1882-1978
Transcript of Mother’s First Recording in 1969 When She Was 87 Years Old
My name is Dora Jones, born March 10, 1882, Malad, Idaho. When you’re that old, it doesn’t make much difference.
My parents were Ben E. Jones and Mary Jane Thomas Jones. They were born in Salt Lake City. Moved to Malad–Mother moved in 1864; my father in 1865.
No, they were not sent out by the Mormon Church. My mother’s father was one of the first five who landed in Malad, but they weren’t sent by the Mormon Church–just migrated to Malad from St. Louis, Missouri, and around there.
The old picture we took yesterday was a pioneer cabin, built in 1864, up by the Crowther Mill. That was the second house my grandfather had. The first house was willows, made out of willows, down where the hospital is. That was where his homestead was, his first one made out of willows. His name was Benjamin Thomas, my mother’s father. There are more Benjamins in the family–all my grandfathers were named Benjamin; my father was named Benjamin, my brother was named Benjamin. Oh! Just a raft of Benjamins in the family.
I didn’t live in the cabin up by the mill. That was years before I was born. I couldn’t tell you the exact date. I don’t know whether my mother lived there. Maybe she did. I never heard her say. She was born in 1853 so maybe she did. It was built in 1864, so they didn’t live in the willow cabin very long. It must have been homesteaded in 1865. It’s the first year he planted a crop.
The first Mormon missionaries that came to Malad held their first meetings in Grandpa’s home, in his first home where the hospital is. Two missionaries and the neighbors congregated there. I remember Grandpa telling about this. Grandpa was the First Counselor in the first Bishopric in Malad. He helped start the church in the valley, used to know all the officers but have forgotten–Thomas Daniels, Henry Peck, Benjamin Thomas–there were five.
My mother’s father, Benjamin Thomas, homesteaded in Malad up Deep Creek. He died on his farm at Deep Creek, August 1887. David R. Thomas was the first white child born in Oneida County–Mother’s half brother. My father’s mother and father died and are both buried in Tehama County, California.
My father farmed and raised cattle. After my grandparents died in California, they left four children–the oldest 17, one 7, one 5, one 3. William H. Jones, the oldest; then Ben E. Jones, my father, 7; then Jedd E. Jones, 5 and Mary Ellen, their youngest sister, was 3. They all came from California together in a covered wagon. William H. Jones (Evelyn Davis’s grandfather) was the 17 year-old who brought the wagon with the three little children and cared for them until they got grown. They finally moved to Malad from Brigham City–all lived in Malad the rest of their lives.
Aunt Mary Ellen Jones married Dan Daniels and several generations of their families are living in Malad. (Lola Daniels Evans’ family).
I married Franklin M. Jones in Malad, Idaho, May 1905. He was born in Malad, one of seven brothers, and he lived on the farm that his father homesteaded in the early days. Raised cattle and hay. His brother’s names are Morgan Jones, David Jones, Ed Jones, Herb (Herbert) Jones, Alfred Jones, and Isaac Jones. None are alive now. His father married again, but the last family were all boys. The first family wasn’t. There were four children in the first family, a boy and a girl (twins) and then two daughters after. One of the granddaughters, Jean, is the wife of Governor Chase Clark and the mother-in-law of Senator Frank Church of Idaho.
Frank’s father, David R. Jones, served in the tenth session of the Idaho Territorial Legislature in 1879, in the House of Representatives. He served in three sessions–the tenth, eleventh, and thirteenth.
I went to school in Malad, Idaho. Rode a horse to school when I was six years old, about ¼ of a mile, in deep snow. My father used to take me on a white horse to school every morning when I was that young. Later I went to school at the Presbyterian Chapel high school in Malad, then to the University of Utah in 1901 and 1902. Taught school for three years, one year in Malad, another year in Arbon, Idaho, and another year in Cherry Creek, Idaho. Then I got married right after that.
Frank attended Malad schools and then went to USAC for two years in 1898 in Logan, Utah.
When I taught school in Malad, I taught second grade and had 65 students, 35 dollars a month salary. Now they grumble! I taught out in Arbon, the snow was so deep and the winters so hard, they just had two months in the spring and two months in the fall. We didn’t have it in the middle of winter. I had about ten pupils to start with and then when the spring work started they all had to drop out to work. I had one student for a month, a girl. I was living with her folks. Walked to school thru stubble, about a mile thru grain that was cut. She was about eight years old–Rachel Daniels. I was teaching all grades. In Cherry Creek I taught eight grades. I only had fifteen students there, some grades with just one, some with two, some with three. There in winter, all nine months, used to go down on the stage from Malad, behind horses. They pulled a big stage through all that mud. Went down every Monday morning and stayed with Thomas Davis’s family through the week then came back up on Friday night on the stage. It took over one hour to go, so much mud up to the hubs. We’d go through fields, sometimes when the roads were so bad you couldn’t go on them–about ten miles. You know, it was Woodruff, Hendrickson Creek and everything all in one–the schools down below Cherry Creek.
This one pupil I had in school was the daughter of Henry Daniels–he just died in California at the age of 96 years old.
When I was twelve years old, I used to ride on horseback to school with my 10-year-old brother behind me, for four miles, every fall, until the family moved down for the winter. We never had grades in those days, just readers. I remember I was in the fifth reader. Used to say fifth reader, second reader, third reader. The farm we used to ride from was on Birch Creek, north of Malad. I was very proud of this ride to school as it was on the first side saddle I’ve ever had and I was really proud to have the saddle to ride. (This would be in 1894.) My father gave it to me for a present; it’s the one that’s in the basement now.
After our marriage, we rode in the surrey with the fringe on top. Took our honeymoon from Malad down to four mile. That was a sight! We were married in the old home in Malad. Dad’s father was alive, David R. Jones. He lived with us for four years, then he died. He was 80 years old when he died. He bought the first graphophone, we used to call it, with the big horn and the records. And I still have that. That was about the second we were married. I remember people coming here for about two years to hear it as it was the only one in the valley that size. There were lots of little ones but that was the only big one. We were married in 1905 so that was 1907; he died in 1910. We have about forty old records right now for that old machine. Quite a comparison to the records they have now, those old tunes and old songs–”In the Good Old Summertime” and all of those.
