Ruth Burns McBride

MY PIONEER MOTHER
by Claude Duval McBride

Ruth Burns McBride

My mother, Ruth Burns McBride, was born in the little town of Eden in Ogden Valley in northern Utah, in 1857. Her parents were Enoch Burns and Elizabeth Jan Pierce Burns, early Utah pioneers from Canada.

Ruth learned the Three R’s in the little school in Eden. She was a beautiful girl and grew up to be a very intelligent and refined young lady, and married my father, Peter H. McBride in 1874 in the Salt Lake Temple. My father had landed in Eden with his widowed mother and her five children after walking across the plains from Iowa as immigrants from Scotland and converts to the Mormon Church. They had come with the Martin Handcart Company, and Peter's father, Robert McBride had died and been buried in a grave with fourteen others at the upper crossing of the Platte river in western Wyoming territory.

My parents were called to go south into southern Utah, and then Arizona Territory to help colonize and develop communities when their first son, Robert Franklin was less than two years old. With eight other young couples they left Ogden Valley in covered wagons in the spring of 1877 to make their way to the United Order settlement called Orderville that was just getting started in southern Utah. Father's mission was to organize and develop musical and dramatic groups in the emerging Mormon communities wherever he went. Their first stop was to be Toquerville along the Virgin river. Before they arrived there, however their second son, Howard was born as they rested a day at Ash Creek a few miles south of what is now Cedar City. Howard was born, not in a manger, but in a covered wagon in the lonely hills of southern Utah. Like Mary of old, Mother Ruth was a chosen spirit for a wonderful mission as devoted companion and mother on the western frontier.

They reached Toquerville in a few days. There they met with the few saints who had started building rock houses and clearing the land and building ditches for irrigation. Father met with them in church and led the singing, and then organized a small choir group.

From Toquerville they made their way around the end of the plateau to Orderville. Here was one of the first experiments in Communal Living by the saints. The government was the United Order. All work was done under the United Order system. All produce went into the United Storehouse, and supplies were issued on the basis of need to all members of the community.

Mother worked with the sisters putting up fruit and vegetables, making quilts, weaving rugs, cleaning and carding wool, spinning yarn and making homespun clothing for the storehouse. Father worked in the fields, the rock quarry and the timber getting out stone and logs for building houses, a church and school house. Along with his manual labors he conducted the singing in Sunday School and Sacrament meeting and organized a choir and other singing groups.
After a year at Orderville my parents left for Kanab, another new settlement farther south. They said they soon got sick of the United Order because the lazy ones shared everything with the ambitious ones. The “workers” fed the “drones”. Others deserted the United Order also, and it was abandoned.

At Kanab father organized singing groups and led the singing in Sunday School, and mother worked with the sisters in Relief Society and Primary work, and in the Sunday School. She and her two sons, Frank and Howard were always at the side of father in everything he had to do.

The next spring they left Kanab and made their way to St. George thinking they could return to Ogden Valley. But there they met Brigham Young who told them their mission was not finished, and directed them to go on into Arizona and work with the new Mormon communities that were being settled in that area. With a few others they journeyed southward, crossed the Colorado at Lee's Ferry, and made their way, after weeks of slow and laborious traveling, and settled down at a place called Show Low. From there they went to Forest Dale near what is now Snowflake. Here they settled down to clear the land and build homes. Within three years this hardy band of pioneers had built log homes, cleared the land, built a public building they could use for church and school, and set up a town council. But again they were forced to move on. This time the Indians drove them out. Leaving their new homes and land they journeyed southward into the desert country of southeastern Arizona Territory and settled along the Gila. River. There they homesteaded the desert land, cleared off the mesquite, cactus and chaparral, dammed of the small river, built canals to carry the water to their thirsty lands and built adobe homes. It was near the little town of Pima, a Mormon settlement, but mixed with other adventurers from parts outside of Utah. Other towns were being settled in the Gila Valley, mostly by Mormons. Soon father was busy with his music work, and mother with her homemaking and family raising.

This became their permanent home. Little by little they cleared the land organized wards, developed church auxiliaries, and ultimately a stake, the St. Joseph Stake of Zion. Father organized choirs, quartettes, choruses, cantatas and became the stake chorister. He made his visits to each of the new wards to organize and develop choirs and other musical groups, and provided the music and choir numbers for the stake conferences as the years came along.

Mother was very talented and active in ward and community affairs. She played leading roles in some of father's cantatas and dramas, and was president of the Relief Society, the Primary and the Young Womens’ Mutual Improvement Association, and teacher in the Sunday School.

Soon the church authorities from Salt Lake City visited the valley and advised the brethren to take additional wives, under “The New and Everlasting Covenant.” Many of the good and faithful brethren followed their admonition and took one or more wives. Father and mother, being thoroughly devoted and loyal to their church and its leaders, considered the matter very seriously, but decided to disregard the advice of the church and its leaders. They were deeply devoted companions in life, and could not see fit to interfere with that sacred and romantic relationship. Again the church apostles came the next year for conference, and admonished the brethren to take additional wives as they were doing. More of the good brethren espoused the doctrine of polygamy and took additional wives. Still mother and father hesitated to follow their admonition. A third time the apostles came with the same advice. Finally mother told father that perhaps it was the thing to do, since it had been "revealed" to the prophet, and the general authorities were doing it, it must be what the Lord required of his faithful followers.

Father was a talented and handsome man, and more than one of his singing; and performing young ladies would not turn down a chance to become his second wife, or his third or fourth. The young lady he chose was Laura Lewis, a beautiful and talented girl.

So father became a polygamist,- with mother's consent,- and from these two talented and lovely women came two families of McBrides, all very talented and versatile children, who grew to be men and women of the highest caliber, each in his or her own right, very religious and spiritual minded, with high ideals and noble ambitions.

Mother gave birth to fourteen children, but raised only six of them to adulthood. Eight succumbed to childhood diseases. Laura raised six of her eight children.

Proving up on the old homestead, clearing it and bringing the land under cultivation with water brought from the river in canals, proved to be a lifelong task for mother, father and the boys. Mother was the planner and manager. The boys helped set up a mill to make adobes for the house and cellar. Mother sent to a hatchery in California for baby chicks to start in the chicken business. Then she bred up her flock year by year and became one of the leading egg producers in the valley. She and father and the boys made their daily rounds caring for the chickens, gathering the eggs, sorting and candling them and filling crates for the market at the stores in the valley.

Sometimes in the spring, when she was brooding a large batch of chicks the cats would break in and kill dozens of them in one night. Cats and skunks were a constant menace to her young chicks each year.

Mother was a great hand to plan ahead for her home and family. She prided herself on her winter vegetable garden where she raised hardy vegetables that could withstand the mild frosty nights that occasionally came along. Her spring garden was always filled with tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, cantaloupe, squash, watermelons, onions, peppers, lettuce, radishes, carrots, beets, and others. She also had some pomegranate, fig and plum bushes. Our adobe cellar, with double walls and an open air space between them kept fruits, vegetables, meats and dairy products cool in the summer and from freezing in the winter. We also had a pit outside full of sweet potatoes, carrots, turnips, beets and potatoes. On the shelves of the cellar mother stored an ample supply of bottled fruits, pans of milk, jars of cream, honey, sauerkraut, mincemeat and rounds of homemade cheese. There were also barrels of pickles, hams, bacon, flour and sugar, and baskets of fresh eggs in the cellar.

Mother also raised turkeys for thanksgiving and Christmas, pigs for hams and bacon, and made soap from fats and scraps. She had an old wooden churn for making butter, and a washer run by hand. That's where I got my start, and such a good start it was, on my way through life.

Mother had great ambitions for her farm and family. She dreamed of the farm becoming a prosperous enterprise under scientific management by one of her boys. She wanted all of her children to receive a good education, and hoped that one would specialize in scientific farm management and take over the homestead and develop it into an ideal farm.

Frank, Howard and Perle grew up and married before the schools had made much progress in the valley. They had to be satisfied with a grammar school education. But their main schooling came in the School of Life on the frontier. In that school they became Men-Among-Men in every endeavor in life into which they were cast by the challenging circumstances of that early western life.

Enoch was the semi-invalid, stricken as a baby with spinal meningitis and left with impaired speech and muscular control. He could never go to school, but always busied himself with the chores and farm work in his slow and poorly coordinated, but persistent way. He had a brilliant mind, but his impeded speech made it difficult for him to express his ideas. He was mother's constant helper and her care throughout life. She understood him better than all of us did, and knew how to care for his needs and yearnings.

With Frank, Howard and Perle married and gone from the old farm, mother centered her doting ambitions on me, to go on to college and specialize in scientific agriculture and return to take over the farm. She was my great inspiration to get an education and make something of myself. It was her ideals and ambitions in life that started me on my way to seek a college education. And it was her faith and idealism that guided me through life in many trying and discouraging situations.

And so it was that I, the youngest boy, and Bessie, my baby sister, were to be the only ones in the family to gain a formal education beyond the grammar school. We went away to school and worked our way through college, Bessie became a teacher and married a rancher and lived on a big cattle ranch in Wyoming. I became a teacher, and then a college professor, but never got back to the old homestead to develop it into a scientifically managed operation.

Mother and father lived and died for their religion, always following the advice of their church leaders and bearing their testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel and the divine calling; of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the founder of the church. Their life's ambition was to help build a temple in their frontier homeland and do their temple work in it. Their ambition was rewarded when they did their temple work in the Mesa Temple which they had helped to build. They returned to their maker satisfied that their mission had been fulfilled.

With their unshakeable faith and devotion, high ideals, rugged honesty and noble ambitions driving them on to ever new industrial undertakings, they left their footprints on the sands of time in every community and in every endeavor through their long and rugged life together. Their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and future generations will be forever grateful for their noble example and the eternal characteristics which they passed on to their posterity.

Little Peter with the Handcarts

MY PIONEER FATHER
by Claude Duval McBride

Peter Howard McBride

Little Peter landed in Boston harbor on his sixth birthday, May 3, 1856, with his parents and their family of five boys and two daughters, all older than Peter except one sister, Maggie. They had left their good home in the Highlands of Scotland and sailed from Liverpool on the good ship Horizon.

His parents, Robert and Margaret McBride, were converts to the Mormon Church. The ship was loaded with Mormon converts bound for Zion in the valleys of the Rocky Mountains in western America. Their dear folks back home had condemned and disowned them for listening to the missionaries and joining the Mormon Church.

