A FATHER'S DAY TRIBUTE TO MY DAD

I wish you all could have known my Dad. He was something else. He was kind, gentle, compassionate, warm, forgiving, loving, generous, and a great teacher. He loved his kids and his grandkids. He was honest and forthright. He was extremely strong and he did more hard physical labor than any man I have ever known. Though he was only able to attend school through fifth grade, he was extremely intelligent. He never stopped learning and he was remarkably well educated. Oh, in many ways he was a typical Utahn. He used most of the rural Utah pronunciations but he knew how to spell the words he mispronounced. The picture you see here was taken when he was in his late 20’s, before he married my mom. This is the picture I told you about in the first chapter about my Dad. I always thought he was very handsome. Of course, by the time I came into this world, he was 45. I only remember him having gray or silver hair. His eyes were blue and, as I’ve mentioned before, they twinkled when he smiled. This portrait always hung on our living room wall when I was growing up. I loved to look at it.

My Dad always expected the best of himself. Both his and my mother’s motto was: “If a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well.” He instilled that into all of us. I’ve mentioned before that he was a “jack of all trades”. He didn’t have much of monetary value but his work ethic was sought after by most employers in town. He worked for various people in town who had property they wanted farmed. Generally, they wanted their fields planted in alfalfa. Of course, being part of the “desert southwest” the alfalfa needed to be irrigated. (No one had the wonderful and efficient sprinklers that farmers use today.) There was irrigation water in a ditch and my Dad seemed to have a magic touch when it came to irrigation. He could keep more water running evenly in more rows than anyone else. His ditches rarely ever broke, so, as a result of his careful tending, he had fewer ditch “breaks” than anyone else. He could “set” the ditches late in the evening and come home to get a fairly decent night’s sleep. But he would be up before daylight and off to “tend” the water.

My sister, Grace, told me that my Dad used to own a team of horses and he had a wagon. I remember, vaguely, that we had horses in our corral all the time and then as I grew older, we only had horses for short periods when he borrowed them from the man for whom he worked. I’m not absolutely sure, but I believe part of his payment for taking care of people’s fields was the use of their horses so he could get his own property plowed in the spring. Also, he needed a team and wagon to haul wood for our stoves. Yes, he had to go out and chop down the trees, trim them, load them onto the wagon, bring them home, unload them and then, chop the wood, by hand. My brothers, Sherman and Durant helped with hauling wood probably from the time they were about six or eight. I will tell you my brother, George’s story in a later chapter. He didn’t help my Dad much with cutting, hauling or chopping wood. There was a reason for that. I chopped wood, occasionally, when I got older but Daddy didn’t think it was appropriate work for a girl. I believe part of the pay for tending the fields was hay for our cows, as well.

Daddy worked in the vanadium and uranium mines around Blanding. He worked on the tunnel. He worked at the saw mill. He did odd building jobs for people. He was always in demand because his work was neat and precise. Daddy was a brick maker. He made brick for several buildings in Blanding. He made the brick, built the kiln and fired the brick. Several times while he was firing the brick he’d take me with him when he had to put more wood on the fire so I could see what it looked like inside of the kiln. The fire was so hot and scary to see and yet so beautiful. It was absolutely spectacular after dark. Daddy would take some of the brick out, throw logs into the kiln and put the brick back in. There were several places where logs could be thrown in. After he got everything going well, he would walk home and get a couple hours sleep and then he’d be up and off to the “brick yard” to do everything all over again. The brick yard was about a half-mile from our house. He always had to walk back and forth between home and the brick yard. Of course, when you’ve walked everywhere all your life, you walk at a pretty good pace.

When I was a kid, with the electric power being so sporadic, no one had refrigerators so the next best thing was an “Ice House.” In the winter when the reservoirs froze over to a depth of about eight inches, people would cut big blocks of ice (about two feet square) and haul the ice to an ice house to keep for warm weather. My Dad had an ice house. He would haul a lot of saw dust from the saw mill. He would cover the dirt floor of the ice house with about 12 to 14 inches of saw dust. He would put a layer of ice blocks on the saw dust, leaving space around the edge to fill with saw dust. He’d put a good thick layer of saw dust on top of that layer of ice, fill in the edges with saw dust, another layer of ice blocks, etc., etc., until the ice house was full, still leaving room on top for a person to move around. We could make our own ice cream in the summer because we had ice. We could also have ice to cool our drinking water, if we wanted. We sometimes had ice almost to the end of August. We cooled our home-made root beer on the ice under the sawdust. It was better than a refrigerator except for the inconvenience. We never had an over crowded ice house. We could put all the root beer we made in the ice house at the same time. If we’d had a refrigerator there almost certainly would not have been room to put all the root beer in at once.

