Beehive History, Volume 13, 1987

BEEHIVE HISTORY

Memories and Adventures

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My First Trip ACCIDENTS, BOYISH PRANKS, AND AN UNUSUAL HIDEOUTISWIMMING HOLE MADE THIS TRIP TO TOWN MEMORABLE AND DANGEROUS.

Max J. Evans Director Stanford J. Layton Coordinator of Publications Miriam 8. Murphy Beehive History Editor O Copyright 1987 Utah State Historical Society 300 Rio Grande Salt Lake City, Utah 84101-1182

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BEEHIVE HISTORY

Contents My First Trip to Lund . . . . . . . S. Alva Matheson Threshing Time in Circleville, Utah, 1904 . . . . . . Alta Johnson Howard I Remember the Indians . . . . . . Ruth H. Henrie The Orange Canoe . Dick Westwood The Twenties Weren't All Bad . . . . . . . . Ray R. Canning The Ranch . . . . . . . . . . Adeline Starr Teaching Ogden to Dance - Sophie Wetherell Reed . . . . . . . . . Susan White Dow

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I was ten or eleven years of age when this episode in my life took place in 1913. My sister Rhoda had been living at the farm north from the present airfield. She and Will had been struggling along trying, as most couples do, to build a home and income, but it was not easy and Will would occasionally take other work with his team to make a little extra money. It was one of these times that he was hired to go to Lund for a load of freight. Lund at that time was our railroad terminal and was quite a busy town. All of the stores' goods and freight of every kind used in Cedar was freighted over the thirty-two miles of dusty dirt road past Iron Springs, the California Ranch, which was a large dry-farming and half-way station where teams could be watered for fifty cents, past Desert Butte, and on to Lund.

I was greatly pleased and filled with excitement when Will asked me if 1 would like to go with him for one trip. It meant that I could ride I a freight wagon and see a train, something few I n of my pals had ever done. I promised to be a d boy and do as I was told and help all I - could. I tried so hard to please and be helpful that my hands turned to clubs and my feet to s. It seemed that every move I made was wrong, until Will in desperation told me to go sit n and quit trying to be helpful.

We finally left the farm, heading west to Iron Springs where we met several other wagons which formed our freight-wagon train. The men had purposely waited 'ti1 afternoon so they could drive after night when it would be cool.

Those July days on the desert were enough to fry the harness leather, so they used as much of he night as was possible for travel. By the time e reached California Ranch it was dark. We tered the horses and started on to drive a

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Cover art by Cherle Hale depicts the mawelous recycled Model T described In Ray R. Canning's reminiscence of the 1920s.

Thls publlcatlon has been funded with the assistance of a matching grant-In-ald from the Department of the Interlor, Natlonal Park Sewice, under provlslons of the Natlonal Hlstorlc Preservation Act of 1966 as amended.

Thls program recelves financial assistance for identiflcatlon and presewatlon of historic properties under Tltle VI of the Civll Rlghts Act of 1964 and Sectlon 504 of the Rehabllltatlon Act of 1973. The U.S. Department of the lnterlor prohibits discrimlnatlon on the basis of race, color, natlonal origin, or handlcap In its federally asslsted programs. If you belleve you have been discrimlnated agalnst in any program, actlvlty, or faclllty as described above, or If you deslre further information, please write to: Offlce of Equal Opportunity, U.S. Department of the Interlor, Washington, D.C. 20240

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Alva Matheson, right, with his brothers, Elmer and Ray, seated, and sister, Lydia, dressed for a Thanksgiving program.

Alva was about this age when he had his adventure in Lund, some thirty miles northwest of Cedar City. Photographs courtesy of the author.

couple more hours, Will said, "I don't know of anyt:hing you (:an do wrong het-e if you follow the wagon ahead, with two tnore wagons following, so you tlrive Pat and Son-ell while I ride with tny brother Bryner." This little bit of trust bols~eretlmy crestfallen spirits a little and ~natlerne resolve 1.0 do a good job. All went: well u n ~ i lt.he closing darkness, the constant I-attle of the wagon, and a young boy's need for rest. began t o nod my head. I tried to sing to stay awake, but my voice sounded so hollow and funny it almost fi-ight.ened me. I tt-iecl slapping mv legs and face, but my eyelids got heavier ant1 heavier until I felt Will shaking me to wake me u p . My t~olstet-ed spit-its wet-e soon flattened out. again ~ l n d e rthe scolding I got. I never could u11de1-standwhy a team in a caravan, following anothet- learn a n d wagon, would leave he road and titke off it:tcl the sagebrush, but that is what I~apgened.They pulled the wagon into a diagonal wash, which altnost tipped it over, then st.opped. I think they were as much asleep as I . 'I'his was oddenough in itself, but the two wagons following tne had

also followed me into the sagel~rush and stopped, the two drivers being just as niuch asleep as I was. Will and the others had dl-iven to the camping spot and two of thetn had I-idden work horses back about two triiles to see what was wrong. They would have passed us u p in the dark had not the horses called to each other.

I have always had trouble with a burning sensation in tny ears. I think it started with the scot-ching they got t h a ~night. 'l'he next day we reached I.untl quite early in the morning. Not wanting triy help with the unloatling, Will said I shoultl go find someone lo play with. I didn't want any more cussing, so I vanished from the lutnber yard where Will was loading. H e said he bvould t)e three o r fouthours anti for tne to he back by that tilne. I sauntered a ~ - o u n dfot- a time as any c:~u-ioltst ~ o y tnight, watching the busiest little Lown I had ever seen, with several stores, three hotels, three lumber and hardware stot-es, ~ w olarge warehouses, and railroad freight and passengel- tlepots. Finally I ended u p silting o n the railroad I I - ; I C ~ stutlying, thinking of the wonderful event

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"I followed as he led the way back to spout on one side. "

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a huge wooden tank standing on stilts

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and having a sort of tea kettle

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of the raill-oad and the t r e ~ ~ i e n t l opoweli ~ s of :I train engine to be able to pull so many huge c;u-s that must weigh hundt-etls of'pounds. I rvas anxious to see one of the n~onsters.1 was s~~dtlenly stal-tled by, "Hey Kid, whacha (loin?" I ti~rnetlto see a boy of about HI); own age. "Oh nuthin."

"What's yel- name? Where ya frum?" "(:edar City." "Whatcha (loin' here?" 1 explained briefly. "hly nalne's .I'o~nCarter, they call me 'l'oatl. Wanta play with me?"

"Yes, I guess so. Haven't anything else to do.

What time does the train come in? I want to see it."

"Oh, it won't Ile in for a couple of hours yet.

Hain't yoii ever seen a train yet?" "No." "Hey, let's have some fun. I found a can of wagon grease yesterday." I was pilzzled, but followed him to his home, the Carter Hotel, where he picked u p a can about half fill1 of axle grease. I looked at 'I'oad, then back to the grease, vainly trying to see a way to have fun with it.

"Follow me," he said, "and I'll show you." I followed as he led the way back to the railway track and under a huge wooden tank standing on stilts some twenty feet in the air and having a sort of tea kettle spout on one side.

"What is that thing for?" I asked.

"Ihn't you know nothing?" he replied.

"That's where the locomotive gets its water. We can have some more fun there when we get through with this grease." "Here," he added, "take this stick and spread grease like crazy 'fore somebody sees us!"

Why would anyone care what we were doing, I wondered, except to was1.e somebody's grease, but Toad was showing me how to have fun, so I fell in line as we spread grease on top of the rails for about fifty feet.

"Now all we have to do is wait for the train and watch the fun."

I began to have some apprehension about all this and wondered if we would get into trouble; Toad seemed so secretive, and now wanted to qet away. "l.et's go climb the water tank," he said.

"You know how to swim?" he asked. "A little," I said. "Not too good though."

"It's all right, you can hang onto the top of the tank."

We glanced around at the busy people. No one seemed interested in two 1)oys fooling around, and u p the ladder we went, cl-awling under the roof of the tank where no one could see us fi-om the ground. There was a plank lying acl-oss the tank fi-om side to side which gave us

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21 ~)l:~c-e lo sit ;i!ld. ditngle our feet in the itatel-, :~l)oiltsix 01- e i g h ~thousantl g;~llonsof i t . .]'he rank, iis ne:trl>, :IS I can renienil~er,was ~IIIOLII twelve feet wide by (en feet (lee[), having capacity for several loc:omotive tanks 21ntl ~vassupplied with water from it sniall, deep well ant1 a small recipl-ocating c:ylinde~-pi1rnp run I)y a s~riall g;tsoline engine. When the ivaler was drawn off, i~ would take several ho111-sto fill the rank again. 'l'his tank, 1 learned later, supplied the town i v i t l i its culinal-y water also.

As we sat there talking and enjoying each other's tales of adventure, I-eveling in our newfound friendship, we decided to take a swim.

T h e water had absorbed enough warmth fi-om the desert sun that i t was quite comfortable.

'I'here was a flimsy boal-d ladder nailed to the side of the tank on which we could climb in and out of the water. We could also hang onto it to rest. As we kicked, splashed, and chattered, I became aware of a thunderous roar and rattle accompanied by a ghostly screech and a series of loud explosions which frightened several years of growth out of me.

"What is that!" I exclaimed with fear and excitement. I had never heard such a nolse.

"Oh, that's the train coming in," said Toad calmly. 'I'hen with excitement, "Oh boy, our grease!" he shouted, as he climbed u p the ladder followed closely by me to a vantage point where we could look down at a section of railroad track below.

'I'oad turned to me with a twinkle in his eyes, "Now watch the fun!"

As the engine came chugging below 'us, maneuvering to switch some of its load, the wheels struck our grease with a sudden burst of speed fi-om the engine and drive wheels as it coasted and slid on through our grease to some distance beyond, carried by the momentum.

