and kept our distance. Not
that they were unkindly folk, but because of all the hair raising stories we had been
told when we were young. A few times, while Mother was away, we saw them
coming toward the house and always locked the doors and hid up in the attic until
they went away again. However, little by little, we overcame this unfounded fear.
One summer I played with a little Indian girl named Mary. I loved her as much as I
did my own little sisters. Neither one of us understood one word the other was
saying but that didn't make any difference to us.
One year, while we were camping out on one of the beet farms about three or
four miles from Raymond, Morrell, Clarence and I rode horseback without a saddle
to Sunday School. It was a long ride for my little bare legs and the first time I rode
the skin was rubbed off between my legs and I suffered, greatly. The sores became
crusted over and I could hardly walk. I was too mortified to tell my mother and just
went on for a long time suffering in silence. Then, too, I thought if she knew, she
wouldn't let me go to Sunday School. The Bishop had announced that they would
give a prize to anyone who attended for a whole year without missing. How
faithfully Morrell, Clarence and I attended. We did not miss once during the entire
year. But, the promised prize was never mentioned again. We really felt as though
we had been gypped.
Another time, the President of the Stake got up in Sunday School just before
Christmas and told us all that our fathers and mothers had been telling us a story;
that there was no Santa Claus. Parents all over town rose up in wrathful
indignation. I, for one, was infinitely sad for a long, long time. Down in my heart,
though, I didn't really believe the Stake President. Many times when Mother sent
me down to the root cellar to get a pan of potatoes for dinner, I would be so still
21
while I listened, imagining I could actually hear Santa's bells.
OUR MOVE TO BARNWELL
Thus we lived and worked and pioneered that new country. A year or two
later, some homestead land was thrown open by the government for filing and
Father, together with a group of neighbors and friends from Raymond, went to
Lethbridge to legally file on their land grants. They had to line up in front of the
courthouse and each take their turn in order of their arrival. Some of the men
camped on the steps for two days and nights. Father was among the first two or
three. They had gone over the land a week before and knew exactly what they
wanted. Father's 160 acres of land was the choicest of all. It was about eight miles
west of the little coal town of Tabor; about 40 miles south of Raymond and it was as
level as a floor, right in the middle of the new settlement of Barnwell. In order to
earn the homestead, a house had to be built on the land and occupied six months out
of the year for three years in succession.
There was much to be done before Father could move us over there. He and
Morrell spent most of the first several months out on that beautiful tract of land.
We all loved it and looked forward to the time Father would send for us. In his
absence, Mother had so much to do. In my mind I can still see her cold, numb
hands as she pounded nails with a hammer one bitterly cold morning while trying to
make a shelter for some little pigs that had come during the night. A neighbor came
up behind her and watched silently for a little while. At last he said, "Well, Sister
Elder, if you don't beat the devil!
Everything was in readiness at last and Father came for us. I can still
remember the thick prairie grass that covered the whole, wide, rolling country from
one end to the other, as far as the human eye could see. The farmers and cattlemen
22
had only to go out with a mower and hayrack and cut and haul as much as they
wanted. Father had built us a comfortable house and we were as happy and free as
the birds.
One time while Morrell was cutting hay, several miles away, a big storm
came up and he had the presence of mind to start for home and shelter. When
Father saw the approaching storm he grabbed a couple of heavy quilts, jumped on
one of the work horses and started out to the hay field to meet Morrell. He got there
just in the nick of time. The hail stones were as big as hen's eggs and would have
beaten them black and blue if it hadn't been for the two quilts.
One year everyone had wonderful wheat crops. The people had worked hard
to get the ground ready for planting and now the crops were all ready for
harvesting. One late afternoon we stood together watching a terrible storm coming
up. All summer long our parents had prayed long and earnestly for the safe
maturity of our wheat crop. Nothing could happen to it now! We had implicit faith
that the Lord would answer their prayers.
When the storm was over we walked out into the field, all of us together.
Our wheat was standing there in the gold of sudden sunshine, tall and straight. The
fact that it might have been a freak storm didn't enter our minds. To us it was a
mighty miracle; an answer to the faith and prayers of our parents. I was young at
the time but the incident was impressed upon my mind and I have never forgotten
it. Back in the house at supper time we knelt around the table and Father knelt
with his family and poured out his gratitude to the Lord for his great mercy in our
behalf.
Not far away, across another field, the hail had beaten our neighbor's wheat
to the ground. We heard afterward that the man stood in the midst of destruction
23
and cursed God.
During the years that followed, one after another, there were many more hail
storms and near cyclones and terrific winds. Sometimes it would take the whole
family pushing against the doors and windows in order to keep them from crashing
in. First, the house would lurch one way and then the other. A thunder and
lightning storm was really something to behold. I was petrified with fear whenever
we saw one approaching. I would get into bed and cover up a head and wait to be
struck dead. One day Morrell decided to cure me of this ridiculous fear. He moved
Father's big, easy chair in front of the big living room window, brought in a long
rope from the barn and proceeded to tie me in the chair. Then he raised the window
blind all the way to the top. I went into hysterics and screamed as loud as I could. I
thought I would die! Every time the lightning flashed I expected it to be the end of
me. It was a terrible feeling. Mother and Father were away at the time and there
was nothing to do but submit and endure the torture. Morrell was sure he had
cured me and he probably did. I was never so frightened again.
The first fall we moved into Tabor for school and church purposes. Father
built a little "lean-to" on a lot for us to live in. Later he built another one on the
back of that. We always seemed to have plenty of room wherever we lived.
The first day I went to school the teacher asked me what my name was and I
said, "Bertha Lois Elder". But I made the mistake of not explaining that I was just
called "Lois". By the end of the week all the kids were calling me Bertha and I was
miserable. Although that was my Mother's name, I never liked it. I was too shy to
walk up and explain to the teacher. At last I could stand it no longer. At noon when
I went home to lunch I told my mother. She immediately took me to the teacher and
explained that I was called "Lois".
24
That fall on 26 Oct 1906, Melba was born. I stayed out of school to help
Father with the housework. Again it was in the wintertime. I remember washing
the oilcloth on the kitchen table and the water would freeze before I could wipe it
off. When Melba was only a few days old Mother taught me how to make bread.
When I went out in the store house to get flour, I scooped enough out of a sack, then
went back into the kitchen. Mother called to me, directing each step as I went
along. After I had kneaded it until my little arms ached she asked me to bring it in
to her bedside. When I did she gasped in horror. I had used the flour from a sack
that Father had swept up off the floor--mice tracks and all!
When Melba was five days old Mother got up out of bed while Father was in
Church and made a cake. She had me stand by the front window so I could warn
her if I saw him coming and she could run and jump back in bed.
Tabor, at that time, was a small prairie town made up mostly of what the
Mormons called "outsiders". There was a Mormon chapel or meeting house and
the Mormons usually kept to themselves. Mother was still in bed with Melba when
the meeting house burned down, just after a Halloween party. The fire started late
at night and it was said by certain members of the Ward that the Lord was
displeased, and, in His wrath, caused it to be destroyed. Other members asked,
"Then why did He turn around and help them build another one?"
That winter was one of the coldest they had ever had in Alberta. The cattle
on the ranges died by the thousands. There was no feed. After the great blizzard
the ground became frozen and the feed was inaccessible for several weeks. Great
herds of cattle roamed through the town, ferocious because of their hunger. Many
of them died right in town and the blizzards covered them over with a blanket of
snow. Not only did all the live stock suffer, but many hardships were endured by
the people of that open prairie country. Fuel was very scarce and people would
25
walk along the railroad tracks picking up the stray pieces of coal that some careless
engineer had dropped. The mines were under operation in Tabor but coal was high
priced and there was very little money among the settlers.
Father was always a good provider, however, and we always seemed to have
the necessities of life, even though they were rather skimpy at times. In time he built
another lean-to back of the two we already had. The last one was large enough to
hold four beds and Mother took in four coal miners to board and room. She would
get up mornings and get the miner's breakfast and fix their lunches. After they had
gone she would prepare breakfast for the rest of us and get us off to school. Melba
was the ninth baby, and there must have been five or six of us in school. The coal
miners worked from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. They would come home at night black as the
ace of spades. We had no bathroom. They would pour hot water in a wash tub in
the kitchen, strip to the waist, and scrub themselves as best they could. That was
the only way they had to take a bath.
By the time supper was over with I would be so tired that I would curl up on
one of the beds in the living room and go to sleep, leaving Mother with all the dishes
to clear away and wash and dry. Even though I was just a little girl I always felt
guilty. But how wonderful it was to drift off to sleep in utter exhaustion, knowing
that when I woke up all the dishes would be neatly washed and put away.
No telling how long this state of affairs would have gone on but one day
Mother discovered all four of the beds in the back lean-to were afflicted with lice! I
doubt whether she even let the miners come in the house that night for supper.
They left abruptly, and for days everything around the place was washed, sterilized,
cleaned and disinfected.
One time Mother received a photo of Uncle Ed's three little girls. Uncle Ed
26
was Mother's eldest brother. Myrtle was the older of the three and was wearing a
lovely jumper dress with white, silk blouse. Mother just loved the dress and decided
she would make Mary and I one just like it. She coaxed Father to take her into
Lethbridge to buy the material. Tabor didn't have anything quite good enough for
those dresses. They made the trip with team and wagon over to that fast growing
border town and purchased a supply of yardage. The cloth for the dresses was a
bright red plaid material, shot with metallic threads of gold and silver and green.
The blouse was a beautiful blue with silver flecks in it. While she was at it she
bought enough of the blue cloth to make Beth a whole dress.
For days she slaved over those dresses. The shoulder tabs fit perfectly. What
style! The finished dresses looked so much prettier than the picture. We wore them
to Sunday School the very next Sunday. Hand-in-hand the three of us walked into
the Meeting House and took our seats. Mary and Beth looked like little angels with
their big, pansy blue eyes and golden hair. When the older girls in the class saw us
marching in like three little peas in a pod, they started to nudge one another and
giggle. I was miserable all through Sunday School. On the way home they followed
closely behind us, making many unkind remarks, such as, "Your mother must have
bought out the whole store!" Then they would go into gales of laughter. There is
always a ring leader in any thoughtless group like that, and probably she was
jealous because she didn't have a dress half as nice.
All the mothers and fathers in the Ward held up Morrell and Clarence to
their own boys. They never used bad language or got into any kind of mischief. As
soon as they were old enough they went regularly to their priesthood meetings and
encouraged other boys to go with them.
One Halloween night some rowdy boys from the town went ticktacking on
windows. When one poor, invalid lady heard the sudden rasping noise, she was so
27
startled that it caused her to have a stroke. Her husband came running out of the
house and called, "Who is it?" Two or three of them answered back, "It's Morrell
and Clarence Elder!" The next day the police officers came to our house to arrest
Morrell and Clarence, but they had proof that they had been in priesthood meeting
when it happened.
From the time I can remember the boys did a man's work. Father was a
hard worker and an early riser. The boys had to get up every morning before sunup to help feed the stock and get the horses ready for the field. Father worked right
along with them. Our supper time was usually long after dark. At heart, Father
was a natural-born farmer. He loved to plant and harvest and till the soil. He
always took great pains with the garden, carefully planting the rows in a straight
line.
I was about 9 years old when Grandma Dewsnup came up to Canada to visit
us. When we heard she was coming we were very excited and thrilled. It would
never do for Grandma to come to see us and find the house lined with tar paper, our
Mother decided. I remember Father and Mother going to the store and buying
pretty wall paper. To keep the paper from cracking they bought several bolts of
muslin and tacked it all over the walls and ceilings of the three lean-tos, then pasted
the wall paper over it. When it was all finished, it really looked beautiful. It was
new and fresh and clean.
Grandma arrived by train in the middle of the night. We were all awakened
and taken to the station to meet the train. As I stood on the platform watching the
train thundering toward us out of the pitch darkness, I pressed as close as I could to
Father. I was trembling with fear. The huge locomotive resembled some great
monster and seemed to be coming straight down upon us!
28
Grandma was so good to us during her visit and we loved her on sight. We
stood around and watched her unpack her suitcases and trunk. She brought each
one of us a gift, and had packed, very carefully, about a dozen jars of jelly and jam,
all of which had broken in transit. Oh, what a mess! And, what a disappointment!
What a tragedy for those hungry little mouths who had never tasted anything
sweeter than dried apples and dried peaches and raisons.
While Father had an Irish temper, he had a good disposition as he was
cheerful and easy going. He liked to joke. Every time we moved from one place to
another, the first thing he would do was to build us an outdoor "privy". I would
always go out and watch him build it. I would ask, "Just what are you making?"
And he would always answer "A lay over to catch meddlers." About the angriest I
ever saw him get was one time when he was papering the ceiling of one of our
houses. When the sticky mess came down around his ears he was fit to be tied.
The finest Christmases we ever had were the times when Mother wasn't able
to go shopping and Father had to do it instead. Those Christmases were memorable
ones. What pretty dolls he bought for us!
When we were youngsters Father always called Mother, "Bert". When
speaking directly to him, Mother always called him John. Other times it was just
"Pa". We called them "Ma" and "Pa" until we had homes of our own.
Father liked to step dance and often danced the old Irish jigs. He owned a
banjo and could really play it. He would put Mary on one knee and me on the other
and play and sing just as long as we wanted him to. One of his favorite songs was
"My Darling Nellie Gray" and "The Irish Washer Woman". One time he brought
home an old, beat-up violin and Oh, how he loved to Fiddle!
29
"EVERYTHING COMES TO THOSE WHO WAIT!" someone has said,
and in the winter of 1908 Father and the boys finished building a new, six-room,
comfortable home, building it on to the original prairie lean-tos in which we had
lived since first moving to Barnwell. At last Mother had her pretty curtains and
things. We owned a band of horses and cattle. Our field was all fenced and under
cultivation. We had plenty to eat and to wear. The new home was built right in the
middle of our beautiful 160 acres of land. It was painted cream color with rose
trimmings and a dark green roof. We had no bathrooms in those days. Our
"Chick-sales" was always built quite a distance from the house.
Father came home one night and surprised us with a beautiful new
gramophone. We were the first family in Barnwell to have one. The great horn
resembled a morning glory blossom and extended far out into the room. All the
neighbors from miles around came over to hear it. Sweeter music never flowed so
magically as came from that exotic tin horn. Everyone sat around and listened as
though they were spell bound. The children's eyes were as round as saucers when
Father played the one about the old grizzly bear who chased a darky right up a tree.
When the old darky began to plead with the good Lord to make that bear go away
and the bear started growling, well, their eyes just about popped right out of their
heads. It wasn't long until every family in Barnwell had a gramophone.
Another time, during the good years, Father came home with a beautiful new
organ. Along with the organ he bought a forty dollar instruction course. As far as I
can remember, I was the only one who ever studied it. Mother would relieve me
from any kind of work just to get me to practice. I learned most of the hymns and
was Sunday School organist for a little while. For some reason the organ was kept
in Mother's room. After the supper dishes were washed and put away, Mother
would undress and go to bed, then call me to play for her. She loved to here me play
the old hymns and always encouraged me in every way she could.
30
In due time, a little country school house was built just outside our field,
down in one corner, across the street from "Aunt Polly" Johnson. A school board
was set up and Father was one of the trustees. A Ward was organized. The little
school house was used as a meeting house and for all civic activities. M.I.A. was
held that first year at Bishop Johnson's home at the upper end of our farm. How
excited we were, and how we speculated, as we walked home across the open field
that winter of 1910, and gazed upon "Haley's comet" as it trailed across the heavens
in all its fearful glory!
My parents were good, faithful Latter-day Saints, and I was always proud of
them. Many times Father would be asked to preach a Sunday afternoon sermon
and sometimes administer to the sacrament. Mother was the first Relief Society
President in Barnwell and was always ready and willing to help wherever there was
need.
In the late winter of 1908, just as we were getting ready to move into our new
home in Barnwell, we all came down with the whooping cough which delayed our
move. One day, while Mother was making a trip out to the new house, Melba had a
coughing spell and went into a severe spasm. I thought she was dying. Her face
turned blue and her little body stiffened. Immediately I slipped down on my knees
beside the bed and begged my Heavenly Father not to let her die. When I opened
my eyes she was normal again and the color had come back into her face.
At last we were all well again and able to move out to the farm. Two or three
weeks after we moved into our new home, Rachel and Beth came down with the
Scarlet Fever. They were put in a room by themselves and none of us were allowed
to go in where they were.
31
A few weeks after Rachel and Beth recovered from the Scarlet Fever and
Mother had fumigated the house thoroughly, we all came down with Diphtheria.
We never knew how we happened to get it. No one else in the whole community had
it or ever came down with it. We thought, perhaps, the germ came out of a damp
vegetable cellar. About a week before Rachel came down with it, Ted and Clarence
spent several days sorting over potatoes, separating the good ones from the bad. It
was while doing this work that they both came down with sore throats and were
kept in bed for several days.
Claire was born on 14 Apr 1909 and was just three weeks old when we came
down with Diphtheria. The morning before Mother was bathing the baby when
Rachel came over and leaned against her knee. "Name the baby "Clara", she said,
looking up with her big brown eyes. Rachel was a beautiful child and had soft
brown curls all over her head. She had a sweet, unselfish disposition. The folks
would buy a bag of candy and give it to her just to see her pass it around to all of us.
She would not stop until the bag was completely empty. Of course, we would
always put some of it back in the sack for her.
The next day she came down with Diphtheria and died within twenty-four
hours. Father and Morrell were out somewhere on the prairie cutting hay and
could not be readily reached. Clarence and Ted took the team and wagon and drove
to Tabor to notify the doctor and get Sister Edwards to come back with them. The
doctor arrived on his bicycle one hour after Rachel was gone. The first thing he did,
when he found one already gone and the rest of us down with it, was to make a
paper funnel and blow sulphur down our throats. This probably saved the rest of
our lives.
There was no funeral, of course. Mother allowed us to get up for a moment
and look at little Rachel lying so peacefully in the tiny white casket the Bishop had
32
made early that morning. We watched, with tears running down our cheeks, as
Bishop Johnson backed up his buckboard and loaded in the white coffin and drove
off across the prairie in the direction of the Tabor cemetery.
Several months later, Mother dreamed she made a trip out to the cemetery
and, although she searched every where, she would not find a trace of Rachel's
name. The next morning she asked the Bishop to drive her over there, and, just as
she had dreamed, the summer rains had washed away the pencil markings he had
put on the rough board with which he had marked the tiny grave. Not only Rachel's
name was missing but many others as well.
Joe had the worst time of all. A few days after he came down with the
disease, and was up and around again, he stepped on a rusty nail out by the barn
and his leg became infected. When the doctor came out he shook his head and told
us his leg would have to come off. Blood poisoning had set in and a small portion
around the wound was already dead. Joe was born in 1903 and was just five years
old. He said to Mother, "Ma, I want Pa to bless me with oil." Friends had gone out
and found Father and Morrell where they were working and they had come home
that day. Joe had a very high fever and was in intense pain. Father blessed him
that night with oil. In Father's Patriarchal Blessing he was promised that he would
have great power in the healing of the sick.
Sister Edwards, who stayed with us during the whole ordeal, had occasion to
go into Mother's bedroom during the night and found her lying on her bed in a
trance, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. When at last she was able to rouse her,
Mother said, "I had a dream in which I was out on the prairie gathering sage brush.
The Lord gave me that dream for a purpose. Go out on the prairie and gather all
the sage you can carry back with you. Steep it in a boiler of water and make a
solution of warm tea as hot as Joe can stand it, then submerge his foot in it all the
33
way to the knee and keep it there until morning, adding more warm tea as needed."
Sister Edwards did as she was instructed. When morning came the swelling
was practically gone and the discoloration was greatly reduced. Even though Joe
was only five years of age he remembers every detail of this faith promoting
incident. He related it all to me only recently, verifying my own remembrance word
for word.
Joe grieved constantly for his little playmate, Rachel, and would often say to
Mother, "Ma, come and tell us about heaven and little Rachel." And no matter
what Mother was doing, she would gather us all around her and talk to us by the
hour, answering the childish questions as best she could, implanting the seed of faith
in our hearts.
After we were recuperating from diphtheria, Beth and I shared the same
room. As we watched from the window, Morrell entertained us from the yard. One
night it had rained hard and the next morning there were puddles here and there.
He was wearing a long, yellow oilskin "slicker" with a hat to match. He would take
a long, running jump and land plop! right in the middle of a big splash. It looked
really funny to us. It was perhaps his way of trying to cheer us up, and at the same
time ease the terrible ache in his own heart.
That winter we stayed in Barnwell and attended the little one-room school.
How we enjoyed the parties, church plays, and entertainments which were held in
the school house from time to time. How Mother loved working among the young
people; especially the boys. They always knew the reason why they got the biggest
piece of cake or pie. While we lived in Tabor she would invite all the boys living on
our street into our home and read to them, thus keeping them off the streets at
night. I remember so well when she read "Swiss Family Robinson" to us. Years
34
after, an old Iceland woman, with tears running down her cheeks, put her arms
around Mother and said, "Sister Elder, I want to thank you for what you did for my
boys. You took them into your home and read good books to them and encouraged
them to go to their Priesthood meetings. God Bless you!" One of her boys moved
away from Tabor, and a year later died. His mother told us that before he passed
away he cried for Sister Elder.
While Mother was President of the Relief Society in Barnwell, she had a
dream one night which might be interesting to relate here. For quite awhile she had
held a grudge against the Bishop. There were many things upon which they did not
agree. During the dream a guide took her to a beautiful temple, through which ran
a long hallway with doors on either side wherein waited the loved ones of those soon
to enter.
Beside each door was a little shelf on which was placed the temple clothes for
each person. The long hallway was filled with people dressing and getting ready to
meet their loved ones in the rooms beyond. Mother found her shelf and her
clothing and began dressing hurriedly, but she was more interested in watching the
woman standing next to her and kept finding fault with the way she was putting on
certain items of clothing. Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and looking around
she saw a tall man standing at her elbow. In the kindest tone he said to her, "Dear
Sister, see that you are properly dressed yourself before you find fault or criticize
others."
Mother, looking around, saw that she was all dressed except for her veil and
she knew she could not enter that room wherein waited little Rachel without it. Oh,
how she longed to see her beloved child and hold her in her arms once more. But,
she awoke still hunting frantically for her veil.
35
She could hardly wait for morning to come. She awakened me and asked me
to walk over to the Bishop's home with her. It was just getting daylight as we
walked across the field. I did not go into his study, but when they came out a halfhour later, they were laughing and from that time on they were the very best of
friends.
During the first few years at Barnwell, we had to haul all of our water in
barrels, both for domestic use and also for the horses and cattle. Everything was
dry-farming in those days. We hauled our water from a little coal mining town
about three or four miles away, called "Coal City". The water was obtained from a
deep well that furnished water to all the people around who did not have a well of
their own. The job of hauling the water was usually allotted to the boys. Sometimes
I went along for the ride. The people who lived in the little town were mostly
foreigners, classified as "Dagos".
Several weeks before our beloved dog, Shep, had come up missing. This
particular day, Ted and I started out with the buckboard filled with empty water
barrels. As we went through the little town we suddenly saw our Shep tied up in a
yard. As we drove by he recognized us immediately and nearly went crazy! He
pulled so hard on the rope it broke loose just as a large, fat woman came waddling
out of the house. When she saw us and the dog dashing after us she picked up an ax
and started running after us, screaming at the top of her voice in a foreign language.
Ted beat the horses and away we went with old Shep leaping joyously at our side.
Lickety split over the bumpy prairie road we went, not daring to stop at the well,
heading straight for Tabor, about five miles away.
Instead of the woman following us, she suddenly cut across to where a man,
probably her husband, was working along the railroad tracks. But, by that time, we
were too far ahead, even though we saw in the far distance, the man mount his
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bicycle and start in pursuit. Once we went in a chuck hole and one of the barrels
fell out and went rolling along the road. Ted slowed down enough for me to jump
out. Quickly I caught hold of it and started rolling it towards the buckboard. By
that time old Shep had leaped up in the seat beside Ted. It didn't take long for the
two of us to lift the barrel back up in the wagon and we were soon on our way again.
As we looked back there was no sign of anyone on a bicycle, but on we galloped at
top speed. As we entered the little town of Tabor at last, we ducked in and out
among the various streets, just in case they had followed us. Finally, we made our
way to the town watering place, filled our barrels and headed for home, miles and
miles out of our way, clear over on the opposite side of town. It took us all the rest
of the day to get back home with the water, but, how the folks welcomed us as we
drove into the yard with old Shep!
Not long afterwards Shep came up missing again. This time the Dagos kept
our dog inside of their house. Whenever Clarence and Ted made the trip after
water they would call and whistle as they passed the house, and Shep would hear
them and make an awful racket. One night they had a bright idea. They rode
double on one of our old work horses and went down to the Dagos. They waited
until it was pitch dark. When they got there, Clarence got off the horse, went to the
door and knocked real hard and then ran back and jumped upon the horse behind
Ted. As the boys galloped away they whistled and called Shep. When the man, in
his wrath, opened the door, the dog slipped between his legs and was gone like
greased lightning. As the boys galloped away they ran into a guide wire from an
electric light pole and were both swept off the horse. Other than a few bruises they
were uninjured and soon mounted the old nag and away they sped onward into the
darkness towards home and safety.
A few weeks later the dog disappeared again. Not finding any trace of him,
Father went to the police and an investigation was made. But we never found him
37
again. There were rumors that the Dagos stole dogs and used them for food.
Some of the happiest memories of those homestead years were the times
Father took us all "berrying" down along old "Belly River". We would all pile in
the wagon and make an all day picnic out of it. The river was down at the bottom of
a deep ravine and many range cattle grazed along the rich bottom lands. Wild
berries of many varieties grew in the narrow gullies that led upward into the heavily
wooded slopes. When we arrived at a good camping spot, Father, Mother and the
boys would fasten buckets around their waists and start for the berry patches,
leaving the children in my care, always cautioning me not to let them get out of the
wagon. Some times the cattle were dangerous and would become quite ferocious.
There were many rattlesnakes, too, and we were taught to be very careful at all
times. During the day the folks would come back to the wagon and drive up and
down the river searching for more productive berry patches. Mother would drive
the wagon while Father walked along in front to pick out the safest way. Some
times he would ford the river and cross from one side to the other. This was always
a fearsome experience. As we traveled along the river bank one day, Father killed
26 rattlesnakes! Before they started picking berries, they would always take a long
stick and beat the bushes thoroughly just to make sure there were no snakes. We
must have been pretty hungry for jam and jelly, which Mother always made after
these excursions, to subject us all to such hazards. Old Belly River was filled with
fish--Gold Eye and Pike. Some times we would go fishing and cook the fish right
there on the spot. One time we forgot the salt, without which it was a tasteless
mess.
18 Feb 1910, the twins were born. We named them Adelle and Estelle. All
during the nine months before their birth Mother suffered with heart burn and
lived almost entirely on Milk of Magnesia or uncooked rice. She kept a little dish of
rice close to wherever she was working and would keep chewing it to relieve the
38
unpleasant burning. At meal times I've seen the tears roll down her cheeks because
of her almost unbearable hunger.
All during that eventful afternoon she felt labor pains and the boys were duly
sent into Tabor to get the doctor and to bring back Sister Edwards, the midwife. At
5:30 p.m. the doctor had not arrived and Mother was beside herself with pain.
Suddenly there was Father rushing through the house, one room after another,
yelling at the top of his voice, "Where's the scissors! Where's the SCISSORS!"
And, between moans, Mother would keep saying, "Don't let the children come in!"
Father was so excited he passed right by the scissors several times without seeing
them. When he actually had them in his hands he calmed down somewhat, and sent
one of the children running across the field for Aunt Polly, a little rolly polly person
who always seemed to be living close to us in times of great need. She must have
seen the children coming for her, for suddenly there she was hurrying to meet them.
She had no more than entered the house when the first twin was born. The other
one followed about an hour later.
Everything was over with by the time the doctor and Sister Edwards arrived.
But, if the doctor had not arrived just when he did, Mother would have died. She
had several hemorrhages, one after the other, and her face was beginning to turn
black and her limbs numb. How we all prayed for her life to be spared and we
knew the Lord answered our prayers.
After it was all over and everyone was thrilled and happy over the twins,
Mother said to us, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He gave us an extra
one to make up for the one he took away." She always said Rachel was given for
tithing.
Those cute, little dolls! Mother kept them dressed in white until they were
39
two years old or more. When they were six months old, Mother invited the Relief
Society sisters to come out to our house on the farm and help "shorten" them. They
sewed all day long. Mother prepared a good dinner for them and they talked and
laughed and had a real happy day. They made numerous little white, lace trimmed
doll dresses, each with a little ruffled and lace trimmed petticoat.
The twins were sort of adopted by Mary and Beth. They each took care of
one of them as carefully as though they were actually their own. The babies learned
to love the girls and seemed to prefer them rather than their own mother. They
were called the buttermilk babies. Some neighbor told Mother that freshly churned
buttermilk was very good for young babies, and for many months they were each
given a full bottle of buttermilk right after their morning bath. All freshly bathed
and dressed in their dainty white dresses, they looked adorable lying on the bed.
They took every drop that was in the bottles, then went contentedly to sleep.
Mother nursed both of them but did not have enough milk without the extra
buttermilk.
Two years and a few days later, Austin Pratt was born. It was "Leap Year",
29 Feb 1912. Mother was sure she was going to have a Leap Year baby. Feeling a
few pains in the late afternoon she sent for the doctor and Sister Edwards. They sat
up all night but nothing happened and in the morning they both went home. Austin
was born a week later on 6 Mar 1912.
Mother always had implicit faith that her mission upon earth was to give as
many spirits as possible an earthly body, and looked upon herself as in partnership
with God. Thus, all during her pregnancy, unlike most women at that time, she was
patient, loving, never irritable. It was always, during that time, that I loved her
most of all, and always, after the babies were born and she was lying in her bed, I
thought she looked like an angel.
40
Some where along the way, I believe it was in the spring of 1918--the year the
twins were born, Father got the "Engine" fever or whatever the enthusiasm he had
was called. He sold our horses, mortgaged our beautiful farm at Barnwell, and
bought a huge tractor, sets of disks, plows, and other machinery with which to
break the prairie soil and prepare it for the settlers who were flooding into the
country. Mother begged and pleaded with him not to go into debt. "It will keep you
away from your meetings and you will have rough, hired men around the boys, and
you will have to keep them out of school." All of which proved only too true.
All would have gone well, I suppose, if the drought had not come that
summer. Not one drop of rain fell for many months. The ground was too dry to be
cultivated. Payments had to be met. That was the first winter we attended the little
Barnwell school. Here it might be interesting as well as amusing to relate an
incident that happened during our school year.
There was a family living on a ranch near Barnwell by the name of
Henderson. They had seven or eight children. Charley was the eldest one and was
in my class at school. All classes met together in one big room. We had a cranky,
little, old school teacher. I was his "pet". That is, he was cranky with everyone
except me. He gave me a seat all to myself, while others had to share his or her seat
with another person. Many times during the school hours he would find excuses to
sit down beside me, helping me with my arithmetic problems and multiplication
tables. Being by nature a very shy person, his attitude was a never-ending source of
embarrassment to me. Not only that, but he had halitosis and I suffered untold
agony. For a long time I suffered in silence. When I could stand it no longer, I told
Father about it and, being on the school board, he proceeded to do something about
it. He was forthwith fired. There was also another source of embarrassment to me.
Charley also found excuses to pass my desk and at every opportunity would
41
smuggle little love notes to me.
On this particular afternoon, the older boys were lining up along the wall for
their Geography lesson. As Charley walked up to take his place with the other boys,
he dropped the usual note on my desk. Usually I dropped them in the waste basket
without opening them, but this was the last straw. I opened it and read, "I love you!
Charley"
I do not know what possessed me but I got up and marched right up to the
teacher's desk and handed him the note. He took one look at it and immediately the
fire works started. He grabbed his geography book and took in after Charley.
When Charley saw him coming he started running--the little old man after him-whacking him with the book at every step. Charley was a good dodger as well as a
good runner and the teacher never quite caught up with him as around and around
that long line of boys they went, much to the hilarious amusement of the whole
school!
I can't remember how it ended or how Charley was punished. But I do
remember the names he called me after school was out, and for a long time
afterwards. Whenever he encountered me he would shout loud enough for all to
hear, "LO-ass!" The kids got a big kick out of it.
Now comes the tragic part of my story. The smaller children of the
Henderson family were shamefully neglected. The older daughter was named Rose,
a very beautiful girl, and her mother's favorite. Every morning Rose and her
mother would harness up the horse and buggy and drive into Tabor. They had to
pass our place both coming and going and we always wondered what they did whole
they were gone. In the late afternoon they would come jogging along on their way
home.
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Other people wondered about the children left alone all day by themselves,
day after day. The baby was about a year old and none of the children were old
enough to take the responsibility of caring for the small baby. One day someone
stopped by to check on the situation and found the baby asleep with a bottle of
"Laudanum" nearby on the table. The case was reported to the police, an
investigation made, and a lawsuit filed. Because of the constant use of the drug, the
baby was partially paralyzed. The baby was taken away from the mother. The
Relief Society was assigned the unpleasant task of looking into the case. Mother,
being the president, had the full responsibility.
They found the children in terrible condition and the house filthy. There
were swarms of flies everywhere. Mother picked one of the children up on her lap
and tried to wash its little head. The dirt was so encrusted in it hair she became
nauseated and had to put the child down and go outside several times before she
could continue with the job.
When the lurid facts were brought out in the court trial, they took the baby
away and no one ever knew what became of it. It was a sad and heart breaking
mystery in our young lives. But, the story has a sequel.
In the year 1947, a strange coincidence happened that wouldn't happen again
in a thousand years. When back in the New England Mission, my husband was
District President of the Southern Main District, we were visiting some of the Saints
out in one of the outlying branches, and were invited into the home of a good
brother and sister for dinner. They had a 37 year old daughter who was crippled.
She was a lovely, talented person and could play the piano with one hand as well, or
better than, anyone we had ever heard play. She had a sweet and affectionate
disposition and was charming and gracious, and a faithful Latter-day Saint. They
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served us a bounteous New England ham dinner, during which time I happened to
mention the fact that I had lived many years in Alberta, Canada. One thing led to
another and soon there was no doubt in our minds. This beautiful woman was the
little baby who had so mysteriously disappeared 37 years before. We did not let
them know that we knew, nor did we divulge this knowledge to any one else. But
later, when the adopted mother was confronted with evidence, she did not deny the
circumstances.
Turning the pages back again to 1911 and 1912, it rained constantly all
summer long and the ground was too wet and soggy to cultivate. Poor Father! and
poor boys! Right from the start Father decided I was to go out with him and cook
for them. How I hated Sunday afternoon to come when it was time for Father to get
ready to go back to camp. Some times I would hide from him. But he would always
find me and I would, somehow, have to endure the loneliness of another week, or
month. Some times Mary would be allowed to go along with me. We would play
paper doll house by the hour. We never seemed to tire of cutting out paper dolls
from old catalogs and improvising doll furniture.
The summer of 1911 was a total loss. It rained so much the crops would not
ripen and there was no harvest. That year some more land was thrown open for
filing. Father had used up his rights for homesteading, but Mother had never used
hers. Father promised her if she would live on it and prove up on it she could have
it for her own. It was a picturesque piece of land covered with rolling prairie hills.
Several neighbors lived within a mile or two. It was located about six or seven miles
north of Tabor.
So Mother said goodbye to all her friends and moved out on the new ranch.
Father built us a nice 3-room house and we were very happy. Dear Mother, once
again trying to make us a home out there upon that prairie sod. She could do that,
44
Mother could, for she had:
"A mind that soared above the dust,
A heart that throbbed for duty;
A hand that shared the frugal crust
And touched the world with beauty."
Two straight crop failures, drought, and heavy rains almost continuously,
just about ruined us. Our farm at Barnwell had to be sold to pay debts. Father
bought a lot in Tabor and moved the Barnwell house on it. When it was finished we
moved into it for the usual school and church facilities. That was the year Austin
was born, 1912. Crops were bounteous that year. Father had more contracts than
he could do. Mary and I went along with the outfit to cook for them. Mother must
have needed up at home for the two year old twins and a new baby must have been
a handful.
But, even with good crops, Father lost heavily that year. He was not a
mechanic, and not knowing anything about a tractor, had many break downs.
There were no factories or supply houses where they could get parts for the
machinery, closer than Winnipeg or Ottawa. After every break down, and there
were many, they had to wait a month or more to get any kind of part to make the
repair. Eventually, Morrell and Clarence became expert mechanics and learned to
keep certain parts on hand. But at first, when they needed the repairs and there
was no way of getting what they needed in a hurry, they had to do a lot of
experimenting. Some times we would be gone from home a whole month at a time.
