
# REMEMBERING CHILDHOOD YEARS IN VALLEY COUNTY, IDAHO 1904-1941

# FIVE ACCOUNTS

# Edited by: Wesley W. Craig, Jr.
Edited by: Wesley W. Craig, Jr.

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### Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION & OVERVIEW

Florence Sayre, "My Valley" (excerpts) in Idaho Yesterdays Vol. 8, No. 3, Fall, 1964, pp. 18-25

Cascade, Idaho - John Lanham Memories (Valley County)

Random Memorys Of Events In The Early Life And Times Of Bruce Adams Ward

Childhood Memories Of Cabarton-Cascade - McCall In The 1930's - Wesley Craig, Jr.

Robert Richmond - Memories - Cabarton, Cascade

### INTRODUCTION & OVERVIEW

This collection of memories of childhood in Valley County was stimulated by discovery of the account by Florence Sayre (b.1890) which was first published in _Idaho Yesterdays_ in 1964 as "My Valley". The impact of its haunting beauty has motivated me to open to a wider audience the unforgettable nature of this nostalgic account of a Camelot gained and lost.

In each of the succeeding recollections, by aging authors, their memories of childhood in the county are preserved. They collectively form a diverse group ranging from a farm boy (John Lanham), son of the first medical doctor in the county (Bruce Ward), son of a logger-bartender (Wes Craig), and son of a railroad worker (Bob Richmond),

A commonality of this latter group is that all were "children of the Great Depression" of the 1930's. What the reader may find quite interesting is that each has a quite different view of childhood events. Instead of an expected redundancy each has his own "world-view". This is much like children of the same family, who discover later in life, how different each child remembers events of the past.

I believe that the reader will find that, taken together, the many pieces present a penetrating insight into what it was like to be a child growing up in Valley County at that period of time.

Interestingly, of these four "children of the depression" two become medical doctors, a Ph.D. in Rural Sociology and the second in command of the Union Pacific Railroad Corp.

### Florence Sayre, "My Valley" (excerpts) in _Idaho Yesterdays_ Vol. 8, No. 3, Fall, 1964, pp. 18-25

"My Father made several trips to Boise and then farther into the northern part of the state, where he wished to have our ranch, settling all the business of signing papers and making everything legal. He returned with greater enthusiasm than before and with stories of the wonderful valleys and mountains that I insisted upon hearing over and over. At the very beginning of our plans...

Father's plans worked out. He made the final trip into the valley where he had staked his claim, going on before us to prepare for our coming. It was not long, I think, until Mother and I followed, I in a perfect ecstasy of anticipation to see all the wonders that Father had described. At the end of our train journey, Father met us at a town called Council, with a wagon and team of horses-our very own horses, called Bill and Dan. I felt richer by the moment and loved those horses on sight! That must have been a long and arduous trip, from Council into the Valley, but for me it was sheer joy, every turn of the wagon-wheel. We stayed overnight at the "Meadows," a place that could not possibly have been called a town or even a village, as there were not more than two or three houses at that time, and I think no store at all.

As we went deeper into the mountains, rising steeper on all sides, I was awed by the silence and beauty, the dark pines standing like guards up the mountain-side, and I could only drink in this amazing loveliness and believe, as Father had told me, that we had indeed come into God's country. How he loved it! We all did; we had at last come home.

I do not now remember how long we were on the way, but I do clearly recall Father's saying "we are getting near," "almost there now." I could scarcely contain my impatience. When at last, entering into a broad, open meadow-land, along which the road ran upon a higher plateau on the right hand side, Father said "here we are," and we drove into a cleared space surrounded by a grove of aspen trees. This was not our home, but where we were to stay while our house was being built. A crystal-clear spring was nearby, from which came all our water, carried... for cooking, drinking, and bathing (in the old-time galvanized tub) before the open fireplace. This was something quite new for me, and a lot of fun. Our food was plentiful and good and spiced by that best of all seasoning, hearty appetites. The men added to our menu with freshly-caught fish and an occasional wild fowl. Never since has any food tasted so heavenly. The wonders and treasures of this new land were inexhaustible, and every moment was filled with delight-the rushing brooks, the river, the meadows from which would come food for our cattle. But above all, secret and solemn and awe-inspiring, were the mountains-as though I had stepped across the threshold of God's temple. Every day I could explore, and each time find new wonders. None of this could be compared to my childish experiences of visits to my grandparents' farms in Ohio, where everything was known and understood and the only surprises consisted of nests of new kittens in the hay-loft.

Life in the Valley was a deep spiritual awakening, a lesson I had not learned before, because I was a child. Now, over-night, I ceased to be a child and became me, myself, with everything to learn.

Another miracle was taking place in the building of our home. Though there were no other houses in sight, and no near neighbors, yet men came from ranches up and down the Valley to help my father. They went into the deep forests, up the mountainside, felling trees of the proper size, trimming off branches, removing bark and sawing the logs into specified lengths. I will never know which architect designed our house, but everything turned out exactly right, every log the proper length, each door and window just where it was meant to be.

Through all the time of building, at the days end we would sit out under the night-sky, with its spangle of huge stars, (they were larger than any I've seen since) around a small fire called a "smudge-pot," I believe its purpose mainly to discourage the too insistent mosquitoes-and lift our voices in song. Mother had a beautiful alto voice and she and father had always sung together in the evenings. Now I added my voice to theirs and we really made the mountains ring-a song of praise from grateful hearts. "Juanita," "Sweet Nelly Grey," "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen," "Listen to the Mocking Bird," and many more songs of another era that are seldom heard today. Sometimes the men from the nearer ranches would return in the evenings, bringing a wife or son or daughter, to join in the singing, or perhaps just to listen, until their weariness from the day's labors drove them home to a night's rest. That communion at the end of a weary day, that participation in pleasure as well as in the day's toil, brought us all closer together. For Father, it was thankfulness for a dream come true-for these others it was satisfaction and a greater security in having a new neighbor, for human contact in a land where this was scarce.

In this primitive country, then, it was pretty much "every man for himself" in facing the great problems of mere existence, and they accepted joyfully the arrival of another pioneer, with whom to share both work and companionship. So they gave of their physical strength, their moral courage, reached out strong hands and hearts in human brotherhood.

Life took on a deeper meaning, a calmer satisfaction, now we were in our own home, and the daily routine of chores, the feeding of cattle, horses, and chickens became a ritual that tied our heartstrings tightly to this great primitive land, so fresh and clean and free from all man-made sordidness of the outside world. So firmly were my heart-strings tied, that all these long years of my life-time, from then until now, have never served to loosen them. Never have I lost the vision. It is still, in memory, my valley...

I can be forever grateful to my Valley, and in memory I can see it all today, as it was when as a child I roamed its mountains and meadows. To those who have never seen the magic of snow piled many feet deep over meadows and river and mountains, who know not the splendor of tall pines in their robes of white, sometimes so heavy that great branches break beneath the weight, no words of mine can convey the beauty, can make real the breath-taking loveliness of this greatest of Nature's pictures. The snow came in early October and we were snowed in until late spring. While the snow fell, for weeks on end, we had no sight of sky-all above us was dense snow clouds, the air so filled with falling snow that it was impossible to see objects quite near-by.

Father was busier than ever, making everything safe and as snug as could be, for the inhabitants of his little world. plenty of firewood had been cut and stacked in the woodshed, huge stacks of hay and sacks of feed for the horses and cattle stored in the barn and sheds. A wind-break had been built on two sides of the corral, to shelter the cattle, since the barn was not large enough to hold them all. Weather stripping was around doors and windows of our house, and we were all snug and warm within, with more food stored for the winter than I had ever before seen at one time. Huge cases of canned goods, of vegetables and fruits, large containers of flour and of sugar; our store-room looked very like a moderate-sized grocery store, or as if we planned to feed an army. "Mother, we can never eat all this I said, but by spring the supply was amazingly depleted. Even then, some light-weight supplies had been added, through the winter, on Father's infrequent trips in to Lardo.

Winter deepened-as did the snow, in ever-increasing amounts. The paths from house to barn, to spring-hole, and to woodshed were like deep, un-roofed tunnels, white-walled, so high I could not see over the tops to the great wide shining whiteness on all sides. Father would shovel the snow away from the windows, making a kind of ramp from window-sill up to snow-level, so that we might not feel completely buried. So with all the valley snowed in, with any kind of transportation virtually impossible, with the poor cattle huddled close together for warmth in barn and wind-break, and with every one glad to stay indoors, was I shut in? Did all this world of whiteness limit my activity? Indeed no, rather was it increased, for I had learned to fly! With wings on my feet, like Pegasus, I went flying down the mountain-sides near home. I had learned the exhilarating delight of flight on skis, and I lived on them from morning until night. Father vetoed any steep heights for me, but the rolling foot-hills edging our land on the western side provided thrills a-plenty. Sometimes I, went with Father to the nearest ranches, since on skis no distance seemed very great. Sometimes we would go a short distance up the mountainside, listening to the winter sounds that were awe-inspiring and different from those of summer.

My fourteenth birthday came in March 1904 and should have been a happy time, but there was a enormous cloud upon our happy horizon. At fourteen I was really still a child in most things, and through all this winter just passed, I had scarcely been aware of my parent's deep worry. Their love and protection so surrounded me that I could live my world of beauty with my devotion to my pets and feel no cause for alarm. Both Mother and Father had purposely kept from me the knowledge that Mother must surely have an operation.

My parents talked seriously, but calmly, about what must be done, making plans that seemed to me complete disaster. I could not accept the fact that I must leave this place I so loved. Mother was very brave, but Father was desolate, and coming upon him unexpectedly, as he worked around barn or corral, more than once found him mopping hurriedly at his wet face. "You don't want us go, do you, Father?" I'd say, but he comforted me the best he could, poor Father; it was he who needed comforting. "Yes, Dot,there is something there that must be removed, and the best place for Mother, through a time like that, is with her mother. She must have the best care we can obtain."

The time came, when with plans all worked out, with the necessary sewing finished to make us both presentable on our journey, Father drove us in to Council, where we were to take the train. I can see it yet, as we left in that early morning—the ground covered with grass-pinks, the aspen trees aquiver with their new spring green, the cattle grazing in a widening circle from the corrals (a neighbor was to care for them, during the time Father went and came from Council), and Patsy in the wagon by my side. He would return home with Father and be company for him, while we were away.

As we waited for the train at Council, for the first time fear smote at my heart-looking at my parents, close embraced, faces a-wash with their tears, their voices breaking yet striving to be calm (for my sake, I suppose) "I'll be back soon, dear, oh, take care of yourself," and from Father "How can I let you go!" For the first time in my life, I felt outside the circle that bound these two human hearts- -the ones nearest and dearest to me, that were my all, my world, and I was afraid.

Mother and I reached Ohio in June and in July, 1904, her earthly life ended. It seemed, indeed, the end of life for all of us-for me, who must start a new life without my parents, for Father, who could not continue on the ranch alone. He seemed to become another man, taking again to the railroad in the west and making for himself a life in which I could not be included. I had to accept the decision that everyone thought it best for me to remain with Grandmother.

In the years that followed, I was truly a "stranger in a strange land"—Ohio was not my home. Looking back upon all the later years of my life, I can honestly say I had no home. Always I had the sense of existing in a life that was not mine, a feeling of expectancy, a feeling that something must change for me. But it never did, no matter how hard I tried. My home, my life, was back in Long Valley, where, surrounded by love and beauty, I had left all that was mine.

#### About the Author

Other than the data in her account, nothing is definitely known about Florence. However, a search of genealogical data reveals a Florence Sayre in the 1910 Census of Belpre, Washington, Ohio, age 20, living with her grandmother, Sarah Curtis.