All was hustle and bustle at the docks. Everyone was hurrying to get through the customs office with passports and baggage checked off to the station to catch the train and ride in box cars to Iowa City. They rode like cattle, and arrived two days later in a terrific storm. Wagons took their baggage to camp three miles away while the men, women, and children walked through the soaking rain. Children got lost and mothers wept in their frantic search for them.

On the ship they had sung songs and made merry. But now they were tired, wet, low in spirits, and much bewildered. Little Peter led his baby sister Maggie by the hand and followed the older ones along the wet road to the camp. She was hungry, tired and cried for mama. But she loved her brother and clung to his hand as they trudged along through the mud.

At camp, tents were pitched and food was prepared over open fires by hundreds of families. Peter's father gathered soggy limbs from the willow patches by the river, and with some dry paper, was able to get a fire started. His wife, in poor health but with a brave heart and cheerful soul, prepared sandwiches of bread, butter, and jam, and they drank water from a spring above the camp in the hillside.

Bedding was dried as best it could be by the fire. Soon they were all snug in their beds on the grassy wet ground and drifting away into dreamland. They dreamed of Zion in the valleys of the faraway mountains, and of a new home where persecutors would not molest them.

Morning came with bright sunshine and crisp, fresh air. All the tent people came out and spread their bedding and clothing on the bushes to dry. Here they waited three weeks for the handcarts to come which they would pull and push across the wide western plains and through the mountains carrying their meager belongings to Zion.

Little Peter and Maggie played among the trees and bushes on the hillside and along the river. Peter fashioned for himself a fishing tackle with a pin for a hook, a string for a line, a willow for a pole, and a cork for a floater. He caught some small grasshoppers for bait and went to the river to fish. He got frequent bites, but few catches--the hook would not hold them. “Wup, there's one!” he shouted as the cork bobbed under. He hung on the pole and landed a fish. “Yippie! I caught one!” he yelled. And Maggie yelled and jumped with glee at seeing the wiggling fish on the hook. Peter grabbed it and ran for the tent. “See Mother, I caught a fish!” he shouted running into the tent.

“My, what a big boy you are, what a great fisherman,” she said. Peter's ego swelled with pride.

Peter's success as a fisherman set the stage for a fishing expedition by his two older brothers, Heber and Ether. Mother's sewing kit was ransacked for pins to make fish hooks and crude outfits were put together. Young grasshoppers were gathered for bait and the fishing expedition was on.

Although most bites got away, the three of them caught a dozen fish, and the family had a fish fry for supper that evening.

Finally the handcarts arrived, one for each family, and the company started to move westward late in the afternoon under the command of Captain Henry Martin. He told them they would travel only a few miles the first day and camp for the night just to gain experience pulling the handcarts and camping on the open plains. Once they were on their way they would travel longer and farther day by day, he said. Four wagons pulled by six oxen were provided to haul extra provisions and those who might become sick and disabled by the hardships of the long journey.

Nightfall found them a few miles on their way. They pulled their handcarts into a big circle and pitched their tents inside for protection against the Indians, buffalo, and wolves. The next day they made a long drive, Father Robert and the two older boys pulled and pushed the handcart while Mother, Jenetta, Peter, and Maggie trudged along behind. In this fashion they traveled day after day across streams and wide stretches of grasslands. In camp at night they sang hymns and folk songs, led by Peter's father who was a talented singer. The bugle call and nine o'clock each evening signaled the call for prayer in their tens and to bed. With strong faith in God and his protecting care, and in the gospel which they had embraced, they thanked God and beseeched him for his protecting care and guidance on their long journey to Zion.

Many days passed crossing the Iowa plains before they reached the Missouri river at a place called Council Bluffs. Here they rested for a day and they crossed the river on a ferry boat to Florence, Nebraska where they were joined by the David Taylor Company, making a thousand in all.

Peter's mother became ill and had to ride in the handcart, and Jenetta had to be the cook and manager of the smaller children. It was now June, the weather was warm and the endless plains stretched out before them. They still had almost a thousand miles ahead of them and must push on as fast as possible each day to reach the valley in the mountains before winter came. Day after long day they traveled on.

They gathered buffalo chips for fuel for their campfires at night. Handcarts broke down and old women and men wore out and died, and were buried along the trail. Little Peter and Maggie trudged along behind the handcart. Their shoes wore out and their feet became sore and bleeding. Mother Margaret and Jenetta would wrap them and comfort the children at night. Little Peter often helped Heber and Ether gather buffalo chips for the fire.

The weather so far had been good, with only a few showers. At night the stars came out and the cool evening breezes rattled their tents. The solitude of the night was broken only by the plaintive wail of a coyote on a low hill and the footsteps of the guards keeping watch for Indians trying to steal the oxen.

Great herds of buffalo roamed the plains. At times the handcart company had to split and leave a wide gap to let the buffalo herds pass through on their way to water. Indians also roamed the plains in bands hunting buffalo for their hides and meat. One day a large band of Sioux Indians in war paint came riding toward the caravan. People feared for their lives, but the Indian chief greeted Captain Martin in a friendly manner and told him they were going to fight the Pawnee tribe. So their caravan parted and let them pass through.

Rations were running low. Flour was rationed 3/4 pound per day for each person at first. Then it was cut to 1/2 pound and finally 1/4 pound. Little Peter and his baby sister Maggie were given only 1/4 pound for both of them. Oxen pulling the wagons gave out and died, and their flesh was eaten by the starving travelers. Although there were plenty of buffalo roaming the plains, these immigrants from a foreign country knew little about hunting them. One good hunter could have kept the company in meat while they were in buffalo territory. One day and Indian came into camp and offered to trade a buffalo for tobacco. Some tobacco was found and a trade arranged. The Indian got his tobacco (five cents worth) for his buffalo. Too bad more Indians did not come in with buffalo while the tobacco lasted.

Tragedy began to stalk the company at night. Their trail followed up along the Platte River in Wyoming territory. The weather turned wet and cold and the weak and sick ones died. Tents became places of mourning and grave-digging became a daily chore. Brief funeral services were held and worn-out bodies were buried in shallow graves with crude slabs of wood for markers. Despite their hardships and losses, the pioneers would gather around their fires inside the great circle at night and sing songs led by Peter's father. One familiar song was:

“For some must push, and some must pull

As we go merrily up the hill

And faithfully on our way we go

Until we reach the valley-O.”

Little Peter's feet had long since become bare, and thick calluses had grown on their soles. Little Maggie now had to ride in the handcart most of the time along with her ailing mother. Father and the two older boys pulled and pushed day after day. Early snows began to fall in October to make things worse. On one cold night they were all hovering around the fire, stirring it and piling on more buffalo chips and sticks of wood. Heber started to sniff the air and said., “I smell leather burning.” Ether sniffed and said, “So can I.” All began to look around to see what was burning. Little Peter felt something warm under his foot and moved it, and there-was a hot coal. His foot was that tough.

Hunger, snow, and cold took their daily toll. Each morning the dead were counted in-each tent and graves were dug to bury them. Sometimes one big shallow hole became the grave for several bodies.

One day two men on horseback passed the company on their way to California. They saw little Maggie crying for food and her brother Peter tugging her along by the hand behind the handcart. One opened up his saddlebag and gave Maggie two cookies. She soon dried her tears and started devouring them. Little Peter, his stomach gnawing, begged her for one.

“Please give me one Maggie,” he begged.

“Here, you can have a bite of this one,” she said, reaching out her chubby hand with a cookie in it.

Peter reached out his mouth for a big bite, but she jerked it away and he got just a little taste--but, oh, how delicious!

Then stark tragedy struck when they reached the upper crossing of the Platte river in western Wyoming territory. The snow was deep and the air cold. The river was running with ice forming along its edges. Worn and starved as they were, the surviving men had to somehow get the carts, women, and children across. A horseman named Cyrus Wheeler, returning from a mission in the eastern states overtook the company at this point. He spent the day helping to carry the women and children and pulling the handcarts across by a rope from his saddlehorn. On the last trip he had three little boys and his horse with him, one in front and two on behind the saddle. Little Peter was the last boy left.

“Climb on boy, and hold on tight,” he said to Peter. Peter climbed on and held to the boy in from of him. Things went well until they reached the opposite bank. The horse lunged up the bank and Peter fell off into the icy water, but he grabbed the horse's tail and hung on for dear life and the horse dragged him out. Wet and shivering, he ran to the fire and stayed close to it warming himself and turning from side to side until his tattered clothes were dry.

That night the wind blew down the tents and the snow covered them up. Peter's father was counted among the dead. in the morning. Starvation, exposure, and endless struggle had worn him out, and his strong heart, weakened and worn, could sustain him no longer. He died singing this hymn:

Oh, Zion, when I think of thee,

I long for pinions like the dove,

And mourn to think that I should be,

So distant from the land I love.

The last verse was just a whisper as his strength ebbed away and his eyes closed in death. In the morning, the few-surviving men gathered up the dead and dragged them through the by their feet, heads bobbing in the snow, to a big shallow grave by the bank of the river. Fourteen men were thus dragged to this grave and dumped in. Peter's mother wept and begged her beloved husband to “come back”. The boys and little ones clinging to weeping mothers from this and other tents, sobbed as they stood helplessly by and watched the men cover their brave and loyal fathers in this cold, cold, grave in the forlorn and unmerciful land. “Where is God? And why has he so heartlessly forsaken us?” they cried out in grief and discouragement.

Little Peter watched with the others. Then he remembered something. “Oh, wait. Let me get the fish hook!” he cried. Climbing down into the hole, he worked his chappy hand into the pocket of his father's tattered trousers and pulled out a fish hook on a short line. Tucking it into his own pocket, he looked up with his smiling blue eyes and said, “There it is,” and climbed out of the hole.

Other people have turned cannibal under such tragic circumstances, and eaten the flesh of the dead ones. But these saintly people held life so sacred that they would rather die and be buried along with their loved ones than to molest their sacred bodies.