T h e grease smeared over the wheels and brakes so that all the wheels on twenty or more cars were smeared, each revolution of each wheel carrying it farther down the track and again as the train backed up. T h e train crew began to spread sand on the I-ails,but this didn't help too much because even the sand would slide in the grease. Finally, in desperation, amid much cursing, sweating, and swearing, the train crew got out with rags and wiped the grease from the ~racks,wheels, and brakes, while two impish boys clung to a sagging, poorly made ladder in water al~nost to their waists, giggling, while wondering what the consequences might be if caught. 1 can wager my bottom dollar we

would have been skinned and tossed to the buzzards, judging from the language of the train crew.

As the blue smoke and flame began to settle, the train moved slowly back to where it was almost under us. Suddenly and without warning the water began to drop from under us. As the buoyancy of the water left us, we began scrambling to get out. Our sudden movement pulled the ladder loose from the wall before we could grab the top of the tank. The water was now four feet below any possible handhold or means of escape. What do we do now, I thought as I paddled to keep afloat. My most horrible thought was, "What will Will say when I don't get back there in time."

Other Thoughts Other thoughts were, how long will it be before someone will find our decomposed bodies.

It may be months before there will be any need of anyone looking into this tank. The water is pumped in and drained out, and the pump man can tell from the outside where the level of the water is, so he, the most likely person, would have no reason to even consider climbing to the top of the tank. 'I'here was no possible chance of paddling long enough to stay afloat while the incoming water raised the level high enough that we could reach the top of the tank and pull ourselves out. I knew now exactly how two mice in a water tank feel as their strength slowly leaves them to certain death. Fear gripped every fiber of my body. I didn't want to die like this; besides, what would Will say?

I had been so preoccupied with my own problems and misfortune that I was suddenly startled by Toad's cry for help. "Hey!" I said, "Do you want to get us into trouble? Somebody might hear you."

"What you think we're in now?" he answered. "I'd rather be in trouble than dead." He yelled again at the top of his voice, but the coneshaped roof threw the sound back at him in a hollow-sounding and mocking tone.

Toad was holding to the upper end of the ladder and was able to rest slightly. I swam to him to do likewise, but the ladder was so small and water-soaked that it's buoyancy was practically nothing. As I took hold of the lower end, which until now had been held by a couple of nails, it came loose from the wall completely and floated to the surface. 'I'wo boys holding to one end gave us no support at all, so I worked my way to the other end. By being careful, there

Alva Matheson several years affer his experience in the water tank at the Lund railroad station.

was just enough buoyancy to hold our heads out of the water, nothing more. This discovery, however, relieved our panic to a certain extent and unfroze our thinking ability that we could talk and consider our predicament. We tried and tried to stand the ladder u p in the water, but being unable to touch the bottom of the tank with our feet, and with no shred of anything on the walls to hold on to, our efforts were wasted. And let me say here, we had little strength left to waste.

All in all, we had been in the water, I would judge, one and a half hours. The water was now beginning to turn cold as the pump forced more fresh water into the tank. I asked 'road how long it would take to fill the tank.

"I don't know," he answered. "Seems like the pump hardly ever quit running. Seems like it's just about nip-un-tuck. It's used about as fast as it's pumped."

'This was definitely not good news. I could not hold myself up that long, nor could I stand the cold water. The water as it came from the

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\\*t.ll \\;IS ; I ~ , O I I I 40 degl-ees, :~l)out right for tlrinking, I)ut not so hot for long, tlt-awn-out 1,;it hing.

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He Began to Whine I think 'I'oad was beginning to feel the strain and tension of our contiition even Inore than I. He bepun to whine ant1 t)lut)be~-.He even blanled. me for getting us into our trouble. He began to call again for help. By this time 1 was even willing to face Will's wrath if we c:ould get out. So, ~-e~rlernl,ering the stol-y of the two pigs ~ l n d e ar gate making more noise than one, I figured two I~oyscould nlake Inore noise than one; ant1 so we called logether, time after titne, at the top of o ~ lung u power, with n o results.

I wondered how long it would take fol- the water to float LIS to reaching dis~anceof the top itnd. if Lye would have strength enough left to p ~ ~ oul-selves ll out after reaching the top. I doubted that. I wondered how long we could hold to our only chance to keep our noses out of the water.

I watched the water creep toward a nailhead in the tank and estimated the time it took to rise an inch, then I judged the rest of the distance and figured it would take four hours of steady pumping to put the water to where we could reach the top of the tank. 'I'hen would we be able to get out or would it be wasted effort and vain hope? We were so weak we could hat-dly hold our heacts above the sul-face of the water as it was. We could, by the wildest inlagination, see n o way to ever get out of the tank alive, except by some ~niracle,and we didn't believe in the type of nliracles that coul(I save 11s now. 'I'he spark that fires [.hewill to survive was still strong within. We tried repeatedly to s ~ a n dthe ladder o n end, we sang, we shouted, we told stories, anti (lid anything we could to keep our minds off our problem and to cause the see~ningly endless time to pass. We were getting coltlet- and weaker by the tninute.

"Hey," said 'I'oati hopefully, "'l'het-e's one thing we ain't trietl yet." "bVh;~telse is there we c o ~ ~ l11-y ( l in here that \ye Ii:~\,en'~ :~lreatly11-ied,"I asked.

"I he;~l.tltell ho\v people go1 o t ~ tof',j:~nlsand 11-oul~le I)!. s:~),in'I)l':i)ers. You know ho\v to s;ry I)I.;I! e~.s?" lie ;~sked.

I tliough~fol- 21 Iiloment. Why didn'i I think of tlii~t.I h;~tlal\v;lys been toltl to pray t;,r help in ti~iieof t ~ . o ~ ~ l Well, ) l e . if this wasn't trouble I

didn't know the natne for it. "Well," 1 said, "Sometimes I pl-ay at home, but I can't kneel down here, and I don't think it would take if we don't kneel down."

"You can't kneel, so try the best you can. It will be a good test," he replied.

After a moment's thought 1 said, "Close your eyes and bow your head and I'll try."

"How'm I goin' to bow my head? I can't breathe under water. Can't you pray without bowin' your head?"

"I don't know," I said, "I never tried."

"Well, try now and let's see if there's anything to this prayin' stuff."

I couldn't bow my head so I turned my face toward heaven and said a short but very humble prayer in very unorthodox circumstances and told the l.ot-d that if he wanted us to grow u p he'd better d o something about it pretty quick.

After a short time 'I'oad asked, "How long do we have to wait to see if it takes?"

As if in answer to his question there came a W 0 0 0 0 0 0 , W 0 0 0 0 0 , WOooo WOooo and a chug-a-chug-chug from the railroad tracks as a train came nearer and nearer until the thundering, explosive exhaust of the locomotive came grinding to a stop just below us. Fear gripped our hearts as we realized that this train needed water, which would lessen still more our chance of ever seeing the outside of o u r orison

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"Ijust can't hold onto this ladder no longer. " --

death trap. What remained of our sagging spirits dropped allnost as fast as the level of the water as the train men replenished their supply.

'I'oad began to sob, and I'm not sure that I didn't, as we realized t.hat it would take several more hours to fill the water tank than what we had figured. "Your God sure done us dirt. We ask for a little help and what does he d o ? He gives a good swift kick in the sla~s.From now o n you (:an keep your old Got1 and all your pmyet-s too. I just can't hold onto this ladtlel- n o longer.

I'm gonna leave go an' get it over ivith," and ~ v iht I hose ~vortlshe let go ;mcI sank from sight, l)ut inst:ititly c:ume I~ackLIP and g~-:~l,l)etl the ladtler again 21s he gasped for ail- ant1 s l i o ~ ~ t e"Id , can toi~chthe I~otto~n!"

I tried i t ~n).self,ant1 sure enough, I touc:hetl the bottom, t h o ~ l g htlie watet- was still several inches over my head but

was lowering rather rapidly. This gave me encouragement enough to hang on a few more minutes. The water gradually lowered until the level stopped just above our waists.

I think no one will ever know the relief that we felt to stand on solid footing again and rest our arms. They were so weary, and we were so cold that we trembled like leaves in a wind storm.

After we had been able to stand for a little while and rest, our panic began to subside a little and we began to think more clearly. Now we (:auld stand, I could push one end of the ladder under the water to the floor of the tank, and with 'I'oad walking under the other end, pushing it over his head as he walked, we were able to stand it on end against the side of the tank in a position to climb out.

In haste Toad started up the ladder, but his sudden weight was too much for the waterlogged steps and two of them broke, jarring the ladder enough to slide the bottom end out and across the tank. We had to do it all over again.

We decided that all the care we could muster for the next try would be taken. I held the bottom end with my foot while Toad carefully climbed to the top and onto the plank, then he held the top of the ladder while I inched my way up and, with great effort, pulled myself onto the plank across the top of the tank.

Toad and I sat on the plank for some time without saying anything, looking into the water which had so nearly taken our lives and listening to the men below us making ready to move on with the train. After some minutes of silence, we were rested enough to put our clothes on.

'I'oad looked intently and asked, "You reckon that prayin' had anything to do with this?" I looked back at him and earnestly said, "I don't know, but it sure looks mighty suspicious."

"Reckon 1'11 remember and think on it," he said, as he started to dress.

We were so weak that I don't know how we got down from the tank without falling. Our bodies must have soaked up a lot of water, because mine seemed to weigh a ton. As we started across the hot, dusty street, I decided definitely that we had soaked up a lot of water because it sure did pour out of us until our clothes were wet.

Toad said, "Reckon I'll go home and lie down for awhile."

