Oregon History Online 10

A man whose life has been spent largely in the wilds of the West recounts perils of the days when Texas Rangers kept the border of the Lone Star state in order.
George A. Hodges has lived in the Yaquina Bay country for the past 38 years. When I interviewed him recently he said:

I was born in Texas, May 28, 1852. My father, Amos Hodges, was born in Clorset, England. My mother, whose birthname was Nancy Dunlap, was born in Tipperary, Ireland.
My father for many years was a member of the Texas Rangers. The Texas Rangers were not very popular with horse thieves and cattle rustlers. The result was that father was ambushed and got a charge of buckshot in his back. He had followed a bunch of horse thieves, who claimed to be members of William Clarke Quantrill's (1837-1865) band, clear up into southwestern Kansas. This crippled him so he had to resign from the rangers, after 16 years of service.
After father was able to travel, though still weak, we went to Colorado. In the summer of 1864, we crossed the plains to Oregon.
My mother's uncle, Lige Hutchison, had a brick house on Washington Street, in Portland. We stayed with him for a while when we first came here. Later, we lived on the Canyon Road, after which we moved to Milwaukie. Dad went to work for Lish Kellogg in his water power sawmill near Milwaukie, but his back bothered him a good deal, as the doctor had never taken the buckshot out of his lungs. He died the spring we came here.

The George A. Hodges Family: Back Row Left to Right: Jim, Dell, Bill, Mort, Walter, Pat, Giles, Allen, Clyde.
Front Row Left to Right: George A. Hodges, Levina Sager Hodges (holding Alice, who drowned at Coos Bay at the age of 5), Ethel.
Photo taken 1916 at the Dell Hodges homesite. Photo Courtesy of Claudine Hodges

My mother took in washing, sewed, cooked, did nursing, and did anything else she could to support [herself and] her four children.
I went to school at Milwaukie. Some time drop in and see my brother, Will. He lives in a stone house at the end of the Alberta car line. He can tell you about our early days and the hard times we had after Dad's death.
I got a job working in the furniture factory at Willsburg, owned by Bob Donnelly, Tom Beard and Ira Powers. These three men worked at making furniture, and they employed two workmen—Mr. Atchison and myself.
Ira Powers was a big man, physically and mentally. He was jovial, good-natured, a good workman and a good businessman. He came to Portland and started a furniture factory. His son is running it now.
Later I landed a job carrying mail from the depot to the post office at Milwaukie. Jan Ross kept the post office at the time.
While I was working in Milwaukie, I lived in a two-room house on Seth Luelling's place. Uncle Seth was a fine man.
I got married when I was 21. We had two children, both of them dead now.
About two years before I was married, when I was about 19 years old, Mother asked me to go back to Texas to see if I could realize anything from the property we had left at Salado. I couldn't seem to get a line on our property, so I got a job as a "cattle puncher." In those days most of the cattle in Texas were long-horns. I have seen a "cow brute" with a six-foot spread of horns. Those blue-roan, long-horn steers were as wild as deer. They were savage, too. A man couldn't afford to take any chances afoot where they were around. In fact, you had to have a good horse and know how to handle [it] if you worked with the long-horns and expected to get back to the chuck wagon for your next meal.
I lacked a little for being 20 when I ran across a bunch of my father's old friends, who got me to go with them to round up a band of Comanche. I wanted to show them I was a chip off the old black and was not afraid of anything. I spurred my horse through some buffalo wallows, up to the crest of a little land wave, where I showed up against the moonlight. The men warned me that the Indians might be there, but I wanted to see for myself. Just as I showed up against the skyline, plain as day, it seemed as if the whole country was a sheet of fire in front of me, and I sent down and out for the count. That's all I knew till next morning, when my father's old friends came back, after routing the Indians, and pulled me from under my horse. The horse was dead, the horn of the saddle had punched a hole in my groin, my hip was broken, and I looked like I was a total loss. They took me to San Antone, where I spent the next three months in the hospital, drinking whiskey a good deal of the time to deaden the pain.
With two or three other young chaps I bought a bunch of mules at $4.00 a piece and we drove them on up through New Mexico, Arizona and California to Eugene, Oregon, where we sold them for $90 a piece. The two other young chaps with me were "Mustang" Bill and John Younger, a cousin of famous outlaws, Bob and Cole Younger (1844-1916).
John Younger was one of the whitest [sic] men I have met. He had a soft, Southern drawl, a great sense of humor, and he didn’t seem to know what fear was. I remember some years later, here in Oregon, when Egbert Foster shot himself, they wanted someone to fork a horse up [sic] and go in a hurry to Oregon City, to get Doc Applewhite. Younger was on his horse almost as soon as they asked him to go, and he burned the road up to Oregon City, for he could travel, when he wanted to. He routed Do Applewhite out and told him Egbert Foster was badly wounded and needed a doctor right away. Doc Applewhite said he couldn’t come till next morning. He had lost so much sleep that he had to sleep till morning. Younger pulled out his .45, pointed it as Doc Applewhite's head, and said in his slow, soft drawl: "I reckon you're ready to go, aren't you Doc?" Doc Applewhite took a good long look at Younger and then at the .45 and said he guessed, after all, he was ready to go.

After I came back to Oregon, I worked on the [Puget] Sound and at various places in the Willamette Valley, as a carpenter. I could always get work, as I was a good mechanic, and was steady, and by what that I mean I was no boozer. I always turned up for work on Monday morning. After my first wife "quit" me, I married Levina Sager (1884). The last time I heard from my first wife she was living with her fifth spouse.
My wife and I have had a good-sized family of children. Our nine boys are scattered pretty well all over the West. They never were much at going to school, but, like their father, and grandfather, they are outdoorsmen. We also have one [living] daughter.
When I moved into the Big Elk country, on Yaquina Bay, our nearest neighbor was 11 miles away. I packed my wife and babies in on pack horses. There are plenty of salmon, trout and deer over in that country. For years, I had run a logging camp on the Big Elk.

In this second and final installment of his story, Hodges reviews local history relating to the original act of bringing Bull Run water into Portland.
The man that brought the first Bull Run River water to Portland is George Hodges, who lives on the Big Elk River, about 11 miles above Elk City, in the Yaquina Bay district. In telling me about it recently, he said:

I was trapping for a man named Du Bois, a fur dresser of Portland. A man named A. B. Cunningham came to Portland and, after sizing up the situation here, he said Portland was destined to be a big city, and that our water supply was inadequate. He asked Du Bois, my employer, if he knew anyone who was familiar with the country who could locate an adequate water supply for a city of half a million. In those days that sounded like crazy talk. Du Bois said to him, "George Hodges, a young fellow who is trapping for me up the Bull Run country, knows that country thoroughly. I suggest you get in touch with him and tell him what you want." Cunningham and a man named C. B. Talbot sent me when I came into town with my firs, and asked me where there was an abundant supply of water. I told them in my opinion, the Bull Run water was as good as there was, so they hired me to go up to the headwaters of the Bull Run and bring out a five-gallon demijohn of the water for analysis. This was in February, and the snow up around the headwaters of the Bull Run was pretty heavy. I went up there, filled my demijohn with water, sealed it, and brought it back.
Up to then Portland had a rather inadequate water service. Stephen Coffin, Robert Penland and Jacob Cline had put in the first water system, along about 1857. They built a dam in a canyon west of 7th Street and got their water from Carruthers Creek. They used fir logs, bored by hand, as pipes. Along about the beginning of the Civil War, Coffin and his partners sold out to H. C. Leonard and John Green, who shipped in from California a lot of new pipes made of redwood logs. They got their water from Carruthers Creek and Black Creek. Along in the late 1860s they put in a pumping station on the river, at the foot of Lincoln Street, and also built reservoirs at 4th and Market and at 7th and Lincoln. In the 1880s they put in a pumping station at Palatine Hill.
Along about the time that I brought that demijohn of water out for A. B. Cunningham and C. B. Talbot, who was a civil engineer, the owners of the different private water companies became very much alarmed, for they saw that if the Bull Run water was used they would have to go out of business. One of the principal sources of water supply at that time was the Hawthorne Springs, in East Portland. Another possible water supply for Portland was Crystal Springs, on the Ladd ranch; also, a group of men were interested in having Sucker Lake, near Oswego, used. Others wanted the water brought from Johnson Creek, while still others believed it should be brought from the Clackamas River. When [Bill and Holly] McGuire, who had the water system at the Asylum Springs, or Hawthorne Springs as they later called it, learned that I had been up to Bull Run [they] got in touch with me and hired me to go with [them] to file notices of water rights on every trickle of water between Bull Run and the Sandy River. We traveled on a raft and it took us 20 days to tie up the water rights and to put up a notice at every little trickle of water. That tied up proceedings for a while.
Cunningham and Talbot hired a surveyor to make a survey of the country between Bull Run and Portland. The owner of one of the other water companies hired myself and two or three others to go with him on his crew, with instructions to keep him drunk as long as he was out. When he got back to town he didn’t know whether he had made the trip afoot or on horseback, and nobody could make anything of his notes, so that delayed the game a little longer. Finally, Hollister, and Bill and Holly McGuire, who ran the East Portland waterworks at Asylum Springs, had to give up the matter as a bad job. After the city had analyzed the water I brought out from Bull Run they spent several months taking a record of the flow of water, and being satisfied that the water was of good quality and sufficient quantity, they bought from Cunningham and Talbot their rights and began work on bringing the water to Portland. They put in a pipeline 312 miles long, that cost nearly $3,000,000. They bought the distributing main, amounting to over 300 miles, so that the total cost of buying the old water system up to about the first of 1910 was over $5,000,000.

December 11, 1926, Oregon City, Oregon: George A. Hodges, 74, died this morning at St. Vincent's Hospital in Portland, following ten weeks illness. Mr. Hodges formerly resided at Clackamas County. Surviving him are his widow, Levina Hodges, and the following children: James A., Walter, Clyde and Patrick of Elk City, Oregon; George A., Mort and Allen, Portland; and William, Marshfield, Oregon; Giles of California and a number of relatives in Clackamas County. The funeral services are to be held at Mountain View Cemetery, Tuesday morning at 11am. Internment will be in the family lot.