Peter's little sister was sick and starving and his mother was near death. Jenetta had to take over the responsibility of caring for them and helping the boys keep body and soul together. She proved herself equal to the task. She carried water from the river for cooking the scant meals and nursed her mother and baby sister. Her shoes were gone and her feet left blood spots on the snow. Little Peter got hold of a bone from one of the dead oxen. He cut off the skin and roasted the bone in the fire. But just as it was done, two bigger boys grabbed it and ran away. He cried and ran after them, but they ran too fast for him. Then he boiled the skin in a kettle and made soup and drank it. Then he ate the skin. This was his best meal for several days. Jenetta's worn out shoes were boiled to make soup which she thickened with flour and fed the family.

The next day, the survivors struggled on a few more miles through the snow and cold to Sweetwater River. Here they camped and held a meeting. They decided to give up and not try to travel on. They would stay there and hope and pray for the Lord to rescue them. The rest of the oxen died and their skinny flesh was stripped off and divided up among the survivors. The bones were roasted and ground into meal for soup.

That night a blizzard came and blew down the tents and covered them with snow. Little Peter had curled up in a corner and gone to sleep. When their tent blew down the others crawled out and went to another tent that was still standing. But, little Peter dreamed he was dying. Then he started flying like a bird and came to a valley by a lake and saw people’s homes and flowers, and lots of food at their tables.

In the morning the daily search for dead ones went on as usual. “How many are dead in this tent?” a man was heard to say. All were accounted for except Peter. “He must have been frozen during the night,” said Jenetta.

They pulled the tent out of the snow and dragged little Peter out with his hair frozen to the tent. He was alive and warm. The tent and snow had saved him.

That day good news came to the disheartened survivors, now living on boiled bark from willows and trees along the river. Ox teams and wagons with food were coming from the valley. Word of their plight had reached the valley by a scout, and Brigham Young had sent rescue teams for them. Hearts leaped up, and the little band of humble and thankful people knelt and thanked God for their salvation. Wagons arrived late in the afternoon with food. Others came the next day and the sick and weakest ones were loaded into the wagons. But the others had to walk. They traveled on through the snow and cold, stopping at times to build fires to dry their clothes and warm their cold and bleeding feet. In a few days the summit of the big mountains was reached, and all climbed into the wagons for the ride into the valley.

They arrived in the Salt Lake Valley on November 20, 1856 and were received by the saints who had arrived each year since 1847 and built homes of rock, logs, and adobe. Little Peter, barefoot, tattered, and starved, had walked every step of the way, over a thousand miles, at times pushing on the handcart along with his father and older brothers.

His mother's health improved and she made her way with her family to Ogden and then to Ogden Canyon in the hills east of Ogden, and settled in the little town of Eden. Here the boys built a log house and worked in the fields and timber to support their mother and the family. Here little Peter and Maggie grew into young manhood and womanhood. Their mother married again and Peter became a talented singer and leader in music and dramatics.

His pioneering days were not over, however. Soon after he was married, he was called by Brigham Young to take his young bride, Ruth, and their infant son and go south to help build settlements in southern Utah and Arizona. They left with nine other couples in wagons in the spring of 1870. They lived the United Order in Orderville for a year and then moved on to Kanab for a year, then returned to St. George on their way back to the Ogden Valley. But there Brigham Young met them and told them their mission was not finished and sent them on into Arizona territory. They settled in a place they called Forest Dale and started building homes and clearing the land and developing a community government. But the Indians drove them out and they moved on into southeastern Arizona and homesteaded along the Gila River near the little community of Pima where a few of the saints had settled earlier. There they built a house of adobe and became leaders in community and church life. Peter's mission was to organize choirs, cantatas, dramatic groups, and develop the musical talents of the saints wherever he went. He raised a large family and filled his mission well.

Peter and Ruth lived to help build a temple at Mesa and to do their temple work in it. This accomplished, they felt their mission had been completed, and they passed on to their reward, satisfied that they had earned salvation in the celestial kingdom. Their bodies lie in the cemetery near Pima, Arizona, along with those of many of the other pioneers. They had lived and died on the frontier in this western land, and had passed on to their reward.

Peter Howard McBride-Musical Life

Musical Life History of Peter H. McBride
By his youngest son, Clyde McBride – 1988

The history of my Father’s earlier life has mostly gone down in the McBride annals. But much of the musical part of his life I am quite sure has never been told - especially my personal experiences beside him.

THIS IS JUST A ‘PRELUDE’

Peter was born in Scotland. There his family joined the Church - then migrated to America. While crossing the plains to the Salt Lake Valley, Peter’s father, Robert McBride, died from exposure. Just a few years after they arrived at Salt Lake Valley, his mother ‘Margaret’ remarried - this time to a prosperous farmer. He was a widower who was left with a small family (Samuel Ferrin).

This dad told me: His stepfather gave him the task of digging two rods of ditch a day. Then what was left of that day he was free to use studying music. That could have been the beginning of his musical career.

Other members of the family have told of Dad’s association with Evan Stephens, Composer of Church songs. They used to herd sheep together and often sat on the hillside and composed music together - sang duets, etc.

Now to continue this Prelude, just a few years after Dad was married, he was called on a mission by President Brigham Young. His mission was to go to Southeastern Arizona and help colonize that part of the territory and assist in building up the Church in that part of the Lord’s vineyard. Teaching music was also part of that mission call - so I was told.

His journey from Utah to Arizona is also history now. He finally arrived at the place along the south side of the Gila River that was later called Smithville and then Pima. There, about the first thing he did was homestead a quarter section (or 160 acres of land) of almost solid mesquite, except for a cottonwood grove along the river’s edge. This homestead was about two miles west of the town of Smithville and was later called Matthewsville and now Glenbar on the map.

Again - this, dad told me: When he first settled on the Homestead, he grubbed 4 or 5 mesquite stumps every morning before breakfast.

As far as I know, he never had any musical training or schooling. He did have volumes of books of instructions for studying music which I am sure was a great help. But he was born with a gift for music such as few people are blessed with.

He was a self-made musician. By study and taking advantage of his many gifts and talents, he became a professional teacher in both music and poetry.

In my youth, and on through my young manhood, I was usually with him and often given a part in many of his productions and presentations. He confided in me many of his accomplishments and also his disappointments. Not because of me, but I think mainly because of my inherited love of music which he seemed to recognize. So I am ‘listing a few that are still very clear in my memory.

First, he taught music in all the wards in the valley. He organized male quartets mixed quartets, ladies Chorus’ and ladies Trios. He organized choirs in all the wards in that part of the St. Joseph Stake. He wrote words and music for love songs, comic songs, sacred songs, political songs and western songs.. songs for every occasion. All he needed was just a few hours notice and he would compose music and words for that occasion.

Each time he always received a standing ovation. I remember attending church socials, ward parties, and political rallies. Someone would call for a song by ‘Uncle Peter’. He always obliged and always sang his own compositions. The applause was so great he was often called back for a second and third and sometimes a fourth performance. Many times I have seen him take his seat and leave the audience still applauding.

Dad didn’t have what was called a ‘Grand Opera’ - ‘Bing’ or ‘Mario Lanzo’ voice - nor a tenor or bass voice - but just a plain true, cheerful, attractive, and forceful baritone voice that could be heard and understood by large audiences in most any size building built at that time.

He organized and produced Christmas cantatas, operettas, comedy and western shows, tragedy shows and a real ‘shoot-out’ occasionally.

In one Christmas cantata, I believe every kid in the ward was given a part that night. Several little boys sang, and of course, all the little girls were given parts, too. But none of them ‘registered’. There was one part on the show that night that did ‘register’ and is very clear in my memory. As the curtains opened, my two little sisters, Bessie and Flo, came on the stage each holding their own ‘Great Big Beautiful Doll’. Then in song - described their dolly’s apparel and related many of their qualifications thus:

BESSIE-FLO

I have a dolly-So have I

Mine has blue eyes-Mine can cry,

Mine I call Bessie-Mine I call Flo,

See Bessie’s gown-Look at Flo’s shoe,

See her feet-Isn’t she sweet?

Dollies we love you-We love you so well

Now she cries-Close her eyes

Beautiful stories our dollies can tell.

There could have been other verses, but this is the only one that ‘registered’ that night. I never knew the author. It sounds much like dad - but I am not sure.

There’s another little child’s song that is still clear in my memory, both words and melody. I never knew the author and I’m not sure where or by whom it was written. I have often wished I could hear two of my little great granddaughters sing it as a duet. I still remember every note of both parts. Maybe some of the older members of the family remember it. I believe it was from an old Primary Song Book.

Oh, I had such a pretty dream, mama

Such pleasant and beautiful things

Of a dear little nest, in the meadows of rest

Where the birdie her lullaby sings

A dear little stream full of lilies

Crept over the green mossy stones

And just where I lay, its thin sparkling spray

Sang sweetly in delicate tones

And as it flowed on toward the ocean

Thru shadows and pretty sunbeams

Each note grew more deep, and I soon fell asleep

And was off to the island of dreams

I saw there a beautiful angel

With crown all bespangled with dew

She touched me and spoke, and I quickly awoke

And found there, dear mamma, ‘twas you

In my youth and later, it seemed that Dad, with his choir nearly always furnished music for Stake Conference. At times, it was the home ward choir, but on special occasions, when General Authorities were called to attend conference at St. Joseph Stake, Dad organized a combined Stake Choir with a few voices from several wards throughout the Stake. After one or two choir practices they would furnish music for the next Stake Conference.

In those early days of the church a General Authority always attended conference, and on several occasions a Church President visited conference in Thatcher. In my youth it was a custom that everyone who wished would line up and shake hands with the General Authority in attendance at that time. Later that custom was abandoned and that ended the hand shaking line. Before, that, I had the privilege of shaking hands with at least three Church Presidents: Heber J. Grant, George Albert Smith and David O. McKay. But that’s a bit off the subject. However, during my lifetime I have outlived all the Church Presidents since Wilford Woodruff. I was just under two years old when he died, making ten in all, including President Ezra Taft Benson. I have had the privilege of shaking hands several times with President Spencer W. Kimball but not in the line-up.

A LITTLE OFF-BEAT!

Lines Hall was a large dance hall, skating rink, show house or play house with a modern stage, change rooms, sliding curtains a roll curtain and all built over the original Lines Bros. Mercantile Co. Store. Uncle Joe Lines was in charge at this time. He had a large supply of Roller Skates. If you had 25¢ you could rent a pair for the evening. This one evening I happened to have 25¢ and it was there I took my first great fall. Apparently one skater tried to skate ‘upside down’ causing a big ‘pile-up’ and I was caught right in the middle of it. As a result, I came out with an injured knee that gave me trouble for several months.

