Joseph at age 22

Joseph Benjamin Daines

My earliest recollections were of the winter snows, and how I loved to lie and listen to the birds in the spring. We used to go to the hills in early spring to dig segos. I remember of going six miles one day, up to three hill and back in a foot or two of snow and could not find one.

I remember going out one morning with the sheep and one of the older boys came and stopped me and told me I would have to stay home and help plant crops. That was a big disappointment to me. I had to drive a yoke of cattle and a harrow. After that I worked on the farm all of the time. I was the healthiest boy in our family and they used to have to impose on me to do all the work I could.

I helped to drive the sheep to Trenton one day. Lars C. Petersen and his family lived there and took care of the sheep. They had dinner for us boys, but I would not go in and eat because I was too bashful, so the others would not go in either. They finally spread some butter on some bread and brought it out to us. It was afternoon and I had been walking most of the day and was hungry as a bear, but would not go in because of my bashfulness.

The only toys we had were what we could make. James would make hand sleighs with maple runners. We would sometimes get tin and put on the bottom of the runners to make them go faster. Occasionally we could get iron from an old wagon bed and that worked pretty good for runners too. James made most of the toys we had; Father and the older boys were not interested in it. I used to get James and coax him to make things for me.

We used to go on the road where they soaked wood down and sleigh ride down that. I always wanted to find one that would go faster. One day I borrowed a sleigh from Sim Thurston that Old Man Hancey had made. The road was icy. The first trip down I went pretty fast. The sled caught on some sagebrush on the side of the road and I really went for a roll in the snow.

For recreation we boys would go to the first bench and build a fire and play run sheep run, or go to the stack yards and play stink base. The older boys used to get us younger ones together on a Sunday afternoon and get us to fight. They would put a chip on one boy's shoulder and the others would knock it off. They would try to get us to quarrel. I gave George Reeder a good licking in Sam Seamons' stack yard one day. I don't remember just what caused it.

When I was big enough to go to school, I remember Mother would peel potatoes and fry them, and for breakfast we would have potatoes and bread and milk. Father kept pigs for our meat. I remember of seeing Mother pour water in the milk to make it go around.

We had poor hay for the cows, so they did not give much milk. We hardly ever had anything like an orange or banana. We had a few hens that would roost in the trees in the winter and lay a few eggs in the summer.

One fall when I was a young boy they canned currants and I thought that surely was wonderful that they could put up fruit and then eat it later on. Before that Mother would make preserves and dry fruit and corn. We piled apples in the cellar and put carrots and other vegetables in pits out-of-doors.

I was eight years old when they lived the United Order in Hyde Park. Part of the town joined. They divided the land up and had overseers in different districts. In the south part of town Ben Hymas was head man and we all worked together. I helped pick up potatoes. When we got through in the south fields, we sometimes went into the north fields to help them. It was worked as if the people did not own their land except for a few vegetables in our gardens in the summer. They would sometimes kill a beef in the summer. If you got there early enough in the morning you would get some, otherwise not. Most of the people raised their own pigs for meat. We hardly ever had any beef; I thought a taste of that was wonderful.

Mother used to weave the cloth for our clothes. I used to get so disgusted with those pants and wished I could have bought ones. She would buy the shirting and make our shirts. She used to have to wash and clean the wool. In the summer she made our straw hats. She soaked the straw to make it supple and then braided it in a five of seven stand braid. She got the idea from a place where she had worked in England. First she made a hat for Father and he was surely pleased with it. Soon everyone in town wanted her to make hats for them, so she taught the other women how to make them.

When I was eleven years of age I had a great desire to read the Book of Mormon, so I started saving nickels (as we had no pennies then) so I could buy one. It seemed I never would get enough to purchase a book, so my parents finally bought an old edition of the Book of Mormon for me.

