Snow

Last night we experienced a major snow event here in Cache Valley and I'm sure many of the rest of the family got in on the same storm.  It came with a fury and lasted only a couple of hours in which about eight inches of snow fell and all of it was accompanied by strong winds.  We were expecting it as it had been forecast right down to the hour and the intensity of the storm and the following drastic drop in temperatures.  We were prepared and so had no need to fear.  This storm took me back in my memories to our growing up days in Bear Lake Valley and experiences we had with the weather while living there. 

     As I think back on those days, I have come to believe that the weather actually had a major role in the way we grew up and on our character development as well. One particular experience stands out in my mind.  I forget the exact year but it would have been when I was about eight or nine years old as I recall.

     In Lanark as well as most of the rest of rural Bear Lake Valley nearly all families depended on small dairy operations for a livelihood. By this time most of the small creameries which had been privately owned and existed in many of the small communities around the valley had been consolidated and a dairy cooperative had been created  with a large creamery and cheese plant built just about a mile north of Paris.  Farmers from all over the valley would send their few ten gallon cans of milk to the creamery in Paris.  The milk was picked up from each place and hauled to Paris by a milk truck driver.  I remember that Uncle Ivan, mother's brother, was the milk truck driver who came each morning to our place and picked up the milk.  He was always singing a song or humming a tune, even when the weather was bad or he got stuck in the snow. 

     Anyway, I remember this terrible storm we had.  The wind blew and blew and it snowed and snowed for several days.  The drifts were immense and for all intents and purposes we were cut off from the rest of the world.  We couldn't even see across the street during this entire time.  One thing that did go on however, was the feeding of livestock and milking of the cows.  After a couple of days all the milk cans were full, and the milk truck could not make its rounds as all of the roads were covered with huge drifts of snow.  Milk was essentially every ones major source of income and as the blizzard continued it became apparent the the farmers would all have to dump their milk, as there was no place to put it.  One thing about cows, they wont hold more than a days milk at a time and preferably only a half days, thus the morning and night milkings.  Dad became concerned about having to dump his milk and knew that all of the other farmers around town were having to do the same.  This could become a major problem for them, and he knew it,  so he harnessed up his team and hitched them to the sleigh and went off into the blizzard.  He soon was joined by another farmer, Dave Parker, who lived about a mile away.  Together they went from one end of Lanark to the other picking up all of the milk cans  full of milk from all the farmers, loading them on to the sleigh in the blizzard and taking them to the creamery in Paris six miles away, where the milk was dumped into the large vats for making cheese.  Then the empty cans were loaded once again onto the sleigh and Dad and Dave were off into the raging blizzard once again.  They now had to return all of the cans so the farmers could refill them once again.  I remember that as the day wore on Mother was very anxious and concerned about Dad out in the blizzard all day.  About dark, the door opened and their stood Dad plastered from head to foot with a thick coat of snow, but thankfully safe and sound.I especially remember how the snow was caked onto his whiskers and face.  I have often thought about this experience and have reflected on what made Dad do this.  First of all, he was physically strong and he was brave.  He was never afraid or reluctant to reach out and help someone in need.  He had faith in the Lord and in himself and even in his team of horses.  He cared about his neighbors and knew that their predicament was equally as dire as his own.  He knew that there were neighbors out there, who had the same concerns that he did, and that they would be willing to help if they could, and that they would be grateful for the help they received, if they couldn't. He did not hesitate, even at great risk even of his life,  to come to their aid.  This was not the only occasion in which he came to the aid of someone in need.  It was a part of him. Throughout the years, I have always been grateful for the example that was shown to me on that wintry day and in the howling blizzard.  People who have spent their lives in the Bear Lake Valley have a name for these blizzards, which happened then much more frequently than they do now, or at least, so it seemed.  They say: "That was a real Bear Laker."

     Another event of my youth associated with the winter weather occurred during my high school years.  I was a Freshman and Ellis was a Senior.  We both attended Fielding High School in Paris. 