The reason I’m telling you this is because sometimes Daddy would let me go with him to haul the ice. He’d hitch up the horses to his bob sled (a bob sled is a wagon with the wheels removed and runners put on in their place), and away we’d go. He’d load up that bob sled, go home and unload it, cover the ice with saw dust and head back up to the reservoir. Keep in mind that this always took place in January. That’s the only month the ice was hard enough and thick enough to cut. Anyway, when I went with him, he always told me to stay on the bank. I was not to come down on the ice. Most of the time I obeyed him but one time I just had to see what it was like down on the ice. Of course, I promptly fell through a hole in the ice. Fortunately Daddy was close enough he could haul me out. He found a blanket and wrapped me up in it. He had to take me home before he had a full load of ice because he was afraid I’d freeze to death. He never scolded me for that, although I would certainly have deserved the scolding. I guess he was just thankful he was able to rescue me. Needless to say, I never strayed down on the ice again.

One of my first memories is my Dad taking me to work with him. He was working with a crew that was doing concrete work at the new High School after the first one burned down. I guess my Mom was away somewhere and the other kids were at school. He took me to an area near where he was working. He told me that I would be okay if I stayed there and he cautioned me not to come into the area where he was working. I had a coloring book and some crayons but I guess I got bored or lonely and went over closer to him. Naturally, I tripped over something, fell and skinned my knee. Daddy came and picked me up. He carried me back to where I had been and put me down. He pulled out his big bandanna type handkerchief and wiped off the dirt and the drop of blood on my knee and he kissed me. Then he simply said, “You need to stay here.” I did.

I have a couple more memories of going to work with my Dad. One time, when he was working on the tunnel (I will be telling you more about the tunnel in a later post), my Mom had to take George to Price, Utah, to a special clinic and all the other kids were in school. The tunnel was far enough away that when Daddy worked there he would take his “chuck box” with food for a week---or however long he would be there. Sometimes, I guess, he was only there for two or three days at a time. It depended on how well the work was going and how much money was in the Town coffers. Anyway, I was with him for several days. We were living in a tent. During the day he had to go into the tunnel to work. He always came out for lunch to be with me. I had my doll with me and another toy or two. He told me I had to stay by the tent. I said I would and I did. I may have told you this before, but it will only take a minute to read it again. For breakfast up at the tunnel we had corn flakes. The only milk we had to put on the corn flakes was canned milk (evaporated, not sweetened condensed). I thought they were the most delicious corn flakes I had ever eaten. Many years later I remembered how good those corn flakes with canned milk tasted so I thought I would try it again. Somehow, they just didn’t measure up. I guess it was where I was and who I was with that made them taste so yummy.

Another time I remember going to work with my Dad (my Mom had another clinic with George) he was working for Ray Young at the L.C. Ranch. My Dad had asked permission for me to be with him and Ray said, “Okay.” One thing we hadn’t counted on was that Ray’s wife and daughter were also at the Ranch that week. The daughter’s name was/is Norma Rae. Norma Rae’s mother’s name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Young was one of the loveliest, sweetest women on this earth. She cared about other people and she seemed delighted that I was there to be company for Norma Rae. Norma Rae was about two weeks older than I and we would both begin First Grade in the fall. I had a great time being there. Norma Rae had a “zillion” dolls and we had fun. When I went home, she gave me a rubber doll that was just like the one I already had---and I loved her for that. Now, I had twin dolls to play with at home. I think I already told you about that. My Dad worked hard but at day’s end he always had time to hold me on his lap and tell me about things.

