(begin page 21)

of school much to Amelia's delight. She confided to me long after that she would go several times a day to a secluded spot on the far side of the house to pray for my recovery.

There were other sicknesses, too. The first I remember was whooping cough the second year we were at the Section. It must have been a light case for we were up and around. I remember Amelia and I on the front porch looking through the south bed room window as Vine, in bed with a white gown on, held up her new-born baby boy for us to see. The middle doors to her room were kept closed so the baby would have no chance of being exposed to our cough. But it soon became ill and died when only three weeks old on the twenty-fourth of July in 1807. Vine's first baby had died in town a month before we moved to the farm. Infant mortality was high in those days, no doubt due largely to cold, draughty houses, no immunizations, no medical doctors, and much less knowledge of baby care than is now available.

Fred and Clara lost their second baby, Frederick Giles, at the Section, also, It was after Fred came from his mission and they were living in the two southwest rooms. Margaret Kezia, or Kitty we called her, was over three years old, a pretty curly-haired little girl whom we adored. Amelia and I took it upon ourselves to entertain her practically twenty-four hours a day. We were thrilled when the new baby was a boy, but the December weather with its cold, and colds was more than it could stand. Pneumonia set in, and in only fifteen short days of life, it was transferred to a more congenial climate.

Measles must have followed whooping cough for I can scarcely remember them, except seeing Mother hold Amelia, a very sick little girl, on her lap. She had the disease more severely than I did and was blind for three days. I, afterward, thought she never did completely recover, breaking out with hives as so frequently she did. Allergies weren't yet in the medical vocabulary. Whenever the itching began, I was her enforced slave, for whether I was willing or not, I had to scratch her back or rub it with flour for long periods of time. Amelia was stubborn about taking medicines, still is at seventy-eight. Julia and I seemed to be more susceptible to minor ailments than Ella or Amelia, at least we took more medicine. Could it be we gave up more easily, or were we more obedient?(question still unanswered.) Toothache is the only ailment I remember Ella having, and everyone suffered with it, there being no dentists available.

Julia got Mother up many a night with cramps or earache. Mother would warm a little oil in a teaspoon over a lamp, add a drop or two of turpentine, and pour into the suffering ear. Sealing it in with a wad of cotton and tying a scarf around her head, she was again tucked in for another try at sleep. For cramps there was the old, reliable stand-by,"hot drops". It was made of four level teaspoons of cayenne pepper added to a pint of whiskey--"Shake well before using." A few drops of this potent medicine added to a bowl of hotwater, well, you really had yourself "hot stuff". It permeated your whole system with a warm glow, but if you swallowed too much it was like a "house-a-fire".

The boys' indispositions, if they had any, were of the unimpressive kind for they didn't stick in my memory, except the time we had measles. It was warm weather, and the boys just wouldn't stay house-bound. They played on the hillside, and like a magnet were drawn to the big ditch, playing tag along the edge, then jumping over. Back and forth they went with the inevitable result--one of them fell in. Naturally it was George, he being the most daring and reckless-like and, being George, it didn't make him ill.

We called Ed the unlucky one, also Mother's favorite, which she denied. "Then why do you always pour bigger chunks of cream in his bowl than on ours?" We inquired with sly glances at each other.

"He isn't quite as strong as the other boys and his appetite needs encouraging." Thus she defended herself and him.

"One twin shouldn't be treated better than another," one of us countered.

"Ed, though he was the biggest from the start, has always been the frailest of the two. Ella could always take care of herself," she replied.

Ed gathered his experiences more dangerously than the rest of us, perhaps because he was on the farm longer than the other boys. He was involved in several exciting run-aways. Father always kept sleek, well fed horses, some of them young and high spirited. He bought several from his son-in-law, Dan Seegmiller, who raised purebred on his Upper Kanab ranch. Even our old stand-bys, Cap and Chief, weren't above getting frightened for an excuse to let off high-spirited energy.

"The horses are running away!" was always a signal of great alarm. We would rush to the porch to see them racing down the road, across the flood-wash bridges and speeding on toward the Green, all the while the wagon or hayrack bouncing crazily about with Ed holding tight to the lines to keep them safely on the road.

Luck was usually with him but not always. One Sunday he drove Father to Mt. Carmel to keep a home-missionary appointment. They took the road across the creek to go first to old Brother Sorensen's, who was the missionary companion. Shortly before arriving, the horses became frightened and staged a quick run-away. The road was rough, and Father and Ed had a difficult time holding to the spring seat. Then they didn't; overboard they went, the spring seat flying the farthest away. Father was shaken up but uninjured, Ed came through With a dislocated elbow. It wasn't set right and was stiff the rest of his life.