My chum, Will Follett, used to come and sleep with us in the summer in the old style barn Father used to have. We could walk right up the straw stack into the barn. Some of the older boys slept there too. Noah Wardle did, and he was always playing some kind of trick. One night a group of us were up by the tithing office a block east of our place. There were Alice Hawkes Reeder, Mary Daines Morrell, and Phebe Thurston Lamb and Noah Wardle. He suggested that we play a trick on the other boys. He was going to put a sheet on to scare them. I was to go to the barn and pretend I was going to bed. I went up, but did not take my shoes off. The other boys were all asleep, so when Noah came with the sheet on, I jumped up and began to holler. Robert said, "If I had a shoe, I would throw it at him." He grabbed for a shoe and got mine, which of course, was on my foot, and that gave the joke away. Some of the boys followed Noah and found out who it was. At any rate, they were frightened at first.

When I was 12 or 13 all of the older boys went to work on the railroad, so Father had me water the wheat. He rented the Hyde Park public square, and Charlie Ashcroft and I watered it four times that summer. My, how I did hate to do that! We rolled up our pants and went barefooted in the water. Our legs would get chapped and sore and the mosquitoes were always on us. Father would call to the barn at three or four in the morning for me to go and start, then Charlie would bring my breakfast later. In all we had 60 acres of wheat, and Charlie and I were trusted to irrigate all of it at that age. When we got thirsty, we would drink the water from the ditch. I have had it sometimes when it was so thick with mud you could hardly see through.

From the time I started farming we used to drive cattle to haul hay and work in the field, plowing and harrowing, getting the crops harvested and so forth. I remember we used a binder machine called the Elwood Harvester. I drove the team while Henry Ashcroft and Robert bound the bundles. We had teams of horses and teams of cattle and traded off one with the other. I used to have to walk along the side of the cattle. I was doing that when I was too small to do the other work.

Robert and Charlie Ashcroft would herd the cows for three days, then Earn Bates and I would herd the next three days. We had only one dog and he got so sore-footed he was not much good and we had to do lots of running. We would drive the cows up to the foothills and then home every night. They would be moving nearly all day long. Our herd ground was was from Long Hill on the north to Green Canyon on the south, and all the way west to the middle canal. We used to have quite a time with snakes; there were so many blue racers. We used to carry a maple stick and would kill the blue racers we saw. We would see many rattlers too. In the warm weather we would get in the shade of the maple trees and watch the cows. We would sit to rest and the ants would sting us until we would have to move. We always had a canteen with a strap over our shoulders to carry water in.

One day we drove our cows up to the hills early in the spring. One of them got down in the snow and died there. She hadn't had much to eat and she was too weak to move. Sometimes I would almost get stuck in the snow myself because it was so deep when we were herding cows. We didn't think we could ride horses on the hills to herd cows. We finally broke one that we used in the valley. There was a lot of water there. Sometimes we would get in the holes with him and had quite a time getting out.

While herding cows, I used to practice on throwing. Of course, I used rocks. I got so I could throw a swifter ball than any other boy in town, and I finally got the knack of catching it so I would not hurt my hands. I remember one of the boys saying one time, "It doesn't matter where we throw it, he will have it." When we used to play, Walt Seamons would catch and I would pitch. We had to make the balls we used out of yarn or cord string.

One time our ball team went to Smithfield to play. They had a rubber ball for us to play with. That was the first time we had seen a rubber ball, and we had quite a time. After the game was over, one of the players invited the team up to his house. After we got there I could see it was a drinking party. They asked me to go in, but I would not and Walt Seamons and Will Follett stayed with me, but the rest went in. On our way home the boys were so drunk they could not stand up. I felt strange there taking care of those drunken fellows. When we were about half way home, Robert Willie Reeder came to meet us on a wild horse they were breaking. He asked me if I wanted to ride the horse home and put it in the barn. I surely was glad to go. I went home and went to Priesthood meeting and didn't say anything about the other fellows. Another time at Smithfield I pitched for two nine-innings games without a break.

After I was married the boys used to play ball every Saturday afternoon. Steve Thurston used to try to get me to go and play, but I did not have much money and was just married and felt that I should be working all the time. I could hardly keep myself away from it if I could possibly go, because I wanted to play ball. Now I can see that I was a crank for not going and getting a little recreation. I didn't know anything about fancy pitching but I could get it over fast and occasionally could fool them a little.