There is a Florence Sayre Scally b. 1890 died 1964, burial in the Newbury Community Cemetery, Belpre Twp., Little Hocking, Washington County, Ohio.

A Social Security Death Index search lists a Florence Scally b. 17 March 1890 in Ohio, died April 1964 in Florida, age 74.

If this is the correct Florence, additional information shows her as being married to Edward M. Scally, who died in 1923. They had two daughters: Elizabeth Louise and Marjorie Ann. In 1921-23 the family was living in Portsmouth, Sciota, Ohio.

A newspaper account in March 1921 records Florence as singing at an event. An additional account describes her daughter Elizabeth as celebrating her 6th birthday in Portsmouth on 15 July 1922.

If these accounts are correct Florence, after losing her parents, lost her husband when she was thirty-three years old.

### Cascade, Idaho - John Lanham Memories (Valley County)

Many children grow up with the idea that they want to be doctors. This certainly was not the case with me. For the majority of my youth I lived on a farm in Long Valley near Cascade, Idaho. My family moved there during the depression. Father had traded some land, sight unseen, for eighty acres. Somehow he had thought that this would be the answer and gambled all for our farm. After he had made the trade, he and my oldest brother caught a freight train and rode it to a place near our farm and dropped off He didn't ride into town, which was much closer, as he was a very proud man and didn't want anyone to see him get off a freight train like a hobo. He walked the extra three or four miles to view our new home. It wasn't much: a barn, grainrey and machine shed, a chicken-house, an ice house, a milk house fed by a beautiful spring, and an old rough board house insulated with sawdust, and the other usual out-buildings in various stages of repair, overlooking the valley.

The old house was warm and friendly. Two unfinished bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs, a kitchen, a living room and a dining room made up its complex. The sawdust insulation had filtered out over the years, leaving air spaces in the upstairs where Sis, Logan and I slept. In the winter, at thirty or forty degrees below zero, there would be frost on the wood, and when the blizzards came snow would filter through and leave little drifts on the window sill. We were warm, however, as we would snuggle under home-made quilts and rest our feet on the soap stone—heated on the wood stove and wrapped in newspaper—that mother had placed in our beds.

As time went by we were entertained by the mountain bluebirds that came each spring and entered the walls of our home to make theirs. Their children, as they grew, made wonderful noises, and we all watched for the day they would emerge and learn to fly ~o that we would keep the cats away until they were safe.

We had no inside water, nor did we have electricity all the time we lived there. We heated spring water on the back of the old wood stove in an old copper boiler. Mother washed on the board, and we bathed Saturday night in the old galvanized tub. First in line for the kids was always a fight, as my brothers always accused me of emptying my bladder (not in those terms) in the bath water. That was a cardinal sin, but 1 was the youngest and with that comes certain privileges that were of value. No one knows to this day whether! did or didn't.

Time went by and our move proved good for us. Lessons were learned that have stood me in good stead. I learned that a man's word is his honor. You paid your bills, and you gave a day's work for a day's pay. in those days no work was degrading or undignified. Our family worked at anything that we could find. We picked potatoes and berries, peas and cherries.

We weeded in the fields and the boys picked up beer bottles along the roads to sell. We worked together, and I never knew that I was poor. There were no social agencies available to inform us of our poverty level. We learned to "ride tall on a poor horse" as the Indian saying goes. Our patched and re-patched overalls were ours. Bought and paid for was our way of life. "At least it's paid for" was my mother's creed. I remember family conferences over how to buy a sack of flour. I wasn't supposed to hear, but I did and can remember that those times made me afraid. The warm ample arm of my mother would comfort me and would dissipate my fear.

As time went by things got better, as they always do when you have love and hope. Father got a steady job hauling wood at the saw mill, and he bought a cow. Old Polly was part Brown Swiss. She fed us milk, butter and cheese, and left some over for the heifer calf she had each year as well as for the sow that Father bought. We gradually built up a small herd of milk cows and separated and sold the cream, feeding the separated milk to the growing number of pink-nosed pigs. We all learned to milk on Polly. She was gentle and patient with us as we pulled and tugged. She gave seven or eight gallons of milk each day and lived to a ripe old age. She died after giving birth to the only bull calf of her life at the Lanhams. We always said she died of shame.

As one looks back to one's youth, certain events always stand out. Most of mine were happy and of value to me. My security blanket was our old root cellar built into the side of the hill above our house. We stored potatoes, apples, cabbages, and other garden produce as well as jars of fruit and preserves for the winter. On Saturday morning after chores, Logan and I were sent out to dig the snow away from the cellar and bring down the provisions for the week. I always asked mother if I could bring down some peaches and rarely she would say yes.

I loved peaches and raspberry jam. Once I took a small jar of jam and hid it in the wall of the chicken house, and when I went out to the barn I would stop by and eat some. I don't think Mother ever knew, but if she didn't it was the only thing that escaped her keen observation. I could feel guilt written all over me upon my return from the chicken house. I never did it again, but none of that jam went to waste.

Stocking the cellar was a summer-long affair. We would raise most of our vegetables in our garden, but the fruit and tomatoes had to be purchased from the fruit peddler as he came by on his rounds. Peaches were a dollar a bushel, and Mother would think long and hard before she would turn aside and reach into the front of her dress and remove some money she kept in a coin purse pinned securely to her brassiere. Canning was a fun affair. I always wanted to eat the peaches fresh, but Mother would have none of that. "It is for the winter," she would say as she filled the jars. She would allow one bowl of fresh fruit for dinner or breakfast but the rest would be canned. The bruised and over-ripe parts would be saved and used for jam. In each quart jar Mother would put one-half of a peach with the pit intact. When the jar was opened I would try to get that one. I would eat the peach and then soak the seed into the juice many times to make the taste linger on.

The Watkins man was another highlight of the spring and fall. We purchased our fly spray and black salve plus various medicines for human and animal use. We also sold or traded certain things with him. He would visit us only in the spring and fall as the roads were snowed in during the winter, and the plowing of back country roads was yet to be invented. During the winter we would save horsehair and the hides from any animal that died or was butchered. In the spring we would have the wool from our sheep. I would listen with anticipation as the prices were quoted, pondered, and then accepted. All that work seemed worthwhile as money and goods exchanged hands. Somehow we never seemed to sell more than we bought.

Once in a great while my parents left Logan and me alone. When this event occurred we would always do three things. First we would shave with Father's straight-edged razor, sharpening it on the old razor strap that was used for tanning purposes as well. Then we would roll some cigarettes from Father's tobacco. Finally, Logan would get down Father's double-barreled Parker Brothers twenty gauge shotgun, take some shells, and head for the creek. We hunted all year except, in the spring when the animals were with their young. We learned to kill to eat and to shoot or trap varmints to protect our animals. Logan was an excellent shot long before Father finally allowed him to take the gun.

The time finally came for me to begin my formal education. The nearest school was at Van Wyck, Idaho. Van Wyck had been an early settlement with hotel, livery stable, blacksmith shop and post office. When the railroad came to the valley the people moved to nearby Cascade and the town died. The brick schoolhouse remained and served the country kids, as distinguished from the town kids. There was only one teacher for all the eight grades. There were four of us in the first grade, and this teacher did me my greatest service of my many years of schooling. She taught me to read.

We arrived at school on foot or horseback. Children came from ten to thirteen miles away. We carried our lunches in Karo Syrup cans. We fought and played as children do. We played make-up games that were vigorous and healthy. We had snowball fights and chewed tobacco when we could get it. Days Work or horseshoe were particularly popular. The Christmas play with each of us saying a piece and getting a sack of candy and an orange were highlights of the year.

The next year they closed the school and we traveled on to Cascade for our education. I always look back at that fine lady who loved us and taught us. The closeness of the valley people was a molding factor in all of our lives. The rest of my grammar school and high school education was significant only in that I was never challenged to think. This was also true of college and medical school. To learn, yes. To think like a doctor in evaluating a disease process, yes. But to dig into the philosophy of a problem, no. I eventually finished my formal education an able parrot but not a student. It remained for a simple man along the Little Salmon River to stimulate me out of my rut. But then I am ahead of myself.

Medical care in the valley was usually home care. I can remember seeing the doctor once, and that was for a diphtheria shot. For the most part my doctor and nurse was my mother. Black salve, turpentine, Vicks, salts and a scratchy piece of wool cloth around the neck was the extent of her armamentarium. Looking back I know that I had measles encephalitis. I can still remember vividly the hallucinations associated with the fever. When Logan broke his ankle trying to convince a three hundred pound sow that she did not want out of her pen, Mother knew that this was out of her field. I ran a half mile to get Father. They loaded Logan and his ankle, which looked like a bag of bones, into the wagon and set out for the doctor's office. He set the ankle and got an excellent result. I don't know how he did it, but he did. He may have had an old X-ray machine. He certainly did not have malpractice insurance. He did have concern and compassion.

At no time during my public school education did I think of the study of medicine. I did not even think of college. I don't know what I planned to do. I had always done well in school with little effort, and 1 enjoyed sports and reading. When graduation came I got a job in a saw mill and saved a little money. My brother came home from the Navy with the GI Bill and was going to college. He invited me to go along with him. It seemed a reasonable thing to do, and I was getting tired of pulling green lumber off a chain. We entered The College of Idaho and four years later emerged from the end of the educational grinder. Logan had a degree in economics and math, and I in biology.

Logan had a wife and son and a job with the Idaho Power Company. I was married that summer, and Mary and I had a job at Riggins, Idaho, teaching school. I had only one education course but lots of ideas. Strange, during those years I considered medicine but felt that I was not intelligent enough to become a doctor. I saw students with lesser ability get their acceptance to medical school or dental school and I would shake my head in disbelief. Actually I was not ready to dedicate myself to the long hours of study that it takes to complete the study of medicine. It was just as well. I was off to my first teaching job and a maturing experience. I was to meet a man who was to change my life.

#### About the Author

John M. Lanham, M.D., was born in Nebraska but was raised in the hills of central Idaho. In 1952 he graduated from the College of Idaho, at Caldwell, and was a public schoolteacher for four years. After two years in the army a personal tragedy stimulated him to the study of medicine, and in 1962 he was graduated from the George Washington University School Medicine in Washington, DC. Prior to withdrawing from the private practice of medicine in 1975 in protest over the UI -practice crisis and the bureaucratic encroachment in to medicine, Dr. Lanham served as chief of staff of the Kootenai Memorial Hospital in Coeur'dAlene, Idaho. He and his wife and their four children reside in Michigan, where he practices industrial medicine.

### Random Memorys Of Events In The Early Life And Times Of Bruce Adams Ward

#### BIRTH & PARENTS & FAMILY

Now about 66 years old, looking back, it is interesting to note what stands out about my family and my early life in Cascade. Some memories are vivid and detailed and others are very fuzzy. One wonders why some things left such an impression to stay with one for a lifetime. As I put these memories into writing, I know that there are inaccuracies of my flawed memory. They are meant to give something of a feeling of those first 8 years of my life and my family.

I was born in my parent's home in Cascade, Idaho, June 22, 1933, delivered by my father Roscoe C. Ward. Apparently, the delivery was difficult with prolapsed umbilical cord. I suppose that if I had not been so anoxic at birth, I might not have been such a dim bulb the rest of my life. After my birth my father swore off delivering his own children at home.