Many traveling troupes and magic shows chartered that old hall. In one magic show I remember they were having a weight lifting contest. A steel plate was placed in the middle of the stage. A big husky man walked over and tried to lift it. He pulled, yanked, jerked and struggled. No Luck! He waited a minute and then tried again - then walked off the stage, defiant. Then a young lady came out on the stage, picked up the weight and carried it away with ease and grace. Then for that small lady, the applause was great. Later, El Norton and I became curious and our curiosity got the best of us. We went out and crawled up under the stage and there, fastened to the bottom of the stage floor, was a high powered electric magnet operated by an on-off switch. That solved the whole magical mystery.

IN TUNE AGAIN!

In the early days of Dad’s musical career, and before my time, he organized a dramatic company. The members at that time were Joseph Foster Sr., Will Webb, Tom East and of course Dad and others. They produced western, comedy, dramatic, tragic, and other shows depending on the script. Occasionally a sheriff and an outlaw staged a bloody demonstration. Dad wrote a theme song for the group but I can only remember the last two lines.

Thus: "We are here and we’re going to stay

We’re the Pima Dramatic and Comedy."

This show was very similar to those old traveling shows that oft-times came through the valley - except they didn’t try to peddle their cure-all medicine and I don’t remember them ever ‘traveling’ outside of the valley. I don’t believe I ever missed one of dad’s shows and I know I never bought a ticket. So, did they or didn’t they ever sell tickets?

SOUND YOUR A

At one time, other musical professors began coming into the valley and invading Dad’s territory and it didn’t set too well with him, but he went along with them. The four I remember were: Professor Claydon, Professor Bond, Professor Snodgrass and Professor Jones. Later Professor Snodgrass became the laughing stock (or a ‘hiss’ and a ‘by-word’) among the younger set, with comments such as "Does Snodgrass look like Johnson grass" or "Will donkeys and billy goats eat Snodgrass," etc. etc.

Later, all those ‘Profs’ got together and planned to give a concert and demonstrate their ‘wares’ or ‘peddle their apples’. Then, of course, Dad was invited to participate. The concert was held in the old Lines Hall. The participants, actors, or maybe ‘Stars’ were stationed at the front of the hall, but not on the stage. Prof. Claydon was first on the program. He told of his many accomplishments, his abilities and talents, etc. then sang a few English songs. Then Prof. Bond carried on in about the same manner then gave a few renditions on the piano. Now, Prof. Snodgrass and dad never did hit it off too well. It seemed they were always at odds with each other. On this night, Claude and I were sitting on the front bench (about the middle of the hall) when Prof. Snodgrass began his part of the show. Claude and I started giggling, laughing and doing a little hooting. I guess we thought we were doing dad a favor, but I remember dad marched right down in front of us and shook his finger in our faces and said in no uncertain words that if we didn’t be quiet, we would have to leave the show. So, WE BE’D QUIET! Then, like the others, Snodgrass gave his life’s musical history and then gave two or three beautiful and professional renditions on the violin. Now, Prof. Jones was also a great pianist. He filled the entire hall with much professional noise.

Now Dad was the last on the program and I believe he had planned it that way. As usual, he had composed a song especially for that occasion. I can’t remember all the words, but he started in song by telling all the things that happened -

"When ‘Claydon’ with his ‘hay-ton’ leads the Band.

Then it was:

"When ‘Bond’ with his ‘wand’ leads the Band."

Then he really poured it on Professor Snodgrass. He told of the awful things that happened –

"When ‘Snodgrass’ like a ‘jackass’ leads the Band."

Next He let Prof’ Jones have it on the chin - Thus:

"By the motion of his chin all the players will begin. When ‘Jones’ with his ‘bones’ leads the Band."

Then he told how the band members enjoyed ‘tooting it up’

"When ‘Peter’ with his ‘beater’ leads the Band!"

Again, as usual, Dad received a standing ovation - long and loud.

Now Professor Claydon was a very close friend of dad’s and remained here in the valley for many years. He used to walk all the way from Thatcher and stay all night - just to visit dad and talk music. But more about him later. I know nothing more about the other two professors but I am of the opinion - their pastures became over-grazed and went in search of greener pastures.

If there is any member of the family who has the original fore-mentioned song, I would really love to have a copy of it.

Years later, Lines Store, Hall, Warehouse, and all was destroyed by fire.

B SHARP and B FLAT

After attending a stake conference in Thatcher - for some unknown reason, Dad drove on to Safford (of course, with the horse and buggy!) For another unknown reason, when he left home that morning, he had placed his briefcase in the back of the buggy. As he left Safford it began to rain and then turned into a regular cloudburst. He told me later the wind blew so hard it almost blew him, horse, buggy and all off the road. Then before he reached Thatcher the storm cleared up enough that he reached home safely, but his brief case was gone.

The next day he took Claude and I to Thatcher. From there Dad rode the buggy and we each walked along a barpit searching for papers. We made two or three round trips from Thatcher to Safford but never found as much as one paper or the brief case. It seemed very unlikely to me that this could happen without leaving a single clue or trace of evidence. I have always had in mind that some prankster or older kid snitched the case while the buggy was parked and unattended - hoping it contained valuables. Then finding nothing but papers, kept the case and destroyed the papers. Of course, this is only my personal opinion.

But whatever happened, Dad was a broken-hearted man. He told" me later that the briefcase contained about 75 compositions - most of his life’s works. Then it seemed I detected a lump in his throat and with an unsteady voice he made this statement to me: "If all those papers are lost and never found, I will never write another song." Then later he said he could remember a few of his works and could rewrite a few more - but most of them were lost and gone. Now, I am sure that his God-given talents were too large to hide under a bushel and his love for music outweighed his disappointments, for be was soon leading choirs, teaching music, and producing shows just as before. He didn’t quit! He couldn’t quit! To him there was no such word. He didn’t know the meaning of quit. Dad placed an ad in the local newspaper and offered a reward for the return of the briefcase and its contents or any information leading to their whereabouts. But no leads were ever found and no one ever claimed the reward.

PAVILLION

I believe this building was constructed after the Lines Bros. Store was burned down. It had a stage and a large Dance Hall, very similar to the old Lines Hall. It was built just north and a little east of the present Pima Ward Chapel and on the same lot. It was called the Pima Ward Pavillion. It was used for all ward activities. Dad also took advantage of it and presented many musical and religious programs, cantatas, operettas and many similar fore-mentioned presentations.

In one of his dramatic shows, the Hall was filled and he had the west side of the stage decorated with flowers and a few baskets of apples and oranges. I remember wondering where dad got enough money to buy all that fruit, it must have had something to do with the show but it didn’t ‘record’ with me. Hugh Foster’s act is about all I can remember. It seemed he played the part of a demented tragedian. He yelled and waved is arms and walked back and forth across the stage and recited several weird and haunting Poems.

Now, I had a part in the show that night but it also didn’t ‘register’. But after I finished my act I slipped over and grabbed an orange and ran off the stage. Later Dad scolded and said I almost ruined the show. But it brought the only laughter and applause I remember hearing that night.

WAY OFF-BEAT THIS TIME

Now, besides all Church activities (dance, family socials & weddings) and similar to the old Lines Hall, this Pima Ward Pavilion occasionally was chartered by those old traveling dramatic, comic and magic shows. This night was no exception. The Hall was filled and just waiting for the show to commence. An elderly couple was sitting just about the middle of the Hall. For now, we’ll just call them ‘Pa and Ma’. Now this was before Hearing Aids were born and Ma’s hearing registered almost zero. Ma leaned over and asked "How much was the ticket?" Pa whispered in her ear and said "fifty cents." Then a few minutes later Ma again asked and said "Pa, how much was the ticket?" This time Pa placed one hand over her ear and with a little more accent exclaimed "fifty cents!" Then apparently Ma still hadn’t got the message. This time, with a little more emphasis, she said "How much was the ticket. Pa?" By this time Pa seemed to be getting a little vexed and he placed both hands over Ma’s ear and yelled as loud as he could yell, "fifty cents!" Then due to that explosion by Pa, it seemed nearly every person in the Hall issued a little chuckle or giggle and I think some of the customers got their money’s worth before the show even commenced.

When the show was about half over - a man came on the stage, interrupted the show and announced: "Henry Ford is in the audience tonight!" Everyone in the Hall craned their necks trying to get a glimpse of that national and internationally famous auto builder. Apparently, Henry chose not to be recognized. Soon the announcer called again, "Will Mr. Ford please stand up?" No response. Then the announcer called and pleaded "Will Mr. Henry Ford please stand and be recognized!" Still, there was no response. Then with a little apologetic voice the announcer said "I was sure Mr. Henry Ford was in the audience tonight, I saw his Model T parked in front of the building!"

As I mentioned before, Brother William M. Claydon and dad were very close friends, maybe because of their common interest in life - music. Claydon was a convert from England and brought along many of the English customs in both poetry and song. When I was just a kid, Brother Claydon was St. Joseph Stake Sunday School Superintendent. I remember him visiting the old Matthews ward many times. He taught the Sunday School classes English, music, both sacred and classic. He always stressed promptness and punctuality. That seemed to be part of his religion.

At one time the Globe ward, St. David, El Paso and the Duncan wards were all members of the St. Joseph Stake. My dad tells this story: "On this one Sunday Brother Claydon had an appointment to attend the Matthews Ward Sunday School. He walked and ran all the way from Ft. Grant. He arrived five minutes late. He turned and walked away." Those were Dad’s exact words!

HARMONY PLUS

We’ll just call this man ‘Bill’. At this time, Bill and his Wife were living up at Bear Springs Flat, a flowing well district near the foot of Graham Mountain. Now Bill’s wife was a well educated woman and a poet in her own right. Bill told Dad later that his wife had volumes of poems written by her own hand. I believe this woman came out West due to her poor health, but after suffering with cancer for several years she finally passed away. Now here is where dad played his part.

Bill contacted the Bishop and the funeral was held in the old Glenbar Church building. The day before the funeral, Bill came to dad with one of his wife’s favorite poems and asked him if he would recite it at her services. But instead, he sat down and wrote the music for it - all four parts. Then he called the choir together for one evening’s rehearsal. Then we sang this lady’s own poem at her own funeral services. Dad told me later that this man Bill, came to him and thanked him over and over for such a beautiful rendition in honor of his ‘Dear Deceased Wife’ and ‘Life’s Companion.’ I had occasion to meet Bill at times for many years and as far as I know, he never did remarry.