My Dad always planted a huge garden every spring. He had to, in order to feed his family. Before he planted the garden he had to plow the ground. He used a plow that had to be pulled by a horse. I saw him do the whole thing by himself but it was terribly hard to do it alone. I found a couple of pictures of the kind of plow he used so you’d be able to picture in your mind how really difficult it was. The blade of the plow came to a point at the front and then the blade swept back into an arc in order for the dirt to be turned back and over. The left side of the blade (the side you can’t see in these pictures) wasn’t as high as the right side and it didn’t arc as much. You can see how the handles angle out from the blade and the piece that comes out from behind the blade pointing forward hooked to the “single-tree” that hooked onto the harness of the horse. Daddy would tie the reins together and put them around his neck, dig the point of the plow blade into the dirt, grab the handles of the plow, make a clicking sound so the horse would start walking forward. He had to keep the point of the plow dug deep into the ground so the rest of the plow would turn the earth over. If the horse didn’t go in a straight line, Daddy would let go of one of the handles and grab one of the reins lightly to encourage the horse to go straight, grab the plow handle again so he could keep the plow deep into the ground. At the end of the row, he’d have to man-handle the plow around the corner so he could make the turn to go back the other way. Keep in mind that the entire time he was plowing, he had to walk in the soft, damp earth that had just been turned over. That had to be harder than distance running in the sand on a beach.

When I was about six years old he decided I was old enough to ride and guide the horse for him. Why didn’t my brother Durant, who was five years older than I do it? Well, he was 11 years old and he had plenty of other work to do. Why didn’t my brother George do it? That’s another story for another day. Besides, I loved being with my Dad and working with him. It was much nicer than being in the house doing dishes or dusting. Of course, when we were through plowing my chores were undoubtedly waiting for me in the house, but I didn’t mind. The time spent with my Dad was special. Keep in mind that this was a big WORK horse, not a saddle pony. Think of the horses that pull the Busch beer wagon in parades. That’s about the size of our work horses. They had big, strong legs and feet and a broad back.

Daddy always wanted STRAIGHT rows in his garden. Some people didn’t mind if their rows weren’t straight but my Dad did not want crooked rows. It was a matter of pride with him. So, he would lift me up onto the back of the horse. Then he would tell me: “Pick out something in front of you and keep your eyes on it. Drive the horse toward that point. If you don’t look from side to side, but keep your eyes on the point ahead of you, we will have straight rows.” I was able to do that and he appreciated not having to worry about the horse walking straight and he could concentrate on the plow.

The instructions he gave me to drive the horse correctly have been a great guide throughout my life. If I don’t look from side to side, but keep my eyes on a point straight ahead, I can always reach my goal. Now, someone out there is going to be facetious and say, “You can miss a lot of scenery if you only look straight ahead.” Just remember----I have excellent peripheral vision. I doubt that I have missed much scenery in my lifetime.

I rode the horse for my Dad many times. I was pleased to help him. After the ground was all plowed, he had a horse-drawn harrow that would break up the big clumps of dirt and make the ground easier to “work” for planting the seeds. I drove the horse with the harrow behind, as well. I have included a picture of a horse-drawn spike harrow that is similar to what Daddy had. I wanted an exact picture but couldn’t find it but this will give you an idea. (Actually, Juli added the pictures.) After the harrowing was finished and the ground was relatively smooth, Daddy would make furrows in the dirt so we could water the seeds after they were planted. His furrows were straight as an arrow. I often wondered how he could make them so straight because he was walking backward. I guess he had his eye on something in front of him and walked straight backward from the point he had chosen.

Then we planted seeds. I always loved to plant corn and potatoes with him. I’d carry a sack with the corn or the cut-up potatoes (each piece of potato had at least one “eye” in it---it’s the eye that sprouts and grows). Daddy would stick his shovel into the dirt; push the handle forward so there was a gap between the shovel and the dirt; I’d drop three or four kernels of corn or a chunk of potato into the gap; he’d pull the shovel out, step on the spot to compact the earth around the seeds, take a step forward and we’d do the whole thing again. He was a great teacher.

When I got to be about 10 years old, I was able to help him harvest the alfalfa crops that he grew for other people. The people he worked for had a tractor to pull the mower and the rake. It wasn’t one of your big fancy, enclosed, air conditioned tractors like many of the farmers here in Loa have now. It was just a plain, old-fashioned tractor with a metal seat (ouch!). You were exposed to the elements all the time so we had to wear a hat and long sleeves or we’d have been burned to a crisp. The alfalfa mower also had a metal seat, as did the rake. My Dad had a perpetual case of hemorrhoids and it was really painful for him to sit on the metal seat of the tractor, so he had Durant drive the tractor and I rode the mower and operated the mower controls so we could get the alfalfa cut. Again, why didn’t George do that? Daddy was afraid that George’s balance was not good enough for him to try to operate machinery like that, so he taught me. Durant and I mowed a lot of alfalfa in those years---always under the watchful eye of Daddy. After the alfalfa was cut we’d let it dry for a few days and then we’d go and rake it into rows that were easy for the guys to pick up with pitch forks and load onto wagons to be carried to the barns. Daddy seemed to think that pitching hay was too hard for me to do and he was probably right.