His most serious accident happened in his middle teens. It was winter-time and the ground was white with snow. When he came home from school, he started the evening chores at the woodpile. Father cut most of the wood, but it took a lot t o keep two fires going in cold weather. Evidently this was one night we needed more for a safe margin. Amelia and I were out on the front porch filling our pint cups with snow and eating it with a spoon--ice-cream to us. As we turned to go into the house, we saw Ed limping up the path to the house, with every step he took, leaving a crimson track in the snow. The wound bled profusely, and we were all very much upset as we watched Father and Mother cope with the situation. The shoe was ruined as it was cut from his foot, what a pity, I thought. The sock, too, had to go as it was slashed fromtop to bottom, exposing a large slant-wise gash between his instep and big toe.

As Mother stanched the wound with towels, Father hurriedly hitched up the team and drove to town for Sister Bowers. When she arrived she washed the wound, filled with salve, and securely bound it in layers of old cloth for it still bled quite freely, She put his foot on a chair and told us to leave it in that position all night. It remained many more nights and days too, for it didn't heal well. Being winter time it must be kept warm, Mother reasoned, and kept a feather cushion over the bandages. As might be expected it developed proud flesh, not an unusual reaction for those times with our limited medical knowledge and facilities. Sister Bowers came twice a week to dress the wound and finally resorted to powdered saltpeter dusted into the wound as a disinfectant. Ed was laid up for weeks before the wound healed and he was able togo to school again.

Father was never ill that I can remember. He was troubled some with dyspepsia, or heartburn as he called it, which was a bit distressing while it lasted. He took soda or a sip of camphor to relieve it, keeping the blue camphor bottle on the end of the mantle. After dinner one day, he was in the act of tipping it to his lips when an Indian walked in unannounced, as was the Indian custom. Thinking the bottle contained whiskey, he said, "Gimme some, gimme Some!" Without a word Father handed him the bottle. The man raised the bottle to his mouth and took a large swallow which took his breath away; while we sympathized with him, we had to suppress our laughter as he thrashed about sputtering, coughing and fighting for breath. As soon as he could balance himself he walked out of the house without a word.

Occasionally, Mother went to bed with a headache, but the times were few and far between. They were not the ordinary kind--sun-pains we called them. The pain would begin with the rising sun, increase in intensity until noon, then gradually subside as the sun moved westward. At sunset, the pain would leave and she would be able to eat a little supper. These spells would last three days or more. Her bedroom was kept as dark as green blinds could make it, and we moved about in a subdued and quiet atmosphere. Such illness was one of the few times we afforded a can of salmon, it being about the only thing that empted Mother's appetite. We thought nothing of walking the mile to town if Mother expressed a desire for something special. In those days the store shelves were not graced with fresh fruits and vegetables, or other delectable as they are now.

Church and Community Activities
By inheritance and training we were a conscientious and religious family. Sunday morning found us up early for we were regular and punctual in our church activities. We took time to wash the breakfast dishes, sweep the floors and leave the house clean and tidy. The team and wagon would be waiting at the front gate, one of the boys patiently holding the reins. The seating capacity was two spring seats, plus two chairs back of them. When necessary each seat held three, and if company, such as grandchildren or a friend, were with us, we small ones could always stand upand cling to the back of the front seat.

It wasn't customary for older people to attend Sunday Sohool in those days, so at noon one of the boys would return home to bring Father and Mother up to the afternoon sacrament meeting. There was always one of Kezia's girls, or Martha to say, "Come to our house for dinner," so we girls were taken care of for the rest of the day. As Martha and I were quite inseparable, I usually went with her. We would stay home and tend the children while Jane went to meeting. Being nearer the age of Kezia's older girls, Amelia would go on up the street with Sarah, Maggie and Kezia.

Father encouraged, but never forced us to church, often quoting the Prophet Joseph Smith, "Teach the people correct principles and let them govern themselves."

Among my favorite Sunday Sohool teachers were Sarah and Libby Meeks. They, like their mother Grandma Meeks, had a warm friendliness, were kind and understanding, and very interesting in their manner of presenting the lessons. They made them come alive.

After the opening exercises, the men and boys would square around the benches for the class period, and with five or six classes being taught in the same large room, with only one curtain that isolated the adult classes, it is easy to imagine the confusion that filled the room, and the temptation it offered to let both the eye and the mind wander. But we absorbed our religious fundamentals, in spite of the clamor, from lessons and stories, questions and answers, that teachers of great faith and deep sincerity instilled into our youthful hearts and minds.

Religion was popular in that day and place, having no opposition to speak of. For many years there was only one non-Mormon among us. His wife was a member of the Church, kind and gentle, but no match for the vigorous opposition of the head of the family. The children attended Sunday School and Mutual but were not baptized. We were much more narrow-minded than we should have been in our attitude toward them. We fraternized with them at school, but on Sundays we felt superior, and they were left out of much of our social activities. This made it very hard on the children however. two of them Joined the church after they moved away and married but the rest remained indifferent. Their father smoked, took the Tribune instead of the Deseret News. At that time the Tribune was very anti-Mormon, and enjoyed heated anti-Mormon discussions. He was a close friend of our two town bachelors, both "Jack Mormons", who smoked with him and sided with him and abetted criticism of the Church. He spent quite a bit of his leisure time at the store, talking to our brother Charley, who, with his sense of humor and tolerance, was never bothered by opinions opposite to his own.