The surrey we took our honeymoon in was the same surrey used to take the Goddess of Liberty and Marshal of the parade on the Fourth of July to lead the parade in–that same surrey. I’ve got a picture of it. It’s too bad we don’t have the surrey. It wasn’t running, you know–broken or something. Should have kept it, preserved it. Could if we’d tried. His Dad bought the surrey, must have been about 1900, as they’d had it about four or five years when we were married.
Dad batched (living like a bachelor) after his mother died. He and his dad batched and Dad did all the cooking, making bread and making butter. Make butter and sell butter–couldn’t use it all–ten cents a pound. He used to love that buttermilk, he and his father, you know. That “buttermilk with the potatoes was just it.”
We sold rhubarb for ten cents, all you could carry. Dad always called it pie plant; well, they still do, you know. I think the later name is rhubarb. We used to milk 10 or 12 cows all the time and separate the milk and sell the cream for $2.50 for five gallons. Sold to the creamery. There was another creamery at the other end of town before they built the new one. Used to sell milk for five cents a quart–used to sell a lot of that around town.
We stored the milk in a big trough in big cans, cold water, running water from a flowing well. All the time they put the cans in there overnight, shipped them out in the morning. They’d call for them every morning at all the farms around–pick it up, take it to the creamery. A lot of work for a little money. The cellar close to the house, a log cellar with a dirt roof and dirt floor, we kept the cream down there. Kept vegetables down there. Everything kept just like it was in a refrigerator almost–like they do nowadays.
I was glad to see the Fourth of July come, and Christmas. I always looked forward to it as I always had a new dress. I remember one on the Fourth of July–a sheer white dotted Swiss with a big five inch-wide blue ribbon sash with a bow in the back. Then I had a blue feathered fan to go with it. Never heard of a dress that was bought. And all the work on it was made by my mother. She even covered my parasol with net, white net ruffles. That was one of the prettiest things in the whole parade.
The Kensington Club was organized in 1902, with thirty lady members. We used to meet every week and do all kinds of fancy work, tatting, Battenburg, embroidery, crocheting, and everything. We always had a big luncheon, almost a banquet. Grandma and I used to entertain and we always had the same menu. The menu was pressed chicken, waldorf salad, hot rolls, pickles and jellies, homemade ice cream and pineapple sherbert, cake and coffee. I read the minutes and at one of the meetings there were 20 ladies present and 13 children. After Grandma and I would entertain the club in the afternoon, the men would come for dinner. Just the men of the family and would eat the rest of the food for dinner. I was treasurer for seven years. We’d elect new officers every year–President, Vice-President, Secretary and Treasurer. We took all the children until they were six years old. Never heard of baby sitters in those days. It was a job to serve in those days, different from the way it is now. Lots of times after a few years, they stopped doing fancy work and started playing auction bridge. About 1917, and then the fancy work took a rest.
In 1917, we moved to the new house in Malad and I entertained up there.
I remember she (Grandma) used to come down to the ranch in a hack, a great big hack. A man used to go after the mail in a hack, not a wagon or a buggy, something in between with five seats. The driver sat up high in front and drove the team of horses. That’s the way we used to go, never had cars in those days, just buggies. And when there weren’t enough buggies, we had to hire a hack—he charged for going out of town or coming after us, fifty cents.
At the ranch in July was quite a busy time. We used to have haymen for about three weeks, every day, cutting the hay and hauling it. I remember we fed them three meals a day and cooked eight loaves of bread every day, besides all the other food. We used to go to the garden and dig the potatoes and all the vegetables. We picked them to get ready to cook for the haymen, about a month every summer. We used to pay them $1.50 a day, plus their board.
In my own family there were six children. The oldest was Rachel. She died when she was 2 ½ years old from diphtheria-croup. Dora, Benjamin, Letitia, Bertha and Loren. He died when he was three weeks old.
In the wintertime, we used to travel with sleigh–sleighbells ringing on the horses. Lots of the hay on the sleigh and lots of blankets to cuddle up in to keep warm. We went to town every day, never missed a day. After Dad got through feeding the cattle, he was ready to go. I guess I was just as bad. I don’t think we missed a day all winter. After Ada started to school in the sleigh, her father used to heat rocks and put them in a gunny sack to keep her feet warm until she got to school. That was a daily procedure, put those rocks in the oven every morning, warm up the sack to put the rocks in. After we built the house in town, we moved up there every winter. Dad used to go down to the ranch every day, no matter what the weather, to feed the cattle. In the early days at the ranch, we had no electricity, until 1936. The girls had to study by kerosene lamp–kind of a hardship to what they have nowadays. We had coal stoves and kerosene lamps and a crank telephone. The two older girls studied by kerosene lamp, a round-burner brass lamp or a silver-plated one. The round-burner was the best lamp. I remember it didn’t seem to hurt our eyes.
Dad was dressed up in that big, long astrakhan coat with a stand-up collar, standing up in the sleigh with his ear muffs on and the horses ran nearly all the way home. We’d go to town and I’d visit Grandma, and Dad would go downtown and play cards at Fred Murray’s with a bunch of men. We wouldn’t get home until dark. Dad had to go every day; he was the worst one I ever saw.
(Jayne: This recording was made at holiday-time in 1969-1970. The last day we recorded was on January 4, 1970. Mother was 87 years old.)
Transcript at age 88 – March 1970
I had my 88th birthday last week–I feel like one hundred. You’ll never know. I’m glad you and Warren came down.
They’re just tearing down the old ranch house at Four Mile now. It was built in 1878, started in 1877. Dad was born in 1875 and was three years old. Frank Woods was the architect for all those big homes down there.
