REMINISCENCES
Joseph Neal Heywood
Jr.[1]
[2]
Just
an observation about last night’s vivid dream.
Because of diminishing vision over the past half dozen years, and more,
last August I had the cataract in my left eye removed. For the past three months, almost, the eye
specialist and optician have been trying to fit my eye with a corneal
lens. Only partial success so far but in
time I feel sure results will come.
Last
night I dreamed I was in a car with some, who I do not know. A sudden jolt occurred and immediately eye
sight was restored to normal vision. I
was amazed, and could hardly believe it but upon picking up a newspaper found
it was true—perfect vision once more.
And I was happy. The dream was so
clear, so vivid, and seemed so real that upon awaking I sat up, blinked by eyes
and looked about. It was only a dream,
and yet, before too long that dream may still come true.
Being
denied full reading vision these many months and years has been most
distressing. I’ve tried to be patient
and remain optimistic. Many others have
not fared as well as I. And, I would
add, those about me have been most patient.
April 13,
1959
The
pages written here have not been written with the idea they are of any worth,
but more to fill in idle time, burdensome time.
If there chances to be anything of interest, pleasure, or worth, it will
not be due to any ability I may have in writing. Doubtless there will be many mistakes such as
spelling, punctuation, and here and there a word omitted. I offer no excuse or apology; rather an
explanation. My stiffened fingers and
dimness of vision require so much attention that they divert from the needed
concentration that would enable me to avoid such errors.
In
addition, I do not feel equal to reviewing these pages for needed corrections
but am leaving them as written, just as memories directed without
planning. We might chart it as: “This and That”, “Here and There”, and “Now
and Then”. Despite all lacks and errors,
I am persuaded that there is a picture of Alpine and its early settlers not
found elsewhere. I suggest that the
reader might resort to a sympathetic, understanding imagination.
Jan. 13,
1959
Last
month I wrote a collection of things or incidents occurring before I was four
years old, up to the time my parents and grandparents moved from what was then
known as Upper Kanab, Utah, to Arizona.
These I sent to my son Bernard, thinking they might be of passing
interest to him, but of greater interest to his three children. Evidently they were of too little interest to
be acknowledged.
While
this is disappointing and causes me to feel that I completely failed, I cannot
persuade myself that these memories of childhood days will not sometime be of
passing interest. At least I believe it
unusual to tell how early life a child remembers. However, it can do no harm to continue, but
instead of imposing them on others I shall file them away, and my survivors can
destroy them or do with them as they desire.
There
are two reasons for thus continuing; first, it may be that out of all I may
write there might be some bit worth salvaging; secondly, it gives me something
to do, an effort to fill in part of my idle time, idle time because my present
vision permits but little reading. So,
from time to time I shall, likely sporadically, perhaps, write a little.
About
the move to Arizona
in the autumn of 1880 and ending at Alpine Jan. 5, 1881 I do not recall too much. There were the watering places along the way,
some of which I possibly did not see, but the names spoken registered in my
mind. Jacob’s pool (doubtless now known
as Jacob’s Lake) I heard too often mentioned
to forget. Jacob’s Pool was at the
summit of Buckskin
Mountains. The company was anxious to get over them
before snowfall. The name I remember.
Houserock
I well remember, the sheer cliffs rising above the spring and partly enclosing
it. I think the cliffs are not nearly as
high as they appeared to me then. There
was a story told, though likely much later, of an Indian enemy clambering up the
cliff and when near the top he stooped over spatting[4]
his rear in defiance when a bullet from below tumbled him off. Whether this was true I never knew.
Crossing
the Colorado
at Lee’s Ferry was a fearsome thing for me.
The loose horses and cattle were ferried across. I believe an occasional animal jumped off in
the river, swam back, and was then put back on the boat on another trip. Then the teams with the wagons were driven
onto the boat, with the travelers standing about. I do remember that the teams were
unhitched. It would have been disastrous
had they remained hitched and from fright to have run off the boat with the
wagons into the river. In the swift
swirling waters there could have been no recovery. I was frightened, very much frightened, and
remained as far as possible from the edge.
The
fear of the river was much less than the drive up the narrow rocky dug-way of
the mountain, Lee’s Back Bone. The road
was extremely rough and uneven. It
seemed to jut out over the precipitous walls of rock below us. I was not the only frightened one, not by any
means. What if the team got frightened
and the wagon got overturned, or slipped off over the edge; a most fearsome thought. To me the mountain seemed of monstrous size
and height. Some walked; I was one of
those who had to ride. The driver was
ready, at any moment, to put on the brakes; someone followed behind near the
wagon carrying a rock to block the hind wheel each time the wagon stopped; at
times it was so steep the brakes were not enough to hold the wagon from running
back. Teams were doubled to draw a wagon
to more level ground and then sent back to bring the next.
Some
of my uncles, Prime and Evans, and my brother, Yates, were taking a trip up
into Utah and Nevada.
I was anxious to see Lee’s Ferry and Lee’s Back Bone, to see if they
looked the same, so, after crossing the Navajo Bridge we drove up the river
about eight miles to the places. I was
astonished, amazed, could hardly believe how much Lee’s Back Bone had shrunk in
size. It was diminutive as compared to
the gigantic picture my boyish eyes had formed, a picture that I had retained
till this trip.
Other
camping or watering places I remember are Navajo Springs, Willow Springs, and
Limestone Tanks, a little distance off the trail and up a draw, were
depressions worn in the stone and pools of water stood in these for some time
after rains or melted snow had filled them.
I followed the stock taken to water and saw them.
Christmas
Eve camp was made near Black
Falls on the Little Colorado,
north of Cameron. Christmas Day we
remained here and ate Christmas Dinner.
I remember nothing about the dinner, or the day, but I vividly remember
the roar of the falls. I believe the
stock were taken down a trail into the canyon for water; in fact, I am sure
they were, although the memory is dim.
How do I know we ate Christmas Dinner here when I cannot remember
it? Someone recorded it.
The
record tells that New Year’s dinner was eaten in Brigham City near Winslow. It took just a week to go from Black Falls
to Brigham City. The weather must have been cold for the
wagons were driven across the ice somewhere along the way. I saw this and also remember that at the time
we passed through Holbrook, the Santa
Fe railroad was not yet built through. It was here, or near here, that the tracks
being laid from East and West connected.
From Holbrook, I remember nothing, not even Concho, Springerville, or
Nutrioso until we reached Bush
Valley (later Alpine,
when a P. O. was established) our final destination.
Jan. 15,
1881
Seventy
eight years ago today, we drove into Alpine.
This was to be our future home for many years, the place to build the
home and develop the 160 acre homestead.
The first two years before, for protection against possible marauding
Apaches, who often “broke out” from Fort
Apache and raided through
the county.
The
Fort was located south of a pine covered hill, out in the open, so Indians
could not creep up under cover of the trees.
The fort was a hollow square, with log houses or cabins built around and
enclosing it. Port holes were cut at
intervals in the outer walls through which to shoot in case of attack.
The
building on the northeast corner was the largest and used for church and
school. It was the only one with hewn
logs; all others were rough logs with chinks wedged in the cracks and daubed
with mud. Dirt roofs covered all, with
dirt floors in most, puncheon[5]
floors in some, in some coving only half the floor. The roofs leaked generously from the copious
rains, and it did rain in those days; also the pine timber used, soon
rotted.
One
Sunday evening, Spence and I were at the end of the table drinking new
milk. Father was at the other end
reading by candlelight. Near where he
sat there was a door into the church building.
It was after dark, and the stars were out. Suddenly there was a crash—the roof had
fallen in. Father darted through the
door to give the alarm. Spence and I
were beneath the roof. Fortunately the
timbers sloped down from the wall, toward the center and we were not hurt. Neighbors soon had us uncovered.
Anderson
Bush was the first settler in Alpine (Bush Valley,
then) and he claimed squatter’s rights, about 1876. His oldest son, Allen, was buried here, the
first death in the valley and the beginning of the present cemetery[6]. Bush lived in a small log cabin just over the
hill to the east. In this cemetery rest
Grandfather’s second wife, Elizabeth[7],
her oldest son, Willard[8],
and next to the youngest son, June, my three sisters, Martha Emma[9],
Ida[10],
Sarepta[11],
and our son Junius[12]. At present Emma and I expect this to be our
final resting place. There were pines
growing here but recently they have all been removed; it is a rather bare and
lonely looking place. But it will hardly
bother us when we are planted there
About
1878, or 1879, Frederick Hamblin and William B. Maxwell purchased Bush’s
rights, Hamblin taking the upper part of the valley and Maxwell the lower
part. (McClintock, in his book of “Early
Mormon Settlements of Arizona” fails to even mention Maxwell. In his story of Alpine there were other
Errors).
As
soon as other settlers came, a fort, as mentioned, was built as protection
against the Apaches. The fort must have
been in late 1879 and likely finished in early 1880. But for this fort, which gave the appearance
of strength, the settlers most likely would have been massacred when Victoria’s Band came in
during the summer of 1880 and drove off a band of the settlers horses that were
being herded at the time by two young men, Duane Hamblin and Will Maxwell.
The
fort was built on, or near, the line between the Hamblin and the Maxwell claims
as my father, J. N. Heywood, bought land from both of these and the fort became
his property. The building of hewn logs
was the only one of any value. The
others from which bark had not been removed soon rotted due to absorption of
water from the heavy rains.
The
story of the Indian Raid of 1880 I have written as best I could in other
places, so I omit it here.
In
1881, settlers were taking up land for future homes, building cabins and moving
into them. Also, the town of Alpine was
started on the present site and some built homes here and drove to and from
their fields each day; that is when they were some distance away.
The
first Sunday of Sept, 1881, the 5th I am sure it was, Father who
took children from the fort to town for Sunday School, held in a home; there
was no church or schoolhouse. About the
time Sunday School, held in a home, was dismissed David Lee rode in from
Nutrioso, ten miles away, and reported that a band of Apaches had left the
Reservation and were on the warpath. If
they should attack it was doubtful whether either Nutrioso or Alpine had the
strength to defend, and it seemed wise for Alpine to go to Nutrioso, or vice
versa. The Bishop, Edward A. Noble,
thought they should go to Nutrioso. It
was unusual to not obey the counsel of the Bishop.[13] Father took the children back to the fort and
was to ascertain the feeling of the men who were there. They were against the
most[14],
insisting that they only needed to strengthen the fort in places it might be
weak.
Father
returned to town, to give me an answer.
It was then decided to at once build a schoolhouse, or church, to serve
for both. It was done, and such a
building? Rough logs rather scalped
along two sides than hewed, notched and fitted in the corners, a big crude rock
fireplace in the north end with a platform elevated above the un-planed board
floor, a small window in each sidewall, a shake roof that could leak when it
rained—that is a rough and hasty description.
Oh, yes, the size: besides the
small platform in the north end the building was spacious enough for just one
quadrille[15];
only one. This was the church, the
schoolhouse, and the community house for little home-made theatre, dances,
programs, worship and a place where travelers passing through might spend the
night and often did.
In
time, this building was doubled in size and shingles replaced the shakes;
shakes were three feet long and split from blocks of pine; shingles were
sixteen inches long, and are cut with a blade that went up and down, powered by
horse hitched on a sweep as the horse went round and round. The blocks of pine had to be steamed before
cutting so they would not split, or splinter.
They were smoother, and leaked much less than the shakes. They warped badly and did not last very long.
If
only I could fitly describe it, picture it in detail, and as a whole, make the
reader feel that he was there and felt and say it all; dance the quadrille as
the lone fiddler crossed one leg across the other and fiddled and called the
dances. Nothing like it now! Square dances only; no wicked round dancing
permitted; wicked as it was and full of evil thoughts. Some of the bolder and more reckless and more
sinful youths ventured to “swing round the waist” and this was denied them;
they persisted and finally it was only frowned upon, and finally
forgotten. And finally round dancing
came in; at first only one waltz during the entire dance. SHOCKING!
But the evil grew until it was the larger part of the evening. But here for a time there were
restrictions. Watchmen were placed here
and there and woe be to any couple that danced so close together that the
watchmen could not see between, or thrust his hand between
the couple. I wonder whether he put his
hand nearer the one, or the other, and which one was the nearest. Guess!