Of course, we went to school. Jane E. Molen was my first teacher. We used to herd sheep until there wasn't any feed left for them before we would start school in the fall, and then in the spring we would quit school before the snow was all gone to start herding sheep again. I wasn't especially bright in school although I always made the first class or group.

One summer after I ran Dad's farm when I was older, Mother persuaded him to let me go to school in the winter in Salt Lake City. He did not like the idea of my going down there. I went through the winter term of school as the University of Deseret, or what is now the University of Utah. I stayed with the Taylors. We studied about the same a I had in the 8th grade. I had to go back home at April LDS conference time. I was getting along pretty well and thought if I could only keep at that maybe I could do something worthwhile.

When I was a deacon we used to have to take care of the chapel. We would take turns chopping the wood, cleaning the house, and making the fires for a month at a time. I was president of the Deacon's Quorum and had to make the assignments. Later on I was president of the Teacher's quorum. I was never ordained a Priest, but was ordained an Elder when I got married.

Later on I was one of the presidents of the 132nd Quorum of Seventy for a number of years. I was counselor to Lars Christensen in the High Priests Quorum. In the MIA I was secretary and also counselor in the presidency. For a long time I taught the theological class in Sunday School.

At the age of 11 I started working on the railroad. When they were building the railroad, Father took over part of the responsibility of it. He had a hard time to get people to work on it, because they didn't think they could make any money. We started in Marsh Valley, about ten miles north of Arimo, Idaho, and went north of where Pocatello is now. There were no houses there at all then. There was a place where they kept the stage coach horses just a little south of where Pocatello is now.

Charlie Ashcroft and I used to run the scraper. We had quite a time harnessing the horses. Later on Will Daines came up to help and I drove the cattle while Peter Christoffersen held the plow. When Charlie and I worked together, we both wanted to run the scraper. We had no desire to drive the oxen. I would feel ashamed because we would stop so long to argue about it.

Arimo was nothing but a tent town, crowded with teamsters. Some of the men put up boards, placed a tent over them and lived there. The place was full of freight trains, which consisted of four or five span of miles on two or three wagons. They would come there to load up and then go back north. Occasionally we would go down there to do a little trading. I got home early that fall. Some of them stayed and they thought they would get to Eagle Rock -- now Idaho Falls.

One Sunday afternoon the cattle were lost and the older boys told me I would have to go and find them. They reminded me that I would have to look out for Indians, which frightened me a little. I soon found the cattle standing in some water on that hot day. I threw rocks at them to get them out of the water and soon had them back to camp. They were surprised to think I could find them so soon.

On Sunday we would go swimming in the creek. The swimming hold was quite deep. We would splash at each other and fight in the water. Sometimes we would go up by the Lava Rock to hunt chokecherries. The rock was all cut up, leaving many deep gorges 10 or 15 feet deep. If we had fallen into some of those places, we never would have been able to get out.

Our camp must have been the worst rattle snake place in the country. We would kill them right by the table in camp. While I was sitting by the side of a spring one day, a rattler crawled right between my legs. We did not have a tent to sleep in. Father had a wagon cover to sleep under. I remember cleaning out under that to get rid of the snakes before going to bed. Father killed one of the biggest rattlers I ever saw in my life. It left such a stink that we were glad when a skunk came to eat it up.

On the bank of the river there were some high cottonwood trees. Near the top of the trees were some beds large enough for a man to sleep in. We supposed the Indians had made them.

Another fall I went on the railroad to take Robert's place when he got sick. I was about 14. I went on the train from Hyde Park to Arimo. Will told me he knew the fellow in the station there and for me to ask him if I could stay with him until morning. The station was an old box car and was so full of junk that I did not dare ask to stay. It was about three in the morning when I arrived and I couldn't see a place to go. I rolled up in the two quilts I had with me and went to sleep on the platform. In the morning the extra socks and handkerchiefs I had with me had disappeared.

At daylight I started walking the three miles I had to go. When I arrived they were just hitching up to go to work. They surely were glad to see me, as they had an extra team to take care of and no one to run it. I ran the team until they were done that fall.