We parted, and as far as I know I never saw him again. I started back toward the lumber yard and met Will Wood as he was starting out to find me. His wagon was loaded and ready to roll. He called to me, and as I appi-oiic.hetl he exclaimed, "What in the world has hiippeneci to you? You look like you'd seen a ghost!" As he looked at me he began to smile ant1 said, "I'll bet you've been smoking a cigar, or was it chewing tobacco you found someplace. Well, kids have to learn sometime. Let's get going. The others are all ready to leave."

I never told anyone of my first experience visiting the railroad terminal at Lund, Utah, and Will never knew but what I had been sick from using tobacco.

Mr. Matheson lives in Cedar City, Utah. This reminiscence, published with his permission, appeared originally in his book, ReJectiom, O 1974.

Alva Matheson on his way to do mine assessment work in a car built of junk parts from eight different vehicles. See p. 20 for the story of another recycled automobile.

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Joseph and Addie ~ o ~ ~ l ~ . b o h nmstol $ne, . - ~ t h ~ r : ~ ~ a r d h s their1%0e8fkhiidren, ~.twith and.lothers in froht ef thev C,rcleville hpw,,ca. 1905. The children were born ip the I . cabin behind the Ilarge forqgrouqd tree. Photograph courtesy of the author.

Threshing Time in Circleville, Utah, 1904 FOR A YOUNG GIRL, THE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THRESHING WERE UNFORGETTABLE. SO WAS THE AROMA OF FRESH STRAW.

BY ALTA JOHNSON HOWARD

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Threshing time was the busiest time of the year and the most important in the little town of Circleville. 'I'he success 01- failure of the year would be determined here. It signaletl the end of summer and time to prepare for winter.

It was a time of cooperation, anxiety, and tnuch preparation. I t required hot-sepowel-, Inan powel-, woman power, and weeks of planning.

The farmers in the little town hatlJoined logether and purchased a threshing machine.

When the grain was ready, they would take turns going to the different farms until each harvest was completed.

When the wheat had ripened, it was cut and

tied into bundles and left in the field to dry.

When it was ready, Papa would take his team and wagon and gather the bundles and place them in a stack. He would always arrange them in a circular pattern. T h e heads must be on the inside to protect the grain from the birds and animals until it was threshed.

The greatest concern now was the weather.

'I'here were no forecasters then, and so the sky was anxiously scanned each day, hoping there would be no rain.

If it rained, the grain could not be threshed, and if it stood too long it would drop from the heads and be wasted.

T h e excitement was great at our place when

Papa told Mama the threshers were coming.

This was the signal for much preparation because Mama must prepare food for the men.

She would be busy for days baking bread, making pies, and preparing the best we had in the house. One of the choice hams that she had cured in our smokehouse was saved for this occasion. She said, "The men work hard and they deserve our best."

There was always the problem of the flies.

They were especially bad as fall approached and when food was being prepared. The screen door would be black with them. Mama was always fighting flies. She hated them.

We were given strict instructions on how to open the screen door. She always had a tree branch with leaves, and we were taught to shoo the flies away with it before we opened the door and to enter and close the door as quickly as possible. If there were many flies in the house, someone would need to stand and wave a branch over the table to keep the flies away while the men were eating.

It was so exciting when the threshers arrived. First came the horse-drawn threshing machine and then several neighbors with their wagons and teams.

The thresher was placed near the stack of wheat. A long rod was extended from the machine, and two or more teams were attached to it. They were beautiful as they circled around

and around, activating the wondrous machine.

A man would stand on the stack and would throw the bundles, one at a time, into the hopper. The straw and chaff from the wheat would blow from a funnel extending from the top rear of the thresher. The grain would flow from an opening located low on the right side near the front of the machine. Another tnan would attach a burlap bag to the opening to catch the wheat. When it was filled, a third man would carry the bag into the granary and empty it. It was just a short distance to the granary.

The men and horses would work all day, stopping only for lunch. When they were finished, they left a big stack of straw and a perfect, well-compacted circle that was wonderful for a playground. We loved it. The straw stack was so inviting, but Mama told us to stay out of it until she had finished using it.

Timing was very important. As soon as possible after the threshing was finished, Mama would prepare to use the straw while it was clean and fresh. The "ticks" which were filled each year with fresh straw were taken from the beds and emptied and washed.

Mama had made the ticks from factory, which was a heavy unbleached cotton, and they were shaped like a mattress with an opening in the top so they could be filled and emptied easily. After they were filled with the fresh straw, they were placed back on the bed and were

Horse-powered threshing left "a perfect, well-compacted circle that was wonderful for a playground." USHS collections.

ready for another year of faithful sqvice.

The most difficult task was the carpet.

Mama was proud of her carpet. She had saved rags for it for a long time, and it was handloomed by her mother, Sarah Ann Morrill. Each year it was necessary to untack it from tlie floor and place it on a line to be cleaned. She would beat it with a flat board to remove the dust.

I remember how the dust would pour out of the carpet. After it was cleaned, a layer of straw would be put on the floor and the carpet placed over it and tacked securely down. I t was ready now for another year. 'The straw cushioned the carpet and helped it to wear longer, and it also made the room warmer in the winter.

It was fun to walk on the clean carpet and feel the straw so soft and hear it crunch, but the biggest thrill of all was to get into bed and sink into soft straw and savor its fresh aroma.

Papa said the harvest was a success. There was enough grain for all of our needs. He would take some to the mill in Kingston to be ground for the year's supply of flour. Part would be used to feed the livestock and to plant next year's crop, and there was even enough to share with a neighbor, should one be in need.

We were happy on the little farm in Circleville, and from the eyes of a nine-year-old girl life was wonderful and so exciting!

Mrs. Howard lives in Rich field, Utah.

Mothel. hatl 91-eat co~ripassionfol- the Intlians. She gave the~riclothes ant1 food from time to time, and Father, being t)ishop, gave them food ;rritl (:lot hes f'i.o~r~the Bishop's Storehouse as well as fro111 home. Mothel- :~lso aided the Indiat~sby paying them a litt.le rnoney to do solrie scrr1t)l)ing for hel-, ;lntl she 1)ought their l~eautiful,well-rnade blankets. 1 still have one.

Mother knew Inany of the Indian women I)y nanie. 1 (-an ren1emt)er- her saying, "Oh, here comes l,ucyn or "'l'here c-omes Sally." 'l'hen she woultl r u n out and bring thetn into the house.

One (fay when 1.ilc.y came Mother said, "Oh, look at poor I,~lcy'sshoes." I thought Iny mothelwas going to cry, for I3~rcy's shoes were in rags.

(As a child 1 thought Ixitlians were .s~ip/)o.\~~(l 10 have ragged shoes.) It didn't rake long for Mother to get I.ucy a good pair of s ~ n r d yshoes.

Still, there were times when hfother co~rl(1 not. help. One day an Indian canle to the house and asked fol- some bread. Mother had none and showed hirn the empty bread box. H e went away grunibling, "Stingy bishop's squaw." We got quite a laugh out of that.

1 someti~nesthought that. the Indians didn't have a sense of humor-, but the following inc:ident proves 1 was wrong. blother hatl :i close fi-ienti in I'anguitch named %ina Hitnks. She told Mot her [liar she hat1 never heard of a n Indian woman being narned Zina. O n e afternoor) Tina was visiting in LIT home when :I few Indian women came to the house. Mothel- managed to get one of the women off into another roorii and pointing to hei- said, "You Zinc] sclr~aw."

'The woman repeated, "Me Zinn sclu;lw."

Mothel- coached her again, "You narne Zi?l(l.

'I'he woman I-epeated,"Me name Zirzn."

When they returned to the room where Mrs. Hanks was, Mother asked the Indian wornan her name.

"Narne Zina. Me Zina sclua\v."

"You Zina?" asked the surprised Mrs. Hanks.

"Yes, me Zina. Me Zina," said the Indian.

I'm sure Mother later shared her little ,joke with Mrs. Hanks.

We learned Inany things from the lnclians.

Once we \vet-e sitting on the porch shelling peas when an Indian wornan came by. She showed us how lo peel the tough skins from the pods so rre co~lldeat them. We still do i t today. .I'hey are delicious.

ovel- a n d just. stand ant1 stare. We wer-e first iriated as we watchecl them cook over- a calnpfire and talk 1.0 each orhel- in a language we coultl ~ kept. our- dist.anc,efor we not underst;ltid. R L Iwe were a lit.tle irfi-aid. 'l'hese Indians wo~ll(1come 1.00111. house and -cvalk right in wi~hout.knocking. 'They would also come u p on the porch and neek t.hrough the

Piute mother and daughter on a visit to the author's mother. 1919.

"

windows at us. This always frightened me when I was a child.

T h e Piute Indians gather-ed at I'anguitch Lake in great numbers dul-ing the surnniel-.

They camped in a nleadow .just south of the lake, hunting, fishing, and gathering pine nuts until the weather turnetl cold. 'l'hey would come to town to sell pine nuts ;in(! trade [leer Ineat foi- necessities. They ;rlso went from door to door asking for t i ~ o d .

I remember one time some India~is had camped across the road east of the North Ward chapel. They built a big bonfire and tr-aded pine nuts for old coats. People from all over town brought coats to trade.

12

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1

Mr. and Mrs. Van Hout, a musical German couple who wanted to meet some Indians, visited the author's home.

After Mother moved to Salt Lake City one of the Indian women came to the house in Panguitch to see her. When 1 told her that Mother had moved away she sat on the porch and cried.

In the early days the Samuel Gould family lived at Panguitch Lake in a nice log house. The daughter, Ruby Gould Myers, my life-long friend, has told me many things she remembers about the Indians. Her parents befriended the Indians, and Ruby played with the Indian children. For entertainment the Indians would form a ring, take hold of hands, then go one way and back the other, chanting, "Ki-yi-yi-yi.