I’m
straying from the subject. The mind has
wandered far afield. I’m old now, all
youthful ardor has vanished but, even yet, I can’t help wondering just what
those good, sincere, and pious old watchmen were thinking, perhaps, in moments,
thoughtless moments; down in the subconscious mind may, perchance, have been
longing for. But they were good men—our
forbears. In self defense I might add, I
didn’t round dance – not very much.
Memories of those halcyon[16]
days still are with me, touched betimes with youthful fragrances, saying “Come
back again, oh Youth!”
In
passing I mention that in the early eighties, about 1882 perhaps, surveyors
were sent by John W. Young, the son of Brigham Young, to determine the
feasibility of a railroad route through these mountains connecting the recently
completed Santa Fe with the Southern Pacific in
the southern part of Arizona. No route was found.
I
mention again the enlarged log schoolhouse, to add that a bell was needed to
ring out the gathering time for school, church, and public events. A bell was purchased, a big one, the largest
and loudest that ever found its way into Apache County. On a favorable morning it could be heard
three or four miles away, even on top of the mountain to the west. It was a big bell weighing several hundred
pounds. The older ones scratched their
heads in devising some best way to elevate it to its place on the roof. The coming of this bell almost introduced a
new era for the scattered population.
The bell rope, dropped through the roof, received many a lusty pull with
a gusto that sometimes turned it over and displaced the bell rope; then an
ascent to the top of the roof to replace the rope.
The
bell did one important service. When it
rang at half past nine
Sunday mornings the time pieces were set in accord. The more distant ones would emerge from their
cabins, incline an ear and cup a hand behind it, to better catch the
sound. The ringing of the bell half an
hour before meetings were held was to give time to prepare themselves, drive to
the church, and be on time, which they often times were not. On schooldays, the warning was rung and again
five minutes before school was taken up, and when it rang again to call them
in—it was the tardy bell.
Jan
20th
Looking
back over those earliest childhood days, I try to recall the first religious
teachings and the impressions they made; how much they contributed to behavior
or conduct. Did I learn what was right
or wrong because of these teachings, or from the punishments I suffered from
punishments inflicted by my elders when I did what they didn’t want me to do,
rather than to improve my morals? Or was
I just immoral?
21st,
1959
From
the earliest remembrances of religious training, was the prayer each evening at
my mother’s knee as I knelt, closed my eyes and repeated after her the little
prayer she taught me. After I learned to
pray without her guidance, I was put on my own.
After that, I was to kneel at my bedside and say my secret prayers, and
for several years Mother dutifully saw that I did. If she chanced to be in another room she
would call out, “Did you say your prayers?”
Somehow I preferred the secret prayer—I didn’t have to choose the words
or make inclusions to please the one who listened. And then I wondered if saying my prayers in
bed would not do: I tried it; it worked,
but I wondered if it was acceptable, if not on my knees. It troubled my little conscience some, but
perhaps, not enough. I thought of asking
my mother, but I felt too sure of what she would say to take that risk.
Of
all the youthful prayers one stands out above all the rest. One morning I did something – I forgot what
it was – that displeased her. I didn’t
know it was wrong (I still don’t know it) till she informed me. She said something like this: “You’ve been naughty; you don’t go over there
where your father is working, but you can go off up there in the hills; maybe
the wolves will get you.” Father was
building a fence not far away. To go
over to him would avoid the wolves, and so I turned the corner and started
away. She was naturally watching me and
called me back. I had added another sin
and each was made to seem monstrous to a child’s mind. She punished me and then made me kneel and
again say my prayers. I wonder if the
plea I made—but didn’t understand—for forgiveness is recorded on high.
Children—some
at least—were made to feel that dire disaster might follow a failure to ask for
protection each night. So, this
story: “Did you say your prayer last
night?’ a mother asked. The lad
replied: “No, I didn’t say them last
night or the night before or the night before that. I am not going to say them tonight or
tomorrow night or the night after that, and then, if nothing happens, I’m not
going to say them any more.”
This
reminds me of the story of the boy in Los
Angeles who was asked if he was having a good
time. He replied, “I would if it wasn’t
for God and policeman.” Sometimes I’ve
wondered if many children wouldn’t have a better time of it if it were not for
parents and teachers.
Sunday
school was important to the children; it was interesting and helped to develop
a wholesome attitude, a desire to do what was right and avoid what was wrong as
far as our young philosophers could understand and could differentiate between
the two. My grandmother Coleman had an
unusual aptitude in teaching and impressing young children. Her portrayal of the Crucifixion and of
Daniel in the Lion’s den would move children to tears, so vivid were the
pictures drawn.
Always,
sooner or later, there came the subject of Heaven and Hell. My first impressions were that heaven was a
place above, up in the starry sky, and hell down in the depths of the earth
where all bad people go and being forever burned yet never consumed, banished
forever from the presence of God and angels.
The lurid description of the sinful being ever tossed back into the
fiery furnace by the devil and his angels struck into my mind the deepest dread
I could know. Of course I didn’t want to
go there. This fear of hell was much
more compelling than my desire to go to heaven; there was something more
definite and near at hand, and easier to fall into than climb the ladder to
heaven. What sins would send me to hell
and what virtues to heaven and where was the dividing line? And sin, what was it? Was it doing what parents said you shouldn’t,
or not doing what they said you should?
It was puzzling, very puzzling to me, but I did have great fear and
suffered more during some wakeful hour of the night when darkness magnified any
real or imagined error of the day crossed my evil mind. Fortunately these teachings about these
places have been replaced by more tempered, moderate and sensible views.
The
teachings in all the church organizations, whatever their defects from lack of
greater knowledge or other factors, were wholesome and uplifting. The purpose and spirit of these were to
instill high ideals, right conduct and perpetual progress. “Fulfill the measure of your creation,” was a
theme, almost a slogan, much dwelt upon by the speakers in Sunday meetings
whose earnestness and sincerity were impressive even though the English was
crude, sometimes awful. But they were
dedicated to their religion. Not one was
educated in the school of experience, and their intelligence equaled that of
the most learned from books. Not one,
except my father subscribed to a weekly or monthly magazine. Harper’s Magazine came to father’s home for a
considerable time. Back numbers of this
magazine were left in piles in the old dairy house after we moved to town. I would be around during the noontime after
eating my dinner from a lard bucket we carried when working on the farm. Stories of the bandits in Italy and so many other tales
somewhat enlarged my world and helped me to desire more knowledge and hope for
larger things. I am sure there was no
other boy of my age who had like opportunities and desires. Seeing the influence that Harper’s had on me,
I provided an excess, perhaps, of books and periodicals that my children might
find something, here or there, that would be inspirational, broaden their views,
and enlarge their world—extend their horizons.
I am sure it had the desired results.
Father provided more books than others and among them “The Plays of
Shakespeare.”
We
were well-grounded, established, and fixed in religious or church doctrines and
beliefs. The several church
organizations with the insistent and persistent parental teachings made us feel
the importance of a righteous life, a clean, honest, upright, progressive and
prayerful life. My parents used neither
tea nor coffee, tobacco nor intoxicating liquors. They did, however, keep on hand tea and
coffee to serve visitors who so often came, both members of the church and
non-members, who were accustomed to their use.
Even at risk of being criticized by some, I will say that I honor them
for their respect and consideration for their visitors. They also kept a plug of tobacco and a bottle
of whiskey on hand; the first was used for sick cattle, the second for
medicinal purposes—a hot whiskey sling[17]
often used for the common cold and other illnesses and to rub the body and
reduce fever. Blessings on the food at
each meal and family prayer each was the rule and seldom deviated from.
Mother
taught the first school in Alpine. It
was entirely a local affair, a subscription school. The patrons sending their children would
donate commodities such as flour, perhaps sugar – if they had any – or such
things as they possessed. I am not sure
whether or not any cash was paid, though I very much doubt it. Mother had little, almost no education, and a
graded school was unknown at that time; it was “reader classes”, first, second
and so on, up to the fifth reader. The
books were: the nation-wide “Ole
Blueback Spelling Book” (with fables in the back), “McGuffey’s Readers”, Coburn’s
“Mental Arithmetic”, a small “question and answer” Geography – “What is an
ocean?” etc., and a grammar (it was called).
I’ve really forgotten what sort of book it was, but is was definitely a
grammar.
My
earliest teaching was not in a graded school, but they were just reading
classes in a one-room school house with all the children mixed in a sort of
conglomerate mass. If a pupil was of a
certain age and group in just one subject, he was put in that particular class
or age group fitted to his ability in that one subject only. Perhaps this method of grading had its
merits, at least in the one-room, one-teacher school. The age range was from the six-year old right
up to adulthood. I distinctly remember
one young man who wore a mustache.
I
mentioned that my mother was the first teacher in Alpine. A Mr. Wm. G. Black was the second and
subsequently my grandmother attended school, though not during the same
year. They had a rather intense desire
for knowledge and education. Small
though I was, I was a seat-mate of each at these rough-lumber seats. At first these were benches made with a wide
board nailed on some legs. We kept our
books on them at our side.
Father’s
knowledge was quite limited though beyond that of any other man in Alpine. He had taught school in Harrisburg,
Utah and at Spring Valley, near the mining
town of Pioche, Nevada.
It was at Spring Valley that he met my
mother, who was his pupil. On Jan. 12, 1876, he married
her. He was progressive and a true student, one might say self-made. He did not teach again until 1891 and 1892
after returning from a three year mission among the Maori tribe in New Zealand. He was greatly in need of cash and teaching
was the only source of income he had. However,
he did teach at a brief night school session at home without charge to those
who attended. This was before he went on
his mission in 1888.
Jan. 27,
1959
In
those earlier days, almost all of the older, or married men, wore whiskers or
beards – the male adornment. These were
all sorts – full beards, chin whiskers, goatees, etc. Perhaps beards made he-men look more
“he-er.” Men that had scanty beards
seemed less manly and less desirable for mates.
At best these were a sort of dirty adornment with food, at times,
slobbering down their chin. Yet what
ecstasy there was for a woman to plant a loving kiss amidst that forest of
bristling whiskers. It is certain that
whiskers relieved a man from shaving.
Aside from all this a beard added a certain dignity and manliness at
that time; perhaps not in our time.
I
know of one authenticated case where the angry wife grabbed her husband by the
whiskers with vise-like hold and led him round the room with occasional,
vicious jerks. He said, “Stop! Stop! Or
I’m afraid I’ll hurt you!” After another
lusty yank he landed her a blow between the eyes. She let go and, no doubt, lived happily (?)
ever after. I only add that the husband
was a Bishop[18]. Did he err or did he observe the scripture
“Whom I love I chastise.”
Religion: Sunday was usually well observed. Sunday School at 10:00 AM; meeting at 2:00 PM and, in season, Mutuals at
evening. Usually the attendance was
good. Once a month two ward teachers
were to visit each family to see if they were faithful. These visits followed quite generally a
certain pattern. This was mostly a
routine of questions, such as: “Do you
observe the Word of Wisdom? Do you use
tea, coffee, whiskey or tobacco? Do you
pay an honest tithing? Do you hold any
hard feelings against your neighbors?
(If so it was the duty of the teacher to bring about a
reconciliation. If this failed, the
matter was to be taken to the Bishop’s Court).
Do you attend the Sacrament meetings, etc.” These questions were not always asked, when
they were, they were not always answered correctly or honestly—there were
always lapses of convenient memory. As a
boy I didn’t like to be put “on the spot”, nor do I now, and I found no
pleasure in such meetings. I must have
been quite a sinner to feel so, but still I was quite human. There was a duty to be performed, and that
was it.
The
Sunday afternoon meetings were held in the log schoolhouse. The logs were rough-hewn with chinks to fill
the cracks between and these plastered over with mud. The walls were bare, the floors were of un-planed
wide boards, with cracks between them after they had shrunk; there was no
ceiling, just the uncomely underside of the roof above. A large chimney was in the north end and the
roaring pitchpine (sic) fire, on freezing days, roasted those nearby, while
those who sat more distant were chilled.
A platform was built in the chimney end and a rough-made pulpit stood
near the edge toward the seats below.
Night services were lighted from candles /or coal oil lamps. Where there were fires in the fireplace, the
blaze afforded sufficient light. In
order to make the floors smooth for dancing, tallow candles were whittled about
over the floor, and at intervals the dusty floors were swept and
re-tallowed. It was here, also, that the
afternoon church services were held, in this small building that seemed
abundantly large for the few that attended.