Occasionally, his employer would want his hay baled. As I recall, there were a couple of “community” balers. They were pretty big so Daddy usually had adult, male help to run them. I always felt a “tad” cheated, but only a “tad.” After a day’s work in the fields, Daddy would always put his arm around me and tell me how proud he was of what I had done. That made it all worthwhile. Did I get paid for doing those things? No, I did not. In those days, everyone in the family worked together for the good of the family. It was a matter of survival.

When I was 10, Daddy decided I was old enough to take piano lessons. He wanted me to learn the Church Hymns. I don’t think he thought about me learning to play other music, as well, because his goal was for me to learn the hymns. Daddy made arrangements with Marge Lyman to give me lessons. I was very excited to begin. Sister Lyman was a lovely, kind and patient woman---an excellent teacher. My lessons were one hour long and I was expected to practice at least one hour every day, including my lesson day and Sunday. The lesson cost 25 cents for an hour. I guess I had a natural talent for music because I progressed very quickly. After about six months of lessons it was winter and jobs were scarce. My Dad decided that, although he didn’t want me to stop taking lessons, he just didn’t have the 25 cents per week to pay for the lessons. He went to Sister Lyman and told her that I would have to quit. Sister Lyman came right back at him with: “You can’t take my best student away. I will not let her stop. I will give her lessons free.” My Dad was not one to take charity! He would pay for the lessons, somehow.

My Dad had a big apple orchard. He also had pears, peaches and apricots. One of his pear trees was a “winter” pear. He dug a big pit in the ground, built several bins in the pit and put plenty of straw in the bins to keep the apples and winter pears off the ground. He always had lots of apples so we could have as many as we wanted to eat every day. What does that have to do with music lessons? He would take Sister Lyman apples and pears. We always had a cow so there was always cream for making butter. Mom would make butter and Daddy would take a pound of really good butter to Sister Lyman. As soon as it was spring and the garden was growing, he took fresh produce plus butter and cream. I’m sure she was paid much better in that manner than 25 cents per week. It was a good deal for every one. Sister Lyman seemed to be pleased with the arrangement and I was able to continue lessons for another eight months.

When I was 12 my Dad was called to be a Stake Missionary. He and his companion, Joe Hunt, would go to Bluff (a town about 25-27 miles southeast of Blanding) every other week because they had no Priesthood in Bluff at that time. I guess they took turns with another couple of Stake Missionaries so they didn’t always have to miss their own meetings. Anyway, there was a piano in the tiny building in Bluff but no one to play it. Daddy took me with him so they could have piano accompaniment for singing the hymns. I could play most of the hymns by then; I loved the experience and I loved being with my Dad. He was so very proud of me and Brother Hunt was impressed.

Daddy was always looking for ways to make extra money for his family. For several years he went door-to-door selling “Mason” brand shoes. They were extremely well-made shoes and people seemed to like them. He was able to make some money that way. Also, he went door-to-door selling “Stark” brand trees. They offered shade, ornamental and fruit trees. They were great trees. People bought trees from him a lot. The mark-up wasn’t much but it provided a little extra cash. There was no nursery in Blanding for many years so, over time, he was able to sell trees to nearly every family in Blanding.

I really didn’t know much about his tree selling until my mother died in l991. When we went to her funeral Bishop Joe Lyman (who happened to be the youngest son of Marge Lyman, my piano teacher) told me that he really missed my Dad. I asked him, “How so?” He said, “Well, I bought quite a few trees from your Dad.” He went on to tell me that when a person bought a tree from my Dad, he also bought my Dad’s services for the life of the tree---at no extra charge. He explained what he meant. When someone bought a tree (the trees were shipped in from Stark Brothers Nursery in Michigan) Daddy would deliver the tree/trees to the person’s home and then say, “Where do you want me to plant this/these?” Bishop Lyman told Daddy that he didn’t have to plant the trees but Daddy would not let anyone plant the trees he sold. He didn’t want any of “his” trees to die because they weren’t planted correctly, so he planted every tree he ever sold. Not only that, for the first year he watered the trees, just to be sure everything was as it needed to be. After the first year, he pruned the trees for his customers. While the trees were small that was no big deal but after they were grown to size, it was a “heck of a big deal.” Bishop Lyman said that some of Daddy’s customers knew how to prune their own trees and did so, but for those who did not know how to prune, Daddy was always there to help. He also made sure that the trees were sprayed.