There were not a lot of clubs and school activities beyond ball games and dances, but one was a banquet put on by the FFA (Future Farmers of America).  Ellis and I were both a part of this organization and were in line for some sort of award, I think. At this time Dad had a 1950 Plymouth and took us to the dinner and program in Paris.  I can't remember for sure, but they must have had a baby sitter for Brenda, Nina, Reed, and Mark.  Brenda was not old enough to care for them I'm sure and our parents would certainly never have left them alone without adequate care.  Anyway the evening went by pretty much as planned until we started home.  By  the time we reached the Lanark Road the wind was blowing and the snow was drifting heavily across the road. Dad turned on to the road and started towards home.  Soon it became apparent that the car would never be able to break its way through the snow drifts which covered the road and the storm was not letting up.  Mother had been nursing Mark, who at the time was still just a baby.  She knew, she had to get home, and so they assigned Ellis to take me back to Paris and go to Grandma and Grandpa Eborn's and ask to stay with them.  Of course, they let us.  Dad and Mom then took off on foot through the drifting snow, knowing that somehow they just had to get home, Mom to nurse the baby and take care of the kids they had left at home and Dad to milk the cows in the morning. Somehow, they made it and all went well, but it once again showed the love and determination they had for all of us.  First of all, they were supportive of Ellis and me in our school activities and secondly they were not to be dissuaded from the even more

challenging task of getting home so they could care for the younger children.  It took about three days before the roads were finally open and we could return home.  Most of the school buses couldn't make it in to Paris during this time, but the Paris kids and, of course, Ellis and I and some others who also couldn't make it home had to go to school anyway.  Needless to say, school was more play than work during those days, but we, nonetheless, felt a little put upon.  This story is true to the best of my recollection, but there may have been a few things I'd forgotten or got mixed up.  Maybe Ellis could clarify if need be.

By Bart

The Harvest Season Memories

Today, my thoughts are of my wonderful mother.  It is her birthday and were she still with us she would be 98 years old.  I'm sure she's in a better place and happily watching over us just as she did when she was here on this earth.  November is special to me because I always am reminded of the special person who was our mother.
November is also a special month of thanksgiving.  It is also commemorated a a month of the harvest although the harvest in the Bear Lake Valley was usually over by November and often the ground was already covered with snow before the month was over.  As with all of the other months of the year, November holds special memories for me and I'm for other members of the family.  Our family worked hard to make sure that our harvest included enough bottled fruit and vegetables to get us through the winter.  That was no small task for a family of eight.  We didn't always depend on what we could buy at the grocery store in town.  My personal memories are of Mother shelling peas and canning almost anything that would fit in a bottle.  I remember not only the traditional fruits and vegetables, but venison stew and bottled meats and chili beans etc..  I remember also butchering pigs and putting some of the cuts of meat in a brine and spice solution to soak.  This had two major purposes.  It gave the meat a special tasty flavor as in ham and bacon and it also was a way to preserve the meat in the days before we got a freezer.  Some of the special things that Mother canned and put away on the shelves were Mom's Chili Sauce.  Pickled Beets, and I even remember her bottling mince meat which was used for an occasional special pie.  I remember planting potatoes and in the fall digging them and then trying to keep them for use later in the winter and early spring.  We had to work at it, but I'm sure no one ever went to bed hungry in our home.  Sometimes it was potatoes and milk gravy with a little bit of sausage.  This was especially good with some of Mom's home made Chili Sauce.  I even like it to this day.  I learned to like bread and milk of which there was always plenty.  Mother was an outstanding cook in spite of not always having a lot to work with.  She could make an excellent meal out of what we would now consider to be very meager ingredients.  The smell of Mother's home made bread when we came home from school, is a memory which will fondly linger in my mind until the day I die.  Home made bread a a slice of cheese always tasted so good.  I also remember fondly the home made cookies, the Yorkshire puddings and rice puddings with raisins, as wonderful pies of different kinds which were served on special occasions.  One thing I don't think I appreciated as much as I should have at the time was the fact that for many of my growing up years Mom did all this cooking and baking in a wood fired stove.  Just keeping the fire burning was in and of itself no small task.  It seamed we were always scrambling to find a few extra sticks of wood, so that the bread could finish baking or something else could be cooked completely.

Below are pictured some of my favorite tastes and smells form our kitchen.

Home made bread 5-6 loaves twice a week.

Home made Chili Sauce.  I loved the smell of it being cooked on our wood burning stove.  It tasted yummy too.  We always bought a few bushels of tomatoes from a peddler who would come around in the fall.  Mom made those tomatoes last all year, chili sauce, tomato juice etc.

Beets were one thing we could grow well in Bear Lake Valley,  Mom bottled them as a vegetable and also as Pickled Beets which I especially liked.