That summer a faith promoting incident happened to me that is worthy of a
place in my Book of Remembrance. Out on the prairie, forty miles from home,
Father and Morrell were moving from one job to another. First, there was the huge,
noisy tractor pulling a set of plows; then the cook car where Mary and I slept and
cooked for the men; the bunk car where the men slept came next; then, following
45
five sets of disks, on top of which were stacked the harrows and levelers; at the end
was the roust-a-bout wagon piled high with miscellaneous camping gear, oil,
gasoline and tools.
At home, Mother awoke that morning with a feeling of unexplainable
depression. As the hours went by the feeling grew until she became restless and
almost ill with worry. Finally, she took the children and walked over to the nearest
neighbor about a mile away. The woman laughed at Mother's fears and told her it
was not good to be left alone so much.
Mother visited a little while and then went back home more depressed than
ever. At last she went into her bedroom, taking Claire with her, and fell down upon
her knees beside the bed and poured out her heart to her Heavenly Father, talking
to Him as she had never talked to Him before in all her life. When she arose, the
feeling of depression was entirely gone and she went about her work without a trace
of worry the rest of the day.
While Mother was down on her knees, far away over the prairie sod, Morrell
was steering the huge tractor and Father was walking ahead picking out a trail free
from chuck holes and buffalo wallows. Mary and I were taking turns riding on one
of the seats on a set of disks. The prairie was littered with many shapes and sizes of
buffalo bones, the segments of which made wonderful doll furniture. As we walked
along the moving caravan we found many prize specimens for our collection. As we
picked them up we put them
in the front of our dresses holding them together by one hand and using the
other to guide us back on our favorite seat atop the set of disks. When we spied
another specimen we would jump off and then climb back on again.
Suddenly my foot slipped as I was climbing back on! Mary quickly reached
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out to pull me out of danger, but the turning disks caught my heavy flannel dress
and finished pulling me under. "Tell them to stop the engine!" I cried, desperately.
For a moment she held on to my hand harder than ever. I was afraid she wouldn't
let it go. But, suddenly she dropped it and ran towards the front of the outfit. The
moving engine was making such a racket she couldn't make Morrell hear. Finally
he looked around to see if everything was coming along all right, and then he saw
her. Father, by that time, heard her screams and came on the dead run.
"Nothing can save me now!" I thought. "Oh, Father in Heaven, forgive me
of all my sins."
But---someone did save my life!
At that very moment, we found out later,
my mother was pleading with the Lord to guard and protect her loved ones and He
heard and answered her prayers. Because of my thick dress I had miraculously
caught, and by some unseen power, the turning disks had become stationary. The
heaviness upon me was crushing the breath out of my body, tearing me to pieces, so
it seemed. Just before I lost consciousness, I realized that the wheels had stopped
going around and all was still.
When I opened my eyes I was lying out on the soft prairie grass and my
father was holding my head in his arms. They were all crying; they thought I was
dead. When I saw them kneeling there beside me and heard Father finishing his
blessing upon me, I had a feeling of great strength and I said with utmost faith, "I'm
not hurt!" and tried to stand up. But immediately I crumbled to the ground. I had
a gash or two a cross my legs and my chest.
Blood was flowing from my nostrils. My heavy flannel dress was almost cut
to shreds. They found my hat and scattered buffalo bones about a hundred yards
back.
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They carried me into the cook car and placed me upon the bed, then knelt
around me and prayed. I had to keep fighting for my breath. When Father and
Morrell went back outside and left me with Mary, she kept crying and saying over
and over, "I'm so sorry if I've ever been mean to you! That night for the first time
that summer, Father called Morrell and Mary and they knelt beside my bed for
family prayer.
I shall always feel that my mother's faith and my father's blessing saved my
life. The next day they made a bed in the back of the wagon and started on the long
journey home. With my chest crushed as it was I couldn't stand the jolting and
almost suffocated for want of breath. They had to turn around and take me back to
camp.
It was two weeks before I could stand the trip across the rough prairie
country. Mother saw us coming long before we reached home and came with the
children to meet us. They had put me up in the seat so she wouldn't miss me and
think something was wrong. But, she knew! Looking up into our faces, she said,
"Now, tell me what happened!" In checking over the circumstances later, the
timing was exactly the same.
Speaking of great faith, I would like to relate another faith promoting story
that happened to one of our neighbors the first summer we lived on Mother's
homestead. How happy we were to find that one of our neighbors in the early days
of Raymond had moved out on an adjoining homestead in this new country--Sister
Paxman and her three grown sons: Andrew, Ezra and Douglas. Andrew was the
eldest and the other two boys were the age of Morrell and Clarence.
Sister Paxman was a very righteous woman and some considered her a
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prophetess. Many times she had manifested the power of the Lord in sickness and
in many other ways. In the early days of Raymond, during a Relief Society meeting
at which my mother was present, one of the sisters got up and started to go around
giving blessings to some of the other sisters, jabbering in a peculiar way. Sister
Paxman, sensing an evil spirit, stood up and commanded it "in the name of the
Lord" to depart. Instantly the woman sat down in a very weakened condition, her
voice completely leaving her for several days.
I heard Sister Paxman relate the story of a miraculous escape from the evil
powers of death. One night, after they had moved out on this homestead near ours,
she became violently ill and no help was near. Suddenly there appeared in her room
two personages, one in the form of an angel of death and one in the form of an angel
of light and glory. They seemed to be fighting and struggling for her life. Just when
she felt she was sinking beyond help and would surely die, she raised herself up in
bed and commanded the evil spirit "in the name of the Lord" to depart. Her
command was obeyed and she found herself alone in the room. From that moment
on she began to improve.
In the earlier years of Sister Paxman's adult life she had helped to translate
the Book of Mormon into the Samoan language. Because of the long, wearisome,
confining work, her back had become permanently weakened. until she experienced
constant pain. Wherever she went she kept her hand pressed across her back until
the threads of her clothing were worn thread bare.
When her boys grew to manhood they were all given wonderful patriarchal
blessings. Andrew was promised that if he were faithful he would live to hold high
positions in the church and would one day stand in holy places. The other boys had
similar blessings and their mother had implicit faith in their ultimate fulfillment.
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But Andrew got in with bad company and spent his evenings in Tabor with a
group of rough gambling men. One night, during a gambling spree, he lost heavily,
and when he had no more money with which to pay his debts, he mortgaged his
mother's horses, leaving her without any way to cultivate her farm or harvest the
crops.
When morning came and full realization came to him of the awful thing he
had done, he felt as though he could not face his mother. Without going back to his
home, or telling anyone where he was going, he stumbled away with but one thought
in his mind--to get as far away as possible. Eventually he landed in a logging camp
somewhere in the wilds of British Columbia, where, for several months he suffered
the deepest anguish and remorse. At last, when he felt he could no longer endure
the torture of loneliness and separation from his loved ones, he wrote a letter to his
mother in which he poured out his heart and soul, asking her forgiveness for the
terrible thing he had done. At the close of the letter he said, "I will wait here six
weeks for your answer. If I do not hear from you at the end of that time, I will
know for sure that you haven't forgiven me and I will go away so far you will never
hear from me again."
And so we waited through most of a Canadian winter. The storms came into
that mountainous terrain and, unknown to the boy, it was late in the spring before
the mails could get through. Eventually Sister Paxman received her son's letter but
it was too late. She immediately contacted the boss of the logging camp, but word
came back to her that Andrew left during a raging blizzard in the middle of the
winter and no trace of him could be found. The letter had read, "He couldn't
possibly have survived!"
Thus began Sister Paxman's long years of waiting and praying. Never once
did her faith waver. She had faith in her son's patriarchal blessing and truly
50
believed that he would one day stand in holy places. Many times while we lived on
Mother's ranch she would send Douglas over to our place with a note for Mother
asking that she and a few other sisters would come and pray with her. In the prayer
circle each one would pray in turn. One time, when it was Mother's turn, she
suddenly felt the spirit of prophecy and said, "I promise you, Sister Paxman, in the
name of the Lord, your son is alive and well and that in due time he will come
home!"
So the years passed by, Sister Paxman finally gave up the farm and moved
back to Raymond. Many years later, during World War I, we, too, moved back to
Raymond. There, again, we were neighbors. Sister's faith in her son's eventual
return was as strong as ever, if not more so. At the end of nine years, fearing lest
this good sister's mind would become demented, the Bishop and his Councilors met
together to see if they couldn't persuade her to give up looking for her son to come
home. They felt that he was surely dead and the poor woman should not go on any
longer hoping against hope.
The three brethren went down to her home at the appointed time and told
her why they had come. "NO!" she cried firmly, "My son is not dead! He is alive
and well. If it were not so the Lord would have told me." Then she said to them,
"Let us kneel and pray. If he is still alive the Lord will give me a sign."
So they knelt and prayed, each one in turn. On arising, their eyes were
drawn irresistibly to an open hymn book on the organ and, according to the
testimony of those who were present, the printed words of that beloved song,
"Come, Come, Ye Saints" appeared to be greatly magnified at the place where the
words read, "All is Well--All is Well!. The Brethren could say no more and left her
in peace.
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Now comes the sequel--the fulfillment of one of the greatest tests of faith I
have ever known.
Walter S. Berryessa, a boy from Raymond, became a band leader in the
armed forces during World War I. One night in London he was introduced to a
soldier by the name of Alex Strange. "Alex Strange, hell" he said, "You're Andrew
Paxman!" The man who called himself Alex Strange, pulled a gun on him and said
vehemently, "I'll kill you if you ever tell anyone!" Walter calmly pushed the gun
away. The two boys had grown up together and he wasn't afraid of being shot.
I met Walter Berryessa, quite by accident, a few Sundays ago at the Wilshire
Ward here in Los Angeles (Sep 1963). Fifty-three years after Andrew Paxman
disappeared from Tabor, Alberta, Canada. When Brother Berryessa found out
during our conversation that I had once lived in Raymond, he asked me if I had ever
known Andrew Paxman. Then he said, "I was the one who found him!" Hence,
this little story, coming first hand from that far away war zone.
"After Andre Paxman pushed his way through a raging Canadian blizzard
back in 1910, he was very bitter and lost all desire to live. When World War I
started he was one of the first young men to join the British army. He had no fear of
death and even tried, on numerous occasions, to get himself killed. With the
thought ever before him that his family had abandoned him, he lost all pride and
became a heavy drinker. He was so slovenly in his dress and habits, not caring
about his appearance. Walter Berryessa finally convinced him of his mother's
devotion; how his letter had been delayed until it was too late to get word to him,
and how she had never given up her faith that he would one day return home. After
knowing his mother had actually forgiven him, he was a changed man. He stopped
drinking and began to take pride in his appearance and to live in such a way that
his mother would be proud of him when he went home. The only fear he had, and
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he worried about it a lot, was the thought that he might still forget and do something
bad.
Brother Berryessa's story of Sgt. Alex Strange's episodes goes like this:
Captured 20 German soldiers alone; was recommended for the Victoria Cross--the
highest British Award; held Cross De Guerre and other awards. While at Officer's
Mess he asked the Colonel if he would like the Breach of the gun that was shelling
them, for breakfast. He agreed. The next morning it was in the plate of the Colonel.
Andrew Paxman had crossed into the German lines and captured the Breach. He
did many daring things, according to Walter Berryessa, as Sgt. Strange, Scout."
Surely the Lord did watch over the son of such a good and faithful mother.
And my own mother, standing beside this righteous woman all down through the
years of waiting and praying! For, Andrew Paxman DID COME HOME! In early
April of 1919, just three weeks before my own mother passed away, the whole town
gave him a hero's welcome as his train pulled into the little railroad station at
Raymond. The town band was out in full regalia. My own mother stood weeping
beside Sister Paxman as she embraced her son. There was not a dry eye in the
whole crowd--in the whole town--for everyone was out to rejoice with Sister
Paxman. Thus, my own mother lived to see the fulfillment of prophecy and undying
faith in God.
Now, back to 1912. That winter we moved into Tabor again and lived in the
lovely home Father had moved in from Barnwell. Merrell, Clarence and I were now
old enough for high school and the folks sent us over to the Raymond Academy. To
keep us there, Ted stayed out of school and helped Father haul coal from the mines,
getting up at 4 a.m. to start the day.
We lived in the homes of Latter-day Saints and partially worked for our
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board and room. We loved school and made many choice friends. The winter
passed all too quickly and soon it was time for the spring planting and Father sent
for the boys. After they left, I was so homesick that I thought I would die if I didn't
go home. When I went to the principal to tell him of my decision, I cried so hard I
couldn't stop. He tried to talk me into staying but my mind was made up and I left
on the train the next day.
Mother took turns with Mary and I that summer, going out to cook for
Father and the boys. Ted and I stayed on the farm for awhile and took care of
things. We had cows to milk and all the chores to do. One day in the hot summer
time, Ted and I were hired by a neighbor woman, Sister McKenney, to pull Russian
thistles from her field. We worked till our backs ached and our poor hands were
bruised from the stickers. We worked from morning until in the afternoon. As we
worked by the sweat of our brows, we kept wondering how much she was going to
pay us and figured over and over how we would spend our money. In the middle of
the afternoon she called us in and had us sit down to a nice luncheon. When we
were ready to leave she said, "I hold the mortgage on your father's homestead and
he hasn't paid me for quite some time. What you have earned will be deducted from
the debt he owes me." We thought she was the meanest woman in the world!
That fall the folks moved over to Raymond so we could all be together. We
older children went back to the Academy. That was a wonderful winter. To have
Mother and Father with us at home and all of us together was just about perfect.
There were so many of us to get off to school, but always we knew that when we
came home for lunch the house would be clean and a good, warm lunch waiting for
us. The boys were champions on the basket ball team and Mother never missed a
game. She would yell until she was hoarse.
It was while living in this home in Raymond that Mother dreamed one of her
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faith promoting dreams. Some months after Austin was born, Father and Mother
began to wonder if thirteen children were not all that the Lord required of them to
bring into the world. After thinking it over and making it a matter of prayer, they
agreed not to have any more children. But, the Lord had other plans. One night
Mother related to me the following dream: She had gone to bed, but not to sleep
when a man silently entered her room, carrying a baby in his arms. When he
reached her bedside he held the baby out to her and she reached up to take it from
him. Instantly, the man and baby vanished as quietly as they had entered. She
knew the purpose of that vision. From that time on she resolved not to question the
Lord's will. She would have as many as He wanted her to have. The memory of her
telling me the dream is just as vivid today as it was when she told me. I can see the
home, the door, the position of the bed.
When Spring came, back we all went to Mother's farm. That year crops
looked so good that Father went still further in debt and bought a threshing
machine and another huge tractor. Then the farm, Mother's farm, had to be
mortgaged and later sold. But, never did she put the blame on Father or complain
in any way. She seemed only too glad to help. When he was discouraged or blue, as
he so often was in those troublesome times of failure and defeat, she would laugh
and joke about it and say, "It's easy enough to be pleasant when the world moves
along like a song. But a man worth while is the one who can smile when everything
goes dead wrong!"
That year the crops burned up. There was some threshing to be done by
taking the outfit to various locations that wasn't so hard hit as others. We lived in
Tabor that winter. Some times Mother would take the smaller children and go with
Father to cook for the threshers. Some times I would go. He usually hired a woman
or older girl to help me. One time she had an ulcerated tooth and I was left alone
for over a week. With Ted's help I managed to make out until she returned. But I
55
shall never forget that week! There were 25 men to cook for and I baked all the
bread. After supper, and supper was always late, Ted would help me with the
dishes. Then about 11:00 p.m. I would sift about seven or eight quarts of flour in
the mixing pan and start to knead the dough. I remember the tears falling into the
flour s I mixed it, I was so tired. The men would come in for breakfast at 5:00 a.m.I
would have steak and hot rolls along with everything else. I never worked so hard
in my life as I did when I cooked for those men. I didn't think of it, but if I had, I
would have had an ulcerated tooth, too.
MOVED BACK TO IDAHO 1914.
It is hard to remember back that far, but in the spring of 1914, having lost
everything we owned, Father decided to move us to Oakley, ID--I'll never know
why. I can still hear the wagon wheels creaking as they rumbled up and down Main
Street in the wintertime. But, it was springtime when we moved and Idaho is
beautiful in the summertime. Father and the boys filed on homestead land about
seven miles up in the foothills above Oakley. Father and Clarence went on ahead
and to build us a house. Morrell and Ted made the trip with team and wagon. The
rest of us made the trip by train.
The week before we left our prairie home we all felt very sad. It seemed like
an impossible dream as we packed and made ready for the trip. On the Friday
night before we left on our journey, Mother let me stay all night with Bertha Jensen,
my girl friend, and we went to a neighborhood dance with the family. I danced a lot
that night with a boy named Randolph Bowden. After awhile he said, "I'm coming
over to your place tomorrow night." "That will be wonderful!" I answered,
happily. But, I danced the next time with a boy named Bill Jensen, and he said the
same thing. I started to say, "Oh, that will be wonderful!" But stopped just in the
nick of time. Instead, I exclaimed, "You can't! Randolph is coming!" He laughed
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and said, "The more the merrier!"
He knew what I did not know--our friends were planning a farewell party for
us over at the Haycock house a few miles away. Saturday was endless. I thought it
would never pass. But, at 6:00 p.m. here came Randolph driving into the yard with
horse and buggy. Not far behind him came Bill, all decked out with a beautiful
shiny, new buggy, drawn by two prancing horses. I took Mother into the bedroom
and said, "Whatever shall I do, Ma? They're both here!" And Mother said, "Go
with Randolph--he asked you first, didn't he?"
To persuade Mother to take the children and go over to the neighbors at that
time of day without a reason was impossible. After while Randolph let us all in on
the secret, and away we all went together. Morrell driving the family in our
buckboard, Randolph and I in his buggy, and Bill trailing along behind in all his
glory. Someone rode with him but I can't remember which one.
During the evening Randolph and I strolled down the road a little way and
he said to me, "I'm coming to the train tomorrow night to see you off." "Good!" I
exclaimed, and he knew I was glad.
Later on in the evening, Bill came over to me and said, "I'm coming to see
you off on the train tomorrow night."
"I suppose you should know," I answered honestly, "that Randolph will be
there too." He answered with a disarming grin, "What difference will that make?"
Both boys were there to greet us as we drove into the station yard. After a
little while Bill said goodbye to all of us and left. Randolph had bought a ticket as
far as Lethbridge and boarded the train with us. We pulled into Lethbridge just as
57
the old prairie sun was peeping up over the horizon. The prairie country I knew in
those days was all sky. There were no mountains, or even a hill in the way to mar
the splendor of a sunrise.
While we were waiting a half hour or so for our train to make its departure,
Randolph and I walked down a little path through the trees to the edge of Old Belly
River. There Randolph begged me to stay and marry him. But, I was not about to
marry anyone at that time. "My mother needs me now." I said. "After two or three
years from now if things work out that way, we can talk about it again." So we said
goodbye and went back to the train and the others. On the way he made one more
attempt. "I've heard there are twice as many girls as boys down in the States. You
might turn out to be an old maid."
I was not kidding! Oh, how Mother needed me on that trip! She was like
the woman in the shoe who had so many children she didn't know what to do!
There were 9 of us: Austin, Adelle, Estelle, Claire, Melba, Mary, Beth, Joe and
myself. Joe had an injured foot and had it all bandaged up. Mary had an infection
in her ear and her head was also swathed in white wrappings. The only difference,
Mother wasn't an old woman. She was just 39 or 40 years old. She looked like one
of the older children.
Our family was the center of attraction wherever we stopped along the way,
and the cause of much merriment. We finally reached Burley, ID, about 30 miles
from our destination. There we stayed all night in a hotel. After we had put the
children to bed, Mother and I went to a picture show. Sitting behind us, we noticed,
were two boys whom we had seen at the station when we arrived that afternoon.
Suddenly one of the boys whispered excitedly to the other one, loud enough for
everyone around us to hear, "Hey! That's the woman we saw at the train! Golly! I
thought they would never quit coming out of that train!" My ears stayed red all
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through the show.
The next day when the train pulled into Oakley, there was dear, sunshiny
Clarence waiting for us with a team and wagon. We all piled in and made room for
each other on the bottom of the wagonbed. I was so self-conscious by that time, and
afraid of being laughed at--how could I have been so silly--that I unfolded a blanket
and completely covered myself with it until we were out of town.
Clarence drove us up to our new ranch--640 acres of rolling foothills with a
creek running across one end. A wide, beautiful valley lay seven miles below us,
with white, fluffy clouds floating around like a sea of islands. Most beautiful of all
was the backdrop of towering, snow-capped mountains. The whole valley and lower
hills were completely covered with scrub cedar.
What a change from the grassy knolls of the Canadian prairie country with
which we were so familiar. The new house was built down near the lower end of the
ranch. A little spring of water trickled down from a nearby hillside. Clarence had
developed it and brought it down to a little fenced garden plot.
More pioneering for Mother! More rough, bare walls! But, how soon it
became a home with Mother's radiant spirit permeating every nook and corner.
Up went her favorite bits of poetry! Always that special one:
"
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years.
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through tears."
Many times during the weeks and months that followed, as I was making
Mother's bed in the morning, I found her pillow wet with tears and knew the reason
why. Most of all I think she missed her church work and her meetings, her friends
59
and neighbors. Up in Canada I have known her to ride one of our old work horses
bare-back, three or four miles just to get to the meeting house to teach her Relief
Society class.
She loved nature and all the marvelous creations of the universe. Often we
would climb together way up on a hillside just to watch a sunset. Once, in those
dear days, we fixed a little lunch--bread and butter, radishes from Clarence' garden,
a bottle of rhubarb. That memorable day we climbed and dilly dallied along the
way, following a little meandering mountain stream that played "hide and seek"
among the tall, white-barked Quakenasp trees. The children tripped along beside
us, happy as larks. How near we felt to each other in those dear moments. She was
never too tired to go for a hike with any or all of her children; never in such a hurry
she did not have time to stop and admire a pretty flower or an unusual stone; or,
listening to the song of a bird in the tree tops. I have seen her start out on an all day
trip with her dear big boys, returning late in the afternoon in such a joyous mood,
laughing and talking as they approached the house.
Randolph wrote one or two letters to me and sent me a handsome picture of
himself dressed in skating togs with a pair of shiny skates thrown carelessly over
his shoulder. It was a picture to please the heart of any girl. However, we did not
go on with our correspondence. For some reason or other we just stopped writing.
That fall we rented a nice house in Oakley and moved in town to get the
children in school. We were living in this house when Grandma Dewsnup visited us
the second time. The dream Mother had, just before we left Raymond, was to come
true. Mother was expecting her fourteenth baby. Alberta was born 26 Oct 1914.
Father was up at the ranch; grandma had gone back home; and I was there alone
with the doctor when she was born. Father came home a week later. I thought
Mother looked like an angel lying there with her precious baby clasped in her arms
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as Father came into the room and greeted her with a tender kiss.
A very nice young man, by the name of Douglas McBride, asked me to go to
the theater with him one night that winter. He even came in the house and asked
Father's permission to take me. He was one of the most popular boys in school and
I was proud to have a date with him. We enjoyed the play and the walk home
together. When we reached my home and stood on the porch talking for a moment,
he said, "I'm sorry I have to leave so soon, but I have a theme to write for my
examination tomorrow." He had no sooner gone than a group of friends came by
and talked me into going to a dance with them. Douglas never asked me to go out
with him again and I knew why. I can't understand how I could have been so
thoughtless. I realized, when it was too late, how thoughtless I had been.
During that winter "The Forrest Taylor Players" played at the opera house
for a whole week and Mother bought season tickets and took us to see the show
several times. I have never forgotten that wonderful week.
Clarence had a girl friend that winter named Ruby Martindale. He bought
her a beautiful watch for Christmas, but she never wore it. I heard afterwards that
she didn't like it because it was the kind that fastened to the front of the dress,
instead of a wrist watch--just coming into fashion at that time. A lapel watch was
then considered old fashioned.
Even twelve year old Joe had a special girl friend that winter. At Christmas
time he talked it over with Mother and wondered if he could buy her a present.
Mother had ten dollars with which to buy gifts for the whole family. I don't see how
she ever did it, but she made it stretch far enough to even include a lovely pearl
necklace in a pretty little box for Joe to give to his special girl friend. I was with her
and helped her select each humble gift. Joe reminds me that he had two girl friends.
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Their names were Viola Hale and Althera Severe. Mother bought two necklaces,
one for each of them. They cost .25 each.
Early in the spring we moved back up on the ranch. Father and the boys cut
and hauled cedar posts for fencing our vast acreage. Joe had a job as helper in a
hardware store for the summer. Each Sunday morning he would ride his bicycle up
and up--all seven miles--until he reached the ranch. How we loved to see him
coming! Many years later Ted went back just to have a look once more at our once
happy home. He found the home burned to the ground. But there, scattered among
the ashes of memory, were parts of the old "Home Comfort" range on which
Mother had cooked so many good meals. Pearl told us once, as she was relating the
incident, that Ted just sat down and bawled!
In the middle of the summer, Ted ran away from home. Father and the boys
spent days searching every place they could think of. We all felt terrible. Ted was
always a favorite in the family. I came across Father one morning, sitting dejectedly
upon an old bench around back of the barn, tears rolling down his cheeks. I tiptoed
quietly away before he saw me.
Thinking Ted might have secured a job on some ranch in the valley, Father,
Morrell and Clarence started out to make a systematic search, each taking one
district and patrolling it thoroughly. Then, one day they reaped a golden reward.
As Father drove along a field of ripening wheat, he noticed someone in the distance
on a machine, driving four horses. As Father slowed down and stopped, the driver
of the horses jumped down from the machine and promptly disappeared into the
tall grain.
Father drove on into the yard and said to the owner of the property, "Do you
know where I could find a boy named Leslie Elder?" "No, I've never heard of
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Leslie Elder," the man said with a twinkle in his eye. "But I do have a boy working
here by the name of Leslie Mason." He and Father walked out into the wheat field
where the horses were still standing. Afterwhile, Ted came out into the open. When
Father asked him why he had run away, he said, "Well, I wanted a horse of my own
and I knew you couldn't buy me one. You always buy work horses. I wanted a
riding horse and saddle."
So he was left to continue with his job until he had earned enough money to
buy himself a whole outfit. About 2 or 3 weeks later he came riding into the yard
proudly displaying his beautiful new possessions--a prancing little buckskin riding
pony, a high spirited mustang. Later on Clarence got one, too--a pretty sleek, dark
red mare that he named "Nellie". He taught me to ride and allowed me to take her
whenever I wanted to. We used to ride together. Oh, what wonderful times we had.
Eventually I owned a whole riding outfit and carried one of the boys sixshooters.
Before leaving Canada, Father, in his discouragement, had moved the
machinery on a vacant lot and abandoned it--thrasher, tractor and all. Just left
them there, never expecting to see or use them again. One day a letter came from a
neighbor of ours in Canada. He wanted to buy the outfit. Mother said immediately,
"If its worth that to him, its worth more to you." She got up and handed Father his
hat. "Come on! Let's go up and get the horses. We'll go to town and see if we can
borrow some money from the bank!"
They went to town and got all the money they needed from the bank. Mother
had a way with her when it came to borrowing money, or obtaining leniency when
she couldn't pay it back. One banker was known to have said, "I would rather loan
money to Bertha Elder than to any one else in town." When she couldn't pay a
debt, she would go to them and talk it over.
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Father and the boys left immediately for Canada. Crops were the best ever
that year. The boys, being master mechanics by this time, went to work with a will.
Father drove all over the prairie country and contracted for threshing. When he
finished the jobs around Tabor, Raymond, Magrath and Lethbridge, he shipped the
outfit up to Medicine Hat and threshed up there until after Christmas.
Mother and I and the children stayed up on the ranch while they were gone.
Mother was determined, however, that I should finish high school. I have only to
close my eyes and I can see her the day I left, standing in the door way of that little
mountain cabin, smiling through the tears she couldn't hold back. I can even hear
her voice. "Be a good girl, Lois, and don't worry about me." I stayed in school two
weeks. But every time I opened a book or recited a lesson, I could see that smile of
hers and then the tears would come. Around and around in my mind went the
thought, "She needs me--she needs me!" So, one morning I went back. She didn't
seem surprised, but I knew she was disappointed. She longed for her children to
have an education and no sacrifice seemed too great.
In 1915 and 1916 there were wonderful crops in Canada. Father paid all of
his debts and the first year came back to Oakley with $1200.00 in cash. Never
before had there been such a bounteous harvest. The boys were now old enough to
be of real help to Father. The first thing they all did when they got back to Oakley
was to buy a beautiful building lot in a fine location, already covered with towering
trees. With the help of the boys, Father pitched in and built a lovely, modern, six
room home. What a wonderful thrill it was to move from that mountain cabin into
a nice new home.
Mother was joyously happy in her new surroundings. We joined the Ward
and Mother became active in various organizations. She was on the Stake board
both in Primary and Genealogy; taught a class of unruly boys in Sunday School that
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no one else could handle. The Superintendency marveled at her control over them.
Whenever there was need she sat up with the sick and helped those who were in
need. She loved to pay her tithing. One time we were short of money and she said,
"If we pay our tithing the Lord will bless us." The same day a rancher came by
with a load of potatoes he was selling for half price.
Perhaps you will say she could not have done all these things without
neglecting her own home and family. But she was a wonderful manager and had
the ambition to go with it. She believed and practiced that old quotation, "Work
while you work, and play while you play." I can truly say of my mother, "She
paved to heaven a path of gold by doing the duties that God gave." And I would
add, by doing them cheerfully. She never nagged--never complained. She was
patient; making the best of everything. Her prayers were answered more times than
I can mention.
In order to prove up on the choice land Father and the boys filed on, it had to
be lived on about six months out of each year for three years. In the event some
stranger came by and found it unoccupied, they could take possession of it and
claim it as their own. It was called a "Squatter's Right". Morrell decided to stay up
in Canada, and Father was up there most of the time, so they delegated Clarence
and me to hold down the homestead. Before Morrell left for Canada, he built a little
cabin about two blocks from the one they built first. Clarence lived in one and I
lived in the other.
We had the most wonderful time any brother and sister ever had, right out of
the pages of one of ZANE GREY's novels. Mother gave me a whole complete set of
Edgar Allen Poe's works. Not having any other books to read, I read his poetry
over and over until my mind became so morbid I couldn't sleep at night. One time
Clarence found a murder mystery magazine. It was a thriller diller, and we sat up
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until long after midnight. By the time we finished it our hair was practically
standing on end, and Clarence was afraid to go down to his cabin to bed and I was
afraid to be left alone. So he piled some old coats and blankets in one corner of the
room and slept there all night He made me promise I would never tell anyone.
We each had our own horse to ride. We got acquainted with the young
people from adjoining ranches and what a gay time we had that summer. There
was Lula Carpenter, with whom Clarence fell head over heels in love with. Lulu
had long, beautiful, golden hair; she loved Clarence in return as few people in this
world are loved. She didn't belong to our Church and Mother discouraged the love
affair. She would have made Clarence a wonderful wife and probably would have
joined our religion. Lula had a brother, Loren, who was in love with a girl named
Margaret.
There was a young rancher named Loyal Hale who fell in love with me. He
was a good Mormon boy, tall and broad shouldered, with wavy brown hair and blue
eyes. Up there in the mountains, riding his handsome horse, he was in his own
element. But, in town, wearing store clothes and going to Church, he was awkward
and ill-at-ease. One afternoon he sat in our living room without saying half a dozen
words. I had told him that day that I could never marry him and he seemed to be
all broken up over the news. I knew it would have to come sooner or later, for he
was too nice a boy to hurt. So I decided to get it over with that day. Ted, I found
out later, was upstairs peeking through a crack in the ceiling, just so he could
entertain the family by mimicking every move Loyal made that afternoon. Towards
evening we went for a walk and I believe that one hour was the unhappiest one I
had ever spent. I had talked the whole thing over with Mother and she had advised
me, no matter how much I had to hurt him, it was best to put an end to the whole
thing, if that was how I felt.
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But this was at the end of the summer. In the spring it was a glorious
adventure, with the mountains rising in majesty back of us, challenging us each day
to climb higher and higher. Loyal had an older sister, Sadie. Then there was
another young rancher named Leonard Harper who lived a few miles away and was
included in some of our escapades. Many times we climbed with our horses up to
the snow encrusted slopes and spent hours sliding down the long, hardened, snow
covered ridges. We brought feed sacks along to fold under us as we merrily slid
down some of the longest and most spectacular "slippery slides" in the world. We
always took a marvelous picnic with us. We would often bring a container filled
with home made ice cream and bury it in the snow. When we were ready to eat it, it
would be hard packed. What a feast!
Another place we loved to explore, was called the "City of Rocks". One day
we spent the whole day scrambling and wriggling our way over tortuous trails and
ledges that overlooked deep chasms. After one of our trips, Clarence and I, safe
back in our little cabin, actually shuddered as we talked about the day's experiences,
and cringed over and over again as we brought to mind some of the tight places we
had pushed ourselves through. We visited Old Snake River one time, when for
some reason, the water had been cut off and thousands upon thousands of dead fish
were laying in heaps upon the dry watercourse.
Our summer of happy times eventually came to an end, and we moved back
into our lovely, happy home in Oakley. One of the first persons who came to see me
was Leonard Harper, the neighboring rancher. He took me to a show. I mention
this only because of a very funny incident that happened after we came home that
night. It was late and we slipped quietly into the kitchen so as not to waken the
folks. We were fixing a midnight snack, keeping just as quiet as mice, when the
kitchen door leading to the living room opened and Father, clad in his garments,
long sleeves and long legs, reached cautiously and sleepily up to turn the light off.
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He had awakened and happened to see the light through a crack in the door and,
thinking somebody had accidently left it on, proceeded to turn it out. He didn't see
us at first but when he did he almost jumped right out of his underwear! Mother
told us afterwards that when he got back in bed he shook the bed for almost an hour
with his uncontrollable laughter.
That was the fall of 1916, the year I met Herman. Morrell and Father had
gone up to Canada to start getting ready for thrashing.
On 3 Aug 1916, another baby came to bless our home. Another dream of
Mother's fulfilled. Once more I was alone with the doctor. We tied strips of strong
cloth to the head of the bed for Mother to hold on to. For months afterwards her
hands were partially paralyzed from the strain. LaVirlle was a beautiful child, with
dark brown hair and eyes. She was a precious soul right from the start, a very
special spirit. Clarence named her Ruth LaVirlle. Mother crocheted her a tiny pink
sweater and bonnet. She was adorable.
Alberta and LaVirlle were both favored spirits of the Lord and both grew up
to be beautiful mothers in Zion. Alberta and her husband, George Dudley, made up
their minds right from the start they were going to have 12 children, a dream that
has been realized. LaVirlle, too, has a lovely family--one son having just returned
from a Mexican Mission. Her husband, Gibson Sears, is a wonderful father,
bringing his family all the blessings of the priesthood.
Mother died in April 1919, while giving birth to her 16th child--a boy. He
lived just long enough to be given a name with a father's blessing--that of Rullon. I
was told by a dear friend who was with her the afternoon of her death, that she
prayed over and over that she might live, and asked them to send for the patriarch
to come and give her a special blessing. He came and gave her the comfort and
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blessing she needed. He promised her she would live until everything the Lord had
planned for her to do upon this earth was completed. Thus, she was able to say, as
she had said so many times in her life, "Not my will, Father, but Thine be done!"
One day that fall, Herman came down to our house and found Mother giving
LaVirlle her morning bath. "Oh, Sister Elder," he begged, "Let me hold her while
you bathe her." He had heard that Clarence was gong up to Canada for the harvest
and had decided to go with him. Father and Morrell had so much work to do that
they had sent a frantic call to Clarence to come and help them. Crops were
wonderful and there was work for all. Clarence and Herman left immediately.
They returned just in time for Christmas, their pockets and bank rolls bulging.
The day after their return, I was on my way home from Primary where I had
been teaching and was feeling a little sad as I walked along, thinking of Loyal. I
wouldn't have cared so much if he hadn't been such a good boy. As I turned into
the long, tree-lined lane that led to our house, I noticed a horse tied to the gate post.
Thinking it was Loyal I stopped dead in my tracks. I thought I had ended the whole
unhappy episode once and for all, and resented having him come again, uninvited.
I walked around block or two thinking if I stayed away he might go home. But it
was real cold and I was uncomfortable walking around. Finally I decided I'd better
face the situation no matter how unpleasant it might be.
As I opened the living room door and looked inside, instead of Loyal sitting
there, as I expected he would be, there sat Herman grinning from ear to ear.
Mother was busy getting supper. She had invited him to stay. On the trip from
Canada his luggage had gotten mixed up with the boys and had been delivered to
our place and he had come to see about it.