In the 1930's Cascade was a small town (approximately 300 people) in a valley in the mountains of Idaho primarily serving ranching, mining and lumbering businesses. It is a long valley north and south with towering mountain rising about 10 miles to the east and to the west of the town. Roscoe my father moved there in about 1925, unmarried. After he had been discharged from the army at the end of World War I he moved to Boise, Idaho where he practiced two years, then move to Burns, Oregon where he practices another year or two. That job in Burns, Oregon was also related to a new lumber mill there, but the problem was that there was another doctor in the town and he owned the hospital. The doctor would not let Dad use 'his' hospital, so Dad started looking for another job. A new lumber mill was opening in Cascade, Idaho that would pay him about $1.00 per month per employee to take care of the mill employees. (And we think prepaid medical care by employers is something that came after WWII). In Cascade, he was the only doctor in the entire county. A significant drawback was that there was no hospital. Alice Elizabeth Ward (note her maiden name was Ward, the elder child of Emma and George Ward of Nampa, Idaho) moved to Cascade as a new school teacher, having completed 2 years of college work at the College of Idaho. Soon the town's doctor was squiring the new "school marm" to the town's social events. They married in 1930 and their first son, Roscoe Fredrick was born in December 1930.

My younger brother was also born at home, but delivered by the doctor from McCall. He was 3 ½ years younger and therefore just small enough that he did not run around with Roscoe and me much in Cascade. We moved to Boise in 1941 when I was 8 years old. That first 8 years seemed to me to be a lifetime. Some things that happened are not very clear, but some of the events themselves are vivid. These are the memories that I now recount.

Jesse Andrews was a boy that I believe must have been a little older than Roscoe and therefore our parents must have considered him a little more responsible. He is important in our lives, as he is the seemingly one constant companion in during these years. His family lived on the west edge of town and my memory is that he did not have a lot of the things that we did to play with. It was not that we thought of him as poor, but rather we just seemed to have some more things than he did. He also helped us do chores, feed the horses, etc. He was a companion on many of our treks. He was Huckleberry Finn character of our lives as seemed to be more independent. For instance Dad had a delivery of scrap lumber made at Jesse's house that we used to nail together a playhouse or clubhouse. His parent's home was on the edge of town sort of in the hills, which was a perfect place to play. His mother made the best-fried bread that I ever tasted, with lots of butter and syrup.

#### DOG

Shadow the big Chesapeake Bay retriever was Dad's dog before he married and followed him everywhere. He even would ride behind the saddle on a horse with him. With the old cars with outboard fenders, he would ride on the running board up against the fender. He was my brother's and my constant companion as we wandered about the town in our 'Tom Sawyer' like activities, riding horses, hiking, skiing and playing. However if Dad was with us, Shadow gave us little time.

#### BARNS

We lived across the street from the main school of the county school (there were I believe other grade schools of the one room variety elsewhere in the county) which had a large horse barn next to it. The barn housed the horses of the kids that had to ride into school from ranches from the surrounding countryside since in the 1930's there were no school buses and much of the winter roads were not passable by automobiles. During summer time ranchers, whose children would use the barn contributed hay to fill the barn to feed the horses during the winter. The barn was a great place to play. It did not belong to 'anyone' and therefore we would not be chased away when we played there and it was just across the street from our home. Two houses down the street to the north from our house there was another barn that was largely abandoned which was another excellent place to play, but the neighbor really did not like a bunch of kids hauling things into and out of his barn. To enter the barn without the neighbor knowing about it we hung some old tire chains down the back of it from the hay mow that we could use as a 'rope' ladder to climb up. One summer, I remember that we found a large collection of fresh water mussels in the in the creek down the street on north of this barn. We very carefully collected large numbers off them, placed them in buckets, and hauled them up into the haymow of the barn the logic of this escapes me today, but it seemed to be a good idea then. It was a hot summer and we soon forgot about the buckets of mussels – that is until the smell of the rotting flesh not only permeated the barn, but became noticeable in the street behind the barn. Someone was certain that there was a large dead animal some place close by. When the culprit items were discovered, there was little doubt about who had to clean up the whole mess, three little boys. The other barn in our life, at our horse pasture, was a special case. Playing there was part work and part play as even at an early we had had some responsibilities taking care of the family horses. We could tell mother we were going to take care of the horses, which meant that we could walk across town to the pasture and barn and play without a lot of supervision - i.e. sometime doing things that we knew would not be acceptable to our parents.

Barns are such wonderful places. They are dark inside with a variety of wonderful different smells, from horses, mice, hay and the leather of harness and saddles. The hay is fun to dig holes in and to hide and play all sorts of imaginary roles in. Its aroma is unique and intimate. Adults store things in barns and forget them only to have them found by small boys poking about and playing. Mice could be found in the grain bins to be caught and played with. You could act out all sorts of cowboys and Indian scenes. The barn is a memory not just of sight and sound, but more importantly smells. Not just the hay, but manure and leather and grain. The warm sweaty horses of summer days and the shelter of the steamy horse just ridden in from the snowy wintry cold of January.

#### HORSES

We had quite a few horses. In that country in the 1920's and 1930's Dad still needed them for transportation during bad weather, since there was only one road through the county that was kept open during the winter in the 20's and early 30's. Even later in the 1930's most of the side roads to farms and ranches were not cleared of snow. Dad had a sleigh for winter, a horse drawn cart for mud season, but frequently just traveled horseback when the roads were impassable to the automobile of the time. They were a part of his life and of our life. Photos showed us riding with Dad when we were very small in front of him in the saddle.

Some of my most vivid memories were about our activities with the horses. The pasture and barn were about five blocks east from our house, across Main Street, across the railroad tracks down by the river near the lumber mill. The pasture had a barn with grain and hay storage, a well and pump for the wooden watering trough. There were at least two water-filled sloughs (water backed up into low places from the dam at the lumber mill). As one went from the town side of the pasture down toward the river to the east, which was the boundary of the pasture, part of the pasture was wooded with evergreen trees and part was grassy meadow. My memory is that it was very large. At least as a child, it seemed so. When the river was high in the spring large portions of it were under water backed up by the dam at the lumber mill (this reservoir held thousands of logs waiting to be cut up at the mill.). Later in the summer, we could walk all of the way to the river, as long as we took our shoes, sock and pants off to wade through the water-filled sloughs. In spring and early summer, the water was too deep for small boys to wade through

One activity that got us into trouble with our parents concerned the water and the horses. We usually rode the horses bareback because as a small boy it was difficult to even think about trying to lift a saddle up on his back. The water in the sloughs would in spring and early summer be deep enough that the horses would have to swim through them to get to the other side. We found that we could ride them swimming across the water-filled sloughs. In order that this activity not be discovered, we would leave our clothes in the barn and ride the horses naked. Boy did we think we were smart, that is until we were questioned about why we had mosquito bites all over our body, even on our bottoms. I came up with some big story to explain it. My more straightforward brother Roscoe told the truth, which got us into some trouble, me in particular for lying. Looking back on this it makes me wonder that these things happened, as this was all before I was 8 years old. It must be said that the horses were our primary means of getting around and we rode them everywhere as we were a little older. (Dad would never let us have a bicycle. He figured that a horse had more sense about not getting hurt or run over that a bicycle did.)

#### DOWNTOWN

Dad's "Doctors office" was on Main Street, about two blocks from the house on the only paved street in town, Main Street.

To get there we walked down the hill two blocks east, past the Protestant church and past the ice house at the Merit Store (owned by the Logues of Thunder City) which was on the corner of Main St. (Merit Store was the combined dry goods and grocery store for the town with everything from fresh eggs to ladies undies.), then south down the Main St. past the telephone office (the one telephone operator always knew where Dr. Ward was anyplace in the county), across the street past the post office (everyone received their mail from their box at the post office) and to Dad's office. We made that trip with some frequency, I believe, even before I started school. It was probably very safe, as everyone in town knew who we were and where we belonged. We were Doc Ward's kids.

The office was a fascinating place of many strange odors and objects. We could play in the back room where the x-ray machine was located if there were no patients there and pretend that we were the operators of that magical seeming equipment. Dad would let us look into the nether world through his microscope. As a special treat, he would let us come to the office if he had a procedure like a tonsillectomy to watch. Since there was no hospital, if any procedure was done it was done at the office. Our role during the tonsillectomy, done under local anesthesia with the patient fully awake was to sit close by and hand the patient tissues when he needed to spit the blood out of his mouth. Adult tonsillectomies were not that rare, I guess. Remember that this was in the era before the availability of any antibiotics and infectious disease was a much bigger problem that it now is.

#### READING IN THE EVENING

Dad's hours were never very regular, but just before we went to bed, there was a family time that will always be in my memory. Dad and Mother with all three of us children would gather in the living room to read a book. This might be one that would take weeks or months to get through. Dad and Mother would take turns reading to us, a chapter at a time, from the selected book such as Rudyard Kipling's, Jungle Book. When my Mother's parents visited, Grandmother took her turn and in fact spent a great deal more time reading to us. Her selections included poetry and other things that never seemed to 'take' with me.

#### RAILROAD

There was a railroad that went through Cascade. In winter, it was sometimes the only way to get out of the town down to Boise. The tracks ran parallel to Main St. and one block east of it. To get to and from the pasture you had to cross the railroad tracks. The tracks also led to interesting place north of town. Perhaps a mile north the river cut through a rocky canyon traveling east-west and the railroad crossed the river on a high trestle. On the north side of the river there was a small cemetery that had some soldiers buried in it that we thought of as the Indian cemetery. However, the only way to get there was to cross the railroad trestle high over the roaring river rapids. It was more than a little scary since you could look down at your feet on the railroad ties and see the water crashing on the rocks between the ties. A misstep would have been a big problem. Jesse, Roscoe, our dog Shadow and I would make the trip to play in the woods around the old cemetery. I doubt that our parents had any idea what we were doing or where we were on those afternoons.

#### HOT SPRINGS

On the road out of town to the northwest, there were natural hot springs with the town swimming pool. This was a place for family entertainment, but it was also a place that we, the boys, could easily walk to by ourselves. The best part was the bathhouse of the hot springs, which probably predated the swimming pool. This was an old frame building with stone on concrete floors and many little rooms. Each room was a "bathroom" with a large tub and a place to hang clothes. Literally, this was a bathhouse where people would come and pay to take a hot bath. The small rooms did not get a lot of use and were great places to play.

#### JOBS

Thinking back, I wonder at a small kid getting jobs and the chores he was expected to perform. However, I clearly remember that Roscoe and I had a job mowing the neighbor's lawn. This was before there were power lawn mowers that ran on gasoline. Mowers of that era were a strictly manual operation. The reason I remember is that it was a two-boy job. We hooked a rope up the front of the mower and I pulled while Roscoe pushed. It seemed to be a serious job, but at that age who knows?

Of course, we had regular 'chores' everyday that I remember. Most cooking was done on a wood burning stove and it was our responsibility to be certain that the wood box on the back porch, next to the kitchen always was full both with small kindling wood and the regular wood to burn in the stove. After we acquired rabbits, we were responsible for feeding and watering them every day. In winter that meant taking hot water out to melt the ice in each cage so that they could drink. As we were a bit older, we also had some responsibility taking care of the horses – feeding them and making certain that there was water for them. Again, in winter it was harder work because the water would freeze in the trough and would have to be chopped out with an ax. Needless to say these 'chores' had to be done before play, but most of the time we were able to make up some game to play as we did them to make the time go faster.

#### RABBITS

Roscoe and I wanted a pet rabbit, but our parents were not interested. We knew a boy who had rabbits and one of his rabbits had a new litter of little ones. The boy needed food for his rabbits and we figured that we had the perfect solution. We would trade him a bale of hay and some grain for two (maybe three) small rabbits. The deal was arranged and he brought the rabbits down to the barn and took the hay and grain. We kept the little guys down at the barn in the tack room and went there daily to feed and water. I do not remember how the word got out, but our parents found out about the rabbits and after much pleading permitted us to keep them. This started a whole new era that extended into the 1940's when we moved to Boise. Dad had to build rabbit hutches (houses) and we had a new responsibility of taking care of feeding and cleaning them.