The author had this conversation with her uncle-in-law, Allen Hodges, while walking up and down hillsides and through thick brush—tape recorder in hand—as he remembered the family sawmilling operations. It was April 10, 1977, Easter Sunday, and Hodges was pregnant with her second child, Hilary:

Connie: What do you remember about sawmills in the Big Elk Valley?
Allen: There was never an actual sawmill on Drift Creek in the early pays other than Dad's, to my recollection. There was a shingle mill at the old Bohanan place. It was a water powered mill with a 32 foot waterwheel. They had to haul it up over the old Drift Creek mountain road and down to Gopher Creek.
Connie: Did George Hodges build a sawmill at Salado during the years you lived there?
Allen: The Camp Creek mill site was about 200 yards east of Salado. The water for the mill came out of Camp Creek. We had a ditch dug around it instead of a flume. I've often wondered, Connie, if the mark of the old ditch is still here.
At the time Dad had a mill here, this hillside was all in fern, just as it was before the old "Indian burn," and that's why there weren't any trees here. I was a grown man before there was ever any timber here. You can see that if you put that ditch in a waterwheel that it would generate considerable power.
Connie: It looks like it's running pretty swift all right. Was it running this swift years ago?
Allen: In those days—100 years ago—when the hillsides were covered with fern, they had more water running off than we do today.
Connie: You said the waterwheel that dipped into this creek was 32 feet in diameter. Do you recall what it looked like?
Allen: The waterwheel was 16 feet on each side which made it 32 feet across the center. It was two feet wide, one foot deep in each bucket with a six inch board. In other words, when the water came pouring over the wheel, it hit the boards instead of just sliding. The weight of the water on the wheel brought it up to speed. The spindle this waterwheel was made of was two feet thick. The two by fours that were needed for the construction of the waterwheel over at the Forked Horn Creek mill were cut at the old Camp Creek mill.
Connie: You said this mill didn't have a flume—just a ditch dug around it. Did the Forked Horn Creek mill have a flume?
Allen: There was a flume with a divider in it that came into the Forked Horn Creek mill. There was a lever inside the mill that you could pull, and it would trip across and shoot the water, and that would stop it from coming into the wheel itself. Then you could pull the lever the other way, and close the gate and it would come down and run through the wheel.
Connie: When did you dad build the Forked Horn Creek Mill?
Allen: That was when I was three or four years old—around 1905.

Connie: Around 1905? Isn't that when the Elk City Sawmill was constructed?
Allen: Yes. Dad put in the Elk City mill around 1905 or 1906.
That spring and winter the big flood came, which was the first flood there is record of that ever happened in this area of the country. As I recall, we had another bad one about 15 years ago (1962).
About the time of the flood, we were awfully in debt. Dad was a very honest man. He made many mistakes, but when he made one, he satisfied.
Connie: Was he able to hang onto the mill?
Allen: No. He sold the mill to Bill Ennis because he had to in order to come out financially.
Then he bought what is now the Dell Hodges place, eight miles east of Elk City, where you live now.
Connie: Did he put in another sawmill on the Big Elk?
Allen: Naturally, as soon as we moved in, Dad put up the old J. I. Case steam engine and built a mill across the river. All of that mill was made of wooden pulleys. All we had was shafting material. We didn't even have material for bearings, which at that time were made out of hard wood.

In 1910 or 1912, Dad put in the big boiler, and that came in by freight to Elk City. We went down there and loaded it on a wagon. This side of Bump's Grade, where we made the turn, the road caved in and the boiler upset and rolled down into the brush.
Connie: It must have weighed a ton. Were you able to retrieve it?
Allen: That was a center crack steam engine, and it was big; it was rated at 20-horse power. It took us a week or ten days to get it back up and loaded. Anyway, we finally got it home.
Connie: Once you got it home, how'd you set it up?
Allen: We made a rock furnace that fit in. That's what we called a return flue. We opened the doors and fired it right down into the firebox. That fire went underneath the boiler and up over the back end, through the flue, and up the smoke stack.
The log haul on the old J. I. Case engine was called a bullwheel. It was a shaft with a fiber pulley on it. There was a big wooden wheel about fix feet across; it was a drum that turned.
Connie: What was the drum for?
Allen: This was the cable that pulled the logs up the chute into the mill at Elk City.
The one in front of Dell Hodges' place was made on the same principle, only we put a boom across the river and cut our logs when they came up. Also, we had a deck there.
Connie: Were the Hodges still logging with bullteams then?
Allen: Then, all the timber was logged by our bullteam, Ted and Nig. Part of the timber was logged and brought up above the sawmill and rolled over the bank into the river. We ran the sawmill pretty much in the summertime when the weather was good, and we logged in the wintertime when the weather was bad—and had a skidding good time!

Connie: Were there any sawmills in the Harlan area?
Leonard: A fellow by the name of John Miller built a water-powered mill and damned up Feagles Creek. That was the first sawmill that was ever built in this country.
Connie: Was Miller a logger?
Leonard: Old man Miller was a carpenter by trade. The wheel He built there was 28 feet high. He didn't understand why he didn't get much power out of the wheel, but he had it rigged all wrong; he had the gear right on the outside of the wheel, instead of having it down close to the axle. He was always short of power because of this error in design. He knew the carpenter end of things, but he just didn't understand power. He had water—and wheel enough that he could really have had a good sawmill—had he not always been short of power because of this backwards construction.
Connie: Was that a commercial operation?
Leonard: They cut a lot of lumber at the Miller mill, but the operation was all local. People around here used it. Some of the lumber was sold, and sometimes Miller worked out trade arrangements with local folks in the Harlan area. He made a living at it, though.
Connie: If someone like Miller—or Hodges—puts in a sawmill—at his expense—just so his neighbors can use it, what kind of a financial proposition is that?
Leonard: A lot of people in the area put in their own logs, and Miller charged them so much a thousand board feet to saw it up. He made money by offering a service for a small fee.
Connie: Did the Grants put in their own logs?
Leonard: We put in most of our own logs, and Miller sawed them into lumber for us—for a fee—just as he did for so many others in the area.

Connie: Tell me what you recall about your father, George A. Hodges.
Allen: My father was one of the first settlers in the Big Elk Valley.
He was born in Salado, Texas, and migrated to Oregon in 1884 with his father, Amos Hodges, his mother, Nancy Dunlap, and three brothers, including my uncle Will.
Grandpa Hodges was wounded during the Civil War from a buckshot wound in the back. He died three years after the injury.
Connie: What do you remember about your mother's family?
My Mother, Levina Sager, was English, Irish and Black Dutch.
The Sager family was originally from Des Moines, Iowa, where they were farmers. The migrated West and settled down by Gold Hill—between Grants Pass and Medford—in Southern Oregon.
When the Indian war was going on at Gold Hill—where the Rogue makes a bend near the dam—there's a rock up there—Table Rock, I think—and the Indians had a camp on that flat. They'd come down through the rocks and rob the settlers, and then they'd go back up in the hills and guard the pass in the rocks and kill the squatters with bows and arrows.
Connie: If the Sagers were living in Southern Oregon, how did your parents meet?
Allen: No doubt the Sager family moved north in order for Mother to meet Dad, but I don't recall hearing the details.
Connie: Your father must have been a big man, considering all the hunting and trapping he did.
Allen: No, Dad was a little man with a mustache; he only weighed 130 pounds.
Connie: Did he have a chance to go to school?
Allen: No, he never sent to school; he was self-educated.
Connie: George Hodges spent his boyhood in Texas. Besides cattle punching, did he have any other work experience before moving West?
Allen: Before moving to Oregon he had experience on a whaling vessel just before the Civil War.
Connie: When did he start working for the furniture factory in Oregon City?
Allen: When he was 16, he went to work in the furniture factory in Oregon City. He worked there until the flood of 1890.
Connie: What did you do after The flood?
Allen: After the flood, he worked at various places in the Willamette Valley, and then moved to Philomath. That was as far as the road went.

Connie: How did he end up in the Big Elk Valley?
Allen: From Philomath he moved to Spout Creek with the thought he was going to die. He wasn't supposed to live more than a year with the ulcer he developed working at the furniture factory.
He packed over the mountain and down into Spout Creek alone, and made a cabin there; I remember the cabin.
The road between Philomath and Spout Creek came up over the north side of Marys Peak. It came out towards the sawmill and down towards the Alsea country, and then up over the hill. Then it went up over the end of Mary's Peak and down into Little Elk country.
Connie: Alone? Didn't he have a family by then?
Allen: Yes, but he wintered at the Spout Creek cabin. It wasn't until the following spring that he went back to Philomath and picked up my mother and my brothers, Jim (1885-?) and Dell (1887-?), who were about five and three at the time.
Connie: Was Spout Creek your family's first contact point with Lincoln County?
Allen: Yes. That was the first place they lived in Lincoln County.
Connie: Were Jim and Dell born in Philomath?
Allen: No, Jim and Dell were both born in a log cabin on Cougar Mountain at the foot of Mount Hood.
From Spout Creek we moved to Salado, which Dad named after his hometown in Texas.

Salado settlement was located some 12 miles up the Big Elk from Elk City. The post office was established April 18, 1891, with George A. Hodges serving as first postmaster. Hodges managed the post office with his Spouse, Levina Sager, and carried the mail between Elk City and Harlan three times a week. Hodges named the post office and community for his former home, Salado, Texas.
Salado is a Spanish word meaning "salty" or "saline," or a "plain encrusted with salt." Salt, along with sulfur, helium, asphalt, graphite, bromine, natural gas, cement and clay, give Texas first place in mineral production.
The City of Grand Saline northeast of Salado grew from a primitive salt works established in 1845, and is not the site of one of the largest salt plants in the nation. The salt dome under the city is about 1.5 miles across and some 16,000 feet thick; it could supply the world's need for salt for 20,000 years.
In Western Texas, the small community of Salt Flat grew near extensive surface salt deposits left by intermittent lakes in Hudspeth County just west of the Guadalupe Mountains. The area was the focus of a bloody dispute known as the Salt Wars of the 1860s and 1870s. Before the dispute reached a confused, tragic end, it had involved both Mexican and US citizens, political parties, legislators, mob action, army troops and Texas Rangers. Murder, assassination and revenge killings took place on both sides.
A charming Bell County village on I-35 south of Temple in Central Texas, Salado dates from the state's early days. Situated south of Stillhouse Hollow Lake, the town grew around the Sterling C. Robertson home and plantation, and was incorporated in 1867.
Named for Salado Creek, the town prospered with the founding of Salado College in 1860, and was prominent on the Chisholm Trail. The first farmer's Grange in Texas was established in 1873. But when bypassed by the railroad, the late 19th Century's ultimate transportation mode, the college closed and the town dwindled to the status of an isolated village.
Tree-shaded Salado Creek, which was Texas' first designated natural landmark, was the site of an Indian campground long before recorded history. Since Main Street was part of the Chisholm Trail, ruts from wagon wheels still appear in the bedrock of the creek just north Pace Park.
The visitor’s register at the Stagecoach Inn, a prominent site on the Chisholm Trail in the 19th Century, reads like a frontier Who's Who: George A. Custer (1839-1876), Robert E. Lee (1807-1870), Sam Houston (1793-1863), Jesse James (1847-1882) and Shanghai Pierce were among the celebrated guests. Formerly known as Shady Villa Inn, the primary old frame structure is today restored as a notable restaurant, surrounded by a modern motor inn.