Every year in July we had a lot of haymen to cook for, breakfast before 7:00 am for all the men, and dinner at twelve. They’d start working again at 2:00 pm until 7:00 pm; then we had dinner for them. Then Dad had ten cows to milk after that. He was about all in after that. Well, he had to milk those cows before he started the day too. Work at 5:00 am until 9:00 pm, always. He got up at daylight and in the summer, that’s early. Went down after those cows. I can hear that dog barking now. Pal was so good. He’d go down and round up the cattle–think of all the steps he saved. I can see that dog barking and running now. He knew just which cattle to bring, wasn’t that funny? He’d just bring the milk cows–smart dog. He was as homely as he could be. Allen would come in the door and Pal would jump up and grab Allen’s heels every time he opened that door.
Barney was before Pal, but that Pal was the most wonderful dog, the steps he would save. Dad would say, “Come on Pal. Let’s go get the cows,” and he’d run down and start bringing them in.
About the only income we had except for selling the cattle was selling the milk. We’d get about $100 each month from the milk, and sell cattle in the fall–all fat steers, and we’d get about $1000 after we brought them in off the hills. You know that, Jayne and her Dad used to ride for them. I remember. You’re the only one of the girls that rode for them in the hills. Don’t think Kathleen or Ada ever did. Those were hard-working days but they were sure happy days. I wish I could live them over again, even if it was hard work. I loved to be down on that old ranch for some reason or other. I’ve often told Kathleen about that–Ada too–That I just loved the summers down there. I didn’t like the winter too much, but I sure liked the summers.
We didn’t have any heat in the winters–everybody lived in the kitchen. Ada says she remembers putting her feet in the oven, warm her feet, then run as hard as you could to get to bed. The “backhouse” or whatever you call it, out there in the deep snow. It’s a wonder we lived. It was a long way out there, and cold nights. Oh, dear dear! We spent thirteen winters there. Married in 1905 and built the house in town in 1917. So that wasn’t too long, like lots of people you know. When you look back, it doesn’t seem too long. We never spent another winter there after that. We moved into town the latter part of October or early November, usually November. Then back down in May after school was out. No, I enjoyed it, even though it wasn’t very convenient, any part of it. It was part of life.
Our first electric washing machine. Dad put a motor of some kind on it off some old machinery–underneath, you remember. That great big old wheel going round. Connected the cord from out on the porch, through the window and into the kitchen. Never had electricity until 1936. We thought that was a treat when we didn’t have to turn that old washer. It was hard work, turning that old wheel. That’s the part I didn’t like. If we’d had electricity sooner, of course we’d had more conveniences. You didn’t study too much by the old kerosene lamps, did you? You were only four years old when we moved to town, but of course we didn’t move until November. Ada, I remember studying by that old brass kerosene lamp. That was good light–round burner. Wasn’t that awful, the lights we had then and the way we do now? I just had a refrigerator a year before we moved to town. Oh, wouldn’t a refrigerator have been a help on a ranch like that? I’ve often said, “People shouldn’t dread staying on farms now with all the conveniences the same as they are in town.”
We kept the milk cold by putting the milk can in the water through out there, every night after they got through milking. Water from the flowing well kept the milk sweet all night–put those 10 gallon cans in every night, took them out in the morning. Kept the milk just like ice all night. We separated some and sold the cream. That’s before they started to sell milk. We used to separate all the milk and sell the cream–lots more work. If I didn’t dread that old separator to wash! Before we had the separator, we put the milk in pans and skimmed the cream off, to churn it and sell the butter. The cream was really thick on top of everything. I had a skimmer. Skimmed it every morning and night. My, it was grand cream. I miss that cream. Churned in an old churn. It was seventy years ago–close, sixty-five years ago.
The old organ Dad took lessons on when he was a kid eight years old. His father bought the organ and the other boys took lessons on it too, in the 1800s. Probably bought it when he bought all that furniture for the house, in Dinwoodie’s in Salt Lake. He bought the old graphophone long after we were married, about 1908. I can remember when he bought the graphophone, cause he bought about forty records right off the reel. His father was a real good singer, wonderful singer. His mother used to sing solos; her main song was “Annie Laurie.” Whenever Dad heard “Annie Laurie” he’d say, “There’s Mother’s song.” Grandpa Jones (David R.) used to sing in the house a lot, sit in the rocker and sing old songs, and then Dad sang “Rock of Ages” all the time, especially when he was milking. He said the cows gave more milk when he sang. I thought that was the funniest idea, being that happy about milking cows. That was the worst place I ever could be, was by a milk cow. I never hated anything so bad in my life.
I wasn’t crazy about riding horses. I had to ride sometimes to come to town. Ada and I would get on old Togo to come up to club. That’s before we had cars. I liked to ride but I wasn’t crazy about it like you girls were.
One time Dad was offered eight cents a pound for his steers and he just thought he’d made a big deal. We sold our butter for 10 cents a pound, sold the cream for $5.00 for five gallons worth, so thick you could cut it with a knife. I can remember you couldn’t even pour it.
Taped Transcript Taken Later
Today is Sunday, May 31, 1970. I’m interviewed in my home in Malad, Idaho, by Jayne Jones Brown. I have three daughters: Ada Janssen, Jayne Brown, and Kathleen Chandler. My parents were born in Salt Lake City. Their parents were all born in Wales–Benjamin Thomas and Benjamin Jones. My first Idaho home was a three room log house where I lived until I was six years old and then we built a new home, larger, on North Main in Malad.
The chores I did as a child was wash dishes, feed the chickens, gather the eggs, scrub the porches, dust and sweep. Well, I did everything–took care of my younger brothers and sisters, cause I was the oldest in the family. The three rooms were the front room, kitchen and a bedroom. Never any closets, ever. Shanty in the back where we stored things. We stored our clothes behind the bedroom door, hanging on nails. Didn’t have many clothes–a best dress and some aprons and things.
My only pet was a dog. We always kept a good dog on the place. There were no Chinese or Basques in this town at all. We used to see several Indians. They used to come from Washakie (Indian Reservation). There were two old squaws I especially remember. They used to come to the house begging and one would do your washing for 25 cents a day, rub your clothes on a washboard. We always gave her lunch. Her name was Maggie and another one was named Susie. She was sort of a joke. She’d have everybody laughing when she’d show up. She wasn’t such a good worker as Maggie. Both talked really good English. Then they used to pick our apples off the ground in the fall–take what they wanted. Then there was Johnny-Indian, who used to go to the same school as I did. He was about 10 years old. Went a whole term, and was well-liked by all the students. My mother, when she was about five years old, in early pioneer days, the Indians used to come–Chief Pocatello and other Indians came on horses, begging for food with a knife in their hands, just to warn that you’d better give them what they wanted. They asked for eggs, sugar, bread–just hand them out a loaf of bread, half a loaf, or whatever my mother’s family had. Didn’t come very often. I remember my Mother telling me when she was five years old how scared she was. They came with their horses and scared them.