Ki-yi-yi-yi." For music they would beat on old tubs with a notched stick. She remembers that to carry their belongings they fastened two poles together with a tarp on which they piled their things and then hooked this to a horse to pull along (a travois). They had other horses, but the Indian men usually rode them and the women walked.

A German music teacher, Mr. Van Hout, taught in Panguitch at one time. He and his wife were both musicians, and Mother invited them one winter's day to have dinner with us and spend the evening. Mr. Van Hout had previously expressed a desire to see some Indians out

this way. That night he got his wish.

It was bitter cold. I remember Mother saying she would feel sorry for a dog out on such a night. A long table was spread in the dining room, and a cheerful fire blazed in the Franklin stove that opened u p like a fireplace. Mrs. Van Hout was playing the organ and Mr. Van Hout the violin when we heard loud pounding on the door. Four or five Navajo Indians walked in.

They were adorned with turquoise jewelry, their long black hair tied in a knot at the back.

Big silver buckles glistened on their belts. They wanted a place to spend the night. After Mother had given them a plate of her good chicken dinner she showed them beds upstairs. But just as soon as the Van Houts began to play again the Indians came down, stomping their feet and clapping their hands to the music. Mother ushered them upstairs once more only to have them return as soon as the music began. Their presence that night made the evening quite memorable for us all.

The state experimental farm north of town used to be a government Indian school. It opened in 1904 and was abandoned in 1910 because the cold, high climate of Panguitch affected the health of the children who had come from warmer climates. I remember going to the Indian school with Mother when I was a young girl. Laura B. Work, the first superintendent, was a good friend of my mother. There were two long wooden barracks - one for boys and one for girls. There was also a large iron bell that would ring to call them to dinner. On our visits I remember being fascinated as I watched the Indian boys and girls.

When my Aunt Hilda Cameron was a young girl she helped cook for the employees of the Indian school. She said they had the best of food, as they had a good garden, chickens, meat of all kinds, and their own milk, cream, and butter. She remembered the little egg cups for the boiled eggs. They were a novelty in Panguitch.

Miss Work was a lovely, well-educated person. Besides the regular schoolwork, she taught the children arts and crafts and sewing. There was also a man teacher. Two other men from Panguitch, A1 Haycock and Dick Lee, helped run the farm. The school had an enrollment of twenty-five or thirty children.

After I was married in 1922 my husband and I lived on the family farm and among other things raised potatoes on a large scale for years.

Piute Indian families came each year to help

The Orange Canoe THE MARSHLAND ALONG THE COLORADO RIVER NEAR MOAB WAS A YOUNG EXPLORER'S PARADISE.

BY DICK WESTWOOD

1

I

The author's daughter Kathryn, with a Navajo acquaintance, 1946.

with the harvest. They were good, dependable workers, and my husband appleciated t h a n . He was good to them also. In addition to paying them a regular wage he let them live in a vacant house on the farm, killing a mutton for them and giving them all the potatoes they wanted and milk from our milking barn. Many times in the afternoon we would take cinnamon rolls, sandwiches, and a five-gallon can of milk to them for refreshment.

One year after they left our place they had a terrible wreck and were hospitalized in St. George, 130 miles away. We went to visit them and they were so glad to see us that they wanted to shake hands with both of us. T h e doctor told us that when they were brought in with broken

vajo schoolteacher in Cedar City, Utah, te it out for me.

Patience was never my long suit. Once I decided to do something I couldn't get at it quick enough. In woodwork shop I tried to draw plans, check out he lumber, saw the pieces to s i ~ eplane, , sand, and nail them togethet, all in a one-hour period. If it were possible, I would put on the first coat of varn~sh,too. Needless to say, anything put together in such a hurry could have but mediocre workmanship.

My friend Oliver Huffman spent d whole school year completing a cedar chest. .I he workmanship wds superb, though. He go1 straight 4's. At the same tlme I was doing Inore than two loren projects. I got straight (:'s for my efforts.

I clnte statteci to build a bookcase fotMother. I was nalllng the shelves in place uhen M r . McConk~e, our instructor, c a n e by my workbent h to check it ovet-. I.ooking at me in disgust, he s a d , "You've cut the shelves the wrong way of rhe grain I'll tell you what I'll do.

If you'll knock these shelves out and t ut some newr ones - do the job right, I won? charge you for the extra lunlber." As soon as he p o ~ n t e dout the mislake 1 coold see he w.is right. 1 knocked -)ut the bad shelves and stat ted over, even though I hated to spend the extra tmie.

Mr. Mc(:onkle was building a canoe In the shop. It was n t h ~ n gof beauty, wtth hardwood rlbs and keel. Lvery plece f ~perfectly. t He had a set of plans he had sen( away fo1 and he tollowed these plans meti~ulously - eat h p u t held snugly in place with bl ass sc i e w s How I wlshed that I could afford the matelid1 fot such n boat! Money was not plent~ful dround our house At that time a silver dollat looked about as big as a wagon wheel. 1'0 eat n money I tried lots of d~fferentthings. Among these we1 e trapping, selling asparagus and othet garden pl oduce, and peddling Kalelgh products, clove^ ine salve, and magarines ,;I he magazines I sold regularly weie Collz~r'\ I

Dick Westwood on Moabk Main Street, 1939. Photographs courtesy of the author.

and the American Magazine. Collier's was published weekly and the American once a month. If I remember correctly, the price of a Collier's was five cents, and the American a dime. I made two cents on each Collier's and four cents on the Americans I sold. I got credit for any unsold copies by tearing off the title from the outside front covers and mailing them in with my next order.

I also remember peddling the Sunday issue of a newspaper, the Los Angeles Examiner. Each issue was about an inch thick. I received them in the mail on the Wednesday before the date on the papers. There would always be huge headlines in red ink, as though the stories were the latest news. I think my younger brothers took over these routes as I grew older and went on to other jobs.

Even if I could have afforded the materials for a fine canoe, I doubted that I could have put the pieces together without messing up. Thinking it over I came up with a bright idea. Why not make a canoe out of canvas - frame it with less expensive pine lumber. That shouldn't cost too much. It would be simpler to build, too.

One reason I wanted a canoe was to explore the slough. This was several hundred acres of

marshland located at the west end of the valley, next to the Colorado River. The area contained vast growths of bullrushes and cattails with quite a bit of open water in between. There were willows and tamarisks (we called them tamaracs) around the edges. Black willow and cottonwood trees grew along the west side and out into the water. I trapped muskrats here in winter when the water was frozen over. One summer, during a drought, the slough all dried up. The bottom baked and cracked. There were dead fish lying all over. The aroma was pungent, to say the least.

But most summers the slough was full of water - a place of mystery. Skirting the edges on foot I could hear the quacking of ducks, the cackle of mud hens and the songs of red-winged blackbirds. Without a boat, all I could do was listen.

So I decided to build the canoe. From the Montgomery Ward catalogue, I sent away for a piece of heavy canvas and a can of orange waterproof paint. In woodwork class I drew the plans and began to frame the boat. Mr. McConkie looked askance at my project but let me go ahead with it. He showed me the best way to join the pieces to make a smootherjob.

H o l s Cow! Lower The Seats

Drawing of the orange canoe by Arden E. Swanson.

By the time the canvas and paint arrived I had completed the framing and had carved a couple of paddles from some stout boards.

The boat was pointed on both ends, as a canoe should be. It was twelve or fourteen feet long and made of 1x4 pine slats nailed together with galvanized nails, clinched so that the pieces wouldn't spring apart. As I recall the depth was about twenty inches. It was about two feet wide in the middle and had seats for two passengers.

I took the frame home to complete the job.

Fitting the canvas tightly over the skeleton, I tacked it around the edges. Then I attached strips of lath along the top edges to protect them and further bind them in place. As usual, my workmanship was not the best. But it was done quickly. It suited me. I thought my boat would be a serviceable craft. When the second coat of paint was on I could hardly wait for it to dry so I could try the thing out.

My brother Swede helped me carry the canoe down to the irrigation pond in Pack Creek. It was the same swimming hole where we went skinny-dipping in the summer. The canoe rode lightly on the water, pretty as a picture.

I stepped into the boat, but before I could sit down it flipped over. I came up wringing wet. I

should have taken off my clothes for that first trial.

We righted the boat, emptied the water, and started over. "You hold it steady 'ti1 I get sat down," I told Swede. When I was seated I took the paddle and pushed off.

All went well lor about three seconds. Then the boat flipped over again, dousing me as before. I waded to shore with the boat in tow. The time was early spring. I shivered in my wet clothes.

"There must be something wrong with the danged thing," I opined.

"You can say that again," Swede replied.

We looked it over and came to the conclusion that maybe the seats were mounted too high. We did some remodeling, lowering the position of the seats and propping the gunwales farther apart, so there was more flare to the sides. Then we tested it again.

This time the results were better. One or two could sit in it without tipping it over. But if one of us tried to stand up, over it would go. There wasn't'much else we could do to correct its balance, so we left it that way. We just had to be sure to get firmly seated before shoving off.

Swede had helped with the launching and re-

%t'fttt V ~ I - p-iick y tidy, 4ecI;ned 16 I-i'de h 3 was cc)n.Clrnced t:h;Y<,he cciiild. do si,

fir* (511nm:e x,e took. out- canoe fi)r n

6'is11on ?he slough. I t was quite

I I

21 stri~gglefoithe t w o of LIS LO haul it ac:ross the fields and along the too~hillsEO the mouth of Rilill Creek.

Here we had to wade d ~ estream, (:at-I-y i t tht-ough some @marisks and across a salt gi-ass tneadow, r;c, get.t.0 the launching p i n t .