On April 23, 1907, the Salado Post Office burned to the ground, and it was not until March 27, 1911 that it was re-established. At this time George and Levina's son, Jim, started carrying the route as a free agent. In 1912 the government let a contract for the job for the first time, and Jim won the job. On July 31, 1944, the Salado office closed to Elk City.
Jim Hodges carried the mail in this area continuously for 45 years, except for two four-year contract periods when William Clark outbid him on one occasion, and Andrew Bristlin underbid him another. Jim's son, Henry, did most of the carrying in the later years of his tenure.
The route was probably one of the shortest and smallest in Lincoln County. In the 1950s, it served 13 families, and at no time, ever went over 20 boxes. It was 12 miles in length and was carried twice a week.
On May 31, 1956, the Post Office Department opened bids for a new mail route to serve the Elk City-Harlan areas in Lincoln County.
Under the new proposal, the route would be carried every day. And instead of starting at Elk City and going up the river only 12 miles, it would start at Blodgett and serve Nashville, Eddyville, Elk City and Harlan, serving approximately 210 boxes.

Connie: With the post office in your home, Salado must have really been a busy place.
Allen: Salado was a halfway house for everybody that lived in the area. The sheriff would come through here from Drift Creek and go to Elk City and get a load of supplies and come back here and then go home the next day. So folks went upriver to here—the halfway point—then to Elk City, and then back here and then home.
Connie: How did you get back and forth when the river was swollen? The Hodges homestead was on the far side of the Big Elk.
Allen: Right straight across the Big Elk is where, in 1893, Dad made the wire foot bridge with a tripod on each side. The wire went over the top of it. Then he put sticks across it and wide boards that were nailed down. It was a swinging bridge of sorts.
Connie: It doesn't sound like it was what I’d call "child friendly."
Allen: It was definitely not the kind of bridge for small kids. I used to get my pants really tanned when I got caught crossing it. So I would sneak across it and hide in the lumber pile. That was my thrill in life so see my father and brothers at the sawmill pull the lever and stop the wheels and then push it and the wheels would start again.
Connie: Did you ever get hurt sneaking across the wire bridge?
Allen: I remember one time I did.
The goat shed was right across on that hill there. Because the hill is steep, it was made to conform to the shape. It didn't come up too far from the ground. In fact, it was really just a shed roof.
Anyway. Right about that time—when a wind storm came—it caught that shed and turned it upside down right on the hillside.
At the time the storm started, I was across the river, and when I came across the end of the bridge, it threw me off the bridge and over into the creek!
My brother, Giles (1897-1957), and I would crawl up in the bridge with a bunch of rocks and Scott Winfield's (1824-1886) widow would drive her cattle up across the bridge and they'd pasture at the railroad track. When she’d drive them home at night, Giles and I would get up in the bridge and throw rocks at her cattle.
Connie: I bet you and Giles got into a lot of trouble for that one!

Giles Benjamin HODGES was born May 1899 in Oregon and died March 15, 1957 in Veterans Hospital - Spokane, Spokane County, Washington. He married 1st Nora Lowanza DOWNING (Pictured Above). She was born September 9, 1898 in Woodstock, McHenry County, Illinois and died April 1, 1982 in Fairview, Buncombe County, North Carolina, daughter of Morton Elias DOWNING and Effie Eslie WORDEN. He married 2nd Minnie (Unknown Maiden Name) HODGES . Children of Giles Benjamin HODGES and Nora Lowanza DOWNING: Giles Benjamin HODGES Jr. was born August 21, 1929 in Tampa, Hillsborough County, Florida and died December 17, 1986 in Bunnell, Flagler County, Florida. Vina Eslie HODGES was born August 22, 1931 in Tampa, Hillsborough County, Florida and died February 28, 2004 in Odessa, Ector County, Taxas. John Mort HODGES was born March 5, 1935 in Tampa, Hillsborough County, Florida.Vera Jane HODGES was born September 24, 1932 in Tampa, Hillsborough County, Florida.

March 15, 1957: HODGES, Giles Benjamin - His home, W310 3d Ave. Husband of Minnie Hodges at the home. Father of Vinia Richardson in Arkansas, Martha Brewer, Walla Walla, WA. Brother of Mrs. Ethel Griffith of Redwoord City, Calif.; James, George and Dell Hodges all of Elk City, OR. Clyde Hodges of Toledo, OR. William Hodges, Coos Bay, OR.; Allen Hodges, Vale , OR. Funeral services, Mon., March 18 at 12 noon in the GOTHIC CHAPEL OF HAZEN & JAEGER FUNERAL HOME, N1306 MONROE ST. Rev. Clifford I. Cecil officiating. Burial services, Fairmount Memorial Park cemetery.

On July 1, 2006, Alexandrea Lynn Griswold Clancy wrote: "GILES BENJAMIN HODGES (GEORGE ADELBERT, AMOS) was born 24 Apr 1897 in Big Elk, Lincoln, Oregon, United States of America, and died 15 Mar 1957 in Spokane, Spokane, Washington, United States of America. He married (1) SYLVIA ROSE COWLES 14 Sep 1920 in Redding, Shasta, California, United States of America, daughter of JAMES COWLES and MARTHA ENGLAND. She was born 01 Mar 1903 in Muskogee, Oklahoma, United States of America, and died 05 Jan 1983 in Walla Walla, Walla Walla, Washington, United States of America.

Giles Benjamin Hodges married Sylvia 11 months after he got out of the military Army, they had two girls.
ALICE MAE HODGES, b. 02 Jul 1921, Grass Valley, Nevada, California; d. 30 Jul 1973, Yakima, Yakima, Washington.
MARTHA LAVINIA HODGES, b. 15 May 1923, Elk City, Lincoln, Oregon; d. 22 Jun 1992, Walla Walla, Walla Walla, Washington.

Obituary:
March 15, 1957: HODGES, Giles Benjamin - His home, W310 3d Ave. Husband of Minnie Hodges at the home. Father of Vinia Richardson in Arkansas, Martha Brewer, Walla Walla, WA. Brother of Mrs. Ethel Griffith of Redwoord City, Calif.; James, George and Dell Hodges all of Elk City, OR. Clyde Hodges of Toledo, OR. William Hodges, Coos Bay, OR.; Allen Hodges, Vale , OR. Funeral services, Mon., March 18 at 12 noon in the GOTHIC CHAPEL OF HAZEN & JAEGER FUNERAL HOME, N1306 MONROE ST. Rev. Clifford I. Cecil officiating. Burial services, Fairmount Memorial Park cemetery."

Allen: We did that for days before that "old widow woman" finally caught up with us and told mother about it. After that, we didn't throw rocks at her cows anymore.
Connie: Was that first bridge at Salado just a temporary thing?
Allen: It was "built for stout" and it was some 32 years, 1924 or 1925, before the county came in and put new pilings under it. The covered bridge over the Big Elk crossed the road on Drift Creek, and stood next to the Grace and Guy Lantz field.
Connie: You said Jim and Dell were born on Cougar Mountain. Were you born at Salado?
Allen: The house I was born in 1901 was an old log cabin. It was located at that junk car area near Qualitree™ on the road side of the river. And, as I said, the sawmill was located across the river.
The redwood tree Uncle Jim brought back from California was off to the side of the house.
The apple orchard, which was to the right of the cabin, was planted about this time.
The older boys took the finger I cut off with an axe and put it in a bottle and buried it under an apple tree. So that "pinkie" finger is the first part of me that's been buried!
Connie: Jim Parks said he—and later an old Dutchman named George Bieloh—rented this place from your folks for a while.
Allen: There was another house that stood on this site that was rented out while we lived at Elk City, and at the time we moved up to the Dell Hodges site.
Connie: What happened to it?
Allen: It burned down.

Connie: It sounds as though George Hodges was quite an engineer, considering he built several sawmills in his lifetime. Did he use that natural gift in other ways too?
Allen: Not only was Dad the first homesteader in this area, he also located and engineered all of this county!
Connie: What was an example of his engineering skills?
Allen: Dad constructed old wooden bridges up until 1916. He constructed this bridge here at Salado, and he made the bridge on the Upper Big Elk—the Dave Ramsdell bridge—and the bridge across the Yaquina at Elk City. The Salado and Ramsdell bridges both had trestles.
There was a bridge at Drift Creek, too, before I was born. I don't know whether or not Dad built that one. There was never a ford there, that I remember, although Jim Parks speaks of one.
Connie: Did he have any competition?
Allen: There was a man in Chitwood by the name of Ralph Pepin who also built bridges.

Connie: How did people earn a living in those days?
Allen: There was no work for wages in the bygone days. You raised a garden with everything you needed to eat, or you didn't eat. It was that simple. The only paid work there was at the Hodges' sawmill, and it was mostly a "help yourself" public arrangement. There was very little money available.
Connie: Then how did the sawmill generate money?
Allen: For instance, when a raft was run down the river—and arrived at where it was going—then money changed hands. But as far as the younger children knowing anything about where our parents got money, we just never did.
Connie: Wasn't chittem another cash crop for folks in the valley?
Allen: Oh yes. Like everyone else around here, we peeled cascara bark and sold that. We ran Angora goats and sold the mohair. Those were the sources of cash income that I know of for sure. And then there was market hunting and timber locating.

Connie: Market hunting? What's that all about?
Allen: In 1897, Frank Thompson (?-1928)308 and Dad went hunting for the railroad coming in from the south. They hunted deer and elk and kept the crew well supplied with meat.
Connie: How did they get the meat to its destination?
Allen: At that time, they packed the meat out on horses over that mountain trail I told you about and took it to Philomath. When the train came in, they turned the meat over to the conductor who acted as a salesman for them; they took it to the valley and sold it, and then brought Dad and Thompson back the money.
Connie: How long did George and Frank do market hunting?
Allen: They did this until the Game Commission came in and put in a law that one could only hunt for six months out of the year. So Dad gave that up and started in as a timber locator, as he already knew the country well from market hunting.
Connie: What was involved in timber locating?
Allen: When people came into the valley he showed them all the country so they could pick out whatever site they wanted. Actually, there was no charge for this service.
Connie: Then why did he do it?
Allen: It was just good community relations. But Dad's boat building ability was a profitable source of income.