But here they worshipped “in spirit and in truth with the Lord.” The bishoprics and other church officials of
lesser degree sat on the “stage” or platform with the congregation possibly at
times fewer in number that sat below. A
small organ with tread and stops was surrounded by the choir. Their souls were in the songs they sang,
though invariably they were discordant.
But it was of one voice, unforgettable, that rang out above all the
rest—the voice of an impassioned soprano.
Sister Noble was the inspiration, the light and soul of this small
choir. It was the most outstanding and
impressive voice I ever heard throughout my boyhood days. I marveled at it and wondered that such a
divine voice should serve a small place.
Round
dancing was never permitted, not for some years, and when it did come, only one
waltz was allowed during the evening. It
took a few years after round dancing was permitted at church headquarters in Salt Lake City before it
trickled down to our own small communities in the remote areas. Perhaps we should have that much less evil
come from round dancing charged against us.
It even took quite some time for the waltz to travel from St. Johns, to the small
town of Alpine some sixty miles distant.
In one settlement in Southern Utah a
newly-married couple was excommunicated for indulging in two round dances when
the rules only allowed one. This should
not be charged against the church but to the ignorance and zealous stupidity of
local authority.
The
styles were simple and sometimes ignored altogether with the females. Calicoes, ginghams for formal wear, flannels
for petticoats and calicoes; well, I’ve forgotten most about them, and likely
others, but there were interesting innovations—bustles to increase the
protrusions of the hips (I never could see any beauty of form from wearing
these), switches to add to scanty hair, and then there were the bangs. It was my impression that wearing bangs might
be sinful, at least, crowding the border of sin. And yet, I almost forgot about the corsets
worn for style, the ones that constricted the waist to the narrowest
circumferences, even to the point of torture.
The “wasp” waist pushed the heart, liver and lungs upward, the
intestines downward, the isthmus a narrow neck connecting the larger
bodies—separating them, as you will. The
corset served another function, perhaps
a secondary one, but still important.
When round dancing or indulging in the “swinging round the waist” of the
quadrille it safeguarded against the male hand from making too close a contact
with the softer female form beneath, as the arm moved around the waist.
Modesty
or immodesty was far afield from what it is today. It was surely immodest if the dress did not
reach below the ankles; sleeves must reach to the wrist; low-necked dresses
were taboo, never permitted. It would
surely have been considered a sin of high degree, suggestive of evil, and the
“bra” and “shorts” of today would be considered instruments of the devil and
would no doubt be dealt with severely.
One just doesn’t like to think of how this would have been met by the
church officials. The brethren, perhaps,
would have thought it a “moment of evil” thought, but they were human, no
doubt, as today and couldn’t help somewhat weakness that couldn’t be
helped. In those days to say “hello!” to
a lady was thought too familiar. To use
the word bull or “stallion” in the presence of a lady was unthinkable. It just was not done. These comments I apply to what existed in my
small environment. They are factual. They were my “good old days.” Touching the subject of chastity and virtue,
it was impressively and continuously thought that virtue should be guarded and
protected, above all else, even life itself.
Their principles were seldom violated.
I cannot recall that there ever was any case of “lost virtue” in the
years that I grew up living there.
Feb. 4,
1959
Recreations
in those early days were not what they are today. To name a few with a brief description of
them follow; dancing has been described, in part, before. The usual custom was one dance a month on
Saturday night; sometimes on special occasions oftener, especially during the
Christmas holiday season and the Fourth of July and the Twenty-fourth of
July. Any dance on Saturday night,
whether holiday or not, must be closed at midnight
to avoid dancing on Sunday. This was
strictly observed. Any other night than
Saturday the dance might go beyond midnight,
but did not often do so. All dances were
opened and closed with prayer. The dance
was limited largely to the quadrille.
Either the Schottische or the Virginia Reel were permitted. Often the last dance of the evening was the
Grand March. I was almost grown before
the “round dances” were introduced. It
was a considerable time before these dances reached us after they were
permitted in church dances in Salt Lake City; in
fact, it took some time before they traveled from Saint Johns to Alpine, sixty miles away. Music for the dances was from the fiddle (the
ord [sp?] violin came in later) and sometimes it was accompanied by chords on
the diminutive tread organ. The fiddler,
Usually Lyman Hamblin, sat on the stage, one knee over the other, fiddled and
called the dances. Often he stopped
outside and imbibed some spirits to pep him up; sometimes he took too much.
It
was a real event when a play was staged, though not often, with local
talent. Father and Grandmother Coleman
managed and directed I remember the plays, “mad Nancy” and “Ten Nights in a
Barroom.” My father, having some
artistic ability, made some charcoal drawings on the muslin covered flats for
the scenery. Sometimes these plays were
taken to Luna, New Mexico, twelve miles away and to
Nutrioso, ten miles distant. And they
reciprocated.
On
Christmas Day it was usual for all to come to the schoolhouse in the
afternoon—the forenoon was always for the family celebration. And here picnic was served to all; Santa gave
out presents from the Christmas tree.
Forfeit games and other games were played; there was spin the plate,
chase the butterfly, catch the squirrel, and others I’ve no doubt
forgotten. The afternoon children’s
dance must not be forgotten, the older ones teaching the children. The great finale was the dance for the adults
in the evening which at times continued past midnight. Talk
about swell times; they have nothing better today. Some of the young men would step outside to
cool off and come back full of spirits (?) and how they would dance. When I think of it, I want to be young again,
just for awhile. “First four forward and
back, Promenade All,” and so on. I can
hear it and feel it once again, feel the thrill of it, and long for it – just
for tonight – this exuberance of past joys brought up to date soon passes and I
lapse into a somewhat sad but worthy silence.
Regarding
a watchman being posted to see that couples round dancing should maintain a
space between sufficient that a hand could be put between them without touching
either was illustrated by some leader but only to point out the recommended
positions of the couple. However, for a
time, authorized observers would sometimes stop dancers who violated this rule
with the advice that they be more circumspect.
If a couple, after being advised, persisted, they might be requested to
leave the floor. While the motive for
this precaution was most worthy, there were those who questioned the wisdom of
such a rule; at any rate the rule seemed to be forgotten and couples danced
about as they wished. “Face-freezing”
was also condemned with loud protests and objections; it likewise ran its
course, though at present, I am too much
out of date to know it’s final fate.
Sometimes,
or often, I have heard it said that those most loud and persistent in pointing
out the evils, making themselves censors of the young lest they fall into sex
delinquencies; these, perhaps, are unconsciously revealing what is uppermost in
their own minds—evil thoughts. Whether
this observation might be right we will let each decide for himself—whether he
be so righteous.
Feb. 21st,
1959
How
was the spare time of boyhood days spent, mine along with that of others? So far as variety was concerned these were
quite limited and might be said to be seasonal, mostly during winter months at
school. These were: marbles with various games, playing for
keeps, perg (sic) and others; ball, using homemade balls of yarn with covers of
tough cloth our mothers made, “one old cat,” “three old cats,” “anti-I over,”
“steel sticks,” “Stink-base,” “Pomp, Pomp, pull away,” “snowballing” in season,
and perhaps others I may have forgotten.
Oh, Yes, “jacks” was a favorite game with the girls and often played by
boys. Perhaps some of these games should
be described, as some are not known at the present time
Except
at holiday times, dances would average about one a month. Sometimes dancers would go to parties (sic)
at Nutrioso, ten miles away, or Luna
Valley, twelve miles
away. Transportation in wagons did not encourage
this too much.
When
school was not in session, amusements were of quite a different kind. They were of our own making. We had to find a way to fill in such spare
time, which was limited, as best we could and often alone, or with two or three
others. Speaking for myself there were a
number of different activities about the farm and in the hills I enjoyed and
that made me happy; in fact, I didn’t know I was so happy then – I was so happy
being happy I didn’t know it. In looking
back I know it now.
On
the farm were rooster fights, bull fights, and less often stallions
fighting. These were all exciting and we
neglected no opportunity to provoke such contests. There were those who thought it cruel and
very wrong but we red-blooded youngsters loved it, sought it, provoked it and
were not troubled by any sentimental notions.
It may not be amiss to tell about some of these, one by one.
Rooster
fights: We usually kept plenty of
chickens. Most of the well developed
males found their way to the frying pan; quite a number were allowed to develop
into mature roosterhood and were then culled out, leaving enough to supply the
needs of their respective harems, about one rooster to each twenty hens. The ones that were left would determine by
fighting it out which was boss. The boss
would keep the others in constant fear by making frequent attacks. Sometimes it would happen that three roosters
were retained; rooster #1 would whip rooster #2, who would whip Rooster #3, and
#3 would whip #1. Thus each rooster was
boss of one, and each would be bossed by one, a real merry-go-round. To increase the number of fights we hit on
this plan: Suppose the boss was a white
bird. We would roll him in something
dark colored, or black, like soot. This
changed appearance would deceive No. 2 into thinking No. 1 a new arrival – an
immediate attack was made and a bloody battle followed. Often a contest was continued until complete
exhaustion. I never knew one to be
fatal. We liked them.
Dog
fights: These usually occurred if a new
or strange dog appeared, when the home dog made attack. I knew of no dog of special breed except a
shepherd owned by my grandfather Coleman, a splendid dog for rounding up and
driving cattle. At other times two dogs
were brought together, perhaps by the owners, to see which could whip. But a dog fight was always exciting and often
a cruel affair. The shepherd of my
grandfathers was also a fighter and was usually winner. He would grab the intruder by the throat and
not turn loose until he was choked off; whipping him did no good. One time Jim Blazzard called in to see my
father. He had a dog; the shepherd
attacked him with a grip on the throat.
Hearing the noise, Jim and Father rushed out of the house and started to
kick the attacker, when father said; “Jim, we’ll have to choke him off. Kicking him will do no good.” I wanted to help so I had a three foot cudgel
which I was swinging to strike the dog on the head when just at that moment Jim
stooped to choke the dog. His head
caught the full force of the blow. He
didn’t show the least bit of gratitude for my well meant efforts. This dog often killed skunks, but he was a
smelly affair for some days afterwards.
In
addition to dog fights, we liked to “tin-can” them. A tin can with a few rocks in it to make it
rattle was tied to the dog’s tail, and, to our delight, he would run yelping
down the land, off to the land of no return.
Bull
Fights: These were not the bull fights
of Spain and Mexico,
with matadors. These were the pure, unadulterated,
spontaneous, natural fights fresh off the range. When two of these powerful and fearless
animals with heavy thick necks and sharp horns were brought together by chance
or design there was immediate challenge by bellowing and pawing up the earth
and sparring for advantageous attack.
When they did close in there was a sudden clink of horns with powerful
impact. To see an old bull slowly
grazing or walking about he looked awkward and clumsy and one could hardly
imagine the strength, the skill, and the lighting-like speed of attack, parried
defense. It is a sight that awes and
thrills. There is the tus (sic) of
strength as they push each other, one gaining ground and then the other. They are playing the game, the most skillful
offense and defense. When one felt
himself defeated he would shrewdly watch for a chance to break away and run
with the winner following and hooking until the loser had left the field. I should have said that the struggle was not
limited to head-on attacks but one would try to by-pass the head attack and
gouge the other in the side. The
defeated, when out of range, would mope off by himself and hang his head as if
in disgrace.
We
once had a neighbor who had a Mulley—polled or hornless bull. He had been victor in a number of
fights. He had a method of his own by
bunting like a battering ram, striking hammer-like blows squarely in the middle
of his opponents head. This was
disconcerting to his opponents and he would soon turn and run. I came to believe that the Mulley was
superior to the horned bulls. One day a
bunch of range cattle were corralled and among them was a brown bull with sharp
and strong horns. The Mulley was put in
the corral and the crowd sat on the fence to watch the fight. The hornless bull began the battering when,
deftly, the other bull turned his head so the point of his horn met the other
between the eyes and with an upward tilt of the horn torn through the thick
hide of the Mulley; he turned and fled; the fight was over.
When
I was about eleven, I had one experience with a wild two year old bull that,
but for the well placed thrust, would have left me gored and trampled to
death. A bull had come in with the milk
cows one evening. When the cows were
turned out the next morning he was left in the corral. It happened the folks were all away during
the day; I was left all alone. I had
often seen the men prod strange, wild bulls that came in with the cows with
pitchforks. I thought it would be fun to
punch this active young bull with the pitchfork, so I tried it. It was fun until he became angry. He ran into an adjoining calf pen and then
turned on me. I knew he was coming out
and would attack. I had no way of escape
and I knew it. Before I could run across
the corral he would catch me and I knew that.