T h e spot-;.wechose 1.0 launch the canoe wits ii drain tlitc:h where ovet-flow from he slough ]-an off t;o h e ~iiver.I got: in and sat down whlile Swede steadlieti the .boat: I hung bn'to ljhe trunk , of a black willow @ steady it while he g ~ tinto pc~sibion.Tlhen we were ~ f f . ~b'ecrulisecll the marsh. At. ~11eplace among b e t ~ e e swe s p ~ m e da beaver lodge. We st.opped pz~ckJling-:-and waited quietly to see what would ha.ppen. .Before lotag a beaver appeared. I t swam arotlnd leaving- a V-shaped wake behind.

Soon anothel- one appeared..As we watc:hetl I fel&,+ist?eeze coming 01-I.I v i e d to suppl-ess it b u t couldlnrpc I letit&, "Ket-gho'~."

IALfiat& one of the 1 beave~rs sounded the :~lartn,lqhackingib wil against the wal;er. Both disa,ppea~;ed~ ~ s i d e l - .wal;el-. he I WIel padcldletl or]. Scarking the canoe moving, wel :iia.st.erl lsileo:r.ly along. Qlll~ireoften as we wollald-~-ound a p o i n ~of bullrushes, moving very slohvJy, weclihe u p o n flocks of ducks and mud he-ns (coots) si.~ing~lon ahel open wacel-. We appeared so slowly la~cllsilemtlyll~hat they paicl us ~ ~ l h lb.u& ~ eWenEcDn d swit~?lt~~.i~ng or diving, talk\ivg~p-e~c;h~,oehe~~ i n ~ ~ - s u r : o ~ ~language. s ~ b , i r d To I s i l t l i a ~ d ~ ~ ~ + h ~in~ hsiletapfiiWraadot~ chem was I-ei f ' I I

:Mami):kin& of. tluelis 1iL.e.d there: SBhe I I-ecQgiii'ieil: ;rqall%1-d3,b;llu.e-wi!ag.ed teals, .greenw i11!,$ex3.teals, widlge-o!~s: an,8r:anlpasb a ~ k s Gs)ou . abounded everyuihe1l:e. 'They ~.(~~rd'cl~l'i.

Oy very well I-)ut skitnnied along, half' fIyiilg a n d half I-iinning on che water. There were 166 of redwi~lgetlblackbirtls, paired off and nesting in the I-ushes. In [.he shallo;ws we saw an occasional gi-eat;blue heron anti once in a while a brown bit.l;el-n. Killdee~-s,snipes, and c~r!he~shore I~irtls fed and oested around the edges of che wat.er.

We watched rnusk~-atsswitntning and diving, feeding on the nool:s of bullrushes, buildin$ ~heii-floarjtil~ghouses from (he stallks. A tnuskl-at with it.. brown fur loqks a lot like a mimiat.u~-e beavet-. T h e chief difference between he two, aside from the beaverls much lal-gel- size, is in the shape of their tails. .A beaver's mil, fla~tenetl horizonn;l.Ily, is shaped like a big paddle, while the rriuskral;'.~is long, slender, and flattened vertically. B ~ L -tails h are hainless, and both animals halve webbed hind feetto aid in swimrnicng.

T h e canqe was too bulky fot- us lo cirl-I-yback and forth e a ~ ht.rip, so.M.;ehid it, in the b i t ~ s hWe . s e ~ ~ r n , rnany ed limes to explo~;eihe watet-ways in tihe slough - I.() watch the birds and muskrats ant1beavers.

W'e did soline fishirn$, t.tlo. Because of the . water mlost..of the fish were bullheads, (IL.k'tsh c-arp, and suckers. These fish ~voaldbit-c on.jusi abtoul: anybhing -: ;w(>i-ms,g1-asshoppel-s, or bacron ~jind.T h e sucke.1-s and,cal-p &yew i(d be quiw big, some reaching eight:fto ten pounds.

At one t i n e Of ye,iirrwe (:o~11c1c:ii(<;h more canp t-han we coulld cd~-~-y ha,~me.That was the spaivning season. At, spawning time the c;a~-l) came ftro~n the river and swam u p h e drain

The slough explored by the author and his brother in the orange canoe lies between the two bluffs.

ditch to reach their spawning grounds in the slough. Sometimes the whole ditch was filled with these big fish, all swimming upstream. I t was great sport for us kids to spear them with pitchforks and toss them out onto the bank. 'I'he work started when it came time to load them into gunny sacks and carry them home.

Though the carps and suckers were the largest, the catfish were the best eating. They have a skeletal system similar to that of a trout.

The meat separates from the bones quite easily.

Carp and suckers, on the other hand, have small bones mixed all through the meat, impossible to separate. The best way to cook them, I understand, is to put them in a pressure cooker and cook them until the bones are soft. Unfortunately, Mother didn't have a pressure cooker.

We quit bringing home carp when we found out she wouldn't cook them.

We tried the canoe out on the river. It went downstream with no effort at all. But when it came to going the other way we had to paddle hard against the current just to keep even. We abandoned the river trips after a couple of tries.

I used hunting in the swamps to add to my collection of mounted birds. Ed Cooly, our onetime neighbor, started me on that project. He had presented a taxidermy exhibition in school.

Later he helped me with some problems I had in getting started. He showed me how to skin a

bird, leaving only the skull, beak, and legs attached; how to clean and treat the skin and skull with alum; how to make an al-tificial body out of excelsior wrapped in string; how to run wires through the legs, neck and wings; how to fit the glass eyes; how to sew the skin back toget her and re-shape the whole thing to look like a natural bird.

I mounted a quail, a screech owl, and a sparrow hawk. Now, I would add some water birds.

On one trip to the slough I borrowed Dad's old 12-gauge shotgun. While Swede and I were walking along a salt grass meadow between the river and the slough I spied a great blue heron flying high overhead. Not knowing whether or not it was within range of the shotgun, I nevertheless raised that old blunderbuss and fired away. 7.0 my surprise, down came the heron. It bounced hard when it landed but was soon on its feet. The shot had broken one wing.

When I saw that it was relatively unhurt, except for the broken wing, I decided to take it home alive. But when I approached it reached out with its long, sharp beak and bit my hand. I jumped back to reconsider the situation. There was blood on my hand and it smarted.

Finally we threw a jacket over its head. While its head was covered I got hold of one wing tip and Swede the other. We stretched it out between us. He must have had a wing span of

seven or eight feet. Holding onto its wing tips that way, keeping its wings spread out f~rlly,we were just out of reach of its beak. We walked him home that way. It would peck at one of us and then at the other. Fortunately it always missed by an inch or two.

At home we tied it to one of the poplar trees at the edge of our yard. It soon became apparent that keeping it alive would be a big job and probably not a successful one in the end. I decided to kill and mount the heron.

1 completed the job but must not have removed all of the flesh from the skin. Even though I used lots of alum to treat the skin, it soon began to give off an acrid odor. I kept it in the attic bedroom where my three brothers and 1 slept. The window opening had no window so there was plenty of air circulation. 1 hoped that it would dry out in time and cease to smell so bad.

My sister Barbara was afraid of that stuffed bird. She refused to go near our bedl-oom as long as it was there.

Finally, after several months of living with the odor, I decided the bad smell was never going to go away. I bowed to the complaints of my little brothers and threw the thing out.

One thing I never seemed to get through my head when I was a kid was to stop trying to pen up wildlife. That is a job for the zoos and game, farms - people who know what they are doing.

In later life 1 have learned that the best thing to do with wild birds and animals is to leave them in the wild. Now, I hunt them only with camera or binoculars. Wild things do a nice job of taking care of themselves. And they are there for you and others to enjoy again and again. '

Dick Westwood with his first buck, taken in Fisher Valley east of Moab, 1936.

The boat was fine while it lasted. But one day when we went to use it, it was gone. Sorneone had discovered its hiding place and b o r r o ~ ~ ~ ~ d it. Though we searched all along the shore we could not locate it. I suspect that whoever took it used it on the river, as a man I knew said he saw an orange boat floating downstream. We never saw it again.

Mr. Westwood, a retired mink rancher, lives in Scottsdale, Arizona. "The Orange Canoe" is reprinted, with permission, frorn C'taotripin' ot the Bit, a collection of his reminiscences published in 1986.

"Oh, what a car! . . . It deserved . . . to be enshrined. . . . The Smithsonian ~oula'not be too grand a resting place. . . . Photograph courtesy of the author, third from the right in the car.

The Twenties Weren't All Bad MAKING DO WITH WHAT WAS AVAILABLE SPURRED THE IMAGINATION AND SOMETIMES LED TO A FABULOUS CREATION - "A CAR."

BY RAY R. CANNING

Perhaps understanding the decade better in its own terms is more desirable than passing judgment from afar. And one boy's recollections may be a helpful place to start, a beginning that may broaden our insight about not so much an abstract "age" as about how we lived and felt - then. If you are willing then, let nostalgia soften and come to the aid of this period through four recalled episodes of my childhood.

I had just completed first grade when these events almost coincided with my seventh birthday - not necessarily in order of importance:

The twenties sometimes get a "bad rap" from today's writers who emphasize the Wall Street crash starting the Great Depression, the crude state of technology then, and the supposed lowering of moral standards personified by flappers and their reckless friends. True, the decade was "different," but aren't they all? and it did demonstrate its own desire for change.

But every age is also a period of transition.

This one was a span between the preceding period of bubbling optimism (Remember the Titanic was declared "unsinkable" and World War I "was the war to end all wars and make the world safe for democracy"!) and the following age of disillusionment (Who can forget Hitler, the holocaust, Hiroshima, and the nuclear arms race?).