The young peoples' Mutual Improvement Association was held separately on Tuesday or Sunday evenings. The first Sunday in each month a joint meeting was held with a constructive program of home talent. There was always one or two readings from "The Mutual Star," a local product icon to encourage literary aspirants. The editor for the month solicited contributions from the people in the form of original essays, poems, local humor, and such. I think I can safely say that Marie Jensen, Maria Porter, and myself were most often called upon to keep the poetry page thriving. The Young Ladies Mutual Improvement Association had a similar paper, "The Pearl," but it didn't last through so many years.

We were not so fortunate then as now in having outlined lessons for any of our auxiliary organizations; the officers, or a program comittee having to make up the programs for each week or month. These programs never lacked religious stimulation and esthetic satisfaction in the form of lectures, music, and poetic readings.

Home talent, too, provided recreation in the form of dances, mixed programs for patriotic and other special occasions. Most challenging of all was the theater. While there is no comparison in excellence with what we enjoy today in radio, television, and motion pictures, we did have the thrilling satisfaction of development of our talents through self-effort.

Our family was featured frequently in recitations and dramatic readings--Kezia, Ed, Julia, Amelia and myself being the ones most picked on, or honored, whichever way we choose to feel about it. Father, Kezia and Ed were excellent prompters for the theater, and Ed also acted as director and dramatic critic. During the years that Kezia was Primary president in Oderville the Primary put on many plays to raise money to give to the missionaries, Kezia directed some of these plays and acted in many of them. Father, Willard, Kezia, and Charley had previous experience while living in Heber--Willard and Kezia having also taught school there.

The first Thursday of each month was Fast Day. Testimony meeting was held in the afternoon, and without fail, work was put aside, the horses harnessed and hitched to the wagon, and, decked in our better clothes, we went to town to mingle with the assembling congregation.

One summer Fast Day the weather threatened objections to our hopes for a fair day. The Lucerne patch lay in heaped mounds of recently cut Lucerne ready to be hauled the next day. The boys scanned the sky frequently, and finally one of them suggested, "don't you think, Father, we had better hitch the horses to the hay rack and get all the hay in the barn that we can? It will be ruined if it gets wet. We can miss meeting for once."

"No, there won't be any more hay get wet during the season if we go to church than if we stay home and put it in the barn when we should be in church," was Father's reply. It was typical of Father, too, for he was a man of great faith and taught by example even more than by precept.

May Day was the first of the summer holidays. It was sponsored by the Primary Association and a great deal of preparation and practice was done in advance. The "Braiding of the Maypole" by the queen and her maids was the high point of the program. The Maypole was set up in the middle of the stage with the queen's beautifully draped and decorated throne in front. The crowning of the queen was accompanied by an appropriate song, the crown usually being made of interwoven flowers, either fresh or of paper. The queen, after rendering her part, a song or poem, would then join her maids in the braiding of the Maypole. The long streamers of red, white, and blue cloth wove a pretty pattern around the pole as the queen and her maids, all dressed in white, dipped gracefully under and over each other's streamers to the strains of a beautiful waltz. Jeptha's daughters and her maids, in whose honor the festival is held, could not have created more enchantment had they been there in person.

It was a great surprise to me, when at about the age of eleven or twelve, I was chosen "Queen of the May." Ella made a sheer white dress with a diamond shaped collar edged with two-inch wide lace, headed by tiny pink silk roses all around. I was proud of the crown, too, made of wild roses, also in silk--quite an extravagance bought especially for me.

Years later I was asked to be "Miss Utah" for the Twenty-fourth of July celebration. I was no longer a child and objected vigorously, but to no avail. The committee said I had composed ao many orations and speeches for others they felt that I should be rewarded for my numerous "behind-the-scenes contributions. I dreaded it more than any assignment up to that time, as the last thing I ever granted was to be given public attention.

The Fourth and Twenty-fourth of July were high lights in our world of entertainment. The programs always featured a soul-stirring oration, which was original and memorized as was also the declamation by the "Goddess of Liberty" and "Miss Utah". A dramatic, or comic reading, duets and quartets, interspersed by lively numbers from the martial band stirred our emotions to a patriotic fervor. In the afternoons there were the usual foot races, contests and games, pulling matches, sack and egg races, climbing a greased pole for a prize at the top, and catching a pig by its greased tail. A children's dance, horse races, and a lively dance in the evening filled to the brim a wonderful day.