My father, Peter H. McBride, was ward and stake chorister for 40 years. When he was released from his stake responsibility without notice or without thanks or even one word of appreciation for the many years he had spent serving in that position, he wasn’t resentful. But he felt ‘cut to the quick’ and his feelings were very badly hurt. From that blow I don’t believe he ever did completely recover. I never did hear of his release as ward chorister.

I found a few pages of dad’s diary, written on Sept. 1882. Quote: "Enroute for St. George, Utah, to marry Laura Lewis, we left Smithville on the 21st of September 1882. The Smithville choir is going along as far as Snowflake to attend conference." On another page: "30th - Sat. - Conference commences today. Our choir, the Smithville, did the singing in the forenoon and joined with the Snowflake choir in the afternoon. Then on Oct 1st - Sun- Attended conference and was in charge of all the singing." The Snowflake Ward must have been a member of the St. Joseph Stake at that time. My oldest sister, Laura, told about the time Dad took the Pima choir to St. David for conference. She told of meeting many new faces and how well they were received and how much every one enjoyed their music and complimented them on their presentation. She said they sang on most of the trip and even the horses seemed to enjoy the music, Laura must have been about 16 at that time. She had 12 years start on me so that would leave me about four years old - too young to join the choir.

The road map shows St. David a little over 80 miles from Pima - a one-lane dirt road at that time. Now I am inclined to believe they must have had at least two wagons to accommodate an average size choir and all the necessary equipment. No team of horses could make that trip in one day, so they must have camped at least twice both ways. Where and how many times was never mentioned as far as I know and I never asked.

JUST DAD

At one time, Dad had a song book titled ‘The Psalmady’. I believe every song in it was a verse set to music from the Book of Psalms in the Bible. He also had a Hymn Book called ‘The Hymnal.’

Dad claimed he never had a headache in his life. He also said he never shed his ‘baby teeth’. In my youth I remember dad telling of his association with Karl G. Maeser. In dad’s younger days, Brother Maeser was Church General Sunday School Superintendant and I believe that Church history will show he is the originator of the Church Sunday School system.

At one time Dad was Sunday School Superintendant of the Matthews Ward. He told many stories and sang many songs about Karl G. Maeser. One song he sang many times to the Sunday School class (and I can only remember the last two lines) went thus:

We met Brother Maeser at Sunday School--

Twas there he taught us the Golden Rule!

My brother, Howard, told of this incident - then of course, dad told him: When the Handcart company arrived at the Platte River, it was running high and with floating ice-packs. Now there must have been some wagons with the company. He said the water was so deep no one was permitted to ride the wagons across the river except the teamsters. He also said that Peter’s father, Robert McBride, waded and carried 65 women and children across the river - dodging ice-packs both ways. He didn’t say how many days it took or how many men were involved but, as a consequence, his father, Robert, died from exposure (likely pneumonia) and was buried with 14 others in a common grave. Now Howard also told this. Little Peter was standing on the brink of the grave sobbing and with tears running down his cheeks. A lady put her arms around him and tried to Console him - then, between sobs, he said "My fish hook was in my father’s pocket!"

My sister Della was an accomplished pianist in her own right. She could have been called an artist or genius at the organ or piano. As far as I can remember she was the only piano accompanist her father ever employed during her active lifetime. She began her musical career by taking piano lessons from Prof. Jones.

The names, ‘Peter H. McBride’ and ‘Della McBride Larson’ should go down in history in the musical section of the ‘Hall of Fame’. For in my opinion, they were the great artists of their time. My father, Peter H. McBride, died at the age of 84 and my mother, Laura Lewis McBride, died on Christmas day 1954 - just a few days before her 90th birthday. Both of their funerals were held in the present Pima Ward Chapel and both were buried in the Pima Cemetery. At each service, the building was filled to capacity, with standing room only.

Immediately after Mother’s services, my sister Flo came to me and with a rather serious and a slightly excited voice asked, "Did you see Dad leading the choir? I hadn’t and was a little dubious at first, but she said, "He stood right in front of the choir and with both hands kept perfect time with the music and led the choir just as he did throughout his whole life here on earth.". Now Flo was the only member of the family or otherwise, that was permitted to view this Heavenly demonstration. She said Dad stood there just as natural as life and led the choir about 15 or 20 seconds then suddenly he just wasn’t there. I believe Flo is now over there singing in her father’s choir as always.

In my youth, it seemed Dad often had a theme song. I wouldn’t be too far off to say I have heard him sing it fifty times or more. He would often ‘sign off’ by singing it at the close of family gatherings, birthday parties, Church socials, and others. Maybe I will too - with just a chorus. Thus:

"Well, its Home - dearest Home,

And its Home you’d better be.

Over on the Gila

In the white man’s count-ter-ree,

Where the Cottonwood and Ash

And mesquite will ever be,

Growing green upon the river,

There’s a Home for you and me."

Peter Howard McBride-Mt. Graham Life

Mount Graham Life of Peter Howard McBride

As Told By
Clyde McBride, his son
Age 92 - 1988

I was asked to relate some of my father, Peter H. McBride’s mountain life and experiences - which are many and varied. It would take volumes to record them all. Now as to dates, names, etc: In my youth and before Dad passed away - if I had just asked, the information I could have received would be almost priceless today. But, regretfully, I didn’t ask. So, as I proceed, some stories will be just hearsay, but most will be dad’s own experiences as told to me and by me.

Now, as I might say, ‘In the Beginning,’ many years before my time Dad told: The Cluff brothers planned to build a saw mill at lower Columbine. But, before such a project could be started, there had to be a road built to transport all the necessary machinery and equipment up on the mountain.

So, there is where my father entered the scene. He told of working several summers on that road with only horse power, man power and dynamite. The equipment consisted of many horse drawn slip scrapers, shovels, picks, crowbars, axes, two man cross-cut saws, sledge hammers, steel drill bits and single jack-hammers for drilling holes in solid rock for placing dynamite sticks. I might just add, as a kid I remember seeing several unused drilled dynamite holes along that old road.

The road began at the foot of the mountain... then a long steep incline led up to the first mesa. Dad said that part of the road was finished on the first day of April. What year? I wish I knew. From then on that part of the road was called “April Fool Dugway.” I believe it was about the steepest part of the entire route.

Other points along the road were: Cluff’s Lower Goat Ranch, Cluff’s Upper Goat Ranch (later known as Horse Camp), Dead Man’s Turn, Dead Horse Curve, then on up over Bella’s Hill, up past Slick Rock, then on up to Lower Columbine - the future Mill sight.

All the necessary machinery was hauled on heavy freight wagons drawn by 6-8 and 10 horses. Just west of Bellas Hill the road went around a very sharp and rugged curve - with a deep cliff on the lower side. One time while 8 or 10 horses were-struggling and lunging as they dragged a large freight wagon loaded with a huge, heavy steam boiler, one team of horses was jerked clear over the cliff. They cut their tugs and they fell to their death - so I was told. Thus the name, “Dead Horse Curve.” I never learned the details of Dead Man’s Turn.

Dad told many stories about the Mill after it was completed and operating. He told of freighting lumber from the saw mill to the valley with two horse-powered lumber wagons with only two wheels having hand power-brakes. A load of lumber was too much for that non-hydraulic system, so at times they dragged logs behind the wagons to serve as a booster brake.

Now, what became of the logs at the end of -the trail? I am sure they didn’t drag them back to the Mill. Dad never mentioned pay or compensation but I am sure he took several loads in kind. He built homes, barns, corrals, pig pens, ‘chicken coops, head gates, etc. with lumber from the Mill. Again, that was many years before my time.

After many years of hard wear and tear, being washed away by storms, getting blocked by fallen trees and rocks and other natural causes - that old road was finally abandoned in favor of the flume. The Flume could only transport material one way - ‘down. So here is where Dad contracted hauling supplies to the Mill.

He hauled hay and grain for the logging horses and everything needed for the cook and the kitchen, plus anything ordered that could be carried in a saddle bag.

Dad’s Mule Train was usually 8 or 10 burros. He would load the wagon (with supplies the Mill had ordered) at the warehouse back of Webb’s store in Pima - where the REA is now located.

April Fool Dugway was the next stop. He built a corral by a high cliff with a spring that supplied water. When not in use the burros were kept there where they had shade and plenty of water. (low, from home to this corral the horses were work-horses, but from there to Chesley Hollow they were saddle-horses. Then at planting time they advanced to plow-horses = “Jack’s of all trades.”

Each summer between time spent on the farm, was a two-way deal. Mill supplies ‘up’ and potatoes ‘down’ - usually about three or four trips each month. I will report on just one of those many such trips.

From home to the warehouse in Pima, then to the foot of the mountain, took most of the first day. The next morning we saddled up and loaded the pack train. Then, on his horse, Dad led the lead burro and the others were supposed to follow. It was always my job to follow behind on foot with a prod pole or persuader and gee that they did just that.

It seemed Dad had it timed to arrive at the mill just after -mealtime. Grandmother Craig and her daughter were the official Mill cooks. We were usually served roast beef or roast venison end apple pie along with many other leftovers. After climbing the mountain for four or five hours those leftovers were almost like ‘Manna from Heaven.’ After we left the saw mill I had free transportation all the way to Chesley Hollow, with my choice of pack saddles.

The next day, while the animals rested, we dug potatoes from the pits and filled enough gunny sacks to load the 8 or 10 burros. Then the next day it was the same thing - only I walked ‘downhill’ instead of ‘up.’ We arrived at the corral at the foot of the mountain late in the evening and camped for the night. The next ,horning we loaded the potatoes on the wagon and headed for home.

Now this same thing went on in almost the same way for the ten years that I helped Dad raise potatoes in those old Graham (fountains. During that whole time I don’t remember Dad ever going ‘Lo the mountain that he didn’t take me along.

OAK FLAT

At Oak Flat, Dad built a one-room log cabin. There he planted a small orchard - mainly apple, peach and plum; also a berry patch with blackberry, raspberry and lots of strawberries. But, usually by the time the birds and bears got their fill, there wasn’t much left for Dad.