Connie: When did he start making boats?
Allen: Dad built the launch, Ethel—named after my sister, Ethel Violet (1906-?)—in the workshop over at the Dell Hodges mill site between 1911 and 1912, the year it made its first run.
Connie: How big was the Ethel?
Allen: The Ethel was a full cabin launch. It was 22 feet long and seven feet wide, and carried ten to 12 passengers. It had a four-horse Miamias engine with a make and break ignition. This was the first two-cycle gasoline motor that came into the area in those days. There was a rod that went up the side and hit the igniter and caused a spark. The motor ran off a battery.
Connie: Where did the Hodges get gasoline for the Ethel?
Allen: We bought our gasoline for the Ethel in Toledo. There weren’t gas stations as we know them today, but there were places where a person could go and buy gasoline.
Connie: Did the Ethel run year round?
Allen: Every year between 1911 and 1915 or so—during the summertime—my brother Jim would bring the Ethel up to the mouth of Bear Creek and run it in on the gravel pit next to the bank.
Connie: Was the Ethel a recreational launch used exclusively by the Hodges family?
Allen: No. Some friends and employers by brother Dell worked for up in Harlan had two girls. These people would travel to Bear Creek with a team, and we'd travel from our place—as well as several other interested people—and we'd all load on the barge and we'd go down and across on South Beach. There was nothing there at that time, but that was our week-long summer vacation!

Connie: What did the Ethel look like?
Allen: The Ethel was made like a duck—a sharp front end and a fan tail behind. It was a round bottomed boat and was seven feet around the middle.
Connie: How did your dad go about constructing the Ethel?
Allen: When Dad constructed the Ethel, he set up the keel. Then he made a form cut out of one inch lumber every three feet, starting back at the stern right on forward to the bow of the boat. There were four of those forms that went in there. Then he put ribs in. Those ribs were an inch and a half by two inches. They went down and fastened on the keel—which is the main timber piece in a boat, extending from stern to stern at the bottom and supporting the whole frame—and up a-round the side. Those ribs were 16 inches apart.
Connie: How did he get the ribs to curve and bend into shape?
Allen: Dad made a steambox to bend the ribs into shape. It was a good 12 inches inside and ten to 12 feet long. There was a steam pipe from the water that ran into the box. He put whatever he wanted to bend in the box and steamed it until the wood got really soft. When wood was steamed under pressure that way, it would get soft and pliable so a person could bend it and do anything he wanted with it. Because there was already the temporary frame inside of it, he set the ribs and bent them in place.
Connie: What happened after the ribs were sufficiently bent?
Allen: Dad put a false stripping on the outside until he could put the planking on it. The planking was anywhere from four to six inches wide. It took a couple of days to put one board on and fit it in. He caulked the seams first, and then used pitch to seal the seams. The pitch had to be heated to a certain temperature. When it set a while, it hardened.
Connie: It sounds like the planking was a long, tedious process.
Allen: It took six to eight months to build the boat. We started late in the summer. Dell and I both helped Dad with the boat. Jim was married at the time and wasn't living at home. Mort and Walter had both left home. Giles was home a good deal, but I don’t recall him working on the Ethel. Clyde (1907-?), who was the baby, was too small to be of any help.
Connie: After the planking went up, what happened next?
Allen: When Dad got the side of the boat up to the top, he finished it up with a little deck rail around the outside of it so you could move from one end of the boat to the other on the outside by holding onto the railing.
Connie: You mentioned the recreational use of the Ethel. I'm surprised the family didn't have any commercial use for it.
Allen: We did put it to commercial use. The Ethel was a passenger boat that made daily runs between 1910 and 1935 on the Yaquina from Elk City, the railroad terminus and head of navigation, to Newport. It was these commercial runs that earned money for Dad and the family.

Connie: You talked about running a still in Coos Bay. When did the family move there?
Allen: We worked in the mills and logged until about 1920, then the family moved to Coos Bay where we continued logging.
The old Coos Bay Wagon Road went over through Lookingglass Valley and down into Sumner and into Coos Bay eventually.
We bought a big float house with six bedrooms. We had it up by Millington, which is a few miles south of Coos Bay, on Isthmus Slough. That is where our little sister Alice fell off of the gangplank and drowned.

Jan. 21, Marshfield: Alice Hodges, four-year-old daughter of Mr. and Ms. George A. Hodges, who reside in a float house on Isthmus Inlet, opposite the Oregon Export Company Mill, was found in the water of the inlet at noon today. As near as could be learned, she had been in the water about an hour. Doctors were in this afternoon working on the child, but there was practically no hope for reviving her as she had been in the water too long.
It is supposed that the little girl fell into the stream while playing. She was seen by Fred McCrea, one of the employees of the mill, who got the body out. The child was taken home and physicians called and everything possible was done to revive the child, but at last reports without avail.
Later that afternoon the efforts to revive the child were given up as hopeless. The little girl is the youngest of the family. Besides her mother and father there is one sister and nine brothers, most of whom are grown. One brother recently returned home from Russia where he was in the army and was wounded. Several of the brothers are living elsewhere, and the funeral will not be arranged until they are heard from.
The family came to Coos Bay eight months ago from Lincoln County.

My father, George A. Hodges, was one of the first settlers in Big Elk Valley. He was born in Salado, Texas as in 1852, and came to Oregon in 1864 with his father and mother and three brothers. My grandfather, Amos Hodges, passed away the following year. My grandmother, Nancy Dunlap, worked at whatever she could find to keep the family together until they were old enough to make their own way.
When Dad was about 16, He went to work in the furniture factory in Oregon City. He worked there until the big flood of 1890. After that he worked at various places in the Willamette Valley. He was trapping furs when a man named Cunningham came to Portland, checking the water supply. This man asked DuBois if he knew anyone who knew the country and the water sources. DuBois recommended George Hodges. Dad went to the Bull Run area and brought out a five gallon jug of water for samples and testing. It was satisfactory, so the present water supply was put in from the Bull Run watershed.
In about 1897, he went hunting for the railroad coming in from the South. He would keep the railroad supplied with meat. He did this until the Game Commission came in and put in a law, that one could only hunt for six months out of the year. So he gave that up and started in as a timber locator, as he knew the country from hunting. He went into the Big Elk country and built a cabin and stayed there for about a year..., then he went down on the river and homesteaded on 20 acres and spent about a year in the cabin. Then he went down on the river and homesteaded on 20 acres as that was better access to all the surrounding country. This was about the time they changed the game law, and he went timber locating. When people came in he would take them out and show them the country, and they could pick what they wanted. There was no charge for his services.
There was a shingle mill on Drift Creek. He made a mill about 200 yards east of Salado (12 miles east of Elk City). It was called Camp Horn mill. In 1898 the Forked Horn Creek Mill at Salado was in operation. They cut lumber for the new squatters, and also lumber for the Abbey Hotel in Newport. This lumber was rafted to Newport. Two of those lumber rafts were launched from the Dell Hodges mill site (eight miles east of Elk City).
These mills were built in the late 1800s. That was before I was born. I was born in 1901.
Dad and Mother established a post office at Salado. They named it after Salado, Texas where He formerly lived.
We went to Elk City and Dad put in a mill there, which later was hit by a flood. After the flood, Dad sold the mill land went... upriver and built at the Dell Hodges site.
When I was two years old, I wanted to be like the big boys (by this time there were eight boys in the family), so I sneaked one of their cutting axes. When I was discovered I ran with it and the brothers came running after me. I fell and cut two fingers off my left hand. Dad sewed one back on, but my little finger got lost.
Later, it was found, and the older boys put it in a bottle and buried it under an apple tree. Then, when I was six, just starting to school, my brother, Walter, and I were taking care of the stock. We were breaking a young team of oxen, when they broke and ran. My leg went through the wheel on the cart and broke... All the logging was done with horses and bull teams in those days. Dad set my leg, and you could never tell it had been broken. We had no doctors in the valley in those days, so Dad took care of us boys himself. I might add He did a good job taking care of the nine boys and two girls in the family.
Dad and mother established the first mail route out of Salado in 1891, and my brother Jim started carrying the mail between Salado and Elk City three times a week. It was one of the shortest and smallest routes in Lincoln County; it was 12 miles long, and served 13 families, and never over 20 boxes. Jim ran this route for nearly 45 years.
Dad built the launch Ethel in the shop over the Dell Hodges mill site between 1911 and 1912, and it made its first run around 1912. It was 22 feet long and seven feet wide, and carried ten to 12 passengers. It was a four-horse Miamias engine with a make and break ignition. It made two trips a week between Elk City and Newport.
We worked in the mills and logged until about 1920, then moved to Coos Bay, where we continued logging. Later on when Dad took sick and went into the hospital in Portland, I left Coos Bay and went to Portland and worked to help pay the hospital bill. Eventually, I went to work in the Kaiser-Swan Island Shipyards as a ship fitter, where I worked for seven years.
From there my wife and I moved to Vale, where I worked as an automobile mechanic for 15 years. I drifted around for a while, coming to Scotts Mills, and finally ended up in Molalla where I now live.

This Parks family history was compiled by Lillian "Lilly Ann" Parks Adams (1880-?), youngest child of Clarissa Marrs and Hurston Parks, at Capitola, California, 1949-50, when she was 70 years old. She was born July 12, 1880, in Wayne County, West Virginia, which borders Kentucky and Ohio.
The following accounts and stories are to the best of her knowledge as a four-year-old child, and from family retellings:

Robert Park(s), my great-grandfather, and his two brothers came to America from England in the early 1800s. He married an Irish woman whose name was Hardick. Among his children was Charles R. Parks (1820-1911), my grandfather, who married Margaret J. Buskirk (?-1927). Their children were Joe, Hester Ann, Hurston (my father), Leander (1853-1935), Mehalie, Harvey and Nancy.
Grandpa Parks served four nears in the Confederate army, but was given leave to return home because of Grandma’s sickness. She died, leaving him alone to provide as best he could for his children. He returned to his regiment, leaving a young woman named Cosby Lewis in charge of his motherless children. Charles and Cosby eventually became husband and wife.
Years went by. The children grew up and went their separate ways. Hurston married Clarissa and lived with his family in a small house set in the hilly portion of the farm my grandfather owned.