We had to haul all the water and food to the horses. We bought grain from Portneuf and McCammon and it was in hundred pound sacks. I was a little too young to handle that much, but I tried it anyway. One night I managed to get the hundred pounds into the wagon, bit in doing so, I wrenched my back. I didn't say anything about it, but I could hardly get the food to my mouth it hurt so much. The next morning I could not help from showing the pain, but I hitched up my team and went to work. William Hyde was our foreman and he noticed that I could hardly dump the scraper and sent me down to camp. His wife rubbed liniment on my back. I laid around for about three days and then went to work again.

We didn't ever have much in the line of recreation when I was in my teens. Of course, we had no transportation to go outside of Hyde Park. There would be so many at the dances there, we would have to take turns dancing. The floor wasn't large enough to accommodate everyone at once. We were each given a number when we went to the dance, and they would call out the numbers of those who could dance each time.

I was bashful with the girls when I was young. Emma Woolf was the first girl I ever went out with, and I thought she was pretty fine too. I remember one night she gave me a little card, as was customary at that time. There was a picture of falling flowers on it and it said, "I wish that I were going like these flowers to the one I love so true."

When I was going to school in Salt Lake, Lizzie Taylor used to take me to the Salt Lake Theater. Her father sometimes got a free ticket, and she would use it on me. I was told after that her folks wanted me to go with her. I didn't think they would be interested in a country clodhopper like me. I was 21 when I was in Salt Lake and hardly ever went with a girl. I was married when I was 22. I was so bashful when I first went with Myra that I didn't dare go to see her oftener than twice a week.

When I was quite young, my grandmother, Mary King Seamons, used to rent the recreation hall in Hyde Park and have a party for all of her grandchildren. We had a good time there.

When I was about 18 or 19 Father was keeping away from the deputy marshals, I was put in charge of the farm. The first year Charlie Ashcroft and Earn Bates worked with me. The next year Father divided the farm up and I took care of Mother's part of it. Robert was always working on the railroad; Will was teaching school and working in the store. James was ill and worked when he wanted to, so I had the farming responsibilities. I took care of the farm until I got married. Father just bossed things and took care of the tithing hay, grain, and such things. I never remember of his doing the chores after I got old enough to do them. They didn't seem to care how hard I had to work. I just had to keep going and it seemed like I was always tired.

I always had an anxiety to go places. Even before I could go anyplace to help, I was asking if I could go along. I went to the foot of the mountains with Father and Robert one time to get some lime at the mouth of Thurston's canyon. They had to go down into the hollow and I stayed on top. I was afraid of the wolves, even though I didn't see one. That was the first time I remembered of being in the mountains. I have never been able to get them out of my mind since.

Whenever they took the sheep, I always wanted to go. I remember of taking them to Battle Creek, Idaho. It took us three days. We had to sleep three in the wagon bed, side by side and that was pretty crowded. We unhitched our teams to for the river.

The older boys tried to find the ford and they went right down and got wet. We finally crossed by following the railroad track, and we just barely got over when a freight train came along.

I remember when they used to hold fast day on Thursday and we would have our meeting on Thursday afternoon. Sometimes I would get up at three or four in the morning in the summer when I was working on the farm and I could just hardly wait until after the meeting to eat. I surely was happy when they changed fast day to Sunday. It wasn't nearly so hard to wait when you were not working hard.

Also, I remember when they organized the first Primary in Hyde Park. I don't remember just what year it was, but it was during the time that I was a Deacon and helped to take care of the meeting house.

Eliza R. Snow came with the group. After I had the building ready for them, it was about time to start the meeting, so I stayed and listened too. The main thing I remember is that Sister Snow took a watch and showed it to the children, and all assembled, and told them that it was given to her by her husband, the Prophet Joseph Smith.

I was ordained an Elder 23 October 1889, by my father, Robert Daines. On the 9th day of February 1891 George Seamons ordained me a Seventy. And Walter M. Everton ordained me a High Priest on the 18th of December 1927.

In 1947 I was given a certificate of honor naming me a native pioneer of Utah, as I was born 18 January 1867 and the railroad did not go through that area until May 1869.

Young folks today talk about thrills and excitement, (1957) but I doubt if they have any more exciting times than we had when I was a boy. They don't travel much faster, I hope, in their cars than the ride I took on little Blackie from Smithfield to Hyde Park. Blackie was our racing pony and how she could run! She outran all the fast horses in Hyde Park and Smithfield.

