Joseph Neal Heywood Jr., Reminiscences

REMINISCENCES

Joseph Neal Heywood Jr.[1] [2]

January 11, 1959[3]

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 5^th 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 20^th

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?

21^st, 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. 21^st, 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 28^th, 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 13^th 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. 5^th.  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 27^th, 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.

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[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/

[20] The name Winchester rifle is frequently used to describe any of the lever-action rifles manufactured in America by the Winchester Repeating Arms Company in the latter half of the 19th Century

[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