Clarissa Marrs was born in Kentucky, and was reputed to be quite pretty. She had blue eyes, dark hair, small hands and feet, and was well built. Mother was a sturdy girl and did a lot of hard work in her lifetime. In addition to her labors, she became the mother of seven children: William, La Verna, who was always called "Verna," Charles, Oscar (1875-1902), Paris, Lilly Ann and John.
After a time, Grandpa Parks sold his farm to my dad, and moved with the rest of the family to Arkansas.
The old family home was a marvel of architectural planning. It had two floors. In order to reach the upper floor, one had to climb a ladder propped against the outside of the house. When the children grew older, they used to store nuts up there.
Once when I was four or five years old, I climbed that ladder. Some of the older children had gone up there, and I wanted to see what they were doing up there that was so interesting. I didn't actually get off the ladder; I just looked through the open doorway. Sure enough, there was a lively walnut cracking party going on! I carefully eased myself down to the ground floor unnoticed.
There were three rooms in the house arranged in a row. A door connected the first two floors, but in order to reach the third room, one had to go outside.
The family occupied the first two rooms. Dad and Mother and the baby John slept in the livingroom, while a couple of beds in the bedroom served for the rest of the family.
The third room was used as a storage room. Mother had her loom in that room. In the summertime she did the weaving for the family.
Dad kept a small flock of sheep which grazed over the hilly portions of the farm. From these sheep, he obtained the means to clothe the family, as well as provide the woolly blankets which wrapped up chilly toes through the long cold winter nights.
In addition to weaving blankets, Mother wove the material to make pants and coats for the male members of the family. She wove Linsey-Woolsey for dresses for herself and her two daughters, La Verna and Lilly Ann, and spun the yarn to knit socks and stockings for the entire family.
Mother did most of her knitting while sitting before the open fireplace. Her knitting needles kept up a constant clicking. Occasionally she would drop a stitch, but soon her expert fingers had the wayward stitch back on the needle.
There were times when Mother helped with the summer work in the fields in addition to tending the kitchen garden. She canned the various vegetables in their respective seasons.
The kitchen was located about 50 feet from the rest of the house. It had a cook stove on which Mother prepared meals, later to be carried into the livingroom where the family ate.
"When the snow was on the ground," I asked Mother years later, "how did you manage to fix breakfast?"
My questions brought back memories for her. "Why Pa had to shovel a path to the kitchen!" she chuckled.
The well was in a handy spot, about 40 feet from the kitchen. One had to draw the cool, clear water up with a rope and bucket.
As for that other "convenience," we didn't have one! Why didn't we have a privy? I don’t exactly know, but I'm sure my family knew there were such things. To use an old Southern expression, I think they were simply too "dilatory" to fix themselves one. I never saw a single "unseemly" demonstration from any member of the family. When their "call" came, they just vanished. I don't know where they went. As for me, I disappeared behind the nearest building!
Dad kept several strands of bees on the farm. They were a safe distance from the house, but close enough to keep a watch on them.
The summer after John was born, a swarm of bees attracted Mother's attention. She quickly placed a chair across the open doorway to keep the baby from following her, and went to see what she could do with the buzzing renegades. She told me to watch him. Suddenly, I saw him shoving the chair aside. He edged himself between the chair and the door jam, and was on his way outside. There were several steps in front of the door, and I quickly realized the baby's danger. I ran to him, clasped my arms around his middle, and held on with all the strength my four-year-old muscles could muster. Of course, this made John mad, and he began kicking and screaming with all his might. I soon realized that I couldn't hold him, so I added my frantic cries to his.
"Ma! Ma!,” I hollered at the top of my lungs in hope that she would hear me.
Mother heard the hubbub and came running. She scooped up the screaming baby in her arms. "Everything is going to be all right, Lilly Ann" she comforted. There was a worried look on her face when she sat down to quiet his fear.
It sure felt good to see him in Mother's arms, but in my excitement I forgot to ask her whether or not she got the bees back in the hive.

John died that summer. All of us children had whooping cough, and it proved too much for baby John to overcome. We buried him one sunny day.
While I stood close to the open grave beside mother, I suddenly heard a voice. "What a beautiful place to lay him," the messenger said. I raised my head and took a good look at my surroundings. I saw how green the grass was on the sunny hillside which gently sloped downward to where a row of small trees grew. "A creek probably runs there," I thought. It was a pretty place, indeed.
I didn’t worry about the baby, but I missed him. I know Mother did too. I recall her taking me down for a long walk around the farm. We walked down toward the lower meadow (in the vicinity of the grave site) and alongside the small creek where mint grew. I stopped for a few moments to gather some wintergreen, of which I am very fond. We paused for a while under the big walnut tree.
The farm was composed of several acres. There was quite a lot of meadow. Dad cultivated a number of acres. His livestock consisted of cattle, horses, hogs, and sheep. He bought the cattle from the surrounding areas and later sold them at a profit.
Mother kept a flock of chickens and several geese. She used the goose down to make pillows and featherbeds.
There were hilly acres where the sheep grazed. Portions of this hilly land were covered with nut bearing trees such as walnut, hickory and chestnut.
Some wild fruits grew on the hillsides. There was a variety of wild grape called possum grape. This grape was not favored much because of its extremely sour taste. The possum grapes were small and jet black and grew to a good height, twining their tendrils among the branches of the tall trees. A venturesome swing could be made by cutting the vine off at the base of the growth.
One day, the older children took me with them when they went on one of their small nutting expeditions and I saw brother Oscar—then a small lad but as spunky as a squirrel—clamp himself onto one of those grapevines and take off. He swung out over a small ravine, but came back after a while.

From the house the road extended a distance of several hundred feet. One could see Dad's blacksmith shop which stood between the road and a small river called The Big Hurricane.
There was a fork to the river called The Little Hurricane. These rivers, which probably aren’t marked on any map, are located in Wayne County, West Virginia, not far from the Kentucky border.
Hurston Parks did general blacksmithing for himself and neighbors.
One day, while he was busy in the shop, I wandered in. One look around told me I had come to the wrong place. Dad had a visitor who I didn't recognize, but that wasn't the cause of my alarm. I had hardly gotten inside when I saw him step up to the forge and hastily return to the anvil with a red-hot piece of metal. Up until this time, he had it safely clamped between a pair of tongs, but now he laid the piece of iron down on the anvil and reached for the hammer. It was then that I realized my danger.
Like a scared rabbit, I darted for cover. I peeked out from behind my hiding place and watched the fireworks. When the hammer hit the red-hot metal, the sparks flew in every direction.
It wasn’t until the display of sparks was over that the two men thought about me and my safety. They looked around the shop and spotted me peering out from behind my safe hiding place. Both Dad and the stranger laughed self-consciously with relief.
"How did she know to get out of the way of the sparks?," Dad wondered outloud. The stranger looked puzzled. "Beats me," he said.
I must conclude that at the age of four I had my first—and last—experience in my father's blacksmith shop. The flying sparks frightened me so much that I didn't go back again.
Dad raised a lot of corn to feed his livestock. In the autumn he also took some of the corn to the gristmill and had it ground for home use. While at the gristmill, he bought a barrel of flour. With these staples, Mother made biscuits for breakfast and cornbread for the other two meals.

In West Virginia, Dad raised sugar cane to make sorghum molasses, which all the children loved to eat.
One year, I served as a helpful hand in this most delectable job.
When the cane was ready to be cut, Dad had an experienced molasses maker bring his equipment to our farm and made molasses with the aid of family members.
There were plenty of jobs to do. The machine was set up some distance from the house. When I arrived on the job, everything was well underway. Before I had a chance to look around, a man positioned me at the end of the pan and handed me a little paddle.
The cooking pan was divided into sections. As the molasses thickened, it was moved along from one section to another. It was my job to move the syrup along. While I did so, I ate some of the delicious sweet stuff and looked around.
Everyone was busy doing something. A little way off, the cane mill was busy grinding out the juice. Dad was in charge of this operation. Others were busy carrying the juice to the cooking pan. My sister Verna helped him with this chore.
During the summer, the Hurricane River was full of deep pools which served as swimming holes for the older children. One time Verna nearly drowned, but brother Bill luckily pulled her out in time. As a rule, Bill made his home with Mother's parents because they badly needed his help. But at that vital moment in my sister’s life he was living at home with the family.
The river was teeming with a variety of fish which the older children could catch. There were catfish, perch, and several others.

There was a coal mine on the far side of the river. I believe Dad owned it. In the summertime, He would go there and get the family's supply of coal for the winter, as our livingroom was heated by a coal-burning grate.
One time he took me along with him to get coal. I looked around, but I didn't go inside the mine. I didn't like underground places then, and I have never gotten over that feeling.
From some long-forgotten source, I heard that June beetles made a sweet sound while flying around. I loved music, and the method to acquire this living music box was to fasten a long thread to one of the bug's hind legs.
Now, June beetles are about half an inch across and three quarters of an inch long. The ones in the South are dark green on the back side and have an armor-like covering over their undersides. They feed on fennel and are harmless.
One day, I chased down a June beetle and brought it in. It was hard to hold. That bug clawed me with its sharp toes and rooted with its sharp nose. But I held on for dear life and persuaded Mother to tie a thread on its hind leg. She wasn't too anxious to oblige me, but finally the job was accomplished and I took my musical bug outside to test it out.
The ground around the house was level, so I chose a spot where I could turn my bug loose. It gladly took off, and I ran after it, holding on tight to the thread. The bug made a pleasing sound that was music to my ears. The sound that June beetle made—along with the Jew's harp and harmonica—was the one source of music my young ears had ever heard.
Soon the bug grew tired and sat down. I realized the thread might hamper its movements, so I waited while it rested. Still anxious to hear more music, I urged it to fly. As quick as lightening, the bug took off with me pounding along behind it. I was thoroughly enjoying the performance until the thread slipped off. With mixed emotions, I watched my "music box" disappear in the distance.
I felt bad over my loss and set about repairing it. I found another June beetle, but somehow I didn’t like this one quite as well as the first one. Just the same, I hurried into the house to have Mother tie a thread on its leg. This time Mother openly expressed her dislike for such activities. Nevertheless, with strong urging on my part, she tied the thread once again. I took the new June beetle outside and let it fly as I had the old one, but the knot in the thread was too loose and slipped off. This bug also flew away, heading due north. It didn’t slacken its speed for even a moment.

In the wintertime, the older children went ice skating on the river. The winters were severe and the water froze to a considerable depth.
One day, the older children bundled me up and took me down to the river with them. I stood there on the ice and watched my brothers chop a hole through the thick ice. Perhaps they hoped to make a frigid fishing hole? More likely they chopped that hole in the ice just for fun.
The wet winter weather made deep erosions along the side of the hill where the sheep grazed facing the house.
In the spring and summer, the little lambs gamboled merrily back and forth across these ravines.
The summer I was five years old, marauding dogs raided our sheep one night. Mother awakened and heard the strange sounds. The sheep were frantically running in circles around the hill. As they passed the nearest point to the house which was about 400 feet away, Mother could hear them panting. Perhaps they were too tired to bleat. Maybe it just wasn’t the sheep's nature to cry out in distress. Nevertheless, Mother was sure their panting meant something was wrong. She awakened Dad who immediately went to the sheep’s rescue. The marauding dogs paid for their roving with their lives. Dad was an expert and didn't spare even one culprit.
When daylight came, Dad started out on horseback to visit homes for miles around and enlisted the help of our neighbors. He stopped at each house, explained the purpose of his mission, and asked to see each household's dog. Nobody objected. Dad examined each dog's mouth. Wool between the dog's teeth was a sure indication that the beast had been raiding sheep; it was the animal's death warrant.
Before each excursion, Dad always expressed his regrets. But there was nothing anyone could say on behalf of their blood thirsty animals. Sheep killing dogs could not be tolerated.
One dog ran and hid under the bed and had to be dragged out. It was almost as though he understood his pitiful fate.
At home, a dog ran through our yard. A neighbor captured him and shut him up in Dad's blacksmith shop. When Dad came home, he took the dog out and carried out its death sentence.
That afternoon, Mother and I walked along the rail fence which enclosed the sheep run. We found wounded sheep lying in the corners of the fence with helpless expressions on their faces. Mother did what she could in the way of first aid, but many sheep died from the raid.