Another favorite memory of the harvest season was when we harvested the grain (wheat and barley.)

Dad always hired someone who had a combine to come in and harvest the grain.  I remember so well sitting in a big truck full of wheat eating raw wheat by the hand full.  It actually tasted pretty good. And the smell of the freshly harvested wheat and barley is a lingering memory that just wont go away.  Dad always worked very hard to get a good crop and then to get it harvested in a timely manner.  I remember one year in particular.  The barley harvest was very good.  I can still hear Dad telling me that his crop that year yielded nearly a hundred bushel per acre.  Such was unfortunately not always the case due to lack of water and untimely frosts. Most of the  grain was sold as a much needed cash crop with some being retained for feed for the animals.

A bumper crop of barley, this was used as a cash crop, but also as feed for the animals, pigs, chickens

and cattle.

by Bart

Halloween in Lanark

Does anyone remember how Mom would dress up for Halloween and greet the Trick and Treaters?  I think she was dressed up as a witch and she had fun right along with the kids! Halloween was fun for all of us in Lanark, Idaho.  Lanark is located in the southeast part of Idaho and as a young child, we walked along the dark gravel roads trick or treating.  No street lights!  No paved  highways!  It was quite an experience just moving about the town.  Houses were not close and we
tried to go from one end of the town to the other.  Houses were at least a quarter of a mile apart.
I don't remember what we did during my younger years, but I suppose we went in cars and then later I remember tagging along with older siblings, and then finally as a teen ager, going in groups.  We would get invited into almost every house by the time we were teen agers and our treat was often a piece of pie, or a doughnut, or popcorn balls.  It was quite safe to roam about in those days and except for having our candy stolen by a "dumb older kid" I don't remember any scary incidents.  Some of us probably played a few tricks on people, but I didn't get in on those.  I just heard about some of them.

The Younger Brothers

                       The Younger Brothers   Reed and Mark -- Cute!

I was thinking of my little brothers this morning and thought I would add this picture. I found this picture behind another picture that I brought home from the folks’. They were sure cute little brothers! I was remembering that I was in the fourth grade in our Aunt Opal’s class, when Reed was born, and I went across the street from the school, that day at noon hour to Grandma and Grandpa Eborn’s house, which was across from the playground. I don’t remember which uncle was there but he told me that I had a new little brother, and that they had found him along the road, or some similar story, and that I now had a new baby brother. I think I must have been a very gullible child, or just naive because I wondered if it was true. About five years later when Mark was born, I must have also been naive because it was only a few weeks after I found a baby blanket under Mom and Dad’s bed that Mom had another new baby boy. We now had a family of two boys, two girls, and two more boys. In those days, to my recollection, parents didn’t talk much of the new baby that was coming. Maybe I was in the other room, or outside, but I didn’t have any of those conversations. A few weeks before Mark was born, Mom did tell me that she would be going to the hospital soon, and she would need some help at home during this time. I never even knew she was going to have a baby. I guess I wasn’t very observant either! Mom talked about staying in the hospital for about ten days when her babies were born. I remember Mom saying that Mark said, in later years, “I don’t know why I had to be the last one born.” He felt like he missed out on the Easter Egg dyeing and some of those events that by the time he came along, parents had had enough of that kind of fun. Only when we get older do we understand!

Brenda

Robert Price

Thursday, October 21, 2010

My Greatgrandfather, Robert Price

Recently, I was able to obtain a copy of the book, Robert Price, by Ezra J. Poulsen. I had read it forty years ago shortly after it was published. Robert Price is my maternal great grandfather . Mother had a copy of this book and I'm not sure who ended up with it after her passing. It would do us all well to find a copy, they are currently out of print, and read it and reflect deeply on the faith, strength, and ability of this man. He was an early settler in the Bear Lake Valley having immigrated to the United States and Utah after his conversion to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was called to assist in the establishment of the Bear Lake Colony by Brigham Young, and though he had lived most of his life in a big city, he accepted the challenge and accomplished many truly miraculous thing there during his lifetime. One of the things he did toward the end of his life was to create a sawmill at the head of Worm Creek. This was an area of roadless wilderness located in the mountains west of and between Bloomington and St. Charles. There used to be an old iron steam engine there years ago and I had seen it some twenty five years ago while hiking in the area with some of my sons. I can't remember exactly which ones, except I know Justin was with me. When I read the Robert Price book this past week I determined to go and see if I could find the old steam engine which my great grandfather had some how gotten up to the head of Work Creek. I hiked and found the area I thought it was in but no steam engine. Perhaps it has since been hauled out and sold as scrap metal. That would have been a difficult project in and of itself. The day was not wasted though. I had time to contemplate the life of one of my ancestors and to count my blessings for my heritage. I saw several old tree stumps that appeared to have been left after the trees had been fallen, maybe a hundred years ago by one of the workers for my great-grandfather. It was a singular and humbling experience.