The Christmas Holidays
The memories of the winter holiday season have a background of clouds and cold and snow but a warm expectant glow in the heart and home. School closed for a two-week vacation, programs and parties were in the air, also the exciting wonderment of what Santa Claus was up to. There were never any hints around our home, no peeking and prying into bureau drawers or boxes and never any unfamiliar clues tucked in corners or under Mother's bed.

But there was the aroma of Christmas cooking coming through the kitchen door, and Amelia and I had our orders not to tresrass. If it was not too cold we could go outside to play, sometimes racing down the south hill on our homemade toboggans or playing at the woodpile, quite a favorite spot. The snow would melt from the tops of the logs first, accommodating us with a dry place to sit. With a pint cup and a spoon we made "cheeses" for sale. A long roll of these would soon be ready for market, pressed hard for long lasting. They would freeze at night, melt a bit during the day, and were soon blocks of ice.

For the older children, there was plenty of excitement; private parties and public entertainment and sleigh rides both day and night. I well recall getting in on one ride sponsored by Dave Esplin. He was Em'a special beau at the time, I don't know how I happened to be included--another child was there, also. Anyone who remembers Dave can guess it would be dangerously exciting. He had his lively team cutting all the geometrical angles known to the mathematical science, including the circle. More than once he cut the angles so sharply he tipped us over into the deep, fluffy snow, which was so dry it clung like cotton to our clothes and to the quilts that covered us. In spite of the spills, or perhaps because of them, the crowd went on with their laughing, joking and singing.

For Christmas and New Years, Father always cut a special backlog for the fireplace. It was large and heavy and long burning. He would bring it in about dusk and put a small, more pitchy fore-log in front. It gave a bright glow to the room and supplied sufficient heat to get the big log started on its long night's vigil.

After an especially appetizing Christmas Eve supper that left us with a well-fed, contented feeling, we put the house in spick-and-span order, polished a pan-full of apples, and the members of the family who were not partying settled down to a long comfortable evening with the feel of Christmas in the air. While we were young there was the row of stockings hung in ordered space along the edge of the mantle. In later years they were supplanted by a pine Christmas tree decorated with colored paper chains, pop corn balls, apples, cut-out cookies, and anything else our fanciful imaginations might dream up. Gifts from Santa that the tree could not hold were left on the near-by table.

In spite of being good sleepers, Amelia and I in our bunk bed in Mother's room would wake up several times during the night and wonder what time it was. We did our whispering under the blanket so we wouldn't disturb Father and Mother. One night I was awakened by soft strains of music, and I found out it was a serenade for Ella from her admiring beau, Issac Carling, who was a virtuoso on the accordian.

There is nothing like the sparkling beauty of a Christmas tree that greets the eye of excited children of the present day. Yet no mind retains the memory of a greater thrill than Amelia and I felt one particular Christmas morning. We awoke long before dawn, wondered whisperingly what time it was, then unable to contain ourselves any longer, we tiptoed out of the bedroom, silently closing the door behind us. We groped our way to the fireplace where a few live coals glowed softly. We first felt our stockings to find if they would reveal the hidden mysteries they contained. They kept us guessing, so Amelia stirred the coals, and with the help of nearby kindling and small, pitchy sticks, she soon had a bright flame roaring up the chimney. We must have arisen extra early for the predawn prolonged itself as just we two leisurely examined the gifts Santa had left for us. There were the usual sticks of candy at the top, each differently striped and temptingly colored. We deliberated which one to take first, never eating, Just slowly sucking them so they would last longer. There was a ribbon, a Sunday handkerchief, a breastpin, a pencil box, a tiny doll and other small gifts. Hard-tack candy and peanuts filled the bottom of the stockings. What a treat! For usually the only occasions that rated store candy were Christmas and New Years, the Fourth and Twenty-fourth of July.

On the table would be presents for the grownups and other gifts for us too large for our stockings. We were really thrilled if we were lucky enough to get a new slate, especially if it were double. Lead pencils and slate pencils were welcome, too, for what child doesn't lose or break them faster than excuses can possibly supply them. I still treasure from those days a pink glass bud vase, a shell covered bureau with a round glass mirror and two drawers; and a blue, plush-covered sewing box with a thimble, scissors, and a needle container. In the latter was a small wax doll to sew for. It had blond, wavy hair, blue eyes painted-on blue stockings and black slippers. Most of our gifts were practical ones; shoes, boots, shirts and occasionally a new dress. I remember how thrilled we were with our first pair of overshoes--no more cold feet, nor wet and muddy shoes.

I remember, too, the Christmas Amelia and I stumbled onto one of Santa's tricks--we found our names attached to Ella's and Julia's big china dolls. Thy had a new look--all decked out in crisp, pink chambray dresses, made with plain waists and full, gathered skirts, and over them sheer, dotted muslin aprons, Mother Hubbard style. They looked so beautiful and new we wondered just how Santa cast the Illusionary glow that he was mixed up in the transfer.