The summer I was six, I started school. The older children and I attended a one room schoolhouse located on the edge of the farm, easy walking distance from our house. The young schoolmaster lifted our budding aspirations. He handed me a slate and in no time at all, I learned to write the alphabet.
I had always been in the habit of going with Mother whenever she went to call on the neighbors. One day, she made the mistake of passing by the schoolhouse during recess. I knew she was on her way to visit Ms. Thompson, an elderly widow. I wanted to visit Ms. Thompson also, so I begged to go along. But the schoolmaster was equal to the occasion.
"Come on, Lilly Ann," he beckoned. "We'll go down to the creek and draw pictures on the rocks."
This adventurous idea appealed to my young brain more than visiting the elderly did, so hand in hand the schoolmaster and I started towards the creek.
The creek was close to the schoolhouse, and the river was low. There were many large rocks, and after a short search we found some small soft rocks he used like chalk to draw on the larger ones. There we stayed until Mother was safely out of sight.

The following spring our entire family—with the exception of brother William Marrs—moved to Arkansas. He stayed with Mother’s parents and took care of them in their old age.
That last night at our old place we divided up and stayed with the neighbors. Mother and I stayed with Ms. Thompson. Dad and the rest of the family found overnight accommodations too.
The next morning, we met at a designated place. From there we were taken to Catlettsburg, Kentucky where we were to catch a boat down the Ohio River to Cincinnati.
The boat was late in arriving, so we ate our lunch under a covered portion of the wharf. Mother had fixed us a big breakfast before we left home.
After lunch, brother Oscar was very sick. He had always been subject to severe spells of colic. Mother made a pallet for him on the floor and did what she could to make him comfortable. Since it was obvious that I couldn't do anything helpful, I wandered out onto the wharf until I found an interesting spot.
By that time, the boat had arrived and was unloading and taking on freight. Some "colored" stevedores were very busy moving great bales of cargo back and forth. I watched their activities with great interest. A nice looking colored man picked me up and sat me on a bale of freight so I could watch and at the same time remain safe from harm. But my contented stay was of short duration. Sister Verna appeared on the scene. She abruptly hauled me down from my perch, and without taking time to explain why, hurried me along the wharf in the direction I had come. It seems the boat was about ready to start, and the family wanted to go on board. We found seats on the deck of the boat and in the stern.

The entire family looked straight from the country, I suppose. Where we lived, calico, shawls and sunbonnets were the style for warm weather, and Linsey-Woolsey was worn during the winter.
There was a six-year-old girl on the boat who decided she didn't like what we were wearing, considering she was dressed in the latest fashions. We hadn't been on board long before she strolled over to where we were. She stood there looking us over for a while. Then—in order to show her utter disdain for us—she opened her mouth as wide as she could and stuck out her tongue! Nobody said a word. When she had walked the length of us, she turned around and started back to give us still another going over. That was entirely too much. She stopped in front of my brother Paris and stared at him. He looked at her for a short moment, and then promptly poked a grubby forefinger down her throat. That very same forefinger had helped dig out numerous rabbits and had never been clean-looking at best. You should have seen that snobbish little girl sputter and gag! When she’d regained her composure, she let out a vigorous howl and started running for her mother.
Of course the family was enjoying the turn of events in face of such a hateful situation. Even though I knew the little girl deserved exactly what she got, one look at Paris's grubby forefinger made me feel sorry for her.
With mixed emotions, I cautiously trailed along after the rude little girl. She shared a stateroom with her mother just around the corner from where we were sitting. Howling loudly, she ran into the room. I stopped short a distance from the door and peered in.
Her mother, the young woman in the stateroom, was pretty and well dressed. She didn't seem at all excited to see her daughter in tears. She patiently listened to the tale of what had just happened and calmly looked around. When she saw me peeking around the corner into her room, she handed me a banana and said, "Now run along, dear." The words were spoken kindly, so I took the banana and walked back to where the family was located. I suspect the girl's mother had everything under control. She wasn't seen again the entire trip!

We had to wait quite a long time for a train out of Cincinnati. Finally it came, and we went aboard.
I hadn’t been on this train long before I developed a bad case of motion sickness. Mother had me hang my head out an open window. What I did to the side of the coach didn’t help its looks any!
On this journey south we had to change trains. That night we slept in an empty boxcar standing in the freight yard. There was the noise of trains coming and going and switching tracks back and forth all night long. Nobody slept much, but we did manage to get a little rest as Mother had fixed us a place to lie down.
The next day, we arrived at our destination in Arkansas. We were met at the depot by Grandpa Parks and taken to his farm to live for a while.
The farm wasn’t as good as the one Grandpa had in West Virginia. It was large, but very rocky and hard to cultivate even with a hoe. Grandpa raised corn and other small crops.

Now my grandparents, Cosby Lewis and Charles Parks, were all alone. All of their children were married, with the exception of my Uncle Harvey. Uncle Leander had been married several years and had five children. His wife, Aunt Queen Victoria (1856-1896), was a small, red haired woman. She was very quick with her movements. When Aunt Victoria walked, her head bobbed back and forth as though it had trouble keeping up with the rest of her.
Uncle Leander and Aunt Victoria's first child was my cousin, Mary. Then came Joseph, William, Harriet, who was called "Hattie," and baby James H. (1887-?) who was called "Jimmy."
As a rule, the Parks men were tall, averaging six feet in height. But Uncle Harvey was very tall; he was probably six feet four inches tall.
My uncles Harvey and Leander were uneducated, as was Grandpa Charles. The rest of the family was more or less "educated;" they could read and write a little.
In those days and in the Appalachian section of the country, it was difficult to get an education. Everyone had to work hard in order to live. And then too, there were some parents who just didn't care whether or not their children went to school. To them, a formal education just wasn't important.
Through the spring and summer months, Dad and the family helped Grandpa Charles put in the crops. Mother and Grandma Cosby ran the house which wasn't very large or very fine. It was a crude building with riven (split) board siding, but everyone seemed happy and went cheerfully about their respective tasks.
That summer, Mother and Grandma Cosby found time to make quilts. They hung the quilting frames in a small outbuilding close to the house. Since I was too small to help with the quilting bee, I amused myself as best I could.
A path led from the house to the small building where my mother and grandmother were quilting, and then along the side to where the door was located. We used that path often.

One day, somebody—I don't recall just who—saw a hen coming along the path that led from the house to the small outbuilding. She stopped short and looked under a loose board which was lying close to the path. The hen took one good look and then clucked and squawked a warning and left on the run. The observer knew there must be something under the board and went to investigate. There was a big copperhead snake coiled under the board! Although snakes were seen in that section of Arkansas, they weren't that plentiful. Needless to say, this one dispatched in a hurry. To our dying day, we'll have to thank that little hen for that potentially life-saving warning.
One day Mother and I went to visit a cousin for whom I had been partially named; her name was Ann. She seemed to like me, and before we left, she took us out to the backyard and said, "Now I want to give you a chicken, Lilly Ann. You can have any one you want."
"I'll take that rooster," I said, pointing to a fine one. "I like to hear the soft, funny little noises roosters make when they are patted on the back." From that moment on, cousin Ann and I were the best of friends.

Plans were underway for the Parks family to migrate West. Oregon was their ultimate destination. But nothing was done to activate this plan until rather late in the season.
When the time finally arrived, my grandparents, Cosby and Charles Parks; my parents, Clarissa and Hurston Parks, and their six children (William, La Verna, Charles, Oscar, Paris and Lilly Ann); my Aunt, Nancy Parks and her spouse, John Watkins, started out in three covered wagons for the distant West.
Grandpa's near neighbors, the Baleys, and their five children, Nancy, who was called "Nanny" like my
Aunt, Alice, Lucy, Molly and Thomas, decided to go along with us, making four wagons in our caravan headed West.
Some of the men had good teams, but some of them didn't. Dad had a strong pair of mules named Bill and Jen. They were willing workers and faithful to their task at hand.
The wagon owners drove their own teams. The rest of the adults—and those who could—walked. It wasn't difficult to keep up with the wagons. The ones who walked were usually way ahead of the wagons and had to wait for them to catch up.
This route took them through Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Washington and then into Oregon. It was a long, hard undertaking, but the folds who did it were used to hardship and privation. They had always lived simply and hardily. Their wants were few, and their needs were cut to the barest necessities of life.
The Parks family originated from three nations: England, Scotland and Ireland. The characteristics of these three nationalities would be need before their long, dangerous journey was over, and it was dangerous.
To begin with, they should have started their migration earlier in the year. Even though they sold their farms, they wanted to harvest their crops before leaving. For a time, the handicap of startling late in the autumn didn't show up.

Uncle Leander's team wasn't very good. He had an old gray more and one day she decided she had gone through enough. The old nag stopped dead still in the middle of the trail. She refused to move an inch. At first, mild measures were used to encourage her to move, followed by something a little stronger. These gentler tactics having failed, the men tied a rope around her long gray neck and put so much pressure on it that it literally broke! Finally, they built a fire under her. The last measure was guaranteed to move the balkiest beast. Later on when the opportunity presented itself, uncle Leander did a little "horse tradin'."
One time the caravan made camp early and selected the best site available which had wood and water and other necessary conveniences. There was a considerable amount of green stuff growing near the campsite, and the womenfolk mistook this herb for one they had been used to cooking as "greens." Not one person in the family recognized the difference, and soon every family had a good mess of greens cooked up. Our family ate heartily of the tasty greens.
After the had been cleared away, Mother began getting me ready for bed. I slept in the big covered wagon along with Dad and Mother. The rest of the family slept in a tent. But before Mother got me settled down for the night, I announced that I was sick and would have to "up chuck." No sooner had Mother taken care of my needs than she had to succumb herself.
Mother and I were lucky to get rid of the greens so soon, as they didn't have time to do their mischief on us! Others in the party weren't quite so lucky; those nasty greens worked both ways!
Fortunately, we had made camp where there were plenty of bushes and young undergrowth. Those bushes played a very important role that night. From the looks of things, more people were in the bushes than in their beds. Since everyone was more or less modest, each person wanted his or her own bush. If a person picked out a likely looking bush and started for the rear side of it, he was sure to hear receding footsteps leaving the opposite side. The entire episode was nothing short of terrible. Uncle Harvey said he thought he would die. After that, the women were more careful about what they cooked.