My only hope was the pitchfork, and I realized my desperate situation;
but I didn’t know what the outcome might be.
If he were the winner, I knew that when my folks came home they would
find a mutilated corpse. I guess I knew
a lot in a little while; I guess I did and saw all; that might have been a
panoramic picture. There wasn’t much
time. Somehow I didn’t panic. Out he came turning and rushing toward me
with head lowered in fury. With all my
strength I plunged the tines of the fork into his nose. With a bellow he jerked his nose off the
tines of the fork and ran to the other side of the corral. I felt pretty limp as I quickly climbed over
the fence to safety.
This
adventure was my secret for a number of years.
I didn’t care to advertise how foolish I had been. And I didn’t feel that I was a hero. But I’ve sometimes wondered where all my
children and grandchildren would be if that bull had caught me. It is a waste of time to wonder, or
speculate, for we will never know.
We
had a lot of fun, at least we thought it fun, to “tin-can” animals, especially
wild bulls and see them speed away. It
was certainly exciting.
Stallion
fights: But few have been privileged to
witness one of these contests, and of those few, only rarely did they have such
chance. Out on the range in the
primitive forest where bands of horses ran wild and free, except for the
infrequent corralling at branding time, added something more than the mere
contest. It was something! This was an amphitheatre set in the midst of
a forest so dense that the man on horseback had to pick his way through much of
it but with here and there open spaces, the arena, the battleground. Imagination must fill in what words cannot
supply; the beauty, the grandeur, to picture this nature’s setting for the
drama of the wilds. There are trees of
aspen, fir, spruce, pine, and sometimes oak towering skyward; the leaves of the
aspen are never still even on the stillest of days; there is the fragrance of
the forest, the birds are never still; perhaps great clouds, thunderheads, may
be floating overhead with great shadows on the ground keeping pace with the
clouds. In the forest were wrought
fantastic and ever varying forms of glinting shafts of sunshine amidst the
shadows; the whispering voices, or eerie sounds of the wind in the trees. What wonder Bryant wrote: “The Groves Were God’s First Temples.”
Didn’t
I say one needed imagination? It is the
creative power of the mind and whatever fantastic paths it may follow, or
pictures built, it give us pleasure. So,
let us use it.
On
the range a stallion gathers, as he can, his mares—his harem. He holds these together, herds them, guards
them with possessive ardor. If a mare tries to leave the band, the stallion
goes after her. If she resists, he is
quick to attack her with vicious biting and drives her back. They soon learn obedience; his discipline is
thorough and final. And at every
opportunity he gathers another mare that might happen to be nearby. He is polygamous by nature and his nature is
his guide; there are no religious restraints and, too, perhaps, there are no
jealousies among his wards. Sometimes
another stallion with his band of mares might unexpectedly run into the first,
and the quick reaction is for each to herd his band away from the first, but if
they get too close and the bands get too mixed-up, combat is likely to
follow. Many such battles are not
witnessed by man, but the rider gathering horses is apt to drive one band into
another. He, or they, then may remain in
the background and watch the affray. In
describing the fight I will be unable to do it justice but will endeavor to
make it factual, avoiding any imaginative additions.
It
is a beautiful picture. There two horses
with sleek coats, long flowing manes and tails, prancing with arched necks,
playing for position of advantage and squealing as they close in. As they rush together they rear up on their
hind legs. As they drop to the ground
they lunge at each other, often seizing the front leg of the opponent where it
joins the body. Of a sudden, one will whirl and administer lightning-like
kicks; the other, if possible, throwing himself against the rump of the kicker
in order to break the strength of the kick.
Around and around they go until one becomes the victor. This encounter, I repeat, thrilling,
magnificent, something well worth seeing.
To me this is more interesting than a bout in the fight ring. The victor drives the loser off the field and
proceeds to retrieve and add to his harem; but usually, if not always, the
mares have scattered and the loser gathers up a few of his remaining
consolation prizes. The larger horse is
not always the winner. Over in the Romero Valley,
a rancher had brought in a large Percheron[19]
stallion, some 1600 pounds. One day a
band of range horses were driving in.
These was a range stallion, small one, about 1000 pounds but very
active. Some how the two stallions got
together; when the fight was over, the Percheron lay dead. The smaller stallion was tough and quick, the
larger one was heavy and awkward.
Father,
at one time kept two stallions. They
were tied to the manger at night in one end of the barn. One night they somehow got loose and a fight
ensued—the younger one was the victor.
The latter was mean and vicious. Father
was currying him one morning; I was standing in front of him on a platform next
to the manger when, suddenly, the horse reached over, bit me on the belly and
dropped me in the manger. There was no
serious injury, but later on he managed to do a better job on me. The two stallions were worked together as a
team. I rode the defeated stallion
alongside the other and drove the lead team.
While the teams were stopped for a short rest the other turned around to
bite the first but he got my leg instead, biting it on the shins. After nearly seventy years, the scar still
remains.
At
one time we had about one-hundred and fifty horses on the range, on the
mountain West of Alpine. To me there was
nothing more exciting and thrilling than giving chase after a wild band of
horses. They would “hit out” in full
speed and at the same pace we would follow, over ridges and hollows, over
fallen logs and through thickets, trying to turn them into the direction that
we wanted them, our mounts covered with foam, panting and often winded; then
the band got away and we had to ride another day. Those who have been denied such thrills can
hardly know what has been missed.
Father
and I quite often took camping outfits to the mountains and would spend a few
days rounding up horses, branding colts, and selecting some of the best mares
to put in the pasture at home for breeding as stallions on the range were apt
to be “scrubs.” We built a corral on a
draw or hollow leading into Coyote Creek.
This is still known as Keywood draw.
Also we would bring in young broncos to break-in to the saddle or
harness. We were never able to find all
our horses, and the next year yearlings that had not been branded
mavericks. The saddle horses were
hobbled out at night and rounded-in early in the morning. Often we brought oats along to grain the
hoses; besides, the oats were an inducement for them to stay close instead of
wandering too far away. As was the
custom at home, there were invariably prayers each night and each morning, and
“blessings” at meal time. However,
Father came to combining prayers and blessings all in one, an economy in words
and time and effort. And why not? We could be just as devout and sincere. I was all for it. In the horse round-ups, where there were
several men these devotions were omitted.
At
break of day the forests were filled with bird calls and choruses from the
throats of various kinds of birds of untold numbers. There was the howl of the coyote, the barks
of the small gray squirrels near their homes in the fir trees; in the spring,
the gobbling of the tom turkey and the call of the hen—this only during the
mating season. All nature was awake and
proclaiming, “It’s time to get up.” And
the evening had also its charm. A day’s
ride makes one tired, and the “bed” is welcome even though it be hard, rough,
bumpy ground. The sounds of the morning
are broadcast again at night. But there
is the added delight, while lying awake, of looking up through the branches of
the spruce that over-hangs and protects our camp from rain and sun, looking up
into the heavens studded with bright stars and the moon glinting down and
changing the shadows as it moves along its course; and often, there would be
clouds floating overhead. Some times a
storm breaks at night and the rain drives in torrents—an electric storm, a
thunder storm. There are the zigzag
streaks of lightning that light up the entire heaven and accompanying sudden
claps of deafening thunder. The grandeur
and magnificence filled me with awe and wonder.
Recalling these days, they afford me the grandest, most thrilling,
choicest and most enduring of all my memories.
And just now some lines of Bryant’s poem come to my mind: “Oh, God, when thou dost scare the world with
tempests, set on fire the heavens with thunderbolts of fire, with all the
waters of the firmament, the swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods and
drown the villages and when at Thy call, uprises the great deep and throws
himself upon the continent and overwhelms the cities; who forget not at these
tokens of Thy tremendous power his pride and lays his strikes and follies
by. Oh, from the sterner aspects of thy
face spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath of the mad, unchained
elements who rules them.”
It
might be understandable that I should long to visit these youthful haunts
again; and especially to have some of my children with me thinking and
believing that they might absorb something of worth and, too, understand why I
feel as I do. But time runs out and I
must be content, but ever longing.
A
morning following a storm is a wondrous thing; the raindrops on the twigs are
like sparkling jewels, like tiny rainbows in the morning sunshine; the air is
invigorating and redolent with forest fragrances and the consciousness of
absorbing and enjoying all. It was all
there, so why let it go to waste? One
day when we were riding, it had been raining and was still drizzling. We had our yellow slickers on, but we didn’t
cover our ankles and feet and, of course, they were soaked. From the edge of the mountain we looked down
over the Alpine valley and the town with the hills and valley green as a lawn,
from recent rains. Clouds were hugging
the mountain sides below us, and to add to the picture that huge mountain,
Escudilla, stood out in its majesty beyond.
On this day near noon,
as we were riding toward camp, Father rode up a draw, and I on the ridge
above. As we met he said: “Gallop to camp and get the Winchester[20]. I saw a bear with her cub a little way down
the draw.” I did as he asked, and as we
neared the place, he said: “Gallop
up!” We frightened the bear and she ran
into the thicket, but no cub. We knew
that it must have climbed a tree. We
searched some time before we found it, not one but two cubs high up in the pine
tree. My father shot one, and I the
other. They were as large as a
good-sized dog. We took one home and we
had roast bear meat for a week. I believe
that I was fourteen at the time. I guess
I was rather proud.
A
year or two later, Uncle Prime[21]
and I were building a corral on Coleman Creek.
One late afternoon I took my Winchester
and walked up a side canyon to see if I could kill a turkey. While returning along the trail I met an old
bear. She ran out to one side, heading
for a thicket; however, I raised my gun and quickly fired—she fell! It was a brown bear. Her fur was long—winter fur. I had the hide tanned to make a rug, but it
didn’t wear long. She had recently come
out of winter’s hibernation and was beginning to shed her hair.
February
28th, 1959
Returning
to boyhood sports, amusements, or filling up some leisure time, I hardly know
just where to begin. Any leisure time
that came my way was never spent in idleness.
There were so many varied and interesting things on every side. The activities were so varied that the terms
“sports” “amusement” hardly seemed to fit; it seems more appropriate to say
that I was just having a good time. What
may be said of these good times will be far from exhaustive. I am sure that most of these were spent by
myself, next with my brother, Spence, two years younger, and often times with
others.
By
myself I could roam the hills afoot or on horseback. I always wanted to go on a little farther to
see what was there, excursions of discovery; to reach some high points to view
the landscape spread out across the country—the valleys, the mountain ranges,
until they were lost in the blue.
Sometimes great clouds billowed up and cast giant shadows that moved
along over the scene, and when these clouds on the distant mountain slope grew
blacker and broke into a thunder storm, torrents of rain poured down that
brought a thrill to me. I stood in awe
and wondered. I was having a good time,
a wondrous time, all mine, and nothing to break the spell.
There
was always the great outdoors for many miles around, and mountains to climb—our
natural playground. Spence and I
frequently roamed the hills, chased and caught chipmunks. There were two kinds; the larger one about
twice the size of the smaller one. The
larger never climbed into trees but would have short burrows we could often dig
out, or they would squeeze into tight places along the log fence or under a
rock. We would often catch and kill
them, as they took a generous toll of wheat nearby. Often we caught them by the tail and tried to
pull them out, but this was not successful as the skin easily pulled off
leaving the raw tail exposed. The
smaller variety climbed small trees and we knocked them out with rocks. Often our dog would follow and sometimes tree
a squirrel. An hour or two might be
spent trying to dislodge or kill the squirrel with rocks. We were usually unsuccessful, especially when
the tree was tall; often it would hide itself in a crotch or where foliage was
dense. It was a great delight to see a
squirrel jump a long distance from one lofty tree to another, a feat one would
think impossible. The bushy tail served
as a rudder and the squirrel spread wide its legs to increase its under surface
as it gracefully glided through the air to catch the tip of a branch to scurry
away to a place of safety. The first
squirrel I shot fell from high up in a pine tree with a broken leg. It tried to climb back when Spence rushed and
grabbed it; the squirrel grabbed my brother, bit him through the fleshy part of
his thumb. He lost no time in turning
him loose.
One
time Spence and I sat down on the hillside to rest. Suddenly he put his hands over his face,
rocked back and forth and began to cry.
