Kimberly as I remember her

Utah Historical Quarterly

Vol. 35, 1967, No. 2

KIMBERLY as I remember her

BY JOSEPHINE PACE

Although most people remember Kimberly as a bunch of shacks inhabited by hardrock miners, the Kimberly I remember was a land that only children could really know. There were two Kimberlys — Lower Kimberly and Upper Kimberly. Lower Kimberly was the oldest section and the one with the most memories, I suppose it had grown gradually, but as I remember it was a long street called Main Street. Shacks and tents made up the homes, but they were perched on a hill or in the draw, in the low places along the creek.

I didn't realize how the years had embellished the things I remembered about Kimberly until I went back to find them. The houses had shrunk, been moved, or fallen down in discouraged heaps. Isn't it strange how a house gives up when the people who love it go away. These deserted houses always make me think of the skeletons of the aged Indians who had been left to die when the tribe moved on.

However, when I went back the Kimberly I remembered was still there •— Old Gold Mountain, parts of the Annie Laurie Mill, and the stream that ran through the alley behind the stores on Main Street. The roads are now only trails, but they still arrive at the same destinations. The manzanita still covers the hillsides, and the road from the valley still twists and climbs. All these things take you back through the years.

No one remembers Mr. Fruehn, but me. He had laughing black eyes and that was about all of his face you could see because of his long, silky beard that covered the rest of his face. He came to Kimberly with a mule and a packtrain of donkeys — all neatly packed with shovels, picks, cooking utensils, and blankets. He wore a brown corduroy suit with knee boots, and he made his camp just near enough for visiting. He didn't make friends with many, but he was mine. When he finally moved on, he gave me the smallest donkey on his string. He said the animal was too young for rough going. I named him Charlie Fruehn, although my father insisted he was a Jenny. The donkey was my "Open, Sesame" to the world of Kimberly. There wasn't a place, either sanctioned or forbidden, that I didn't visit.

At times my father carried the payroll money to Kimberly. He met the bank messenger at the Fish Creek turnoff, and the big leather bags

were thrown over the horse in front and back of the saddle. When he was just a short way up the trail, he was always joined by a handsome man on a horse, who rode alongside and chatted as they climbed. The man was LeRoy Parker. Some people called him "Butch" Cassidy, but to my father he was just a boy from Circleville who joined a wild bunch of cattle rustlers. Many people claimed that Cassidy had as many good points as he had bad, and he was better than most because Cassidy never broke his word, betrayed a friend, or killed a man. As long as Butch Cassidy rode along with my father the gang never held him up for the payroll.

Among the residents of Kimberly whom I remember was Dr. Stiener. Dr. Stiener was the company doctor. I don't know where he originally came from, but he was married to Georgianna Blanchet, who lived in one of those lovely stone houses still standing in Sevier Canyon, just before you arrive at Marysvale. Georgianna's parents came from a small French village in Quebec. Georgianna Stiener had a sister named Mel Blanchet. I never did see her, but I nearly choked with excitement when they talked about her. Mel Blanchet was in love with one of the outlaws in Butch Cassidy's gang and was involved in a bank robbery with them. In fact, she reportedly held the horses for them to make their getaway. Her lover was shot in the leg. After this episode, she married him and later they lived on a ranch and raised cattle. It was then I lost interest in her.

One day Dr. Stiener came dashing up in his buggy and called father. Together they disappeared in a cloud of dust. A cave-in at the mine had pinned a man under a fallen rock with his leg half severed. My father had to hold the man while Dr. Stiener amputated his leg. Afterward, I remember Dr. Stiener gave father a handful of pills, but he couldn't eat his supper that night.

The K & S Store at the south end of Main Street was the hub of my universe. K & S stood for Krotzy & Skougaard. I felt pretty important in that store. There was always a piece of free hardtack for me, and one of the boys from the store tied a sapling over the creek behind the store so I could swing across it.

Just across the street from the K & S Store was the Stiener home. On the outside the house looked just like the rest of the town's lumber shacks, but inside it was pure elegance. The chairs in the parlor were covered with red velvet, and the carpet was covered with flowers. In full view the stairs leading up to the bedrooms above were covered with red carpeting. There was a small table near the door which held a silver dish for calling cards. And the house had a really, truly bathroom with a long tin tub, and you could pull the plug and the water ran out. When I revisited the house 30 years later I found that the stairs still led up, but you can imagine my surprise to find the stair treads were no wider than a step ladder and that I bumped my head on the ceiling as I turned at the first landing. It dawned on me just how wonderful it would be if the common and makeshift things of this world could be covered with red velvet.