After that, Herman and I began having dates. Ted and I signed up for a
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special high school Missionary study course. Herman joined the same class and he
and I were put on the debating team together, and, were so successful that we were
given the negative side, then, the affirmative, in which we were able to win both
sides. As a special inducement, when the Domestic Science room, was not in use we
would be allowed to use it for study purposes. We would lock ourselves in and pour
over our notes and clippings hour after hour. We liked being together but took our
debating assignments very seriously.
In the spring Morrell and Father went back to Canada and soon after sent
for Clarence and me. When I went to the high school principal to tell him I was
leaving, he said, " I'm very sorry to hear this. You are one of our very best
missionary students and your name has already been discussed as one who will be
called to go on a mission." I would have loved going on a mission and almost
changed my mind about going to Canada. But, I was needed in Canada to help my
father. In my young life at that time, duty came first.
Herman had a girl friend before he started dating me and she had tried every
way possible to get him back. At the time I met him they had just had a quarrel and
were not seeing each other for awhile. The day that Clarence and I were getting
ready to catch the train, a girl friend of mine told me that Marie had boasted that
now Lois was getting out of the way, she would soon get Herman back. That was
probably what made me decide more than ever to go ahead with my preparation for
the trip. I thought, "Now is the time to find out just how much he does care for
me!"
Clarence and I had a grand trip all the way to Canada. Father met us at
Lethbridge and we went right out to Camp. Morrell had built a combination cook
car and cook's quarters, with large range, long tables and benches down each side of
the cook car, and a place for a bed. It was equipped with all kinds of new dishes,
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pots and pans. The cook car was setting up on wagon wheels, and underneath,
hanging from the floor boards, was a large screened cooler box in which we kept
meat, butter and milk.
I had only been there a few days, when, who should stick his head in the door
but Randolph, whom I had not seen for nearly four years. It was nice meeting him
again. He was always so much fun. But, as in the beginning, I refused to take him
seriously. He still wanted me to marry him. I told him about Herman and he still
insisted that there were twice as many girls as boys in the states and I would
probably never see him again. He stopped again in a day or two and caught me
radiantly happy. I had just received a letter from Herman, telling me he was on his
way and would arrive in Tabor on Friday morning. He had decided to come up and
work for the summer. Randolph didn't express his feelings one way or the other,
but, on Friday morning he was at the railroad station when the train pulled in and
the three of us walked over to the hotel together--Randolph carrying the luggage.
What a gypsy life we lived that summer. Later, Ted and Mary arrived to
help out. Mary helped me cook and Ted became the camp roustabout. And oh,
what a roustabout he turned out to be! He was a natural born clown and kept us
laughing morning, noon and night. One time he shaved off his hair on top of his
head, then painted a funny face on the bald spot, put a blanket around him to
conceal the rest of his face, and went around doing all sorts of funny stunts. A
woman on a neighboring ranch invited him in to dinner one day and although he
was starved, he had to refuse, because he was ashamed to take off his hat. He would
sit on top of the engine above the smoke stack, and every time the exhaust would
explode, he would push himself up, making it appear as though he were being
propelled into the air from the force of the explosion. His antics really made us
laugh. Some times they made us cry. For instance, Mary had a mandolin and was
learning to play. One day Ted put a little harmless garter snake inside, and when
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she picked up the instrument and tried to shake the mandolin pick out, out came the
poor little snake! It just about frightened Mary to death! She went into hysterics
and ran screaming all over the yard! We all loved Ted no matter what he said or
did, but after the little snake deal I was afraid for Mary's health and wrote Mother
about it, asking her to write to him and explain how injurious it was to frighten a
young girl. When Mother's letter arrived, reprimanding Ted for his
thoughtlessness, Mary resented my interference and took Ted's part.
I never tried it again. Ted would often tease us by bring snakes home and, in
a joking way, try to frighten us. I would try so hard not to appear at all frightened,
although I would be shaking in my shoes. For instance, he would coil a long snake,
harmless of course, around my neck while I was washing dishes! It took a lot of
courage, but I would turn around and smile at him and say, "You think I'm
afraid?" My blood would be running cold! He would put a snake down inside the
neck of his own shirt and a few minutes later it would be wriggling out of his overall
leg. Sometimes I would almost bite my tongue off trying to keep from screaming, or
jump right out of my skin. But, I did neither. Usually I would just laugh,
pretending to be so brave, such a silly little squeak of a laugh.
Father would send Ted over to the little railroad station at Wrentham with
team and wagon to get a load of oil and gasoline which had been shipped out in
barrels. He would load up, start the team homeward, tie the teams to the wagon
box, start them on their way, then leave them entirely on their own while he went on
an exploration trip. After a certain length of time had elapsed the horses with their
heavy load would come plodding along the prairie road into the yard. Later, here
would come Ted, with his pockets bulging with snakes and eggs from the nests of
water fowls he found along the edge of sloughs, or ponds; his overall legs rolled up
as high as he could roll them. He could have been Huckleberry Finn or Tom
Sawyer or any of those old characters from the pages of a book!
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Mary was such a dear companion. All of a sudden she was grown up. One
day she talked me into letting her cut my hair. I sat on one of the long benches in
the cook car and held perfectly still while she whacked it off. When I looked in the
mirror, I was horrified! Mary took one look and started laughing. I thought she
would never stop. After that one look I couldn't stand to look at myself. When the
boys came in, they started laughing too. But Herman was furious. He had dreamed
of taking me back to Oakley that fall and having a big, Church wedding. He was so
angry he almost didn't marry me at all. I kept a scarf around my head for weeks, I
was so ashamed. Nice girls just didn't cut off their hair in those days. The style was
just starting.
In the late summer, work became scarce and some of the men were laid off
until time for harvesting the crops. Herman and two of the boys got jobs digging
wells by hand with a windless and buckets to carry the dirt up to the top of the well.
One day while he was digging down in the bottom of a 40' well, one of the boys at
the top accidently let the heavy, galvanized bucket fall on his head. Fortunately he
had on a heavy felt hat, or the blow would have killed him. They lifted him to the
top, tied him to one of the horses, and took him several miles into Tabor to a doctor.
Several stitches had to be taken to close the large gash across his head, and his hair
had to be shaved close to his head. It was a "close shave" in more ways than one.
The next time he came over to see me he had his head all bandaged up. I hadn't
heard about the accident and was quite shocked when I saw him.
How we looked and waited for Mother's letters that summer! They were
always so full of news and happiness. But one day she broke down and told us she
could not stand this separation any longer. She said, "You must come back or I will
sell everything and come up there where I can see you and we can all be together.
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So, it was agreed. Mother said goodbye to all her dear friends and neighbors
in Oakley. As she was saying goodbye to one family, the man put his arms around
her and sobbed, "Sister Elder, how we shall miss you!" Mother answered, "I'll be
back in two years!" Perhaps she did go back--who knows?
BACK TO THE PRAIRIE--1917.
Father leased a 640-acre tract of land for dry-farming, about 40 miles north
west of Raymond. When school started in the late fall, the folks rented a house in
Raymond and moved Mother and the children over there. Father hired a crew of
men and he and the boys and Herman started to get the land ready for spring
planting. I was the cook. Clarence and Ted had enlisted in the Canadian Calvary
and were stationed at Calgary. They were home for harvest leave.
During the fall a big storm came up and the men were laid off for a week.
While we were waiting for the sun to shine and the snow to melt, we closed camp
and all went home. As we were eating breakfast one morning, Mother said out of a
clear sky, "Herman, why don't you and Lois get married now instead of waiting-then you can help her?" Although Herman had his heart set on going back to
Oakley for the wedding, it didn't take him long to change his mind and we lost no
time in getting ready. We made arrangements to be married by Bishop Van Orman
at his home in Tabor. Father, Mother, Clarence, Herman and I went around by
Lethbridge to be our marriage license. Ted stayed out at the ranch to take care of
things during our absence.
An hour after the wedding, Father noticed the sun was shining brightly and
decided it was time to get back to the ranch. We had heard that a crowd of friends
were planning on shivareeing us that night, and so, readily we agreed with Father to
leave forthwith, and we were soon on our way. But Father made the mistake of
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taking a short cut across the prairie and through rugged "Chin Coulie". Just as we
were about half way across the deep chasm and going up the opposite side, the car
hit a high center and came to an abrupt stop. It was just about dusk, and there we
sat. Clarence volunteered to walk the twelve or thirteen miles to the ranch and get a
team of horses to pull us the rest of the way. Father and Mother sat in the car;
Herman and I spread some quilts on the ground. That was our wedding night! The
harvest moon was big and round and the coyotes shivereed us from a safe distance!
About daylight Clarence came with the team of horses and we were soon
moving along slowly but surely. All Mother's life she had been subject to dizziness.
That night she became car sick and was very ill. The slow moving and rocking of
the car aggravated her condition. Just as the sun was peeping up over the prairie
horizon, we pulled into camp. Some of the hired men had returned and had made a
mess of the kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled everywhere. Mother, being so very
sick, had to lie down. It was up to me to clean up the kitchen and get breakfast for
about 9 persons.
I felt cheated. What a honeymoon! I never had one. The storm being over,
work started in full force. Father and Clarence repaired the car and drove Mother
into Raymond.
After the harvest was over we moved into Raymond and rented a house with
two rooms--a bedroom and kitchen. Herman couldn't find work and we decided to
put an extra bed in the bedroom and a double cot in the kitchen and take in four
students for board and room. Herman decided to take a business course at the
Raymond Academy, thinking it might help him get a job. He had previously
worked in a bank in Oakley, ID.
We enjoyed having the boys in our home and all would have worked out fine,
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but, I became pregnant and started having "morning sickness". We had to let the
students go. Herman quit school and started out to find a job. He finally found one
on a farm milking cows and doing all kinds of farm work, for which he received our
rent free, enough milk for our needs and $80.00 per month salary.
In June of that year, 1918, Herman decided he wanted to enlist in the U.S.
Army. His father had not yet obtained his Naturalization Papers from Mexico, and
Herman was living in Canada and was not required to join any army. But he had
heard from his cousins and friends in the states and wanted to join in with them.
That spring his folks had moved from Oakley, ID to Logan, UT and Herman
decided to let me stay with them while he was in the service. We were expecting the
baby the latter part of July. The day he enlisted, we drove over to Lethbridge--a
distance of about 40 miles each way. There was no paving and we bounced along
over those rough, prairie roads in a buggy. It is a wonder I ever lived to tell it!
My own mother was at the train to say goodbye. As we pulled out I looked
back along the platform and there she was, not smiling bravely as she did when we
had parted, but was crunched over, sobbing as though her heart would break!
Elwin was born within a week after we reached Logan, 27 Jul 1918. Three
weeks alter Herman boarded the train for Camp Lewis, Tacoma,WA. The whole
Steiner family idolized the baby and, all of us put together, did a pretty thorough
job of spoiling him. If he wanted the light on at night, I would turn it on, and,
because I was lonely and the nights were so long, I played with him by the hour.
The Steiners were wonderful to me all the time Herman was gone. They had one
large bedroom downstairs which they turned over to me--giving me their best bed
while they slept in the living room on a davenport. The rest of the bedrooms were
upstairs.
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All the time Herman was in the Army his mother taught music, walking all
over Logan to the homes of her students, for a small sum of fifty cents a lesson.
Many times this was all the family had to live on. They were really having a hard
time making ends meet. Their move from Oakley had been expensive, and their
beet crop, a few miles from Logan, froze in the ground and could not be harvested.
For some reason the money I was supposed to receive from the Army did not come
through until weeks after Herman arrived home. I was completely without funds all
the time he was gone. Being so dependent upon the Steiners made me very
unhappy. Finally, without their knowledge, I went out and found a job doing
housework three afternoons a week. They paid me fifty cents an hour for four
hours work. I would put Elwin in his buggy in the shade of a huge tree near an open
window close to wherever I was working, then work fast and furious while he was
sleeping. Delbert and Lathel were in school and no one ever knew. But, oh what a
joy it was to have even a dollar of my own to spend.
Herman was gone seven months. The first night he was home, Elwin woke
up in the middle of the night and started cooing. From force of habit I reached up
and turned on the light. Herman reached up and turned it off. Elwin started
yelling as though a mouse or something had bitten him! Herman stood it for about
five minutes and then turned him over and gave him the first spanking he had ever
had in his life. He screamed harder than ever. The whole family got up and
dressed, pacing back and forth and pleading with Herman to let the baby have the
light on if it would stop him from crying. Herman's mother was broken hearted,
and with tears in her eyes, said, "Your father never spanked you in your life. Now,
Herman, you stop it!"
All of which was like pouring water on a duck's back. Towards morning,
utterly exhausted, Elwin dropped off to sleep and everyone went back to bed. He
never cried for the light again!
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Herman had a hard time finding work, as did most of the World War I
Service men. Thinking, if he went to school and learned some special trade, he
could qualify for a better job, he and his brother, Walter, signed up for a
mechanical course at the Logan Agricultural College. They made good grades and
Herman soon got work in a garage.
I spent long hours writing to Mother and the folks in Canada. Mother lived
out on the 640 acres of leased land during the summers, lived as she had always
lived, enduring heartache, loneliness, and crop failure. In the spring of 1919 we
received a letter from her. They had bought a home in Raymond for the winter
months. She said things looked good and there was plenty of work. If Herman
wanted to come up he could have a job as foreman.
It was the last letter we ever received from her. In it she wrote, "How
blessed we are! Everyone around us had had the "flu" but somehow we have
miraculously escaped it." A little farther on in her letter she said, and it didn't
sound like Mother, "I am so tired! How I would love to go way off somewhere and
just rest!"
I answered by return mail, telling her we were already packing our things
and would leave the following week. Oh, how thrilled and happy I was! At last, to
be going home!" It didn't take long to pack. However, we couldn't leave until our
temple recommends arrived. We had sent to Raymond for them some weeks before
and expected them to arrive any day. They came on a Saturday but we had to wait
until the following Wednesday for the usual sealings. Sunday afternoon a telegram
was delivered at the door. It said, "Come at once. Mother not expected to live!.
The only way I can describe the sudden shock of that message is to compare
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it with a world full of sunlight, and then, suddenly being plunged into utter
darkness beyond all description, finding myself groping hopelessly down through
labyrinths that led to nowhere. I wanted to fly, to jump on a train, to start running.
But our recommends had already arrived and Herman and his folks insisted that
we go to the temple and have our sealing done before going so far away.
The ceremony meant nothing to me when my mother was dying. My mind,
all through the sacred ordinances, was a thousand miles away. No other word came
and we boarded the train Wednesday noon. That trip was like a nightmare to me,
not knowing whether my mother was better or worse, or already gone. When we
finally reached the little town of Sterling, where we had a short stop over, Herman
walked over to a store about a block away to call Raymond for some news of
Mother.
I watched him walking slowly back towards the station. I could only wait
and pray. As he came into the waiting room, he said, "Everything is all right."
Then paused. I thought I was going to faint as a feeling of great, joyous relief
surged through my whole body. The next moment he added, "She was buried
yesterday!"
After it was all over and we were going through her few belongings, I found
my letter in her purse--the last one I had written in answer to the last one
she had written to me, wherein she had cried out in anguish, "Oh, I am so
tired!" In my letter I asked her forgiveness for every thoughtless thing I had ever
said or done to hurt her. I had begged her to be brave and courageous and we
would be there with her and I would see that she rested all day long. The letter was
so tear stained it was almost unreadable. I knew I was forgiven.
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There, among her simple treasures, we found her diary. In Nov 1918, she
had entered these words, "I haven't written for such a long time--well, I guess I've
been too happy with my boys--they have been home for harvest leave." The last
entry was a few weeks later--"I'm not well today....we moved into Raymond
yesterday so the children can go to school. I guess it was too much for me. I've
moved 50 times!"
Dearest Mother! She had completed all that God had for her to do upon this
earth. She died while giving birth to her sixteenth child. The children were all in
bed with the flu and she got up in the night to wait on them and took a set back. She
was over the flu, herself, and might have lived. She might have been tired and
wanted to go off somewhere and just rest--but I shall never believe the Lord took
her away for that reason. I think she needed her on the other side.
.....Sometime we'll understand--but....
"Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the pattern He has planned
As the threads of gold and silver
In the Weaver's skillful hand."
ONCE UPON A TIME
SPEAKING OF PRAIRIE SOD, Bishop Van Orman and his family lived on
a neighboring farm about two and a half miles from our farm a few miles north of
Tabor, Alberta, Canada. We had known them for years and played with two of the
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daughters, Blanche and LaVon. One morning, bright and early, Mother said, "If
you and Beth will hurry with the dishes, you can go over to Van Ormans and spend
the day." I don't think two girls ever washed dishes faster than Beth and I did that
morning. And soon we were on our way.
It was summer time and the cattle had all been turned out to graze on the
big, open fields of thick prairie grass. The quickest way would have been to cut
across the prairie; but, some of the cattle were known to be wild and Beth and I
thought it would be safer to stay close to the fenced fields along the way. We
romped gaily along as happy and free as two little birds. I was about 13 years old
and Beth about 9.
Normally there were no misadventures involved in going over to Van
Ormans. We had been allowed to go many times during the long summer months.
We had even explored an old abandoned homestead that stood in a weed infested
plot of ground midway between the two farms. The rickety farm house was sagging
sadly, having been built, as were most of the prairie homes, without a foundation.
The barn was closest to the fence, and heretofore had been fun to explore. The old
haymow had long since collapsed.
But, on this day, everything looked different. It was occupied. At least, we
had heard it was. Today, there was not a sign of life around the place. We came
upon it suddenly and stopped abruptly, our hearts pounding with the sudden
realization of our close proximity to the unknown.
We had heard weird rumors of a new family having moved into the place
and had taken possession of this ramshackle homestead. No one seemed to know
where they had come from or who they were. But people began to talk. Certain
children, it was reported of the large family, acted "queer"; one of them definitely
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was not normal. As for the old grandmother--some judged her to be "off her
rocker." In fact, some of the kids who lived out that way was of the opinion that she
was in reality, a witch.
To pass the lonely, deserted, crazy old homestead, had been adventure
enough, but to be suddenly brought into the realization that we were close to folks
who might actually be "crazy" was thought overwhelming with potentialities.
However, in spite of my dreadful misgivings, I experienced a sudden curiosity that
would not be denied.
"Look, Beth," I whispered, taking hold of her hand, "Let's tiptoe up behind
the barn and peek through the cracks."
"Uh uh!" Beth demurred. "They might catch us and kkkkiiiillll us!"
"Oh, come on!" I coaxed. "We won't let them see us!"
Beth's curiosity was finally aroused and we were soon wriggling under the
barbed wire fence, close to the ground. Like the gliding shadows of two, low flying
birds, we silently approached the broad side of the barn that stood gaunt and empty
between us and the house. We began to peer cautiously through one of the larger
cracks in the rough board wall. In this position we could look beyond into the
cluttered yard. Not a sound greeted us. Not a chick or a child came into our view.
We began to breathe easier.
Then we SAW her! The old witch! She was sitting on a rickety, low bench in
the shadows just inside the barn, not 50 feet from where we stood. Her long, gray,
disheveled hair swept the ground as she bent far over, completely concealing her
face.
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Talk about CHAINED TO THE SPOT! We could not have moved if we had
tried! As we watched the old crone. With eyes that seemed glued to the narrow
cracks, we observed that she was silently swaying--back and forth, back and forth-as rhythmic as the swinging pendulum on a great, old, grandfather's clock. Still we
stood there! As though hypnotized! Then, suddenly, she began, literally, tearing her
long, straggly, unkempt hair as it swept the dirty, filth laden floor.
"She's having a fffffiiiitttttt!" Beth whispered in utter fright.
There was no doubt about it! Once, she threw her head far back and her
snaky hair fell to one side and revealed a skin as rough and wrinkled as an old
potato. One minute we had no power with which to move; the next, we were
running as though we were shot out of a gun. For, all of a sudden--out of a clear
sky--out of a prairie full of summer afternoon silence, there was an ear splitting
screech from within the spooky, hollow sounding interior of the barn,-"Charlotte-Chaaaaarrrrrllllloooootttteeee!
Charrrrrlllooottte! GIT ME THE BICYCLE!
I'll never know how we wriggled our way out from under that barbed wire
fence without tearing us all the pieces, but there were, racing up and down those low
prairie knolls, one after another, keeping close to the fence and heading straight to
Van Ormans. I was in the lead, always far ahead; poor, frightened little sister Beth,
with her plump little legs, never quite able to catch up with me. Over and over I
called to her, "Look back and see if she's coming!" And Beth would always look
around and then pant, "No--not yet!"
But, suddenly she DID see her! The old witch was on the bicycle coming
straight towards us! Beth took one more look and yelled, "EEEEEEEEK! SHE'S
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AFTER US!" At the same time, passing me like the wind.
On and on we raced! After an eternity, it seemed, we scaled the last prairie
knoll, where, down at the end of the long slope lay the Van Orman spread. "Thank
heaven its down hill!" I gasped.
But it was down hill for the old witch, too. Just as I stumbled into the house
through the open door, daring to look back for the first time, there she came
practically at our heels. I think I fainted then! The first thing I remember was the
sound of a cracked, old voice, saying:
"YER PA! WHERE'S HE AT? GO GIT HIM! I WANT HIM TO PULL MY
ACHIN' TOOTH!
FROM THE MOUNTAINS TO THE VALLEY
The Life Story of Lois Elder Steiner Roy
Second Part
A few days after Mother's death Elwin came down with the flu. At our
urgent call the doctor came and diagnosed double pneumonia and gave us
instructions how to make two pneumonia jackets. He was very ill. His breath came
in gasps that could be heard in the adjoining room. Herman had gone directly out
to the ranch with Dad and the boys, forty miles from Raymond. Mary and I faced
the night alone.
After the doctor left I pushed aside the medicine he had prescribed, and with
bowed head, asked the Lord to tell me what to do. Finishing my prayer, I reached
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up and took down from the shelf the old doctor book Mother had always kept close
by. Quickly I turned to the chapter on pneumonia. "Onions", I read. "Make thick,
hot poultices and spread on cloths and place over chest and back. Keep hot by
changing often."
Dear, sweet, precious Mary! Never shall I forget how she stood beside that
old fashioned cook stove keeping the fire going and the poultices coming, hour after
hour. Not once did she let up. Little Elwin's chest and back were actually blistered.
But, little by little he began to breath easier, and finally, towards morning, he fell
into a peaceful slumber, his fever gone.
The next morning I walked across the street and telephoned the doctor not to
come--that the baby was well.
How sad it was to be in that home without our mother. Fourteen living
children and I was the only one married! How hard it was to reconcile myself to her
untimely passing. She was only 44 years old.
They sent for me to come to the ranch to cook for the outfit which consisted
of three additional hired men. The summer was endless, and, while in the depths of
my sorrow, I became pregnant with Elaine. I had no neighbors, no books, no
church activities, or friends. Poor, little embryo that was Elaine! It is a wonder I
didn't mark her some way with my eternal grieving.
Oh, how I longed for a little girl! I would kneel down by the bed a dozen
times a day and plead with the Lord too send me a little baby daughter. The Lord
must have known before I prayed how much I wanted a little girl.
In Raymond Mary became the little mother of the flock, with Beth doing
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everything she could to help. What a wonderful job those girls did in managing that
motherless home, keeping everything running smoothly. Mary got a good job in the
Raymond Mercantile store and brought home yards of material to sew for the
children. One time Herman and I drove into Raymond to see how the children were
getting along. It was 11:00 at night when we arrived and we found all of the lights
burning brightly. We found Mary sound asleep at the machine, her head resting
wearily on a pile of sewing she had been trying to finish.
After harvest was over that fall we rented a house and moved into Raymond
close to the children. Crops had been very poor that year and the man from whom
Dad was leasing would not pay the expenses as he agreed to do. Herman and I
received no salary and it worked a real hardship on us. In the spring of the
following year, Clarence and Ruby Peterson were married. They stopped to see
Beth on the way to Ruby's house before the wedding. Ruby's brother was sitting in
the back seat. Beth and Devere had gone out together a few times and Devere was
very much in love with her. However, she did not think of him at all seriously. She
was very popular and had many admirers and many proposals. She loved to dance
and everyone loved her. In fun, Clarence said to her, "Come on, Beth, let's make it
a double wedding!"
Poor Beth, thinking, perhaps, of all the work she would be getting out of in
the care of so many little brothers and sisters, impulsively untied her apron, tossed it
in the air and a few minutes later was in the car on her way to Lethbridge where she
and Devere were married the next day.
For a while after Beth left, Dad tried to keep up the home. But crops failed
again that summer and he lost heavily. We decided to move back to Logan, Utah
and took Claire with us. President Allen took Melba into their home; Clarence and
Ruby took Stella and LaVirlle; later, Stella and Della went to Gridley, CA to live
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with Uncle Frank and Aunt Louise. Mary married Wallace Dudley and kept Austin
and Alberta. Joe joined the army, although he was under age; Ted left home and,
for three years we did not know where he was.
In the spring of 1920 we arrived in Logan just one week before Elaine was
born. Again, we piled in with the Steiners and, again, they took us in and made us
welcome, sharing what little they had with us. They were kindly people. In all the
time we stayed with them I never heard one of them speak a cross word to the other.
Herman had four brothers and one sister--Walter, Glendon, Delbert, Lathel and
Barbara. They idolized Elwin and Elaine and relieved me of much of their care.
Elaine was an instrument baby and I was in hard labor for many hours. But, when
at last they handed me my little black haired baby girl, all memory of my pains were
erased from my mind forever!
The Steiners had a little savings from the sale of some Oakley, ID property.
Mother Steiner insisted that we take it and use it as a down payment on a little home
of our own. At the end of escrow we moved to ourselves a few blocks from them, in
an adorable little house.
It was wonderful having my little sister, Claire, with me. Herman got a job
in a garage, and for awhile everything went along smoothly. Clarence and Ruby
had spent the winter in Gridley, visiting with Grandma Dewsnup and some of
Mother's brothers and sisters. Before going back to Canada they came around by
Logan, UT and stayed about six weeks with us. They arrived broke and had no
money for their fare home. Clarence was too proud to accept money from Ruby's
father. But, at last he was forced to. The money came by return mail and they were
soon on their way. Clarence was always a grand brother and that visit stands out in
my mind as a precious memory.
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About this time Herman was laid off at the garage and we began to worry
about the payments on our little home. Work was scarce and it was several weeks
before he could find a new job. Fortunately we were able to trade our equity in on a
7 1/2 acre orchard up on the Providence Bench, about 4 or 5 miles above Logan.
After so many years of living on the big, flat Canadian prairie, that rambling old log
home into which we moved, nestling there at the very foot of those lofty, snow
capped, Rocky Mountains, was a veritable paradise to me. Our side our bedroom
window ran a clear, sparkling stream of cold, mountain spring water. At night we
were lulled to sleep by the cadence of it music tumbling over the stones as it raced on
its way to the valley below. The well traveled road to the upper reaches of the
mountains cut our acreage in two parts--each portion was fenced separately; 2 1/2
acres in one part and five in the other. Included in the five acres was a 2 -acre
alfalfa patch. The balance was in berries, peaches, plums, large cherries and a
vegetable garden. We had plenty of irrigation water. Near the house was a fine
barn; a fenced yard for a cow and two horses, a buggy, a buckboard for hauling
fruit to the market, and implements for tilling the soil. Across the street, the plot
was completely bordered with a variety of small pie cherries planted mostly to
attract the birds and protect the other fruit. Then, one row after another of apples
and large, sweet cherries. Between the rows, as a ground cover, were blackberries,
dewberries, a few gooseberries and currant bushes.
Oh, what a fairyland in the Spring time with all those blossoming trees
against a backdrop of towering mountains! I would stand there with tears
streaming down my cheeks, overcome with emotion as I gazed upon that
indescribable beauty.
And yet--to care for this small, flowering acreage and make it produce, was
drudgery beyond words to describe. Herman worked at a garage in Logan for
$80.00 a month. In order to dispose of our fruit we had to get up before daylight
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and load whatever we had ready, in order to make delivery at the various markets,
on his way to work. I would get up while it was still dark, put on an old pair of
coveralls, strap on a bucket and begin to pick fruit or berries; then get breakfast for
Herman and go back out to the orchard. After awhile the children would wake up
and I would go over and feed and dress them and then take them back with me and
pick fruit while they played nearby. Later in the day there was washing to do,
cooking, cleaning and always canning to do--picking up fallen fruit so as not to let it
go to waste. One year I put up 700 quarts of vegetables and fruit!
In the evening when Herman came home I would have a load of fruit ready
for him to take back to town for delivery. After supper I would take the children
and go back out in the orchard and pick fruit as long as I could see. Sometimes it
was moonlight and on those nights I would put the children to bed and then go back
again and work until I heard the rattle of the buckboard coming up the lane. I can
still remember how beautiful those big Elberta peaches looked hanging there in the
moonlight.
In the wintertime everything was changed. We stayed inside and spent our
time keeping warm, eating up the vegetables we had stored and the fruit we had
canned; sewing and reading; bringing up from the cellar big pans of apples to eat as
we sat around the fire. Some times the neighbors would give a party. There was
nothing to do but wait for spring. We had no picture shows, no radio, no TV.
One winter Herman and his brother, Walter, fixed together an outfit of some
sort and went trapping. There was a bounty given for coyotes. They stayed all
winter. What would I have done without Claire! She was a darling! To attend the
Providence grade school, she had to walk through deep snow. That winter was very
deep and the weather bitterly cold. We fed our cow frozen carrots chopped into
little pieces. For this she gave us milk.
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That Christmas we were invited to spend the holiday with Grandpa and
Grandma Steiner. We had several good neighbors within a few blocks from us.
One of them loaned us their little "cutter" and even harnessed the horse to pull it.
What fun it was spinning over the crusted snow on our way to Grandmother's
house. On the way back to the Providence Bench, we tipped over and all piled out
into a snow drift, packages flying in all directions. Plenty of help came from all
directions and we were soon spinning on our way again.
In the late winter Herman and Walter came back with very little to show for
their winter's work. One day, while inspecting their trap line, they found a woman
caught in the traps. There was no bounty on such strange animals so they turned
her loose. They made quite a bit of merriment over this misadventure.
Spring again, with its fairy land of blossoming trees, and the drudgery
started all over again. That fall our house burned down. I was just getting over a
"sick spell" and was still in bed. Herman came in to kitchen for the milk pail and
while there made a fire in the range and put some bath water on to heat. We had no
bathroom in those days. He took the children with him and went out to milk the
cow. In about a half-hour he came back with the milk. As he opened the kitchen
door a flame was going up the wall. At his frantic call for help, the neighbors came
running and the fire was soon put out.
At least, we thought it was out. Somehow the fire had entered a log and had
smoldered there until after we had gone to sleep. At about 11:00 that night Herman
was awakened by a crackling noise and discovered the whole attic was in flames and
already starting to creep down the walls. Every room was lined with heavy, blue
building paper and was tinder for fire. We had no time to waste. Herman grabbed
Elwin and I grabbed Elaine, blankets and all, and carried them to safety. Neighbors
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came running from all directions. Two of them jumped down in the cellar through
the rear window facing the street and started a bucket brigade with my bottles of
fruit. The cellar was attached to the house with cement steps going up into the
kitchen. That was the year I had canned 700 quarts of fruit, pickles, and vegetables.
What a sight the next morning! 700 bottles in rainbow colors setting out in the
early morning sunshine. Nothing else was saved. The house and all our clothing
and furnishings burned to the ground.
There was nothing to do but move back to Logan and move in once again
with Herman's folks. Clarence and Ruby wrote from Canada, giving us glowing
reports of bumper crops. They wanted me to come up and cook for his men during
the harvest and bring the children with me. Herman stayed with his folks and
looked after the little Providence acreage.
In Canada, my little 11 year old brother, Austin, won my heart completely
and when it came time for me to return to Logan, I insisted on bringing him back
with me. We rented a house right down in the little town of Providence and started
up housekeeping. Austin started to school and was soon recognized for his
outstanding voice among the school children. When the school operetta, "The Frog
Prince" was put on, Austin was given the leading part and the audience was lavish
in their praise of his high tenor voice.
When we collected the insurance on the fire, Herman and his father bought
lumber and built us a nice little home, tucked in among the fruit and berry bushes.
The little, clear, sparkling mountain stream still trickled merrily once more just
outside my bedroom window, as it gurgled and tumbled on its way.
That spring I became pregnant with Boyd. Having a constant diet of fruit
and vegetables, I felt wonderful during the whole time, even tho I worked hard. An
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elderly woman came calling one day and related to me the following story: One
time years before, about six weeks before one of her children was born, an old
Indian woman came into her yard and stood silently watching her as she was
scrubbing her clothes in a wash tub out under a tree. After awhile she said, "Ugh-ugh--I be back. I go to mountains--bring back medicine--Blue Cohosh--make
papoose come fast. No hurt!"
After the Indian woman came back at the end of three days, she steeped the
herbs and made a tea, which she instructed the woman to drink every morning.
When it came time for the birth of her baby the Indian woman was right--there was
very little pain and it did come fast. I lost no time in sending to the drug store for a
quantity of Blue Cohosh and drank a pint of tea made fresh, every morning. At the
end of six weeks Boyd was born, weighing in at 10 pounds! That day, Barbara came
out to spend the day and we were out in the chicken run picking Potowatomie plums
when I felt the first warning pains. We hurried to the house and Herman rushed off
for the doctor, taking Barbara with him and bringing back his mother. The doctor
arrived in less than an hour. I immediately sat down. I had been filling bottles from
a large pan of boiling tomatoes. "You'll leave enough work for your folks," the
doctor said. "Go on and finish the job!" Herman and his mother arrived just in the
nick of time. Boyd was born 19 Sep 1923.
In the fall of that year Dad came down from Canada and bought a house and
lot about a block from us and brought Della and Stella from California to keep
house for him. Later, we found places for them to stay in Logan, where they
worked for their board and room. Oh, the dear, darling kids--how my heart aches
just thinking how they were battered back and forth from pillar to post! LaVirlle
came down to Logan with a sister-in-law of Mary's. She was a beautiful little girl
with lovely brown hair and eyes and a sweet, lovable disposition. She came to visit
us a time or two before they returned to Canada.
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Working with the fruit and trying to earn a living at the same time, with
wages low and practically no market for our abundance of fruit, kept our noses to
the grindstone. We attended the Providence Ward faithfully. I joined the
Daughters of the Pioneers and was asked, one day, to give the afternoon's program.
That is when I started writing the story of my mother's life. I told it from memory,
fighting every moment to keep the tears from overflowing. I think I am being
truthful when I say that every woman in the room sat there before me, letting their
tears flow unchecked. After the meeting many of them said they knew that my
mother's spirit was there in the room that afternoon.
One evening we drove into Logan with horse and buggy to visit the folks. It
was late in the evening when we arrived. Herman let us out in front of the house
and then went on out to the barn to unharness the horse and feed the stock. He
lighted the lantern and hung it on its accustomed peg, then went to the house to get
the milk pail. In his absence one of the horses knocked the lantern and set the barn
on fire. It burned quickly before the neighbors could be aroused. It was a total
loss--except for the horses and one cow and the outside equipment.
Three fires is the limit, we were told. A few months later Herman decided to
get 500 baby chicks. He built a comfortable chicken house and improvised a
kerosine burner for heat. The chickens were really making progress and had
reached an age where they were practically on their own. One night Herman
awakened in the middle of the night just in time to see them all go up in flames!
That fall and winter Herman worked in the sugar factory, taking the night
shift. He couldn't sleep during the daytime, even though I spent all of my time
keeping the children quiet and neglecting my housework. Finally, in desperation, he
made a bed out in the haystack, but that didn't work either.
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Up until that time I had never learned to drive a car. One afternoon Herman
drove us all into Logan to do some shopping. On the way home he had to stop in
Providence to see someone on a matter of business.He was hurrying to get us home
before it was time to leave for work. He stopped the car in front of the gate while he
went inside the house. He was only gone a minute or two, but while he was gone the
car started rolling down a slight incline heading straight for the partially filled
canal. Elwin and Elaine were in the back of the pickup truck; I sat in the front seat
holding Boyd. Down and down and down we rolled and came to a stop in the
middle of the canal--right side up! Fortunately, I was too frightened to even touch
the wheel. Had I done so we would probably have landed upside down in the water.
Herman had to get a team of horses to pull us out. He arrived hours late for his
job.
That was the year Joe came home from the army and stayed with us until
school started in the fall. It was hard for me to keep the children quiet so Herman
could sleep and the work just had to go. Joe must have been pretty disgusted the
way I kept house, for I remember him saying to me once, "Lois, if I had only a
hairpin I'd have a place for it!" I never forgot that bit of advice.