Malad is a Welsh community, so nearly all are Welshmen. Came with their parents from Wales.
For recreation, when school was out in the spring, we used to play baseball, hop-scotch, jump rope, help with the chores, and ride to the pasture after the cows. Just milked for ourselves, made our own butter and had all the milk and cream we could use. Only sold butter.
When I was 12 years old, my brother and I used to weed long rows of corn on our hands and knees, and also the potatoes. Weeded a big garden. Stored it all in a deep pit, would keep it fresh all winter in the pit. My, those potatoes tasted good out of that pit–they just had the best flavor. Used to put carrots in the pit, a big hole in the ground with a place to get in and out. It’s funny to think about all that, the way they live nowadays.
We raised all kinds of fruit and all kinds of berries–raspberries, black and red raspberries, peaches, pears and plums and apples. Used to get up at four o’clock in the morning to help my mother pick the raspberries before it got hot. We’d start as soon as we could see. After we’d picked them, I’d have to carry the bucket with eight quarts down to some lady she sold them to–eight quarts for a dollar. I can see that great big old granite bucket right now. I’d carry it and was just a young kid. It’s a wonder how I did it. I must have been 14 then, I guess. Henry Thomas’s mother always bought the raspberries. Yes, we sold lots of fruit.
We had the best transparent apple tree. They got ripe so early and my brother and I used to climb up the apple tree, have a long rope tied on to a bucket handle; I’d fill it up and drop it, then someone down below would empty it, then I’d draw the bucket back up again. Climb clear to the top of those apple trees. I liked that. Wish I had that old tree right now. Those apples tasted just out of this world. The fall apples we used to pick and put in the pit my father dug–about four or five feet deep, besides all the vegetables we put in there and they’d just keep perfect. It had a lid you’d throw back to get in and when you got out, you shut it. Kind of a flap, it was just big enough to get it. The roof was boards and then covered with dirt. Grand way to keep food. Would go down maybe twice a week.
On Sunday we always went to Sunday School in the morning, dressed up in our best, come home and at two o’clock we’d all go to Sacrament meeting–two to four–and then come home and have a big Sunday dinner. Lots of times we’d have company. It was a great habit in those days for families to visit one another for Sunday dinner. I visited many of my aunts and uncles with my mother when I was little cause they’d take all the children when they’d go. We used to visit them and they used to visit us. I liked that style better than the way they do now. I looked forward to those days as we always had the grandest meals. After the vegetables came, we had green peas, new potatoes, fried chicken, and Grandma usually made a three-layered white cake decorated with different kinds of jelly. Grandma, the way she decorated her cake, she had three layers of white cake with jelly spread between the layers and then on top she’d put a spoonful here and there–about five spoonfuls on top, for the decoration. We never heard of icings or anything in those days. Just beat an egg up and put some sugar in it. We used to have a custard filling once in a while. Then if we didn’t have the cake, we’d have some kind of pie, fruit–raspberry or something. We always had desert. Never heard the word “calories.” The word wasn’t in existence. We never talked about diet or anything like that. We were just glad to eat everything we could, have a big dinner and enjoy it. Talk about getting fat? Nobody ever did. They’d eat all they could and just relished every mouthful. Oh, I used to love those dinners.
Everywhere Grandma went, visiting uncles and aunts, they were really good old-fashioned cooks. Fried chicken used to be delicious. Never used roast beef very much. Had fried ham, fried chicken, roasted chicken with dressing inside then baked. Never heard much about roasts. We had fresh ham, and it was delicious too. I can’t remember roasting. It’s a wonder we didn’t get fat, with all that fried stuff.
Holidays in our family were Christmas and New Years, the first of March (St. David’s Day), the fourth of July and the 24th of July (Pioneer Day). Never heard of Labor Day–and Thanksgiving, that’s all. Our family and my aunts used to go different places on different holidays–Mother’s for Christmas, Aunt Sarah’s on Thanksgiving and then my home on New Year’s Day. Grandma had a real pretty centerpiece for Christmas, always a big tureen filled with fresh fruit, apples, grapes–never saw a banana in my day, oranges in the winter. I don’t remember ever seeing a banana then, nor grapefruit–never heard of such a thing. Funny the way the kids eat bananas now and I can’t remember ever seeing one.
Pioneer Day was the day the Mormons arrived in Salt Lake City in 1847 and it was the custom of the Mormons to have a celebration always on that day. It was a Mormon town. Had races, big program, races for the children, ballgame, and always a dance at night. We danced all the time–every Fourth of July, the night before and the night of and the same on the 24th. We’d sooner dance than eat in those days–but no more. My parents danced the old waltz, quadrilles and all that. We had a few extra fancy ones in my day. I took all my children to the dances when they were two or three months old. Put them on the bench and let them sleep while we waltzed around. Oh, lands, we won more prizes than I can count. We took a prize for the Varsuvianne and for the two-step and for the waltz. I remember that. Prizes, at married folks’ dances. One of my prizes was a silk dress, the material for a dress. Oh, I thought it was wonderful. We were wonderful dancers. Dad was a wonderful dancer. Can you remember dancing with him? He’d sooner dance than eat too. He was in his glory when he could get on that floor.
The music was a five-piece orchestra. My parents had a fiddle to dance to. They don’t call it that now, but one man played the fiddle. I danced many times to that too when I was younger and it was just as good a time as when we had a whole band there. The dances were held in the pavilion, then earlier they were held in the church halls, recreation halls of the church. The pavilion was just for dances. Holidays and married folks’ dances about every two weeks in the winter, Valentine dance and every holiday. Never had any teenage dances. The young people danced in the church, through the Mutual (church young people’s organization). They’d give a dance and chaperone the youngsters. Oh, on the Fourth of July, they had a children’s dance in the afternoon and on Christmas, in the daytime.