Dances were a popular amusement and well attended by young and old. We stepped to the lively music of the fiddle in the nimble and fast moving handa of John Covington and DeLaun M. Cox; and later to George Burnhams's accordian, as well as guitars and mandolins of some of the unmarried boys. At every set there was a change of partners for the quadrille, Scottish reels, minuets, and round dances. The latter, however were not encouraged, especially after a conference where one of the apostles spoke against it, implying that the embrace was apt to lead to immorality.

Family Management
At the breaking up of the United Order, Father bid for land instead of range and livestock. Farming was his talent, and he said he was always too cautious to get rich--he preferred security to greater profits by speculation. At one time President Young asked him to superintend the lumber mills in Cottonwood Canyon, which would have been a very profitable job, but he preferred a farm and personal independence. He provided a comfortable living, although we had to be thrifty in our cash expenditures. Then, as now, the Church counseled it's members not to go in debt, and Father seldom ever deviated from that advice. We didn't mortgage the future by charge accounts, except once, that I remember. This was a six dollar bill at the Coop. Amelia and I were in the store with Father at the time, and how we worried until it was paid. I remember Father once saying, "As my family increased, my ability to take care of them also increased!" I know we always felt well fed, well clothed, and contented with our way of life.

As I look back upon it, we were among the better dressed people in town. At least we didn't have to wear denim dresses to school, not even a denim tie apron for work, as some did in the Order and soon after. Perhaps this was due partially to Mother and Ella's taste in choosing good material and styles. Kezia, Emma and Ella, each in her turn, was the dressmaker of the family and each a high rating one at that.

In summertime and for school, we wore calico and gingham dresses which faded readily if not carefully laundered. Colors were not so fast at that time. On Sundays and for social events, as time went on, we sported white and flowered lawn, lace trimmed light shades of varied cotton materials such as voile and flovrered dimities. Our petticoats, always two, often three, were for utility purposes as well as style. In winter time, the first one was of wool or cotton flannel, often colored gray or red, as were also our below-the-knee-length drawers. Our summer slips were of white "factory" or "bleach"; the top ones elaborately tucked and trimmed with insertion and wide embroidery--stiffly starched. For speciala dornment we wore beads and wide ribbon sashes, and some of us even had our ears pierced for earrings. For school in wintertime we wore second-best Sunday dresses colored flannelettes and cotton serges. For best we had wool serge, delaine and cashmere made in the current styles. You have only to look through our cherished picture albums to know we were not old-fashioned, but stylish in fashions of olden times.

With our finery we wore long, home-knit stockings and high-topped, black shoes, either laced or buttoned, and always well polished. The polish rubbed off easily onto our petticoats and skirt hems, as it was only soot from the back of the stovelids, applied with the tip of a wet shoe brush. Father found an improved recipe in the newspaper later on, which was a decided improvement on the old method.

Mother taught us to take good care of our clothes, to keep from getting them soiled when new or freshly laundered and to change into our every-day clothes as soon as we came home from school or town. We wore them until they were literally worn out, and Mother was good at mending. She kept us clean and looking respectable in whatever we had.

Amelia and I didn't rush the "growing-up" process as rapidly as did some in our crowd but when our time came, Amelia's sooner than mine, we too, were proud of our first corsets, highs stiff collars and long skirts. Much to my disappointment I couldn't tolerate any of them they, along with veils and gloves, all but smothered me.

We were a busy family at the Section farm, typical of rural life every where if success follows good management and industrious effort. "Early to bed and early to rise" was a living maxim in our house. Early rising caught the meadow lark's first, clear, melodious song. All through the valley from fence post to field, they trilled their cheerful challenge for everyone, everywhere to greet a ponderous new day with the joy of living in a world so full of beauty. The meadow lark always has been and still is, my favorite bird.

Father and Mother were the undisputed heads of the family, each in his own domain. We began each day without wordy instructions and worked in an atmosphere of individual freedom. If any job was being done less than satisfactorily, we were corrected and had to do it over, but there was no loud scolding or tempermental battles that I ever remember. Differences of opinion and small arguments passed between us children occasionally, but Mother's "Two it takes to make a quarrel, but one can always end it", usually reduced temperatures back to normal. Our training was by invisible methods such as attitudes and example which have lasted through the years; at the time it seemed to me we just grew up. We felt no undue restrictions in our actions but had great respect for our parents. Obedience was a cardinal virtue in those days. We accepted our portion of each day's labor with good-natured willingness.

MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY

Father
Father was sixty-five years old when I was born and seventy before I could remember him. By that time his whiskers and hair were white, his back somewhat bent, yet as long as he lived he was active and alert in body and mind. His eyes were clear blue and would light up expressively when he was interested or amused. Like the Irish whose blood flowed in his veins, he was rather short and heavy-set. He wore a number seven shoe. When excited or upset his voice was quick and rather sharp, but in conversation or public speaking it was soft and low.