( 1 ) I was surprised by a wonderful purple gift leaning up against our frame house. It was my first pair of skis! My dad had made them, of

20

course, just as he did almost everything for our family half-soled our shoes when we wore holes in them, cut our hair, built our house and our privy, slaughtered our pig and cured the ham. Not that he did all this expertly; he didn't.

But he did it with love - and often with our help, or hindrance - while at the same time earning a living for four other kids and a wife.

No one said anything about all this; it just happened. But it typified a fullness of living - poor but rich (you did what had to be done).

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(2) Meanwhile, Charles A. Lindbergh was flying alone to Paris, cutting a small arc across the 360 degrees of earth and creating a challenge for things to come ("One small step for mankind"?), thanks to a strong and independent will. Some said he was a "crazy kid who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer." But we kids idolized him and thought it totally appropriate that for the rest of the decade Lucky Lindy candy bars (5 cents each) would commemorate his achievement.

I

(3) Behind Uncle Tom Gomm's blacksmith shop rested the hulks of several Model T Fords.

Their wheels were long gone and few had engines, but if there were a front seat and a steering wheel that was all that mattered. For by some stroke of luck for us boys they were all laid to rest facing south. So we could have race after race with even more vigorous sound effects than would have come from the originals.

I was good at roaring motor sounds and was adept at the wheel, leaning into curves, skidding a little but always recovering to overtake the leader who had somehow edged past me just moments before.

While we younger boys were off in irnagination, cousin Earl, pre-teen, was in the "real world," taking one part from chis carcass and another from that, and putting them together properly. Voiln! He rnade a machine, a "car!"

Four wheels, an engine comple~ewith nlagneto and spark level-,a gas tank, and choke. One seat behind the steering wheel could hold him and any other "lucky little bugger" he chose to honor. The a-ank - self-startel-s having not yet been invented - protruded from the front end undel- the radiator which often boiled over.

But wait a minute! Behind the seat was SPACE, space where younger cousins might sit and ride - if only there was a "floor." This realization energized us all, and racers now be-

Ray R. Canning.

came racing lumber hunters. Before you could say, "WE are building a car!" old boards were found and the job was done. The platform adequately covered the real wheels, protecting us from that danger. And it could hold as many kids as could pile on.

Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom added another restraint. The more kids (the heavier the load), the slower the speed the car could attain. Then too there was no windshield. It was not that air pressure itself slowed us down, but that our lust for speed was satisfied by the deception of wind in hair and dust in eyes. At twenty-five miles an hour it seemed like ninety!

One other thing that slowed us down was the creator's broken arms. I say "arms" but it was arm, broken more than once as the engine kicked back when he cranked it to start it. I recalled that he broke that arm four times. But he corrected my faulty memory during a recent visit.

"Only two broken arms," he said, "four broken bones." In any case, he couldn't drive as often or as fast with his arm in a cast and a sling and with the warnings of his parents and numerous aunts and uncles ringing in his ears.

What a machine! Oh, what a car! I wonder what ever happened to it? It deserved, in this boy's memory, to be enshrined, to be bronzed.

The Smithsonian would not be too grand a resting place for this universal of youthful invention.

On the other hand, all glory aside, perhaps it finally served the younger boys as did its predecessors whose parts became IT. Perhaps sans engine, sans wheels, but let us hope WITH seat and steering wheel intact, it lured some later pre-pre-teens to climb aboard and roar off in imagined ecstasy.

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches," wrote Robert Frost of boyhood. And one could hardly do better than be a wild racing driver of a souped-up Model T .

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"one could ao worse than be a swinger of birches, " wrote Robert Frost of boyhood.

My final reminiscence has to do, some would say, with sex; but I wouldn't say that. T o me it was just girls and knees. There was nothing startling about the fact that older girls did silly things. You never knew what was next with their hair and skirts - both "bobbed." No one thought to call them "minis," but their skirts WERE short, almost so short you could see how their garters were fastened and held up their long stockings. That was not "cute." It was "dumb." (In my set the upper ends of these elastic bands were fastened securely to our so-called panty-waists.) But without these stretching straps to pull upward on the long stockings, they sagged - and that definitely was not "cute." So someone dared to eliminate these hanging garters and simply rolled the long stockings down to just below the knees. T o adults this was shocking, daring, and best of all, sexy - so I am told. I do remember both the music and the words of one of the popular songs of the day:

A young woman of the 1920s powders those "ugly, knobby knees" exposed between her short skirt and rolled-down hose.

And so it went. . . .

Now what do these four little memories tell about the Twenties? Not much! People live in the cultures and social systems of their time and place. They live as best they can without much critical analysis. They generally do what they have to do with good grace and often a sense of humor as they make some comparisons with the past and inch a little toward the future. They don't like to settle for "staying put"; it becomes boring. So they move out - a bit, create, try new ideas, make skis and gasoline bugs, fly across oceans, roll down thei; stockings.

And so much for nostalgia. If it doesn't get too much in the way of important facts it can help us understand. And it can also mellow us into accepting other propositions like the one that keeps going through my mind: "The Eighties aren't all bad -either."

Roll 'em girlies, roll 'em; Everybody roll 'em.

Roll 'em down and show your petty knees!

I was only about knee-high at the time, and from my vantage point I did not see anything pretty. What I saw - clearly - was a big space between hemline and roll which was filled with ugly, knobby knees. If the word had been invented I would have said, "Yuck!"

Dr. Canning is an emeritus professor of sociology at the University of Utah.

22

Part of the Emery County "ranch" that the Leonard family worked for several summers. Photograph courtesy of the author.

The Ranch A YOUNG GIRL RELUCTANTLY SPENT HER SUMMERS IN HUNTINGTON CANYON. LATER SHE FOUND BEAUTY AND MEANING IN THE EXPERIENCE.

BY ADELlNE STARR

My fat.her, John Hyt-urn I,eonard, was born in St. John, Tooele (:ounty, Utah, in 1871. My mother, Alicia 1,ouise Kowley, was born in I'arowan, Utah, in 1874. 'I'hey ]net in Huntington, Utah, and were marrietl there in 1897. I was born in Huntington and have spent all of my life ~hel-eso far.

When I was just a kid of about nine 01-ten, Father leased what we I-eferred to as the ranch from his brother, Melvin 1,eonal-(1.We already owned a farm ~ 0 ~ 1 tof h town that PI-etty well kept us fed and clothed, but if we were ever to have a new home, which we badly needed, we had to have another source of income. Leasing

this new farming ground u p the canyon seemed to be the answer.

O u r "ranch" probably wasn't large enough to meet Webster's recluirements for the woi-(1, but that is what we always called i t . T h e ranch was locateci eight miles west of Huntington o n the road to Huntington (:anyon, left of the present highway and just before the Utah I'owel- and 1,ight plant.

We rvould move u p there in the spring after school was out and return when sc:hool was ready ro start. My older sister, Mabel, worked in a local store, and sometimes I got to stay in town with her. More often I had to go with the family.

and Alice Leonard, 1913: and Adeline.

Lund was born the following year.

Photograph courtesy of the author.

-

Leaving all my friends and moving way up there in the hills really made me unhappy. I remember one time saying that I wished I wouldn't wake up, knowing full well we were leaving the next morning. Mom overheard this statement and frightened me when she said, "Now what if you died during the night." What I was really trying to say was, "I'd like to be left asleep until after they had gone." One time, to make me a little happier about going, Mothelpromised to make me some doll clothes. She did. And for years, long after I was married, I kept those two little dresses. Mother had a great influence for good on all of our lives.

Moving to the ranch each summer was quite an ordeal for other reasons. Besides the family and all our things - bedding, clothing, and the like, there were a lot of other supplies that had to be taken, such as the nlilk separator, pots and pans, dishes, coal oil lamps, and so forth. Then there were the cows and pigs. Maybe the chickens got to stay home, but 1 think we must have taken some along because I remember gathering eggs from a nest in the old hop vines that grew along the fence.

This moving all had to be done by wagon, so it's easy to see that it would take a long time. I remember one trip when only the pigs were taken. Dad had made a double bed out of the wagon to give them plenty of rooni. 'I'hen a board was put across the top of the wagon, and this was our ringside seat. The weather was getting hot, and the pigs hated this moving busi-

ness as much as the rest of us. When they began to look like they had had it, Dad would stop at the canal, scoop up some water in a bucket, and give them all a cold shower.

About once a week we had to come to town to do the laundry and likely some shopping.

These trips, made in our white-top buggy, were more en.joyable. 'The horses, Old Fox and Flag, trotted most of the way, accompanied by a little tinklirig musical sound that came from soinewhere - perhaps fi-om the chains on the doubletrees or from the snaps and rings on the harnesses. Anyway, it was a sound I loved.

The house at the raiich had a dirt roof with a factory (cloth) ceiling and a wood floor. -1'wo double beds, a large coal stove, a long table, and a wash stand were crammed into the space.

Another structure, connected by a passageway, housed the milk separator and cooler and more beds, including a cot for the hired hand.

Cold water was channeled frorn a spring at the base of the cliffs several yards above the homestead. On its way past the house it watered lilacs and irises. My brother L,und and I have both remarked that even today the smell of iris instantly transports us back to the I-anch.

Once when we were all out weeding the gar; den, Mom stooped to pull some weeds growing in the bean row. Coiled around one of the plants was a rattlesnake, shaking his noisemaker for all he was worth. We ran for our lives, but Dad stayed and chopped the snake into a million pieces, saving just the rattles. This was a

horrible experience that furnished us with nightmare ~naterialfor months.

When the hay was baled and I-eadyfor market Dad would load the wagon sky high and drive into town. Most of it was sold lo<.all~r.