Just across the creek from the cabin - it wasn’t the ‘Mighty Oak’ but the ‘Mighty Maple.’ It could have been the largest and tallest maple tree in the mountain at that time. Dad tapped that tree and drained sap fo r Maple Syrup, but again he didn’t have too much luck. It seemed the bears craved Maple Syrup on their ‘acorn’ pancakes!

Dad raised only a few potatoes at Oak Flat - just enough for his own use. At that elevation, at times irrigation was necessary. When the Flume went thru, it sometimes dried up the creek. So Dad reserved the right to tap the flume when needed.

How Dad loved Oak Flat! It was always his favorite mountain retreat. Oak Flat was really Dad’s ‘Paradise on Earth.’ regardless of the birds and bears.

UPPER COLUMBINE

At Upper Columbine Dad built a two-room lumber cabin. He piped water from a spring to the kitchen sink: No faucet, continual flow, plus ‘no water bill.’ There he had a small garden but no potatoes. This cabin was located a little south and across the creek (east) from Dave Weech’s cabin somewhere in the area of Bertell Weech’s present cabin.

PETER’S FLAT

Dad often mentioned the Joe Claridge Potato patch (presently Peter’s Flat). How he came into possession of it or how many crops he raised there was never mentioned - likely Joe just walked off and left it and Dad just took it over. Thinking back now - the first time I went to the mountain with Dad, we stopped there. He opened the trap-door to the larger pit and there was last year’s crop of potatoes; tons of them, floating in water. Again, how many crops he raised before that - I was never told. But, this I do know for sure and certain: That was the last crop of potatoes Dad ever raised there. That should have been about 1902.

CHESLEY HOLLOW

Chesley Hollow was Dad’s only commercial producing potato field in my time. It was about one-half mile down the south slope from Chesley Flat. There Dad had eight acres with a pole fence around it, except for the places too rough for the pack animals to escape. Dad never built a cabin there. We always camped in a tent.

Dad’s Kitchen, etc. was: One big kettle with a baling wire handle, dutch oven and frying pan (all cast iron) - knives, forks, spoons (all of steel), plus butcher knives, paring knives, cups, plates, dish pan (all tin). His kitchen table was a four legged 4’x12" slab.

His Laundry was salvaged flour and sugar sacks - plus a bar of P & G soap (also used as hand soap). Grub Box was: flour, sugar, salt, pepper, baking powder, salt pork, small bucket of lard and plenty of jelly and strawberry jam. I can shut my eyes and still taste those hot Dutch Oven baked biscuits filled with strawberry jam that Dad served at least three times a day - along with potatoes and brown gravy... A meal fit for a queen - and her king. Dad was an A-I camp cook and he loved to cook.

Dad always brought a large bag of hard candy along. On rare occasions I was issued a lump or two!

Over by the East fence Dad built a small cellar to store seed potatoes for the next spring planting. We sometimes cut potato sets till 9 or 10 at night. Each set should have one or more eyes "to see its way up through that rich mountain soil" plus enough meat to sustain the plant till it took root.

Dad had a little 10-inch plow, powered by his two saddle horses - old ‘Si’ and ‘Shiner.’ At planting time my equipment was a nose-bag hung over my shoulder - filled with potato sets. As Dad and the plow went around the field, I followed and was supposed to drop a set every step - but only every other round. It didn’t seem to make any difference how deep or how shallow they were planted - they came right up. At potato harvest time it seemed most of them came up twice.

Once I lagged a long distance behind and suddenly I heard a lion roar. It sounded like it was just across the fence - and much too close for safety! The blood rushed to my head and it seemed my heart would jump right out of my mouth. I started running and dropped sets as I ran - at that rate I could’ve planted the whole field before breakfast! When I got to the plow I yelled "Hey, Dad! Did you hear that lion roar?" He said, "I sure did and so did old Si - I could hardly hold him from running with the plow, Shiner and Me." I stayed close to the plow the rest of the planting season. After that, Dad strapped his 30-30 to the plow handle.

At harvest time Dad, Claude and I and two other men (with shovels) dug potatoes all fall. Dad dug a long trench pit over by the west fence. We filled it and then had to dig the second one. We filled both pits to about 2’ above the ground - then covered each with everything Mother Nature had on hand: Such as grass, leaves, pine needles and at least a foot of dirt. Then we dug trenches around each pit for drainage. The next spring when Dad opened the pits, not one potato was lost. I believe the winter storage improved their quality.

At Chesley Hollow, Mother Nature furnished the necessary moisture along with the roofing material. Now this same program was repeated in almost the same way every summer that I helped Dad raise potatoes on the mountain. Dad raised potatoes at Riggs Flat many years before my time, so I was told.

*******************

When I was about ten or eleven years old, apparently Dad was getting discouraged making that long trip to the valley - almost 30 miles one way. He decided to check on a new route - Haul the potatoes by team and wagon around the west end of the mountain and then back to the valley. We loaded six or seven Donkeys with potatoes and headed for Fort Grant. There, Dad said he had arranged for a team and wagon to meet him at a pre-arranged time and date. We waited two or three days but the team and wagon never showed up.

Long before my time and before Dad’s time in the mountain, Fort Grant was built and maintained by the Army to protect the towns and ranches from Apache Indian raids. When we arrived at Fort Grant, Apparently, the soldiers had run out of Indians. The Army had been transferred and all that was left was a demolition crew of 10-12 men. Dad tried to interest them in potatoes. No Soap! He contacted several ranchers and settlers - then dumped the whole mess and headed for the hills. He told me later that he got $3.00 for that 7 or 8 hundred pounds of potatoes. So that was the end of that new and ‘hoped for’ potato shipping route.

It was only about 9 or 10 miles from Chesley Hollow to Fort Grant and I believe Dad intended to stockpile potatoes there at some convenient location—maybe a store or a ranch house. From there a wagon could be loaded according to capacity and horse- power (near to a ton). It could have been a success but maybe not. At least it was a very good idea. Beside the potato deal, it would have saved me many, many miles of ‘foot’ wear plus several pairs of shoes. Also the donkeys would have had more to ‘bray’ about.

Peter H. McBride was born in Scotland but his love for the Irish potato leads one to believe he must have had Irish ancestry somewhere along the line.

Believe it or not - at one time Dad built a modern ‘up-to-date’ Ice Plant just south across the creek from the saw mill at Lower Columbine. It was a water tank constructed with 2x12 planks. The first time I saw it, I estimated it to be about 8’ square and maybe 3 planks deep, and likely was water-proofed with Pine sap - ‘pine gum.’

Late in the fall or early winter, he filled it with water. By early spring, with the help of Mother Nature, it was a solid block of ice. By removing a few planks he could saw blocks of ice any size needed to place in pack-saddle bags. Then by packing the ice with sawdust, which was always plentiful at the saw mill, there was very little loss by the time he reached home. Ice packed in sawdust keeps well, even in warm weather. He usually shared ice with a few friends and had enough for ice water and ice cream. How he loved Ice Cream!

After the government trail from Fort Grant to Hospital Flat was abandoned, Dad took advantage of it and kept it in good repair from Chesley Flat to Columbine. The present Highway, and I mean 'High' way, follows that same old government trail from Hospital Junction to Riggs Lake with few variations.

Twice I remember Dad's stay at Chesley Hollow out lasted his Grub box. We headed for the cabin at Columbine. There, we found only a few dry beans. Dad boiled those beans til bedtime. We finally had to chew them like hard candy - no pressure cooker!

Another time while in search of food, Dad stopped at the Joe Foster cabin at Columbine. At present the Dave Weech cabin is on the same spot. The only door to the cabin was locked and chained. With Dad's help, I got through a small window on the west side. I checked all the cupboards and shelves. The, only thing I found that rats couldn't nibble on was a jar of raisins. So we had canteen water flavored with raisins the rest of the way home.

Late one evening dad decided to go to Columbine (I knew not why) but I went along. Just as we left Chesley Hollow it began to sprinkle. Before we reached the trail, it was a real cloudburst. It seemed the whole sky was falling on us. Dad usually had rain slickers strapped behind the saddles and this time was no exception. By the time we reached the trail it was absolute 'zero' visibility - and maybe a little below. We had only gone a short distance when Dad called me and said, "tie the reins to the saddle horn and give the horses their free rein and they will take us safely there." That was a hard thing to do but I did as I was told.

There was one very rough place along that old government trail where the soldiers had blasted a narrow trail around a cliff. Every time I rode over that part of the trail , I almost held my breath for fear the horse might stumble and we would fall almost straight down for at least 500 feet. The first landing looked to be half way to Fort Grant. After almost an hour of total darkness, the horses stopped. By that time the storm had cleared a little - and there we were right in front of Dad’s cabin at Columbine.

I never had the least impression of going around that rigid and dangerous part of the trail. I have often wondered if horses have eyes like cats or is it just ‘natural intuition?’ Either day, it was like a miracle to me.

LATER: Can you feature anyone for any reason going to the mountain in the dead of winter - other than just to see how deep “the snow was? In that case, it was “mission accomplished.” This time Dad took Claude and I along for the ride. From the saw mill on, the snow was 4 feet or more deep and frozen solid. Otherwise, the horses never could have made it. We wrapped our feet and legs with gunny sacks to keep them from freezing. At Columbine, Dad’s Cabin was covered with snow. We had to dig the snow away to get down under the porch - so we could get to the front door. Dad always left a good supply of wood and kindlings in his cabins in ease of emergency. This time it was a home-made emergency. We soon had a booming fire going in that old cast-iron cook stove.

Out back of the cabin was a ladder by a pine tree. Dad said it had 12 rungs. The snow was up to the top rung, of course, with a little drifting. Now, is there anyone living or otherwise, who has seen 9 - 10 feet of snow in the top of the old Graham mountain? I believe we got home safely the next day.

Dad seldom left the mountain empty-handed. This one time we left Oak Flat and arrived at Cluff’s ranch just about dark. Thinking it over later, he must have planned it that way for two reasons: First, it was a long way home ‘on horseback.’ Second, it just happened the fruit season was in full swing at the ranch. Now, it was too late to sit “in the shade of the old apple tree’ or have “peaches in the summertime.” But it was “apples in the fall” and we really did enjoy the fruits thereof.

Soon the word was spread that Uncle Peter was camped for the might. Then, it seemed every family at the ranch gathered around and insisted he entertain with song. Now you might say it was ‘Sing for your supper’...and he always sang his own compositions.