As a husband he was kind and considerate and taught the children as they came along to respect and help Mother. While the first children were small, he often hired someone to assist her with the extra work. One of the first sewing machines to come to Heber was the one Father bought for Mother. It lasted us through all the years at the Section.

Father was understanding with his children, and both at Heber and at the Section, he allowed them to play freely around the corral and stockyards. His only stipulation was, "When you are through playing, tidy up everything as you found it." His blue eyes often twinkled at the speech or antics of the children at play. Bessie remembers the time Ella tied her to a porch post because she kept teasing her mother to "let's go home." Soon Grandpa came along and without a word untied the rope and set her free. After that he was her real favorite.

Father was not one to grumble or complain. He never started an argument but he world stand up for himself if the occasion required. He did not like to be imposed on, saying, "I mind my own business and like other people to do the same." He probably had mellowed some by the time I came along. Typical of his corrections was on a winter evening; we children were playing on the floor; Ed and Lucy's Charl from Moccasin, who was staying with us and going to school, were moving their herds of sheep (parched corn) to the sumriler range. The cobs were their horses. We girls were under the table with doll-rags; all of us were quite noisily happy. Father, who was reading the newspaper in the rocker by the fire, finally looked our way and said "Children should be seen, not heard", an oft quoted expression in those days. We quieted down immediately and he didn't find it necessary to repeat it.

Fred, George, and Ed remembered a sterner sermon he impressed upon them while they were living in Heber. He left them with a job to do while he was away for an afternoon. The work was to be done by the time of his return; it was not, and he was provoked with them. So they would remember better on a similar future occasion, he gave them a switching with a willow, one strike for each year of age. Ed was too young to be responsible and would have escaped the punishment altogether but somehow he saw humor in what the other boys were getting and laughed. He received his strikes for laughing while his brothers were crying and soon was in harmony with their tune.

One morning at the Section, Father and one of the boys were having a difference of opinion on a matter of work business. They were talking in low tones, and I for one, never learned what about, but their voices and the expressions on their faces were serious. Finally Father arose and walked into the kitchens saying, "When your children are little they make your arms ache, but when they are big they make your heart ache."

George remembered Father's wrath being aimed at him individually. It was during the Order, and George was about eight years old. One afternoon he and a companion were playing just outside the Fort. An Indian approached them wanting to trade an old bow and arrow for something to eat. After dickering for a time, he settled for potatoes. "Heap full", he muttered as he passed them a dirty sack. There were no individual potato cellars in the Order, so the boys went to the big company pit and filled the sack as full as they could carry it, taking as inconspicuous a route as possible. Naturally when Father came home, the bow and arrow had to be accounted for, and the defenses of a small boy can be easily broken down. George was taken to confess to the proper authorities, to ask forgiveness then he was spanked and put in the attic to stay until morning--no supper. Emma telling me of this incident, said the meal was a silent affair, all of them feeling sorry for George whose big blue eyes looked wistfully down through a knothole in the ceiling. His only comfort came when the other boys went up to bed, and they were soon all asleep.

I remember as Ed grew into his self-assertive age, that he and Father had positive, but never angry arguments. These were apt to have political significance especially when Ed took the daring and unpardonable change from Republican allegience--however for a short time only. Orderville was then Republican to the last man--excepting, of course, a few radicals who didn't count. Ed believed in voting for the man, Father for the party. In religion Father stood for strict obedience to authority while Ed, at that time at least, rejected blind obedience. Father often said "If you ever doubt which road to take, follow the majority of the First Presidency of the Church and the Twelve Apostles. Individuals among them may go astray, but never the majority."

Father had a keen mind and good judgment, and unwavering faith in the gospel. He was conservative and well-balanced, industrious, dependable, and unfailingly punctual for any appointment. He was very meticulous in his work, a characteristic which is handed down to his numerous posterity unto the proverbial fourth generation. Naturally there are individual diversions but the tallowing letter from the daughter-in-law of our oldest brother shows the pattern. This represents the four generations of Charleys-- Charles Negus, Charles William, Charles Hardy and Charles Thomas. In a letter I received from Elsie Chamberlain Carroll wife of Charles Hardy dated June 10, 1957, she said:

"I am so grateful to see Carroll characteristics in Helen and Charles. When I visited Charley a year ago before he had been transferred to California, I wrote to Grandpa (our brother, Charley) to tell him the way Charley kept his garage, and the care with which he worked in his garden, made me think of his grandfather's meticulousness, and it made me proud of him. Amy, I am grateful to belong to the wonderful Carroll family, as I know you are."

"A place for everything and everything in its place", was often quoted by both Father and Mother, and all our surroundings, the house, the dooryards, the corrals, the gardens, and fields were evidence of its being consistently practiced. Their precept and example set the pattern for what is now crystallized into a family trait or characteristic.