We also found out that rabbits multiply and something has to be done when you have too many of them. Dad knew what to do – you butcher them, cook them and eat them. This was fine, but Mother would have nothing to do with eating them, but she would cook them. I don't remember for certain, but I think that Roscoe did not want to eat his pets, but I thought they were just OK for dinner.

#### FISHING & HUNTING

Dad did not marry until he was 39 years old and he enjoyed fishing and hunting. He always had very good equipment. I still have his LL Bean fish filet knife that he must have purchased in the 1920's. He had a beautiful split bamboo fly rod and nice guns, etc. We, while in Cascade, were too small to go hunting with guns, but Dad did take us fishing. One weekend he gave Roscoe and me special responsibilities. We were to get all of the fishing gear together and in the car so that early Saturday morning we would get up and go fishing with him. This was going to be a special day. After careful checking and packing we were certain that everything was ready and we got up early and drove north to the Gold Fork of the Payette River to fish. When we arrived, we anxiously got our fishing rods out for Dad to help us put them together to start fishing. Then the bad news became apparent. We had carefully put everything in the car, except Dad's fly rod. He had no fishing pole. Roscoe and I were crushed. Dad however just went to the riverbank, cut a willow of appropriate size and length, rigged it with line and hook, and proceeded to catch many more fish that Roscoe and I did.

Whether it was this trip or another, I remember the day that instead of trout we came upon a great many white fish (they are also here in the Colorado River). These were considered more a trash fish, but they were voracious and bit every time our line hit the water. The excitement of catching a lot of white fish far exceeded the fact that they were not trout.

Although we did not hunt with guns, we did hunt with traps and bow and arrow. Jesse always tried to find ways to earn extra money and found that there was a bounty on ground squirrels. They were considered a pest and the county (or state) paid 1-2 cents for every ground squirrel tail that you brought into the government office. Somewhere we came up with some steel traps, perhaps Dad subsidized the operation by buying some traps. The three of us, Jesse, Roscoe and myself, would hike around finding likely looking ground-squirrel colonies and set our traps and come back the next day to check them. If a squirrel was not dead we used our trusty homemade bow and arrow to finish them off.

The bow and arrows we made from willows that we cut by the creek. I think that I remember that there may have been one 'store-bought' bow. The arrows were also made of willow wood. We had no way to feathers at the back and therefore they did not fly straight for very far. The points we made by carefully placing finish (headless) nails in the end and then taking a file and filing it to a sharp point.

#### COOL IN SUMMER

Our family did have an electric refrigerator in our house, but not many people did at that time. Ice was the essential element for cooling in the summer. During winter, the ice in the river froze very thick. At the upper end of the reservoir which was made up of the lumber millpond the river was quite wide. The men of the community would take great handsaws and cut chunks of ice out of the river and load them on horse drawn wagons to haul them to a large icehouse down by the mill. This was a large building built of thick timber and filled with sawdust from the mill. The ice was placed in the sawdust that insulated it and kept it from melting. There was a smaller icehouse at the back door of Merit Store on Main ST. Ice was periodically hauled from the big icehouse by the river up to the one by the store. Customers would buy ice to take it home for the 'ice-box' coolers. Small boys watched this whole process with wonder.

Best of all was that if we were careful, when Mother went to the store in the summer time, we could sneak into the ice house at the store and dig some precious pieces of ice out of the sawdust to suck on as a cool treat. We were never allowed into the big icehouse by the river.

#### WINTER ACTIVITIES

Winters were very cold in the mountain valley and there was always a lot of snow.

The snowplows clearing Main Street piled the snow up in the middle with one lane of traffic down each side. The pile of snow would be as high as the second story windows in the buildings along the street.

This was a time before there were mechanical ways to get up a hill to slide down on it on skis, sleds or toboggans. (Actually there was a 'ski lift' 40 miles to the north at McCall. This consisted of a hay slip (hay wagon with skids on the bottom rather than wheels. There was an old car engine at the bottom of the hill with a long rope that went up the hill, around a pulley and down to the hay slip. People would get on the hay slip and be pulled up the hill with the engine and rope. At the north edge of Cascade there was a hill that was used for skiing and sledding. It also had a large wooden ski jump constructed on it. This was easy walking distance from our house so we could pull our sled to the hill and up the hill and slide down. More skiing was of the 'cross-country' variety and Roscoe, friends and I would take cross-country treks out of town. More exciting was skiing behind a car, pulled by a rope (like water skiing). The best part was swinging from side to side on the rope so that you could go up on the banks of snow piled up along the road. There was no traffic problem on most roads, even the main ones.

Ski bobbing was another sport, but frowned upon by adults. When a wagon left the Merit store on the road covered with packed snow, small boys would sneak in behind it and grabbing the back off the wagon (or sleigh) and sliding along on your snow boots or sometime hooking your sled on the back and having it pulled. As we were older we would do the same thing behind cars. This was not only fun, but also more exciting, because it was a forbidden activity.

#### HOUSE-CALLS & MEDICAL EMERGENCIES

As a country doctor Dad had to make house calls to care for sick people in their homes or to deliver their babies in their home. Remember there was no hospital in Cascade nor in Valley County. In warm weather, these were frequently made in the evening after supper and Dad and Mother would sometimes take the family along for the ride. It allowed us to see a lot of the countryside and meet many families. Winter was another story. As noted, elsewhere winter brought a lot of snow and the county only kept the main roads open. In part of the county, this was just the highway running north and south. This of course meant that Dad might not be able to drive his car to the house that he had to visit. If it was not too far from the plowed road he would ski or snowshoe to the house from the car.

Dad did have one pair of skis manufactured at a regular ski manufacturer, but a local Scandinavian man had made his other pair. This pair I still have at the house in Basalt and are about eleven feet long each made from a single piece of vary straight grained fir with a simple strap that wend over the instep of you boot. The bottom of the skis were prepared with a special 'dope' paint like material that was used on the fabric that covered airplane wings and was very slick and smooth. Of course, there were no metal edges on the bottom. These skis were made to ski across unbroken powder snow over flat or at the most rolling terrain. His snowshoes were also had made of wood steamed and shaped. They were about five feet long and about ten inches wide. The space between the wooden margins was laced rawhide leather that had been covered with shellac.

On at least one occasion I remember a bright sunny winter day with snow up over the tops of the livestock fences (4 - 4 ½ feet deep on the flat). He took me along with my skis, which were also, handmade each from a single piece of straight grained fir. Where we parked, the car was close to a creek and he showed me muskrats coming out of the creek and hiding in the holes in the snow around the fence posts. He also showed me the beaver lodges behind the beaver dams. He strapped on his snowshoes and helped me with my skis and off we went. It seemed like a frontier adventure, although realistically we probably did not ski more than a mile cross country to the house, but more importantly it was the magic of the bright winter day, out in the snow, alone with Dad on a great adventure.

When you are small, you do not think about the strength of your father. That he can do anything that needs to be done is fully expected. I now have some of his old medical bags and wonder at his strength striding off on snowshoes, or skis with one or two of his bags, each weighing 25 – 30 pounds. His 'regular' bag seemed to have everything in it. Rows and rows of bottle filled with pills of every color and a supply of small paper envelopes that would hold the pills that he would dispense. There were hypodermic glass syringes with needles. (To prepare morphine for and injection meant taking a small tablet of morphine out off a non-sterile bottle and placing it in the syringe then drawing up some sterile water into the syringe to dissolve the small pill. In the bottom of the bag was the kit of surgical instruments, scalpel, scissors, forceps, needles and suture material to be used to sew up wounds.

I have a vivid memory of one evening at home when an injured patient from an accident was brought to the house, rather than down at Dad's office. They literally carried the man into our house and laid him out on the kitchen table. This obviously was not the usual and is bright in my memory. Dad, with Mother's help did whatever was necessary to care for and put the man back together enough to sent him and his family on to their home.

#### GREAT DEPRESSION

Every one has heard about the Great Depression of the 1930's when thousands of people were out of work and the economy was in dire straights. For a small boy in a small mountain town in Idaho I did not realize that this was all going on. I thought that things just happened that way. Looking back there are many things in our lives that would seem strange in this day and age. People came to pay their medical bills with fresh eggs, chickens, fire wood etc. All that I knew was that we had this huge stack of wood out by the garage that appeared each summer and that we burned in the furnace, cook stove and fireplace through the winter. I knew that men came and cut the wood up so that it would fit into to the stove etc., but I had no idea that they might be doing a bit of work for a meal or working off a debt. Looking at my father's office ledger many years later I realized that there were years in the early 30's that his total income before paying any expenses either practice or personal did not exceed $2000.00 for an entire year. The society in our little valley functioned with little cash and a lot of barter.

Our life was good. We had had warm house, food for the table and clothes to wear. We had an automobile and could travel to visit maternal grandparents 80 miles away (at 30 – 35 miles per hour. We received toy gifts at Christmas and on birthdays and went across the street to school.

Dad and Mother decided in 1941 that they did want more opportunity for us, particularly in education that Cascade might be able to offer. They therefore moved the family to Boise, Idaho. We arrived there and Dad started his new practice only three months before the beginning of World Ward II. It was the end of a way of life for our entire family and certainly many of the 'Tom Sawyer' aspects of our life could never be repeated.

#### About the Author

Bruce A. Ward was born in Cascade and lived there until 1941 when the family moved to Boise. He attended the College of Idaho and graduated from Northwestern Medical School. Bruce was a radiologist at Western Colorado Radiologist in Grand Junction, Colorado until his retirement. His wife, son, daughters and grandchildren live in Colorado. Bruce was also an ordained deacon in the Greek Orthodox Church where he served until his death.

### Childhood Memories Of Cabarton-Cascade - McCall In The 1930's - Wesley Craig, Jr.

The Craig family were Canadians who were loggers in the Peterborough area of Ontario. Early in the 1900's they moved across the border to Baudette, Minnesota where my dad Wesley W. Craig completed high-school. He enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1917 and was sent to France during World War I in the 45th Artillery, C.A.C. He was discharged in 1919 and returned to Baudette. Meanwhile, his parents had moved out to Valley County, Idaho in 1917 to engage in the logging business with the Boise Payette Lumber Company. He followed them to Idaho and obtained employment in Cabarton with the lumber company.

There is no indication that my grandfather, William R. Craig or my father ever became naturalized U.S. citizens. You might call us "Canadian Wet-Backs". However, serving in the U.S. Army provided my father with U.S. military veteran rights and probably would have served to establish his claim as a U.S. citizen.

My dad was an excellent athlete. According to family lore, he had an offer to play baseball for the St. Louis Cardinals, but his father wouldn't let him accept it ("playing ball was no way for a man to make a living", his father said). He continued to excel in many sports. Richard Ray said that Wes was the fastest swimmer in Baudette, Minnesota I remember, as a boy, watching my dad play ice-hockey on the flooded, frozen Legion Field in Cascade with the other men. He played catcher for the town baseball team, which played the other towns of the area (McCall, New Meadows, Council, Cambridge, Donnelly, etc.). Many times I was told, as a boy, that he was the best ball-player in the area.

Wes worked in the logging business for many years. He was a scaler, measuring the logs for the amount of lumber and deciding which trees were to be felled in the woods. During the depression years (1932-39) he became a bartender in Cascade and eventually gained part interest in owning the Cascade Club bar. He was a very friendly person, well liked.