Joe, having been deprived of a high school education and having an
insatiable desire for knowledge, had taken several study courses while in the army.
Not only that, he had sent his savings home for us to bank for him. He sent some to
us and some to his cousin, Vivian Redford. He entered Logan High School that fall
and stayed with Aunt Beth and Uncle Robert Redford. They had just moved into
Logan, UT from Bancroft, ID. They gave him an upstairs room and Aunt Beth told
us his light was on every night until 2:00 a.m. He finished high school in two years
instead of the usual four. ON his report cards were written such words of praise,"It
is a pleasure to have you in my class", etc.
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After his graduation he entered the University of Utah, sharing a cheap
housekeeping room with another student. According to the landlady they just about
starved themselves to death. Joe's health broke down and he became seriously ill
and had to be taken to the hospital. His landlady also told us that then he was
forced to give up the University, he threw himself across the bed and sobbed
brokenheartedly. Several years later, however, he entered the Provo University
where he went on with his education.
At last we were forced to do something about our little ranch. It was
impossible too make a living there and we found ourselves getting in deeper and
deeper. Finally we had a chance to trade in our ever increasing equity on a nice
home in Logan. Dad had been able to find a nice Mormon family in Salt Lake City
for Claire where she could go to school and work for her board and room. The
whole Richard family loved her and treated her as though she were one of them.
While she was with them she started keeping company with Will Asper, a nephew of
the Tabernacle Organist, Frank Asper. They made such a nice looking couple and
would have been married but Claire was very sensitive, refusing, because she felt
she was in the servant class. She and Will visited us in Logan. Claire was an
attractive girl and always dressed well. I made her a yellow satin evening dress
once. She looked like a dream in it with her big blue eyes and naturally wavy,
golden hair. In any group she had poise and charm. I was so shocked when she
wore the yellow satin dress to a dance without a slip.
Dad sold his house and lot up on the Bench after we moved into Logan, and
went down to Delta, UT taking Austin with him. There he acquired 640 acres of
alkali land 9 miles from Delta, and went into the well drilling business. His ranch
had access to artisian water he began drilling a number of flowing wells which he
developed into large ponds with the idea of raising muskrats for fur.
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Eventually Joe went down to Delta and worked with Dad for awhile, then
went back to Canada where he met and married Olive Bullock, daughter of Clara
and Will Bullock, pioneers along with our own mother and father at Raymond,
Alberta, Canada.
The property we took in trade for our little mountain acreage was located in
the heart of Logan near the Agricultural College. The property belonged to a
retired college professor and had been well cared for. It was a large house with
three bedrooms upstairs and two down; a large living room, dining room, kitchen
and pantry with sink and drainboard. Large windows looked our from all rooms
giving views of a beautiful, fenced back and front yard with towering trees, lawn,
berry bushes, flowers and shrubs. The dividing fence between the neighboring lot
was completely covered with Virginia Creeper, which, in the fall of the year turned
yellow, gold, and then fiery red, and was a blaze of color all winter long, until
replaced by new, green leaves in the Spring.
Within an hour after arriving at our new home, the Logan 2nd Ward
officials were there to greet us. Herman was put in as Ward Clerk and I as member
of the Sunshine Committee, a group of women chosen to visit all the shut-ins and
people who needed cheering up. This function was sponsored by the Relief Society.
How I loved my big, beautiful home! Herman continued working at the
garage and it was Elwin's job to carry his daddy's lunch to him each day all that
first summer. He was eight years old on the 24 Jul 1926 and was ready for baptism.
The day I took him to the temple he was frightened of the water and we couldn't get
him hear the font. We begged and pleaded and even tried to bribe him but all
without avail. The officiators finally lost patience with him and grew stern. Finally
he gave in and was baptized. It was quite an ordeal.
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In Sep I was expecting my fourth baby. Elwin was a great help to me in
those days. We did all kinds of little odd jobs around the place getting ready for the
baby's arrival. Boyd acquired the habit early in life of running away and it was
always Elwin's job to find him and bring him back. He kept a little rope attached to
the banister at the top of the stairs and would punish Boyd by tying him up for
about 15 minutes each time. Elwin would say, at the end of that time, "He's been
tied up long enough! I don't think he'll run away again!" But he always did until
he outgrew the habit.
Elwin was such a handsome little fellow, tall and slender, with grey eyes and
long, curling eyelashes, and was always neat and clean. His clothes always fit him to
perfection and was never wrinkled or mussed up like other boys. From the time he
was a small baby he disliked being kissed and would immediately wipe the kisses
away. He never outgrew this habit of cleanliness.
A few days before Darlene was born, I spread a canvas under a tree that was
loaded down with ripe plums. Elwin would climb up in the top and shake it while I
picked up the fallen fruit. Every time I stooped to pick up the plums, he would give
it another shake and down they would come tumbling all over my back and head.
How we would both laugh after each onslaught! One day I bought a used baby
buggy and he helped me make it new again. While painting his part, he accidently
upset the paint can and I scolded him. Oh, how sorry I was afterward! What a
terrible thing to remember!
Elwin and his little pal who lived on the other side of the Virginia Creeper
hedge, had hung an old automobile tire on a rope attached to a high branch of a tree
and were taking turns swinging on it. I was standing in the pantry washing dishes
and saw the tope break and the tire fall across Elwin's leg. He cried out in pain and
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I ran out to help him up. When I lifted him up and he tried to put his foot on the
ground, he looked up as though surprised, and said, "Why, it doesn't hurt at all!"
What we didn't know was that he had mashed an artery and it was not until a week
later that we became alarmed. Only twice during that week did he complain that
his leg hurt. Although I examined his leg each time, there was no discoloration or
any other sign that his leg was injured. He continued to run around doing his usual
every day little duties, climbing the college hill closeby to take his daddy's lunch and
raking the autumn leaves in front of the house.
Darlene was born on Friday night at 9:30 p.m. She was the cutest little blond
baby girl I had ever seen. Again, as with Boyd, I had religiously taken the Blue
Cohosh tea, and with the same result--by 9:30 that night everything was over and
the doctor had gone home. All was well and I remarked how thankful we should be
to our Heavenly Father for so great a blessing.
The next morning Elwin came in to look at his little new sister, and said,
"Let's name her Darlene, mama." and that is what he called her from then on. The
boy from across the hedge came over and I watched the two boys from my big,
picture window raking leaves in big heaping piles out on the front lawn. During the
late afternoon a group of boys congregated on an adjoining lot to play football.
Elwin had gone over without his shoes and in the process of kicking the football
with his bare foot, must have loosened a blood clot that had formed in the main
artery. At least, that was the doctor's diagnosis when it was all over. At his cry of
pain one of the boys fathers, who was acting as coach, sent him home to get his shoes
on. He came into my room and asked me if I knew where his shoes were. Sylvia,
Walter's wife, who had been with me all afternoon, looked up and said, "Why,
Elwin, how could your mother know where your shoes are when she has been in bed
all day?"
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It was almost dark by then and I coaxed him not to go back, to take his bath
and put on his new, outing flannel pajamas. When he tried to put his leg over into
the bath tub he called out and said, "I can't put my leg over the tub--it hurts!"
Herman came home from work about then and helped him--still not thinking
the pain in his leg was anything serious. Scrubbed clean, and wearing his new
pajamas, he came into my bedroom and stood looking down at his little sister asleep
in her crib. "Little Darlene," he said softly. "Little Darlene! That name just suits
her." "Don't you want to kiss her goodnight?" I asked. "No, I'm afraid I'll wake
her," he said, then turned and went off to bed.
The next morning I called to the children and said, "Come and see the baby-she's awake!" Elwin called back, "I can't walk!" "Well, hop then!" I called back.
He came hopping into my room and climbed in bed with me. The doctor came soon
after and we had him check on Elwin's leg. "Oh, he's just torn a ligament loose
playing football," he diagnosed. "Young fellow, I think you just want an excuse to
get in bed with your mother." He ordered the nurse to pack the leg in ice bags and
took his temperature. His fever was alarmingly high and he soon became delirious,
imagining all kinds of things, such as being chased by Indians.
From then on until Wednesday noontime he stayed there in my bed, most of
the time in a delirious condition. Although looking right at me he would ask over
and over, "Where's Mama?" The doctor came in often. He was an old trusted
friend, having been with us during previous childbirths. He belonged to the Logan
Clinic, and if we had any reason to change doctors we had to first dismiss the one we
had. We thought he knew what he was doing. We had no reason to doubt his word,
or his method of treating a torn ligament.
At this time Herman's 15 year old brother, Lathel, was bedfast with leakage
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of the heart and was not expected to live. His mother could not leave him.
Otherwise she would have been right there with us. Wednesday noontime, my
mother's sister, Aunt Beth Redford, came down to see the new baby, not having
heard about Elwin's leg. She took one look and said, "That doctor will never get
inside of this door again, if I have to stand here with a shot gun!" Herman called
the doctor and told him not to come again unless he brought another doctor with
him.
So the new doctor came and made an examination and found the leg already
dead to the knee. It would have to be amputated in order to save his life. They told
me nothing, except that it would be better for him to be in another bedroom by
himself. They put him in another part of the house where I couldn't hear or know
anything that was going on. I nearly went crazy, imagining all kinds of terrible
things. They gave me sedatives to make me sleep. But, I couldn't sleep. My tongue
felt big enough to choke me.
The Relief Society sisters came and sat up all night, leaving at dawn.
Herman was alone with Elwin when he died. It was a terrible experience for him.
He went running through the house like a mad man, crying over and over, "He
killed him! I'll blame that doctor as long as I live!" The last thing they did before
the funeral was to wheel his little white casket into my room and let me look upon
the face of my little son. He looked as though he had just closed his eyes in sleep, a
sweet smile on his face. He had been coaxing for long pants for quite some time.
He was dressed in a white shirt and the first pair of long white pants he had ever
had.
They held part of the funeral on our lovely porch just outside my room.
Chet Swinyard, my cousin, Vivian Redford's new husband, played a beautiful
number on the violin. After it was all over and they had taken him away, I dropped
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off to sleep and slept for hours.
So many things happened that winter. First, Herman's health broke down
and he had to quit work. When the doctor told him, he broke down and cried, "I
can't! I've got a family to provide for!" The doctor answered, "A man with one foot
in the grave can afford to do anything." He was given all kinds of tests but no two
doctors diagnosed the same thing. One said he had leakage of the heart; another,
that his heart was enlarged. His heart beat was terrific and his hands trembled so
much he had to give up his Ward Clerk job. Several weeks after Elwin passed
away, Lathel died. He was 16 years old. That was another blow to Herman, as he
thought he had the same heart condition and he would be the next one to go.
One week we drove up to Logan Canyon and camped there for a day or two.
Sunday evening a man walked by our camp and stopped by for a little chat. Before
long we were discussing Herman's condition with him. He began asking questions
and finally said, "You've got a toxic goiter." Then he told Herman he had every
symptom he had once had, and insisted that we get back to town and be at the clinic
when it opened the next morning and ask for a Metabolism test.
We followed his advice and Herman was there the next morning when the
doors were opened. Sure enough, at last we knew what was wrong. The doctors
reported that it was in its last stages, and unless he had it removed immediately, he
wouldn't live a month. An operation was arranged in Salt Lake City and we began
to make preparations for the trip.
Herman's mother had been working in the temple and had been making it a
matter of prayer. The evening before he was to leave for his operation, his father
came down to show us a piece he had read in the newspaper about a health doctor
who claimed he could cure, among other things, a toxic goiter. There was a lecture
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going on at the high school that night. It was almost 9:00 but Herman and his
father decided to go up and hear the rest of that lecture. They had to stand in line.
At last, when it came his turn, the doctor wearily said, "You'll have to come to my
office in the morning. I can't talk anymore tonight." At which Herman answered,
"In the morning it will be too late. I'll be on my way to Salt Lake for an operation."
Well, it didn't take long for the doctor to find that he did have a toxic goiter
and a very bad one. "If you will cancel the operation and put yourself in my care
for six weeks, I can absolutely cure you!" he promised. They made an appointment
for the next morning.
The first thing the doctor sold him was an electric belt, which he claimed, if
worn as instructed, would cure the goiter. It cost $60.00. The instructions that went
with it was to go without all food for six full weeks, and take nothing but six quarts
of cow's milk daily--all from one cow--and it was to be eaten with a spoon, a glass
every half hour. The doctor told us there was nothing in milk that would feed a
goiter. It would starve to death in that length of time.
We had our doubts right from the start, that the belt had anything to do with
the miraculous recovery, for Herman did recover in less than six weeks. Within
forty-eight hours his heart beat had slowed down until it was normal. At the time
the operation was canceled the doctors in the Clinic were extremely sorry. When it
came time to take another Metabolism test, Herman drove down to Ogden in order
to get a fair test, which revealed not a sign of a toxic goiter. His heart was in perfect
condition; the poison gone from his body. He was able to go back to work.
The same winter the children came down with a siege of whooping cough
which lasted for weeks. Even the baby had it. People told me that a small baby very
seldom survived. Here again I used my faith. Twice each day I gave her one
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tablespoon full of Olive Oil. She had it very lightly and was soon over it. I wonder,
now, why I didn't give Elaine and Boyd the same treatment. I thought they would
never get over it. Someone told us "Mares Milk" was a cure for whooping cough.
Herman drove all over Cache Valley and came home one night with a small bottle
full. But they went right on whooping it up.
Then Elaine came down with measles. All winter long I taught her the same
lessons she would have had in school. At the end of the school year she went back to
school for examinations and passed with straight A's.
Elaine, with her dark brown, naturally wavy hair and big brown eyes, was
an adorable child, unselfish and good. If she happened to look out of the window
and saw any one of her little playmates coming in the gate, she would rush into her
room and meet them at the door with her arms full of toys.
Not being able to work for such a long while, our debts accumulated and we
were forced to sell our lovely home. The day the escrow closed and we had our
money, Herman went out and paid every debt we owed, leaving us flat broke. But,
with renewed health, he went out and got a better job, one that was easier than the
heavy mechanic work he had been doing. He was hired by the Harris Music Co. to
sell and repair radios. That had been a hobby of his ever since radios became
popular.
The health doctor, feeling that our testimony was an asset to his business,
offered to pay our rent if I would act as receptionist for him. We found an
apartment up over a store right on Main Street and moved in. Herman made a fine
salesman and was a whiz at fixing and repairing radios. We began to prosper. That
Christmas he bought Elaine a $14.00 doll and Boyd, a $40.00 train.
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Boyd's little fat legs continued to run away. It scares to even think about it,
but sometimes he would be gone for hours. I had no Elwin to run after him. I was
tied down with Darlene and with my responsibilities as a receptionist. All he had to
do was to toddle down one flight of stairs and he would be blocks away before I
knew he was even gone. There was no way of finding him until the stores closed at
6:00, then the police would notify us. Many times they would bring him home on
their motorcycles. He thought that was great sport and would run away again the
first chance he got just so he could have another ride. I tried everything I would
think of; there was just no way of breaking him of that habit.
Finally the health doctor moved on to another city, having worked Logan
pretty thoroughly. He put an agent in Ogden and offered me the same proposition,
except a salary added. I accepted and took the children with me. He paid my first
month's rent and that was all; no salary or rent from then on. Only promises. He
was dishonest in his dealings with the people and they soon learned not to trust him.
After two months his business began to fizzle out and I was forced to move back to
Logan. The last week before leaving the children came down with the chicken pox
and Herman came down in the car and smuggled them back to Logan, their faces
and hands a mass of sores.
Back in Logan again, we rented a nice 2-bedroom, furnished home. Herman
continued his work in the radio business and was installing radio sets all over Cache
Valley. We bought a brand new DeSoto automobile.
It was while living in this house that we discovered that Boyd had a tape
worm. We had noticed that for quite a while that whenever he sat up to the table,
he would complain of his stomach hurting--even before he had taken a bite. One
morning he ran in to tell us a worm was in the toilet bowl. It was flat, about a
quarter of an inch wide, without head or tail; just a broken, yellowish, segment. But
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it was alive. We took it over to the doctor's office in a bottle and he told us it was a
tape worm. Again, I reached for the old doctor's book, ignoring the expensive
hospital treatment the doctor had prescribed. "PUMPKIN SEEDS', I read. "Starve
the patient for three days; then feed him one pint of soaked pumpkin seeds, followed
by two or three tablespoons of castor oil at intervals." The hardest thing about this
treatment was in making him do all these things. I felt like a criminal making that
hungry little fellow go without eating for three whole days. We thought we would
never get the chopped pumpkin seeds down. The castor oil was even harder. But it
worked! Hundreds of broken segments came from him--even the head--without
which it would have grown again. That was the end of the tape worm!
Dad had become very enthusiastic over his plans for muskrat farming and
had drilled quite a few flowing wells. He came up to Logan and offered us a half
interest in his 640 acres, if we would come down to Delta and help him. He had
experimented with certain kinds of grass seed that thrived in Alkali soil. He needed
help in order to get the ranch fenced. Herman could go up in the mountains and
help him cut cedar posts and haul them in. It all sounded so wonderful to us and we
began to plan on moving to Delta. We sold the De Soto and bought a small tractor
and a little two-room house, which we moved out on the big ranch.
Austin lived with us the first summer. He was still the same happy-go-lucky
person as always--singing and whistling constantly. The children just loved him,
and so did I.
Up until this summer, I hadn't learned to drive a car. Herman had tried just
once to teach me, but, being a mechanic, he had no patience with me. He would yell,
"I just got through telling you that!" I soon got disgusted and wouldn't try
anymore. But, down on that 640 acre ranch it was different. There were no corners
to turn or high fences to leap over, no curbs or buildings. One day, when Herman
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and Dad had gone in the truck to get a load of cedar posts, I persuaded Austin to
teach me to drive. He had a lot of patience and had me start and stop over and over
again. I began to be real proud of myself. When we drove back into the yard I
cautioned Austin to put the car back in exactly the same spot so Herman wouldn't
know we had taken it. I wanted to surprise him the next morning by driving the
family to Sunday School, five miles away.
I had just finished getting the children ready and was almost finished myself,
when Herman appeared in the doorway looking like a thunder cloud. "Who took
the car out yesterday?" he yelled. "Why?" I asked, innocently. "How do you know
anybody had it out?" "Because," he yelled even louder than before, "this was
sticking in the right front tire!" In his hand he held a thorny twig from a jagged
piece of greasewood. I was caught red-handed! I cried for hours and couldn't stop.
No one went to Sunday School that morning.
Eventually, however, I was permitted to drive the car, and enjoyed taking the
children to school--a distance of about seven miles, most of the way along a canal
bank. Sometimes the children would ride on their little pony. One day, in the
middle of the afternoon, three or four of the horses we were pasturing for other
people at $1.00 per head per month, got out, and I was the only one to go after them.
I locked Darlene in the house for safe keeping and took after them. They were
about the trickiest horses I had ever seen. They would trot ahead of me a little way
and then hide in the bottom of the canal until I was almost upon them, then, they
would gallop away. I was exhausted and in tears when I finally met Dad coming
home in his old Model T Ford. What a welcome sight he was! He had me get in his
car, while he continued to drive the horses until he came to someone's feed yard
where there was an enclosure, then, caught one of the horses, driving the others
back to the ranch.
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I was chugging along, making my way along the hazardous canal bank
toward home, when, suddenly I was Elaine and Boyd on their little pony just ahead.
They, too, were up on the canal bank. When I got dangerously close to them,
expecting them to get off the canal bank when they saw me, Boyd looked around
and yelled, "Stop the car!"
But I couldn't stop the car. I didn't know how to stop a Model T Ford. I had
forgotten to ask Dad, thinking all cars were alike. "Get out of the way!" I yelled
back. But I was too close to them and the car started pushing against the back of
the pony and ran right up onto it! I was so rattled I didn't know what to do. The
power behind the car went right on pushing until the pony was pushed right off the
canal bank, where I left them with white, scared faces, safe on the back of their
pony. I went chugging right along until I reached a flat place in the road, then
remembered to turn the ignition off.
One morning I took the children to school in the car, and on the way we
developed a bad knock in the rear end. The farther I went the worse it sounded,
until it was practically falling apart. After letting the children out by the school
house, I drove on into Delta where Herman was working at a garage. I shall never
forget the expression on his face when he heard that terrible racket as I drove into
the building.
The 640 acres was mostly a sea of alkali. But Dad had planted a five-acre
patch of Alfalfa to feed some rabbits he was raising for the market. He had made
several "dug-outs" into which he had installed incubators and had set several
hundred duck eggs. On the side, he was drilling wells for some of the ranchers. The
rabbits thrived on the alfalfa and the ducks on the ponds. Too late, however, he
discovered he was too far from a market.
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It did not take long to discover that this kind of living was the worst kind of
pioneering. All my life I have prided myself in being content with whatever my lot
was in life. But, I'll be darned if I could see anything worth the struggle in that vast
expanse of alkali and greasewood and sand. Windstorms raged for days at a time,
filling the air with white alkali dust that cracked our lips and chapped our hands.
Poor Dad! In the well drilling business! And, poor little Austin--just the age when
he needed the companionship of other boys and to be in school. He wearied of it,
too, and decided he would get a job on an adjoining ranch and earn his fare back to
Canada. Oh, how I hated to see him go. I sat up with him all one night pleading
with him to stay. As soon as he earned his fare he was gone. I grieved about his
going for weeks.
We had put so much into the venture that it was hard to just pick up and
leave. That fall we moved back to Logan for the Winter. So many colds and
bronchial attacks had left me with severe sinus trouble. The doctor said my system
was full of poison and insisted I have my tonsils and my teeth out, both of which I
had done.
In the Spring we moved back to Delta on the ranch. How glad Dad was to
have us back! He had no idea, as yet, that we intended to pull out and leave him
with the ranch. I dreaded to tell him. As the days went by we talked things over
between us and definitely decided that we would give it all up. It was too far from
Church; too far to send the children to school; too little for what we were getting out
of it. Dad had bought a few pairs of muskrats but they had burrowed into the canal
banks and the ranchers were all up in arms!
One day we made a trip up to a little town near Prove called Springville, just
to see how we would like that little Mormon town so near the mountains. We went
out with a real estate broker to look at property. He showed us a lovely, little place
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with an acre or two of alfalfa, some fruit trees and berry bushes. It was right at the
edge of the pretty little town. A cow was standing in a pasture with grass up to her
knees; roses in full bloom rambled over an arbor. To me it was a door opening into
heaven. I wanted Herman to buy it right then and there.
But, Herman had been born and reared in Old Mexico--his parents moving
down with a group of Saints in the early years of their marriage--and he had never
ceased wanting to go back. He loved the hot country and hated the cold, Northern
winters. Many times he had begged me to go with him down to Arizona, but I
would not listen to him. Arizona, to me, filled with snakes and scorpions, insects
and blistering heat, was unthinkable. Utah, as we beheld it that day, was at its
blossoming best and my heart cried out to have a home there in the cool mountains.
As we looked it over, Herman said, "I know it looks good right now, but this
winter it will be the same thing all over again; deep snow and ice and blizzards!"
Suddenly a crazy feeling came over me and I said defiantly, "Well, lets GO to
ARIZONA on a trip and SEE what it's like!"
"Not NOW!" he answered. "You wouldn't like Arizona in the summertime.
Let's wait until winter--then I know you'll like it!" "If we go, I want to go NOW," I
said, stubbornly. "I want to see it at is worst!"
At last he gave in. We went back to Delta and broke the news to dear, old
Dad. I was out in the back yard chopping wood when he saw me and came over.
Herman had not yet come home from work. As usual, Dad saw me working with a
shovel or rake or axe, he would take it away from me and go on with whatever I was
doing. I felt like a sneak thief as he took over the wood chopping that evening.
"We've decided to go down to Arizona to look the country over," I said, out of a
clear sky.
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Well, it would be impossible to describe the fury of the next half hour. How
the chips did fly as he ranted and raved. "Why don't you stand up for your own
rights!" he shouted. "It's Herman! Why do you let him lead you around by the
nose?" He made every lick count and had a month's supply of wood cut up in no
time at all. At last, when he could see that we had definitely made up our minds to
go, he threw down the axe--a tired and beaten old man--and went back to his little
house and his ducks and rabbits. My own heart was as heavy as lead.
For two full weeks he passed our door every morning going to work without
stopping or speaking to us. Before we left, however, he came to see us. True, Dad
had an Irish temper, but he never held a grudge. All through his lifetime he had a
loving, affectionate, forgiving spirit.
We arrived in Mesa, Arizona on the 24th of July during a celebration.
Families and relatives were picnicking together and we were welcomed in every
circle. Food was everywhere in abundance, fried chicken, freezers of home made ice
cream, watermelons ripe from the vine, frosted cakes, etc., etc. To me it was like
coming home. I fell in love with the climate--the people--Arizona!
That night we were invited to spend a day or two with the Sims Rays.
Maxine and Boyd were about the same age, 6 years old, and they quarreled
incessantly. Elaine was the little peace maker. For some reason or other they took
an instant dislike to each other. Herman and Sims Ray had been boyhood friends in
Mexico, so knew each other well.
It didn't take long for us to make up our minds to buy a little place some
where in the vicinity of Mesa. A real estate Broker took us out to a little Mormon
settlement of Lehi, not far from Mesa, and showed us around. We were attracted to
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a small acreage with a house on it surrounded with tall trees, and decided to buy it,
making arrangements with the Broker to meet him at his office the next morning
with a down payment. We arrived at the appointed time and place but the Broker
never did show up. We waited two hours and finally went on our way. Although
disappointed, we knew when we came back there would be other property for sale,
and maybe the same place would still be on the market. We had seen enough. We
were satisfied. "This is the place!" we agreed.
THROUGH THE WINDOW OF MY HEART
Sometimes, however, there are forces working against our better judgement
and we go along not making too much of an effort to curtail them, justifying
ourselves by thinking, "Whatever will be will be!" I shall always blame myself for
the part I played in the turn-about-face of our decision not to go to Mesa. Looking
back to our sojourn during the next ten years, with all its heartaches, failure and
regrets, fills my heart and soul with indescribable heaviness. In the agony of my
soul I cry out, "Why?" and the answer is but an echo without an answer; "Why?"
doing on and on and on in my mind.
To explain, I shall have to go back to an evening in Delta, just before we left
for Arizona. A neighbor on an adjoining ranch sent me a bouquet of Zinnias,
wrapped in a wet newspaper. Lacking any kind of current reading matter around
the house, I carefully unfolded the paper and scanned it through from beginning to
end. On the ad page I noticed a tiny insert "Arizona homestead land near Salome,
50 miles west of Wickenburg, $1.25 an acre. Near good school; plenty of well water;
bearing date palms; gardens; dairies, etc." Carefully I cut it out and showed it to
Herman when he came home that night.
And so it was--as we journeyed homeward, I reminded Herman of the little
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newspaper ad as we approached Wickenburg; suggesting, just out of curiosity, that
we drive over to Salome and see what it was like. Herman said, "We've already
decided on Mesa. Why spend time and gas going on a wild goose chase?"
Curiosity, it has been said, killed the cat! Well, it was I who killed the cat. "Let's
say 'eeny, meeny miny, mo!" I said, jokingly, and if when we come to the cross
roads, its Mo--we'll turn; and if it isn't Mo, we'll go on."
Herman agreed and we started counting. But it was Mo, and we laughed as
though it were a good joke and turned toward Salome.
It was a blistering hot day when we arrived in Salome about noontime. We
stopped at a Service Station and asked where we could find a little shade where we
could eat our lunch. The station attendant laughed loud and long. "Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Shade here? Never heard of it!" But he directed us to a little ramada down the road
a little way with table and benches where we could stop and rest awhile. We soon
found it. The top of the ramada was covered with dried palm fronds and made a
good, cool shade. "What a terrible place!" I cried. "How could any human being
live in such a place!"
But, curiosity was still what killed the proverbial cat! After lunch we
decided to hunt up the real estate man who had put the ad in the wet newspaper,
just to see what he had to say. First, because of our two children in school, he
showed us the little school house; the bearing date palms--three of them standing so
tall and stately, growing near the Santa Fe water tank along side of the hot,
glistening railroad track. Then he took us out to the one big dairy farm that
supplied milk and butter to the dusty, little mining community; one big garden in
the whole Valley. All afternoon we plodded over hot sand and great stretches of
greasewood and sagebrush land.
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That night we camped under the ramada, and, bright and early the next
morning started out for Delta. We had seen enough. As we started on our way, I
looked back and thought to myself, gleefully, "I'll never see this place again. How
could anyone live here?"
But we did see it again! Again and again! It became our home for ten years-1929-1939. As we drove along on our way back to the ranch, we talked more and
more of Salome and how wonderful it would be to own 160 acres of rich land that
would grow a garden like the one we had visited; that would grow dates, peanuts,
sweet potatoes, grapes, watermelons, corn, tomatoes all the year round. We had
heard there was a real need for a well driller in the community and Dad could easily
make a fortune with his well drilling machine. At first we thought, "We'll just stay
three years until Elaine is in high school." By then, we figured, we would own the
land and we could move into Mesa. The more we talked, the better it sounded. We
might even find a gold mine out there in "them, thar hills!"
And so, as we traveled along, we built to the high heavens a veritable Utopia
for ourselves and for Dad. When we pulled into the ranch and began unloading the
fruit and vegetables that the Mesa people had crammed into our car, Dad's eyes
were shining. When we told him about Salome with plenty of cheap land and a
chance to drill wells all over the valley, he fell for it "hook, line and sinker!" His
decision to go back with us was instantaneous. We began to dispose of our Delta
holdings and make preparations for our move.
In September everything was in readiness for our long journey south. Dad
built rabbit hutches and duck pens, stacking them all over and high up in the back
of his truck, thinking he would have a ready market for them in Las Vegas. In the
evening of the first day, we camped along the way, so as to let the ducks out for a
little exercise. But they had been confined so long they were all crippled and
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couldn't stand up. They were a funny looking lot! We put them back in their pens
on the back of the truck and drove as fast as we could all the rest of the night in
order to get them to Las Vegas before the sun became hot. Dad was hard of hearing
and we let him go first so if anything happened we would be right behind him to
help him if he needed it. As we started out, Dad started off on the wrong road.
Back in 1929 few of the roads were paved. The road he chose was an ordinary dirt
road as rough as a washboard and very narrow with brush on either side. There
was no easy to pass him, or attract him in order to let him know he had taken the
wrong road. Herman yelled until he was hoarse, but Dad kept right on going, mile
after mile, enveloped in a cloud of dust. After a while the doors of the duck pens
started coming open and the ducks began flying out in all directions, alighting in the
bushes along the road. It would have been funny at any other time, but we were
pulling a high trailer that held a heaped-up load of our furnishings. At any moment
the trailer threatened to tip over as we raced on and on, never quite able to reach
Dad. At last, in desperation, Herman stopped our car and jumped out and started
running. In this way he was able to attract Dad's attention from the side, and the
truck was quickly brought to a stop in a cloud of dust! The Nevada sun wasn't the
only thing that was hot that evening--Herman was white with anger and cussed Dad
up one side and down the other. We turned around and crept slowly back to the
main road, beating the bushes for ducks until we had found them all.
We reached Las Vegas just before day light and hurriedly improvised pens
for them. In the cool of the morning they soon recuperated from their long
confinement, and by 9:00 a.m. were in good shape for the market. Before Dad and
Herman took them up town they spread a big canvas over some high bushes to make
shade for us until they returned. I don't think I ever spent a hotter day, or a dustier
one, than I did that day on the outskirts of Las Vegas.
They had wonderful luck, however. A big carnival was on and the show
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manager was persuaded to put the ducks and rabbits, one by one, into a long tent
with numbered holes in each side. A monkey was turned loose and the spectators
would bet on which hole the escaping animal would emerge. It worked to perfection
and Dad sold every one. Oh, what a relief it was to get rid of those ducks!
In due time we arrived once more in the dusty, hot, little mining town that
was Salome. Once again we camped under the ramada. Sam Haydes, the Santa Fe
Station agent, had been very helpful on our previous trip. Early the next morning
we went over to ask his advice. He told us the man who had put the ad in the paper
was just out after a fast buck. He told us we could go to the land office and file on
homestead rights and save the $1.25 per acre. Before we left, however, he told us
about an old man who had taken possession of an 80 acre piece of ground about a
mile south of Salome, with a homesteaders cabin and well on it. The old man was a
friendly sort of person and if he took a liking to the children no telling what he
might do. He had been very lonely out on the little acreage and had moved in town
temporarily so as to be closer to his friends. Mr. Haydes thought he might turn his
rights over to us for, well, as it turned out, for a song. He even went with us to help
make the deal.
The old man was at home with his door wide open, brewing coffee, which he
always kept on the stove ready for any one who stopped to pass the time of day. He
took a liking to the children and gave them one of his little Mexican Chihuahua
puppies which he called "Bowser". After Mr. Haydes had explained everything, he
decided to exchange his rights on the land for our big, cabinet radio.
We called him "Dad Donaldson". He was 86 years old and wore a long,
white beard. He was as pleased as punch over his good fortune in owning a radio;
we were overjoyed at the prospect of owning 80 acres of land, with house and well.
We moved out there that very morning and everybody was happy, all except the
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crooked land dealer.
One day, shortly after we moved in, we received a letter from a Phoenix
lawyer, telling us to get off the land or we would be prosecuted; demanding that we
appear in his office on a certain day to discuss the matter with the rightful owners.
It turned out that a Mexican family had filed on the land two years before,
but had not lived on the place according to the rules and regulations as set forth by
the government. In order to obtain title, the one who filed on the land, was required
to live on his property six months of each year. The Mexican had only spent one or
two nights on the premises and was about to lose his rights. All this Herman
learned after his trip to Phoenix.
Until the question was settled, however, we were ordered to get off the land.
To save further trouble we pitched our big, umbrella tent just outside the fence, put
the children in school, and lived there for about six weeks. The Mexican rights had
to be contested and that took time.
One week-end the Mexican family came out and moved in the cabin. During
the afternoon, the father and mother and uncle got in their car and drove away,
leaving the 10 year old daughter and her grandmother behind. The girl wanted to
go with them and began to scream and yell as though she were being murdered,
using, what we considered vile language, although we could not understand one
word she said. Finally, in a rage, she picked up an axe and began chopping at the
corrugated aluminum door. The parents had expected just such a tantrum and had
not driven far away. When they saw her chopping the door, they came back. But
the girl saw them coming and started running like a scared deer. The uncle took
after her, but she was always just a little way ahead of him and could never quite
catch up with her. If he stopped, she would stop. At last he came back, completely
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exhausted. It was almost dark before the girl came walking back of her own accord.
Closer and closer she crept, until she was inside the house. All was quiet as a mouse
after that until in the middle of the night when it started all over again. It sounded
to us as though they were all murdering each other. The next morning we were
surprised when each one emerged from that little house all in one piece.
During the next morning they all went back to Phoenix. The man died
shortly after and his widow, through her attorney, offered to settle for about
$250.00, and because we wanted to get a quick title and save ourselves a lot of
trouble, we accepted and received a clear title of ownership without delay. The next
day we moved into the "Little Brown House" where we lived for ten years. To
some, ten years is a lifetime; to me, it was but the passing of yesterday and today.
The house was set apart in a five-acre fenced plot near the road that went out to the
Dairy and on to Nord's ranch. They owned the "Garden" farther down the road.
The greasewood had all been cleared away and not a blade of grass or shrub or
flower could be seen anywhere. One lone "Athel" tree stood tall and gaunt beside
the well which we proceeded to cut to the ground--shocking
everybody in the
whole country side. A tree of any kind was held in high esteem out there in that
wilderness of sand. Coming from beautiful Cache Valley in Utah, I yearned with all
my heart and soul to beautify my little desert home. But, it had taken all of our
savings to procure the land and there was not enough money with which to buy
food, and certainly not enough to waste on plants and flower seeds. So I dreamed
and planned and waited.
Old Dad Donaldson more or less adopted us and often came out to visit us.
Sometimes he would bring us a favorite pot of stew; most often he made "gumbo"
stew and I've always liked okra since that time. The children were happy with their
new puppy and looked upon the old man, with his flowing white beard, as Santa
Claus.
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In a few weeks Dad and Herman decided to go back to Delta for the rest of
our things and to get Dad's well drilling outfit. Dad Donaldson wanted to go with
them. He begged so hard they finally gave in and allowed him to go. Dad told him
he could drive his truck back and he would drive the well rig. It was a risky thing to
do. The winter was very severe and they had a long, wearisome, hazardous trip,
especially on the way back. Both trucks broke down and Herman had to clear away
the deep snow in order to make a place to put his tools and work. The cold weather
and exposure was hard on Donaldson, but he survived the trip miraculously. I say
miraculously, because, on the way coming back he ran into the side of a hill on a
steep grade and wrecked the truck, scattering his cargo of household furniture all
over the hillside. Herman and Dad, coming along behind him saw the whole thing
happen and thought surely the old man would be crushed to death beneath the
truck. But, as they reached the scene of the accident, lo and behold, there was the
old Santa Claus poking his snowy head up out of the driver's seat without a scratch!