There were no crooked furrows on Fathers farm, which reminds me of the time I was doing a spring planting in our garden after we moved to town. I was using a hoe to furrow the long garden and had just got to the bottom by the lilac hedge. Looking up I saw a crook in the furrow I had just made and went back to straighten it. When I turned around I saw Louise Siler, who said, "you are just like your Father, he couldn't stand a crooked furrow." His head ditches were evenly spaced and kept fairly free from weeds. Hay and grain were neatly cut, piled, and stored. Alleyways, mangers, and stables were never overrun with waste leftovers.

The tools at both the barn and the house were kept in their proper places and never left to deteriorate in sun and rain. He said "tools rust out quicker than they wear out." He kept his harnesses and tool handles well oiled, his machinery repaired, and unsightly trash raked and disposed of.

In public life Father was modest and unassuming, never seeking positions, but when appointed he filled them with efficiency and dependability. He served on boards and committees, both civic and religious; was Justice of the Peace for years, both in Heber and in Orderville. He was High Priest, High Counsellor and a Patriarch for many years. He attended meetings and conferences regularly, regardless of the weather. He was known for his faithfulness and devotion to family and friends, his church and country.

When Father was eighty years of age, he expressed concern about leaving Mother, Ella, and myself on the farm and began looking for a home in town. It took some time, but eventually Brother Chamberlain made a shift among his families and sold us the house his wife Chastie was living in. It was on Sand Street in the northeast part of town, two houses west of the home of our sister, Kezia. Itw as a fairly new house with four rooms, two on the ground floor, two upstairs. An old granary was pulled up to the back for a kitchen.

Leaving Ed, Rye, and Giles at the Section, we moved to town in May of 1901. May was Father's moving month, it seems. It was in May he moved from Canada; in May he moved from Heber; in May he moved to the Section; and after living there for fifteen years, it was May, 1901 that we moved back to town. The next May 26, 1902, he made his final move--from this life to his Eternal Home.

In the funeral services for Father, Brother Heber Meeks, in speaking of his life and characteristics, said "The history of Orderville would not have been the same if Brother Carroll had not responded to his great religious urge to join the United Order. He and his large family of sons and daughters have been prominent and active in the various organizations of the town and church. Like him his children are known for their dependability and conscientious labors in public interest, and in his large and worthy posterity, Brother Carroll, his characteristics, and influence will still live on and on."

Father was at the Twenty-fourth of July celebration in Cottonwood Canyon when word was relayed by messenger that Johnston's Army was coming. Father was standing close to President Young and heard him say, "They will never, no never come into this Valley unless I let them!"

Looking back through the years, I can still see Father walking up Cove Hill, bending to the incline, his hands locked behind him; I can see him irrigating in each of our fields, cutting with the scythe, cycle, shovel or hoe, the thrifty weeds on the ditch bank. I see him sowing grain and planting garden seeds and on his knees thinning beets and carrots. I see him sharpening tools with file and grind-stone. I see him walking slowly as he turns the point going to and from town; see him cutting wood and carrying in the heavy backlogs, poking the fire or winding the clock. I can see him reading the newspaper or drumming a tattoo on the arms of the rocking chair.

Most clearly of all, I see him sitting on the porch, slowly rocking, resting, thinking, enjoying, I am sure, the fruits of his labor. He loved to watch the clouds gather, and a summer shower sweep its way up the valley. He loved the vivid streaks of lightning and the low rumble of loud claps of unleashed thunder.

Whatever the memory, it is permeated with a glow of warmth and admiration, respect, and love for my pioneer Father whose physical courage and hardihood and spiritual faith and integrity subdued the wilderness for our comfort and set in paths of righteousness the footsteps of his numerous posterity.

Bits of Father's philosophy remain with us:

Do not buy what you cannot pay for. If you cannot live and pay as you go, how can you expect to live and pay baok?

Do not want everything you see, You will never save money if you buy everything you take a fancy to.

Regularity never missed a meeting.

All work is honorable if you honor the work.

When I outlive my usefulness I want to die.

If you can support two children you can support twelve. As my family increased, my ability to take care of them also increased.

Father often referred to the words of Bishop Bryant Jolly of Mt. Carmel, who kept a store: "The merchant ruins the people by trusting them; then they in turn ruin him by being unable to pay."

Mother
Mother, when young, had dark brown hair, gray-blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a clear complesion. She was gentle and refined, moving and speaking with quiet dignity. She possessed a generous share of typical English reserve, passing it onto most of her children. She was about five feet, four inches in height, neither slender nor plump, just medium.

She was a good listener, She formed her own opinions but did not make an un-pleasant issue of them to cause friction among visitors or in public places. She said her sermons of peace and goodwill in conduct, not in controversy. "The least said, the soonest mended"--that was Mother's way of dealing with disputes.