I was alarmed and asked what the matter was. He picked up a plant that he had broken off,
handed it to me and said, “Smell that?”
This was our first acquaintance with a nettle, a plant that grew on dry
hillsides to a height of perhaps many feet, a plant that grew quite unlike the
ball nettles that grow in moist places.
Often I slapped it on the back of my hand; it stung, not severely, but
immediately white lumps appeared, somewhat like hives that smarted and itched.
I
think that I was about the most curious boy in Alpine, wanted to find out
things that seemed uninteresting to others, especially boys. When I went off by myself I would lift a rock
or turn over some fallen tree to see what was underneath; such a variety of
interesting insects surprised me and, occasionally a harmless snake. I never knew of a rattlesnake in Alpine. The plants and wild flowers appealed to me
and there were so many of them during the wet season. Often I gathered bouquets of wild flowers and
took them to mother. Strange, that they
should still interest me when I am considered color-blind. A letter Mother once wrote me late in her
life commented on the “beautiful” bouquets of wild flowers I brought her. I think time, perhaps, exaggerated them
Fishing
in the little stream for the native brook trout was a delight, one I could
enjoy by myself. I loved to sit and
watch these speckled fish move about with easy grace or dart off to hide, if
they saw me move. I learned that to
shout did not disturb them but to stamp on the bank and vibrate it they would
dart away. It was a real event when
Father took me on my first fishing trip over the head of the Black
River. I was elated in
catching the largest trout. Off and on I
fished in this same place for more than fifty years. But now, alas, I have grown too old and
stiff.
March 2,
1959
Often
hunting birds’ nests in the meadows, along the fences or in the willows that
lined the creek, never grew tiresome.
There was the killdeer’s nest that was so hard to find, just a small
shallow place in some open space on the ground, and bare of any lining
feathers, or grasses; the speckled eggs blended so nearly with the ground that
they were difficult to see; if one came too near the nest the mother bird, with
wild shrill cried, would flutter away, as if crippled, leading the intruder
from the nest as he tried to catch it.
When a safe distance away, the bird would rise gracefully in the air and
disappear. The meadow larks were found
in meadows on the ground, in the air and would disappear in flight. The meadow larks were more numerous than the
blackbirds. Blackbird nests were
numerous and to be found almost anywhere, on the ground and the fences,
willows, and sometimes trees. There were
many other varieties of birds. Some
birds would abandon their nests if a human hand touched an egg, however
lightly.
The
return of the bluebird in springtime was most welcome. It seemed to bring back the spring. The bluebird might well be called a domestic
wild bird. It liked to be around the
homes. Mother used to weave a small
willow basket and place in some recessed spot in the wall just outside, or on
the window sill. Always, it soon
contained a nest. We watched the
progress as twigs and grass and fathers were woven in; noticed the first egg
laid, the second, third, and fourth; waited for their hatching—two weeks I
think it was until—until all were hatched.
They seemed all mouth at first and quite naked; we watched the mother
feed them, and watched until they feathered out and flew away. These domestic
wild birds.
And
there were the heavily forested mountains to the south and west, with the oak,
pine, spruce, fir, and quaking asp; and the massive mount to the north, with
scattered pines, Alpine nestled against its foothills. The slope to the west is mostly covered with
a dense growth of quaking asps, young trees they are of comparatively recent
growth. This slope at one time was
covered with pines and oaks on the foothills, merging into the firs and
spruces, with some quaking asps higher up the slope to the mountain brim. But one day, lightning struck some dry tree
and set it on fire; it rapidly spread and burned for days and days, possibly
weeks. I cannot be sure of that. Night after night, when dark came on, we
stood outside and watched the scattered fires, glowing in the dark; sometimes a
large tree, all ablaze, would fall like a pillar of fire. It was not long after this until the aspens
reseeded, took over where they are, with seldom a spruce or fir. It is a magnificent valley when autumn frosts
have touched the leaves with color, especially when the setting sun spreads
gorgeous colors over the horizon. If
anything could be added to such a scene, let imagination and fancy supply the
finishing touches.
About
midway on this slope, but toward the top, a rugged peak juts out and points
upward, as if some upheaval had thrust it up.
The top is ringed with a ragged layer of stones. This has been known as Gobbler’s Peak from as
far back as I can remember, named, no doubt, by some hunter who heard the
springtime gobble of the wild turkey, Tom.
During times of Indian scares it was not difficult to wonder whether
some skulking Indian might not be on the top of this eminence, surveying the
town below. Frequently Apache bands
“broke out” from the reservation and went on the warpath; we had fears.
Frequently
we cut fence poles at the foot of Gobbler’s Peak. I remember a little cove, or dell, where one
might eat the dinner he brought along in a lard bucket. There was a small spring of clear, cold water
bubbling up from the bottom with sand rising and falling back again. The water was cold, not cool; so cold one
could not hold his hand in it for more than a few minutes. Around this spring was a spongy damp covering
of grass and small flowering plants, wild violets, and others with minute
blooms. And, of course, there were trees
all around with plenty of shade, but so cool that a sunny spot was chosen for
rest. On the opposite side of the peak
was a thick grove of aspen trees that had escaped the fire and were large
enough for fence poles. These we would
drag out with a horse to the wagon below, I remember cutting poles for Jim
Thompson for a dollar a day and boarding myself. I was batching at the time and caring for the
farm, the dairy cows and some horses. I
just now remember; at the time I was cutting poles, I had a painful boil, or
abscess, on my heel and the relief that came when it broke; there was no
medicine or tablets at that time for relief of pain—just suffer it out was all
we had to do; it was just that simple.
The
mountains were wonderful—fascinating!
Not only were they to be seen and enjoyed; viewed in a colorful autumn
and the new springtime verdure; the shifting scenes from morn till night, and
the moonlight; clouds above the horizon or floating along the mountain sides;
so many lovely things if we would just take the time to see them, and let
imagination expand them. Then, too, I
think there were delights we were scarcely conscious of, such as evening
shadows of some mountain peak lengthening with giant strides toward the east;
or the shortening shadows of rising sun; at least, something stirred within.
The
mountains. Why the everlasting urge to
climb, to work our way to the very top?
Is it an instinctive thing handed down as something in our blood from
some ancestral past, when Greek gods were on Mount
Olympus, or the children of Israel,
guided by a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night? How can one get the most out of Nature unless
he hunts for it and brings it up into consciousness? What a wealth of joyous pleasure to delight
the soul if we only knew it and looked for it.
What is possible to see and feel in one ascent would make a volume. Someone has written, “What an infinite joy is
lost to the world for want of culture of this spiritual endowment”—seeing
beauty. Why doesn’t someone write a book
on how to get the most out of a mountain climb, including other related
topics? Such a book could well be
included in a course of study.
From
memory I quote the following: “Beauty is
an all pervading presence; it unfolds in the numberless blossoms of springtime;
it waves in the branches of the trees and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea; it
gleams out in the colors of the sea-shell and the precious stone. And not only these minute objects, but the
ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and the
setting sun all overflow with beauty.
The Universe is beauty’s temple.
And those men who are alive to it cannot lift their eyes without feeling
themselves encompassed with it on every side.
Now this beauty is so precious and the enjoyment of it so refined, so
pure, and so congenial, with the tenderest and noblest feelings, and so akin to
worship that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the
midst of it and living almost as blind to it as if, instead of this fair earth
and glorious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world for want
of culture of this spiritual endowment.
The greatest truths are wronged when not linked with Earth’s beauty, and
they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this,
their natural and fit attire.”
Clambering
through the forest, up the mountainside along the zigzag trail, or where there
is none, gives so much to be seen and heard and felt. As we wind our way up, with each pause for
breath we see “beauty such as blooms not in the glare of the bright sun and the
delicate forest flower with scented breath and looks like a smile as it issues
from shapeless mold,” and there are numberless varieties of flowers and ferns
along the way. Over here is a patch of
wild raspberries and possibly a wild gooseberry bush as tall as a man and
bearing berries all covered with thorns, but edible, and “yon clear spring that
wells softly forth to visit the strong roots of half the mighty forest and
tells no tale of all the good it does.”
If we look up, perhaps we will see a cloud floating overhead.
And
sounds? The forest is full of them. A turkey hen might be calling to her brood,
or sounding a note of warning and the little ones hiding away in a moment, and
hard to find. A little gray squirrel may
be high up on a fir tree limb near the hole that leads to his nest inside. You can hear his little bark, and with each
bark he pats his foot and flicks his tail.
Birds—the forest is full of them, more kinds than I know, from the
humming bird up to the hawk or crow, or even the turkey, if you will. The ringing volume sounds; they pour out, the
twittering; the warbling, the calls that ring out are astonishing, and the
whirr of their wings as they pass. There
is the sighing of the wind and rustle of aspen leaves that are never
still. Besides, when an open space is
found, and one looks back at the endless space of valley and mountain range,
one wonders.
We
clamber up, up, up, until that top is reached.
It took some time as the altitude gets one out of breath and frequent
stops must be made. But that has its
advantages—we see more. But now, on top
of the peak, I Know, the very top, from which we can see in all directions,
forests, valleys, mountain ranges, and peaks.
We get to see what is on the other side, a thing we’ve wondered about
and wanted to see. And here it is.
Immediately
north of Alpine is the immense mountain peak, the Escudilla[22]
(pronounced Es-kuh-de-ah). It is the
most prominent landmark of the surrounding country and, perhaps the highest,
except San Francisco Peak, in Arizona,
but I am not sure of that. At any rate
it is very prominent and can be seen as far as seventy five miles away, maybe
more. I wanted to see the top and look
out over the country. When I was twelve
or thirteen, I was permitted to with my uncles who went to look after horses
they had up there. The trail was very
steep and because of the altitude the horses soon ran out of wind, so, up the
steepest part we dismounted and led our horses, stopping every few rods to get
our breath. What had appeared to be the
top, was not, as a smaller peak resting on this base was still above us. When we reached this point there was spread
out the most expansive and impressive views I had ever witnessed. I make no attempt to describe it. Only twice did I get to make this
excursion. I’d like to go again at my
age of eighty-two; guess I’d better forego the pleasure. To my boyish fancy the Escudilla was a
sentinel, watching over the town below.
A dense forest grew on the northern slopes of the Escudilla; pines,
firs, spruce, and aspens. About ten
years ago, a devastating forest fire spread over all this area, destroying
practically all the timbered area.
March
9:
Another
of boyhood’s pleasures must be mentioned—the fun we had in the barns. Many hours were spent, romping, wrestling,
tumbling in the hay and climbing to some high
point, leaping out, trying to turn somersaults. Only if those two barns could talk, what
tales they might tell, joys most boys may never know.
Despite
all the adverse things that come our way, I think my boyhood days were
wonderful after all. I think I could say
as much for my adult life. What I have
written so far has been quite at random, almost without purpose or
chronological order. It has been more
for my own amusement, and to fill in time; things that just occurred to me at
the moment. What more I may write will
be much the same, something here or there.
My
Indian Summer
The
dictionary says that an Indian summer is a warm or mild spell of weather late
in autumn or early winter. But to me, it
is quite different. That comes from
hearing people speak of some summer day that was clear and still and quiet,
with a haze hanging in the sky, a haze not unlike a diffused, light smoke that
might have been driven from a forest fire.
There were often days such as these, but one, only one, that stands out
indelibly recorded in my memory. I might
say it was in early night, after we were all in bed and had been asleep and
were strangely awakened, just my mother and I; no other ever knew about
it. Father was away from the home at the
time.
We
were dairying at the time. Mother made
cheese and butter for our own use, and for sale. After rains set in July, and the hills were
covered with grass, the cows were turned out to graze during the day and
corralled at night; the calves were kept up during the day and after they had
“started to milk” they were turned out at night. The corral was just back of our house (It
seems more fitting to say house than home).
About two rods away and adjoining it to the west were the big barn and
barnyard.
This
particular summer day, and night, was clear and still, with a haze that I
understood marked it as Indian Summer.
As evening progressed the usual chores were done, and we went to bed and
to sleep. Soon we were awakened by the
low mooing of the cows, not the loud moo that called the calf, but a subdued
sound that might be called mournful.
Sometimes when calves strayed away in grazing, a coyote would attack
them and the calves would run bawling back to the corral; the cows would bellow
as they ran back and forth along the fence.
But it was nothing like this. The
cows were not excited; some were lying down.