My Dad always took really good care of his own trees. He knew how to prune, when to prune, how much fertilizer and water each tree needed and when it was needed. As a result, he always had a bumper crop. Also, he managed to get enough money together to buy a small sprayer so he could spray the trees properly when needed. Other people saw what good fruit he got and wanted his help with their trees, including spraying. Finally, the little sprayer just wouldn’t do the job any more. The Town Council got together and decided that the Town needed a commercial size sprayer and that Daddy should be the one to do the spraying. I don’t know how much they paid him but it wasn’t enough. People used to use terrible things in spray. Durant used to help Daddy spray. The big sprayer was a two-man job. No masks were provided and they didn’t think about masks being a necessity so the first day they used the big, new sprayer, they sprayed trees for several hours and came home so sick I thought they would both die. Daddy and Durant were both nauseated and in pain but could not throw up to relieve the pain. Finally, my mother made a concoction of raw egg with mustard powder and gave it to them. Durant threw up almost immediately and got some relief but even that horrible stuff didn’t induce Daddy to throw up. It took him about a day and a half to get relief. It was pretty scary. I don’t remember much of what was in the spray mixture but I do remember one of the chemicals in the spray was nicotine. They determined it was the nicotine that had made them so sick. Daddy wouldn’t spray with nicotine any more and they were okay after that. Also, the Town provided masks for them and that helped. Daddy did the spraying for people all over town every spring for several years. I don’t know who took over for him when he decided he couldn’t do it any more or, whether any one did. He went back to using his own small sprayer on his own orchard.

After I had graduated from Sixth Grade and had gone on to the High School (grades 7 through 12), my Dad was hired to be the Custodian at the Elementary School. He received the enormous salary of $1,000.00 per year. At least, I thought it was an enormous salary. I thought we were rich. Yes, he had a steady job and received a pay check monthly. Daddy really enjoyed that job. He kept the job until the School District made him retire. I think he was 70 when he retired.

A couple of years after Daddy got the job at the school, Durant was ready to go on a mission. Durant’s expenses would be $60.00 per month. Our Ward offered to pay $20.00 per month so that left $40.00 per month for Daddy to pay. That took $480.00 per year from the $1,000.00 per year that Daddy was paid but it worked out just fine. Daddy still sold shoes and trees and did the town spraying for that period of time. As I recall, he hired someone to be his spraying helper while Durant was gone.

During the summer, Daddy was in charge of making sure the school building was thoroughly cleaned for the new school year. He was allowed to hire help and the School Board paid that help. There were windows to wash (lots and lots of windows and they were high).

The desks had to be scrubbed and all the chewing gum scraped off. The rest rooms needed to be deep cleaned. Daddy hired me to work at the school. My sister, Grace, was also available to help clean the school during two summers, as I recall. We were a good team. However, I may have gotten my fear of heights from cleaning the outside windows on that school. I was always the one who did the outside and as I mentioned, they were high. The School Board allowed a certain amount to be paid for cleaning the school. I do not remember exactly, but I seem to remember being paid 25 cents an hour. I thought I was a millionaire. That was a lot of money. Daddy did the repairs that were needed and fixed any plumbing problems. He did small painting jobs and touch-up. The first year Daddy had the job, the School Board wanted a lot of painting to be done and authorized funds to hire a painter. The painter’s name was Edson Palmer. He and my Dad had been friends for years. One day he was painting the doors on the west side of the building. I had been cleaning in the rest room down stairs. There was only one way to get out of the restroom and that way was up the stairs by the west doors that were being painted. As I passed by Mr. Palmer, he turned around and said, “You are so beautiful.” Then he grabbed me and planted a huge, wet, sloppy kiss on my mouth. I was 13. I had never been kissed in that fashion before and I was disgusted and scared. I broke away from him and hurried away. I worked by my Dad the rest of the morning but I didn’t tell him. I was too ashamed and afraid. At lunch time Daddy and I walked home to get something to eat. Daddy was outside for a little while and I told my Mom what had happened. Mom went outside and told Daddy what I had told her. Daddy didn’t stop to eat. He just went right to the school building and I guess he really gave his friend the word. I learned later that Daddy told Mr. Palmer if he ever laid a hand on me in any way, again, he would beat him, Mr. Palmer, until he was bloody. Mr. Palmer continued with the painting until it was completed, probably another week or so. He didn’t touch me again. Of course, I steered pretty clear of the guy so he wouldn’t have a chance to bother me further. I have always been grateful to my Dad for believing me. After all, he and Edson had been friends for many, many years. Edson was at least as old as my Dad. If that happened now, Edson would probably have been tossed into jail for a while for what he did. My Dad was a good enough friend to Edson not to tell on him, but he made it clear that his actions were unacceptable.