In 1909 the Harwood family moved west to Idaho, along with my grandmother Bessie's father, George Alexander Logue, and children of his first marriage. They settled in Valley County at Thunder. This was a newly founded town, which supplied gold miners in the Thunder Mountain area with supplies. The Logues, who had been farmers and merchants in Pennsylvania, set up a general store in Thunder. Bessie and her husband homesteaded 80 acres just three miles east 80 acres just three miles east of Cascade.

Harwood Homestead – 3 miles north of Thunder City abt.1910 L-R Beatrice, Ernest W. Harwood (husband), George E. (on father's lap), Bessie Logue Harwood (wife), Stanley (Ted), Louise (Wesley & Bob's mother)

Ernest Harwood died in 1912. Bessie remarried two years to John Lambie at Thunder. John Lambie died in 1927. Bessie and her children continued to work the small farm under very difficult conditions, as she did not remarry again. My mother grew up on that farm. It was a hard struggle to eke out a livelihood on 80 acres at nearly 5,000 feet elevation. The children were taught to be frugal and hard working. The exemplary lives of Bessie's children, as adults, reflect that early rigorous training.

My mother, Louise Erma Harwood, attended school in Cascade, and graduated from Cascade High School. She later attended the College of Idaho for three years, receiving a teaching certificate. She returned to Valley County and taught at a rural grade school in Arling. She then enrolled at the University of Idaho to complete her university training. But my father-to-be had other idas. He went up to Moscow, Idaho and convinced Louise to marry him. They were married at Lewiston, Idaho on November 6th, 1926. I was born in Cabarton, Idaho on November 21st, 1927.

Cabarton, a small logging company town of the Boise Payette Lumber Company was at the south end of Valley County, in a fairly narrow valley at an elevation of around 5,000 feet. The principle activities of that region were lumbering, mining and rather marginal farming, which in later years changed to the raising of livestock.

Cabarton, Idaho, 1931 (L), Wes Craig Bob Craig and two neighbor brothers

I can remember exploring the area beyond our house. We lived in a small valley with the near-by mountains to the west rising up to 7,500 - 8,000 feet elevation. We used to climb the trees in our backyard with great regularity. I recall the frequent smell of skunks underneath the houses. There was a lovely meadow beyond our backyard with a stream that ran through it. In the winter, we would sled down some of the nearby hills, and ski on barrel staves.

During the early period of the Great Depression of the early 1930s a group of people came through Cabarton and camped in an open area just west of our house. I commented to my mother that they were eating dandelion leaves, which seemed rather peculiar to me. She mentioned that they were poor people who didn't have jobs and that was all they had to eat. I remember how sorry I felt for them at the time.

In the spring of the year my mother would go down to the Payette River, about a mile from our house, and there bottle the boiling mineral water bubbling up from a spring near the bank. Mother would make grape juice in large bags that hung from the ceiling in the kitchen. The purple juice dripped from the plump bags into containers. In the corner sat crocks of fermenting sauerkraut sending out spicy, pungent aromas. One of my early fears was that of dogs fighting. I don't recall people fighting in Cabarton, but I can remember an organized dogfight. The dogs would battle out in front of the pool hall with many men cheering them on. I can remember the blood and the gore and the chill as the dogs viciously attacked each other until one dog died. Even now I still recall some of the fear, which I sensed as a small boy, when I see dogs fighting.

Just after starting the first grade, I was with my friend, A. R. Campbell, coming back from school in the afternoon and stopping at the general store. One time A. R. walked up to the clerk and said, "I'd like some of this candy. Put it on the account." The clerk gave him the candy and did something. I thought "Gee, that's great, to get candy, all you have to do is walk in the store and tell the clerk to 'put it on the account.'" So for about two or three weeks every day after that, I'd go to the store and get some candy "on the account." It was a great experience—like having a private gold mine! The memory is still vivid of being in the kitchen when my dad was going over some papers. All of a sudden he said, "What's this?" My mother looked up as he said, "Candy on this grocery bill—and candy again, and candy again!" Oh, did I feel guilty! The day of reckoning had come that I hadn't counted on! I learned at that time that there's always someone who has to pay for things.

Another time I was riding with my dad on the back of a sled that was used for pulling logs out of the woods, pulled by two huge gray horses. My dad would yell out: "Gee and Haw" in driving them. The sweaty smell of the horses was coupled with the enjoyment and the excitement of being with my dad at that time.

At a later time my dad took my brother and I with him on a railroad speeder—one of those little cars that's engine driven and just two or three people ride on it. We were going up the mountain east of Cabarton. Dad got off the speeder to turn one of the track dividers. As he did, the speeder lost its braking control and began to roll backward down the mountain. In terror, I called out for my dad. He came running back, jumped on the speeder and was able to stop it. On that same trip we went down to the mountain stream beside the track where dad showed us how to drink water out of the stream by cupping our hands.

There was a spur of the main railroad track that came down by the stream, in the middle of the meadow behind our house. When I was four or five, my brother, a couple of neighborhood boys and myself were down there exploring the boxcars. We found a package of cigarettes. I can remember us lighting the cigarettes and testing them out. When we came home my brother Bob was so sick, that he vomited in the kitchen. My mother couldn't figure out what was the matter with him, and I didn't tell.

School (part of my first grade) in Cabarton was memorable. All six grades were in one large room. There must have been 50 or 60 students in that one room with students sitting two to a desk. I remember sitting rather far back from the one teacher who handled all six grades, and don't recall too much of what happened or what went on in school. The teacher had an impossible task of trying to handle that many students in so many grades. Most remembered is recess—going out and playing on the teeter-totter and the little spinning wheel ride that was outside the school. One time in school we were given a package of Colgate dental toothpaste and a toothbrush. I don't recall whether we had ever brushed our teeth before that or not, though I doubt it, because it seemed to be an innovation. As we walked down the road from the school we stopped by a puddle of water beside the road, stuck our toothbrushes in and tested the toothpaste.

Then during my first year in school the family moved to Cascade—seven miles to the north. After Cabarton, Cascade was like a huge place, though its population was not more than five to six hundred at that time. The school seemed huge and, unbelievably, every grade had its own room! I can remember what an exciting time the first grade was for me, including the use of flash cards and having assemblies. In the corner of the room there was table with a miniature farm that had cardboard animals, cows, horses, and chickens. I can remember singing "Old McDonald Had a Farm" in the classroom and enjoying the pleasant, warm experience. Also at that time we had penmanship, learning to write using the Palmer method. What excitement there was in learning to add up the numbers using flash cards and competing with each other! I don't remember the name of the teacher, but she was excellent.

In the second grade, I sat in the back of the room behind a girl who apparently had a bladder problem, and left puddles on the schoolroom floor. That's the only thing that sticks out in my mind about that school year. And then on through the fourth, fifth and sixth grades in Cascade.

By this time we had moved from the rather poor, small home, that we first occupied when we moved to Cascade up behind the high school, to a rather nice home. Our second home was located on a street just below the school and was owned by a fellow who was later a real estate broker and county recorder. That home was quite nice. Bob and I had our own bedroom. There was a nice living room with a fireplace and a basement—rather elaborate after the simple houses we had lived in before.

Second Grade - Cascade, Idaho 1933

Front Row – L-R: Boy, Boy, Patricia Gratton, Girl, Arthur R. Campbell; Second Row - Boy, Girl, Wesley Craig, Jr. Third Row – Boy, Boy, Girl, Girl, Robert Lutes Fourth Row – Teacher, Girl, Girl, Boy

(Note: Years later (2010) I Googled the Cascade elementary school under Classmates. What turned up was the son of the local medical doctor (who had assisted in giving birth to me), Roscoe Ward. I e-mailed Roscoe, Jr. (then, vacationing in Argentina) and renewed our acquaintance as neighbors some seventy-five years earlier.)

But some unhappiness began during this period. I would guess that my parents began to experience some marital problems and their relationship began to deteriorate. I could sense an increasing uneasiness in myself. In the sixth grade I remember receiving a report card with a poor grade on it early in the fall. Not wanting to confront mother with it, I took the card out to the woodshed, and put it in the front stack of wood up near the top. It was my job to chop wood every day for the kitchen stove. As I chopped through one stack, I would move the report card from that stack to the one behind it. Winter wore along; then it was early spring, the woodpile came to an end and I had to deal with that report card. The weight of not dealing with that card had been on my shoulders all winter long. How guilty I felt as it lay out there in the woodpile. Mother continued asking me for my card, apparently my teachers kept telling her that I had brought it home and I kept lying to her, saying, "Gee, I don't know where it is."

There was more unhappiness at that time in terms of physical threats made to me by two brothers, Rulon and Jimmy Sawyer. Rulon was in the same class as me, and Jimmy was about a year younger. They sensed my lack of physical aggressiveness, and began waiting for me after school. Rulon would taunt me and then begin punching me. I'd run from him and scurry home. My mother would ask me what had happened, then would get mad at me for running away from them. How guilty I felt.

However, there was finally a bright ending to that situation. I left Cascade for a year when I was in the seventh grade. When I came back to Cascade for a visit, I had apparently gained a little more self-confidence. Meeting Rulon and Jimmy, they proceeded to taunt me again. Jimmy was actually the tougher one and began picking a fight. However, this time I really let him have it and as soon I had whipped him I went up to Rulon and said, "Do you want some of the same?" Rulon backed off and the brothers left. That was the end of that little saga, and I left with my head high in the air and feeling great!

About this same time I recall a fishing experience with Dad. Bob and I rode in the back of a pick-up truck up into the mountains, on the east side of Cascade and camped there that night. I remember the cold, the sharp pungent smell of the pines, the stars, and sleeping in the back of that truck with my dad and my brother, Bob. Early in the morning, before sunrise, we were stream fishing and catching nine-inch brook trout, then back to our campsite and where we fried them over an open fire. The glorious smell of those fresh-caught fish frying in the pan, is mixed with the unforgettable memory of that experience.

We moved from our rather elaborate house, up by the high school, to a simpler house down on north Main Street, just two houses from where my grandma Lambie lived. I didn't sense any comedown, at that point. We were close to my second cousin, Jerry Logue and his brother. All of us used to play along a streambed that ran next to our home. On the bank of this stream we carved out logging roads for our toy trucks. For a quarter of a block down along this creek we made roads with turnoffs, steep hills, curves and intersections. It was quite an elaborate set up and we spent hour after hour playing there.

At the same house, lying out on the lawn on my back during a summer night, I would look up at the stars. It seemed that there were millions and millions of them, brilliantly shining above us. What an intense profound experience as I sensed that beauty! In the same yard we would play baseball, with one batter, a catcher and a pitcher. We would each pretend we were a big league player, either Dizzy Dean, Daffy Dean, Joe Medwick or Babe Ruth—three of them, of course, being St. Louis Cardinals. We had an affinity for the Cardinals because, according to some of the family history, my dad had tried out for that team just after he got out of high school. The account was that the Cardinals offered him a contract but his father wouldn't allow him to accept it.

About that same time I received my first B.B. gun for Christmas. The first day I killed some 35 sparrows accompanied by feelings of both guilt and pride in that accomplishment.

During the winter in Cascade, the best sledding was up by the water tank. From the top you could slide all the way down to Main Street, a run of some two hundred yards. What a thrill to whiz down that hill, experiencing the thump of the sled over the hard packed snow, with the bitter cold slashing the face. Also, there were sleds, pulled by horses trotting through the streets on which we would hooky-bob—grabbing on to the sleds as they were going by and then sliding along on our feet behind the sled. The drivers didn't object to our fun (no fears of liability issues in those days).