I remember a Greek man conling <lo\vn from Mohl-lancl to t)uy hay for his goats. 'I'he ex(:itement we felt was next to (:hristmas, I)eca~~se he always brought us cancly. 'l'his \vas the first time I ever I-emember seeing the flat Hershey bar. I ate each one of the little sclrlares \\.ith the ~it~nost care, making the c.an<l),last as long ;IS possible. He espec.ially loved my I I I - ~ Ihers (;uy and Lurid because they remin(lec1hi~nof his t\t9o little brothers he had left in (h-eece. 1 \\-ell re~uenlberhow he woul(1 lailgh \\.hen h e tolcl about Guy and I.und running into the house ~vheneverthey saw him coming and shouting, "hlama. Here comes the 'Geek'." I was glad t he clay he gave me his picture.

-1.0 ~narketthe potatoes I)ad usually hauled them to Price in a wagon. 'l'his took two or three days, but when he returned we could always depend o n a big sack of peanuts.

Whenever I heal- the word "twilight," tears (-ometo my eyes, I get a l u ~ n pin my throat, and I have a mental picture of the ranch. It is just about dark, the birds are singing to high heaven, and up the long path fi-om the con-a1 comes whoever has done the milking, carrying two big buckets of milk, one in each hand.

Maybe I remember this so well because I was

usually following close behind with a (.up.

We farmed at the I-anch for five sunlmei-s, beginning in 19 18. At the en(1 of that fifth summer our home in town was completed ant1 we moved in. 1,ooking back now I'm sure hlom and 1)atl weren't too exciter1 over all I he .rvo~-~-y ant1 work the ranch entailed, I~utthey hacl a I-esponsibility and a goal in sight, \vhic.h al\ca),s niakes the going easier. We kcel-en't quite old enough to see that pic.1~11-e.

One S ~ I - i n gmany , ),ears later, 1-und ant1 I visited the ranch. We ~rltlepart \\.a), in his t1-icck and then together rode his horse up through the fields. We visited the spring, noticed the spot where \ve had fall el^ off our horse 0 1 ( 1 hleryl, and remem1)el-ecl again I he I-attler t hat had invatietl the gal-den. We rode through the old apple orchard and noted the spot where the swing had been. Then after gathering some asparagus, we retul-ne(1home.

In 1975 we again went to the ranch. 'I'his time we took the Koclak. Part of the house was still standing. So were the apricot trees, but dead, of course. We remembered Dad putting tin around the trunks to keep the chipmunks and squirrels from running up the trees and destroying the fruit to get to the pits. As we moseyed around, living in the past, we wished the trees could talk and tell us more or better still that our folks had written their history.

311-s.Stan- lives

ill H i i n t i n g t o ~ E;lllcry ~, < ; ~ L I I I I ! . 1'1;11i.

View from the top of ~untin~ton Canyon looking toward the area of the "ranch."

Photograph by Kent Powell.

Teaching Ogden to DanceSophie Wetherell Reed SOPHIE REED DEMANDED THE BEST FROM HER STUDENTS. THEY GAVE HER A TEACHER'S HIGHEST ACCOLADE: "SHE INSPIRED US."

BY SUSAN WHITE DOW

Sophie Wetherell Keetl was a familiar, and occasionally intimidating, figure to a generation ol- two of Ogdenites. She taught self-tliscipline, both physical and intellec.tual, instr~~ctetl children about how one behaves, quoted from great

authors, recited poetry while washing dishes, and, lnost important, taught dancing.

Born September 22, 1889,to Sarah Jane and Richard Wetherell in the C:umherland district of England, she was raised in the town of Skelton.

Partly through her love of dramatics she was given a scholarship to attend Carlisle High School for girls. Upon graduation she was awarded an Oxford Certificate, which tnade her eligible to attend thal university, but lacking funds she apprenticed as a teacher of English.

In 1912 Sophie traveled to America to see family members who had emigrated earlier.

During her visit in Ogden she was persuaded to stay. Finding that her English credentials w ~ u l d be honored, she acquired a teaching first at Pingree Elementary School, later at Lewis Junior High. During her tenure at Lewis she met Harry S. Reed, also a teacher, whom she married on June 14, 1919, in Ogden.

Her career took a new turn in 1917 when the Ogden City Schools superintendent asked her to becotne certified to leach physical education. "I was pushed into it," she later recalled. "1 would much rather have taught English or history." So, she attended the Chautauqua School of Physical Education in Chautauqua, New York, for training in physical education and physical therapy. She was president of her graduating class.

In September 1918, as a result of her training, she was promoted to supervisor of physical education for the Ogden City Schools, a position she held until 1922, the year of her daughter Sophie's birth. As supervisor she annually staged, in cooperation with the music supervisor, dance festivals or operettas - musical pageants that included in the cast every child in the Ogden schools. The Ogden StandardExaminer of May 16, 1920, reviewed one such performance: Leading among the entertaining and enjoyable events of'the week was the double presentation of the operettn "The Pixies7'by ,fine hundred children fi-om the Ogden public schools Monday and ~ u e s d a euej nings at the Orpheum Theatre. Under the supervision of'Miss Valentine Preston and Mrs. Sophie W. Reed, superuzsors of' music and physical education, the operetta was realistically giuen in two acts and from the moment the curtain mose on the jirst pretty scene until it dropped on the last, the operetta was one of'enjoyrnent and interest. There runs not one pause or hitch in the whole performance. The musical selections nnd dancing numbers under the personal direction of'the teachers of'the various schools were exceptionally well given.

Small folks and older folk ruere well pleased nnd delighted with the perfomiance. At each qf'the presentations, the theatre wns crowded to thefullat extent.

Following the 1920 festival two Ogden mothers whose children had participated in it suggested to Sophie Reed that she open a dancing school. With her teaching experience, her knowledge of drama, and her training at Chautauqua, she had the foundation for such a venture. T o refine her skills further she traveled to New York. a iournev she would make for many summers to come.

Upon her return to ~ e e d ~ c h oof o lDance in f i 2 0 with eight young ballet students and a piano accompanist, Dorothy Prout (other later accompanists were Ruth McBride, Lillian Thatcher, and Loretta Thinnes). Reed held her first classes at the Maids and Matrons' Hall. Subsequent locations were the Knights of Pythias Hall, 2351 Grant, and the Weber College Ballroom, 550 25th Street. In 1934 the Reed School's permanent studio at 2360 Adams Avenue was completed.

Committed to expanding her own knowledge and experience, Reed journeyed to New York in 1921 to become a student of Louis Chalif (1876-1948) at the Chalif Russian Normal School of Dancing - a school for teachers of ballet. She received a gold medal from Chalif as the best student in the class. Her first love was ballet. She taught it exclusively for the first five years of her school's existence.

Reed's class attire consisted of a short, printed silk tunic with side slits, matching silk bloomers, and "opera lengths" - long silk stockings worn by dancers before the invention of stretchy synthetic fabrics used in tights and leotards. According to Athleen Budge Johnson, who studied with Reed during the 1920s, the students wore "whatever we had: a blouse and short skirt or whatever, and cotton socks with our ballet shoes."

In addition to ballet technique, Reed students were taught acrobatics, character dance (national dances) and "natural dance" - a method of dance that used natural body movements and was performed wearing short silk tunics and bare feet. This dance form, new to the ballet world in the 1920s, would occasionally be taught instead of the usual ballet technique.

The class warm-up, in lieu of the usual ballet barre exercises, would consist of walking in a circle, then running, skipping, and leaping, facilitating free-flowing movement, the form's emphasis.

The natural dances Reed's students performed were choreographed rather than improJ

Younger students costumed for a Dutch dance. An Ogden man made their wooden shoes. Watercolor by Cherie Hale.

vised, ant1 j)~-opswere oftell ~lsetl.One tl;~llce, perfor~rredsevet-a1 litnes I)y cliffel-el11st~~tlerils, A 15-f'ool, tiewas set, to 1.isi.t.'~"l.ie\)est~.i~ll~~l." tiyetl chiffon scarf, heltl at cliffel-en1 points along its lengt.11, was I-;tiset1anti lowet.etl d~u.ing 1.2tedanc-e,floiilillg up i~ntlclowr~wilh the ~irusic.

In nothe her (lance, tlescl-il)etl 1,); 21 I);~llrtstutle~it 1);11I wab i l ~ ~ r i nthe g l920s, ;i I;il.ge goltl-p;~int.~tI tossed ft.om (lancer to d;tnt el-. lieed sl~~tlellts performed chis dance ;II [.he oltl S;dt 1.ake 'The;rtl-e. Since (.he stage there was slailtetl or r;ikcd, [.he 1)all houncetl askew, 0111 of rei1c.11of aljandol~etl the girls, a n d the no\,ic.e l~'el.f'o~.niel-s the cho~,eography1.0 chase 111eI~all.In another nat.r.~r;~l(lance pel.for111t.d ;I[ tl;e Salt 1>;1ke 'T'hei~trethe dance]-s wol-e yellow cost~tl~res with petal skirts iuntl live f'crns ;uo~lntltheir ~t:~ists.

Whet1 lap (lancing l)ec:~l~le the I-age in the 1920s t h r o ~ ~ g1.he t i influerrc.eo f t h e silver screen, Ogclen ~rlothers\vilnt.ed lileir little git-Is 1.0 1e;it.n to t.alx So, in 19L5, after a 1x1-iotl of st~ltlyin New York, Sophie Keetl ildtled. t.ap (lancing to her school's curriculutn, ;~l~.hough she "never did like . . . [ill, I ~ u .t . . they ;ill wi1nt.ed. to 1e;ti-n."

Despite this antipal.hy, "she was vet-); [)I-ecise; W;IS first-r;~te,"rec.:tlletl Colleen her tap 11-aini~ig Price Moore. Yo~lngstersw h o t,ook t.ap d;lnc.ing fi-on1 Reed in I he ~llid-I !)YOs wore sat i l l or velvel.

shot-ts with white satin I)louses and frequently he;t~-(1their 1e;lchei. say: "No nonsense, now.