I could tell you so many more experiences with my Dad but this post is quite long enough. My Dad was always the example of how one should live his/her life. All of his children loved him, dearly. We all respected his integrity. We all learned many of life’s lessons by watching his example. Swearing and profanity were not in his vocabulary. I remember his total honesty. If there was a right and a wrong way to accomplish something, there was never any question which way he would choose.
Daddy passed away in January, 1976. He was 88 years old. He had spent so much of his life smiling that the corners of his mouth perpetually turned up. As he lay in his coffin at the viewing, it appeared that he was smiling, and I’m sure he was. He was never happier than when he had his kids and grandkids around him. All but one or two of his descendents were there.

I love you all.

JUSTIN ABINADI BLACK - CHAPTER TWO

In the first chapter about my Dad I told you that my Dad was born in Huntington, Emery County, Utah and he lived there until he was ten. At that time his Dad, Benjamin Daniel Black decided that things were not very good for them there as far as making a living to support three families so he decided to try another place. Well, I have a copy of what my Dad wrote about that trip so I’m going to let you read what he wrote, exactly as he wrote it. I have come to the conclusion that certain people are born at certain times because they have the strength to endure what comes in their lives. Our obstacles are so much different and require other strengths. I’m not sure I could have endured what the pioneers did in crossing the plains and in settling the West after they arrived here.

Following, is what Daddy wrote of their move to New Mexico:

(January 31, 1974, my Dad wrote to Karen Black. For those who do not know who Karen is—she is a niece of both Jack and I. Her dad is my brother, Durant, and her mother is Jack’s sister Elaine. Thank goodness Karen and another niece, Eileen, daughter of my sister Grace, became interested in learning more about my Dad. They began writing to him and asking for stories.)

“Maybe you would be interested about our trip from Huntington, Utah to Fruitland, New Mexico. I guess you know I was born in Huntington, Utah. My Father’s health wasn’t good in Huntington, and he decided to move to Old Mexico. This was when I was ten years old. At this time he had three horses, but having 3 families, he had to have a team and wagon for each family. So, he had to get 3 more horses and 2 wagons. So, he traded what property he had, and got 3 horses and the wagons and a little needed money. And his Father bought a horse for him, so now he had 7 horses, and three wagons and was ready to start. There were two other families and another man ready to go with us. So, we started and went one mile out of town. And stopped overnight at a farm where they had arranged to pasture the horses that night. Time we were ready to leave the next morning, it was raining, and rained almost steady all day. So we didn’t go far that day. The next morning the sun was shining bright, but the road was muddy, so progress was slow. So, after two days of travel we were only about 25 miles from Huntington. That night we had no hay for our horses so we had to turn them loose to forage on the range. When the men folks went to find them the next morning, one of our horses couldn’t be found. But on close inspection of the road, they found his tracks, and he was headed for Huntington. So Father came to camp, ate his breakfast, got on a horse and went after him. Father was gone the rest of that day and all the next day. The horse had gone all the way to Huntington, and then up Huntington Canyon to his former home. Father got to Huntington after dark, and stayed with his Brother Charles that night. The next morning, as Father was quite sore from riding bareback, Uncle Charles sent his son up the canyon to get the horse. When Tom got back with the horse, Uncle Charles gave Father a quilt to ride on and a rope so he could make loops for stirrups, which made Father’s ride back to camp more comfortable. But when it began to get dark the second day after Father had left, and he hadn’t got back yet, my Mother, Aunt Susie and Persus Roberts went back the road some distance, and hollered as loud as they could. Father was close enough he heard Mother’s voice and answered and the women folks came back to camp rejoicing and Father wasn’t far behind.