Dad had a fine baritone voice and he loved to use it. Throughout the valley he was dubbed ‘Mister Music.’ Besides his family, his second love could have been a toss-up between music and Irish potatoes.

This story came from Dad to Howard - to Herald - to me: Again, many years before my time, my Dad, Peter H. McBride, planned to build a tower at High Peak. There was no road from the mill to the top at that time. So Dad dragged timbers and lumber with a saddle horse - clear from the saw mill to the tap of the mountain. What a monstrous and wearing undertaking that must have been for both man and beast!

There, with only saw, hammer and nails and with the help of one other man, Dad built the first and only tower ever built at High Peak, and the first tower built on the mountain...so I was told.

The first time I saw that tower I estimated it was originally at least 30 feet high or more. There was a ladder from the ground to the platform on top - and from there (to the south) one could see all over Sulphur Springs Valley and to the Mexican border. To the north, one could see all over the Gila valley, Clifton, and Morenci and most of the higher parts of the White Mountains. Again, so I was told. The High Peak Tower was built just about 100 years.ago...“Believe it or not!”

******************

A FOLLOW-UP

In the late summer of 1926, Zeke and Herald McBride planned to take their girl friends on a little tour to the mountains. They invited my wife, Zela, and I to go along as chaperones. We left early one morning with six saddle horses and enough pack-horses to carry about a week’s supply of food and camping equipment. We went up Taylor Canyon, past Nuttle’s Mill - then topped out at Chesley’s Flat. From there we followed the old government trail to Riggs Flat. We arrived about ten o’clock that night - a mighty tired bunch. We bedded the girls down in what was left of the old Riggs cabin, and the boys slept out on the ground.

After a day or two’s rest, Herald, Zeke and I rode up to High Peak. It took us most of the day to make the round trip. We arrived at High Peak and what was left of the old tower that Dad had built so many years previous was still standing...but the top platform and most of the ladder had fallen away. I climbed as high as I dared and from there I could still see all over the Gila Valley, Morenci, Clifton and the higher peaks up in the White Mountains. But at that time the south view was obliterated from view by a tall growth of pines.

ANOTHER TRIP TO HIGH PEAK

In 1977 or 1978, our daughter and son-in-law (Jake & Nina) took Zela and I to the mountain for a short vacation. We camped at both Riggs Lake and Soldier Creek for a few days, then they decided to take us up to High Peak. At that time, the road was not kept up, so only 4x4 vehicles could make it to the top. For the last half mile or so we creeped along at a snail’s pace in the lowest gear. At times we had to guess where the old road once was, but we finally made it.

When we arrived it was a sad and rather awesome feeling. -The only thing left to identify the spot where the old tower once stood was a few, and very few, pieces of almost completely rotted timbers. Now, if those ‘rotted’ timbers could talk, the stories they could tell would be almost priceless today. Then again, before my father died, if I had just asked for a few dates, etc., they would also be priceless. But again, regretfully I didn’t.

AN ODE TO THE BUILDER

Praise to the man whom was called ‘Uncle Pete’.
By such adverse conditions - performed such a fete.
With only saw, hammer, horse and saddle.
Now maybe the name, The Old High Peak Tower’
Should be changed to the biblical ‘Tower of Babel.’

Just throwing this in: At no time while I was at High Peak, Did I ever see a Red Squirrel! 

The Dedication of Peter’s Flat and Monument 

By Darvil B. McBride – Grandson
July 9, 1988

Good Morning, you dedicated McBride's! What a propitious and glorious moment this is for all of us! What a stirring sight it is to see you all assembled here! Engrave this hour upon your hearts -Write it in your diaries- Inscribe it boldly in your journals and your Books of Remembrance - because you are participating in a moment of history.

I feel that we stand on hallowed ground - hallowed by the memory of the one that we revere and honor, and the reason why we are assembled here in these beautiful surroundings today. What an honor it is for me to fill this assignment! My prayer is that I may be able to control the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me, at least long enough to present the words I have prepared. When I think them aver in my mind, they appear so insignificant compared to the significance of the occasions. I feel so inadequate, and like Lord Alfred Tennyson said in his classic poem, "I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me."

I have been touched, as well as highly entertained, by the words that have been spoken and by the songs that have been sung by some of the special spirits of the McBride posterity, all loving and wonderful tributes to our grandfather. That posterity runs into the thousands - from Clyde and Grace, there and Claude who is unable to attend - three of grandfather's own children still living, down through the generations to the babe there in the arms of its mother.

The cultivating of this meadow is typical of grandad. He was of that breed that conquered mountains; a pioneer, never satisfied with the ordinary - a Paul Bunyan of his time. His determination to pursue a goal was as broad as the blade of the axe that that fabled woodsman carried. As was depicted in the little fun song the ladies just sang, grandad loved the mountains and this wide open land. He loved the challenges it flaunted at his pioneer spirit. He loved the peace it brought to a searching soul. -- In thinking about him and Old Mount Graham1 I picture grandfather having the same feelings as the great American poet, Robert W. Service, who described in verse his feelings for the north country when he said:

"It grips you like some kind of sinning –

It twists you from foe to a friend –

It seems it has been since the beginning,

And it seems it will be till the end."

Then a little further on the poet added:

"It's the forest where silence has lease.

It's the beauty that fills you with wonder.

It's the stillness that fills you with peace."

I am sure grandfather experienced similar feelings, as you and I experience them when we stand in these serene and lofty heights.

Yes, indeed! Grandad was of that breed that conquered mountains. Not conquering as a titan of industry - not conquering with the construction of highways, the building of bridges - not by leveling peaks and filling valleys; but with the determination of spirit and curiosity of the pioneer - to dare to venture forth against great odds and challenge the strength and might of nature itself.

And so - without further ado or the multiplying of words...here in the grandeur of Old Mount Graham (one of God's glorious creations) that grandfather loved so dearly; and here in the presence of you who represent the thousands who make up Peter's posterity, and on this 9th day of July, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, with thanks to the ready cooperation of the United States Forest Service; especially its local officers - to the Graham County Historical Society and its leaders - to those dedicated and loving family members who have headed committees and worked so diligently to bring this about - to this entire meadow and area, to the remains of the old cabin just beyond the rise (which we pray can some day be restored) to the very furrow marks 'left by a hand-held plow, still discernible in the potato field - and imbued with a deep appreciation of the past, and a hopeful eye and the monument here erected in honor of its namesake - our Father, our Grandfather, our great Grandfather and our great-great Grandfather, Peter Howard McBride Sr. All this, with love and respect we dedicate to his industry, his determination, his faith and trust in God, to his deep religious convictions that brought him to the territory of Arizona, and to his honored memory.

May the Lord protect and preserve this monument, the very masonry; the stone and cement that binds it - the bronze of the plaque, the words of praise chiseled thereon, and the beauty of nature that surrounds it. May he who keeps eternal vigil over this lofty area temper the elements, anneal the ravages of time, even to the softening of the depredations of man.

So be it! - - AMEN! 

The Cutest Spot on Earth

Lyrics by Darvil B. McBride
Music by I. Perle McBride

Sung by grand-daughters and great grand-daughters at the dedication.

When our Uncle Peter harnessed up old 'Cy' and 'Crowder Boy' –
And loaded in the plow and family cat,
We knew that spring and summer heat had made him see pine trees
And grandpa soon would head again for the flat.

For bluer skies and greener hills that beckoned him come up,
Reminding of the land of his own birth.
Old Mr. Graham, where he had found a special spot and then found out –
He had bumped into the greatest place on earth.

We stand today with honor on the ground that grandpa loved.
Beside a monument in deep respect.
We stand in awe his work and deep determination
A pioneer chosen from the top Elect.

We are his sons, we are his girls - we're thousands in the world.
We are more than blessed and proud to bear his name.
We are sure that if our grandpa looked back on what he did start,
He would think for sure he's jumped a golden claim.

CHORUS:

Peter's Flat's the cutest place in all creation.
A cabin and a garden makes a world –
Where there's room for kids and dogs and close relations
And the freedom's like a flag of peace unfurled.

There the cabin and the garden were his treasure;
And the Forest Service too - soon learned their worth.
For the pumpkins and potatoes were their pleasure,
That grew on Peter's Flat from the good old earth.

For the music - contact Darvil McBride or Frankie McBride Farr

PETER'S FLAT MONUMENT PLAQUE

Mount Graham Arizona

The name was derived from Scottish born Peter H. McBride Sr., an early Gila Valley settler. McBride worked on the flume used to carry lumber down to the valley, and as a logger. While working here on the mountain, he discovered the productive potential of this area for growing potatoes. He cultivated three to five different patches in these meadows. Potatoes were stored in long trenches near here, then covered with ferns and soil until used or transported to the valley for sale.

Cooperative placement by McBride Family, Graham County Historical society, and Coronado National Forest. July 1988

Jennie & Mac

Jennie & Mac

by C. D. McBride

Claude & Jennie McBride

I met Jennie Clarke at the Utah Agricultural College in Logan. She was studying music and I was studying agriculture. It was in 1917. She was staying with her sister, Addie. I was boarding with the Lucas family on 5th No. Sometimes we would walk together up or back from school on the hill. One day we met in the main hall between classes and chatted, and she squeezed my hand I asked her for a date, and that's how it all got started.

Jennie was a talented girl, refined and sensitive. She was a fine pianist and soon I was stopping at her place and singing to her accompaniment. When she brought out "Oh Promise Me!" and played it while I sang, her deep brown eyes glowed with warm emotion as her deft fingers played upon the keys to chime out the immortal melody, and a dream was born in our hearts that was destined to become a reality in its own due time.

I was to learn when I visited her folks in Clarkston later on that her musicianship had not come by accident. She had inherited her artistic tale from her forefathers on both sides of the family. Her grandfather, Michael Clarke, had been a renowned musician on the pipe organ in Helena, Montana, and her grandmother, Susannah Thompson Clarke, had been a brilliant stage dancer, and together they had produced many famous operas there during the gold rush days.

Jennie’s father, John P. Clarke, was a good singer and guitar player, and her mother, Sarah Homer Clarke, had a rich contralto voice. Grandpa Michael Clarke recognized Jennie’s musical talent when she was a young girl, and started her on the piano at an early age. She progressed rapidly, and by the time she entered college she was already an accomplished musician. At college she studied piano under Miss Elizabeth Underwood, and chorus and dance under Professor C.R. Johnson. She accompanied some of his operas and choruses.