We expected our first Christmas on the desert to be a very lonely and meager
one all by ourselves. But it turned out to be a very happy one. On Christmas Eve
we were invited down to the school house for the Christmas Party and community
tree. I had expected the menfolk back by Christmas and when they didn't come I
was sure they had run into trouble. Night after night I would stand for hours at a
time watching down the road for their headlights. They did not arrive until after
New Years.
But, that Christmas back in 1929 will never be forgotten. After the party
and the distribution of gifts to all the school children, we came home and I put the
children to bed. We had pitched the tent in the back yard and were using it as their
bedroom. They had just dropped off to sleep and I was back, standing by the
window, peering down the road to see if I could see any signs of the returning
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travelers. Suddenly my heart leapt to high heaven. Chugging slowly up the lane was
a pair of headlights shining like a Christmas tree through the darkness. At last they
were home! I rushed outside to greet them.
But, when the big truck pulled into the yard, it wasn't them at all! It was the
good men of the community bringing my children the left over Christmas tree from
the children's party, together with all the trimmings and sparkling decorations.
You never saw such tiptoeing as went on that night by those rough and ready
mining men, trying not to wake the children.
Always I shall revere the memory of those kindly Old Timers we met during
the first year of our sojourn in Salome, Arizona. AT first I was narrow minded and
had no desire to associate with such uncouth people. I had been reared strictly a
Mormon and thought I was just a little better than these rough mining people. I
kept to myself as much as possible, even resenting the occasional visits from the
Minister of the All Saints Church in Salome.
But, little by little, unexpectedly, and with a certain degree of astonishment, I
found a Christ-like spirit there in the hearts of those desert dwellers. When the
people who owned the dairy heard we were not buying milk for the children, they
proceeded to leave a couple of quarts each morning down by the gate. This went on
for weeks. We began to worry about the milk bill and told them not to leave it any
more. They scoffed at the idea. "Your children need the milk, don't they? Let us
worry about the bill." It was the same with the people who owned the garden.
Often we would find vegetables, fruit, and eggs down by the gate during that first
year. When Thanksgiving arrived, there was a big, fine turkey all dressed ready for
the oven; another one at Christmas time. Old May Johnson who helped her
husband with the dairy and poultry business, had a heart of gold, but a stomach of
iron. She drank too much hard liquor. Her husband tried to keep her from going
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into town--a distance of five or six miles--especially on Election day. One time, in
the middle of the night, she ran away, without stopping to put on her shoes, and
made it into town where she stayed with friends for awhile. The next morning we
saw her foot prints out on the road going past our place. At last she developed
"delirium tremens" and died a horrible death. But, I shall always remember the
many little kindnesses she bestowed upon those unfortunate souls who needed a
helping hand along the way.
As time went by I figured out a way to get my coveted seeds and plants to
beautify my little desert home. There was one, big rooming house in Salome called
the "Blue Rock Inn", built by Dick Wick Hall in the early days of Salome. One day
I took my pride into my hands and talked the management about doing their
laundry. I had no competition as there was no laundry facilities there at that time.
Herman wasn't too happy with my taking in washing, but in the end I won out and
went joyously to work. I had no electric washer or dryer, or electric iron. Herman
found an old abandoned machine at an abandoned mine dump, brought it home,
and made it run; using a gasoline motor. I washed in the shade of the big water
tank, making a wood fire out in the yard and heating the water in a wash tub. I
used a couple of old fashioned "sad" irons to iron with, heated on our big, old
fashioned, wood-burning range. I kept it up all one summer and think I know just
how hot it is in Hell.
But, oh, the orders I sent off for various kinds of seeds and plants in the mail
order catalogs! I had many things to learn about desert planting and wasted many
hard earned dollars just experimenting. I would have nothing but Blue Grass and
Dutch Clover lawn. People told me it couldn't be done; I proved that it could. With
Dad with us we had no problem spading up the ground and putting up a retaining
wall around the whole, spacious plot. The retaining wall held the irrigation water
perfectly. We flooded it from the well twice a week; the seed came up and grew like
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crazy. The only trouble with it was, either the ground or the seed was full of
Bermuda grass and it grew like crazy, too. One day while visiting an old abandoned
mining ghost town, I found a couple of dozen table forks. During the week
whenever I noticed a Bermuda shoot sticking up, I would run for a fork and mark
the place. After each irrigation the roots would very easily come out. In this way,
for two or three years, I kept my Blue Grass and Clover lawn free from weeds. It
was a beautiful sight, surrounded by all that barren sand. Ours was the only Blue
Grass lawn in the country; I submitted an article about it in the Sunset Magazine
and it was published. The editor's note said, "I'm from Missouri and have to be
showed!" Many people heard about it and came to see it.
By hook or crook, I persuaded Herman to take his truck and haul in a load
of native stone to build a rock garden. He always called it a "monument to a broken
back." Before starting it I obtained instructions from a builder. "First," he said,
"haul in about twenty-six yards of good, rich soil." Twenty-six yards of soil! I
figured that would be about twenty-six good big wheelbarrows full. I decided I
could haul that much myself and not have to ask Herman. I considered myself
lucky to have the native stone. The only rich soil I knew about was down the lane
outside of the fence, about a block away and over against a wash, under some
luxuriant greasewood bushes! With a will, I started to work. It was in July and the
thermometer registered around 113 degrees in the shade--only I wasn't in the shade!
There was a slight incline all the way to the house. As I made my tedious up-grade
trip back to the house with my heaping load of rich soil, I was forced to stretch out
on my back for a few minutes before I was able to go on. It took several days to
complete the job. How proud I was of my big pile of good earth! I lost no time
going back to the builder and telling him I was ready for him to come out and show
us how to start the rock garden. "How much dirt do you have on hand?" he asked.
"Twenty-six yards," I answered proudly. "What do you mean, twenty-six yards?"
he said smugly. "Let's go out and take a look!" Well, when he saw the size of my
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little pile of dirt he just hooted and laughed. At that, I gave up and arranged with
him to have the rest hauled.
We had a wonderful flow of water from the well. Herman found a deep-well
gasoline pump at one of the abandoned mines and brought it home and installed it
in our own well, at the same time erecting the large water tank.
Dad was never happy unless he was planting and growing things. He had
good luck drilling wells for neighboring ranchers but very little luck collecting his
pay. He soon got discouraged and decided to take his outfit back to Delta. But that
first and second year we had a garden to dream about--corn, watermelons,
cantaloupe, sweet potatoes, peanuts, and just about anything one could ask for.
Everything we planted grew to perfection. My rock garden was a picture in itself.
At one side we planted a large apricot tree, pruning it high for shade. On the
terraced steps I planted all kinds of creeping, hardy plants, such as Sweet William,
Phlox, Pansies, and rock roses. It was as blaze of color practically the whole year
round. At strategic places in various parts of the yard I planted many kinds of
bedding plants. Somewhere I read that Canna Lilies were pond plants and made a
retaining wall around them as we did with the lawn. What a difference it made in
their growth. I also read that if I would keep the blossoms clipped from my desert
variety of Bird of Paradise shrubs, they would grow tall and keep blooming all
through the year. At first I planted ferns and delicate plants I had grown in Cache
Valley. But, after a small fortune was spent in experimenting, I knew just what
would grow and what wouldn't. Oh, how I loved to work in my beautiful garden!
Each morning I would get up at the crack of dawn and wander around in the yard
just to see if anything new had developed during the night.
The first summer I made a trip into Phoenix and bought six grape vines
which Dad lovingly planted around an arbor leading out from the kitchen door. He
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dug the holes about 3 feet deep, into which he tamped down about eighteen inches of
wet steer manure. The live roots were planted above the fertilizer in good, rich soil.
With an abundance of water they never stopped growing. By that fall they
completely covered the arbor.
While in Phoenix I purchased something else that brought me a great deal of
joy and happiness all down through the years--a little, blue, scribble-in book in
which I jotted down each day the little everyday happenings. I remember one day
saying to Elaine, "I'm going to write a poem." Long afterwards she told me she had
laughed up her sleeve that day. I had never written a poem in my life. My little
desert home was my whole life in those days. The first poem I wrote was one
evening after I returned from a visit to Whittier, CA with Grace Bigbee, a very dear
friend to this day. I intended to stay longer, but my heart was in Salome and I came
home before I needed to. That night I scribbled down in my little book the words to
"Where Ever the Heart Is."
WHEREVER THE HEART IS
There's a little brown house--or is it grey?
What does it matter, anyway?
Back from the road you'll see it there,
Just like you'll find most anywhere.
Part of the desert, part of the sand.
It really isn't so very grand,
But, oh-Whenever I leave it, it calls me back,
This little old brownish, grayish shack.
And there's nothing to do but just obey,
No matter how far I am away.
You wouldn't believe it, just passing by,
That this little brown house could make your
cry.
There's a little brown dog that wags his tail
When he sees me coming along the trail.
And there's lips that are waiting to just be
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kissed.
Then I know in my heart that I've been missed.
I look around for the dust and the heat,
But everything seems so awfully sweet.
But, oh-This little brown house, this home that's all
mine,
Whispers to me, "Now everything's fine."
And there's nothing to do but laugh and say,
"I'd rather be here any day."
You'd never believe it or understand,
But, oh, I love it--even the sand!
Somewhere I've heard and I know it's true,
Wherever the heart is, its home to you.
And it doesn't matter the color or size,
It can be on a desert, this home that you
prize.
It can be a great mansion with golden stairs.
But its never a home unless somebody cares.
And so-This little old house, far back from the road,
To me is a heaven, not just an abode.
And though it's not spelled exactly the same,
What does it matter--it's only a name!
You may not believe it, but yet it's true,
Home's just a place where they're missing you!
So many things happened during our sojourn at Salome, I hardly know
where to begin or end. Our chief regret was, that there was no Mormon Church
nearer than Phoenix; no partaking of the Sacrament; no Primary or Sunday School
classes for the children. We neglected to pay our tithing--even though the Lord
blessed us financially. When Boyd was 8 years old and then Darlene, we took them
to Mesa and had them baptized in the temple. About the only thing we did during
the ten years we lived there was to keep the Word of Wisdom. Everyone knew we
were Mormon and respected us. Looking back now I am sure the Devil was
laughing up his sleeve.
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Old Dad Donaldson finally died. As he was closing the door of his truck one
day, his little dog jumped up and was crushed to death. It broke the old man's
heart. He laid his head down on the steering wheel and sobbed bitterly. "I'll go out
and bury Jimmy now," he cried, "and then I'll be through." That was the last time
any of us saw him alive. An hour or two later, Herman went to his home to borrow
a tool and found him dead. He was lying there peacefully on his bed as though he
had just gone to sleep. I never cried so hard in my life. I stood outside his little
home during the simple services. They had wrapped his body in an old frayed
blanket and had left his boots on. The casket was crudely made out of old, used
lumber and was practically square in shape. One of the old prospector buddies
heard my uncontrollable sobbing and came over to me. Putting his hand on my
shoulder he said, "He wanted it this way. Don't feel bad! It's the desert way."
There were no flowers. Herman and I went over to the railroad station and Sam
Haydes helped cut down a green date frond and we laid the great palm leaf across
his unmarked grave. That was my first and only experience with death while living
on the desert.
Eventually, a beautiful "All Saints" Church was built in Salome, sponsored
by the Episcopalian denomination, and paid for by a Gold Star Mother in
remembrance of her son who was killed in World War I. It was truly a magnificent
edifice,complete with manse, and surrounded with exotic and beautiful landscaping-a perfect gem, setting there in a wide expanse of sand and desert greasewood, with
the "Hills of Harcuvar" in the background.
Being the only Church in the desert country, everyone in the community
attended. We decided it would be better for our children to have some religious
training than none at all. Then, too, we depended upon our livelihood from the
people of the community and we thought it only good business to be included in
their church activities.
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By the time Elaine was ready for High School we had become so involved
with our little homestead and garage business that we decided to send her to Mesa
for a year or two. The longer we stayed, however, the harder it was to pull up our
roots and leave Salome.
When the Minister asked me if I would teach a class in Sunday School, I
gladly accepted as my children were in the class and I felt I could teach them "Sugar
coated" Mormonism. It was an "All Saint's Church" anyway, and we felt justified
under the circumstances. The minister told me one day that he admired the
Mormons very much and wished his people would adopt the principal of tithing.
When the big, Episcopalian Convention was held in Phoenix, I was chosen to
represent the women of the desert and was an honored guest of the Minister and his
wife. I began to take part in Church entertainments and helped to put on
community plays and programs. Salome was a mecca for disabled service men and
their families and there was always a wealth of talent from which to draw.
Mostly because of this talent, which was always available, I decided to
organize a little theater. With Elaine in high school and Boyd and Darlene always
in school, left me with quite a little leisure. And so, for several years I took an active
interest in that little desert theater. Darlene was called my "Little Shadow" and
was never out of my sight when she was out of school. Boyd helped his dad around
the garage and was of great help to him. Darlene was very talented and I used her
whenever I could in the plays and entertainments. One summer a high school
drama director came to Salome to spend her vacation and discovered Darlene's
unusual talent and offered to give her lessons. One year we put on a three-act play,
taking it around to a few of the outlying communities. The night we put it on in
Wickenburg, we played to a full house and it was considered a fine performance.
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Darlene helped entertain between acts. The theater manager came to me after the
show and predicted great things for her if she would follow through on a stage
career.
One day a woman said to me as I was passing her place on my way to a
rehearsal, "I really feel sorry for you, working so hard on these plays!" But it was
never work to me. I loved it! I had it in my blood! My mother told me that all the
time she was carrying me, that was her chief pastime. Left alone so much of the
time on the little Hinkley ranch in Utah, she would put on whole plays all by herself;
writing, acting and speaking all the parts. No wonder, then, that I followed in her
footsteps with the same loves, desires, and aspirations.
Reverend Simpson and his wife were tireless in their efforts to establish the
brotherhood of man our there in that big desert country. If I ever saw the Spirit of
Christ at work it was there in that "All Saints Church." Under their jurisdiction
they organized nine or ten of such parishes within a radius of thirty or forty miles.
Each week they visited them all--holding meetings and giving pot luck dinners.
They traveled over the dusty, rough, sandy roads in their Model T Ford, never
seeming to tire of it.
One summer they were called to La Jolla, CA to take charge of one of the
little beach parishes while the regular minister was on his vacation. Mrs. Simpson,
in her loneliness, wandered up and down the beach. By nature, a very active
woman, she was not used to such idleness. One morning as she wa out for a stroll,
she noticed a sign over a door, "Weaving Lessons". Immediately she became
interested. Her father and grandfather had owned big weaving mills in Scotland.
The thought of learning to weave appealed to her. She lost no time in getting
started.
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Weaving with warp and woof on the big loom that summer was not the only
weaving Mrs. Simpson did. As she went there each day for instruction, little by
little, she began to weave stories about the women of the desert--how they barely
eked out a living in that waterless, sandy wilderness.
When it came time for the Simpsons to return to Salome, Mrs. Simpson
returned to the weaving studio to pay her bill. The little, old lady who had become,
not only her instructor, but her friend, reached for the check and tore it up. "Take
what you have learned back to your women of the desert!" she said graciously.
When the beautiful "All Saints Church" was about completed, it was decided
to include a spacious "loom" room, as well as a woodworking rom for the menfolks.
Thirteen looms were set up in the loom room; woodworking machinery was
installed in the hobby room. The operation was called "The Harquahala
Industries", combining both men and women. Under the capable supervision of
Mrs. Simpson for the women, and Reverend Simpson for the men, the two groups of
desert dwellers lost no time in getting started. The women gathered and cut up all
kinds of material for weaving; the men foraging far and wide over the desert dry
washes, in the nearby canyons and in abandoned mine sights, for the various kinds
of drift wood, ironwood, mesquite, palo verde, and even ocotillo with its lovely
porous texture, to be used for polishing and for making into saleable articles.
Mrs. Simpson hired a secretary and they began to write numerous letters to
all the big Eastern Church groups, always playing upon their sympathy by weaving
stories of the women of the desert, wives of war veterans and their families, health
seekers, living almost without the necessities of life.
And it worked! Great cartons of weaving material began to arrive daily.
Material, while used, was practically as good as new--silk hose by the hundreds of
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pair; silk night gowns and undies; silk pajamas. What a thrilling sight to behold as
we dumped them out on the carpeted floor of the living room manse to sort and
distribute. We were like little girls on Christmas morning. Many of the pieces were
too good to cut up. These, Mrs. Simpson would distribute among us, always with a
loving heart and kindly spirit. The slogan for the Industries was, " Something out
of Nothing."
The Harquahala Industries was an overwhelming success right from the
start. About 20 women became weavers of the organization; each one allotted too a
certain loom--a certain day--a certain time. Mrs. Simpson was in her glory! First,
the material had to be dyed and then cut into proper widths. Someone improvised a
stocking cutter that worked like a charm. A long cylindrical can, such as an oil or
honey can, was placed on a spindle and attached to a stand. A stocking was pulled
over the cylinder and as we cut, the can would go round and round until we reached
the last strip of our material. The woodwork the men were turning out on their
machines were creations of rare beauty--polished to perfection. Articles included
handles for bags; nut bowls; paper weights; picture frames.
I took to weaving like a duck to water! From the first, Mrs. Simpson called
me her "free lance" weaver because of the way I started to improvise the harder-todo things. I loved to work with color and thoroughly enjoyed the art of dying my
own material. I soon picked up my own original brand of finger weaving, capturing
exquisite loveliness of desert dawns and sunsets silhouetted against ranges of purple
hills and far blue mountains--sand and clumps of greasewood in the foreground;
weaving all kinds of desert scenes resembling tapestries of unbelievable beauty.
Herman's father and mother were spending the winter with us and they
enjoyed it all. They both inspected the looms in the loom room and then went to
work and made me one to use at home. I learned to thread my loom and designed
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many intricate patterns. I began to use the finer kinds of warp, such as silk crochet
thread.
What a thrill it was when Mrs. Simpson called us all together that first time
to get the woven articles ready for shipment. And, oh what rejoicing, when we were
called in to receive our checks. That was usually an excuse for a party or some sort
of celebration. My sister, Claire, came down from Spokane, WA one winter and
learned to weave, taking many gifts back to her family and friends.
Another great thrill came to me one time when I made up a package of seven
woven articles and sent them to the Los Angeles County Fair. Imagine my delight
when I received my package back at the end of several weeks with seven attached
ribbons. I actually danced for joy and screamed with delight. The articles included
a ladies white purse woven with white silk thread with an all-over pattern of fine
strips of snowy, white silk undies in a raised design--the pattern standing out as
though it were embroidered on a white silk sheath. I had lined it with white silk
moire, and fastened it to a handle of polished ebony ironwood.
The second article was a card table cover with four chair backs to match. I
used black silk thread for warp, with pattern work in tiny black borders on bright
red plain weaving. One of the most beautiful pieces of all wa a wall hanging, size
28" x 72", made of Chenille yarn which I had dyed, myself, in exquisite colors.
Here, again, I had used silk crochet thread for warp in orchid coloring. The scene I
wove was a desert sunrise in warm shades of roseglow. Starting in the foreground
with sand, I reached back and put in gray-green clumps of greasewood--low hills
back against the blue base of distant mountains, touched with golden light from the
rising sun; above, was the blue sky. Interlaced through the knotted orchid silk warp
was a polished ebony rod of ironwood for hanging. Attached to this beautiful wall
hanging was a white satin "Fine Arts" ribbon.
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Another piece of which I was very proud, was a small radio scarf woven out
of the finest strips of silk undies I could cut, using green silk warp and green
material. Across each end was a strip of finger weaving, very fine, with a desert
scene. Two sofa pillows came next in all-over pattern work, both displaying blue
ribbons.
The last and most beautiful of all was a rug, size 36" x 86", in which I used
over 600 pairs of shaded beige and brown ladies silk hose. For this rug I had used
the regular, heavy, brown, cotton warp. The two-inch strips of silk hose were held
loose in weaving so that the warp was deeply embedded. Across each end I had
woven in an 18" scene of desert sunset beyond the purple-tinted mountains. It wa a
blue ribbon winner at its loveliest best! All the work denoted painstaking care.
How I wish I had kept that package of woven articles intact, together with all
those coveted ribbons. When word got out that I had won so many prizes, people
came out to my little desert home and practically took them away from me, paying
me absurd prices. Thus, I ended up when I moved into Phoenix, without even a
sample of my work. My huge, cumbersome loom was stored away in the attic of our
nice, new home, never to be used again.
There seemed to be no end to the unexpected things that happened to me in
those years of desert living. A few weeks after the Fair, I received an invitation
from a woman in Alhambra, CA. She was a weaving instructor and had admired
my weaving at the Fair. She wanted me to come and visit in her home and teach her
some of the little tricks I had picked up; and she, in turn, would teach me some of
her own. I took Darlene with me, which, I am sure she did not appreciate, although
Darlene was a model child.
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We stayed about 10 days and I had a marvelous time. She watched every
move Darlene made until she didn't dare to breathe. The day before we left, she
took us on a grand tour of down town Los Angeles. Central Market, to my desertweary eyes, was a breath of Spring; the Mexican Village was a special treat and held
our interest for a full hour, as did China Town. Dinner at Clifton's Cafeteria was
exotic in those days! Then she took us to a show. It was a war show with lots of
shooting. Darlene had bought a little party favor that accidently went off like a gun
during a particularly grim scene and we almost jumped out of our skins. Our
hostess frowned viciously at Darlene and she began to cry as though her heart was
broken. Suddenly, it all seemed so funny, and everyone around us started to laugh,
except the woman who had brought us. The next day when she drove us in to catch
our bus, we didn't catch the bus at all. As soon as her back was turned, Darlene and
I went over to the Rosslyn Hotel and stayed a day or two just for the fun of it.
Darlene wanted to do nothing except ride up and down on the elevator and I took
her so many times I became violently ill and thought I would die for sure.
One of the happiest experiences I had during those years was when I signed
up for a college preparatory course at the American School, a correspondence
course from Chicago, for which Herman gave me $10.00 per month and was
supposed to last for two years. Some of the reputable colleges were accepting such
credits. I planned on graduating from College with Elaine but in the meantime we
moved into Phoenix and life suddenly became complex and involved in too many
things. But, for many months while still living in Salome, I studied religiously. Mrs.
Jones, the groceryman's wife, owned a little abandoned homestead cabin only a few
blocks away, and I loved going over there with my books and study material. I was
in heaven and many door were opened to me through literature, history, geography
and all the other subjects. We made a trip to Phoenix and I bought a little, new
Royal Deluxe typewriter. In time I won two typewriting certificates. I had always
disliked arithmetic, but, with that course in mathematics, I started down at the very
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bottom and worked up until I was doing logarithms. Sometimes the local surveyors
would come to the garage where we lived and gave me many problems just to see if I
could work them out. I always could. I studied bookkeeping and many other
subjects--all the time storing up credits. My one dream in those days was to have
enough to go to college.
After the Simpsons left Salome, the new people who took over were not the
least bit interested in weaving, or in keeping up the Harquahala Industries, and it
soon fell apart. I threw myself into my studies as though my very life depended
upon it and devoted less and less time to other interests that had occupied my time
and mind.
One summer Herman became interested in gold mining and prospecting.
That was before Darlene was in school and she always went with us. We would get
up long before daylight and head for the hills, coming back sometime before
noontime in order to open up the garage business. On Saturdays we would take
Boyd with us. But he would get right under Herman's nose so many times that one
Saturday, Herman said, "For gosh sakes, Boyd, go out and find your own mine!"
He gave Boyd a shovel and pick and away he went. About an hour later we heard a
loud yell, and here he came up over a nearby hill on the dead run. "Hot Dog!" he
yelled. "I found me a gold mine!"
Herman jumped out of his own hole and rushed over the hill where Boyd was
pointing and leading the way. Sure enough, it was a gold mine! There was no
mistake! The ore which Herman hurriedly crushed and panned was rich with
tracings of gold. "Well, I'll be dog-gone!" Herman said, "We'll name it the Hot Dog
Mine! and started digging.
But it proved to be only a pocket of gold, just a six foot hole in the ground
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and the tracings of gold ran out. What a disappointment! Herman gathered the ore
up in bags and hauled it to the mill where it was crushed and the grains of gold
extracted and given back to him. He brought it home and put it in a heavy earthen
cup, built a big fire in the kitchen range, and when the embers were glowing, set the
cup firmly down into them. The improvised crucible cracked wide open as he tried
to lift it out, and the molten gold went dripping down through the grate into the
ashes below. It was a long, tedious job to pick and sift it all out again and refine it
all over again. But, at last, we had a golden nugget the size of a bird's egg. It made
a pretty nice bragging piece around the house.
On these prospecting trips, having to stay close to the car with Darlene, I
could never go very far on my own. But, oh how I loved the stillness of that big
desert country. Sometimes I would take my books and study; sometimes just sit and
meditate and think out my problems. One time, as I wandered up and down a
desert wash, I came upon a huge rattlesnake all coiled ready to strike; it's angry
buzzing a warning to stop dead still right where I was! Another time I found an old
turtle sunning himself, and for awhile I thought it was a rock. I was greatly amused
when, later, I discovered the rock had a neck and could move. I built a little pen
around it, took out my little scribble-in book and wrote these verses:
S0LITUDE
When all alone I'm sitting-brooding-gazing-Deep in solitude,
On the rocks-in the hills-in the heat-There's just one thing amuses me,
And makes my solitude complete,
A rock, like that I'm sitting on,
I find, has feet.
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Ponderously, it stirs from out its deep
repose.
I sit and doze,
As round and round the pen I make,
Cumbersomely it goes.
Like I'm glued-There I brood-In solitude.
I think the queerest thing
in all the world
is that old turtle.
Blinking there-on the rocks-in the hills-in the sun.
Though you capture him and bring him home,
The battle's far from won.
Lock him up for months,
If he gets out he'll run,
And back toward that same old hill
to boot-Ungrateful brute!
He'll let you run right over him,
Doesn't give a hoot.
Hard old thing-Head's on springs-Queerest things.
Although it has probably long since been forgotten, it was I who started the
Salome Federation of Women Club. I called three women together. We met in my
home one whole afternoon for discussion and to get things underway. They wanted
me to be the first president, but I thought someone with more prestige, influence
and money should head the new organization, suggesting the same of Mrs. Virginia
Harris, the newly appointed Justice of the Peace in Salome, who, with her husband
and son, owned valuable mining property out near Wenden.
At our first meeting, to which we invited all the women of the desert, she was
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voted in as president. Under her leadership the club became one of the most noted
ones in the whole state of Arizona. She and I were called in to Phoenix to oput on a
radio program for the State Federation. It was a real honor for our town. All the
school children were let out for the afternoon just to hear our program. Mrs. Harris
asked me to read one of my poems I had given previously at a Miner's Banquet.
After the program, the engineer came out of the control room and said to me, "I had
tears in my eyes while you were reading that poem. Your voice came in
beautifullly!"
By this time my little scribble-in book was practically filled with a variety of
homey, little verses, telling the story of our sojourn as the years passed us by--one by
one by one. With a little encouragement from friends and relatives, I decided to get
out a little souvenir gift book of desert verse. Herman went along with the idea and
gave me $300.00 to pay for material and printing of 500 copies. I called my book,
"Through the Window of My Heart", and had it printed on oheavy, cream-colored,
deckle-edge paper. Pearl Elder, Ted's wife, made quaint drawings that were
printed in orchid ink. The cover was made of rich, brown suede material with title
and illustration printed in an overlay of gold leaf. I had never studied poetry
writing, and therefore, had no rules or regulations to follow. I merely dipped down
deep into my heart and expressed anything I wanted to say. What a thrill to see my
own little book in print!
We made a trip into Phoenix to get them a few weeks before Christmas. I
put them in several gift shops around Phoenix and in Salome, and kept a quantity
for myself. That year we had a chance to buy a garage building down on the
Highway across the street form "Vans"--a big restaraunt,gift shop, dance hall, with
gambling facilities. The garage was a spacious corrugated sheet-iron structure, with
living quarters down one whole side. In order to make the deal, we had to sell our
80 acre ranch and part with our little desert home, which we had learned to love.
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During the years we had added on a living room; the grapes over the arbor had
spread all over the place, making a grand, out-door, living room. The Experimental
Farm at Tempe, Arizona had given us an acre or two of choice offshoots and they
had grown into almost-bearing date palms. It was with a feeling of sadness and
uttermost reluctance that we parted with it all--even though we knew it was for the
best. One day Herman said to me, "I don't see how you could cry over a dump like
that!"
And so, we moved into the living quarters down on the highway. The front
office was part of our living room and I always kept a little pile of my gift books on
the table by the cash register. Customers, coming in to pay for gas, or car repairs,
would pick one up and out of curiosity, would very often buy one. The sold for
$2.00 each. One politician, just before an election, bought twelve. One morning an
elderly woman from England who was touring the United States with her nephew,
in an imported Rolls Royce, bought one to take back to England with her. Months
later I received a letter from her, in which she wrote, "I always take your little book
upstairs to bed with me each night. It is there that I find the peace to end the day."
We exchanged letters all through World War II. Her home, an English
mansion, was heavily bombed and she and her housekeeper fled to the country-side
and lived in a barn until the war ended. One day I received a letter edged in black
and was told by a relative that she had passed away.
One morning, before anyone else was up, I heard someone banging on the
office door. Slipping my robe on, I hurriedly made my way to the door thinking it
was someone wanting gas. It was a lady tourist who had stopped for breakfast at
Vans and had visited their gift shop. "I told my children that I would not leave
Salome until I had met the author of that little book!" she said. We sat for an hour
talking whole her daughter and her husband sat outside waiting for her.
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When my little pile of books were sold out, I made the rounds of the Phoenix
gift shops to pick up a few for myself. I found only one shop-worn copy to bring
home.
That year I heard of a "Federation" poetry contest and decided to enter.
Because I did not write poetry according to "Hoyle"--so to speak--and, knew very
little or cared about meters and proper stanzas, I did not win a prize. However, I
received a beautiful, complimentary letter from one of the judges--Gertrude Hagar,
of Casa Grande--inviting me to meet her at a big Federation Convention that week
to be held in Tempe. We became very good friends, visiting each other often. How
thrilled I was when she invited me to come to Casa Grande and put on the afternoon
Federation program with my poetry. As I wove together my little story, illustrating
it with appropriate poetry out of my little scribble-in book, hardly a dry eye was in
that room. After the meeting, I think every woman in the room came up to shake
my hand. One little, old, gray haired lady, with tears in her eyes, said to me, "I once
lived on a little desert homestead just like yours, and all the memories came rushing
back as you told your story!" Another woman said, "When I heard a woman was
coming to read poetry, I thought I would be bored and almost stayed home. How
glad I am now that I came!" That evening Gertrude Hagar entertained in my honor
in her lovely home and served a banquet to a group of her friends.
Having such luck with the poetry contest, I next entered an "Arizona
Federation" play-writing contest. This time I won first prize. The play was a oneact comedy drama entitled, "Bacon and Beans". I was invited to put it on in the
recreation hall, which was in the Church basement. One of the characters in the
play was an old prospector about the age of Methuselah. I worked for days to
persuade Boyd to take that part. Finally, he consented. We took tufts of gray goats
wool and made him a beard and wig. He was a complete knockout! In other words138
-he stole the whole show. His tall tales won the hearts of the audience completely.
When the curtain went down they stomped and yelled for him to come back on the
stage. But Boyd had ducked out the side entrance like a streak of lightning and was
half-way home.
Another honor that came to me during the last year in Salome, was
recognition of my poetry by Dave Elman, director of the weekly radio show,
"HOBBY LOBBY", which was sponsored at that time by Fels Naptha Soap Co.
Ever since coming to Salome I had listened to and enjoyed that program. One day I
sent an autographed copy of my little book to him. The thought never occurred to
me that I might be invited to appear on his program. I sent it for one reason only,
just because I admired the way he put over his program. Weeks went by. Then, one
day, I received an ordinary letter from him. It was just a thank you letter typed by
a secretary and signed by the director. I threw the letter in the waste basket and
forgot about it.
At the same time I sent my autographed copy to Randall Henderson, owner
and publisher of the Desert Magazine, at that time being printed in El Centro, CA.
Unlike Dave Elman, Randall Henderson sent a thank you letter by return mail. "A
woman who can write poetry like that," he said, "can write feature stories. How
would you like an assignment?"
Imagine! Just like that! Out of a clear sky! I didn't waste any time accepting.
I wrote right back and told him of an old man 75 years old, who had been living up
on the top of Harquahala Mountain for 26 years. He had a gold mine and his own
improvised mill for crushing thee ore. Once a year he would come down from his
rocky lair and trade his accumulation of gold dust for provisions.
Randall Henderson wrote back immediately, "Sounds like a natural. Go get
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it!"
Nor did I waste any time starting on a trip to the top of Harquahala
Mountain to interview the "Old Man of the Mountain" as my story was called when
it was finally published about nine years later. I rounded up a young Phoenix
photographer to take the pictures and took Boyd with us. It was July and hotter
than blue blazes! We lost our way and went over the wrong saddle when we reached
the top of the mountain. Our seven miles of steep mountain climbing up and up and
up a ever winding trail, was a total loss. I had heard that chipped beef would give
strength to a man if eaten along a trail. I was never so ill in my life as I was after an
hour climbing. I would trudge up the hill a little way and then stretch out flat on
my back for five or ten minutes. I was determined not to let it get me down. If I
turned around and looked back down the trail I would have to lie down again. And
so I closed my eyes and stumbled along. This took so much time Boyd became
impatient and wanted to go ahead. At last when we were near the top, I told him to
go ahead now that we had just about reached the old man's "diggings". We took
the canteen and let him carry the food. He was out of sight in a jiffy. We went over
the hill and followed a little, well worn trail down the other side for almost a mile.
Then, suddenly, the trail came to an abrupt end. There was no sight of the old
man's house. There was no earthly sound in all that mountain fastness. No sign of
Boyd! Boyd had been gone for over an hour and he was without water. I began to
panic! I turned around and started running and groping my way up that steep trail
I stumbled into a clump of thorns but still struggled upward. At last we made the
top where we expected Boyd to be waiting for us. But he was no place in sight. Not
a sound. Not even a lizard scurrying over the blistering rocks. The photographer
started calling. No answer. I started running down the mountain as though I was
crazy. The photographer took hold of my shoulders and started shaking me.
"You're just like all mothers!" he shouted, angrily, "Get hold of yourself"
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Well, I got hold of myself, and after awhile we came to a Mexican mining
cabin along the downward trail. Our canteen had long since gone dry and my
tongue felt as though it were choking me. A can of rain water was on the ground
under the eaves of the cabin and I dipped my hands into it and brought the rusty,
stale water up to my parched lips. Stumbling into the cabin I fell across the dirty
blankets of the unmade bed. I was so ill I thought I was dying. The photographer
went around and around the house, calling Boyd with every ounce of strength he
had. At last he saw Boyd, just as he came out in the open on a wide curve in the
trail about a half mile below. He was running as fast as he could run, down the
mountain, away from us, thinking we had gone back ahead of him. Boyd heard the
call and came back up the trail. I was relieved, but still too ill to be moved. The
photographer spread out the food Boyd had been carrying. They ate like starved
animals. I couldn't even think of food. After a while I felt better and we all started
back down to the car. Never again did I take chopped beef along on a winding trail!
After recuperating for a few weeks I made another attempt to find the old
man on the mountain. This time I took Elaine along as the official photographer,
and invited a Mr. Mills--a geologist and mining man from Salome--to go with us.
He was an expert mountain climber, having climbed some of the highest mountains
in China at one time or another. He led the way, making us walk 15 minutes, then
rest 10 minutes, and gave us a drink from the canteen once every half hour. It was a
cool, beautiful, sunny day in November and I felt wonderful all the way. We had
inquired and received instructions exactly how to reach our goal. This time we
reached the old man's hide-a-way by noontime, and was frying weeners up on the
mountain top before starting on the downward trail to his cabin and gold mine;
when, suddenly, there he was right in our midst, leading a horse. He was on his way
down to the foot of the mountain to meet a man who was bringing him another
horse. He intended to camp there until morning and would meet us there on our
return from the mountain top. He was a man of about 75 years of age, and was
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neatly dressed and clean-looking. He invited us to go on to his cabin and look
around and take all the pictures we wanted to. He told us where his gold mine was
and his well of cold, mountain water, then left us. We gratefully accepted his
invitation and spent two hours taking pictures and exploring the premises.