Days became weeks, and weeks became months. Still the old covered wagons—looking tired and worn now—crept onward towards Oregon.
No doubt the travelers became weary and discouraged, but nobody every complained. Occasionally we laid over for a day of rest and a chance to wash and change our clothes.
The Baley family dropped out of the caravan somewhere in the Midwest and finally located in Idaho.
More time went by and winter was close at hand. Some snow lay on the ground, making travel difficult. But the Parks' wagon train moved onward.
Finally, we reached Pueblo, Colorado and camped for the night. Snow still lay heavily on the ground. The men built large campfires. The light from the fires shone bright all around, making the snow glisten. The tired Women fed their hungry families and hustled the younger children off to bed. It was cold and everyone could feel the chill in their bones. The children were cross. I heard baby cousin Jimmy crying about the time I was hustled into the wagon and put to bed. Before I had quite gotten into the wagon, I suddenly became aware of visitors in camp. They were standing around the campfire talking to our menfolk. I was too far away from them to know what they were saying, but I sensed they were there for an important purpose; their mannerisms and gestures told me so. But it wasn't until years later that I learned the true nature of those men's visit while talking to Mother about times past. We were camped near a fort and those men were soldiers. They questioned our menfolk as to where they were going. When they found out, they advised against any further travel.
"Don't try it, men; you'll be snowed in for sure," said one solder. "Just look around you all these women and children," said another soldier. "What will you do?" He observed that the first soldier's words didn't have sufficient clout.
The place under discussion was a wide strip of land laying between Pueblo, Colorado on Arkansas River and Herber City, Utah on Provo River about 30 miles south of Salt Lake City. In the summertime, that strip of land was lush and green, and the Mormons used it for grazing cattle. But in the wintertime, it was just a wide, white wilderness. No trails. Just the sky above and a few small cottonwood trees growing along a hidden creek.
But our menfolk didn't heed the soldiers' advise. The next morning, after they had their morning meal, the hitched up their teams. Once again, the old wagons rolled along snow-covered trails, carrying innocent victims into the worst experience of their lives—lives they no doubt would have lost, had it not been for the friendly, hospitable Mormon people.
Dad stopped the team and set me outside the wagon in the snow to do what I had to do. At that moment, Uncle Leander stopped his wagon behind ours and started talking to my father. My uncle was so soft-spoken that it was difficult to hear him at best, but I heard Dad's reply clearly. He told Uncle Leander that the trail was covered with snow and that he didn't know which way to go from there; we were lost!
By this time, I was ready to get back in the wagon, so Dad lifted me in and climbed back in himself. He drove for a short distance and stopped again. The menfolk decided to make camp for the night.
The caravan of covered wagons was lost in Strawberry Valley, Utah. It was the most terrible time the Parks family ever had to face migrating West.
It was some time before I learned that Grandpa Charles's team had given out completely. It was a young mare—one he highly prized. One horse alone couldn't pull the wagon, so it was left behind. Two wagons weren't enough for everyone, so some said they would stay with the abandoned wagon and wait for what Grandma Cosby felt was a doubtful rescue. My grandparents, Aunt Nanny and uncle John, and some others, stayed behind with the wagon. Years later, Grandma Cosby said that when she saw those two wagons pull out, she never expected to see them again.
But now the two wagons—loaded with human freight—had gone as far as they could. They camped on a wind-swept hill. The menfolk made big campfires. Everyone gathered around to deep warm with the exception of the Smaller children who stayed in the wagons. There was no panic; each person was doing the best he or she could. The women were used to cooking under every kind of condition, and prepared everyone something to eat before going to bed.
It was horribly cold. I was already in the wagon when Mother came to fix the beds. While she was doing this, we heard a loud, "Ma, what ya doin' in there all this time?" It was Aunt Victoria's son, William. He was standing by the fire which hardly warmed him on one side, waiting for his mother to fix his bed in the wagon.
The next morning, Dad and all the rest of the menfolk—including my brothers—started out with the hope that they could reach civilization. The women and children were left behind in the camp. Mother refused to be left behind. The first thing I knew, she was trying to put a pair of pants on me. I objected to wearing boys’ clothing, so we compromised by putting them on under my dress. Thus prepared, Mother and I started out. We walked in the path the menfolk had made earlier. Fortunately, it wasn’t snowing, and the snow wasn’t terribly deep to begin with. Mother walked in front, but she walked too fast for me, and I got behind. She turned and called me to "Hurry up, Lilly Ann!" and then—not waiting for me to catch up with her—she walked on. I kept trying to keep up with her, but great lumps of hard snow had formed on the heels of my shoes, throwing me down as fast as I could get up. By this time, Mother was quite a distance ahead of me, and I was frightened of loosing track of her. I saw her stop and look back. She called to me to come on, but she was too far away for me to tell her what the trouble was—that I couldn’t keep up with her because of the snow balling on my shoes—so I continued to struggle along as best I could.
We trudged along in this tedious manner until we reached a small building which turned out to be a small sawmill. Mother disappeared inside. When I caught up with her, I entered also, and stood clumsily on my two ice-numbed feet. Those "ice cubes" on the ends of my legs didn't seem to belong to me at all, although I don't think they were frozen solid.
I stopped near the door and saw Mother talking to a couple of young men about our desperate situation. One of them spotted me and sat me down on a long seat built against the wall. I didn't say anything. He was a stranger, and I was too cold and exhausted to speak.
I hadn't sat there very long before I heard sleigh bells! That was a good sign that help was on the way. There was no sweeter music on earth (next to June Beetles!) than the sound of those sleigh bells that day. When I think of them now, my eyes mist over with tears and a fullness fills my throat; they were literally the bells of salvation.

A well-dressed young man entered the sawmill. He got me and my mother into the sleigh, bundled us up in warm robes, and headed for Heber City where he made his home.
On the way we passed other sleighs going in the opposite direction. They had some of our menfolk along, and were on their way to rescue the stranded segment of our party.
The latter day saints had good sleighs and fine horses. Under the family's guidance, they quickly went to the rescue of the marooned Parks family members farther back in Strawberry Valley who were just sitting there in the snow waiting for whatever fate had in store for them. Knowing the wonderful impression they had made on me, I wondered how the rest of my kin would feel and react to the music of those heavenly sleigh bells and the sight of those caring Latter Day Saints.
The man who rescued me and my mother took us to his home where we were welcomed by his family. Later on, the rest of the Parks family joined us there. We stayed for two weeks. All the other members of the expedition were given care and located in homes of their own for the rest of the winter.
The Mormons who took us in had a large, lovely home, and appeared to be moderately well off. One could see the look of prosperity nearly everywhere all over the city. Well dressed people drove around in their smooth running sleighs, with a couple of sleek, well fed horses at the front. Tinkling bells filled the air with sweet music, giving the whole thing a heavenly air.
They had a daughter about my age and a younger boy. We children played together. I recall one incident in particular while I was in Heber City. I was in the playroom with the two Mormon children and had just discovered some beautiful buttons which were on a doll's dress. I admired the buttons, and fearing it would be taken away from me, I put the doll dress behind my back. Oscar saw me, and his face took on a decided stern expression. "Don't take those buttons," my brother scolded me. I didn't reply. The situation was tense, to say the least. The owner of the dress—and the buttons—saw what was happening and said in a calm voice, "Let her have the buttons if she wants them."
Oscar ignored me, and didn't say anything more. But somehow those buttons had lost their attractions. I hadn’t meant to take them for my own. In fact, I think I learned right then and there that one could take things that didn't belong to him. I laid down that doll dress and went on about other activities, but I never forgot that lesson.
Later, we moved into a log house. It had three or four rooms, and was sparsely furnished. It was obvious even to me that the place was cheaply built. But we had enough to get along with, so we were right in our natural element.
We didn't see any of our fellow travelers until spring.
One afternoon, a couple of Mormon elders called on Dad. They sat down in the livingroom to talk. Earlier that day, I had been given a little piece of gum. I chewed on it for a while, then "parked" it and couldn't remember where I put it. I hunted around the kitchen for a while, then wandered into the livingroom thinking maybe I had put it somewhere in there. Not finding it, I wandered from room to room. I felt I had to find that gum, for it was doubtful when I would get another piece.
While I wandered in and out of the livingroom, now and then I caught a low spoken word from one of the men. Actually, no one said much, so I didn't hear much. But the elders were so well dressed and prosperous looking, I felt certain they were on business, and I wondered what that "business" might be. Later on, Mother told me the elders had extended an invitation for us to stay on in Heber City. But Dad explained our situation in a satisfactory manner—that we wanted to settle in Oregon. Incidentally, I never did find that piece of gum, and finally decided that I must have swallowed it.
A young doctor and his wife and family lived on one side of us. One day, Mother went to visit, and she took me along. They were nice, sociable people, and had a daughter about my age. The girl brought out a doll and showed it to me. It was a store-bought doll, I knew, because it was still dressed in a short chemise. Dolls came dressed that way in those days.
That doll was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. It was about 12 inches tall, was blue-eyed, pink cheeked, and blond haired. That type of doll was called a "wax" doll.
The girl offered to let me hold it. I took it in my arms and cast a wishful look at Mother. She smiled a little and shook her head "No!" I took this gesture to mean that I couldn’t have a doll like this one. Before long, Mother and I went home. I didn't mention the wax doll, and neither did she. I knew I couldn't have one, and that was that.

On the other side of our house lived a plural wife. In 1887, Plural wives were legal and common, but every man did not live "plurally." The woman told Mother she was "willing" to "let" her husband marry another woman. She seemed to think it would be very convenient for her to have someone at home to leave her children with when she wanted to go some place. Perhaps she had a point. This plural wife was living in a house just like the one we were living in, and she had several children.