John Peter Clark

My first trip to Clarkston to visit Jennie and her folks was in the spring of 1917, I rode the train to Cache Junction and started to walk across the river and up over Newton Bench. Soon it started to rain, and that heavy clay soil that had made that area such a famous dry farming section with its rich harvests of winter wheat stuck to my shoes and spattered my trouser legs until I looked more like a hedgehog than a love struck college student. I was rescued by Clarence, Jennie's younger brother along the road a mile from town as he came up from the pasture with the cows. He gave me a ride in on his horse.

At the old Clarke home I met the family, Jennie's four charming and talented sisters, Addie, Susie, Sarah and. Ilda, and her brothers, Mike, Vern, Clarence and Maynard. Dave and Rollie had married and moved away. Johnny and Sarah, her parents were very pleasant and hospitable. I soon found her father to be a very intellectual man and a great reader. One of his favorite pass times was sitting in his easy chair in the evening, smoking his pipe and reading. He kept up on events of the day, read biographies of famous people, read and talked about politics, and last but not least he read and reread his books on minerals and mines. Often he and his brother, Jim would go out prospecting in the North Hills. They had inherited a yen for gold mines from their boyhood days in Helena, Montana.

Then came the war - the First World War. That ended my college career and that of many others, for a long time. The call came for enlistments and the draft was started.. I passed all my tests for the Air Corps, but postponed my enlistment until I could return home to see my folks in Pima, Arizona after four years away seeking a college education. I said goodbye to Jennie and said I hoped to see her again after the war.

I spent two months on the farm with my folks and then found the Air Corps filled up with no room for me, so I responded to the call for strike breakers in the copper mines. The IWW’s had struck and tied up all the copper mines hoping to cripple our country and help Germany win the war. We had many run-ins with the strikers at the mines, but I stayed on at the Inspiration Copper Company at Miami until fall. Jennie and I had kept up our correspondence and decided to get married and live in Miami where I had been offered promotions and a promising future with the company.

In October I left for Utah to marry my college sweetheart and return to my work at the mine. I had rented a house to be ready for us when we arrived. We were married in the Salt Lake Temple on October 10, 1917. But Jennie's parents could not stand to see her go so far away with the war on and the future so uncertain. Mike was preparing to enlist and the folks persuaded us to stay and run the farm and take our chances on the war.

This was a crucial turning point in my life. No more mining career for me. I worked in the beet fields topping beets during; the harvest, and then joined Vern in contracting electric wiring jobs. The power line had come through and the towns around the valley were being wired up for electric lights. We wired the town of Paradise. Then Vern moved away with his wife and I continued the wiring work in Collinston, Benson and some in Clarkston. When I started wiring the Clarke home Jennie's father protested that his eyes could not stand the bright electric lights. He preferred his old coal oil lamp. After a few weeks in is corner under the bright lights the power went off one evening and they had to bring out the old coal oil lamp.

“My hell! Sarah,” said Johnny, “Why don't you clean that chimney?”

Sarah cleaned the chimney as best she could, but Johnny’s reading that evening was strenuous. The power came on again the next night and Johnny enjoyed the new lights to the end of his days.

Then came the flu epidemic during the winter of 1918-19. The whole town was hit. Whole families were bed-ridden. Some were dying, Johnny, Mike and I were able to stay on our feet and feed and care for our folks, and also help some of our neighbors. Mike took over the Hans Jensen family chores, and I helped the Ab Godfrey family. They were all down. Charley Anderson made the rounds from his ranch at Hard Scrabble with a flack of whiskey for each family in the town. With his jolly smile and red nose he was a real Santa Claus on those wintry days in his sleigh.

On May 10, 1919 our first child was born, a “Flu Baby.” We had a difficult time saving him. We named him Claude Eugene. Through constant attention to careful living and diet he finally matured into a healthy and active man. He is now, in 1973, the father of six children and the grandfather of four.

Jennie was the pianist for the Clarke Orchestra, with Uncle Jimmie and his boys--Vernor on the trombone, John on the violin, Harold on the cornet and Uncle Jim on his banjo. For a time Harm Barson was the main violinist. He played by ear. All he had to do was hear a tune once and he could pick it up and play it. Jennie would play it on the piano and Harm would chime in with his violin. Sometimes he would attend a show at the Capitol Theatre and come home with some new tunes on his violin. Jennie would fill in the harmony and the dance was on.

Later on Vivian took up the violin and then the organ. They played for dancehalls over the valley and over in the Bear River Valley, and for community programs and celebrations.

The Clarke family liked reunions, and Aunt Sarah would always make a big pan of her delicious doughnuts. She had a secret recipe for them, and nobody ever found out what it was. I have never eaten such delicious doughnuts since she quit the business.

One memorable family reunion was the one held in Dry Canyon in the North Hills by the grove of pines. All the Clarke's and their relatives were there, and a few others joined them too. A big barbecue pit was dug and lined with large stones and a fire was built in it. When the stones were plenty hot a quarter of baby beef was hung in the pit in a wire basket and the pit was covered with a strip of sheet iron and a thick layer of soil. After three hours the pit was opened and the mellow, nut brown quarter of beef was lifted out and carved up and spread around on the table among pies, cakes, vegetables and fruits. In the words of the old story, “Oh! What a dainty dish to set before a king!” Johnny and Jim prospected in the hills for outcroppings of ore, the boys hunted sage hens and grouse, and at night all joined in songs and stories around the campfire under the starry heaven.

C.D., Jennie, Pauline & Claude E. McBride

I leased the Malmberg farm out by the cemetery and bought the livestock and machinery and went into dry farming on a bigger scale. Two more children were born to us, Jennie Theda, a sweet little brown eyed girl like her mother, and Conrad Legrand (Dick), a plucky little towhead full of vitality. Along with my farming I ran the old blacksmith shop and kept the horses and sleighs shod in winter and the plowshares sharpened and pointed during the summer. Many were the yarns spun around my blacksmith shop during the winter months while I ran the forge and anvil.

Jennie played the piano in the orchestra and for the choir, and I sang in the choir and for many funerals, and we performed in some light operas also. In Gypsy Rover Eunice Petersen and I sang the leading roles, and In Cherry Blossom, Grace Fisher and I were the leads.

We had a great baseball team during those years also. We won championships around the valley and became famous for our "Murderer’s Row at bat. One big game was at Malad on the 24th of July for a purse of $100. But I almost got robbed, as manager of the team, before I could get out of town.

On the main team were, Joe Godfrey catcher,- Leo Jardine, pitcher,- Joe Maimberg, first base,- Sammy Thompson, second base,- myself, third base and pitch,- Russ Dahle, short stop,- Gail Thompson, left field,- Lee Thompson, center field,- Paul Clarke, right field. Then there were John Jardine, relief pitcher, - Brig Griffin, first base, relief,- and Dave Archibald, second base relief.

In the Malad game Joe Godfrey was on second base when Paul Clarke knocked a home run. He was a fast runner and Joe was a slow one. When Paul rounded third base he was on the heels of Joe who was running hard but slow.

"Go on Joe! Hurry; Joe,” he shouted. He had to slow down to keep from passing Joe. But they both finally made it in.

While I was in the bishopric with R.O. (Rube) Loosle, and Frank Ravsten, Jr. with Wendell Thompson as ward clerk we had good attendance at meetings. Some, of the hard-working farmers would have a good nap in the afternoon sacrament meetings. In one of the fast and testimony meetings we had just finished the sacrament and begun to have testimony bearing. After a couple of testimonies had been born, Joe Holt was snoring in his seat. Tom Goody poked him and said, “Wake up, Joe,- Wake up, the bishop wants you to dismiss the meeting.” Joe woke up, rubbed his eyes and traipsed up to the stand and raised his rusty hand and offered the benediction. It was short and to the point. The congregation thought he was going to bear his testimony. When he prayed for the Lord to dismiss the meeting, a giggle went through the crowd and they all looked foolish and started moving out. The bishopric was dumfounded. Tom Goody jumped up and made for the door. He didn't want to face Joe when he found out what a trick had been pulled on him.

On another occasion Uncle Jack Thompson went to fast and testimony meeting, for the first tine in many years. He told me about in the blacksmith shop the next day. He said he was getting old and thought he had better start doing something to save his soul from the grave, so he went to church.

“They was a bearin’ their testimonies,” he said, “And old Preachin’ Tom was up there a bearing’ his testimony, and he was wavin’ his arms and poundin’ the pulpit and he said, ‘I know the Lord is with us today. I can feel his spirit. I know he is here with us.’

“And he was right,” said Uncle Jack, “For I was there.”

The farm depression hit the country in 1922. The price of wheat fell from $310 a bushel to 40 cents in a few weeks. I was caught with my wheat in the elevator in Cache Junction. I lost everything I had invested in my farming venture and had to look for something else. I had been invited to teach in the place of a teacher who had left at Christmas time. When school was out I went to work at the Cutler Dam operating a blacksmith shop setting up all the drills for the drilling and blasting, and then truing them up and tempering them after each run. I could have followed the construction job from camp to camp around the country. But that would be a poor life for a young family. Jennie and I talked it over and decided that I should return to teaching, and that has been my life’s profession.

After teaching two years in Clarkston we moved to Logan. There we raised our three children and helped them through college. Eugene is now a dairyman in Syracuse, Utah. His wife is the former Pauline Williams. They have six children and four grandchildren. Theda and her husband, Bill Darley, live in Menlo Park, California. They are both teaching and have one son. Conrad (Dick) completed his Ph.D. at UCLA and is professor of Political Science in the University of Colorado at Boulder. His wife is the former Rosemary Howell of Logan. They have six children.

Jennie continued her music work, playing in church and cantatas, giving music lessons and taking care of the home and family as a devoted mother, homemaker and companion, while I continued with my educational career. After several years in the Logan City Schools, I entered the Utah State University as Professor of Industrial Education. While there I organized and conducted the Evening School, founded the Industrial Management Degree Program and the Management Institute and directed the Student Placement Bureau.

In September 1955, Jennie was stricken with a cerebral hemorrhage and passed away on September 26. She is now resting by her parents in the cemetery on the hill at Clarkston where she was born.

[CD died 27 November 1992 and is buried in Clarkston next to his sweetheart]