When I sent in my story, together with the pictures, Randall turned it down
because of the pictures. Elaine had taken them with her little candid camera. ""I'll
admit I am a crank about pictures," he wrote back. "That is the best story we have
ever received, but we can't print it until we get better pictures--even if I have to
climb the mountain myself!"
But, I didn't want him to get the pictures; I wanted to get them myself. So I
hired the young photographer to go back and get them. I was able to persuade the
geologist to go with him. They arrived at noontime. Mr. Mills had important
business down in the desert that night and had to be back in time. They took the
pictures at high noon with the sizzling sun shining right straight down, making too
many black shadows. Randall Henderson turned down the pictures again. "I could
be shot," he wrote, "for what I'm thinking about a perfectly good photographer
who would climb a seven and a half mile mountain and take pictures with the sun
straight overhead!"
However, he did suggest that I write another story, and thereafter
encouraged me to keep writing. I had several articles published in his magazine;
also my poetry. Although Randall admitted he was bored with most of the poetry
that was sent to him by his readers, and, that he was tempted to have a big bonfire
each New Year's to burn the surplus that was bulging his storehouse walls, he
always featured mine on a special page with illustrations. One day a knock came on
my door after we had moved to Phoenix. When I opened it, there was Randall,
whom I had never seen. In his hand was the full, bound volume, 1937--the very first
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one. Handing it to me, he said, "I can't think of anyone I'd rather give this to, or
who would appreciate it more!" And so Randall and I became very good friends
that has lasted through the years.
Going back to the time I threw Dave Elman's little stereotyped thank you
note in the waste paper basket, a few months before we left Salome. About three
months later, I received a second letter from him. This time it was written by
himself without the help of his secretary. "I have just finished reading your little
book through, for the second time," he wrote, "and I have tears in my eyes. When I
read the one called "The Funny Paper on the Desert",I knew that there was a
woman who understood human nature. I do not know if I can ever invite you to
appear on Hobby Lobby, but I do know I owe you a debt of gratitude for the poetry
you've written!"
Then, three months after that, I received a third letter from New York City
in which I was invited to appear on the National Broadcast, with all my expenses
paid, regardless of my mode of travel. The date was set for February 1939.
About this time we moved into Phoenix. We had sent Elaine away to Mesa to
High School, but I was determined not to send Boyd. He had graduated that year
from the little Salome grade school and it was about time we started packing. It
would take a little time to sell our garage business, but it was decided I would go
ahead and move in with the children and Herman would join us later. Elaine,
having finished High School, decided to miss part of the school term of College and
stay out at Salome to help her father until he sold the business.
Never shall I forget the first time I entered a Mormon Chapel in Phoenix
after ten long years of absence from a Mormon service. I was early, and, as I sat
down, my heart was suddenly filled with a feeling of nostalgia. I let my eyes wander
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along the seats at the old, familiar song books just as I remembered them back
through the years when I attended Sunday School regularly. A big lump came into
my throat; someone started playing the organ; the opening song was announced and
everybody started singing, "Did you Think to Pray?" That is, everyone but me. I
could not utter a sound. All I could do was sit there, trying to keep the tears from
overflowing--finally letting them have their way. A woman, sitting near me put her
arms around my shoulder, whispering, "Never mind. I understand!"
But, she didn't understand! No one could understand--unless one had lived,
as I had, for ten long years, away from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day
Saints. I had come home at last from a long, long journey.
Nor will I forget the first time I attended Mutual. I sat far in the back,
preferring to just sit there quietly and listen. As soon as the meeting was over I
hurriedly left the chapel and was a block or more away when I heard footsteps
running from behind. It was the secretary of the Mutual. "They want you to come
back," he said. Explaining to me as we walked back together, that they had heard
about my dramatic work in Salome and needed my help. That night they asked me
to be their assistant drama director, and asked me to give a talk at the next meeting.
Yes, I had come home. From that day on I was very busy. One of my proudest
moments was one night when I was on my way to the stand to give a reading. As I
passed Boyd who was sitting with a group of boys, I heard him say in a loud
whisper, "She's my mom!"
I signed up at night school for a course in Public Speaking. I loved it! When
it came time for the M.I.A. Road Show, I was put in full charge. I never worked so
hard in my life. Because several points were given for originality, I wrote a 20minute, one-act play and chose a cast of talented young people. I had a man with a
big truck haul our props around from Ward to Ward. We had only a limited
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amount of time to unload, get our play over with, load up again and be at the next
Ward. It was a merry rat race! In the end we didn't even gen an honorable
mention. What a disappointment! I felt so sorry for the kids, they had all worked so
hard. The winning group had produced nothing but a simple radio script over a
mike. I had hauled around a whole living room full of furniture, curtains to the
windows, pictures on the wall! I was worn to a frazzle. But I held out until I was
safe in my own room, safe from the children, and then gave way to uncontrollable
tears. To be beaten by a mike! What humility!
Our first home in Phoenix was a lovely, furnished, 2-bedroom bungalow with
sleeping porch, built of brick. Boyd was enrolled in Phoenix High School; Darlene
was in 7th grade. One day Darlene's teacher sent for me and told me she seemed to
be grieving over something and couldn't keep her mind on her lessons. I didn't have
to be told what was the matter with her--she was homesick for her little playmates in
Salome. I decided to take her back for a visit. We traveled at night on the bus and
her eyes were like twin stars all the way. A big-case lawyer was sitting near us,
listening with amusement, as, with childish enthusiasm, Darlene prattled on and on
about the wonders of Salome. "Just think," she said proudly, "they've got a brand
new sidewalk all the way from the grocery store to the postoffice!" The lawyer, who
had seen and heard everything, confided to me later, that it was refreshing to see a
child nowadays with so much enthusiasm. "They've seen it all and are no longer
interested in what goes on around them."
Darlene and I stayed in Salome only two days and she was ready to go back
of her own accord. "You know, Mom," she said. "Salome isn't the same as I
remember it. It's just like a big forrest of trees, and they've all been cut down." We
had no more trouble with day dreaming.
While living in Salome, Darlene had longed for a piano and had begged to
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take music lessons from her school teacher, as some of her little playmates were
doing. But we didn't think she was a capable teacher and wanted her to wait until
we moved to Phoenix and get her a good one. One night she came home and sat in
the corner behind the woodburning heater, sobbing her heart out. "I don't care if I
live to be a hundred," she stormed, "I'll learn to play the piano!" The first
Christmas we lived in Phoenix we bought her a piano and started giving her lessons.
We had a beautiful back yard all fenced, with flowers, lawn, shrubs and trees,
lighted by a powerful spot light. In my effort to keep the children at home, all the
children in the neighborhood congregated in our back yard. Darlene ceased to have
time to practice!
Boyd, too, was passionately fond of music. A year or two before we left
Salome, my brother, Ted, had given him his old accordion which had once belonged
to Paul Whiteman and had been used in his orchestra. Herman's mother was
visiting us that winter and gave him music lessons. It was Boyd's job as he grew
older to watch the pumps and sell gas to the tourists. He would just get his
accordion strapped across his shoulder when a car would stop and he would have to
take it off again and run. But he would come right back and put it on. He never
stopped practicing. It didn't take long for us to find out that he had a very special
talent for music. The old accordion was practically worn out and wheezed like an
old steam engine. Soon after we moved to Phoenix,I took the children to a Sunday
afternoon band concert. "Now, Boyd," I said. "I want you to listen and when it's
over I want you to tell me which instrument you like best. We'll buy you the one
you want.
I don't think he blinked an eye throughout the whole concert. When at last it
was over I turned to him and said, "Well, Boyd, which one is it?" He waited almost
a full minute before he answered, "I'd rather wait until tomorrow to decide."
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In the morning there was no question in his mind. It was the Clarinet. I
wrote to Herman and told him what we had decided and would he send us the
money to buy the instrument. He wrote back and said that Boyd couldn't make a
success of two instruments. He would fail in one or the other, and to have Boyd go
on practicing on the accordion. But, I just couldn't let that boy down. I had
promised him a clarinet and I had too figure a way to get it. Finally I came up with
an idea and within a week we had solved our problem. Each day he would get on
his bicycle after school and peddle all over town just to save a nickel here and a
dime there on our grocery bill. What a joyful day it was the day we counted over
our savings and found we had saved five dollars. I went to Montgomery Ward and
ordered the coveted Clarinet, paying $5.00 down and signing a contract to pay $5.00
each month.
At last the beautiful, shining instrument arrived. He had been calling at the
store every day to see if it had come--today it was there and I'll never forget how
excited he was as he raced into the house and opened the package. At first, try as he
might, he couldn't make even a tiny squeak with it. I had to stand in front of him,
holding his cheeks firmly with both hands, while he pursed his lips and blew into the
horn. When I got tired of standing up we sat down. This went on for a couple of
days. But, finally he did learn to blow that horn and was in the High School band.
Oh, I was so proud of him! He looked so tall and handsome in his scarlet and gold
trimmed uniform. I never missed a parade, and as he passed along the street, his
eyes would shift every which way until he spotted me in the crowd--then he would
really strut his stuff!
Elaine enrolled at Phoenix Junior College in 1939. Grandma Steiner passed
away at Whittier, CA about this time. Herman joined his father and went with him
when they took her body back to Logan, UT for burial.
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When Herman could see that one instrument did not interfere with the other,
he bought Boyd a $350.00 accordion, and went right on giving him lessons. It
wasn't long until his teacher--who owned and operated a music store--was letting
Boyd take over some of his students. Many times he practiced eight hours in one
stretch. His whole life was music. He planned to the last detail a musical career and
had it pinned down to the exact years ahead. He began to write music scores. He
organized an orchestra and invited the boys to our home to practice. Many times he
was called upon to entertain professionally. Then came World War II! Boyd's
career ended as abruptly as the war started.
At the end of the school year, after his graduation from High School, Boyd
enlisted in the Navy and was assigned to the radar division, studying special work at
the High School all that summer. In the fall he was shipped off to Boot Camp at San
Diego, CA. As he boarded the train he smuggled his accordion along with him, but
upon his arrival at Camp, he was ordered to return it.
While searching for a house when we first moved into Phoenix, I became
interested in selling real estate and took out a license in the office of the Angle
Realty Co. as a rental agent. I was in my glory! I loved people and enjoyed my
work immensely. I never seemed to tire of showing property and inspecting
beautiful houses. But, they were not always beautiful homes. One morning an
elderly couple came in for a cheap rental, not more than $25.00 per month. I put
them in my car and away we went. I drove around for hours, ringing the doorbell
at every house with a "For Rent" sign on it. Late in the afternoon my efforts were
crowned with success. "How much is your apartment?" I inquired when a lady
answered the door. "$25.00 a month," she answered with a smile and opened the
door for me to enter. I told her I was a rental agent, which admission usually made
it plain to the owner that there would be a 10% fee involved. I called the couple in
and showed them the apartment which they took on sight. I even helped them carry
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in their luggage and stood by while they handed over to the landlady the required
$25.00. When the landlady and I were alone, I turned to her expectantly. When she
did not offer to pay me, I said, "What about my fee?"
"Why," she exclaimed, "I couldn't afford to pay a fee out of such a
ridiculously low rental! I don't see how you could expect it!" I turned and walked
out of the house. I was tired and hungry and disgusted with myself. I had learned a
good lesson and vowed I would never again let myself get into such a predicament
again. But, I did--over and over again--just because I felt sorry for some people.
One of the most unforgettable experiences came to me one day when a little,
old lady by the name of Sarah Jones, came to me for a rental that would
accommodate herself and her invalid brother. Price had no bearing on her request.
They were very wealthy. She and two of her brothers, the invalid one who lived
with her and one who lived in Europe, owned a number of steel mills in various
parts of the world. During World War II the government took over and paid them
great sums of money. A third brother, who lived in Cleveland, Ohio, wealthy in his
own right, but not included in the steel holdings, was manager of those in the United
States. The other brother looked after the European interests and made his home
there.
The sister and brother, with all their vast wealth, were about the most
helpless people I had ever had anything to do with. They did not trust anyone, and
were beginning to depend upon me more and more to do their banking--to go to the
post office--to run errands for them. She always offered to pay me, but I looked
upon it as a "tip" for service rendered, and refused to accept any remuneration.
My pride would not let me--I was in the real estate business.
Needless to say, as time went by, they became very fond of me and trusted me
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implicitly. She was devoted to her brother and did everything in her power to make
life happy and comfortable for him. Eventually, however, he grew steadily worse
until she was compelled to take him to a clinic in La Jolla, CA and entered the
hospital there for special treatments. He died a few weeks later. Sarah had his
body put on a plane and flew with it back to Cleveland for burial.
While in Cleveland she stayed for awhile in the home of her brother and
family--consisting of two teenage children, whom she disliked--and his wife, whom
she both disliked and feared. The brother, to whom she had given so many years of
faithful service, had left his enormous fortune to her, as well as his life insurance.
The brother in Cleveland was full of resentment. He tried everything in his power
to get her to make out a will favoring himself and family. Then, one day she ran
away and came back to Phoenix to me. As soon as she was settled in a hotel she
telephoned me and asked me to come over. She had brought her fabulously
expensive furs and jewels with her and was terribly upset, claiming that someone
had tried to break into her suite the night before. According to the management,
with whom I had discussed the attempted robbery, she had given them all a bad
time. They suggested that she change hotels. Her fear of theft was pathetic; she
wanted me to stay right with her every minute. But that was out of the question. It
meant leaving my family for no telling how long. Instead, I invited her to stay in our
home. We had moved out on Coolidge Avenue near Camelback Road in a nice, new,
3-bedroom home about 5 miles north of Phoenix. We turned over to her the guest
bedroom and private bath. Before I was allowed to remove her from the hotel, I
had to undergo a grilling investigation. At the time my name was Steiner, and that
meant I was married to a German. This was war and they had to be careful. With
proper credentials, however, I was soon released by the F.B.I.
Little Sarah Jones stayed about six or seven weeks in our home. Elaine was
home for the summer and completely took over the management of the home. What
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a perfect little mother she made! I was free to care for my pathetic, poor-little-rich
guest. With all her money she was unhappy and miserable. As an invited guest in
my home, I did not charge her a penny although she insisted in doing so. "You will
never be sorry--I'll see to that!" she would tell me over and over. She was under the
doctor's care and was as fragile as a piece of rare china. I could not afford, under
such circumstances, to give up my real estate work, and had to scheme and plan
every which way in order to keep her with me. I would get up early and drive in to
the real estate office--we were in business for ourselves by that time--and get things
going. Then go back home by 11.00 at which time I would prepare her breakfast.
She would not eat a bite of food unless I fixed it personally with my own hands and
carried it to her bed. She insisted that I sit by her bedside and talk with her as she
ate. After breakfast she would take a leisurely bath, then dress--always in expensive
black silk--and we would drive back to the office, where, hour after hour, she would
sit beside me as I worked, either in my office or driving around showing property-always contented and happy, just being with me.
At last she purchased an expensive new Roadster right off the assembly line,
although it wa almost impossible to buy a car of any kind in those war-time days. I
was the only one ever permitted to drive it. At the end of each day I would drive her
to some nice eating place where she would order a complete dinner for me, at the
same time removing a tiny portion for herself on an extra plate. She ate like a bird,
all the while talking incessantly, about her past life. She had played character parts
in movies along with her grown son and was known as David Warfield's mother.
He died at the age of 22 with pneumonia.
While she was staying with us her older brother in Europe died and left her
everything he had, including a huge insurance policy.
But, Sarah Jones made one mistake. She wrote lengthy, glowing reports to
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her brother in Cleveland, telling him of the happy life she had found with me, and
all about her new car.
He immediately jumped on a plane and landed in Phoenix one morning, just
after she and I arrived at the office. He called from the Westward Ho Hotel,
demanding that she meet him there at once. On our arrival at the hotel he greeted
her with the words, "How long will it take you to pack? I'm driving you back to
Cleveland in your car as soon as you can get ready!" Poor little Sarah! She began
to plead and beg him to let her stay with me, assuring him that she was happier
there with me than she had been in many years. Her pleading was all in vain. At
last she gave up. "Please let me have one hour with Lois. We'll go someplace and
have lunch together, then, I'll go with you" This he permitted but cautioned her to
hurry.
During the luncheon she cried over and over with tears running down her
cheeks, "I want to stay with you! You'll never regret it! Oh, please, please--don't let
him take me back! They want me to will everything I have over to them and if I
don't they'll kill me! They tried to poison me once!"
I knew there was no alternative. She would have to go back with her brother
or there would be trouble. I did not dare to interfere. "Go back willingly this
time," I advised her, "Get your affairs straightened out and then come back to me.
I'll always have a place for you in my home and in my heart." I had become very
fond of her, too, and was deeply grieved at this unjust parting.
In an hour they were gone. That was the last time I ever saw Sarah Jones.
After several weeks I received a letter from her, in which she said, "I am smuggling
this letter to you. I know they are keeping your letters from me and mine from you.
I refused to go to their home as I know they will poison me. I am staying at this
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hotel but am restrained under their care. I am very ill." Then she asked if I would
help her. While she was in Phoenix she had kept $10,000.00 in her checking account
for ordinary expenses and emergencies. When she reached Cleveland she found
that her brother had appointed himself as her guardian and had closed out her
Phoenix account. She had nothing. She was completely dependent upon him. He
had gained control of all her holdings and fortunes. "Please tell me what I can do!"
she pleaded, asking me to write on a certain day and she would watch for my letter.
I never received an answer although I wrote several times after that. To interfere
was dangerous and very unwise. Whether she was put into an institution, or not, or
whether she died, I shall never know. They may even have poisoned her, who
knows?
I would like to relate two more stories out of the ordinary incidents
pertaining to my real estate experiences while in Phoenix.
I was coming home from Los Angeles by bus one evening when the man who
had been sitting beside me got up to leave as we pulled into Wickenburg. "I would
like you to meet a friend of mine," he said. "You are in real estate in Phoenix and I
believe you can help him. Do you mind if I turn my seat over to him the rest of the
way?" I told him I would be glad to share it. He soon came back with a tall,
handsome, blonde, Canadian Lieutenant who lost no time in telling me he was on a
vacation. He then began asking me questions about Phoenix, all of which I
answered to the best of my ability.
The next day he came to my office, pretending to be extremely embarrassed.
He had written out a check to cover his hotel bill, plus extra cash he needed for
expenses, but the hotel management would not accept it because it was written on a
Canadian bank. They would cash it for him if he could get a signature from
someone locally. I was the only one he knew. Herman was in the office and I asked
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him if he would sign it. Naturally, he refused. After Herman left the office I
decided it wouldn't do any harm and put my own signature on the back of the check
and the Lieutenant went happily away. Soon, however, he was back, saying the
clerk checked with our bank and found we had a joint account and both of our
signatures were needed to make it legal. Because he was a soldier, I wanted to help
him. Suddenly, a solution popped into my head. I told him of a very nice lady who
owned a lovely, new, furnished home. She had it rented to some people who were
not taking possession for another month and I felt sure she would let him occupy it
for a few day. When I called her she immediately agreed too the arrangement and
welcomed a chance to do something for a soldier so far from home. She met us at
the house and gave him the key.
Three or four days later she called to ask if I would check and see how he
was getting along and how much longer he would be staying. I found the door wide
open. He had gone--cleared out--left the place! The sink was full of dirty dishes; the
beds unmade; the stove covered with greasy pots and pans; the kitchen floor in a
mess. If he had tried, deliberately, he couldn't have left the place in a worse mess.
To this day I feel ashamed when I think of the part I played in taking advantage of
that nice lady. Not long after, we read in the newspaper, where the F.B.I. had
picked up this same young man. He was a German spy!
The other incident happened soon after I moved into Phoenix. While living
in Salome I never thought of missing a Phoenix-sponsored radio program called
"Out of the Depths" by Vanda. It was a wonderful program with many little
sermons about love and friendship, honesty, cheerfulness, humility, and many other
similar subjects. All the housewives in Salome listened to that program every single
morning. One of my neighbors had moved into Phoenix about the same time we did.
During the first month after our move, we heard about "Old Home Week" at the
radio station and decided to go up and meet VANDA. Herman and the children
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went with me and looked forward to meeting him as much as I did. He was a tall,
distinguished-looking man with slightly graying hair and a beautiful, deep, radio
voice. I presented him with an autographed copy of my little gift book. He told me
he would read from it over the air the next morning. The next Sunday morning,
being Mother's Day, he asked me if I would write a tribute in honor of a certain
Phoenix mother they had chosen as "Mother of the Air" and asked me if I would
come to the studio and present her with a large bouquet of flowers and read the
poem. Without a moment's hesitation I accepted.
The next morning, sure enough, I had the thrill of sitting in my lovely home
before the radio and hearing VANDA read several poems from my book. On the
following Sunday morning I presented the flowers to the "Honored Mother of the
Air" and read the poem I had written especially for the occasion.
A day or two later, I answered the door bell, and there was VANDA looking
very upset and stammering some kind of an explanation of how he wa in some kind
of jam and needed $250.00. I told him I would ask my husband, and between the
two of us we might be able to help him. It seemed that Korricks in Phoenix, had
ordered several thousand books that he was having published. The books were to
be delivered on consignment on a certain day. The publishers had made an error in
the title which was called, OUT OF THE DEPTHS. Unless he could deliver the
books with perfect titles by a certain day, they would cancel the order. The
company who had made the error had filed bankruptcy and another company had
taken over. He had received a letter from them saying they would make perfect
titles and meet the deadline if he would send them $250.00. I told VANDA to come
back the next morning for his answer.
The next morning, rather than disappoint him altogether, I suggested that we
drive over to my Salome neighbor and see what we could work out. Again, Herman
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refused. It was the man's day off and it didn't take long to explain why we had
come. They did not hesitate. They did not have the money in the bank but we
would all go to a loan company and borrow the required amount on their car. After
they had borrowed the money and turned it over to VANDA, they invited us all to a
fine dinner at a nearby restaurant. There was a big Church dinner coming up on
Friday and these generous people invited VANDA and his wife to come as their
guests. VANDA promised to come.
But VANDA and his wife did not appear at that banquet, or, at any other
time. They just disappeared in thin air! We went to the radio station and inquired,
but he had mysteriously left his program and checked out of the motel in which they
had been living. The manager of the studio said they could not understand why he
had left and were as mystified as we were. He had been receiving more fan mail
than any other person on that station. Through this experience I lost two valued
friendships. They even accused me of being an accomplice. As far as we knew,
VANDA was never heard from again.
Eventually, 1939, Herman sold our garage business and he and Elaine joined
us in Phoenix. Elaine entered Phoenix Junior College. She came home at the end of
the first day in tears. She threw herself across her bed and sobbed as though her
heart would break, saying she hated Junior College and didn't want to go back.
Probably, because I had been denied the privilege of attending such a school, I was
more determined than ever to see that she did go back. The next morning she went
back because I begged her to and I felt like a criminal making her do something
against her will.
Little by little, however, she made wonderful friends, and in time completely
overcame that feeling of dislike and fear. It was there, in Junior College, that she
met Allen Rand, the man she married during World War II. After her graduation
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from Phoenix College, we sent her to BYU in Provo. Her senior year she attended
ASU in Tempe, AZ graduating from there in 1943. In June 1943 Allen and Elaine
were married and she joined him in Louisville, KY where Allen was stationed. They
were together only 2 months when she had to come back to Mesa to teach school and
Allen got his overseas orders and was in the European Theater for two years.
Elaine taught Physical Ed. at a Junior High School in Mesa and later at the Indian
School in Phoenix until Allen returned from overseas.
Not long after Herman came to Phoenix, I talked him into getting a real
estate license in the same office where I was working. It wasn't long, however, until
he got a broker's license and we started up a real estate office of our own. At that
time, property was very reasonable and Herman took our savings and bought and
sold several pieces of property. He would buy a rundown house, fix it up, and put it
back on the market at double what he paid for it.
One time we had a chance to rent a large, 7-room home on seventh ave near
Roosevelt St. We got a real bargain by paying the whole year in advance. We
decided to take advantage of this marvelous opportunity, and put our house on the
market for sale. The house was very attractive and had been well kept up. We had
no trouble selling it. The rental, into which we moved, was completely furnished
and had a well-equipt hobby room in the basement. That was the year Barney and
Claire and 4-year-old Jackie came to visit us. We had plenty of room for all.
During the first M.I.A. session of Stake Quarterly Conference that I attended
after moving to Phoenix, I met Katy Jensen, a General Board Member from Salt
Lake City, a "Personality and Charm Director of Y.L.M.I.A. We took one look into
each other's eyes and something deep down inside of each of us clicked and we
became instant friends. Also, at the same session, I met Brother Robinson,
Dramatic Director of the General Board, and was invited to attend all of his classes.
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What a thrill it was to be associated with such wonderful people after so many
years away from the Church.
The Sunday night before their departure, they both spoke at the closing
session of conference. Before the meeting began I waited at the entrance to give
each of them an autographed copy of my little book, which I had wrapped
attractively. When they finally arrived, I handed them the two small packages, not
telling them what was inside. I said goodbye to them and, as they were leaving to
catch their train right after their part on the program.
I can't begin to describe my feelings as I sat in the audience and watched
Brother Robinson walk to the stand, carrying the little package I had given him in
one hand, and my little book in the other. He paused, dramatically, as he laid the
opened package on the pulpit, then held up my gift book. "Brothers and Sisters,"
he began, "As I entered the door of this chapel tonight, a woman handed me this
little autographed copy of her own desert verse, entitled, "THROUGH THE
WINDOW OF MY HEART". I'm going to change the subject of the sermon I had
prepared for you, and instead talk about the first poem in this book."
With my heart pounding and my eyes glued to the floor, I sat there hoping
and praying he wouldn't divulge my name. He didn't! He started at the first line
and read every word of that poem through to the very end, then based his sermon
on each separate line and thought. It was the last poem in my book I would have
considered he would use for a theme. And yet, he seemed inspired as he stood there,
his beautiful, dramatic voice penetratiing every corner of that large chapel.
THROUGH THE WINDOW OF MY HEART
Through the window of my hear
I see the dawn.
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It's mine to look upon!
All the loveliness when day is done,
Priceless tapestries the Gods have spun.
I stand dreaming-My heart's window gleaming-Illuminating all the paths that cross my
own,
Mine, the brightest of them all,
Paved, as with precious stone.
And while they dig into the hills
In quest of gold for which man kills,
I look in Arizona skies for gold that
thrills.
And through the window of my heart
I see, instead,
A golden sunlit trail ahead.
Gleaming silver of the dawn! A world
apart!
The loveliness of life creeps through
The window of my heart.
At night, moonbeams-Weaving golden dreams—
What though, tomorrow, they but fade and
disappear?
Today no shadows mar; my window's shining-clear!
Oh, how could I just sit and pine,
When all the gold of Arizona stars is
mine,
Making my heart's window shine!
By the end of the week I received lovely thank you letters from both of them.
In Katy's, she told me that when Brother Robinson had finished reading my little
book, he laid it to one side and closed his eyes as though in deep thought for a few
moments, then said, "Katy, I wish I had noticed. What color were her eyes!"
Several months later, Katy Jensen came again to Phoenix as a General Board
Member with a powerful message of "Personality and Charm." Before leaving Salt
Lake she wrote to me, inviting me to have breakfast with her at the Hotel Adams
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dining room. I was thrilled to my toes when at last the day arrived for our meeting.
The breakfast was a spiritual feast--neither of us conscious of partaking of
actual food. We ate leisurely, during which time she asked me to read one or two
poems from memory. "Someday," she murmured, wiping a tear from her eye, you
will be writing poetry for the angels in Heaven!" During the lunch hour she was
scheduled to give a "personality" talk to the students at the Lamson Business
College. At the end of her talk she turned to me and asked, as a special request, if I
would read one or two of my poems. I read "Hilltops" and "Leave me My
Dreams."
HILLTOPS
Hilltops are not always reached
One long, uninterrupted flight...
Sometimes the wings droop wearily
And cruel thorns the only place
on which to light.
Nor is the summit always smooth
When once its height is gained;
Far down below the path is green
And flowers bloom because
it rained.
LEAVE ME MY DREAMS
Oh, let me keep my dreams
Whatever comes!
They are but bits of happiness-The precious crumbs
I've gathered up
From out my yesterdays.
Who knows how many I shall find
Along tomorrow's ways?
I like to think the happiest
Ones are there-Perhaps they are;
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But what if they were bare?
Oh, let me keep my dreams
From Life's realities, apart!
Someday, who knows? One tiny crumb
May ease the hunger of my heart.
And let me turn the pages
Of life's book!
Just peep into tomorrow's dawn!
Oh, let me look
At all the happy things
That might be there!
I'll skip the pages that are filled
With life's dull care...
Perhaps, some little thought
Might take away the dread.
Oh, let me turn the pages
That I haven't read!
Then I shall take today's realities
That are here,
And mix with them the happiness
That might be mine
Some future year!
THROUGH THE WINDOW OF MY HEART
PART THREE
Katy seemed to be as excited as I was over my approaching trip to New York
to be on the Hobby Lobby program and I knew when that night arrived she would
be listening.
The Sunday night before I left for New York, immediately after the closing of
the Sacrament Services, the Bishop stood up and asked the audience to be seated for
a moment. Then he introduced me and made the announcement that a very great
honor had come to one of the members. Out of a clear sky, without the least
warning, he called me to the stand and asked me if I would give them one of my
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poems from memory. "Give us the one you won the trip on!" he added.
Strange as it may seem, all the publicity I was receiving did not have a
tendency to make me vain. Through it all I remained humble; my heart was
constantly filled with wonder that any of what was happening could actually be
happening to me. Mustering up all the "personality and charm" I could remember
from Katy Jensen's M.I.A. talks, I walked up to the stand and read, "OUT OF THE
DUST".
During the week I was also asked to read some of my poetry in my night
school class. How thrilling and exciting it were those days of preparation for my
trip to New York! I had chosen to go on the Golden Sunset Flyer--the ultra modern
train of the century.
The Phoenix Chamber of Commerce, hearing about my invitation to appear
on the National Broadcasting Program, not wanting to miss a bet as far as publicity
was concerned, gave me a credit slip that would take me into any store in Phoenix,
where I could choose and put together a complete western outfit--golden suede
leather skirt and bolero, bright green, satin, full-sleeved blouse, white felt western
hat, hand-tooled leather boots and gloves, a golden, silk Arizona kerchief to tie
around my neck, bright silver Indian jewelry with which to adorn myself. Darlene
gathered up some from her friends, too.
I was favored by the Chamber of Commerce because of the manager's
acquaintance with my brother, Suicide Ted Elder, former "World Champion Trick
and Fancy Rider" of the world. At that time, he and his wife, Pearl, were booked
for the season at "Leon and Eddy's Night Club" on 5th Ave. in New York City. I
would be visiting with them often--having dinner with them in their little house
trailer parked in front of the Night Club, as they had permission to do, during their
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act. Ted and Pearl had brought back a kangaroo from Australia and had trained it
to put on a realistic boxing bout, handled by one of the popular referees of that day.
The kangaroo had its own little trailer hooked on the back of Ted's.
In regards to my beautiful, new, golden suede western outfit, there was just
one stipulation, that I wear it on the train, all for the good of Arizona. But, what a
joy it was to wear it! I was the center of attraction throughout the whole trip. I
never lacked for a seat companion, or, a meal in the dining car. The word
"Arizona" was like magic--the golden sesame that opened the door of every heart
for me on that long journey across the Nation. I wanted to keep pinching myself to
see if I was awake. Like Alice in Wonderland, I had wandered into fairyland!
The only trains on which I had ever ridden, were the old fashioned kind
when we used to make trips from Idaho and Utah to Alberta, Canada, to help Dad
in the wheat country. In those days the "Ladies Restroom" was a little cubby hole
far back in one end of the passenger cars. But I was riding in a stream-liner, "The
Golden Sunset Flyer"! After awhile I decided to hunt up a restroom and took a
leisurely stroll down half the length of the train--but no little cubby hole could I
find, until, suddenly, I spied a beautifully appointed "rest room" with an easy chair
and davenport to match. The door was open, and as I passed along the carpeted
hallway, I noticed a small, inner door, also open, through which I could see the
usual toilet and washbowl. Inside I went and was just closing the door when I heard
a thunderous voice saying, "COME OUT IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!" I was
thunderstruck! I couldn't even speak. I just stood there as quiet as a little mouse.
Again, the voice thundered,"I SAID, COME OUT IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!"
At that instant the voice was raised threateningly. "What the hell are you doing in
there!" After that I was afraid not to answer. I cautiously opened the door just a
tiny crack and peeked out. Sure enough, it was the law--a big six shooter point right
straight at my pounding heart. "COME OUT!" he snapped. I could see he meant it
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and I CAME out.
I think my beautiful western outfit did the magic trick. "I'm very sorry," I
stammered at last in profound embarrassment. "I thought this was the ladies
restroom."
He accepted my statement at face value, but with a twinkle in his eyes,
explaining that this was a private compartment hired by the law to transport a
murderer back to a state prison! There were two of them and they had taken the
prisoner back to the dining room for a bite to eat. Entering the compartment in
their absence, they thought I was an accomplice.
Before the train pulled in to Grand Central Station in New York City, I took
off my fancy Arizona togs and folded them carefully away. Somehow it seemed
rather out of place to be wearing them so far from the Arizona desert.
Grand Central Station was a world in itself. A taxi soon transported me to
my hotel where I was to an honored guest for over a week--with meals, taxi fares,
laundry, pressing, etc.
The first night I sat at a family-size dining table in the huge dining room of
the RCA building, together with all the other participants who were to appear on
Hobby Lobby. Dave Elman had honored me with the seat next to him. I was
wearing a pretty, dark blue silk velvet afternoon dress, fitted at the waist, medium
short sleeves, with collar and cuffs of lovely, cream-colored lace. Before leaving
Phoenix, I had given myself a very expensive permanent. I was feeling glamorous
and well-groomed.
Dave Elman gave me every attention during the meal. All of the participants
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were introduced to each other. There was a man whose hobby was collecting
cameos; one man had a large bird he had trained to talk; later when he went on the
air, the bird wouldn't say a word and had to be taken off the air. How disappointed
and chagrined he was! Another young man had improvised a musical instrument--a
one-piece band--which he could play with his hands, feet, mouth and fingers. He
was terrific on the air and received a whole heap of fan letters after the broadcast.
They were piled on Hobby Lobby's desk, and, as I stood there talking to the
beautiful, young secretary, the daughter of the once famous "Amy Semple
McPhearson" of Los Angeles, I accidently laid some of my papers and things on top
of the letters. When I got up to leave, I picked up letters and all and put them in my
suit case. Imagine my embarrassment days later on my journey homeward, when I
discovered what I had done. I sent him an immediate wire and mailed his letters
back to him.
The man with the cameos was from Alabama and had the room next to mine.
During my stay in New York he invited me to his room, and spread his rare
collection of every conceivable size and shape all over his bed, chairs and even the
floor. What a display! He had literally thousands of pieces.
We were all just like one big family and each one was interested in the
other's hobby. It was as though we had known each other all of our lives. Dave
Elman was wonderful to all of us and tried to make us feel at home.
During the meal he paid me a very nice compliment. He said, "I can't get
over it, Lois. I had you pictured as an older woman with face browned by your
desert sun and wrinkled." Before everyone separated, arrangements were made for
the writing of the various scripts, and rehearsals were set for the following day. I
was to meet later that same evening with Dave Elman and his committee of five men.
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At the time he had invited me to come to New York to appear on Hobby
Lobby, he had instructed me to write down some of the facts pertaining to my
coming to live on the desert--why I had chosen poetry as a hobby, etc.
In my answer I had been rather dramatic. I had started out by saying,
"You--sitting there behind your massive mahogany desk--what do you know about
the desert--how the heat and drouth and sun can burn deep down into your very
soul."--and so on. I do not know whether he had arranged the setting purposely or
not, but when I arrived at the appointed place, there sat Dave Elman, just as I had
pictured him sitting--back behind his massive mahogany desk! The group of five
men who were to help with the script stood up and welcomed me as I entered the
spacious, elegantly furnished room. Dave Elman opened a drawer, reached into it
and pulled out a letter--the letter I had written to him over six months ago on a hot
September afternoon as I sat in my corrugated, sheet iron living room, resounding
with noisy traffic from the nearby highway.
"Some of you," he began, "may want to know why I asked Lois to come here
to New York. Well, it was because of this letter." And he proceeded to read it
verbatim, to the very end.
When the script was completed to the satisfaction of every member of the
committee, Dave Elman had me go over it with him. He had used three or four
short poems, weaving them in with questions and answers that had audience appeal.
When we were through, he said, "You will have the place of honor at the
Broadcast. I'm going to be proud of you, Lois." The next day at 2:00 p.m. we all
met for the first rehearsal and I DID have the place of honor--the very last one on
the program.