Every fall after the grain was threshed on the farm, my mother used to take the homemade carpets up from the floor. I remember taking those tacks out, when I was about 12 years old, with an old tack puller. Then we’d take the carpet out to the line and gather the straw underneath the carpet. We’d carry that out and burn it, mop the floor, and then go and shake all the chaff out of the clean new straw, bring it in clean and put it on the floor and then tack the clean carpet all back down again. It was about a day’s work. Every fall we also changed the old ticking in the mattress. The homemade covering was filled with fresh clean straw and the ends sewn up and put back on the bed for the next year. Not too comfortable. I was sure glad when they graduated from that to a feather bed. I can just hear that old straw cracking the first night. It would pop when it was new. It would just crack.
We made our own feather beds. Mother would save every speck of the feathers from the chickens she killed and turkeys and geese and clean and wash them and let them dry, and put them in a tick for a featherbed. That would be a little softer than the straw. We had feather beds that way. Diane was asking about that the other day, about if I still had one–that she’d sure like to cuddle down in one again.
We made carpet rags, a big ball, sewed those for weeks and weeks and then took them to a weaver and had them weave our carpets. No wool, mostly cotton, cutting up old cotton dresses; sew them up on that old sewing maching. Wind them up on big balls, take about five, ten balls for a yard. Every year when we took the carpets up, we’d hang them on the line and beat them with an old carpet beater. We have that down home–beat all the dust out. It was like a fan, made out of sticks or steel or something. It was horrible hard on carpets, cause we’d beat with that. It’s down home now.
Transcript of Tape Made March 1972
I’m ninety years old and three days. I just celebrated my 90th birthday on March 10th. I can name all my grandchildren to you–the names and birthdays. I have seven grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren; two granddaughters and three great-granddaughters.
The Saturday night or Saturday afternoon baths we used to take, that was something to record. We had that big old long galvanized tub on high legs about a foot high. We used to carry the water into the house and warm it on the stove, big pans and teakettle; then carry it to the bathtub for a bath. We did really have a bathroom, kind of it was. After all that work, we couldn’t take them everyday the way we do now. About one bath a week. Had to pump the water and carry it there, or from the flowing well, either one. When the pump was half dry you had to go to the flowing well. That’s where we carried our drinking water, from the flowing well. Then we’d heat it. When we did our washing or laundry, we had to heat the water in the big old copper boiler on the stove–carry it, make a fire and get the water boiling before I put it in the washer. Had that old washer going. Connected it from the kitchen light through the kitchen window to the washer on the back porch after we got electricity.
Grandpa Jones should be here to tell about St. David’s Day. Dad’s father. He was right in the group at first. He used to be in the men’s chorus, the ones that started it–David R. Jones and Dan Tovey, Henry Giles was the music teacher, David Maggs was another music teacher. Used to have a chorus and compete. Had a man come from Salt Lake to be the judge. Quite a big thing on March 1st every year. Eisteddfod–that’s the Welsh name. I wrote a poem, or history of Malad and sent it in and got second prize. Ranny Davis got first and I got second. She got twenty and I got ten dollars. I’ve got that history right down home now. I wrote the history in long hand, got long foolscap paper. I was looking at it not long ago. It was a remarkable day. We used to have that lots before I was married–Grandma would always have Grandpa Jones and Dad there that day, invited them for the morning and we always had dinner at noon; we’d go to the morning session from ten to twelve, then we’d go to Grandma’s for dinner and then go in the afternoon again. Then we’d have a night session too. All kinds of choruses and solos, recitations (they used to say). It was just a remarkable day. We looked forward to that day. St. David was the patron saint of the Welsh. When David Maggs came here it was really booming cause he was right from Wales, you know. He just started right in, getting his chorus together, and he’d done a lot of practicing. Won lots of prizes. Henry Giles was from Salt Lake and just came up here to live for a while. He and David Maggs used to compete against each other all the time. That was a big day, the first of March.
We bought our first car the year after you were born, 1915. Our first car, an Overland, a black Overland. I have a picture of it down home. Had _?_ glass, a hole in the curtains so you could see out. Had to put them up if we wanted to keep warm, snap them on. That was the first—had three or four Overlands. Dad was so proud of that car, I believe the first one in Malad was about 1914. D.L. Evans (Governor John’s Grandfather), I think he had his in 1912 and Uncle Jedd had his in 1914. It was a pretty nice car, cause they all came down when you were born, to see me in that car—a whole carload. Never forget that—a whole carload and we’d never seen a car. They had these scarves they called them automobile scarves—Aunt Ted, Sophie; Emma Clark was working for me. There they came, unawares, and she had to cook dinner for all of them. Emma didn’t care though. She’d just go ahead anyway. I believe there were about ten came in that car. They brought all the kids and everybody—Sarah and Sophie and Aunt Ted. Oh, I can just see them in that. We thought that was quite a sight cause that was the biggest car in Malad then.
The bed was in the parlor. Mrs. Dalton was my nurse. Yes, I always had Doctor Kerns (Evelyn’s father) for all my children. Grandma and the family came down on the 19th of April on a Sunday, for dinner and to spend the day. It was the warmest, loveliest day. I’ll never forget it.
Oh, I wasn’t too spry, but Grandma didn’t say too much. Just before they were going home, she said, “I think I’d better stay tonight.” she told Grandpa, Bertha and Tisha. “You’d better go home without me.” At ten o’clock that night I was mixing some bread—a big batch of bread. After that I had to put Ada’s hair up in rags to make curls, and have ringlets ready for school the next morning. At two o’clock you were born. At twelve o’clock we called Doc Kerns—I wasn’t feeling too good and Grandma told Dad he’d better call. He didn’t come right straight until about two o’clock. He ran down to get Mrs. Dalton and chased around. At two o’clock—that was the fastest I ever had anything take place. To think I had no thoughts of such a thing when I was mixing that bread. And I’d cooked dinner for them that day, all of them. She just said, “I think I’d better stay. It’s getting near that time when you might need somebody.” I was sure glad she stayed.