The low mooing continued an ominous and disconcerting sound. We had never heard anything like it.
Mother
came to my bedroom and said, “I wonder what’s the matter out there. I wish you would go and see.” In her voice there was a tone of fear. I quickly dressed and went out. I should have said the fear was from the
possibility of lurking Indians, Apaches who had escaped from the Reservation
and out on the warpath. We were always
conscious of this possibility. Outside,
the moon in the southern sky shone through the haze. I kept in the shadow of the board fence,
listening and watching, and encircled the barn.
I neither saw nor heard anything unusual. The cows no longer mooed, and all was
still. I grew up on a ranch, a farm, and
we always had cows, but only this once had cows behaved like this. Why I do not know. It is as puzzling today as it was then. But it stands out yet as my conception of
what, to me, was an Indian Summer day.
At
this time it may well be to say something about cheese making in those early
days, just a brief description of the methods.
My parents and grandparents, Colemans[23],
worked together a number of methods. My
memory brings back dairying during summer months after rains began and grass
grew lush on the hills. They built two
log dairy houses, one in which to make the cheese and the other for cheeses,
and during which took a number of weeks, perhaps about three months. The cheeses were put on shelves made of slats
for the purpose of circulating the air around them to prevent mildew. For some time, they were turned daily and
rubbed with butter.
They
had a rather deep rectangular vat with a small stove beneath, to bring the milk
up to the required temperature needed for coagulating it into curds by stirring
rennet[24]
into the milk. In a short time the milk
became a homogeneous mass of soft curd.
At the proper time, a knife with four or five long blades set quite
close together was carefully run through the whole, lengthwise and then
crosswise, cutting the curds into small square strips. Time was given for these curds get
smaller. To stir too vigorously might
make the “white they run” which meant that it was draining out the fat, leaving
a skim milk cheese, or nearly so. When
it was gradually drained through a tap below.
The curds were worked, or stirred, until they became quite hard and
tough, then salted to taste and put to press in hoops. I omit details of this.
It
is interesting to know how the rennet, or rennin, used to curdle the milk, was
obtained. A calf was kept from its
mother until it was real hungry, when it was let to the cow. This caused the maximum digestive secretions
that were poured into the stomach, and among them the rennin, the calf was
killed, the stomach removed, the ends tied and it was hung up for some place to
dry. When the rennet was needed a piece
of the dried contents of the stomach was cut off, put into solution, and
stirred into the milk. I am under the
impression the solution that used was water acidified with vinegar, but I am
not sure of this.
Cheeses
were not always uniform in flavor, or texture.
There was the sweet cheese, that bulged out from the inside pressure
that caused large air spaces. This
cheese was my favorite. Occasionally the
curds would not adhere to each other, even though pressed. But they were good. To preserve them until needed they were
packed in a large crockery jar, and brandy poured over the top. It was good.
I liked it.
Friday,
the 13th of March, 1959.
Alpine,
the Valley Beautiful.
This
small valley had its setting amidst timbered mountains on three sides and
almost on the fourth, on the north, west and south. To the east, the way the water ran, low
mountains and hills narrowed the valley to a
closed‑in canyon with trees growing up to the very edge. In fact, the forests completely encircled the
valley. Timber was on all sides. Nestled here,
8,000
feet above sea level, was this place of beauty, attractive, in season, to a
would-be settler. The greatest length
was about four miles; the width a little less than half its length, the edges
of the valley with “hollows” lying between the hills that had a growth of pines
of saw-log size.
The
first settler, Anderson Bush, came here about 1876 (the exact date I do not
know) and claimed squatter rights to the valley. He built a small log cabin just east, and
over the brow of the hill of the cemetery.
His son, Allen, was the first death and was buried here. The headstone still stands. The valley was known as Bush Valley
until a post office was established, giving it the name, Alpine. For some years Bush Valley
was the common name.
I
do not know the exact date that Frederick Hamblin and William B. Maxwell came
into the valley and purchased Bush’s rights but it must have been in 1878 or
1879. Hamblin took the upper, or west
end of the valley; Maxwell the lower, or east end. This was the beginning of a Mormon
community. The fort built for protection
against bands of renegade Apaches must have been on the dividing line between
the Hamblin and Maxwell holdings as my father bought land from each of these
during the winter of 1879 and 1880 and by doing so acquired possession of the
fort.
The
Mormon Church organized a ward, with James Owens as Bishop. He did not remain long, and Edward A. Noble
was elected during the winter of 1879-1891 (sic); my father then succeeded him.
I
am not sure when the fort was built, but likely in ’79. It is certain that it was earlier than the
summer of 1880, as that is when Indians stole the settlers’ horses that were
being herded by Duane Hamblin and Will Maxwell, son of Wm. B. Maxwell. The account of this I will mention later.
The
fort enclosed an area large enough for a team and wagon to be turned
around. The cabins were made of unhewn
logs of small dimensions, except the one used as a church on the northeast
corner. These log structures and dirt
roofs, and for the most part, dirt floors; puncheon floors[25]
were in some. These cabins, end to end,
were continuous except for a space in the southwest corner, through which a
team might be driven. The logs in these
cabins rotted rapidly as the bark had not been removed and they became soggy,
due to the heavy rains. One time, the rotting
beam that supported the dirt roof broke in two burying my brother Spence and
myself beneath. We happened to be
standing near the wall and escaped injury.
When
the Indians stole the horses, it is reasonable to believe that except for the
fort, the settlers would have been massacred because afterward they ruthlessly
killed wherever possible. At Los Leotus
(sp?), later the Spur Ranch, New
Mexico, they shot Mexicans after taking away their
guns. Near Alma, N. M. an all day’s
battle was fought, the whites holding out in a stockade house as the Indians
were attempting to get a band of horses corralled near by. One white man and one Indian were killed.
A
suit was file against the U. S. Government to recover the value of the stolen
horses. They felt that since the Indians
were wards of the government the settlers should be recompensed. Loomis and Clark were the lawyers. The suit ran for several years. Finally the U. S. Court decided against the settlers
on the ground that, “the Indians at the time were not in amity with the
government.” A number of the horses were
well-bred and choice.
But
Alpine, the Valley Beautiful, what had it to offer for the future? There was timber in abundance; there was
ample range for cattle, lush with grasses. There was land for farming
grains—wheat, barley, oats, and sometimes rye; potatoes, turnips, and carrots;
garden stuffs were grown without irrigation; and for a time, grasses growing on
the foothills were out for hay. It all
looked most promising. But all too soon herds
of cattle overstocked the range; drought came; grasshoppers cleaned off the
crops for a couple of years. Late frosts
in the spring were sometimes damaging and early autumn frosts got the grain
before it was fully ripe, and the kernels were shriveled. Fences were broken through and meadows dried
up. In time of course, rains came
back. Large herds of cattle were driven
off the range. Normal times returned but
it was not a complete come-back.
But
in spite of any prosperity, still what did the beautiful Alpine have to offer
for the future, the near and distant future?
There was beauty and plenty of it, but they didn’t see that, not very
many, not very much. That wasn’t what
they were desiring or seeking, or perhaps, needing.
Moved
by the pioneer spirit my father came to Alpine in the late fall, or early
winter of 1879 seeking a new location, a new home. Bush
Valley then pleased
him. He thought he saw possibilities;
perhaps he did. He reasoned that here
his children could grow up. But he
believed further that at the same time opportunities would move along with the
growth of the country. In this he was
mistaken, to put it mildly. What
opportunities? A young man might aspire
to become a cattleman, a farmer, or a schoolteacher, or combinations of
these. That was about all. If he were to choose teaching and two others prepared
for teaching there was room for only one; two must get out. Suppose he wished to become a doctor, a
lawyer, or any other vocation; what did this small place offer? The greatest aspiration or ambition possible
would be to get out—out. The poet said,
“There were holy men of old who hid themselves deep in the woody wilderness and
gave their lives to thought and prayer till they outlived the generation born
with them and seemed no less aged than the hoary trees and rocks about them.” The forests about Alpine might be inviting
but not persuasive.
Alpine,
the Valley Beautiful. Our little world,
circumscribed, limited, so pitifully small it is, too small, almost, to grow
lofty ideals or large purposes, and should these be achieved, why waste them in
so small a place? Seldom then did we see
beyond the encircling mountain tops. The
scattered settlers, perhaps a dozen families, gave little social life. Yet, we did not suffer for the wants or
needs—we didn’t know about them, and life seemed quite full and happy. We were religious—we had faith. “Fulfill the measure of your creation” was
often spoken. Life was purposeful and
each Sunday, at church, we were admonished to live worthy lives. Emphasis was placed on virtue; “value it
ahead of life itself” was the dictum. In
all those years there was never a couple that “had to get married.” In more than eighty years that Alpine has
existed there has never been a murder.
There was probably one case of manslaughter. This, we may mention later.
But
time has made changes. With autos,
telephones, radio, and television an enlarged world has opened up;
opportunities are everywhere for everybody.
The vision of the future is greatly broadened. Still, Alpine remains small and offers
nothing for those who have gone away to school and prepared themselves for the
vocations and the professions of today; then was then and now is now.
Looking
back I note that of the early settlers of Alpine not one is left as old as
I. I believe there is one lady almost as
old as I, but I understand that her mind no longer functions. There is a considerable gap between her age
and the next oldest. Being the oldest
one is not an achievement of which I care to boast.
Sunday
was a day of rest and worship. There
were few who failed to observe it. Often
there were discussions about how many chores or how much work might be done
without “breaking” the holy Sabbath.
Sunday School was held at 10:00
A. M., church services at 2:00
P. M. Sunday School was more for
children. At half past nine the huge bell rang out to alert
the scattered members that in half an hour Sunday School would convene, the
sounding of the bell for all to set their clocks and watches in accord. Those living some distance away came in their
wagons; not more than one or two could afford a buggy. The wagons lumbering over the rocky roads
could be heard rattling along for quite a distance, especially when the team
was driven at a trot.
Before
telling about the afternoon services, I will speak of the church house, the
school house, or meeting house, all three in one. It was built for all purposes but built by
Church members. It did not belong to the
school district though for many years, perhaps even up to the present time, has
been used for school purposes, but the Church owned it. The first building was
constructed in the autumn of 1881, starting about Sept. 5th. The decision to build was made that day which
was a Sunday. Actual work may have begun
a day or two later. The decision was
made quite hastily. It came about in
this way.
On
the above date Sunday School was being held in a private residence a mile west
of the Fort, where a townsite had been selected. About noon,
J. D. (Dave) Lee rode in, horseback, from Nutrioso, ten miles away, with the
alarm that a band of Indians (Apaches), on the warpath, had left the
reservation at Fort
Apache and that there was
danger that the Indians might attack. He
brought the word that the residents of Nutrioso thought it advisable for Alpine
to come to Nutrioso, or visa versa. The
first decision of Bishop, and other men present, was to move the settlers to
Nutrioso, but those living in the Fort objected, saying the Fort could be put
in shape to repel any attack. It was
then decided to build the “meeting house,” which could be used as a place of
defense if occasion should later arise.
This band of Indians did not attack.
It was promptly built.
The
building was almost square, made of rough hewn pine logs, large enough for one
quadrille to be danced on the floor below the stage or platform in the North
end. The roof was covered with shakes,
split from three-foot pine blocks, by using a froe and mallet. They were far from a perfect cover, since the
shakes would warp and crack, letting the rains leak through here and there. The floors were of rough lumber that would
shrink and warp. When dances were on,
tallow candles were whittled over the floor to make it smoother. This was done at intervals during the dance,
just after the dusty dirt was swept off the floor.
Parenthetically,
I might observe that these intervals were convenient times for the fiddler to
step outside, cool off, and take a few drinks to revive his spirits. He often became quite jolly and made the
dancers step lively as he called the quadrilles. It was a great time, a jolly good time. Time turns back and I can almost hear that
fiddler call out; “First four forward and back, handi-man (sic) left; shash
(sic) [sashay[26]]
cut and swing on the corner, all promenade[27]”,
etc, and the many various calls. (Some
of these I may have misspelled but I couldn’t find them in the dictionary—I
looked.) It is not intended to convey
the idea that drunkenness was the order; definitely it was not, but it did
creep in, at times. High heeled boots,
with trousers stuffed in the top, and the red bandana handkerchief tied around
the neck was not infrequent.