It was during the Eighties when the United States deputy marshals were out to find all polygamist men and bring them into court. My father, Bishop Robert Daines, sent me on an errand to Bishop Samuel Roskelley of Smithfield. I do not remember now what my errand was, but I do remember that Bishop Roskelley took my message hastily then told me that I must return to Hyde Park as fast as my pony would take me. He had just been notified that the deputy marshals were leaving Logan coming north and I was to go back home to warn the people. We young fellows had all been trained in the proper procedure at times like that. A certain man was to be notified and he in turn notified others and so on. (Smithfield and Logan had telegraph equipment, but Hyde Park did not.)

Luck for them that I was riding Blackie that day. She was in good condition and anxious to go. I let her go as fast as she could. When we got home she was really warmed up and lathering. I first made the announcement to the right person, then I took our faithful pony to the barn and fed her.

When I got to the house, I could see men congregating and seriously talking together on the streets. I wonder now how the news got around so fast. On looking back I saw my father and Suel Lamb running across the lots toward the barn. They had been notified at the tithing office, one half block east of our home and were making their way to our secret hiding place. The deputies stopped with their sleek team and fancy buggy in front of our home just in time to see the two men enter the barn.

A hay stack was at the east end of the barn. My father had sawed some of the uneven edged boards so he could take them out, then crawl into the haystack and replace the boards. The hay was hollowed out to make room for them to lie or sit comfortably inside. They would pile the loose hay against the boards and the men were hidden from view. Father quite often slept there when rumors of any danger were around.

All of us onlookers on the street held our breaths when the deputies went into the barn. They searched every nook and corner from floor to loft, but were unable to find their men. In my estimation they were poor detectives or else were very unfamiliar with how a boarded up end of a barn should appear. I could see from quite a distance that all was not right the first time I saw the place. To the surprise of all the crowd the officers soon gave up the search and soon went on to look for others.

That night after dark my brother, William, and I took Father to Cove, Utah where he stayed with friends for a short while. It was late when we got home, and needless to say, we could have slept late the next morning, but a four o'clock we were awakened with more commotion around town.

Mr. Steele and Mr. Whetstone with their assistant spy Mr. Griffith were back in town at that very early hour determined to find some polygamists to arrest. They went from place to place searching. Their vehicle was parked in front of James Thurston's residence. They couldn't find Bishop Daines, and Suel Lamb had traded homes for the night with the Johnson family, so they hadn't found him either. Brother Lamb saw them coming toward the Johnson home and he tried to escape through a small back window. As he jumped out the window, he came down with a bang. Brother Lamb ran very fast, but they finally caught him and put him in the buggy with Mr. Griffith who had been left to hold the horses. Now they were hunting in vain for Uncle Thurston, who also had gotten away.

About this time, John Woolf, a noted horseman, rode up to the side of the buggy and offered Suel Lamb an opportunity to escape, but Brother Lamb declined. He could easily have escaped if he had jumped on the horse with John Woolf. Brother Lamb was taken to Ogden and tried by grand jury, but the court could not find enough evidence to convict him. His family had made sure that everyone who might be called as witnesses to testify against him was not available. He was set free.

When Charles Card and others took their families to Canada, Father went with them, taking his third wife, Sarah, and her children. They helped in the settling of Cardston. He stayed there most of the time for about four years. His son,. Orson, and his family have stayed in that area. Father was then called on a mission to England and when he returned the polygamous persecutions were not so severe.

Some of the church authorities used our home as a refuge for their plural wives, and also as a stopping place when traveling further north. Two of these were John Taylor and Wilford Woodruff. Our family members made lifelong friendships with their families enriching our lives with their association.

I used to go into the canyons to get wood nearly every fall of the year until I was about sixty years old. I went for Father's family before I was married and for myself after that. I have been on nearly ridge and in nearly canyon east of Hyde Park and North Logan. I went to the canyon when I was so young.it was all I could do to carry a chain from one place to another for them, but I went at every opportunity. I have cut wood right on the top of the ridge and snaked it down. At times I did not know which side of the ridge the tree would fall on when I was cutting it.