But, there was one thing I did not know that day. High above the stage on a
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little balcony sat five men--the LISTENER'S COMMITTEE! of course Dave Elman
knew they were there, but did not anticipate any trouble with their decision. For
the half hour's program they were paid $5,000.00 each week, for just listening in
and commenting on, or censuring each number on the program. They had the
authority to throw out any number if it did not meet with their approval. MINE did
not meet with their approval! As they listened they caught one thing--I was not a
hobbyist--I was a writer with a published book that was being sold on the market. I
was a professional. They had turned down many poetry applicants in the past and
could not afford to let one person go on the air and not the others. All this I did not
know until the following day.
After the rehearsal I was free to prowl around New York City at my will and
ended up by procuring tickets for the Radio Broadcast, "One Man's Family". After
the broadcast I went over to the Night Club to visit Ted and Pearl. Seeing Ted
perform at last, was to be the high light of my trip to New York. In all his trick
riding I had never seen him do any of his tricks. His Championships had all been
won at Madison Square Garden, Stockholm, Sweden, and many other big sports
arenas of the world. He had traveled far and wide over the Seven Seas, winning
trophies and wild acclaim wherever he performed. But, he had never been out
West!
And so, I had gone down to Leon and Eddy's that night to see Ted perform
for the first time in my life. But, Ted and Pearl greeted me with the very disturbing
news that they didn't think I was going to be on the air; that Dave Elman and his
wife had come to the trailer and waited over an hour for me. They couldn't tell me
what it was all about--only that something had gone wrong and I might not be
permitted to be on the program. Not knowing what it was all about, I jumped to a
lot of conclusions. Sick with dire foreboding, I couldn't get to my hotel fast enough.
Once there, and locked securely in my room, I began to cry hysterically. Whenever
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I thought of my children listening for my voice, and their disappointment when I
didn't come on the air, affected me in such a way that I couldn't stop crying. I cried
all night--pacing the floor, hour after hour. By morning my head felt hollow and
empty and numb. It was a terrible feeling. As the time approached for my
appearance at the 11:00 rehearsal, I made one last superhuman effort to get hold of
myself and straighten out my face, frozen so it seemed in uttermost sorrow. Bathing
my face in cool water and putting on proper makeup, helped to hide my real feelings
and I managed to get to the studio a little while before rehearsal started. At least I
would find out why Dave Elman had come looking for me.
He met me with a big, broad smile and led me to the "Mike". I was to be the
very first one on the program. My seat of honor had been changed from last to the
first. "The Listener's Committee made us write a new script," he volunteered.
"They said you were a professional and not a hobbyist; that you had a published
book on the market." As he said this he handed me a new script, saying, "I'm sure
you'll like this one just as well."
It took only a brief glance to see what they had done. Defiantly, I turned to
Dave Elman and said, angrily, "I cannot read this!"
"For heaven's sake, WHY NOT?" he wanted to know. "Because it isn't
true!" And I didn't care how many listeners were sitting up there in that balcony,
or how much they were being paid. They had begun by enumerating all the terrible
things about Arizona--stressing the heat, the thorns, the waterless soil, the sand, the
myriads of insects, most of which were supposed to be poisonous, scorpions,
rattlesnakes; featuring me as a brave and courageous woman, making the best of
overwhelming odds out there on a little Arizona dry farm, making a home out there
in the middle of a wilderness; whose husband was a disabled veteran.
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Suddenly the broadcast didn't matter to me anymore. The Phoenix Chamber
of Commerce had sent me to New York on a mission to represent a proud state.
Arizona was my home. I would have died rather than let them down. I stood there
in the middle of that stage with head held high--firm in my resolve to give back the
script and walk off the stage.
"Why--" Dave Elman sputtered, losing his patience, "no one has ever refused
to go on the air over the National Broadcasting Program!" But I was through. I
handed back the script and was half way to the door by the time he could master his
astonishment and catch up with me. Taking hold of my arm he guided me firmly
into a small, private room. Here, again, he tried to persuade me to change my mind
and go on the air.
New York no longer held any fascination for me. I wanted, more than
anything else right then, to be back home with my family. All through the rest of
my visit, however, they were wonderful to me. I was given permission to send as
many telegrams as I needed in order to notify friends and relatives that I would not
be on the air. When I went to the office of Hobby Lobby to settle my expense
account, as they had requested, they included even taxi fare back to my door in
Phoenix, also giving me a letter of explanation, pointing out the reason I was not
allowed to be on the program.
That afternoon I took the street car and went sight-seeing. The conductor
stood by my seat and pointed out places of interest. When we passed that great New
York Hospital, covering many city blocks, I exclaimed, "Oh, just think of all the
suffering that goes on there!" He answered, "Think of all the people who find relief
from their suffering!"
On returning to my room near the end of the day, I heard the telephone
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ringing and hurried to answer it. It was Dave Elman, asking me what I was doing,
and if I would meet him at the "Game Cock"--a swanky supper club--and have
dinner with him. "Oh, you're just feeling sorry for me," I lamented in a cheerful
voice. I wanted him to know how little it mattered to me one way or the other.
"Listen," he said. "It never occurred to anyone to feel sorry for you, Lois! You
have come out here to New York and made us all sit up and take notice!"
So I washed my face again and put on fresh makeup and my blue velvet dress
and took a taxi over to the "Game Cock". It was raining hard outside. Dave Elman
was standing in the doorway waiting for me. "I'm all wet!" I called, gaily, as I made
my way across the curb to the doorway. He seemed surprised that I was smiling
and rather relieved, I thought. Only once during the evening did I have a bad time.
It was during the floor show. When the featured performers came out to entertain
us, one was a tall, young man playing an accordion. He reminded me of Boyd. The
tears just spilled over without any trouble at all.
After dinner he called a taxi and we went to the Broadcasting Studio, where
several hundred spectators were waiting to watch the Hobby Lobby program. A
few minutes before the show went on the air, Dave Elman introduced me as the
woman from Arizona who could not go on the air because her hobby turned out to
be a profession. As soon as the program was over he came straight to me, and said,
"I'm going to take you anywhere you want to go--whatever you want to see or do."
But, I had seen enough. I was ready to go home. There just wasn't anything
I wanted to see or do in all of New York City. "There is only one place I want to
go," I said to him. "I want you to come to my hotel in about half an hour."
Quickly I called a taxi and rushed back to my room, where I hurriedly
changed into my beautiful western outfit. Let's just say I did it for the Phoenix
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Chamber of Commerce. They deserved some recognition after sending me out on
such a lost cause.
When Dave Elman called from the Foyer to let me know he was there, I said,
"Well--come on up!" There was a momnent's hesitation and then he said, jokingly,
"Why, Lois--that would be disastrous!"
"You promised to take me anyplace I wanted to go!" I reminded him. He
did not argue.
And so--again, Arizona was the magic wand that lessened the ache that still
persisted in my heart. I don't know what Dave Elman expected--but, as I opened
the door to my room and he saw me standing there in my gold and silver trappings,
he forgot for a moment, that he was one of the biggest showmen of that day, and just
stood there with his mouth open. I reached out my hand and took hold of his and
bade him enter my luxuriously furnished parlor-bedroom. Suddenly it was as
though my family stood beside me to welcome him and my heart was filled with
unutterable peace.
And so, I said goodbye to New York City--Dave Elman--and, to the last
vestige of pain in my heart--sitting there peacefully in my hotel, quietly talking
about my children, my Arizona, and my beloved desert. It was my little triumph! At
the end of an hour I stood up and he knew it was time to go. I shall always
remember that hour as one of the very nicest memories I took away with me from
New York. "You are a grand sport, Lois!" were the last words he said to me.
That was the last night I spent in New York City. Left alone, I changed back
into my street clothes, called a taxi, and went down to see Ted and Pearl put on their
act. Pearl was putting boxing gloves on Peta, their trained kangaroo. The only way
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she could accomplish this feat was to pour out a quart of milk in a bowl and work
fast while it was being consumed. Peta loved Pearl and would follow her wherever
she went. But, the animal hated Ted; he had trained him that way. Just one look at
his master and the kangaroo would come up fighting. Peta was the only kangaroo
in the world that was allowed to fight without a ring, or an enclosure. He would
follow Pearl out through the crowd into the center of the night club floor, then his
mistress would slip quickly away, behind someone, and Ted would appear out of
nowhere and the fight would begin. The kangaroo would stand up on its hind legs
six or eight feet tall, fighting just like a man, with uppercuts and punches and all the
tricks of the game. Ted had learned through experience how to ward off the vicious
blows.
As I stood there among the spectators watching spellbound, it was as though
all bedlam had broken out of all bounds. The crowd began stomping their feet-yelling--screaming! Realizing that it was for Ted, my own, dearly beloved brother,
out there fighting a crazy kangaroo--and, that it was the first time I had ever
watched him put on any kind of an act--a great well of emotion rose from within
and the tears rolled down my cheeks like rain. Feeling that someone was looking at
me, I glanced up and saw a tall man standing near me with an expression of
curiosity on his face. Thinking I owed him some explanation, I laughed up at him
through a blur of tears, "Oh, he's my brother!" I said. "I've never seen him act
before!"
After the act was over and I told Pearl of the incident, she laughed and said,
"I'll bet he thought you meant the kangaroo!" About a year later, Peta was caught
in an elevator while ascending to their room in a hotel and was crushed to death.
Ted and Pearl sued but nothing came of it.
Just to give me a last thrill, Pearl took me down to the "Old Board Walk" of
New York and we tripped gaily along those old-time streets. Then, a taxi whisked
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me away to my train just a minute or two before it pulled out.
The morning before, as I was sending out messages, I had sent a telegram to
an old Salome friend who had moved to New Orleans, and was living with her son
and his wife. They had built her a gorgeous suite of rooms adjoining their own
lovely home. Lyda answered and invited me to come and spend Mardi Gras week
with her.
Lyda and her family spared no expense to entertain me. What a ball I had!
The paradise lasted for days--what pageantry--what grandeur--what ceremony!
After the white section finished with their celebration, they took me down to the
colored section where the splendor was even more spectacular. Again, through both
white and colored celebrations, I wore my beautiful western togs and again, I was
the center of attraction. As I walked through any crowd, regardless of color or
creed, I would hear, over and over again, "Hi! Texas!" At which I would proudly
answer, "Arizona!"
Every day new sights and events were planned especially for my delight and
enjoyment. It was there in New Orleans that I first learned to like every kind of sea
food. Each evening we would drive out to the shores of Lake Ponchatrain, where
they would visit little fishing shacks and order huge platters of sea food, either
boiled in Crisco or in plain salted water. These delicate morsels were always eaten
with our fingers, sitting around family-size tables with large, heavy mugs of beer.
Mine was always a soft drink of some kind. Best of all I liked the big, fat, tender
frog legs hot from the great cauldrons of boiling Crisco.
They took me through the Louisiana State Capitol and showed me the spot
where Hughie Long was murdered; we visited his grave which was centered in the
spacious grounds, surrounded by acres of lawn and flowers and trees. The building,
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itself, was built purposely as a towering monument to his name. They took me out
to the enormous Air Port; over the Hughie Long Bridge--a masterpiece in
construction; the famous old elm trees out near the University where many of the
old-time duels were fought. What a memorable week! How generous were my
friends with their time and their spending--even to the last vestige of Southern
cooking--sweet potato pie, gumbo stew, and, always before going to bed at the end of
each day, a big pot of Oyster Stew.
All too soon my holiday was over and I was on the train actually headed for
home. The holiday mood was rather transitory and I actually welcomed its passing.
I had no desire to flaunt my western finery at any time during my journey back
home. The Porter allowed me to sleep in my lower berth undisturbed until 10.00
a.m. After dinner I spent the remainder of the day writing letters, meditating, and
reading. I knew I was on my way home, and my heart was filled to overflowing with
sweet, heavenly peace.
Not long after my return, I was honored by a personal visit from Bertha
Kleinman of Mesa, Arizona--a woman who wrote beautiful poetry and pageants for
the church periodicals. Her purpose in coming to my home was to invite me to the
Annual Literary Banquet, held each year at the "Golden Mesa Tea Room" by the
Writer's Club. She asked me to come as her guest and invited me to read one of my
poems during the banquet, and, to give my impressions of New York. The night of
the banquet I gave them "Trail's End". In my impressions of New York, I
remember saying, "There is only one word big enough to describe it--it is
TREMENDOUS!
That was the beginning of a very sweet, enduring friendship that lasted as
long as I lived in Phoenix. One other time she invited me as her guest when the
Mesa Little Theater put on the play, "You Can't Take it With You".
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At the beginning of World War II, Phoenix filled up overnight with Defense
workers. Prices of homes went sky high. Tires and gasoline were rationed. Every
vacant house immediately filled up with renters and it was impossible to bet listings.
At last we were forced to give up our real estate business. We moved our licenses
and office equipment to our home on Seventh Avenue and McKinley.
Real Estate, being at a stand still, I decided to prepare myself for a war-time
job and signed up at the Lamson Business College. I soon found that my American
School studies had put me way up toward the head of my class. My favorite subject
was the Comptometer and it was a great disappointment to me when the school, at
the end of six months, procured for me a position out at Goodyear as Secretary to
the Master Mechanic. I liked the work, but the ride to and from Phoenix in the dust
and heat of an Arizona summer was more than I could endure. To get a seat on the
bus required standing in line at least an hour. Sometimes, even at that, colored
workers would crowd in ahead and occupy the seats, leaving many of us standing all
the way out to the plant. About four or five months was all I could take.
Out of a clear sky one day a sheriff knocked on our door on Seventh Avenue
and served us with a summons to vacate the rented house in which we were living,
by a certain date, or we would be prosecuted. The owner of the house had rented it
to us and had collected the whole year's rent in advance without letting us know
that the property was being foreclosed. There was only one thing to do--get out and
find another house. But, no more rentals; this time we would buy a home.
We found a country place about five miles north of Phoenix with an acre and
a half of ground. The house was brand new and built of cement block, painted
white, with green roof and shutters and a double garage. Yes, we had come a long
way from the "Little Brown House" at Salome, Arizona. There was a large living
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room with front entrance hall, three bedrooms and two baths, separate dining room
covered with battleship linoleum, to withstand the young people's scuffling, a
beautiful, white kitchen with white tile bordered with dainty red flowers, a long
hallway ran down through the length of the house with doors opening into the
bedrooms and baths. The kitchen led out into a service porch and from there a
flight of steps led down into the basement which served as a den and a photographic
darkroom. During the first year we furnished it completely. We covered the living
room and entrance hall with wall-to-wall, jewel blue, Wilton carpeting. Elaine's
room was covered with a pretty, blue, figured linoleum. It was to this home that I
brought little Sarah Jones. No wonder she loved it there!
Moving into this new location put us in the Phoenix Third Ward, which was
also used as a Stake House. Here, too, we were fortunate in getting acquainted.
Bertha Kleinman's son was in the Bishopric and he knew about my trip to New
York. His mother had told him about my reading at the Mesa Writer's Club. The
first time I attended Sunday School he asked me to give a talk or tell a story at the
next Sacrament Meeting. I told the story of the four lepers, entitled, "The Man who
Gave Thanks". The next Sunday morning I was called to meet with the Sunday
School Superintendency and was asked to help supervise the Junior Sunday School.
Several months later the Supervisor became seriously ill and I was appointed in her
place. I was supremely happy with my wonderful assignment. I had 18 teachers
under my supervision and an enrollment of around 275 children.
I remember the day I was invited to speak in a Primary Conference. As the
Primary President stood up to introduce me, she said, "We are all going to hear
from someone you all know and love. How many of you can tell me her name?"
Every hand went up. One little girl waved hers so long and hard that she was asked
to tell my name. How proud I was, standing there, knowing that so many of the
children knew who I was. Then, in the silence of the big hall, her voice rang out
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loud and clear, "Sister Anderson!"
Needless to say my ego was instantly deflated. The thought struck me
forcibly, "Well, why should I expect her to know my name when I do not know
hers?" With that thought I was deeply humbled. From that day on I began to take
a personal interest in each precious little individual, making a special note on the
ones who were absent. During the week I tried to visit as many homes as possible.
My efforts were crowned with success. A letter, written and signed by Bishop
Alexander of the Phoenix Third Ward, is one of my most treasured memos.
I put Darlene in as teacher of a group of ten-year-old boys and they adored
her. My little shadow! She took them out to a big public swimming pool and won
their hearts completely.
A tragic thing happened to me one night when I was putting on the final
dress rehearsal of a Hobby Show. I had been working at it for weeks. I had
borrowed the public address system from the custodian's wife in his absence and
had promised her I would take good care of it. At the end of the rehearsal, with
only a light on in the hall, I looked around for a place to hide it where it would be
safe until morning. Over at the back of the stage near the exit I noticed what
appeared to be a little hallway closet. "That is just the place for it!" I said to myself
as I picked up the heavy instrument and walked directly into an open stairway. I
sat down on the bottom step--the delicate machinery of the public address system
jarred and shattered!
I thought my back was broken. X-rays, taken the next morning, revealed
that the coxic bone was split in three places. The doctors had no way of setting such
an injured bone and put me to bed for a six-week rest cure. While I was flat on my
back, Boyd came home on a furlough. How hard it was to lie there in bed when I
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wanted to do so many things for him. It was a full year before I was able to sit
properly, or drive a car. Mostly I hated not being able to go back to work at the
Post Office.
Later, when my back began to mend somewhat, I got a nice job with Mr.
Upshaw, as a receptionist in his real estate office.
Later, with renewed strength, feeling I was able to do more strenuous work, I
changed over to the office of "Mary Campbell Real Estate", and was employed as
her secretary. I wrote all the ads for the newspapers--26 each day. Every morning I
would type copies of the ads for her thirteen salesmen. Besides this, I answered the
telephone and interviewed customers. So many prospects came to the office that I
decided to get a salesman's license and start selling property. I stayed in her office
as long as I lived in Phoenix. One day Herman was repairing an electric fan out in
the garage, when something went wrong with the fan blades and one of them flew
off and cut his eye, rupturing the retina. He went to Los Angeles for an eye
operation and entered the Veteran's hospital at Sawtelle. After his operation he was
put to bed for about a month with pin-point dark glasses over his eyes. He was not
allowed to move his head. His retina operation was one of the few successful ones
ever performed in medical history. While he was in the hospital, Darlene and I
decided to rent our lovely home out on Coolidge Ave. and go over to Los Angeles
and get jobs. We received a good price for our rental and very fine tenants. After
storing everything of personal value down in our basement we took the bus to Los
Angeles. Elaine was in Louisville, KY with Allen and all their wedding presents
were stored in the basement.
While Darlene and I were blissfully traveling along towards Los Angeles, a
sudden cloudburst in Phoenix caused the canal bank above our place to break loose
and the whole area was flooded. Our basement was filled to the ceiling with mud
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and water. All of Elaine's beautiful wedding clothes, gifts, linens, etc. were
completely ruined. Boyd's expensive accordion, music, clarinet were there.
Herman's photographic equipment, negatives, chemicals and my machine, all my
publicity notes, a little autograph book I treasured--well, just about everything we
owned and cared about were ruined.
Darlene and I, ignorant of the tragedy that was being enacted, decided we
would find a place to stay and then go out and get a job before letting Herman know
we were in Los Angeles.
But, woe be unto us! Claire and Barney were living in Tempe at the time and
had promised to come over to Coolidge Avenue and take our chickens back to their
place to keep for us while we were gone. They found the chickens dripping wet
roosting all along the fence, and our basement full of dirty, slimy water.
Not being able to reach me, they got in touch with Herman at the hospital.
Late in the afternoon of the next day we called the hospital and asked for Herman.
He was waiting for us, having obtained permission to leave for Phoenix as soon as he
heard from me. But it was war time and almost impossible to make bus
reservations. It took two full days before we could find room on a bus. All this time
water and mud was standing in our basement, saturating our clothing, books,
treasures, keepsakes!
What a sorry mess we found waiting for us! Barney and Claire came over
and helped us; also, two Mormon Missionaries. It was a long, tedious, backbreaking job and it took two full days to carry everything up the basement steps and
pump out the mud and water. We called up the Salvation Army to come out and
haul things away. They took one look and couldn't get away fast enough!
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Fortunately, we owned a little vacant house across the street from the new
North High School near Mitchell Street and Thomas Road, and we moved into it. In
the meantime a buyer came along and we sold our home on Coolidge, getting double
what we paid for it. We then bought a home on Richland Avenue near the small one
in which we had taken temporary quarters. It was completely furnished and had a
small house in the rear.
While Boyd was home on a furlough, he and Maxine Ray began going
around together. Later, she joined him at Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts,
where he was stationed, and they were married. On their return, after the war, they
were sealed in the Arizona Temple.
Darlene, too, had grown up and always had an adoring crowd of young
people around her. She seemed to prefer a crowd rather than dating one.
Sometime, during her high school days, she fell in love with Bud Rogers, and as far
as I knew he was her only true love. She was very fond of dancing and was always
popular. She and Bud always looked wonderful dancing together. She was tall and
I had taught her to walk with her head and chin up high. I called her my queen.
She was truly one.
Junior Sunday School continued to occupy a great deal of my time. One year
they asked me to take over the dramatic activities for the Ward, but, after thinking
it over, I decided not to accept this position as it was war time and gas and tires
were being rationed, both of which were necessary in getting the cast to and from
rehearsals.
At the time Darlene and I decided to rent our home and go to Los Angeles, I
had just resigned from my secretarial job at Goodyear. The long, dusty ride in
crowded buses, standing in line to get a seat and then having to stand up all the way,
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was one reason I gave it up. It was during the summertime and the heat was
terrific.
In trying to arrange my thoughts in sequence, I find myself leaving out
certain events and happenings; then, later, having to go back to that day or month
or year--just to keep the records straight.
It is that way with my experience at the Tovrea Packing Plant. On my return
to Phoenix after the flood, I decided to use my Comptometer knowledge. When I
applied for a position at Tovreas they told me I could have the job if I would drive
their pick-up truck to and from Phoenix for the purpose of "pick ups" pertaining to
matters of business, such as banking, delivery of mail, Title Company business,
coupons and rationing, etc. for a period of about six weeks. At that time the girl
they had would be joining her husband who was stationed at a distant Air Base. I
should have made them put it in writing. When the time came, I was doing such a
bang-up job with the "pick ups" that they decided to keep me on doing that and
hired another girl for the Comptometer.
While it lasted, I thoroughly enjoyed taking care of all the company business
out at that world-famous packing plant. I made two trips every day--sometimes
having to make 26 stops in one morning. It was my job at the beginning of each day
to visit all the departments in the plant and pick up request orders. Then, away I
would fly to Phoenix. I would be afraid now, but in those days I had no fear,
whatsoever. I carried all the bank deposits in such fabulous amounts that I would
be directed to take a different route each day. I called the little truck "The Green
Hornet".
One morning when I arrived at work, there sat a new girl at the
Comptometer desk. I went straight to the Manager. He was expecting me. When I
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demanded an explanation, he said, "You've done such a magnificent pickup job we
decided to keep you on." I was very angry and left in tears.
It was one of my jobs that morning to pick up a load of tires. Being angry,
and in a hurry, I pitched in and helped put the tires in the truck. My hands were
filthy. As I stopped in front of the post office for the mail, I noticed a big sign that
read, "WANTED! MAIL CARRIER!" "Aha!" I thought to myself, "Here's where I
get even with Tovreas!" Forgetting all about my filthy hands, I walked up to the
Manager's window and asked about the job. I was slender in those days and was
wearing dark green wool slacks. He looked me over, then smiled, "Why, you
couldn't handle a job like that! You have to be able to lift packages up to 70
pounds!"
"Well, what do you think I've been doing?" I said, spreading my hands out
before him. "I'll see the Superintendent of Mails," he answered, thoroughly
convinced.
Well, I got the job, and for the next year was a substitute mail carrier. When
not delivering mail I worked in the C.O.D. Department, sometimes casing mail,
sometimes working the Directory. The employees were grand people. A big bulletin
board was hung up and contests were sponsored to see whose name headed the list
for the most War Bonds purchased each week. My name headed the list on two
different occasions.
On my return to the Tovrea Packing Plant that day, I handed in my
resignation. When I checked in with the manager, he said, "Even though you are
leaving us, we must commend you highly for the way you've handled our business."
Best of all, I enjoyed the rural mail delivery. I had 600 boxes to service and
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oh the joy of meeting so many people and really getting to know them. As I
approached my assigned territory, all one summer vacation, the kids would be there
waiting for me, shouting, "Here comes Lois! Here comes Lois!" and they would race
away to tell their mothers I was coming.
Beginning before Christmas and all through the holidays, I worked overtime.
In order to take care of all the parcel post deliveries, we had to be at work by 5:00
a.m.--tackling mountains of parcels out on the platforms in the cold, early morning
air.
After the holidays, I settled down to my usual routine--chief among them, my
church duties. When Bishop Stohl was released after serving the Ward for 10-12
years, I was called upon to write a tribute in his honor to be given at a farewell
party in the recreational hall. At first I felt like refusing. I couldn't think of
anything to say or do that would be appropriate for such an occasion. I hadn't lived
in the Ward too long, and I felt sure there were others who knew him much better
than I did. But, they would not take no for an answer. As soon as I got home I went
into my bedroom and knelt down, asking the Lord to inspire me to write something
that would be worthy of so great a man.
From that moment on, thoughts and ideas crowded into my mind and soon
began to take form. There was one beautiful young lady in the Ward who had a
lyric soprano voice. I went to her home at once to make sure she would be available
for what I had in mind. She gladly accepted. The custodian was a devoted friend of
mine and I knew I could depend upon him to help. First, I got him to paint the
wrong side of a 12' x 14' rug a sky blue color, then build a frame around it and hang
it across the back of the stage. On the surface, running clear across the framed rug,
I had him draw huge letters to outline Bishop Stohl's name. Following the chalk
marks I had him press in large-size staples, one over three inches. These were to be
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used later for the purpose of hanging bunches of sweet peas which I had spent one
whole day gathering and arranging and tying each one together with a wire hook to
be attached later to a staple. We covered the stage floor with a green carpet. Across
the whole width of the stage the custodian made me a little flower garden, bordered
with a low, white picket fence on which twined dainty, blossoming flowers.
I had in readiness thousands of sweet peas placed just inside the wings. They
were to be carried in at the appointed time by pretty little flower girls, one at a time,
dressed in lovely little ruffled dresses; each one with a pretty floral basket full of
sweetpea bouquets. As the program started, with soft lights and music, the young
lady, in a beautiful formal gown, began singing that unforgettable war song--"My
Buddy". Only I had composed new words, spelling out Bishop Stohl's name in full-a letter for each verse. She had the voice of an angel. At the beginning of each
verse, one of the little flower girls would come in and hold up her basket of flowers.
As the song progressed, the singer would hang bunches of sweetpeas on the staples.
When the little girl's basket was empty, she would dance over to one side of the
stage and sit on the carpet, then another flower girl would make her entrance, and
so on until all the sweetpeas were used up and the name across the stage was
perfected.
It is hard to describe the effectiveness of this tribute in mere words. It would
have to be seen to be appreciated. Bishop Stohl was my friend for life, expressing
his appreciation whenever we chanced to meet. My little attempt at artistry was one
of the few accomplishments in my life of which I was really proud. How I wish I
had kept a picture of that beautiful tribute, as well as the words to that song. They
were both destroyed during the flooding of our basement.
It was here in Phoenix, Arizona, in April 1945 that this portion of my life
story came to an end. In the beginning of this narrative I resolved that I would not
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clutter up my story by retelling and reliving the heartache, despair, and tragedy of
my divorce.
This story is written especially for my children--and they love us both. I have
tried to be as fair to Herman as I am sure he would be to me. They are still our
children and life is sweet to each of us because of them.
"Through the Window of My Heart" I now stand looking back across the
vistas of the years, and, as I turn the pages of that little blue, scribble-in book--one
page, tear-stained and yellowed with age, stands out above all the others--
PAGES FROM A DIARY
"SEPTEMBER 1936--Today we sold the little brown
house.
This morning I went out alone to dream awhile and to say goodbye. Soap suds and
tears were all mixed together as I wandered from room to room--three in all-erasing from door and sill the grimy little fingerprints; making
everything
sweet and clean for its new mistress who is coming tomorrow--
"After completing my task I shampooed my hair and sat out in the car until
it was dry. It took a long time. I reached into the glove compartment and took out
my little book and pencil, letting my thoughts wander at will.
Sitting there in the
car I could see footprints all around in the sand. Tomorrow they would be gone; for,
sands of the desert have a way of shifting. And so I wrote:
SANDS OF THE DESERT
SANDS OF THE DESERT, roll on-Shift, if you will,
But I would take and hold you here
Until I'd sifted every smile
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and every tear.
I know you do not understand,
But I would take each footprint
Pressed into your drifting sand
And treasure them forever
when I go.
HOW WELL I KNOW
That I must leave them here
along the way.
God tempers every wind,
And so I say-SANDS OF THE DESERT, drift on-Drift on into tomorrow.
New smiles and joy will follow thee;
More pain and sorrow.
Though I must build my house again,
Again, I'll build with love and
laughter
For that is all that drifts with thee,
Forever and forever after.
SHIFTING SANDS
PART FOUR
I now write the final chapter of my life story, in this, my Book of
Remembrance.
On 31 Jan 1946, I was married to George Merrill Roy by Bishop Carl C.
Durham of Downey, CA.
It would be impossible to live with such a man for seventeen years without
recognizing the innate goodness of his soul. Hand in hand along the gradient way
we have walked together through the years--striving ever upward; and, our Father
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in Heaven has blessed our love and we have known sweet, spiritual companionship,
without which no marriage is, or ever can be, the perfect union God intended it to
be.
Our first meeting, if one can call it that, was in Feb 1939. Call it "ships that
pass in the night", or whatever you will, but, if I hadn't been on that program at the
Mesa Writer's Club, he would not have recognized me four years later when we
chanced to meet by accident. Merrill, as his father preferred that I call him, was
master of ceremonies at that banquet. After the meeting he stood at the door
shaking hands as people were leaving. I was one in a line and he expressed his
thanks for my part on the program. That was all.
Four years later, in the spring of 1943, my dad came down to Phoenix on a
visit. His chief pleasure was to go dancing at the Old Timer's Dance Hall. This
particular night he begged me to go with him, and, because I wanted to please him, I
consented to accompany him.
Merrill was there at that dance. He recognized me at once and came over to
ask me to dance. The first thing he said to me, as we started dancing, was, "Have
you been writing any more poetry?" Then, he told me he had just finished writing a
manuscript titled "Superstition Gold", and asked me if I would like to read it.
Naturally, I said I would. We sat out two or three dances discussing things in
general. When he asked me to dance again, I said, jokingly, "I really shouldn't
monopolize so much of your time."
"I have no one with me," he said. "My time is my own." Then added, "I am
divorced. I am living in Phoenix, now."
That week he came out to our home on Coolidge and brought me his
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manuscript to read. He talked about his four little children and how much he
missed them. He told me he had enlisted in the Navy and would soon be shipped
out. He left in July.
After my divorce from Herman 1 May 1945, I moved over to Los Angeles
and found a position as a companion to an elderly woman who lived in Rivera, not
far from Downey. Her lovely home stood in a beautiful grove of orange trees. To
me it was a haven of peace and rest. My duties were very light. Mrs. Crossly was
satisfied if I would just sit and talk with her; mostly just sit and listen to her. She
had been an opera singer and loved to talk about her past life and experiences. We
would have our breakfast together at 11:00 a.m., then I would take her for a long
drive. After dinner, she would listen to the news on the radio--the only program she
ever turned on--while I brushed and brushed her long, lovely, silver-white hair. Her
son, Benton, came over to visit his mother quite often. Mrs. Crossly had a way of
saying, "Our Lois" whenever referring to anything I said or did. I had the
understanding when I applied for the position, that I was to use her car whenever I
wanted to attend my Church. She was very generous and never complained,
although I had no idea at the time that my activities would require so much of my
time.
The first Sunday morning I attended Services at the Downy Ward. Imagine
my surprise when I looked around and saw Bishop Stohl sitting two or three rows
behind me. It was a joyous reunion. They had recently moved to Downey to be
near their son and his family. The son was President of the M.I.A., and before they
would let me go that morning I had to promise I would act as their Speech Arts
Director, as well as the Supervisor of Junior Sunday School, with a membership of
about forty children.
All during the summer I attended the Speech Arts Training class at
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Huntington Park Chapel. One night on the way home I took the wrong turn-off and
landed somewhere down in the oil field district near Lakeside. It took quite a while
to find my way back in the dark. When I arrived home, Mrs. Crossly was pacing
the floor with Petunia, her Siamese cat, in her arms. As I entered the room she
began scolding me as though I had done something terrible. When she was through
she started to cry, "I wouldn't care," she sobbed, "if I didn't love you so much."
It was my duty that season to train the M.I.A. young people to become good
speakers. For each Sunday night service, I would have some young person prepared
to give a 10-minute talk in one of the Wards in various parts of the Stake. It was my
responsibility to see that the one I took got there safely and back home again. I
taught them to speak simply and naturally, never allowing them to hold a paper in
their hands, but to speak strictly from memory. During the season I entered twelve
young people in a Ward Speech Arts Contest, all of whom were competing for
places in the Stake finals.
The afternoon before the Ward contest, I went to a florist shop and bought
each of the girls a corsage and the boys, a carnation. What a thrill it was to me to
lead and direct and introduce those boys and girls. It was my show--I was supposed
to start it off with a 10-minute talk. In the beginning I had 24 volunteer contestants.
I had finished with 12. Here is the point I brought out--a true incident that
happened to me one time when I first moved to Salome:
"Once upon a time--a long, long time ago, I lived on a little dry farm in
Arizona. One day I went into Phoenix and bought six grape vines with which to
make an arbor out in the back near the kitchen door. I made the trip with some
people I knew in Salome, and arranged to meet them at 11:00 a.m. at the Adam's
Hotel Lobby for the return journey home. When two hours had passed by and they
hadn't shown up, I was sure they had forgotten me and gone on without me. I
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began to pace back and forth, going from one door to another, then back to my seat.
One time when I returned to my seat, a middle-aged man came in and sat down
near me with a newspaper in his hand, which he proceeded to open, handing part of
it to me. I was too nervous to read, thanked him and handed it back. Presently he
left the lobby but was soon back again.
This time he had a new approach. "I notice you have some plants in that
bundle you are carrying," he said. "Where are you taking them?" That seemed to
break the ice and I began telling him about my little desert homestead. It turned out
that he was the Superintendent of City Parks in Phoenix and gave me some helpful
advise on how to plant and care for them. After awhile he went on to say, "I've
been watching you for quite a while, and you seem to be in some kind of trouble.
Maybe I can help you."
When I told him my sad tale of woe, he asked me if I knew where they had
parked their car. As it happened, I did know, and he suggested that I write a note
and he would take it over to the parking lot. If the car was still there he would
attach the note to the steering wheel. I was to stay right there so as not to miss them.
He was back in a jiffy. The car was still there right where they had left it. We
chatted for a little while and then he went on his way. My people came in the lobby
for me at exactly 4:30 p.m.!
But--here is the point I want to bring out--a day or two later I received a
package in the mail. On opening it I found two dozen beautiful Zinnia plants, all
wrapped in wet moss. On the outside of the package was the Superintendent's name
and address. In my little thank you note I said, "How can a busy man like you find
time to wrap Zinnia plants so carefully in wet moss and go around doing kindnesses
for perfect strangers?"
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A card came back by return mail on which was written this message,
"Always remember--it is the busy people who find time to do the worth while things
in this life."
And so, my brothers and sisters, here on the stand are my twelve girls and
boys. I visited them in their homes. They are the busiest ones in my whole class.
But they are the winners--they have chosen the worth while things of this life!"
After the meeting was over the visiting Stake official called us all in a
separate room to discuss the Stake "finals". He started his remarks by saying,
"Now you know how a Speech Arts Contest" should be conducted. It is one of the
finest ones I have ever attended. You are fortunate in having such leadership here
in your Ward." I, too, had chosen the worth while things of this life! I was one of
the busiest persons in the Ward. I was the real winner!
At Christmastime I bought forty cards and wrote a personal letter to each
child in my Junior Sunday School--not just a greeting--but a full page letter, in
which I tried to write a different message to each one. On one occasion I invited the
whole class to a show, with ice-cream and cake in a restaurant afterwards. Such
spending was my only extravagance in those days. I had no interest in shows or
dances, or any other kind of entertainment. In Nov 1945 the war was over. One
Sunday I received a telephone call from Merrill. He and his buddy, George Hanson,
from Mesa, AZ. had been mustered out. George's wife, Frannie, was going to meet
them with her car and they wanted me to meet them in Huntington Park. It was a
strange meeting. George and Frannie, wanting a little time to themselves, let us out
near a park, promising to meet us at the chapel that evening for Stake Conference.