To
return to the “meeting house.” It was
not so long before more room was needed, and the size of the room was doubled
by adding to the south end, which was removed; also, a new roof of shingles
covered the entire building. This was a
noticeable improvement. The seats inside
for some years were made of planed lumber—the carpenter planed it by hand. And some were without a back. A small homemade pulpit, unpainted, was on the
stand; in fact there was nothing in the building that was painted, not a thing,
except the small tread-organ, with stops.
A few seats around the organ reserved for the small choir.
The
Sunday afternoon services were usually well attended, percentage wise. But, at best, there were only a few, perhaps
twelve or fourteen families and not even one non-Mormon family, never enough
children for more than one teacher for the ungraded school. None, not one, of those attending services,
was well-dressed as we think of being well-dressed today. The majority of the older men wore beards of
all sizes, and forms, and colors, adorning their faces, giving, I think, an
appearance of rough dignity. Although
these men seemed serious they were not without wit and sense of humor.
The
church services: The church officials
were seated on the stand, or platform; the choir was on the east side below the
stand; the others were promiscuously seated about the building. An opening song was sung followed by the
prayer and another song. Any business
was then attended to, and then the preaching.
Speakers were called by the Bishop, or presiding officer, without
previous notice or preparation. Whatever
varied remarks they made, they seldom failed to bear strong and fervent testimony
that they knew that God lived, the true Gospel of Christ had been restored in
this “dispensation of the fullness of time” to the prophet, Joseph Smith. In these testimonies they were devoutly
earnest and sincere. They often insisted
that virtue should be valued ahead of even life. “Fulfill the measure of your creation” was
often dwelt upon. This implied living a
life of usefulness, integrity, service, worthy, progression; in fact, all
good. Any eloquence any may have spoken
was the eloquence of sincerity, devotion to the right, the depth of feeling,
the pouring out of the soul; not of learning.
The
choir was, of necessity, small, with untrained voices which were often
discordant. The singing was accompanied
by chords on the organ. None, not one,
could sing from the notes in the music.
Only the chords were played. An
occasional one may have learned to play a turn from ear, but not by reading the
notes. In the choir there was one voice,
a rich soprano, that rose above all the rest.
I though it wondrous.
Sometime
during the early eighties some surveyors were sent into Alpine to find whether
a feasible route could be found for a railroad to connect the Santa Fe with the Southern Pacific, through
the mountains. I believe John W. Young,
a son of Brigham Young, was the one who sent the surveyors. At the time he had a contract for building a
section of the Santa Fe road in northern Arizona. Nothing came of this survey.
The
Olsen family came to Arizona;
Olsen, his wife, and their three boys, Ira, the oldest, and the twins, Henry
and Andrew. Olsen, a carpenter, was
growing old, and a quiet man who bothered no one. His wife was a fearless woman, and, no doubt,
disagreeable and hard to get along with.
Anyway, they did not live together.
He lived alone in town, while she and the boys “took up” a ranch about
two miles farther down the valley and built a log-house home. They would sometimes have him come down and
help with the building, and, at later times, have him come in and do some
job. It was reported that when a job was
done, he was beaten and sent on his way.
Mrs. Olsen had a horse that she rode all the time with a
side-saddle. Ira seemed a decent sort of
fellow, well-built and pleasant personality, not a bad fellow. Henry was tall, rather slender. He was handy with the fiddle, although
“simple-minded,” but harmless. Andrew
was short with a mean disposition and ugly.
He had no friends. Nor sought
any.
One
spring it was reported that the elder Mr. Olsen had gone to a ranch in New Mexico to do some
carpenter work. He was not seen around
town, but nothing was thought of this. A
few weeks later Hyman Hamblin went to this same ranch to do some carpenter work
and found that Olsen had not been there.
He reported this, and a party of men on horseback went to search for
him. Since he was afoot, they thought he
might have got off the trail, lost, and perished. The boys took no interest in the search and
this aroused suspicion. A friend of the
family reported this to them. That
evening, as dark came on, Mrs. Olsen had a large fire in front of a cellar and
was seen briskly stirring something in the fire, likely the old man’s
remains. It was the theory that, after
finishing some job for them the usually beating resulted in a fatal blow, not intentionally
given.
After
this, Mrs. Olsen lost her courage. I
remember her offering to pay me if I would ride with her by the cemetery. This she would have to pass on her way back
to the ranch.
Later,
the boys were caught taking range calves from their mothers. The foreman of the cow outfit gave them a
given time to leave the country.
The
real facts in this case were never known.
No murder, unless this was one, has ever occurred in Alpine.
March
23, 1959
There
were eleven or twelve men of Alpine I can count who wore beards; three,
possibly, who did not. Except one of
these, only one, was addicted to the use of intoxicating drinks, or used
tobacco; a few drank tea or coffee.
Besides this exception, I can think of only one who was ever drunk. This was a good elderly brother who would not
even permit a bottle of whiskey in his home.
I repeat in all seriousness, that he was a good man, not because of one
drunken, unexpected bout, but in spite of it—an explanation later on. That so many, such a high percentage, because
of their religious belief should abstain from use of tea, coffee, tobacco, and
intoxicants, was, I believe, most commendable and worthy and certainly
exceptional.
This
good brother Skousen, Likely in his sixties, lived two miles below town. He was an emigrant from the “Old Country,” Denmark,
a Mormon Convert, a very sensible and upright man and not an extremist. But he didn’t believe in the use of whiskey;
that is, for himself and family; they bothered no others. I can believe he had never tasted the stuff
or kept it in his house, as many others did, but strictly for medicinal use—a
whiskey sling was good for a bad cold, etc.
This
elderly brother had an attack of inflammatory rheumatism; the pain he suffered
was extreme and excruciating. Every move
caused agonizing pain. There was no
doctor to be had, and no pain-relieving drugs.
Someone suggested that hot, stout whiskey slings might give relief. He would try most anything; who would
not? But no pint of whiskey could be
found in town, so a runner was sent to Luna, N. M. twelve miles away. The runner made record time on
horseback. This happened to be on
Sunday. He was given a sling; it seemed
to help at least he felt better. After
Sunday School, a couple of the brethren rode down to see him. Certainly he was in better spirits; felt a
warmth and exhilaration. The visitors
offered to remain and help. ‘No, no, I
shall be alright, I shall be alright,” he said.
The callers returned.
During
the afternoon services a messenger from the ranch came in haste, reporting that
brother Skousen was in a terrible state, wild, like crazy. “We can’t hold him in bed. Will someone come quick?” When help arrived he was thoroughly
drunk. He had reasoned that if a few
slings could make him feel so good, more would probably be better. It was reported that he consumed the entire
pint. When he sensed the plight he was
in, he felt that he had deeply sinned and bitterly reproached himself, saying
again and again, “How shall I tell the boys?
How shall I tell the boys?” Might
I suggest that, while it lasted, he enjoyed a wonderful spiritual uplift, such
as he never had known before, nor ever again.
Later,
brother Skousen moved into town and was our closest neighbor. He had a mongrel dog that ran loose. The dog acted strangely and neighbors
suspected that he was mad. When they
spoke to the owner about it he said, “No, he will be alright,” and gathered the
dog up in his arms. However, the dog was
tied up, but in due time, died of rabies.
He had gotten into a pen of yearling calves and had bitten some of
them. Those bitten died. We had a beautiful horse with a long, wavy
mane and tail, a valuable horse, in the barn.
This dog got with and bit the horse.
Later the horse had to be destroyed.
Lola
Burk was about my age, perhaps twelve years old, quiet and pleasant, but much
to herself. I liked her, thought her the
nicest of the few there were in town.
No, I wasn’t in love with her but thought that some time when older I
might be. In no way did I ever express
my liking, and she was quite indifferent to me.
In
June, about 1888, Willie Reid taught a summer school. There were only a few of us attending. Lola was one.
Something happened to her. She
became morose, wandered about listlessly, apart from the rest of us, as if she
were unaware of our presence and mumbling to herself. This was during recess time, or when we were
outside. Inside, there were home-made
seats without backs, not too comfortable.
Lola sat on one of the back seats.
She continued that incoherent mumbling.
Occasionally the teacher yelled out, “Lola, keep quiet.” She would start up in surprise but was soon
muttering to herself again, oblivious to all about her. Her trouble: “walking typhoid.” She grew worse and in a few days went to bed,
lingering for a time, until she passed away.
I
well remember driving a team with wagon for my mother and grandmother to make a
visit. They were always on hand to help,
when help was needed. I sat in the front
room near the door, but I could see Lola through the partition door leading
into the bedroom. She was in a feverish
delirium and every little while would wildly gesticulate, pointing to the
ceiling, would exclaim, “There they are; there they are.” Doubtless, many thought she was possessed of
evil spirits. Did not Jesus command the
devils to depart from the man possessed, and they entered the swine feeding
nearby, and the swine ran headlong and plunged into the lake and were drowned?
The
elders were called in to administer to Lola, to command the evil spirits to
depart. As I sat near the door, I became
faint; it began to get dark, and I was sure one of these evil ones was
possessing me. I managed to get outside,
and soon revived. No longer do we hear
of devils being cast out.
Just
another thing to add: I mentioned it was
in June; I’m sure it was, near the time for the July rains to start. It was dry and sultry. It was suggested that if rains would come,
clearing and cooling the air, it might bring about a change for the better in
Lola.
At
the funeral there was one bouquet of yellow roses, and I am sure no
others. After rains there would have
been an abundance of lovely wild flowers.
These yellow roses grew on a bush at a nearby home, Lola’s home, I
believe. This bouquet, in the warm room,
gave off its peculiar fragrance known in no other. I never see and inhale the fragrance of this
rose that it does not recall the time of Lola’s passing.
Illness,
Contagions
Up
to the time we completely moved from Alpine in the autumn of 1899, there were
few contagions. This was doubtless due
to the fact that we were practically isolated from the rest of the world,
mingled but little with other communities, and so were little exposed. Up to the time mentioned, I am very sure
there was not a case of diphtheria, scarlet fever, small pox, measles, or
mumps; be we did have a spread of whooping cough. There were cases of, and deaths from,
pneumonia, and typhoid fever, and during winter months many colds and often
tonsillitis, at times complicated with quinsy[28]. In general, health otherwise was good.
Alson
Hamblin was a dwarf, fiery and daring of temperament, and fearless, too. He didn’t mind “shooting up the town” and
did, too. But this isn’t what I meant to
tell. He had the quinsy and was real
sick. I remember he was propped up in
bed. The treatment: Whatever else they did I do not know, but
they caught a frog, split it open alive, and applied it to the throat as a
poultice. He survived, but not the
frog.
The
treatment of diseases was largely experimental, by trying this and that, by
trial and error. There were no doctors
and treatment fell mostly in the hands of practical nurses—sometimes
impractical. Only in the bad cases were
the nurses likely to be called in. Some
methods were found good and became established.
The list of treatments sometimes was inexhaustive. Poultices were much used and varied: The bread and milk poultice, carrot poultice,
sugar and fat bacon poultice, manure poultice, mustard poultice, sticky gum poultice
(hard to remove) to name a few.
Appendicitis
was not known as such; it was cramp colic.
For the extreme pain laudanum, an opiate, was often given. There was no narcotic law to forbid its use. If one should get a bad cut, a sliver, or
step on a nail, get the offending missile, grease it, wrap it up and keep it
warm. This would heal and no infection
would occur. Some believed this with
religious zeal.
If
the large end of the melt, the spleen, of the hog pointed toward the head, the
first half of the winter would be the most severe, and vice versa. I once heard two men make a wager, the
doubter insisting there was nothing to it; the other, that it always was
dependable. The believer chose the date
he regarded as the middle of the winter.
The hog was killed, the melt exposed, and the prediction made. The winter turned out just opposite to the
prediction—he had to admit it, but it didn’t shake his faith—“I know it will
work, I know it can be relied on.”
There
were plenty of superstitions, but by no means believed by all; if the family
dog howled during the night there would be a death within the year; if it
rained in an open grave it meant the same; if one dreamed of seeing a black
hearse, a life would be forfeit soon; if an infant saw itself in a mirror it
would die before its first birthday; if a cow had twin calves, best sell her at
once or there would be a death within a year.
Many had implicit faith in such.