Ice-skating was held on the Legion field just east of our house, which would be flooded over and allowed to freeze. Much of the skating took place at night. The men would start a hockey game. My dad was one of the better skaters and a good hockey player; he was always in the thick of things. When we got cold we'd stand around the burning tires, which gave off a lot of heat.

Also, during the winter a carnival was held on the hill at the north end of town, which included a ski-jumping contest, which I entered. I had a lot of courage, but poor judgment. I had never been on that jump before and had little experience jumping with a regular pair of skis. I got up there and came down off the scaffold a-flying. As I got to the jump and began to take off I began to fall backwards. I hit the slope just below the jump flat on my back. It knocked the wind out of me. But after getting my strength back I went back up and did it a second time. I still fell down a second time but a little further down the slope. I won a prize of twenty-five cents just for entering.

One summer about 1938 we listened to the Joe Lewis-Max Schmelling second fight. In the first fight the German, Schmelling, had defeated Lewis and this was the return match being broadcast over radio. It was on a Saturday or Sunday, all the men were out on the front lawns along the row of houses in front of my grandpa Craig's house, just a block behind ours. All were listening to this fight. My brother and I were dancing around jabbing at each other as Joe Lewis won a knockout over Schmelling (first round). What excitement all these men felt as Lewis regained the world championship from the German. The aftermath of World War I and its bitterness seemed to be enmeshed in the boxing match.

At Christmas time after opening our own presents I would go up to Keith Craig's, Bob Patterson's, Bob Lute's and A.R. Campbell's—all friends in the same grade, to see what new toys they got for Christmas and to play with their toys. Then they would come down and play with ours. How exciting Christmas' was as we shared it with our friends.

Along about the fifth or sixth grade, "A Pal Night," was held at the only theater in town. "Pal Night" was a special occasion—a Thursday on which you could take someone else to the movies for the price of one ticket. I had a crush on a young girl, my age (11 years old), Patty Gratton. One week I would take Patty, then the next week, she would take me. Among the movies that I recall at that time was "Mutiny on the Bounty."

Across the highway from where we lived, was the American Legion Field. During the summer I watched my dad play as the catcher on the town baseball team. It used to be a big event in those small towns when Cascade played Donnelly, McCall, Midvale, Cambridge or New Meadows. Everyone would go and cheer for the home team. Men would be drinking beer in the stands, and the women sitting and talking to each other. They were big community events and everyone shared in the pride of the local team.

One of the exciting moments in Cascade was the Fourth of July celebration with the greased pole contest and the greased pig contest. They'd let the greased pigs loose and then all the kids in town would try to catch them. There were also foot races at which Bob and I were pretty good. We won some cash prizes.

Among the exciting experiences of that small town were the numerous fistfights among men who, after drinking, would be fighting in the middle of the street on Saturday nights, out in front of the saloons. But more vividly, I can recall a fight just across the alley from our house where two women, next-door neighbors, got into a fight between themselves. They were tearing each other's hair, scratching each other's faces, blood was running down the faces of both of them, they were screaming at each other, cursing, and yelling. I felt terrified and sick to my stomach, but I didn't leave the scene. I stayed and watched the entire mess.

I am reminded of an anthropologist by the name of Ruth Benedict who contrasted two major cultures. One was typified as Apollonian and the other as Dionysian. The Apollonian culture is an orderly, conservative, responsible, and God-fearing society. The Dionysian, by contrast, is fun loving, irresponsible, disorderly, and living-for-the-moment. When my mother and father were married it linked together two highly different family styles. My Mother's (the Logues-Harwoods) was the Apollonian-type: hard-working, God-fearing, stable, respected, responsible farm people. The Craig family was just the opposite: lumberjacks, hard drinking, sports loving, irresponsible, and well liked. This unlikely linkage of families had a predictable outcome—divorce, for my parents when I was 12 years old.

Cascade Club – Far right, about 1936 (Dad's bar)

After the divorce (I never saw my father again until just before his death some thirty-five years later) my mother became a sales clerk in the C. C. Anderson Department store in Cascade. I can remember coming home from school and having to put the potatoes in the oven to bake. When my mother got home, she put on the soft-boiled eggs. It seemed like our meals were day after day monotonously, soft-boiled eggs on top of potatoes. During that period of time either Bob or I forgot to turn off the stove one day when we were supposed to; the potatoes burned up in the oven and the smoke rolled through the house. It took my mother days and days to finally clean it out washing all the woodwork in the entire house.

A year later my mother decided to go to Boise, Idaho to attend a secretarial school. She and my brother Bob moved in with my Grandma Lambie at John Shore's home on 10th and Fort Street in Boise, where grandma was working as a housekeeper. I was sent to my uncle Ted Harwoods' home in McCall, Idaho, 35 miles north of Cascade where I was to spend a year with his family.

On the positive side of this change, I began to get some recognition in sports during the seventh grade, as I started playing basketball. Apparently my size was adequate at that point because I was able to make the first string of the seventh and eighth grade combined team in McCall. I felt very important and happy as my new schoolmates began accepting me.

Another positive experience was getting a job as a caddie at the Payette Lakes golf course. In my spare time I learned to play the golf course with a two-iron, with which I did everything—putting, driving, approaching. How I enjoyed the smell of the pines and the beauty of that golf course. It was so enjoyable to walk around with the men, carrying their clubs, listening to their conversations and then being paid for it. After work I would buy soft drinks in the clubhouse. It was very satisfying to be employed and earning my own money. That was my first paying job.

Another great experience was learning to ski in McCall. The Engan brothers, (Alf, Cory and Sverre), were all in McCall that year. Alf had been the national amateur U.S. jumping champion (and was a later developer of the Alta ski resort in Utah). Cory took on the responsibility of teaching the young town kids to ski. He was quite good and I received some very good instruction that year. How I thrilled to the freedom of flight down those steep slopes and learning to soar off the ski jumps. There was such excitement and satisfaction in that activity. Then we would go into the ski lodge and have a hotdog or hamburger or chili. The smell of cooking food, hot ski-wax and the warm fire in the big fireplace congealed into unforgettable warmness. I got to be pretty good in skiing to the point where I could schuss the hills without falling and could begin doing more advanced parallel skiing.

Engen brothers, McCall, Idaho 1940

Then there was ice-skating on Payette Lake which brings back a memory of a gloomy, chilling scene. One fellow broke through the ice while I was there and drowned. I can remember the gray winter afternoon with men out in a boat using nets in trying to locate his body. His friend, who had broken through at the same time, had been able to continue breaking the ice until he got to harder ice and was able to break out.

Brown's Tie and Lumber Mill – McCall, Idaho

About two months later, when the ice had gone off the lake, I was out on the lake in front of the lumber mill, hopping around from log to log in the mill pond where the logs were floating, ready to be hauled up into the saw mill. I was enjoying it and feeling quite proud about my ability when all of a sudden I came to the end of the logs. I lost my balance on the last log and then fell into the near freezing water. I flailed around wildly with my arms and then finally was able to grab a hold of a log. Another fellow in the area saw my predicament He rushed over and was able to pull me out on top of several logs and then help me up to the mill. I stood shivering, half-frozen, in front of the roaring furnace where the sawdust was being burned, until my Uncle Ted came to get me.

That summer (1940), I left McCall, and rejoined my mother and brother, now living in Boise. Pleasant memories of childhood in Valley County often intrude into the present. Wanting our children and grandchildren to have a sense of its beauty and importance to us, my brother Bob and I recently held a joint family reunion in Cascade at the lovely Ashley Inn—located just across the street from where we had lived. We are getting frequent requests to hold another in Cascade.

Wanting to pay back to Valley County for the rich inheritance of my childhood I decided to make a contribution by indexing the vital records of Valley County including cemetery, marriage, death, obituaries and pioneer data. These can be found at the libraries in Cascade and McCall and the Salt Lake Genealogical Library as well as on several web sites. Valley County Idaho – a great place for a boy to grow up.

#### About the Author

Wes served in the U.S. Navy and Coast Guard from 1945-51. Utilizing the G.I. Bill and governmental fellowships he completed a Ph.D. in Rural Sociology at Cornell University in 1967. He was a professor for North Carolina State Univ. and Brigham Young University from where he retired in 1987. His next career was that of a Clinical Social Worker (M.S.W. from Univ. of Utah at age 50) working with adults abused as children and completing his career working with wayward youth in Wilderness Programs in Southern Utah. He and his wife (Mary Jo) had six children. As a family they lived in Spanish speaking countries for ten years (Guatemala, Peru, Spain, Venezuela). He retired at age 82, now lives in Saint George, Utah.

### Robert Richmond - Memories - Cabarton, Cascade

There (Newcastle, Wyoming) my mother met Dad and the two of them got married on May 13th, 1906. That union had 5 children. The first child was named Pauline and was born in Newcastle, and the rest named Ruby, Jack, Bob and Kathryn were born in Sheridan. (Bob was born in 1919)

I have faint memories back as far as when I was 3 years old. Most of the things about Mother that I recall best were after we all had moved to Cabarton, Idaho, where we lived in a Union Pacific house. At first Mom was very sad to be stuck up in a little Boise Payette lumber company village. As time went by, she developed a deep love for all the residents. Even though she had no modern conveniences, she cooked and fed all of us, washed and ironed all of our clothes, cared for all of us when we were well or sick. She came to be the village midwife. We were pretty isolated there and the only doctor in that area lived 7 miles away in Cascade. If one of the village ladies started to have labor pains, her husband would come for Mom and then go the pool had which had the only telephone in _town to_ call the _doctor._ Most of that time that was Dr. Roscoe Ward. In the winter, the road between Cabarton and Cascade was closed by snow, so he would have come by horseback. I can vividly picture him arriving on a buckskin horse with his black medicine bag in one hand. He wore a big Stetson hat and a sheepskin coat. His German police dog ran along beside the horse. It looked like the Marlboro cigarette man we used to see in the magazines. Most always, by the time he got the patient, Mom would have taken care of the delivery and cleaned everything up. There were a number of children that had Alice for a first or second name.

Even though she had all our family to feed and keep clean, she always had a helping hand for anyone that needed help. She even sometimes cooked in the BPL dining room where the bachelors were fed. She saw to it that we all got to school and had our homework done. She was always home when school let out. She had a deep love for any child in town. She seemed like a grandmother to them.

I remember so well the meals she used to turn out from her coal or lumber burning stove. She made the best bread I have ever eaten. So were her cakes, pies and sometimes doughnuts. She always had food to share for others that needed help. When we were coming out of the long depression there was a butcher (George Harwood) that had a store in Cascade. He had rigged up an icebox on the back of his pickup and filled up with various cuts of meat. His half-sister named Dorothy Lambie would drive to Cabarton _every_ Wednesday and go from door to door selling the meat. One Monday Mom would buy a beef roast and the next week a port roast. In those days we had breakfast, dinner and supper. So, for Sunday dinner, we had one or the other of those meats. Then for supper we would have sandwich of meat and sliced onions on homemade bread.

Cabarton was located 7 miles south of Cascade on the Idaho Northern Branch of the Union Pacific railroad and about one half of a mile from the north fork of the Payette River. The town was named after Mr. C.A. Barton, the bull-of-the-woods for the Boise Payette Lumber Company that was generally known as the BPL. There were probably 35-40 small houses being used by married employees and their family. There were also several buildings called bunkhouses where the single employees lived. BPL furnished each resident with the best water in the country; clear, cold and tasteless. Also, there was a Company Store where you could buy some basic foods such as sugar, coffee, and flour, as well as Levis and lumberjack clothing for the men. Employees could go to the timekeepers office and sign up for what were known as coupon books in $5.00 or $10.00 amounts and were legal _tender_ in the store so you could pay for your purchases and the amount of coupon books you obtained would be deducted from your next pay check. Even though my Dad did not work for the BPL, we were also permitted to use this system, and every payday we reimbursed them in cash for the amount we had obtained. It was a successful operation.