Question: You didn’t have any examinations much ahead of time, did you?
No, never. Only when Ada was born. All that winter Dr kept teasing Dad, “If that baby wasn’t born in that sleigh, I’ll be badly fooled cause you’re on these bumpy roads going to town every day.” He was amazed. He said we just shouldn’t come on those bumpy roads every day. I was bouncing around, you know. I did have a hard time with Ada, you know. I didn’t walk for five weeks with Ada. Had to send for a doctor in Ogden—thought I was dying. Dr. had almost given up; some infection set in. If we hadn’t gotten Dr. Joyce from Ogden—Uncle Jim had to go to Downey to meet him—the nearest train there was, and he had to go in the deep snow in a sleigh to get Dr. Joyce (February 1906). I know they put off some big party—Oh, Valentine Ball—they were having some special Valentine Ball and I was so low they put it off. Never expected to live until morning. Oh, yes, they’d given me up. I really had a time with her.
Mr. Tovey was always turning the water when it wasn’t his turn. (Mr. Tovey owned the ranch next to us). Another thing, he wouldn’t always clean the ditch out and he was supposed to clean half, you know. George Tovey. Dad was supposed to clean the upper half and he was supposed to clean the lower half. He’d never bother to clean his part. They got in an argument about it. I didn’t blame Dad for that because Dad couldn’t get the water to our part. And they argued over that. Never did speak after. Dad’s father was alive then and he knew he was wrong. And he said that his (Mr. Tovey’s) father was just like him when his father was living. Dad’s father had trouble with his father. Didn’t ever go through with the suit—just made papers out. It was all made out with a lawyer, lawyer’s name signed and everything. They had to go by the papers. George got one and Dad got one and they had to go by the papers or else they’d be fined. Captain Davis was Dad’s lawyer. Never had any trouble after that.
Grandpa had always lived on the place, telling what trouble he’d had with the father, Old Man Chivers. He used to go and sit in the ditch to stop the water from going down, so it’d go on his place. I don’t know, I think that Grandpa was exaggerating a little bit. But it was comical. He always had some joke to tell like that. Really, he’d sit in the water and back up the water—Oh, he was funny.
Dad and George had a fight about it once. Dad got John Clark, a lawyer then, to see about it. Something about turning the water too soon. I didn’t want to get mixed up in it. The least I knew about it the better. I was afraid they’d go to court and I’d have to testify and I didn’t want to get into it. Oh, Dear!
Question: You didn’t really like the snakes down there either, did you?
Well, who would? Jayne never killed any, did you? Yes, right by the pump. Thirteen foot snake, rattlesnake. I will never forget it. I was all ready to go to Logan with the Native Daughters (Of the Idaho Pioneers). They were going to call for me. We were going over to Logan to spend the day, about twenty-five of us. The men were all down in the hayland, working, and I walked out to that corner to see if they were stopping for me and this big snake all curled up. Oh, that was the worst sight I’d ever seen. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t get anybody, no one around, you know. I happened to see a shovel there and I threw it at him. I was too scared to go close by. I just threw it. I told Allen I believe I cut it in half. I just ran, cause they were calling for me and that was the biggest—it had thirteen rattles on it. Oh, it was big.
Transcript of Tape Made March 1978
Question: It was an old crank telephone, wasn’t it?
Party line, twelve on the party line. Our ring was two longs and two shorts. Kingsbury’s was three shorts, I remember that. Dad got it put in mostly for calling up and getting men to work so he wouldn’t have to run to town all the time. Whenever he’d go to use the phone there’d be some of the ladies on the string visiting for hours; and he’d have to give it up. He got disgusted and didn’t keep it too long after that. Everybody listened to everybody else. Knew everybody’s business on the whole line. Wouldn’t tell any secrets on the phone. Like one lady called up about wondering where another lady was. She’d been trying to get her all the time and couldn’t. Another lady came on and said, “Well, I just saw her passing. She’s gone to town.” Oh, they used to tease Gwen Jones about that. Call up the neighbors and they’d know where everybody was.
Aunt Sarah was Grandma’s full sister. She never had children of her own and we all thought she was a mother to all of us. She did so much for us. She’d always have the Thanksgiving Dinner and invite all the family up there. Made the grandest pies. Whenever I was sick or anything, she’d come right there and help, just like my mother. I remember she always made me a Battenburg something for my birthday every year. Batten work. Every Christmas we’d all meet at my mother’s. New Years, they’d all come down to the ranch. My mother’s family, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Jim, and Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe, an old couple from California that moved to Malad. Then Mr. Thorpe’s birthday was the same day as mine so she’d have us all up there on the tenth of March. She was a grand cook and people without any children. That’s the way we spent our winters, just looked forward to those four big dinners. And on Sunday, we’d go from one place to another for dinner. Usually go to my mother’s on Sundays. If they wouldn’t come down, we’d go up.
Aunt Sarah could do anything and she was always good to the sick and poor people–taking things to them. She was real good that way. Used to be so many babies dying in those days. My mother and Aunt Sarah, I bet, made dozens and dozens of burial clothes for babies. I can just see them, sewing lace on little babies’ dresses. Sew at my mother’s place. Never used to buy anything then. Made for grown people too. But I can remember so many babies’ clothes. Always wore crepe on their arms, everybody that died. A band, tie a strip of black crepe around their arms. And they had all that hemming to do. Then they made for everybody in the family, had to have a black dress. Made dresses for the whole family. Somebody had died, like the mother had died, and they’d make a black dress for all the family. Aunt Ted used to be with them too, sewing. Aunt Ted is the wife of Jedd Jones I, Grandpa’s brother. Oh, those three were always together. Grandmother of Jedd Jones III. Aunt Sarah’s last name was Anderson. They used to work way late in the night, sewing.