If polygamy shocked the rank and file of Mormons when they first heard of it, it positively outraged their gentile neighbors. Throughout the West women were scarce and much of the antagonism for the Mormons after they reached Utah undoubtedly arose from the basic resentment of womanless frontier men confronted with a system in which one man had several wives.
The question then remains as to how women were lured into polygamy when the frontier offered so many single or widowed men. The answer lies at least partially in an ingenious system of supply and distribution that was a by-product of the Mormon's continuing recruitment of new followers. Ceaselessly the Mormon elders sent missionaries out into the world to seek new converts for "the gathering of Zion." Cannily, they fastened on England as a principle target just at the time when the Industrial Revolution had uprooted thousands upon thousands of English people from rural and village life. To the dispossessed and impoverished lower classes now thrust into the horrors of mid-19th Century factory and sweat shop, the message of salvation brought by the Mormons must have appeared to be a duel one: eternal bliss in heaven and a much-improved material existence in faraway Utah.
People from the British Isles—among them thousands of young women cut adrift from their rural families—enlisted in the new religion. Once proselytized, the converts were carefully herded by a chain of missionaries over the ocean by ship, past the temptations of the East Coast cities, and then across the wide empty plains and mountains to the desert fastness of Utah. Many young British women did not know what lay ahead of them. When they reached Salt Lake it was literally too late to turn back or to resist. Friendless and poor in a desert land, they were in a real sense trapped. To many an impoverished woman in the wilderness, polygamy must have seemed the lesser of evils...
Ann Eliza Young, Brigham Young's Wife Number 19, wrote that her mother confided that polygamy "was the most hateful thing in the world to her, and she dreaded and abhorred it, but she was afraid least she be found fighting against the Lord." Religious devotion—blind and submissive—was what basically drew women into subjecting themselves to a condition that was for most of them heartbreaking.

One day, shortly after I held the beautiful wax doll, I was playing with a small girl from this home next door, when I was stricken with a terrible pain in my left side. We were playing in our front yard, so I stopped what I was doing and went into the house. My mind went blank for some time. The next thing I remember—the following morning—Mother and the doctor's wife were standing by the side of the bed discussing me. I was terribly sick, but I still managed to listen to their conversation.
It seemed the doctor had been called in and had ordered me to be wrapped in a wet, hot blanket and sweated. But apparently I had objected to this treatment unless I was given a wax doll! "Yes," I heard Mother say, "she said that was her price." Mother had to smile a little, and the doctor’s wife laughed. Then she said, "She can have the doll; I will get it for her." Then she turned tome. "Now Lilly Ann, you let them sweat you," she said, "and I'll see that you get a wax doll. I can't do it right now; I'll have to wait until my little girl comes home from school. Then I'll send her down town to get you a doll just like hers."
I didn’t express my gratitude; I was just too sick. I don't even recall bargaining over the doll. But I did want it and sort of sensed that things were working my way. I was thoroughly sweated, and the wax doll came just as it had been promised. They laid it on the right side of my bed, where by turning my eyes just a little, I could gaze upon its sweet loveliness. Later on, when the doctor came in he said quite jovially, "Well, Lilly Ann, I see one member of the family is all right!"
Mother and my sister Verna both had had the same ailment, although their cases were lighter than mine. The disease was known as mountain fever.
After a while, I was up and around the house, but I was still feeling like a ghastly wraith of my former self. I walked around with my precious doll clamped tight against my thin stomach; I just couldn't get enough of her beauty.
One day, disaster struck my small world. I discovered that my doll's face was dirty! I hunted up a small cloth and proceeded to gently wash her face. I has utterly amazed to see the pink in her cheeks begin to fade from the water. I took a long, long look, then let out a howl one could hear a block away. I couldn't be consoled; I cried and cried over the damage I had done to my most precious possession. Since I had not harmed her badly, I finally decided I would have to make the best of it, and I did just that. However, I can assure you, I never washed her face ever again.

Spring came, and gain the old covered wagons rolled along the prairie on their way Westward.
As we moved farther Westward, Indians became a familiar sight, riding along the trail single file on their spotted ponies. Everyone was pretty much in awe of them at first, but after seeing so many, we finally became accustomed to their presence. They were friendly enough, to be sure, and for that we were thankful.
One day while a long line of them filed by our wagons, a squaw, seeing Oscar was barefooted, stopped long enough to ask where his "mocks" were!
Sometimes it was moving day for the tribe. It appeared as though an entire tribe would come riding by, with now and then a travois trailing along behind.
One Saturday evening we camped close to a small river, and also to an Indian Reservation. The next day, some of them paid us a call. There were four of them, and all were dressed in their Sunday best. The braves nobly walked around the camp looking at everything. There wasn't much of a conversation, considering the language barrier. Everyone around the camp tried to look pleasant and just sort of smile a tense situation away.
Mother and I sat down on a small log which laid right in camp. Verna was, no doubt, with some of the girls her own age. Dad stayed close to our wagon. I could see he was straining to look as hospitable as possible. I thought he was succeeding quite well, and so was Mother, considering how afraid I knew she was of those unknown strangers. I didn't feel too good about them myself.
A young squaw, well wrapped up in a blanket, came and sat down on the ground close to us. Mother and I smiled at her, but she didn't pay much attention to us. She just sat there and stoically looked the other way.
While Mother and I were trying to look as pleasant as possible, the blanket on the squaw's back moved aside a little, and a small, black-eyed mite peeked out, much to our surprise.
One of the braves was wearing a beautiful feather headdress. About this time, he walked over to a small tree standing on the river bank and leaned against it. It was a fit subject for an artist's brush as he stood there casually looking the place over, yet appearing to see nobody. While he was doing this, I was giving him some of my attention. He was tall, and had an attractive blanket around his shoulders. The blanket came well down to his legs, but did not conceal the white buckskin pants he wore. The whole eagle feather headdress framed his black hair and dark, stoic face. A pair of leather moccasins completed his attire.
Our way lay across arid deserts where there was just an occasional well. Here, travelers must stock up with enough water to last until the next stop. Five gallon cans were used to transport water. They used the square kind, and ever wagon had two or three strapped to its side.
Dad had his quota, and also some old guns. These latter were more for moral support. He just hoped that anyone seeing his guns—with an evil intent in mind—would get an eyeful of heavy armament. For the most part, they weren’t any good. However, Dad did have three guns that really would shoot. The other wagons were more or less equipped in the same manner. In those days, just about every man was called upon to shoot a gun some time or other in his life. Just the same, I don't recall much shooting during the journey West. Folks were too intent on getting to their destination.

There was a time we ran out of water while crossing a desert. Mother held a cup to my lips with a little yellow, brackish looking water in the bottom of it. I took a good look at the water and turned my head aside. Then Mother told me, "Lilly Ann, you'd better drink this; this is all the water there is."
Out of water. Even I knew what that meant. We were crossing a desert. What would that mean to us? I wondered how long we had been out of water. Apparently for some time, as Mother was now offering me that last bit she had. No doubt she had saved it for me. Mother, now with an anxious look, offered the brackish sludge again. This time I firmly refused; I didn’t want the water. I hadn't even asked for it, but Mother—knowing this was the last little bit—wanted me to have it anyway. When I refused the second time, she said, "All right, daughter, if you don't want it, I'll drink it." I watched her swallow it; she looked like she needed it badly.
The next day—about midday—we reached a well of good water, and I sensed the relief it brought to everyone. A small, clean stream paralleled the trail for a while before we reached the well. The water looked tempting, but everyone had gained intimate knowledge the past few months of its drinking qualities.
However, the need was great, so someone took a container and brought some of it back to be tested. They had visions of making a pot of delectable coffee out of it. But that water was so heavy with alkali that it probably would have borne up an egg!
Our lack of water may have caused considerable suffering, but nobody complained. I rejoiced when we had at last reached cool, clear water farther down the trail.

Grandpa Charles had a brother living in the state of Washington. His name was Ballard Parks. We stayed at his home for several months. Our family—and Grandpa's—lived in the house. Uncle Leander and his family, along with Uncle Harvey, located farther back in the faming country. I didn’t see them all summer. Uncle Bal, as we called him, had farming property farther back in the interior. They were busy planting and harvesting crops. They took my sister Verna along with them to cook meals for them.
Uncle Bal was a widower and had two grown daughters, Mary and Lottie. Both women married brothers by the name of Palmer. Mary, the oldest, lived on a farm in the Willamette Valley. They were also hop growers. Lottie and her husband, Henry Palmer, lived on a ranch about four miles above Elk City.

Uncle Bal’s home in Eastern Washington was a large, two-story frame house, painted white. It was set well back from the very turbulent Snake River.
The surroundings were rugged—the mighty Snake on one side and a series of hills on the other. A road wound in and out among the hills, dipping down to make a turn near the house. Frequently great herds of cattle could be seen passing along the road, either going to a new grazing ground or market.
Down the river a short distance from the house was a large warehouse. Riverboats stopped there. The Snake River was a very difficult river to navigate; boats simply struggled up it. We used to watch them coming and going.
Sometimes passengers came there to take the boat. Perhaps the boat stopped by a prearranged date, or maybe it was coaxed in or flagged. I don't recall.

One day my brother Paris discovered a young Chinese boy was in the warehouse waiting for the boat, and told the news at home. Grandma Cosby and Mother wondered if he was hungry. They were aware he didn't have any way of getting food. After wondering for a while what Chinese people ate, they fixed him a bowl of bread and milk and sent Paris and me down to the warehouse with it. When we arrived, Paris called to him, and told him what we had for him to eat. The boy was grateful and thanked us profusely.

Then there was the time a middle-aged woman stayed the night with us. I remember her well. That evening, the children were playing hide-and-seek down on the sand. We had some unusual company that evening. The menfolk had come home from the wheat fields, and brought the women along. I was just about to make it to home base—which was a rather large log with rough bark on it—when my hand came down with such force that I struck my left wrist on the rough bark. I cried out loud and was taken home. When the woman guest saw me, she came and took hold of my wrist and said, "Lilly Ann, I'm a doctor. Let me examine your wrist." She examined the sore wrist and thought one of the bones might be fractured, so she ordered it bound up. I wore the bandage for a short time and the wrist was all right once again.
It seems that uncle Bal had an enemy. Dad kept a large dog to guard the place, and one day he found it dead on the sand. Right after that, Grandma Cosby found a paper bag containing candy sitting on the fencepost. It had been placed near the road, supposedly with the thought in mind that some of us children would find it. Grandma brought the candy into the house and set it on the table. Before she had a chance to explain how she came by the candy, Uncle Bal, who happened to be home, picked up a piece of the candy and popped it into his mouth. Grandma's cry of warning caused him to take it out in a hurry. She explained the situation to him. Later on, he felt the effects of the poisoned candy slightly.

In the late autumn when the harvesting was over with, the travelers once again got together and the wagons began rolling over the rocky trails on the way to the Oregon Coast. The Parks family planned to locate near Elk City.
At that time, the wagon trails were new and rough. It was the rainy season, which made traveling unpleasant and treacherous. The folks planned to stop a while at the home of Lottie and Henry Palmer, and luckily everyone arrived safely.
It was the latter part of December 1888, when we arrived at our final destination. It had taken us about two years—counting the stopovers—to make the journey Westward.
Lottie and Henry, and their three daughters, lived on a homestead. Nellie Palmer was born some time after we arrived.
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