We had a two-room school located at the North end of town. When business was good, we used both rooms - each with a teacher. When times got tough, we used only one room and one teacher. I completed all of my elementary studies there, and even was tutored there for the first half of a year when I was registered as a student for high school at Cascade. Even that it was only 7 miles away, it was impossible to live at home during the school term because the roads were not kept open in the winter so students would find some Cascade family to board with or rent a house to use until spring arrived.

Electric power did not reach us until about 1929. Until that time, we used kerosene or gas lanterns for light after the sunset. In the winter, we went to bed quite early most of the time. With no radios or TV, we had to make up all our own entertainment. There was a two-storied building called the pool hall where all the social events took place. On the top floor, there was a room big enough to be used as a dance hall. Benches all around the floor acted as a good place to put the youngsters on to sleep while their parents danced. The room also served as a place to hold Sunday school as well as our annual Christmas program, put on by the school children. The main floor had 2 pool tables, 3 card tables and a soda fountain. The pool hall was a natural place to hold a lot of activities in.

Holidays were always looked for with great anticipation. Most holidays were help on the legal day instead of being held on Friday or Monday, as they are now, so people can get a 3-day holiday instead of one. Christmas and July 4th were two exceptions. I recall one Christmas with great clarity. I sat down on the bench by the current Santa Claus and engaged him in conversation. I happened to look at a part of his arm that was not covered by a sleeve and discovered Santa's hairy arm looked a lot like my Dad's. I began to smell a rat, but I was cagey enough not to let on about my observation, so I could work the old Santa Claus thing for a number of extra years.

With no electricity, radio or TV, the residents of our little logging community had to make their own entertainment with what resources _were_ available. A lot of it was just getting together with our couples to eat or play cards, and once in awhile a dance.

Dances were held in the building call the Pool Hall. It was run by a man named AI Nelson. He and his mother lived in the upper floor. Several times a year, there would be a dance attended by most of the families, including their children. When the music started, the kids were placed on the benches surrounding the floor where they would sleep until the end.

The BPL usually had one or two lumber camps out where the trees were. They would only be about 5 to 10 miles from Cabarton. Even at the short distance, they were fairly isolated because there might not be a road and if there was a road, not many owned automobiles. So on a dance night, the BPL would send one of their steam engines and a flat car out over their own railroad to the camp to bring in all the residents that wanted to go. Everyone danced until about midnight and then the camp people boarded the flat car again for the trip to their home.

Another activity was the arrival of the salesman peddling aluminum pots and pans. He would convince one of the women to buy the necessary food and cook a meal in his wares. Then all the rest of the married women were invited over for a dinner and later the salesman took orders for his pots and pans. It must have been successful as the peddlers kept coming back every other year for quite a long time. Then there were the waffle parties the ladies held. It seems almost every family had their secret recipe, which they guarded carefully. A wife would prepare and bake the waffles which were eaten and then those in attendance would try and figure out what the contents of the batter were.

To me the highlight social affair of the year was the Masonic picnic that was held each year in July or August at McCall, Cascade _or_ Smiths Ferry. The organizers planned activities for all in attendance from the youngest child to the oldest adult. There were races, including 3 legged ones, where two people would stand side-by-side and tie their joined legs together and then run. Also, the women had a fat lady race, a shoe kicking contest where they would put their toes in a shoe and see how far they could kick it. Then, there was the rolling -pin toss. A dummy of a man would be hung up in a tree and the ladies would take turns throwing a rolling pin at it—shades of Maggie and Jiggs. However, to me the greatest part of the picnic was the food and ice cream. There would be 3 aluminum containers filled with strawberry, chocolate and vanilla ice cream and we could have all the _cones_ we could eat for free. I know I ate far more than any other kids. I still love ice cream. We may not have had all the modern conveniences back in those happy days that are available today, but I would not have traded my experiences as a child in Cabarton for all the tea in China.

We arrived at Cabarton by the local train in 1923. The railroad had a few homes for their employees. The one we had was made up of two railroad outfit cars joined in the center. Each car was about 8 by 40 feet. That meant we had outside dimensions of 16 by 40 feet, a total of 640 square feet of room for 2 adults and 5 children. No wonder my Mother took a look and started to cry. I heard she did that for the first two months we were there. By then, she began to get acquainted with the other mothers and to eventually love our new life.

The house had a kitchen, dining room, living room and one bedroom. In order for everyone to have a place to sleep, and additional room was attached to one side of the living room large enough to hold two beds. We called it the bullpen because that is where all the males slept. My two elder sisters slept in a bed at one end of the living room. There was a screened in porch attached to the far end of the living room and their bed was moved out there in the summer. They would go to Cascade or Wyoming and board and room during the school year. They both married early and after that we were not so crowded. My parents and my baby sister enjoyed the only bedroom outside of the bullpen.

The kitchen had a stove that burned either coal or wood. My mother was an excellent cook and she made the very best bread I have ever eaten. There was no thermometer on the stove, so she just opened the oven, stuck her arm inside and could tell when it was hot enough to bake the bread.

There was a water tap, also, in the kitchen. The BPL furnished us with that without any charge. We had a sink and the waste water pipe that drained out to a slough next to the railroad. I vividly remember one time, when the local bootlegger called upon us. After _we_ visited for a while, my mom made him a cold beef sandwich, which he shared with his dog. When he left, he gave my Mom a Mason quart jar of his whiskey. Mom thanked him politely, and when he was gone, she dumped all of it in the sink and it eventually arrived in the slough. My dad remarked later that for two weeks _we had the_ happiest frogs in Valley County.

The living room had a coal burning upright stove. It did a fair job of keeping us warm. Each night before retiring, Dad would do what he called banking the fire. There would be a bed of coals in it, and he would select several large pieces of coal on top of them, shut the draft and damper. Then he would get a piece of kindling and make shavings out of it. The first thing in the morning, when it was cold, he would open the damper and drafts in the living room stove and light the kindling in the kitchen stove, add more pieces of wood and coal and in no time at all we could feel the house warm up.

There was no insulation in our house. The wall, ceiling and floors were nothing but _wood._ The _roof_ was covered with tarpaper, which did an excellent job keeping rain and snow from getting through. In spite of that, plus our limited heating ability, I do not ever remember being very cold while inside- even when the outside temperature plunged below zero quite frequently in the winter.

Our living room had a few chairs and a library table. We used that for our radio stand. In our dining room, we had a large table, chairs and a bench. We also had a couch that could double as a bed when we needed it.

For many years, the only light was a number of kerosene lamps. We all got used to going to bed early in the winter. During the Holiday season, we would go out in the woods and cut our own Christmas tree. We had about a dozen red and green candles that were secured to the limbs of the tree by a clip. We only burned them a few minutes at a time. I hesitate to think what would have happened if they would ever have caught our tree on fire. Fortunately, the trees were very fresh and some way we escaped any fire.

In about 1928, the Cascade Electric _Co_ built a power line all the 7 miles to Cabarton. It cost $16.00 for each line drop at our home, so we only had one. It was in the dining room, My dad made an antenna outside the living room and brought our radio out of the dining room and connected it to our extended electric wiring. So now, we all could sit in the living room and enjoy the radio. We spent many happy hours eating popcorn and listening to the various program such as Amos and Andy and musical shows.

We did not have indoor plumbing all those years. Instead, we had an outdoor privy about 75 from our house. It served its use, but there was no lingering in it when the winter weather turned cold.

Although there were several houses in Cabarton, we did not have any street address. Everyone knew who lived where. If asked about it, my Dad would say we lived on Plum Street. What he really meant was that our street ran plumb through the town.

The BPL owned their railroad that ran to the East and West mountains where they harvested logs to be shipped to the mill at Emmett. Eventually, they ran out of trees so they loaded all of the houses in town on railroad flat cars and moved them 20 miles north on the railroad and built another town they named MacGregor after the then bull-of-the-woods, Mr. E.C. MacGregor. That village lasted only about 5 years when the entire BPL operations were moved to New Meadows, Idaho. Our company house was retired and my parent bought their own home. It was modern by comparison to our old home. It had electricity in all rooms, an inside bathroom and even a telephone. My father passed away after that move, but my mother lived in New Meadows for about 25 years before she moved to Boise and spent the rest of her years there.

#### MY CABARTON SCHOOL

Our little schoolhouse sat up on a small hill at the north end of town. From there, we had a pretty good view of the village. It was a board building with two rooms. One was used for the first 4 years, and the other for the 4 upper grades. Each room had their own teacher except when the Depression struck and many residents had to move out and go looking for work in other locations. Those left behind, saw their school children all in the same room.

During the time I was a student there, I had several different teachers. I do not remember all of them, but one impressed me so much that I still recall how well she instructed us both with the required subjects as well as a number of other activities. Her name was Olive Theresa Billows. She was a widow with two adult children living on their own.

One day, she thought we needed more exercise. She prevailed on the Boise Payette Lumber Company to smooth out our playground and place backstops with a metal circular rim at each end of the court so we could play basketball. She also taught us the rules of the game.

One Saturday, we all gathered at school and two students were chose to be Captains. They in turn chose other children for their team, and the game was on. It continued on time until near the end of the game. The score was 18 to 18. Finally team A had a basket scored and they won the game 20 to 18. The only odd thing was that one of the players on team B, in the head of the competition made a basket at the end of the court thus giving team A 2 points and the victory.

Mrs. Billows decided we should have a track meet. None of us had any idea of what that was about, so she again started teaching us on a new subject. Again, with the help of the BPL, and area was leveled off for such activities as high and long jump, pole vaulting, various length _races,_ a shot-put with a rather large ball of lead, a javelin throw with a small pole about 5 feet long and with a nail stuck in one end, and a discus throw with the lid of a 2 pound coffee can as the discus.

On the chosen Saturday, we all met at the school ground cheering on the young athletes. Bach winner won either a red, white, or blue ribbon indicating first, second, or third place in their sport. A good time was had by all.

I got in on one other activity during those years. A teacher felt she had control over all of us, not only all day, but until we were home.

One day after school, one of the other students named Walter (who was commonly known as Fat for a good reason) and I got in a fight. I have no idea about what it was that we were fighting about. Anyway, it didn't last very long and the only evidence was that I had a small scratch on my throat.

The next morning, Mrs. Billows called Fat and me up to her desk and asked if we had been fighting. We were caught, so there was no denying it. She wanted to know what it was about and who started it. I said Fat started it and he said I did. Mrs. Billows said we would just have a regular trial and have the court decide who was guilty. She appointed a judge, an attorney for each of us, and a 6-member jury. Trial was set for the following day.

Before going to school the next day, I prepared myself by enlarging the size of my wound with iodine so that it looked much larger than it really was

Court was called in order and as in the case of a real trial; each called their client to the stand where they swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. Questioning and answering began followed by cross-questioning. After that, each attorney was permitted to sum up his case to the jury, then they adjourned to another room to make their decision.

In due time, the jury returned and told the judge they had reached the verdict. Fat, as the defendant, was asked to stand. The verdict was read and Fat was acquitted. I was crushed, and I had no way to do anything but live by the decision. We shook hands and the case was closed.

That trial taught all of us so much better than reading a textbook as to how our courts worked. It was a first-class example, which I have remembered all my adult life. Maybe I didn't agree with the jury, but I lived by their decision. Fat and I were friends ever since.