We never went near the little park. It was almost as though we had it
planned, beforehand. Our footsteps took us straight to the empty, silent chapel,
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where we sat and quietly conversed until George and Frannie came looking for us.
Merrill stayed a week in Los Angeles and we saw each other often. At the
end of that time he went on his way to Ocean Park, Maine to visit his father and
brother. On his way through Phoenix he went around by Mesa to visit his children.
They were so proud of him in his "Navy Blues" with all his stars and insignias. At
the end of his visit one of his little girls reached up and, putting her arms around his
neck, said, "Oh, Daddy, this is the happiest day of my life!"
While in New England, from Thanksgiving until the middle of January, he
wrote many letters to me; all of which I answered. And, so, as the days and weeks
went by we came to a sort of understanding that on his return we would be married.
He went out shopping and bought me a ring--a small, perfect diamond.
While returning to Los Angeles, just to please me, he went around by way of
Jackson, Mississippi and visited with Ted and Pearl at Deerhaven--their lovely,
rambling, old log home out in the countryside near Raymond. There he was taken
into their home and their hearts, extending into the homes and hearts of all the
Saints of the little Jackson Branch. Ted was a councilor in the Presidency and he
and Merrill went everywhere together--preaching the gospel, teaching, and bearing
his testimony. Ted and Pearl made him promise to bring me back with him as soon
as we were married, offering to take him in as a partner in the tractor and
landscaping business.
And so--we were married. In April we were on our way back to Mississippi
where we visited for about six weeks at Deerhaven. There, we knelt together each
evening in family prayer, sang many of the old familiar gospel hymns, enjoyed the
weekly visits of the Mormon Missionaries. Our chief pastime was prowling over the
countryside exploring many of the old, abandoned mansions of slavery days,
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searching for old books in the once-elegant libraries of the Old South--doors and
windows now shattered and wide open to the winds and storms of the centuries.
Roadways had long since become overgrown with brambles and dense thickets,
completely obliterated in many places. A car was useless. We had to leave it four or
five miles from some of the old properties we visited, carrying out only a few of the
old, weatherbeaten books. We always planned on going back for another armful.
We never did.
Blackberries ripened daily and we had our favorite patches, making the
rounds each morning. Due to the abundance of rain that season the tractor work
did not materialize and we decided to go on to Ocean Park, Maine. Merrill wanted
to introduce me to his beautiful Maine woods, and to the Atlantic Ocean, along
which ran nine miles of white, soft, sandy beachline--Old Orchard Beach with its
fabulous, summer-time Carnival atmosphere and holiday attractions.
Before even going home to visit his father and Winnie, his stepmother, he
gave me the most wonderful thrill of all our homecoming--a thrill he had saved
especially for this special and never-to-be-forgotten occasion. A few blocks from his
father's home he stopped and parked the car near a magnificent grove of tall pine
trees. Without explaining anything to me, he led me away from the road into the
depths of this alpine forrest. The silence was profound and awe-inspiring, except
for an occasional, muted bird song from somewhere above and beyond. The little
path upon which we trod was strewn with fallen leaves and our footsteps passed
without a sound. I did not know until later that this heavenly spot was called
"Cathedral Pines", and, that hidden somewhere within the bounds of this
Sanctuary, was the Summer Camp Ground of the "World Wide Free Baptist
Church."
I was thinking about another grove of trees-the "Grove" near the Prophet
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Joseph Smith's home--the "Sacred Grove", when Merrill took hold of my hand and
pulled me down beside him. The tears were rolling down my cheeks. Still, without
a word of explanation--no explanation was necessary--we bowed our heads, and,
there upon our knees, Merrill led in one of the most beautiful prayers I had ever
heard in all my life. To us, kneeling there, surrounded by those heavenly
"Cathedral Pines", we felt the spirit of the Lord and knew that we were in the midst
of holy angels.
Before going to his father's home, he drove down to a restaurant at Old
Orchard Beach and treated me to a real, Old New England Shore dinner. Even the
Lake Ponchatrain" shore dinners in New Orleans failed to compare with this regal
repast, as I consumed course after course. Just as I imagined I was at the end of the
dinner, they would bring on yet another concoction, and still another. Every one of
which I relished to the very end.
Merrill was weary with driving and perhaps affected by the excitement of
coming home after all the years of absence. In the middle of the night I awoke to
find him standing in the bedroom doorway as though death was knocking on the
door. He was ghostly white and so weak he could hardly stand. After about an
hour, with frequent trips to the bathroom, he felt better and so ended our first night
in Ocean Park. Since that time he has had other such attacks after eating certain
kinds of sea food, and has learned to use caution.
The most heart-warming experience of all was meeting Merrill's father. The
three of us were inseparable. He owned and operated a fine Electric and Plumbing
shop. Each evening, after dinner, he would take us out to some place of special
interest. Sometimes it was to see and inspect the Maine Lobster pots; another time
to visit the "Old Ocean Mary's House", or some other historical landmark. One
time he took us on a cruise across Casco Bay. He loved us both and tried to show it
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in every way possible--every single day. We preached the gospel to him and he
listened and loved every word of it. But, Winnie, being a hard-shell Baptist, had
other ideas and soon put a stop to it.
We had been with them only a short time when the Mormon Missionaries
heard about us and came out to see us. To make a long story short, Merrill was put
in as Branch President of the little Portland Branch, and I as a Sunday School
teacher, as well as councilor in Relief Society. Later on he was given the added
responsibility of District President of the Southern Maine District, and I as
President of the District Relief Society.
We enjoyed the association of the missionaries, of which there were always
about six Elders, with headquarters in Portland, Maine. In order to be closer to our
Church duties, we moved into Portland near our little chapel. Our home soon
became a "hangout" for the missionaries. My chief delight was to make French
fries fir those always hungry elders. They never seemed to get enough, and I never
seemed to tire of listening to the gospel discussions during such occasions. They
looked up to Merrill as a leader and guide in the missionary activities and always
came to him with their problems, He spoke always with the voice of authority and
they respected him and sought his council in many ways. It was while living there
that Merrill taught me to love and understand the gospel as I had never loved it or
understood it before. He was loved by every member of that little Branch; not only
the Branch, but all over the Southern Maine District.
No one will ever know how much I missed my children. They were all three
married by then: Darlene and Bud Rogers on 10 Mar 1946 in Glendale, AZ.
Darlene wrote and told me about the wedding afterwards--but I was not there, and
my heart was as heavy as lead. Elaine was expecting her first baby and Darlene
wrote that there was a chance she wouldn't pull through. Darlene said that Elaine
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cried all the time because she didn't have a mother with her. I was nearly out of my
mind with worry. At last Merrill gave me the money he had received from a Service
bonus, for my fare back to Phoenix.
I was all ready to go when I received a letter from the Mission President's
wife, asking me if I would give the main talk in Relief Society Conference in
Cambridge, MS. At first, I said to Merrill, "Elaine needs me--I can't go!" But he
said, "You expect the Lord to answer your prayers in behalf of Elaine, don't you?
Do this for Him and He will bless you for it!"
And so, I went with him to Cambridge. On the way from the bus station to
the Mission Home, he stopped at a little flower shop and bought me a beautiful
corsage. I have never been so inspired as I was that day as I stood up before that
large congregation of women. The theme was "The Ministry of Christ". There
were tears in many eyes as I told them about my little daughter crying for her
mother way out in far away Arizona; and when I confessed that I had made, to me,
a great sacrifice just to keep faith with my Heavenly Father, my heart was already
speeding across the miles of the desert country to be with my little daughter so soon
to become a mother.
I took the bus that night from Cambridge; Merrill took the one back to
Portland. Our busses were parked side by side and pulled out at the same time. We
said goodbye through the windows of the two moving busses.
The Lord was pleased, and He did hear my prayers on behalf of Elaine.
Allen and I sat waiting in the hospital lobby all night and until 1:00 p.m. the next
day, Sunday 19 Oct 1947. When at last we saw the doctor approaching us, Allen's
face turned deathly white. I couldn't see my own, but my heart seemed to stop
momentarily. It seemed to us that he hesitated a little too long before he spoke.
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"You might just as well go out and get something to eat," he said, wearily. "I'm
afraid it will be a few hours yet." Allen went out for awhile, but I stayed in the
lobby until they finally brought us the word, "It's a boy!" Guil is now 16 years old
and a winner in everything pertaining to his school and Church activities.
Donald and Jonathan came later and are just as wonderful in their own little
individual ways as Guil. Darlene's and Bud's three lovely daughters, Susan,
Margene and Jacqueline, are precious beyond words. Boyd's and Maxine's
children--six in all--Sherri, David, Rae Lynne, Michael Eugene, Douglas and
Christine. They are beautiful children and very talented. How blessed I am--12
lovely grandchildren!
After Guil was born, I visited with all three children, Boyd, Elaine and
Darlene. When my greedy heart was satisfied, I went back to Portland, Maine to
Merrill. He met me in Boston and our reunion was sweet beyond words to express.
We had come to New England to visit Merrill's people, intending to stay two
or three weeks. We had stayed two years. One day Merrill picked up a copy of the
Desert Magazine and read where they were going to move the publishing plant up to
a brand-new community near Palm Springs, called Palm Desert. "You know,"
Merrill said to me, "if they are going to move into a new plant, they will need to
increase their staff. Why not write to Randall Henderson and see if he will take us
on?"
His answer came back in less than a week, "You are just the kind of people
we want on our staff. Come as soon as you can arrange your affairs."
Oh, what joyous anticipation! What dreams and plans! We were going home-home to CALIFORNIA! We made the trip by Greyhound Bus. Before leaving we
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went to Ocean Park to say goodbye to Dad and Winnie. During the day he said to
me, "Lois, I want to take you down town to buy a hand bag--the nicest one in the
store." I picked one out for $2.98. All the way home he scolded me for not buying
one that cost at least $10.00. What a grand person he was! Father and son were as
much alike as "two peas in a pod", both in looks and actions. No wonder to love one
was to love the other. Dad planned on joining us in California later that year and
sent money for us to buy them a nice, comfortable trailer house. But--that
wonderful adventure was never to be realized. Dad died a few months later with a
very large tumor on the brain. We never saw him again.
On the way through Mesa, Arizona we stopped off to visit George and
Frannie Hanson. It happened that they were all ready to leave for Los Angeles and
offered to take us to Palm Desert. As we passed through the little desert town of
Aguilla, near the foot of the Harquahala Mountain, we stopped to inquire about the
Old Man of the Mountain--Mr. Ellison. We were informed that, due to ill health
and age, he had at last come down from his rocky lair and was living in a little cabin
a few blocks from there. We drove over there to have a visit with him. Before
leaving New England, Merrill had purchased a brand new press camera and he and
George planned on climbing the mountain to get some pictures, if the old man
would give them permission. I had tried to get his story 9 years before but Randall
had turned it down because of the pictures. I was remembered immediately and
welcomed. Mr. Ellison graciously sat for his portrait, and invited the boys to make
the trip to the mountain top for additional pictures. The four of us stayed at a motel
that night, and bright and early the next morning Merrill and George started on
their upward climb. Frannie and I visited Mr. Ellison during the day and by the
time the boys returned, just at sunset, I had my note book full of notes, and knew I
had my story!
We arrived at Palm Desert in the middle of the night in a howling dust storm,
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15 Apr 1948. The $300,000 Desert Magazine Publishing Plant was under
construction and the whole area had been torn up with bulldozers until it was a
heaving sea of sand, hurtling great clouds of dust high into the sky. Randall
Henderson had promised us he would have a trailer house ready for us near the site
of the building. Oh, how we appreciated that little shelter for the rest of the night-even though we had to shovel and sweep out the accumulated sand before we could
get into bed. Luckily there were two beds--one at each end, and we were all sound
asleep in a jiffy. The wind, whistling around that little trailer, was sweet music to
my ears, as it lulled me to sleep. Frannie and George were gone when we awoke the
next morning, but they had promised they would stop on their way back in 2-3 days.
We were awakened by the hammering and confusion of the construction
men. When we were dressed we stepped out into bright, early morning sunshine,
the atmosphere crystal clear, not a sign of wind or dust. We stood together, our eyes
lifted up toward the beautiful Santa Rosa Mountains--so beautiful that neither of us
could speak for a moment. My own heart was filled to overflowing with peace and
gratitude and sweet contentment. Suddenly the tears were rolling down my cheeks.
The workmen were all around us and Merrill laughed at me. "Don't cry, Honey,"
he whispered. "The men will think I've been mean to you!"
We lost no time in putting in a call for Randall Henderson. He lost no time
in putting us in as his personal representatives on the premises, telling us he would
be up to see us in a few days.
And so began our sojourn at Palm Desert.
A few days later we were awakened at 3:00 a.m. by the sound of singing
under our little trailer window. It was George and Frannie--Frannie with her
beautiful lyric soprano voice, and George, with his high tenor, blending in perfectly
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with hers. They were singing "The Desert Song" and I thought I had never heard
anything so sweet in my life. Merrill and I, locked in each other's arms, our wet
cheeks pressed against each others, listened to the very end.
As we were eating breakfast later on that morning, a knock came to the door.
It was Randall Henderson. After the introductions were over we asked Frannie
and George to sing "The Desert Song" for Randall Henderson. How beautifully
they sang together! Randall told them that happened to be his favorite song.
While waiting for Randall, Merrill and I had been busy. Merrill had put a
"rush order" on Mr. Ellison's pictures and had them back. I had thrown myself
into the rearranging of my story, written nine years before. We were ready for the
Editor of Desert Magazine. After awhile, that morning, I casually announced to
Randall that I had the pictures and the "Old Man of the Mountain" story ready for
him. Naturally, he turned thumbs down on my story. I expected that. After all,
nine years IS a long time. "After this long time," he said, "it will have lost its
appeal. The old man doesn't live up on the mountain anymore."
But I had waited too long to give up now. "All I'm asking you to do," I
persisted, "is to READ the new manuscript and just LOOK at these pictures."
He took them back with him to El Centro and that very week I received my
answer. He was very pleased. "Your story of the old man of the mountain is
extremely well-handled, and will be published as soon as we can arrange for space."
Then, he went on to say, "You have what I've thought--you have what it takes to
write good feature copy, and I intend to see that you have a chance to write for
"Desert. The photo of Mr. Ellison is one of the best pictures we have ever received."
(Story was published July 1948)
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Our duties, that summer, did not take up all of our time. We spent many
happy hours exploring the nearby canyons and mountains. In time we joined the
"Coachella Valley Rock and Mineral Society" and were soon included in all the
Club activities. Merrill was put in as Secretary, and editor of their little monthly
bulletin, "Lick 'n Lapp". A whole, new, interesting life opened up before us as we
entered into and participated in the club functions.
The first week after we arrived in Palm Desert we attended Sunday School in
Indio. That day they announced that they were about to organize a branch of the
Church in Palm Springs and we were invited to attend their meeting on Thursday
night. Merrill was put in as Sunday School Superintendent, Branch clerk, and later
as councilor in the Branch Presidency. I was set apart as the first Relief Society
President. From the very first we held one position after another all down through
the years, both in Palm Springs and then in Indio. We had many choice, faithpromoting experiences.
Our first home in Palm Desert was out on the Phillip Boyd Ranch, about a
mile south of Palm Desert, right close to the Santa Rosa Mountains. It was a
favorite meeting place of the Saints and we entertained often with Church picnics
and special meetings. One evening, while Merrill was Superintendent of Sunday
School, he called a Union Meeting out at our place. It was a beautiful evening and
we held the meeting out under the stars. That night, as each one bore his testimony,
there wasn't a dry eye in the large group of teachers and officers. The power of the
Lord was at that time made manifest to everyone present. It was a precious
experience and one that was never forgotten.
Toward the latter part of our sojourn in Palm Desert, the District President
came up to me before Sunday School one morning and said, "Sister Roy, we have
picked out five of the finest men in the whole San Gorgonio District to be on the
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High Council and Brother Roy is one of them. I wasn't surprised--I lived with him.
I knew he was one of the finest men in the District. But, how proud I was to know
that they thought so, too.
In August 1948, the Desert Magazine Publishing Plant was nearing
completion and at last it was ready for occupancy. Merrill and I were both called
down to El Centro to help make the move to Palm Desert. When at last the move
was completed, it fell to my happy lot to set up the book department and craft shop.
I was in seventh heaven. How we looked forward to the big opening to be held on
15 Oct. With Merrill's new press camera, he took many pictures for "DESERT".
He was also press photographer for the "DESERT RAIDERS"--a club composed of
horse lovers; also, for some of the fashion shows at the Shadow Mountain Club.
True to his promise, Randall gave me many opportunities to write both poetry and
feature articles for his magazine. In the Nov 1948 issue, which was off the press in
time for the opening, my "La Patrona of the Date Gardens" was the lead story. It
was the story of Edna Cast, owner of the Garden of the Setting Sun, one of the first
date gardens in Coachella Valley. Merrill and I made a trip to Mecca one evening to
interview her. We drove down to the Garden of the Setting Sun in an open jeep
during one of the worst dust storms of the season. What memories! Our little jeep
was almost swept off the road as we traveled along.
In Phoenix I had loved real estate work. Palm Desert was full of
opportunities and was developing rapidly. To be tied down to such confining work
was not for us. After a few months we decided to free lance in photography, writing
and real estate. Such freedom appealed to us and we left the Magazine and took out
real estate licenses.
And so--our lives became full to overflowing with various interests.
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Our Church activities ever came first. It would take too long to enumerate
the many triumphs and proud achievements that came to us during the 15 year
period we lived in Palm Desert. We not only saw, but participated in the building of
a great desert empire. A Booster's Club was organized and I was Chairman of the
Hostess Committee. Later, a Chamber of Commerce was organized and Merrill was
the Secretary-Manager, a position he held for several years. He was founder and
first President of the "Shadow Mountain Gem and Mineral Society." Under his
leadership, a 3-day gem show was put on in the Desert Magazine Building, with an
attendance of over 7,000 people. It was pronounced as the #1 event of that year in
Palm Desert.
Merrill was both vice-president and President of the Coachella Valley Board
of Realtors. We were both Chairmen of the program committee for three years and
never missed putting on outstanding programs. One of the most outstanding feats
he performed was when he organized, single handed, the Palm Desert Board of
Realtors, with a charter membership of over seventy members. The Indio Board
fought hard to keep us from organizing. It was a real battle right from the start. By
organizing a Board of Realtors at Palm Desert, it would take away over half of the
Indio members. It helped a lot because Merrill was President of the Indio Board
and could sort of hold them down. In less than four months--an accomplishment
never before achieved in any other locality--Merrill won his Board without any
other help. During the time he was working it all out, he made trips to San
Francisco, Los Angeles, Catalina Island and Riverside, visiting all the dignitaries of
the profession.
On our frequent trips to Idyllwild with the "Rock Hounds", Merrill had met
the Chief Ranger of Parks and they had become good friends. When an opening
appeared on the Force, the Ranger recommended him for the job. With both of us
loving the out-of-doors as we did, we thought it would be wonderful to take part in
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such a life. In our exuberance, thinking we would have a better chance if we owned
property at Idyllwild, we put a small down payment on a comfortable 3-bedroom, 2
bath log cabin a few blocks from the Park.
We didn't get the job afterall. There were other men with seniority and we
were left with a house on our hands. But, for two or three years, our mountain
cabin was a never-ending source of joy to us. When we couldn't occupy it ourselves,
we gave our friends permission to use it.
One year we decided to open up a branch real estate office at Idyllwild and
Merrill stayed up there most of the time. I was Manager of Edith Eddy Ward's
office and was far too busy to make more than an occasional trip to the mountains.
On Mother's Day that year Merrill sent me a beautiful card, with the words printed
in his inimitable hand, "I have planted some flowers for you!"
No costly gift accompanied it--just those simple words "I have planted some
flowers for you!" But, oh, how I treasured them! I read the words to a salesman
who was sitting across the room at his desk, "A few seeds planted in the ground!"
He said, musingly. "I gave my wife an expensive carving set, and she was angry
because I didn't give her an emerald ring."
Dad came down from Utah on frequent visits. One year he got a job as
caretaker on a beautiful country estate out near Camelback Mountain in Phoenix.
He was on the Old-age pension, and, being an independent person, he resented the
welfare's interference into his affairs. They gave him a pretty rough time while he
was working. But, he stayed with the job for a year, saving his wages, and his
pension, then went back to Salt Lake City and began to buy up used lumber, old
railroad ties, a door, or a window, piece by piece, then started building a house. He
mixed all the cement, dug the basements, put in foundations, plumbing, electric
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work and fixtures. With the money he had saved he bought an acre or two of
ground on the outskirts of the city. When he finished the first house he rented it;
then started another one. Thus, one at a time, he kept on until he had four houses,
one of which he sold for a good price. The others he rented for $40.00 a month each.
Then, he turned around and thumbed his nose at the pension people. From then on
until he was killed in a car accident just before Thanksgiving 1955, he was
completely independent.
One morning while we were living in Palm Desert, we heard a knock on the
door before we were out of bed. "Who is it?" I called. A woman's voice answered,
gaily, "Minnie Elder!" But she was not Minnie ELDER. They had come down to
Palm Desert to be married at our place. On the way through Needles, Dad had car
trouble and they left the car in a garage and come the rest of the way by bus. She
was a cheerful little soul, 55 years old and Dad was 86. But they seemed well-suited
for each other. After we knew what it was all about, I went with them to get their
physical examinations. A few days after that, while they were waiting for the test
results, Minnie had an epileptic fit. The whole trouble started when she forgot and
left her medicine in the car at Needles. I tried hard to persuade Dad not to get
married. At his age it was ridiculous to marry someone with such an affliction that
would need constant care. But, Dad had the old Elder streak of stubbornness, and
was so determined that I finally consented to go with them to get the license. While
Minnie was filling out her application she went into a terrible seizure. Dad cried
like a baby, rubbing her hands and face and begging her not to die. Well, naturally
the clerk put a stop to the marriage. That night they took the bus back to Needles,
picked up their car, and were married in Las Vegas. Keeping a supply of medicine
on hand at all times probably saved the day for Minnie. She was very good to Dad
and they were happy together. Dad had fixed up their house trailer and was all
ready to come down to Palm Desert to spend the winter with us in Nov 1955. He
had a load of things to take to someone across town. It was the last thing he had to
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do before leaving for Palm Desert. It was snowing and it was thought he ran against
a red light. A car hit him going 60 miles an hour. He was thrown into a canal, and,
although someone jumped in and pulled him out, he never regained consciousness.
Minnie was thrown into the street but was only slightly injured. Dad was dead by
the time they got him to the hospital.
During our years at Palm Desert we formed some of the most precious and
enduring friendships. The first was Catherine Venn. She came to our trailer
shortly after we arrived, calling out happily as she approached. It was in the early
evening. Randall Henderson had written her from El Centro, saying, "Go visit the
Roys! I think you'll like them!" And so she had walked right into our hearts that
beautiful, quiet, summer night, to remain steadfast and true until this very day.
She had previously filed on a little jack-rabbit homestead out in the Cahuilla
Hills District, just above Palm Desert, in the Santa Rosa foothills. She had served
for many years as Secretary to the City Council of Los Angeles and was on a year's
leave of absence. I could write books about the happy experiences we had together-beautiful memories strewn along those desert highways and byways; but, it is only
possible to hit the highlights as I go along.
When at last Catherine's year was up, she went back to the big city, and, in
the process of time, married Walter Peterson, the City Clerk of Los Angeles, with
whom she had worked for many years. The only difference it made in our
association with Catherine was the sharing of Walter. Our affection for each other
was mutual. Their vacations were all spent at "Rock Hill" the name of their little 5acre homestead--where we were always included in their special steak dinners,
always out under the desert stars.
Another high light along the way, was the meeting with Ted and LaVina
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Hanft--homesteaders in that same Cahuilla Hills District. Thanksgiving holidays,
New Years--just any excuse for a trip out into the wide open spaces--we would pack
a picnic dinner and away we'd go to the desert or the hills or the mountains. Their
friendship was a treasure beyond compare. The treasured hours we spent together
will never be forgotten or erased from our memory.
We had almost phenomenal success with our real estate business. We were
both Brokers, then Realtors. We bought the corner of Highway 111 and Monterey
Street and established the "House of Roy, Realtors", which was one of the foremost
real estate firms in Palm Desert and the surrounding desert, for years. We
represented the sellers when the Palm Desert Corp. was sold. We handled the sale
of the $100,000.00 Sapp property when it was sold to the Silver Spur Ranch. Bing
Crosby purchased his homesite at the same time. It was a double escrow. We sold
the Sapp acreage to Silver Spur at around $600.00 an acre; they, in turn, sold it to
Bing for $15,000.00 an acre.
The big boom was on in Palm Desert and we skimmed the cream along with
the rest of the Brokers. But, we made one big mistake of investing our money in
property at the wrong time. Big millionaire promoters began crowding into the
area with their millionaire advertizing campaigns and began tying up all the
property in the Valley with exclusive listings, and taking options on anything that
looked good or was reasonable. They had their own sales force and would not
cooperate with the local brokers. Thus, for the majority of the real estate people in
the Valley, the big boom was over. Many offices were forced to close and moved on
to other conquests.
It had always been a dream of Merrills to one day own and publish a little
weekly newspaper, and, about this time he had a chance to buy one. He named it
"The Resorter" and took over with the exuberance of youth. Its contents covered
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the whole Country Club area. He had no trouble getting ads. The business men
were behind him almost 100%. His society and sports editors furnished him a
wealth of material, including reports on golf, polo, parties and all the distinguished
visitors. Our hopes and aspirations rocketed to the sky. We persuaded Allen and
Elaine to come in with us, and made Allen President, and Elaine Secretary of the
Corporation.
My beautiful desert country with its sunlight and shadows--exotic mountain
peaks and deep canyons, ever changing, ever clutching at my heart strings, inspired
me with a desire to write again. Elaine encouraged me to put the beauty I beheld
into words. IN time I wrote eight desert songs. Elaine and Allen offered to put up
the money to have them recorded. Thus was born "My Golden Album of Desert
Songs".
I thought I was going to make a fortune! If we could only have had a crystal
ball and looked into the future! I had many letters of praise from friends, relatives
and even strangers who heard my songs. But, they definitely didn't make me a
fortune. True, they brought to me a measure of happiness, but with it came bitter
disappointment. Although I gave my album all the publicity possible, they did not
sell on the market, mostly because there was no one to plug them; which I found out
to my sorrow, is the most important thing in the song business. I spent $300.00 on a
booth at the Indio Date Festival with an added attraction of a $1000.00 ultra
modern deluxe record player, loaned to me by one of the Indio Music Co.; but they
did not sell. Oh, I learned a lot about the record business in those days! I only sold
one record in 10 days. I was heart broken!
Our little weekly newspaper seemed slated for success, and for about two
years it won acclaim throughout the whole Valley. Merrill sometimes worked the
clock around. Many times he made the trips over and back from Desert Hot
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Springs, a distance of about forty miles there and back, in a raging dust storm. The
windshield of his car had to be replaced often. There was no place nearer than that
to get the paper printed. Even that, he did not mind. Eventually however the Indio
Date Palm and Palm Springs News began to prick up their ears. We were giving
practically Valley wide news and they were a little concerned with our success.
They had both been contemplating a daily newspaper and they decided now was the
time.
The cost of printing and getting out our 10 page paper amounted to $1000.00
per month. With advertising coming out on a daily basis in the other paper, we lost
our advertisers. We could not compete against the daily paper. With daily
reporting, our weekly news lost its appeal. They brought in their Society Editors
and their sports writers. We were left high and dry. For a time we tried to hang on,
thinking we could rise above it all. Then, we began selling our accumulated
property investments, first one, then another in order to keep our printing bills paid
up. We did not dare to get behind. I quit real estate in order to help with
collections and trying to get and keep our advertisers. But, at last, everything we
owned--our years and years of careful savings--vanished like rivers of sand beneath
our feet. The last thing we did was to sell the newspaper to the printer--to pay the
printing bill.
During the good years we had bought a lovely, furnished home on San
Jacinto Street in Palm Village. That, too, had to be sacrificed and was the hardest
possession to part with. It had been a real home to us, always filled with peace and
harmony and love. The very first thing we did after moving into it, was to have
President Bonham of the Indio Branch to come out and bless it for us. We had a
lovely patio, complete with a barbecue, square dance slab, rock garden with water
fall, flowers, humming bird feeders, flowering shrubs, tall trees around the house,
and lawn in front of the house. Merrill's cacti garden was a veritable show place
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covering the whole back of the lot, with paths conveniently placed through the
garden. Every specie was marked and scientifically labeled with it s correct name.
There were over a thousand different kinds--some of them exotic. Around the whole
garden was a white, painted brick wall about four feet high. It was an ideal spot to
entertain the various church groups. At one party we had 22 T-bone steaks sizzling
all at the same time.
About 2 years before leaving Palm Desert I came down with the Asian Flu
and my chest was left in a very serious condition. In one month I lost 40 pounds and
developed a severe cough that stayed with me regardless of what I did to relieve it.
Thinking the higher altitude would help me to overcome these ailments, I went up to
Idyllwild and started up a little branch real estate office there. The first week I was
there I caught the virus all over again and came down again with the Asian Flu.
This time it really "got" me and I had to come back down to the desert. Failing
with our newspaper and having closed our real estate office, we had nothing more to
keep us in Palm Desert. We decided to move into Banning where there was a cool,
circulation of air coming through the pass. Upon the least exertion I would get out
of breath, and had to sit up at night for hours at a time before I could lie down at
all.
In Banning, I began to improve and actually went back into real estate,
selling several pieces of property in the short time we lived there. Merrill was still
on the High Council and I was put in as drama director. During the previous thirty
years, Merrill had been active in genealogy, having spent eight years in the Arizona
Temple as an assistant Recorder. He had become, over the years, an expert in
researching. We began making trips in to the Los Angeles Library and to Salt Lake
City. His first client came as an answer to prayer. President Spears, of the San
Gorgonio District, was attending a funeral at Maywood one day when he noticed a
beautiful, framed pedigree chart hanging on the wall in the reception room of the
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Rice Mortuary. At the bottom of the picture was the signature of George Merrill
Roy, 1930.
Turning to a brother who was standing nearby, he said, "I wonder if that
could be our Brother Roy?" It was work he had done right after the depression.
Not being able to find employment, he had spent part of his time doing genealogy
work for some of the members of the Church. He had made that pedigree chart for
Laurn Rice, owner of the Mortuary, and had been paid the sum of $100.00 for his
work. It was because of his outstanding work in genealogy that he was appointed as
a recorder in the Arizona Temple, where he remained for eight years.
As soon as President Spears returned to the District, he looked Merrill up
and engaged him to work for him professionally, paying him sum of $1400.00 for
one year's work--$235.00 of which was for a similar pedigree chart. In order to
complete the chart he had to made a trip to Salt Lake City. While there he applied
for a job on the staff of the "Deseret Church News Section". With his back ground
as a newspaper man they put him on immediately as their roving reporter for
Southern California.
Once more we were thrilled and excited. A whole world of opportunities
opened up for us, in work that we both loved to do. Merrill came back to Banning
with high hopes and a world of enthusiasm. In order to be near the many Freeways
leading to and from the various locations in which we would be working, we decided
to move to Riverside. He would take the pictures--I would interview people and get
their stories. Nothing could be more wonderful! Working together--traveling
together--just as we had always been privileged to do.
We found a lovely home in Riverside that very week, which we shared with
the owner, a very nice woman who belonged to the Seventh Day Adventist Church.
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Her Sabbath was on Saturday, during which day we never heard a sound. She
could teach any Mormon how to keep the Sabbath Day holy. But on OUR Sabbath,
she got up before daylight and start to vacuum her whole house, water the plants
under our window, start up the electric washer and dryer, go at her Saturday
cleaning with a wicked vengeance. This we resented more and more as time went
on, until finally we rented a little house of our own.
Again our exuberance was short lived, our utmost efforts bringing only
disappointment and failure. Although we traveled hundreds of miles, taking many
pictures and writing numerous articles, no recognition, or acknowledgement was
ever received from the DESERET NEWS staff. Even a letter brought no response
or even a thank you, although some of our material was seen in print. Merrill was
so angry and disgusted he never contacted them again, even though we have been
back to Salt Lake several times.
We did not regret moving to Riverside. The first time we appeared in
Church, the Bishop said as we introduced ourselves, "We've been waiting for you!"
Merrill was immediately put on as a member of the High Council, and made
Supervisor of the Stake Genealogy. I was put in as Stake Secretary. We had the
supervision of nine wards.
Being closer to the Los Angeles Library, we could drive in two or three times
a week to do research. At last, however, the strain of driving back and forth
through heavy traffic with poisonous gas fumes--the expense and waste of time,
were all factors in our decision to move into Los Angeles. After moving from
Banning my health began to fail again and I was sick just where I was when we left
the desert. Merrill prayed constantly for me, and one night we made a trip back to
Banning and asked President Gerry Anderson to administer to me. During the
following week I became very ill with an upset stomach and vomited for two days
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and two nights, at the end of which time my bronchial tubes and lungs were
completely open and all the mucous that had been preventing me from breathing
was gone and I could breathe clear down to my toes! I began to walk again and
shortly afterwards we walked a distance of two or three miles. It is my testimony
that the Lord heard our prayers and administration and that was the way He went
about answering them.
One other great happiness came to us while we were living in Riverside. In
the first chapter of my life which I have recounted, my folks moved to Canada when
I was a very small child and I was deprived of ever having known my mother's
people. In the beginning of my interest in genealogy, I had pushed aside the
Dewsnups, thinking there were so many of them--surely they had their records all
brought up to date by this time. Besides, they were all strangers to me; I had never
known them--except my mother's sister and family, Phoebe Elizabeth Dewsnup
Redford, whom I had met while living in Logan, Utah. The Elder family had run up
against a snag--they could not find our emigrant ancestor. And so I began by
working on my father's family.
But, how wrong I was! In Apr 1962, my mother's sister, Elsie Viola Dewsnup
Bigler and her husband, Roscoe, heart we were living in Riverside and came over to
visit us. They had been called on a Temple Mission at the Los Angeles Temple.
That was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Aunt Elsie resembled my
mother in many ways and I loved her on sight.
During the week we spent together in our Riverside home, we decided to
organize the Dewsnup family. What a wonderful time we had planning and
working out every little detail. The optical nerve in Aunt Elsie's eyes were
practically gone and she could no longer use her eyes in research work. She made it
a matter of prayer, begging the Lord to send someone to help carry on this
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important work. Her prayers had been answered in such a miraculous way. He
had brought us together and genealogy was the work we loved the best. She felt that
she had been guided directly to us, and has never ceased to thank her Heavenly
Father for such a blessing.
Aunt Elsie, at our insistence, consented to be the Family Representative; I
agreed to act as Secretary; Uncle Roscoe said, "I'll be Aunt Elsie's Chauffeur!"
"And I'll get out a little family bulletin," Merrill volunteered. We decoded to
name the bulletin "Family Ties", and to print one issue every three months. Oh,
what a busy week it was! Aunt Elsie and I wrote letters to every member of the
family--amounting to more than 125. Each of us wrote a letter and the two were put
together in one envelope. From those letters we received fifty-four memberships at
$10.00 per family per year.
In Sep 1962 we attended the Dewsnup family reunion at Sacramento. It was
a joyous, heart-warming occasion. To meet my mother's people at last was one of
the most thrilling experiences of my whole lifetime.
In Los Angeles we have become permanently settled in a quiet, peaceful
apartment high up, overlooking the beautiful City Library just across the street
from the formal garden of the little Library Park.
What an inspiration it is to look over there such a little way, knowing that all
those thousands and thousands of books and records are there waiting for us every
day that we live. Heaven is in our hands! It is enough!
So ends the story of my life. Whatever more is to come will be written by my
children after I have left this earthly existence.
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(About the time they moved to Riverside, Mom developed Diabetes, which
she had to rest of her life. She loved to walk and this probably aided in her lengthy
life. Merrill died of a heart attack in 1969 and we soon moved her to live with us in
Phoenix, AZ. She had a bedroom in our tri-level house and always called the stairs
her stairway to Heaven! By this time her eyesight was going and also her hearing,
but she still walked a lot. In 1972 she was living in Mesa with Boyd and Maxine.
They put her in a nursing home where she had excellent care. On 4 Jul 1972 I got a
call from the nursing home telling me that Mom had passed away that morning. It
gave me great comfort to know that immediately she could see and was free from
pain and was with her loved ones. I've always wished that I had had her recite her
poetry on a tape recorder--she was so dramatic in her readings. But, we
procrastinate so often and then it is too late!--Elaine Steiner Rand)
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