A little farther south, on the west side of Main Street, was the saloon. I can't tell you much about this place, because it was one of the two places "off limits" for me. The other one was the jail which was quite a way south of town. The jail stood for years after the town was abandoned. It looked just like a huge iron cage about 10 feet square right out in the open. It's now in Horace Sorenson's Pioneer Village in Salt Lake. It's no fun to see it now, there is no one in it. If my parents hadn't found out that I was casing these joints, I might have had an interesting paragraph right here. Finding that I didn't obey in spite of their threats, my parents promised to take a long switch to Charlie Fruehn and that stopped me cold. The world was probably deprived of some very vital historic facts because of this.

The saloon was gone entirely when I went back, but in the pile of warped, gray boards where I remembered the building had stood, I found an old flask turned purple by years in the sun. I like to believe the bottle was opened on the last night the saloon operated, and someone who still had a few coins in his pocket drank a farewell toast and promised to come back when the mill started to turn again.

Next to the saloon was the livery stable. There were buggies, saddles, horses, and men always sitting around who liked to visit. Charlie Fruehn came this far willingly, because someone always gave him a handful of oats.

Across the street and about four steps up was John Sandberg's store and nearby was the barber shop. Parley Poulson, Josh Ogden, Russell Ivy, and Keith Fountain were all barbers there in the later days of the Kimberly. A sign on the window said "Haircuts 35^ Shaves 25^." Josh said this really was a bargain, because in Richfield the haircuts were 25 cents and 15 cents for a shave, but, when the miners came down from the hills, there was a lot more than hair to be taken off.

The dance hall was the first big building on the left as you entered Kimberly. Just north and down the hill from the dance hall, a Mr. Christiansen from Monroe and Charlie Leavitt of Richfield ran a dairy. Next to the dance hall was Mrs. Sim Larson's boardinghouse and bake shop. The big excitment of the day was when the stage came in, and we were never late for its arrival. Four and sometimes six horses covered with lather arrived in a swirl of dust. Little Billy Morrison of Monroe would pull on the reins bringing the horses up sharp as he stopped to unload the mail from the stage. Then on the stage traveled down the draw and across the creek to the Lawson boardinghouse to let the passengers off. Charlie Fruehn and I were hard pressed at times to make both these connections.

One really big day in Kimberly was on the Fourth of July. Two things I remember — a big fight at the dance hall, and the fact it snowed all day on a Fourth of July. Jimmy Burns was to fight Joe Wodinski, and Willard Bean was the promoter. This was no ordinary camp fight. These boys were big-time stuff. The miners came down from the hills, and the people came up from the valley. The big thrill to me was that all the children were taken to the Lawson boardinghouse to be tended. We slept on beds, on the floor, and on our chairs. Never had I known such excitement in my life. We were all gathered up after the fight, and I am sorry, but I never did find out who won.

Down the hill to the south of town was the big Annie Laurie Mill. Perhaps someone can explain the cyanide process of how gold is extracted from ore, but I cannot. The big vats holding the thick, choking cyanide liquid were there for all to see. To me the men with the long poles, tending and stirring, looked more like men from never-never land. The masks that covered their noses and mouths and their arm-high rubber boots disguised them. One of the men who tended the cyanide tanks gave me a pottery jug in which he had dipped out a part of the liquid, this green liquid is solidified and still in the jug.

I also remember the story about the gold brick that was lost when it was being freighted. The brick disappeared between the mill and the railroad station at Elsinore where they were taking it, as I remember. I don't know that the brick was ever recovered. I can still remember so many things about the old mill, particularly the grinding of the machinery as the rocks were being ground or crushed before they were put in the cyanide mixture.

My father contracted to build a power plant for Kimberly, and mostly I remember the flume that was down at Fish Creek, and the fact the flume was held up by such a terribly high trestle. We used to walk over the flume from one side to the other — when we weren't caught at it. When you looked up, you thought you could touch the clouds, and when you looked down you began to hold tight.

I've heard the story of the first test of the plant so often that it seems I remember it happening. Everything was finished, and the time of the test arrived. Father warned everybody to keep an eye on the pressure gauge. The water filled the pipes, the gauge began to rise, the wheels began to turn, and the machinery began to purr. Then, as dad told it, some danged fool rang the dinner bell and the men all ran down to camp. Someone threw the switch back, and the water force ripped the pipes out with a roar.

It was here, at Fish Creek, I made up my mind never to become a Catholic. Two of the Catholic fathers had a fishing camp by the stream, and I made my trip down to bid them welcome, of course. There they sat in front of their tent, and just inside the tent was a big barrel filled with bottles with little blue ribbons that crossed and little seals on them. And they were smoking cigars, so I lost my interest in their religion.