“Nothing of interest happened after that until we reached Green River one and a half or two and a half days later. We got there about noon, and the men at the Ferry wanted three dollars a wagon to Ferry us across and that would have cost Father $9.00. So, Father said he wouldn’t pay that much, he would find a place where he could ford the river and cross. They offered to come down a little, but Father said they were still too high. Then, a man came and said he knew where there was a fording place and he would ford us over for three dollars, but Father said if you can ford us over, I can ford myself and it won’t cost me anything. So by inquiring around a little he found a man that told him that up the river about a mile there was a place where people had forded the river, but it had been some time since any one had crossed so we went up the river and found the place. Then Father, Azariah Brown, and Will Guymon got on horses and rode across and back and finding it all right for crossing, we all crossed over. But while in Green River, the men folks found a place where they could pasture their horses over night. So, after we had crossed over to the east side and had eaten our supper, Father, Brother Brown, Will Guymon, my brothers, Ben and Acel, took some bedding in a wagon and all of the horses and went back to the west side where the horses were to pasture. Some of the horses were loose, and two of the men were on horses trying to drive them, it was a little upstream and two horses of Brother Brown’s wouldn’t go against the stream and got too far downstream and got in the quick sand. But they were near the bank, and the men worked until midnight to get them out. But the bank was too high and steep for them to get out on that side, so they sent them back to the east side. We boys got them and we had built up a big fire, and we led them back and forth around the fire until they were dry and warm so they wouldn’t get sick. So it was one o’clock or after, time we were all in bed.

“The next morning, we started on toward Moab. As I remember, we got to the Colorado River about the middle of the afternoon on the third day. There, there was nothing to do, only to ride the ferry. But, they only charged us $2.50 for all three wagons, and the boat was large enough to take all three outfits at once. But, we were to leave our extra horse to come with the next load, as there would be only 2 outfits. But, the horse was loose, and he didn’t wait. When we were about half-way across, he plunged into the stream and followed us. I heard a man say, “He will never get out alive.” Another one said, “I wouldn’t give 50 cents for a chance for him. But he swam and caught the boat and swam right along by the side of it. Father got a rope and put it around his neck. There were 4 or 5 men on the south bank, and a man on the boat had quite a long rope, which they took. Two or three men got hold of each end, and put the middle of the rope over the horses rump. Although the bank was almost straight up, by the men pulling on the ropes, the horse got out all right. Then, one man jokingly said, “I am going to charge you $2.00 for that horse swimming the river.” Another said, “I’ll give you ten dollars for that horse.”

“Well, after all were across, we started on toward Moab. We had not gone far when Mother noticed some watercress by the side of the road. She said, “There is some watercress. We must have some.” We had a big brass bucket, so we got it. And my sister, Tamar and I got out of the wagon to get some. But when we got to the cress, the frogs began jumping every direction, so we went back to the wagon and told Mother the cress was no good, there were frogs all through it. She said, “That makes it all the better. Get some water cress and get a lot of it. So, we filled the bucket and the whole camp had water cress for three or four days. And all seemed to enjoy it. That was the first time I ever saw water cress.

“From Moab we traveled on toward Monticello. When we got to Cane Springs we stopped there to water our horses, and fill our barrels with water. Each wagon had a 30 or 40 gallon barrel fastened to one side, so we could have water when we came to a camp where there was none. While there, my brothers, Edd and Ernest and I noticed some goats at a corral not far away. So, we went to see them and look around a little, while the men folks filled the barrels. Soon, the call came, “We are going.” So, we ran for the wagons. In the bottom of Cane Springs Canyon was a narrow wash, about five feet wide and that deep or deeper. When we got to it, Edd and Ernest walked back a few steps and ran and jumped across, but when I tried, my toes barely touched the bank and I went part way down. But, they grabbed me by the arms, and pulled me out, and we soon caught the wagons.

“We traveled on, I don’t remember how long, but we got to Church Rock Saturday night. There was water there and the feed was good. So, we lay over Sunday. The women did some much needed washing.