When I got home from working on the railroad one fall, Father did not have his wood out. Charlie and I went up to help get some out. It was slick, but we had a good horse to snake it and we were lucky and got home all right. A horse belonging to Lars and Lorenzo Petersen was killed in that same place one day.

One time I had a lot of wood out and a salesman came along and talked me into to trading it for a sewing machine for Myra. Then I had to get our wood out later. Often in the winter we would go up and cut trees and mark them, and then haul them down after the snow melted.

Usually there were quite a lot of men working in the canyons. One time I left Hyde Park alone and went up Green Canyon. I cut green trees for lumber and rolled them down and then snaked them the rest of the way and loaded them on the wagon. No one else came that night, so I made my campfire and made my bed under my wagon. In the night I was awakened by a horse that was loose. He whined and made quite a fuss and the other horse snorted quite a bit, so the next day I got a few more logs and went home.

Rast (Erastus) Lamb and I were logging one time and was some bear tracks and followed them for a long time. THen as we started for the main road, we saw a mountain lion coming up the road. It circled out around our wagons and went off into the timber just where we had loaded our wagons. Another time one of my horses got loose and went down into the hollow for water. On my way down to get the horse a lynx followed me for a mile and a half. I didn't see it on the way down, but we saw the tracks later. They were the only wild animals I remember of when we were working in the canyons.

One day Robert and I were getting some logs out. The logs were green and the bark was peeling off. The rain made the logs very slippery. The front wheels of the wagon were a little lower than the back wheels and the logs slipped forward. We put a chain on the logs and hitched the horses to it to get them to pull the logs back, and then they would get out of the wind and have to stop pulling for a moment. We tried that a few times and could not make it. I told Robert to get the horses to pull it up and not make it. I told Robert to get the horses to pull it up and when they stopped, I would lock my arms around the logs and hold them there until the horses could pull again. We did that and got the logs on all right, but in lifting the logs I hurt my back. The next day it was so painful I could hardly stand it.

Robert was going to doctor me. He went to Noah Wardle's place and got some coffee and sugar for me. I tasted it and thought it was too bitter to drink. I added sugar a number of times, but it was still too bitter. Robert finally took it and drank it. That was the only time I ever tasted coffee.

Robert told me to take the logs down to the mill and have them sawed into lumber and just rest for a while. Father and Mother were worried about us and they happened to come to the mill that afternoon. They sent me home with a load of lumber the next morning. It was in July and when I got home I was really sick. They thought it possibly was sunstroke. I was so sick I didn't care whether I got well or not at first, and then I thought if Father administered to me, I would get well. He did, and I immediately got well and went back to work.

We used to go into the canyons in the winter, cut the trees, peel the bark off and slide them down in the snow in the mornings when the snow was frozen. At night we would take a piece of bark that we had pulled off the trees, turn it up in front like a sleigh runner and slide down the hill at a pretty good speed.

Charlie and I used to put big loads on and go down the canyon. We didn't know how to handle the horses and wagon; it is a wonder we didn't have some accidents. We would load logs on the bob sleighs. The logs would slip and hit the cattle or horses that were pulling us, and sometimes the animals would get quite wild. We would get our water from a mountain spring and use a piece of bark for a cup. Some of the trees were so big we would have to split them to get them down the hollow. Once Father took some powder to split a big one, but that didn't work, so we had to leave it there.

One morning when we were already to start working, Brother Lamb said, "We forgot to say our prayers," so we knelt down in the tops of the mountains and prayed.

I never made much money going into Logan Canyon to get logs out. I worked at Cole's mill one time. We made about $2.60 per day, man and team. I went to Crowther's mill one day, but the Idaho and Utah people were quarreling over which logs belonged to whom and we could not work there at that time.