Whenever it would rain, we’d have tubs and buckets and boilers out under the eaves of the house, catching every drop of rain water and save it for laundry or take a bath. It was the best water; it was so soft. Sometimes it would freeze over in the winter and we’d break the ice. Never heard of detergents in those days. Made our own soap, with lye. Could buy a little Naphth, that’s the only soap I ever saw. We thought that was too expensive, ten cents a bar, to buy. Buy a can of lye and make a big batch of soap. Save all our grease, all summer, from baking and cooking, and the fat off animals, we’d save it all. Then when fall came, we’d make soap. A can of lye, it would all dissolve all that fat, chunks of fat and everything. See how powerful the lye was.
Question: You used to get your grease too when you’d kill the pigs, wouldn’t you?
Yes, I can still remember those old pigs running around squealing after they’d been stuck. You never liked that, did you? I knew you didn’t like that. I didn’t care for it either. Used to make lard, render all that fat off the pig, and have five gallons of lard. That was a big job. Kept that fat to make soup. So we never wasted a thing. The only thing we wasted was the squeal… We didn’t do anything about the squeal.
Dad and my father always killed a beef every winter. They’d get a chain or strong wire of some kind and hang it up in the north window, outside upstairs, so no dogs could eat it. It would freeze like a piece of ice. When it was frozen, they’d have to chop it off. Dad would cut slices off with the axe. You couldn’t do anything with a knife. Oh, that was good meat. I said the other night that was the first steak I had for breakfast, at ninety years old. I thought afterwards my mother used to cook those frozen steaks for me to go Monday morning on that old hack to Cherry Creek. She’d cook that in the best grease and make me soda biscuits before I started out at seven o’clock Monday morning. Thought that would be one good breakfast I’d have. I remember she’d have those grease drippings, and biscuits dipped in that. It was just delicious. She’d have it just swimming in that grease.
Headcheese—I’d cook the head of the old hog and make headcheese out of it. That was
good meat. I wish I had some headcheese right now. And Faggots out of the liver. Liver and onions, grind them all up together and make them into balls and wrap the apron, we used to call it, out of the hog all around them and then cook them. I used to cook four dozen balls, then you could just use them when you wanted. Oh, they were good. Never hear of these now.
Sweetmeat—We’d grind up sausage. The sweetmeat was the backbone and tenderloin cut into slices. I remember Bertha (Mother’s sister) used to like that cut, just like ham and fried. Everything else but the squeal went in that sausage. But that was the best homemade sausage. We’d take a night for that. Dad would usually grind it, or one of the girls, and I’d make them into little pats or cakes. We’d put them in a big pan for all winter. Put sage, salt and pepper. They were really good.
David R. Jones, Dad’s Dad, had a recipe for plum pudding and he used to sit down and read it as she made it, a pound of this and a pound of that, a big pudding, and how many eggs? It seems to me a dozen eggs, and Grandpa would sit down and as he’d read it she’d get things ready, put it together and cook it. Put it in a big muslin bag and boil it for five hours in a boiler. There you had your pudding and it was really delicious. Suet pudding. I forget how many pounds of suet–Oh, it was a big recipe. You have the recipe, don’t you? I never did make it but I always thought I would. I told Grandpa I would make it some day, but it seemed such a big one that I thought “Oh, what would I do with it?” They’d get the suet from beef they had killed, then they’d chop it all up fine with a butcher knife, ready to go into the pudding. Make the butter to go in; make everything except the raisins and currants. Raised the wheat to make the flour. So it was really a homemade concern when they got through.
Transcript on March 13, 1972 at Kathleen’s home, in the best of health and mental capacity
Question: Tell me, how do you feel? You’re ninety years old.
Well, today I’m kinda dumpish, but, had so much celebration this past week, I had four days’ birthday. Tom said I was queen for a day, but I thought I was queen for a week. Jayne took me to a Legisladies luncheon on Thursday–lovely luncheon and met a lot of lovely ladies there. Friday was my birthday and she invited my daughters and close friends to that down at Victor’s. That was something very unusual. They sang “Happy Birthday.” Then Ada, Allen and Sheila were there from up north, besides the family in Boise. Friday night we had a party and dinner up to Kathleen’s and they all came there. More Birthday! And then Saturday, we helped Bill and Rosa Campbell celebrate. Oh, land, I was tired by then. I don’t know what I did in the day. No wonder I got tired. We went to Jessie’s for a whole hour and she talked and took us around her place and showed the whole thing. She made Ada promise she’d come back. We went there about eleven o’clock and we never got away from there until twelve.
From there we had lunch at Victor’s. That was the only way we could get away was to say we had an appointment. After lunch we went down to the mobile home section, where there were 78 mobile homes, to see Allen’s cousin, Helen Roe. She’s the biggest talker, bigger than I am. Showed us and told us everything that she does. From there, we went up to Earl’s. Sheila was the one who wanted to go to Earl’s. She talked about it all the time. There she stayed with Mrs. Knapp so long she didn’t get to see it all. They called up and called up and couldn’t get her. So we went out there.
Earl was having some meeting, about thirty men, we saw him down to Victor’s. They were eating there when we went. He comes and talks to us and said to come out any time; he could get away from those men about three. Actually I walked, you know how much yard that is—We went all over that and in every one of those buildings—and carrying that heavy purse. Allen never noticed that purse was heavy until I was about through. He said, “Let me carry your purse.” Then he teased me all day about that hardware in that purse. You know, I was really tired. Stayed there until five o’clock–two hours out there. Took us in every room, explained the computer and all that to Allen. I told Ada I’d never had all that planned by any means, all that walking. I was really in. Well, I came home and Kathleen was lying down and she didn’t know I’d come. I came with Earl. I went right to bed, laid down the minute I got there. Kathleen was napping—didn’t know I’d come home or Earl had come home, or anything. Peeped in about six o’clock to see I was lying down, sleeping.
Transcript Made in McCall March 19, 1975
On March 7, 1975, I came to Boise by plane to celebrate my ninety-third birthday. I lived in Salt Lake City in the wintertime for six months.
On Sunday, March 9, we had a birthday dinner at Crane Creek Country Club for the family. On my birthday, March 10, we had a luncheon for friends and relatives at Chapin’s. Thirty were there. For entertainment we had a Barbershop Quartet singing old songs, which was very enjoyable.