The photo above is a picture of my great-grandfather, Robert Price.  The name Robert Price was printed on the bottom of the Photo by my mother, Edna Hymas Eborn.  He was born at Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire, England in 1835.  He joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints  when he was baptized by and Elder Smith on September 4, 1853.  He was eighteen years old and living alone in the great city of London at the time, having struck out on his own some three years earlier.  His faith in the restored gospel grew and never faltered.  He married Matilda Kelsey on October 13,1855 at Clerkenwell, a district in the North end of London in the borough of Finsebury.  She had previously converted to the Church, perhaps in the Dover area of southeastern England where they had lived previously.  Some time later, at the direction of Church leaders, Robert Price entered into the practice of plural marriage.  His second wife was, Sussanah Juchau, who was a friend of the family and had actually accompanied Robert and Matilda Price across the Great Plains to Utah leaving with the Milo Andrus Company from Florence, Nebraska in July of 1861.  At the time the United States were engaged in the great Civil War, it having broken out in April 1861.  Faraway Utah in the Rocky Mountains must have seemed a heaven on earth in spite of the rigorous journey and the difficulties of pioneer life in the West at the time.  Susannah Juchau, through whom our family descends, was just fifteen years old at the time and drove one of the Robert Price family wagons to Utah and assisted the frail Matilda with the children and other family chores.  Robert and Matilda had serious reservations about the principle of plural marriage, but they agreed to follow the instructions of their Church leaders and were glad to have Susannah, a capable, loving and trusted friend,  as a part of the family.  They were married March 2 1864 in the Endowment House in Salt Lake City, Utah.  Robert would later take three additional wives.  For the most part the lived amicably together, not in the same house, in Paris, Idaho where Robert and his families settled following a call from the Prophet to relocate to the Bear Lake Valley in 1869, just six years after its settlement by Apostle Charles C. Rich and a company of pioneers in 1863.

     My Grandmother, Elizabeth Price, was the daughter of Robert Price and his wife, Susannah Juchau Price.

The above photo is a picture of my grandmother, Elizabeth Price Hymas.

The above photo is of three daughters Robert Price, Elizabeth, Polly, and Grace.  Ezra J. Poulsen refers to them as the "inseparable ones".  They were daughters of the same father and different mothers, and growing up in the small village of Paris during pioneer times had become very close friends as well as sisters.  They were all married on the same day in the Logan, Utah LDS Temple, September 18, 1879.

      I'm very glad I reread the book, Robert Price. I learned a great deal about my greatgrandparents and grandparents that I had not recalled from my previous reading.

 
by Bart

Canning with Mom

Food for the long Bear Lake winter.

I wish my memory were better, but I certainly enjoy reading about Mom and Dad and their family. After reading the Darrell and Edna Eborn Clan blog I do remember those days and events.  It then brings to recall a memory of my own.  I was remembering Mom and canning time.  I know that Nina and I got involved in this, mostly during the fall season, and we too were impressed when the bottles were all full.  I especially liked the looks of the peaches and pears.  Mom canned whatever she could.  I remember going over to Preston a time or two and picking green beans and coming home and canning them in the pressure cooker.  That pressure cooker sounded a little scary to me as it let off its steam.  Then we closely stood near by the stove and watched to make sure it did not go over that certain number.  It required a certain amount of pressure, 12 pounds for beans, if I remember right.  The fruits, of course, received a hot water bath.  We got to peel and remove the pits and help prepare the simple syrup for the berries and fruits.  I remember drying apricot stones and after they were dried we would eat the nut inside.  In later years, we were told they were not to be eaten, for some reason that I don't recall.  I still like to can and see the bottles full - now in my own home.  Sometimes I kept the kids from opening bottles until after the first snow fell and sometimes I gave in, just as Mom did.