“Monday we started on. It was not far to Peter’s Hill. There at that time, the road followed the canyon, crossing it several times. At one crossing, the reach in our wagon broke and Father had to go up a side canyon some distance to find a tall straight cedar, out of which he could make another reach. Then to make the reach, and get it into the wagon took quite a bit of time. We only got to Carlile that night. A distance of probably eight miles. From Carlile, we went southeasterly direction toward Cortez, and didn’t go to Monticello. When we got to Cortez, we stopped at a Flour Mill to get some flour and some grain for the horses. While at the mill, three drunks came on horses. They stayed around a while doing things that were amusing to we kids. While they were there a stirrup came off of one fellow’s saddle. He didn’t seem to have missed it. My brother, Ben, picked it up and gave it to him, and then helped him put it back on. When they were through, the fellow said, “Thank you.” But, Ben said nothing. So, the fellow put his hand on Ben’s head, and said, “Say, I said thank you.” Then Ben said, “Oh, you’re welcome.” Then, he said, “That’s right. When a fellow says thank you, tell him he is welcome.” Then as they rode away, one fellow waved his hat and hollered, “Hurray for Bryan!” Another hollered, “Hurrah for McKinley!” And the other said, “Hurray for any old thing.” Then, we drove down into the south Montezuma valley where we got some excellent pasture for our horses, at five cents a head. Next day as we traveled on south, we came to a Ute Indian Agency, where they gave out rations to the Indians each month. There was a large spring there where the Indians brought horses to water, and we stopped and watered our horses. While there, an Indian came with quite a band of horses and they were quite small. And Will Guymon said to me, “Why don’t you go and fill your pockets with ponies so you will have some to play with.” While there, a Navajo Indian came and wanted us to let his boy ride with us to Fruitland, New Mexico. He said his boy had been kicked in the chest by a horse, and couldn’t ride his horse. As Will Guymon rode alone a good deal of the time, he decided to let the boy ride with him. The older Indian went along, riding his horse and leading the boy’s horse. After we had gone on for some distance, we asked the Indian if the pony he was leading was gentle enough for us kids to ride. He assured us he was, so Ernest, I, Tamar, Mish and Mead all took turns riding the pony. The Indian seemed pleased to have us ride him, so he wouldn’t have to lead him, and we got a lot of fun doing it. Well, we drove into Fruitland just after sundown two or three days later. Father’s sister, Tamar, and his brother, William lived there. So we stopped at Aunt Tamar’s and Father took the other two families to Uncle William’s. Uncle William told Father that the people in Old Mexico were poor and jobs were scarce, and he would have a hard time in Old Mexico. He had better stop there, and that is what we did.”

That is the end of my Dad’s story about traveling from Huntington to Fruitland, New Mexico when he was 10 years old. He wrote the story when he was 86 years old---two years before he died. I am absolutely in awe of his memory of some of the small details of the journey. Another thing, he was only able to finish fifth grade. I really don’t know how much school he actually attended during those first five years. All things considered, he learned a lot in whatever amount of school he was able to attend. Karen and Eileen copied his stories as he wrote them and did not change word usage, spelling or punctuation. Some of his punctuation is a bit unusual but not bad. Of course, he did not stop learning just because he couldn’t attend more school. His spelling is quite remarkable. He loved to read and probably learned a lot of spelling because he did read a lot.

In the last paragraph of his story he mentions some brothers and sisters riding the Indian pony. Let me clarify a couple of things so you will know who belonged where. All three of my grandfather’s families were traveling together. Daddy’s brother Ernest was the oldest son of “Aunt Alice,” wife number three; Daddy and his sister Tamar were from my grandmother who was the first wife; “Mish” and “Mead” were daughters of “Aunt Susie,” wife number two. “Mish’s” full name was Artimisha—“Mish” for short. “Mead’s” full name was Almeda---“Mead” for short. I knew Uncle Ernest quite well. I also knew Aunt Mish well. I will be mentioning her more later. Aunt Tamar and Aunt Mead both died before I was born.

In one paragraph Daddy mentions “Cane” Springs. It is spelled Kane Springs. Also he mentions “Carlile.” I can’t verify it on a map because my maps don’t show it but I’m pretty sure I remember the place is spelled Carlisle. I can’t verify the spelling on any of the maps I have because it is not shown. I guess I should talk to some of the old-timers in the area and I will. I had a friend who married a man who lived at Carlisle/Carlile. It was/is a very small place.

I will be passing along more of my Dad’s own stories along with my stories of him. I have lots more stories. I will also be doing a tribute to my Dad inasmuch as Fathers’ Day is June 15th.

The only birthday this month is my sister, Grace. She will be 85 on June 27th.

I love you all.