That night we went to a French Cafe for a birthday dinner with the Chandlers and then we went home. The next day was Tuesday and Alma Campbell and Rollie gave a luncheon at the Gamekeeper. It was all very nice. Later we played bridge. Then that afternoon, Ada and Allen were down from Moscow and they were going home so I went up to McCall with them to see Jayne and Warren. Warren had just had an accident with a cow, so I’ve had a great visit here with the Browns. When I got to McCall, Jayne had another birthday dinner for me, all decorated with candles and flowers—that was all wonderful.
In the week I played bridge at the club, party down to Jeanette Seetin’s and then Tuesday, Mary Thurston had a foursome and I played bridge there. Snow’s about twenty feet deep, beautiful if you stay indoors; but you get to looking out and there’s twenty feet of snow everywhere you look.
My health is good now, but last summer, July 1974, I had surgery—first I’ve ever had—first I’ve ever been in the hospital. Got along beautifully, good help with Jayne and Kathleen nursing me through.
I intend to go back soon to my apartment in Salt Lake City to stay a short time before going to my home in Malad for the summer. I still live in my own home in Malad, do all my housework and work there is to do. Wherever I go I have many people tell me what a heavy purse I always carry. My response is usually, “It’s full of vitamins.” The last one that told me said my purse is heavier than hers. Mine was vitamins and hers was cash. Well, mine was all bottles. It was Rachel Driscoll.
When I was ninety-four I was in San Francisco, where I stayed with Diane and Judd. The family all got together for a birthday dinner at the Bank of America building—fifty-two stories up. I didn’t know I’d ever get that high up. They all came, the majority. We had a wonderful banquet, good time there, something I’ll never forget. Unusual for me to have something like that, in a place like that. Spent the week with Judd and Diane and family after my birthday, and they showed me around.
Transcript made in March 1977
Came to Boise March 1, 1977, and am staying with Kathleen, a gala affair ever since I arrived. I’ve hardly come to. I have proof of that cause I couldn’t find my earrings this morning. Never missed them in my life.
Wednesday, Kathleen had a family dinner and Jayne and family were here, and Ada and Allen came from Moscow for it. So we enjoyed the evening very much and Thursday night Kenny gave a dinner for me. We had the family group together and spent the evening chatting and visiting. Scott was here too, and Marcia Brown. I guess the same group, all but Amy. Amy didn’t come. And Frank didn’t come; he was sick. Thursday afternoon went to the Legisladies’ luncheon with Jayne as her guest. The most delicious luncheon and the Governor’s wife, Lola, greeted me and introduced me. I felt quite popular. Guests at the luncheon in her group were Rachel Driscoll, Jessie Molony, Ada from Moscow and Kathleen, and we surely enjoyed the afternoon. Everything was delightful. I met many of my old friends there, came to talk to me, so I felt right at home.
In April 1977, I had a gall bladder attack in Malad, in the hospital a week and got along marvelously. Other than that, my health, I can’t complain. No aches or pains anywhere. If I can just hold out another year.
Recorded on March 12, 1978, at Kathleen’s home for Mother’s ninety-sixth birthday
Early in the morning the big things start. Friday morning was really my anniversary, cause I was born that day at 10 o’clock in the morning, Friday, ninety-six years ago in Malad, Idaho, in that big city. I was born in a three-room log cabin. It wasn’t a cabin. It was a big house, right on the corner next to Dr. Mabey’s house right now. That’s how I remember, because he took part of the land and I’ve lived there all my life, except when I came to McCall and Boise to visit my friends. I’ve had fifty trips on airplanes in my day. I’ve got each one down, written. I spend six months of the year in Salt Lake and six months at home, since my old age is creeping on. I enjoy every minute of it., In the summer I come to McCall lots of the time. A lovely place to spend the summer. I surely do recuperate up there. Don’t have time for anything else, just get well and have a good time.
The children usually come with all their friends and I know a lot in McCall and I enjoy
everyone of them. I’m a great one to like to be around young people. I do, sit and talk to young people for hours. I try to live their age as well as mine. The summers just fly by.
On my birthday I had flowers, like a flower garden here. Twelve beautiful big red roses, just about as big as my face—Bill has called up four times and he can’t find me home. I’m either in bed or visiting. Bill Campbell. He said he called for two days. Their birthdays are the same day, so that’s the reason we’re so close together on our birthdays.
In the evening, March 10, the family all put on a beautiful, delicious dinner—a banquet—for all the family at the Arid Club. Ada and Allen from Moscow, Sheila and Karl from Spokane, Daine and Judd and their three children came from San Rafael, California, so I was really thrilled to think the out-of-town people got here. It surely made it more important than ever when so many showed up. I’ll have all kinds of regrets—a letter from Charlie, I know. He’ll write to tell me how sorry. Stan Brown was there. I was glad one of Frank’s boys got there as three usually do, but the others are at school and couldn’t make it. Glad to see Stan. Alfred and Tom were the only two others—at school.
Last year we had the birthday dinner at the Arid Club, too, which is always a lovely place.
The chef rolled in a big cake, lit up with ninety-six candles. I had to blow the candles out, but I had to get the help of my great-grandchildren to do that. Ran out of steam–”hot air” it should be.
On my ninety-sixth birthday, I also had some post-birthday parties. Had a lovely steak breakfast down at Victor’s. Saturday night had another dinner down at Victor’s —Lobster dinner, I think this was, with lobster and strawberry pie. Yes, Oh, that strawberry pie finished it. And to climax the whole thing, Rosa Campbell is giving a luncheon for me Tuesday at Hillcrest. Her birthday and mine are the same day and we’ve always been very thoughtful of it.
This year I received many letters from notables: One from Governor Evans of Idaho and Mrs. Evans (she wrote extra on it), Senator Frank Church and Senator McClure. Guess Jimmy Carter was a little tight. I imagine there’s oodles of letters and cards awaiting me in Salt Lake from my old friends in Malad and Salt Lake. Hope to see you all next year!
I give credit to all of my family for all this celebration. It’s just been something outstanding—may be my last, you never know.
Note: Mother died October 21, 1978 at the hospital in McCall, Idaho, and was buried in Malad, Idaho, on October 24, 1978.