by Brenda

The Berries

It seems like my thoughts have been turned to the berries lately.  Usually beginning in the first part of August one of family activities was to go into the mountains and pick huckleberries.  These are a small and very tasty berry that grows wild in cretain parts of the forests surrounding the Bear Lake Valley.  They are quite often plentiful, though in some years they are rather hard to find.  Our family had several places which were our favorites.  One of the closest was up behind Neibuhr Spring in the Dry Fork area in a place we called, of all things, Huckleberry Hill.  I remember going with Dad and Mom nnd some of the family and we would usually come home with a few gallons.  I remember Dad saying that you were really doing well if you got in a spot where you could pick a gallon every four hours.  I have come to realize, that he really did know what he was talking about.  Very rarely, have I found a spot where I could pick any more than a gallon in that period of time.  Some might say they are not worth the effort, but they were free fruit for the family and Mom could make a huckleberry pay like none other.  We were grateful for the fruit and came to enjoy our time sitting in the huckleberry patch picking all day.  As a youth we always had to quit a little bit early in order to get home and get the cows milked before dark  Sometimes Dad would go picking alone and sometimes Mom did too.  I remember once Mom telling me about how she had decided to go picking huckleberries up in Mill Canyon. She found a good patch and as the day wore on she was beginning to fill her second gallon bucket.  Dad had come home from turning a few streams of water as the watermaster on the Lanark Canal and decided to go see if he could find her.  He did and as she sat picking in the berry patch Dad came in from behind her and scared/ surprised her.  I think she was nonetheless very happy that he was thinking of her and that he came looking.  I can imagine the good conversation they had for the rest of the day.  Of course they had to be back to milk the cows and take care of the kids. 

       The tradition of picking huckleberries did not originate in our family with Mom and Dad and us kids though.  I remember Mom telling us about her childhood years when the whole Hymas clan would go camping up Emigration Canyon around Grandpa Benjamin Hymas' birthday and stay until they had several ten gallon milk cans full of huckleberries.  That seems almost impossible, but then we must remember that it was a family affair, and it was no small family. 

     I also remember Dad telling about one of the neighbors in Lanark who had gone up into the mountains to pick huckleberries and had picked two large buckets full.  While he was picking the second bucket full he had put the first bucket under a tree until he was finished.  When he finished the second bucket, he searched and searched, but could not find his treasured bucket of berries.  He went home with one bucket full and when he told the sad story of the full bucket sitting under some tree in the mountains his wife was furious.  Dad said for the next several days this poor hen-pecked husband could be seen early in the morning heading for the hills on his horse in search of the the lost bucket of huckleberries.    I know not whether he ever found them or if the whole story was absolutely true, but it made a good story and serves to emphasize the value of a bucket of huckleberries both then and maybe even now.

      Since those first days of picking and relishing Mom's huckeberry pies, I have tried to keep up the tradition.  Every year about the end of July I can be found out in the woods exploring some of my favoite huckleberry haunts to see what the harvest will be like in the next few weeks.  I have discovered many good places.  They are not all good every year, but it is a rare year whe I can't find enough to fill a few buckets and to relish all winter long and into the next summer.  Some of my favorite places are Huckleberry Hill,  Mill Canyon in Emigration Canyon,  Copenhagen Basin,  North Canyon,  Ant Basin,  Cheatback, Stauffer Canyon,  Skinner Canyon, and Georgetown Canyon and at the RC& D Camp.  I have done a lot of exploring as you can see and have enjoyed every moment of it.

     A little over a week ago I took Reed and we  went up by the RC& D Camp in Emigration Canyon and spent about eight hours picking huckleberries, and I might add, in our advanced years and the frame of our minds, philosphizing, mostly on subjects of religion, but sometimes just about life in general.  It was a great day and the four gallons of huckleberries we came home with at the end of the day were really just a bonus.  We couldn't help but wonder what Mom and Dad were thinking as they looked down from the Heavens and listened to us in deep discussion as we sat and scooted through the huckleberry bushes on the seat of our pants stainingg them a deep purple as we picked and prodded one antothers minds.

     On a melancholy note, I missed my dog, River, who had gone with me on these ocassions for thirteen straight years.  He passed away last fall.  He would sit next to me and eat the declicous little berries right off the bush all day.  We would later find little huckleberry flavored tootsie rolls around the yard and on the lawn at home for the next several days.

One at a time,  how many will it ake to fill a gallon bucket?

     Life is good.

By Bart