It was bad luck if one saw the new moon over his left shoulder first; if
an animal, especially a black cat, crossed a path in front of one he must not
go through the regular procedure of walking, but must turn around and go back,
or else reverse his hat; one must not go through the house with a sharp
instrument. Once I unwittingly started
through a house with a hoe in my hand.
She confronted me with a kettle of hot water and would have scalded me,
had I persisted. It was bad luck. To stop a cramp, turn a shoe upside down
under the bed; even in the cramps of childbirth, though it failed, the belief
remained; to relieve the after-pains following child birth let her swallow a
few drops of blood from the infants cord, or place the after birth, or
placenta, under the bed; plant potatoes in the dark of the moon, etc. What fools we mortals be; all but us.
These
pioneers of Alpine struggled against reverses, late killing frosts in the
spring and early ones in the fall before grain was fully ripened, grasshoppers,
and periods of devastating drought and hordes of range cattle poured in,
breaking down fences to get to water and such green fields they could
invade. These reverses were not limited
to Alpine, but throughout the country all around. Much has been said about the struggles and
reverses of Utah pioneers, but they never
suffered from prolonged droughts and winds and killing frosts, as did those
here in northern Arizona.
A
number of these pioneers had been called on a mission by Brigham Young to
settle Arizona. They felt it a solemn duty to come and to
remain until released. Some came of
their own volition and were then called to remain. Many of them did, feeling they would receive
the reward of the faithful.
The
homes were built of hewn logs notched at the ends to fit in and lock at the
corners. Three-cornered “chinese” pieces
split from blocks usually three feet
long, were fitted between the logs and plastered over with mud to “keep out the
weather.” Up to the time we made our
final move from alpine, 1899, there were only log houses, none of lumber-frame,
or brick, or adobe. These were built
with a minimum of expense; neighbors came in to help with the
“log-rolling.” When more room was needed
a lean-to was added.
March
27th, Good Friday
These
squatty log houses were neither ideal nor comfortable, but they were home. They afforded little or no privacy. These log houses were never quite square,
indeed some were far from it; the walls were never smooth, but rough and uneven
with cracks, or little splits, running lengthwise on the surface of the log—a
crevice that harbored and bred bed bugs.
Sometimes the floors were dirt, sometimes puncheon, but often of wide
un-planed boards that would always shrink and warp. Ceilings for some years were of muslin or cheesecloth
stretched overhead. Windows were small,
usually with two sashes that could be slid up or down. Occasionally there was a one-sash window that
turned on a pivot. The doors were
sometimes made of planed lumber, tongued and grooved, but at times of rough
lumber. In either case, they never quite
fit.
Our
house might be typical, perhaps a little better than some. The main building was rectangular and divided
into a front room, and two bedrooms. A
partition separated the living room from the two bedrooms with a cloth
partition between the bedrooms. A
two-sash window was put in the north wall, and one in the east wall. The entrance was midway in the south
wall. A rough rock chimney, with a large
flat rock for a hearth, was built in the west end. On the south side of the main building a
lean-to was added, running east and west the length of the building. The east end of this was the kitchen, the
west end the dining room; no partition between the two. The only door was in the east end.
Rag
carpets partly covered the floors. The
carpets were made of strips of rags torn from old clothing and pieces of
discarded cloth. These strips were sewed
together, end to end, and woven in a loom.
These rags were also made into rugs by braiding these strips into three
strand lengths, then sewing together along the edges into a round or elliptical
form. Straw was put under the carpets to
make them soft, the carpets being stretched from wall to wall and tacked along
the edges. Laying a carpet was a job to
dread; maybe an art but more an agony.
Each year, or was it twice a year, the carpet was taken up, hung on the
clothesline and the dust was beaten out, and replaced on the floor, over a new
bed of straw. The old straw was well
pulverized and heavy with dirt. In
tacking the carpet, finger nails were often hit, which brought forth exclamations
somewhat unlike prayers, an outlet for suppressed emotions.
Muslins,
or cheesecloth, was sewed in widths together, for the ceilings, and fastened to
the beams above. Soon the widths sagged
in the middle from the weight of dust collected on them. Sometimes the walls were covered in the same
way; more often the walls were white-washed with chalk obtained from a vein
between layers of rock on the mountain side.
The whitewash soon rubbed off.
Few pictures hung on the walls and those mostly from magazine backs that
were sometimes in color. I have seen a
large part of a wall covered with such as these and postcards, pasted on the
walls. This was the longing for beauty they
were denied. I am sure there was not one
choice painting in the entire town. But
there were hungers.
Furniture
was limited and never very choice, much of it homemade, chairs and stools and
benches. We did have a “boughten”
rocking chair or two, and a few straight-back chairs—not much for comfort. No wardrobes or kitchen cupboards except
rough ones built against the walls and they with draw curtains instead of
doors, no chiffoniers[29]
or chests of drawers. Linens and choice
things were stored in trunks that were set along the walls and were often used
for seats. Small mirrors were hung above
small shelves on which were placed combs, hairbrushes, hairpins, and the like.
After
winter’s worst was past a bench was placed outside near the kitchen door. On it were a bucket of water, a wash basin, a
bar of soap, and a comb. Above, hung a
crash towel and a tin cup. All of these
were for the use of everybody; all washed in the same basin, used the same bar
of soap, wiped with the same towel, and drank from the same cup—disease germs
hadn’t been invented then. I despised
the crash towels—the greasy things that spread water instead of drying.
Memory
may be not too accurate, but goes not far astray. Musical instruments in our town—a small organ
in the church, a like one in our home; the harmonica, also called the French
Harp and mouth organ; the Jew’s harp; and finally, fiddles, as scarce as
fiddlers, just one of each. Oh, yes, I
almost forgot the guitar. This last
seemed wonderful when an evening crowd gathered in the open air and some
sweet-voiced girl strummed the guitar to accompany an old-time song like
“Nellie Grey,” “Sweet Birds,” “Old Folks at Home,” etc. The moonlight shining through rifts in the
floating clouds, the evening wind rustling in the trees, added enchantment. Wonderful, but never to return again.
I
must not forget the bedbugs. They were
troublesome and no insecticides were known to us. They would gather in the crevices, or cracks
of the weather-checked logs and the joints of the bedsteads, remaining hidden
from the light, and sallying out in the dark to inflate their bodies with blood
sucked from those who slept. Some were
sensitive or allergic, to their bites and to others they gave little
trouble. They could be unmistakably
identified in one way—their odor when mashed.
Just one smell is as lasting as one smell of the disturbed skunk. They prevented the bugs from crawling up the
bedstead legs by setting them in pans of water or kerosene. It was said—I do not deny the statement—that the
bugs often crawled up the walls, and out on the ceiling, from which they
dropped on the bed below. But I do know
that bedsteads were taken apart at intervals and all crevices were scalded
thoroughly. Most of the present and
future generations may never see, or smell, a bedbug—too bad, isn’t it?
Sixty
years ago this autumn since we made our final move from Alpine, long enough to
look back and view it. To see it as an
entity, instead of a close-up that saw it in its parts, rather than a
whole. And the distance of time give
better perspective. This small band of
pioneers made the narrow valley their home, their world. And it had individuality, a personality,
perhaps a soul. It differed from
neighboring towns as one solid body.
Differences, of course, occurred but were settled peaceably by ward
teachers or Bishop’s court and not, as in one town, with fists and clubs. This was their little world and not often did
they get far away; at least not very far.
Most
families, or homes, were located on their ranches beneath the pines and near a
living spring of clear, cold water that bubbled forth with the open range just
outside their places, all there on which to graze their cattle. Each home was independent of the others. Just as the town was independent of other
places; yet they were bound together in a unity of the Faith, woven into the
fabric of the whole. Their religion they
shared in common. There was only one
non-member, Joe Scott.
Joe
Scott’s wife was a faithful member. He
had no antagonism, rather felt himself a part of the community. I have known him to be called in to help
“wash and lay out the dead.” He seemed accepted, but he was a heavy smoker,
drank a little, and sometimes got drunk.
He was a fine looking whiskered man.
He was still quite young, perhaps thirty-five, when he had stomach
trouble, could not digest his food, wasted away to skin and bones, a long
lingering illness, cared for by friends, his wife had died. Finally he died—cancer. It was the current belief that the cancer was
caused by smoking and drinking. He was
often pointed out as an example of the evil results of smoking and drinking.
[1]
Permission to publish this on FamilyTree granted by Pearl Heywood Jones, 4 Dec
2013
[2] Joseph Neal Heywood , b. 23 Oct 1876, Spring Valley,
Lincoln, Nevada, d. 20 Feb 1968, Mesa, Maricopa, Arizona, buried Thatcher,
Graham, Arizona. (Editor’s Note: Transcription and annotations by Richard N. Heywood from a former typewritten
transcription. Minor punctuation and
spelling changes have been made. This
current transcription has not been compared with the original.)
[3] Joseph
Neal Heywood was 82 years, 2 months, and 19 days of age when he started these
Reminiscences.
[4] Spat—To
clap one's hands or shout after performances to indicate approval. Thesaurus entry: gesticulate, gesture, motion - show, express or
direct through movement; "He gestured his desire to leave"
[5] puncheon n. A short
wooden upright used in structural framing. A piece of broad, heavy, roughly
dressed timber with one face finished flat.
[6] :First grave in the Alpine Cemetery: M. L. Bush, January 9, 1868 – February 4,
1877.” (Alpine Cemetery List accessed at
http://www.geocities.com/alpinehistoricalsociety/)
[7] Prime Thornton Coleman
married Elizabeth Eagles 26 Nov 1864, Salt Lake City, Salt Lake, Utah.
[8] Willard Elias Coleman was
killed by lightening. (Verbal
communication from Leland Heywood, Neal’s brother, to Richard Neal Heywood,
Leland’s son.)
[9] Martha Emma Heywood, b. 21
Feb 1883, d. 24 Dec 1893.
[10] Ida Etta Heywood, b. 15 Apr
1887, Alpine, d. 3 Apr 1889. Ida died
"while father was on a mission in New Zealand. She died from drinking lye."
[11] Sarepta Francelle Heywood,
b. 3 Apr 1894, d. 12 Aug 1895.
[12] Junius
N. Heywood, b. 18 May 1924, d. 23 July 1950.
[13] The
sentence should probably read, “…it was usual to obey . . .”
[14] The
word “most” should probably be “move.”
[15] The Quadrille is a "Set" dance. It consists of
a series of dance figures, the most frequently used is called the
"Flirtation" figure, in which the man dances with each woman in
turn. It is a historic dance
performed by four couples in a square formation, a precursor to traditional
square dancing.
[16]
Halcyon:
adj. Calm and peaceful;
tranquil.
Prosperous; golden.
[17] A Google
search for ‘”whiskey sling’ medicine” reveals the medicinal use of a whiskey
sling during the era covered in these Reminiscences. As an example, the 1881 issue of the The
American Journal of the Medical Sciences by the Southern
Society for Clinical Investigation (U.S.), mentions the use of a “hot whiskey
sling” in the treatment of a “fetid cavity in the right lower lobe of the
lung.”
[18]
Editor’s Note:
Bishops aren’t
perfect.
Neither are wives.
A commentary on the human race.
[19] A draft
horse:
“Long before the invention of the
motorized truck and farm tractor, the Percheron draft horse provided the power
to build and feed our nation.
Now this
noble horse provides the power, substance, beauty, and style as America’s work
and recreation horse for the twenty first century.”
http://percheronhorse.org/
[21] Prime
Thornton Coleman Jr., son of Prime Thornton Coleman Sr. and Emma Beck Evans.
[22] Escudilla Mountain, a huge ancient volcano and the third
highest mountain in Arizona, 10,912 feet.
[23] Prime
Thornton Coleman Sr. and Emma Beck Evans Coleman
[24] A dried
extract used in cheese making to curdle the milk. Rennet is made from the
lining of the fourth stomach of calves and other young ruminates.
[25]
Puncheon floor are made of logs split in half, laid close together, split
side-up.
[26] To
perform the chassé in dancing.
Chassé is
the
movement of the feet which gives the impression
of one foot chasing the other.
[27] A
square dance figure; couples march counterclockwise in a circle.
[28] Quinsy
is an abscess between the back of the tonsil and the wall of the throat. It's
also known as a peritonsillar abscess. It happens when infection spreads from a
swollen tonsil to the area around it, usually during a severe case of
tonsillitis.
[29]
Chiffonier:
A
tall very narrow chest of drawers