Another night I remember at this camp was when a young man named Erastus Utah Bean from Richfield came to see his brother and friends who were working at the plant. He had brought the script of a play he had written, which he called "Floriantan." The play was founded on the Book of Alma in the Book of Mormon. The group built a big bonfire, and everyone sat around in a circle while Erastus Bean read his play aloud. I was breathless, even though I didn't know what any of it meant. The play made its author famous throughout western Mormon territory.

Father contracted to build 12 bungalows and the then big, imposing lodge high upon the hill south and west of the mill. The place began to look more like a town than a camp. When the Annie Laurie was sold to an eastern syndicate, Kimberly became still more city-like. The town attracted many young blades with stiff straw sailor hats, good manners, and eastern accents. The pretty girls from Elsinore and Richfield had a ball. I still remember these boys helping the girls into buggies and holding their hats in their hands when they were talking to them. I remember some of the girls. Hazel Baker taught school at Kimberly. Olive Hansen's sister, Phena, was the postmistress. There were the Lawson girls from the boardinghouse — Kate, Agnas, and Hazel. Other girls came up for the Saturday night dances and the Sunday dinners at the lodge, where Anthony Sacka, who used to run the old Southern Hotel, was the chef or cook, and Jane Young, now Mrs. Follett, was one of the diningroom girls. Jim Long's daughter, Helen, was one of the girls, and she was so beautiful that she took everyone's breath. There was Ivy and Ruby Erickson, Chan and Anna Hansen, Floss Poulson, and Dot Wright who came to visit the girls they knew in Kimberly. My cousin married one of the young men from the East. She went to New York for a month's honeymoon, saw Lillian Russell, and arrived home with an eastern accent of her own. Bobby Hanks and Alfred Ackerson made life wonderful by speaking to me when they would see me on the street. Alfred bought the Judge McCarty home and stayed in Richfield. My favorite of all these boys was C. I. Raider. He lived in an upstairs, corner room at the lodge. He had an enormous black leather chair and phonograph. C. I. Raider would let me sit in the chair and listen to his records while he put on his black jacket and tie and shined his already shiny shoes before he went down to dinner. He gave us the chair and the phonograph before he left, but somehow it didn't look as regal in our parlor. Later in my teens, I went to see the opera "Aida" and was surprised that I knew the whole story. "Aida" had been in Mr. Raider's collection of records. He also left an enlarged, colored picture of a beautiful girl in her Japanese kimono. He was going to send for the picture later, but he never did. For years the suspense was awful — did he find she hadn't waited for him or had she died. I'll never know.

The parties at the lodge were very elegant. From my vantage point, belly boost at the top of the stairs, I could see it all — the ladies in their dresses with demitrains which they would hold just high enough to show the lovely petticoats under them. And mother, of course, was the prettiest one with her dress of brown voile, a rustling stiff petticoat of green taffeta, and her locket on a chain. One of the gentlemen passed a tray of tiny glasses filled with wine which the ladies sipped as slowly as I would eat my Sunday ice cream. The tables also had decks of cards and a game of whist was soon underway. The next morning I was the first one down and I hurriedly filled by overall pockets with the unclaimed cards, drained the wine glasses, rescued Charlie Fruehn from the corral, and was off for another day of adventure.

All of a sudden into my dream world came panic. Nobody talked about their fears to me, but rather around and over me. The payroll hadn't been met. There was a meeting of men, mine bosses, laborers, grocers, and saloon keepers. This was just a temporary thing they were assured, just an error by someone in the eastern office. Mr. Carr of New York would send an explanation and some good hard money. In the meantime all would go on as usual, except company scrip would be used instead of money in all transactions, and later the company would redeem it in U.S. currency. It seems the company representative's trip East was extended, his return postponed, and meanwhile things limped along. The grocery stock sank lower and lower, and the cash drawers at the safe in the K & S were jammed with piles of Kimberly scrip. Some of little faith moved early, those with hope and big investments stayed on. The cottage rentals had been paid in scrip, and mother said we had enough to pay for the whole house. We had our home in Richfield, and mother was an artist in making my blouses out of father's pongee silk shirts — his one concession to the eastern satorial elegance. But I shudder when I remember them now. Have you ever smelled pongee silk when it gets warm or damp? We lived on porridge and hope for a few years awaiting for Kimberly to come back, but I guess the vein had run out; we know that the syndicate had. And so Kimberly remains today mostly as a memory of a bygone era.

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