After graduation from the 8th grade, I was ready for high school. Cascade was 7 miles from Cabarton and the roads were not kept open during the winter. So, Mrs. Billows agreed to get my lessons from Cascade High and tutor me the first half of my freshman year. After that, I moved to Cascade and obtained board and room with another family. When school resumed, I found out that I was up, and in some cases ahead, of the other students in my class.

Early on, after meeting Mrs. Billows, I believed she was one of the smartest teachers I had ever known. Remembering going through those things I have written about, as well as other activities by her, I still have the same opinion.

I spent 15 long winters in Cabarton and MacGregor, Idaho. Most of them were what I would call bad ones. That was quite a long time ago and my memories are those of a 3 to 18 year old child.

In those days, we did not have television or very much radio. There was no such thing as a weather forecast then. I remember one time, when we were living in Cabarton, a relief agent and my dad were sitting in the depot talking. The agent looked out the window and said, "It sure looks like it's going to snow soon". My dad replied, "My boy, the only kind of a person that tries to predict the weather in this area is either a newcomer or a fool."

I still have some clear memories of those winters. It seems to me that the longer I live the deeper the snow used to be. Let me tell you of an adventure we had one winter in about 1930.

Never will I forget how my mother looked when I came through the door (after a difficult scary overnight experience at a mine.) Even though she had been assured the night before we were ok, she must have cried for hours and her face was all blue. She just wanted to see us herself so she could start to relax. Her concern for us was so deep, it made me realize how much love she had for me. Right then and there, I resolved I would try to be that kind of parent when I became a father.

#### THE DEER SLAYER

While living in Wyoming, my dad developed a love for the outdoor life. He spent as much time as he could fishing and hunting in the Bighorn Mountains just west of Sheridan. When I was quite small, I enjoyed listening to him describe his trips. I hoped that someday I would be able to go there myself. It did not happen until after I retired from the Union Pacific.

While Dad was hunting in the Big Horns, he killed an antelope. He never missed an opportunity to tell us about it. So, when we moved to Cabarton, Idaho in 1923, he was back in the hills where there was a lot of fishing and hunting available. Near our town, there was Fawn Creek, Clear Creek and Skunk Creek. A little ways east of _Cascade_ Big Creek and Johnson Creek near Stibnite were easy to reach. We spent a lot of time fishing on those waters. I remember when we would go out camping and the folks would trip bough from the Fir trees and make a mattress out of them, and placing a tarp and bedding on top for us to sleep in. It smelled like Heaven to us.

Even though Dad liked to fish, his first love was hunting. He had a 12 gauge shotgun and a 25-35 rifle. Each September he would buy a box of shells and go out practicing his aim. The day the deer season opened he was out looking for something to shoot. My mom would wash out a five pound sugar sack for Dad to take with him. It was to be used to carry the deer liver in it if the hunt was successful. Even though he went out each fall, that only happened twice. How well I remember those times.

The first hunt took place in about 1929. My dad and a man named Art Campbell, a Gyppo lumberjack, went up to lower Grassy Flat to try their luck. Art was a very large man with a head of hair that always looked like it should be combed. He had one good eye, but the other one was sort of cock-eyed and bloodshot. Art had a portable steam engine called a Donkey. He could move it around in the mountains to furnish power to pull logs from the hills to a loading sight for movement to a mill. Naturally, he was nicknamed Donkey Campbell.

Dad and Donkey were off to the hunt. They walked some distance from where the car was parked. Dad sat down with his back up against a tree where he could survey a little clearing. Art went down the ridge about a mile farther and picked out a place to sit. Suddenly, from across the clearing, a deer walked out of the woods. Dad drew a bead at it and fired his gun. A miss! The deer took off on a dead run down the ridge. Dad said a few naughty words and while he was wondering what to do, another deer came out just like the first one. Another careful aim and shot. Another miss! That deer also took off on a dead run down the edge. Dad was fit to be tied because of those easy misses. What to do now? Would you believe another deer, a 5-point buck came out in to the meadow! Once more Dad carefully aimed and pulled the trigger. The buck dropped dead in his tracks. Dad jumped up, ran to the fallen deer and cut its neck. He then strung up the buck in a tree and dressed it out.

While that project was going on, Dad heard a loud scream. He looked around and saw Art approaching on a dead run. His hair was standing straight up. He had his gun in one hand and his knife in the other. He was covered from top to bottom by blood. His bad eye was looking one way and the good eye the other. My dad said his first thought was whether he should shoot Art or run for it. Art came to a stop and explained that the first deer missed ran right down to him and he shot it. Before he could do anything more, the second deer showed up in a dead run. Not knowing what was going on with Dad up the mountain, Art figured he should get that deer for Dad. So he killed it. Now they _were_ in a pickle—3 deer and 2 hunters. They decided to stay where they were until dark and then return to Cabarton where no one would see they had one too many deer. That is what they did and no one knew anything was wrong until told about it several months later. No one blamed them for what they did. Times were tough, and another deer could furnish a lot of meat for one of the residents. The next lunch Mom and Dad ate deer liver and onions. I had a bowl of Corn Flakes!

It was several years later when Dad got his next and last deer. We were still living in Cabarton when the word got out that the deer in Garden Valley were coming down from the mountains because of a heavy snowstorm. Dad got Les Lyle, the night watchman for the Union Pacific's steam engine which laid over all night before returning the next day to Emmett. They took off early one day and arrived in Garden Valley where they encountered a lot of deer right down the road. In no time, they each had a deer to bring home. Not as exciting as the first deer got, but still a treat to those that like venison. The next day, Mom and Dad had deer liver and onions for lunch. I had another bowl of Corn Flakes!

#### _THE_ , MODEL A

In 1929 my folks ordered an automobile from the Cascade Auto. It was for that year's Ford two door sedan Model A. In due time we were notified the car had arrived by train to Cascade. We rushed up there as fast as we could to pick it up. There were two cars in the boxcar at the depot, one silver and one maroon in color. As we had ordered first, we had our pick of color. My folks wanted the maroon one. The papers were signed and we took off for Cabarton, the proud owners of a brand new car.

As a young lad, I had several experiences with that car. One day I was down at the rip track on the railroad where my dad worked. He handed me the keys to our car and told me to drive it from home down to his office. I was 14 years old. Driver's licenses were not yet required. I made the trip OK and was I ever proud of my first solo drive! I put quite a lot of miles on that baby later on, like driving to school and to dances in Long Valley.

One night I had been to a _dance_ and was driving from Donnelly to McGregor, a distance of 2 miles. As I turned off Highway 55 to take the road home, a cow tried to cross in front of me. I hit her. She contacted me on my left side fender. By the time I got out of the car, the cow was trotting away, apparently not too injured. I continued on home and parked under the trees around our home. As I got out of the car I could see a light shining at the top of one of the trees. Where did that come from? I looked at the left front headlight. It was installed between the fender and the hood and the beam of light was focused on the tree as a result of being hit by that cow. It only took a small tug to bring the beam down to where it belonged and no one would have noticed if I hadn't told them.

On another occasion, I had driven to Lake Fork where I was going to play at a dance at the Finn Hall. It was February and this was going to be a Valentines Ball. No one had anything like anti-freeze in the radiators. Before you took off from home, you would fill it with hot water when you had finished your drive, you would drain the radiator. It worked good. Well, it was pretty cold that night, but I reasoned I would only be playing for about three hours and surely the water wouldn't freeze in that time. So, I didn't bother to drain the radiator.

After the dance I started driving home. Everything was OK until I got about 1 mile from Donnelly and the radiator started to steam. I knew I had been frozen up. I limped in to town and stopped at the pool hall. I went inside and asked if someone there could help me thaw out my car. One man said he would. He obtained a board about 6 feet long and got 2 tin cans with no lid and filled them with gasoline. He took this out to my car. He laid the board on the front bumper and placed the cans on it. I started the car and he lit the gasoline. The radiator fan sucked the hot flames through the grill and in no time we were thawed out. I thanked the man and continued home. There I drained the car and everything was as good as new. My folks drove that car several years longer and the last thing I heard about it, someone had made it into a pickup.

I never realized my father was musically inclined until just a few years ago when I found out his father was a musical man and played the violin.

When I was quite young, my dad bought me an upright piano. Our schoolteacher, Mrs. Billows could play and give lessons on that instrument and my folks signed me up. She taught me how to read music notes, keep time, etc. I got to where I could play a number of songs and I entertained the whole family.

One Christmas, my folks bought me an ocarina. It was nicknamed a sweet potato because of its shape. It had 8 holes in it, so you could only play one octave of whole notes. That really reduces the number of songs you can play and I must have driven everyone crazy listening to the same song time after time.

One day, I told my dad I wanted a saxophone. Rudy Vallee was a very popular singer and sax player and I was one of his fans. My dad talked to someone about buying me a sax, but whoever he was talking to told him if I wanted to learn any instrument, it should be a trumpet because it always had many more lead parts to play in a band than a sax. So, my dad bought me a trumpet.

I started blowing in to the mouthpiece and discovered I couldn't make a sound. After much trying, I discovered how to make a sort of pffft with my lips and out would come a note. The next thing I discovered was that not one soul in Cascade knew how to play a trumpet. Several weeks went by before I found a kid that had taken lessons on one for a while, but had given it up. He still had his book of lessons and gave them to me. Eventually, I was able to play just about any piece of music that I could get my hands on. We lived up on top of a hill that overlooked all of Cascade and I spent many an hour in the evening serenading the town. I do not know how the residents could stand it, but no one ever complained to me.

When I was a junior in high school, we had a new teacher show at the start of the year. He was going to teach several classes including music. He was a sort of funny guy with an erect stance and a sort of a sissy walk. We immediately nicknamed him "Waddey". His name was Mr. Watkins.

At the start of classes, I was the only kid that could play any instrument. Waddey was not going to let that stop him from starting up a band. He went to working on various students to try to convince their parents they wanted to get a band instrument to learn and play so they could get a credit in music and march in the band. He was successful! Suddenly, we had 20 students with instruments taking lessons from Waddy. We had a drum majorette, 2 trombones, a snare drummer, a base drummer, two alto horns, several saxophones and clarinets, a bass horn, a tuba, cornet and a trumpet. All told, a 20-piece band.

The next thing we needed was uniforms. So, we all were fitted and the uniforms were ordered. They were white pants, a purple cape, white shirts and purple ties and a snappy cap with a visor and white tops. We looked pretty darn sharp!

Now that we all had instruments and could play a few snappy marches, the next thing we had to learn was how to play and march at the same time. That took a little while to master, but we made it.

Later on, near the school term end, there was some kind of celebration in town and we were asked to participate. So, one day, with our drum majorette leading us and Waddy strutting along side in his brand new uniform, we marched down Main Street with parents cheering and others clapping. We went from one end of town to the next. Everything went ok and we only missed a few beats when our bass drum player tripped and went head first over his drum, before he could recover and get on his feet! Cascade had a real marching band and Old Waddy had his 15 minutes of fame!

#### About the author

Bob (Robert L. Richmond) started his career with Union Pacific Railroad in 1939 as a telegrapher-agent. He served in the Air Force during WWII. Returning to the Union Pacific he rose to become the Vice-President of Operations in 1981. A remarkable career moving from the lowest paid job to number two in the company! He went from living in a box car for the railroad to having his own railroad car, which carried the name "Cabarton". It is reported that he used to delight when the lawyers and other railroad officials, with various educational degrees hung proudly in their offices, would be summoned to his office where he proudly had hung on his wall his Donnelly High School diploma! He loved to tell people he graduated in the top ten of his class. (There were a total of nine students). Bob married Donna Beth when she was attending Cascade High School. They had two children. Bob died on February 27, 2012.