I'vel-y step milst 1)e p~-e-c'i,i~!" .I'he \vot.d pr-(>r.isiorl enters every rellliniscente of Keetl's (lancing s l ~ ~ t l e n t sShe . de~n;wdetl their total ;ittentioll and res11ec.t. "'l'hose who tlidn't 1.1.y h e i r very h;l~.destdicln't last too long," ;I long-~irrleKeetl stutlent renlelnOeretl. "She woultl 1)oi111he]- finger ;II you and say, 'Do it!' ar~tlyou ,just (lid. i t . AI. first. ave kids \vo~~ltl giggle a1 Mrs. Keetl's outfit, I)LIL not af1.e~ hll;lri;~li UI-e l'ugrrlil-e, we go1 1.0 know [II~I-J." one of the Keetl S(.hool's oi-igirlal ballel st 11dents, siticl, "She hat1 ;I way of getling 1)eoplc lo ivork ;mtl liking it. I was alw;~);sscared stiff of hel-; we all held hel- so I I I L I ~ I Ii l l awe. yo11 k110w.

She inspiretl LIS, made 11s feel thal we (auld really (lo sonlet.hing."

Not only did she tle~rrantf;~l)sol~rte I)l.et ision at10 o1)etlience in hei- (-lasses,she inslructed ( h e c-hiltll.en in c - ~ l l l ~alrd ~ r eeticll~elteas well. Intertrlitlerltly during the 19:IOs and '40s she tattght t);~lll-oolrid;~nc.irlg.Stiltlents were sent I)y theilmothers to learn the walt:~, llie foxtrot, the I W step, and the latrrheth walk ant1 ( h e lintly hop, whatever was the c.Llrt.ent rage. 'l'he boys would learn to ask a girl politcly ti,r it dance, and the gilds wo~il(1learn to accept gt-aciously,

Fot- a titne t he school i s s ~ ~ etickets tl gootl fota series of ballt-oom dance lessons, the tickets to be punched each week I)y Mrs. Keed. One Ogden man I-etnetnhet-edbeing sent to dant:ing class at age 13 with his friend. .I~heboys woilld punch their o w n tickets to show their ~nothet-s that they had been to (:lass ; ~ n dthen go to the movies. 'I'heir mothet-s never fount1 out, he said.

The school was a hub of ac:tivity, Athleen Johnson I-ecalletl: "I would have b;lllet class on 'I'i~esdayor Wednestlay; sorrletimes we wot~ld have natural di111c:eot- charactet- dance; and toe class on Saturtlays. Saturday ~riorningI would give the bat-re [exercises] fot- a youngel- ballet class.

Each May the Reed School of Dance presented a review, often performed at the Orp h e u ~ nTheatre during the 1920s and '30s and in the 1940s and '50s at the Ogden High School auditorium. Dress rehearsal was as exciting as the performance, for Reed students would be dismissed from their regular school classes to rehearse. The Orpheum, formerly a vaudeville theater, had real dressing rooms, complete with lighted mirrors, lending a big-time atmosphere to the performance. T o add to the excitement, photographs of the students were mounted out-

Older girls participated in a patriotic tap routine.

side the thea~el-entrance to advertise the I-eview. (:osturne design, with national and period authenticity, and prop details were well t-esearched by Reed herself, aided by Etlris Jesperson Utterback, her student and assistant. Ogden tnothet-s made tutus, sailor suits, military uniforms, and floating gowns o n their sewing machines. "I think Mrs. Reed single-handedly kept the taffeta and buckram business alive in Ogden," a 1930s student said. "1,ots of times we'd use props: canes that we'd dance with or stools to tap dance on top of. I I-emernbet-ballet classes dancing with hoops twisted at-ound with tlowet-s." A 1)utchrnan in O g d e ~carved i wooden shoes for 1)utc:h dances. With so many chiltlren, costumes, anti props in adtlition to many behind-the-scenes details, (laughter Sophie Keetl Kichards said, "Mother could never have done it all without Dad." Hart-y Keed woul(l "tnake the pt-ops, dye shoes, see that the theater was set u p or the studio was clean - whatever had to I)e (lone."

With local talent constantly in demand in Ogden, g t - o ~ ~ p u young of d:iticet-s pel-fol-n~edat all sorts of f11nc:tions:luncheons, 1,I)S ward progt-ams, ant1 even movie [healer in~errnissions.

Ballet was Sophie Reed's favorite, although she taught all kinds of dance. Many students began their ballet training at a very early age.

("The movie \voultl end; Lve'tl go o n a n d dance; the movie tvoul~lstart u p again.") One formelstudent exclaimed, ".l'here wasn't a stage in Ogtlen we tlicln't (lance on." M a 1 . o ~ 1)ol)t)s Young recalled "a time that we were giving a floor show. At the end of the can-can n11ml)er we'd all land in the running splits. When I hit the floor I kept right on sliding and ended u p under a table!" At a local mens' luncheon "we did a number to 'Stars and Stripes Forever' where little Sophie [the Reeds' daughter] would walk out on her toes carrying the flag. Of course when the flag was brought out the men stood up [and] we'd all just stop dancing. . . ."

A major social event for the young people of Ogden was the dance studio's annual Christmas party. T h e children would wear their best clothes, and there would be games, including bingo and singing and dancing games. Older students would perform for the younger ones, and there would be presents and refreshments for all. For a few years in the early 1930s the teen-aged students had a separate Christmas party - a formal dance at the Berthana Ballroom, complete with orchestra, refreshments,

and (:hristmas tlecorations. T h e stutlents anti theil- partnel-s were receivetl at the entl-anc-e1)).

Mr. and Mrs. Keed, she in a n evening dress itntl he in a ti~xeclo.

For a short ~ i n i ein the 19:30s Mi-s. Keeil a n s~veretlthe recluesls of' parents in Brigha111City by opening a studio there. A few advanced students -earned their own dancing lessons by riding the bus from Ogden to Brigham City to teach ballet classes after school. Groups of students from Ogden also performed in Brigham City several times during the 193Os, but not without incident. One performance was held on such a rainy evening that the basement dressing rooms were flooded, and the only items the dancers could readily find were the wooden shoes used in the Dutch dance -they floated.

T h e Reed School followed the acatlemic year with classes beginning in September and ending in May with the review. As noted earlier, Reed spent many of her summers studying. In the late 1920s she studied with and taught classes for Andreas Pavley (1 892-193 1) and Serge Oukrainsky, directors of the Pavley-Oukrainsky Ballet, then the official ballet company of the

Chicago Opera. During the 1930s and '40s Reed was frequently in New York, studying dance, attending dance conferences, gathering new choreography to teach her students, and establishing extensive contacts in the dance world.

Often a few of her advanced students accompanied her to further their 11-aining, 01- she would send for certain students to come to Chicago or New York to fill in for company tiarlcers when such opportunities arose.

In the summer of 1934 Keed r e ~ u r n e dto her native England to study in I>ondon with Nicholas Legat (1869-1937). A Kussian who had left his teaching position at the Imperial Ballet School in 1914, he was her favorite dance teacher. T h e following year, Reed's summer study was spent in Paris at the s ~ u d i oof Mathilde Kchessinka (1872-1972?) who had left the Imperial Ballet after the Russian Revolution along with many other Russian dancers. Fortunately for dance in the West, some of the greatest of those who emigrated established ballet schools.

By the 1950s Reed had become a familiar figure among America's dance people. Her students who continued their s ~ u d yin New York found themselves as well trained as any and ready for the competition. Recognized by her professional colleagues, she served as president of the American Society of Teachers of Dance from 1948 to 1950.

In 1956 her school enrolled 400 students and Reed ended hel- careel- of 36 years as a teacher of dance. 'I'he studio was purchased by the Leland I'rice family. Reed died in 1986.

"What Mrs. Reed had was more than just a dancing school," Marian Pugmire stated, "she taught children how to work hard, how to work logether." Another student, Colleen Price Moore, said, "She inspired us. She challenged us to study the background of the dances we were learning, and she wouldn't tell us about hem until we'd told her what we'd already found out." "She was a great teacher of teachers," recalled Jackie Hearn Crawshaw; "she taught each of us to be a better person.

She'd post quotations from great writers on the bulletin board and expect us to read them." Her method of thorough preparation and discipline was remembered by all the former students who were interviewed.

Inspiration, hard work, challenges, preparation, and discipline - these were probably Sophie Wetherell Reed's greatest contributions to dance and to the hundreds of young people who learned to dance at her studio in Ogden.

Mrs. Ilow lives i l l Glen Rock, New Jersey. T h e article is based o n interviews with Keed, her daughter, former students, ant1 others; stories in the Og(lcn Strrnrlnrtlb;x(xrr~~iinor; and records in the Ogden Board of Education offices.

Older ballet students at Reed's studio in Ogden.

She required absolute discipline and obedience in class, something her students later remembered with gratitude.

Adventures in History Historic ol,jects in the collec~ionsof 1 he Utah Slate History Museum remind us of grear human adventures and important aspecls of the past. I'hotogl-aphs by Gal-y B. I'e~el-son.

Clockrvlse f i . o ~ rhe ~ lop: (:olt .44 used by a I'ony Express rider, giA o f J o h n 1,: Carter; Salt Lake 'l'heatre ticket, 1888; I)z,sror~oryspac:e flight pacch, gift of Senator J a k e (;am; cariipaign ribbon promoting Joseph I,. Kawlins for delegate to (:ongress, gift of Chai-les 1)eaLs; and World War I poster, WI'A collection.