She was a wise and efficient homemaker, and system and order marked her household planning. At the Section she was the first one to start the day's activity, rising early to make the fires and get breakfast. Father was getting older and she let him sleep until time for family prayers. It was not the hastily prepared meal of the present day. It consisted of boiled or warmed over potatoes, ham and eggs, hot yeast biscuits, dried apple sauce or preserves. We served our cornmeal mush for suppers. The Section never saw the day of prepared cereals and canned fruit and vegetables.

Mother was a good cook with a natural taste for sweetening and seasoning, never too muoh--always just right. While I was visiting my brother, Charley, in Palo Altos, California one Sunday, he showed me through his tidy and comfortable three-roomed cottage where he lived next door to his youngest son, Joseph. When he opened the refrigerator, he called my attention to a basin of rice pudding and said, "And it tastes just like Mother's." I observed that every detail of his housekeeping was also just like Mother's--and he was past ninety years of age at the time. The power and efficacy of example is a most potent ingredient in building character.

Mother was very independent, always looking ahead in household management. She was seldom caught without sugar, salt, soda, spices, yeast, breads etc. "Neither a borrower nor a lender be", she would often quote. "But if you have to borrow, take it back as soon as you can and be more careful with other people's things than you would your own." There were very few slang words spoken in our home, and never profanity. The harshest words Mother ever spoke to me were brought on when she called me one day to come and peel the potatoes for dinner. I was in the seclusion of her bedroom reading a novel, and she had to call three times. I went to the kitchen and put my hands to work, but my head was still in the clouds. After paring the potatoes I covered them with water in the iron kettles took the lid off the stove, and set them on to boil. Mother was a good inspector and soon she called, "Amy, did you wash the potatoes before putting them on?"

"Oh, I forgot", I muttered.

"Why you little stink-bug!" she said with more than her usual emphasis.

Julia remembers distinctly Mother's quiet discipline. It was while they were living in town, and George had been kept in school at noon for an infraction of some rule. Mother, feeling sorry for him sent Julia up with his dinner. George's blue eyes were black, Julia noticed, when she passed him the bowl of hot soup and two thick slices of bread and butter, with angry revenge he smashed it all over the floor. It was a greasy mess, all right. Julia returned minus the bowl. Mother then gave her a bucket and a scrubbing brush and sent her back to salvage the family reputation. "Never mind, Julie. It's a wonder he didn't smash it all over the teacher's desk. That would have been worse."

I have often wondered how such a quiet, gentle person as Mother usually got her own way. She did not angle nor scheme for it, I am sure. It must have been our deep love and respect for her that made us want to do things her way. She was never one to argue a point; she just stated her opinion. It was always reasonable and just so there was no resentment whatever in yielding obedience to her wishes. Mother never reproved us with sharp words. If any job was poorly done it was: "Mealy the oilcloth on the kitchen table is not wiped dry." or "Amy, you left a streak of dirt on the floor, get the broom and sweep it up."

Sometimes when Emma, or Julia hung out a piece of laundry not quite spotless, Mother, without a word, would bring it in off the line, take over the washboard, and scrub the article clean. The wash was never left out over night. She would say, "A night in the wind is harder on the clothes than a week's weare." With the ironing, Mother also expected a well-done performance. I have seen her bring back a tie apron, a shirt, a skirt, and press out the offending wrinkles without a word of reproof. I suppose she has made each of us girls refold the tablecloth until we did it right. "In England", she would say, "Mother always taught us to fold the tablecloth in the same folds that were ironed in to prevent new wrinkles."

The beds, which were Mother's job, were carefully aired and made each day. Often it became necessary to make a bed on the floor; when taken up the next morning, the quilts must be folded evenly to make a neat looking pile when stowed away. And never, never would Mother let us lie on the beds in the daytime. Father was the exception. He often took a short after-dinner nap, but the rest of us, if sleepy, stretched out on the carpet in the living room.

Mother always went to bed with a clean house. She would say, "Each day has its own work without any left over from yesterday." After a busy day, Father in bed, the children tucked in, and the hearth swept clean, Mother would indulge herself in a little while of restful quiet. The warm glow of the fire, the flicker of flames on the white-washed walls--no noise, just peace and contentment! I know the feeling, for on occasions I shared it with her, sitting at her feet in my red flannel night gown, not talking--just feeling.

She often said, "The happiest days of my life were spent at the Section." I can truthfully say, "So were mine." There were enough of us at home to make it interesting, and the married girls visited frequently--once, sometimes twice a week. The older grandchildren have never forgotten Grandma's good bread and butter honey or molasses to which they were treated between meals to eat on the long walk home. We have always enjoyed close family ties, perhaps because so many of us were girls. They seem to feel a need, or inner urge, stronger than do the boys, to come home to mother. As sisters, too, we have throughout the long years of life

(end page 30)