That was quite a career we had going to Poverty Flat for seven years. I had high ambitions and thought I would make a little money, but it turned out not to be so profitable. We first went up in 1892 when Clyde was just a baby. He was about six weeks old and Myra held him all the way up there on a pillow while we rode those bumpy roads in a wagon. After we got there the cabin was not ready and we had to spend some time preparing it for use, so we had to camp in the wagon at first. We had to stay on the land six months each year to homestead it, so we went up there in the summer and stayed in Hyde Park in the winter. We did this for seven summers, during which time I cleared a hundred acres of heavy sage brush with an old Oliver chill plow -- a walking plow. It was so dull that I had to cut much of the sage brush by hand with an ax or burn it out. James and Robert were both there before they were married and they stayed with us.

I remember one morning Carrie Hymns came from Treasureton to notify us of the death of my half sister, Mae Hyde. We started out walking to get to the funeral. Myra was up at Jody Sharp's east of Preston. I took his horse to ride to Preston to catch the train. I got to Preston just as the train was pulling out and missed the funeral.

The first year we were out there we spent all of our time clearing sagebrush. The next year the wheat did not mature and I did not even harvest mine; some cows ate it off. That year Robert and I worked for Brother Armstrong on the Church ranch northeast of us, so we could get enough money to finish our planting. The year I was working in the Logan Temple. Myra went out and stayed alone so we could complete our homesteading. James did the work on the farm.

We had very poor crops. The last year I was there in 1898, just before I left to go on my mission, I harvested 2,000 bushels of wheat. I stored part of it with Orson Smith and lost that when he went broke. I got enough money from it to take me on my mission and take care of me while I was sick. I also added a little on to our home in Hyde Park and bought a few more acres of land.

During the time we were at the flat we never broke the Sabbath by traveling home. It took us all day to get to Hyde Park. It took four hours to get to Preston. Often we went there to church. Myra had five sisters in Preston and we would stay with them. Sometimes we went to church in Clifton; that was not quite so far away. We seldom stayed on the flat on Sunday.

During the winter of 1899 I was called to Smithfield to a Seventies meeting. They called about 25 of us and asked if we would be willing to go on missions. When they came to my name I told them I would go. The presiding officer said, "Well, that is a good name. Your father always did what he was asked to do and I knew you would." Apostle Teasdale came up to interview us. I expressed my willingness to go to him, and told him my folks came from England, and that is where I was assigned to go.

I sold two spans of horses, my plow, a mare, and all the loose things I could find around the place. I kept a colt, a wagon, and a harness. The preceding summer I had been to the canyon and got enough lumber to build a barn. I sold the lumber to George Woolf and got a little money for that. After I sold everything of that type I had, I still needed more money, so I had to sell Poverty Flat. Some people advised me not to go under those conditions, but I remembered Presidents Young and Kimball and others who had gone under much more difficult circumstances.

When we left Salt Lake City, I was assigned to take care of the group of missionaries. I remember I had to go into the city of Philadelphia to take care of some business. We left there and sailed down the Hudson River on the ship Belgium. We struck a sandbar and had to wait for the tide to come in and loosen us up. We walked the deck to try to keep from getting homesick.

There were four of us assigned to the same stateroom. There were four bunks. In the morning Noah Larsen got up and said, "Golly, I feel funny." I answered that I felt all right, but when I got up and started to move around, I decided that I felt a little funny too. I was seasick for one week, but the next week I could roam the vessel quite comfortably.

We landed in Liverpool and went to 42 Islington to receive our appointments. James M. White from Willard and I were sent to Manchester. We arrived there at night and three of us had to sleep in a bed. I was in the middle. I awoke in the morning and waited and waited for the others to get up. Finally I got up anyway. I was in the habit of getting up early in the morning to work and I could not sleep late.

I worked with an Elder Armstrong from Salt Lake City. He spent most of his time doing genealogy. He had a sister in the Hull conference and spent much of his time with her. It was while I was working there alone most of the time that this tubercular pleurisy came upon me. I remember walking nine miles one night from a meeting and it was so painful I could hardly move.

Later I was assigned to Berry. There Steve Thursten was my companion. The pain kept on in my left side and he persuaded me to go see a doctor. The doctor told Steve I would not live three months if I stayed there, but I might live quite a while in another country. Our landlady sent for her doctor and he told us the same thing.

They went to Liverpool and reported the situation and the president sent me a release and said it was mine if I would accept it. After talking about it a while, I accepted, and went to Glasgow, Scotland to take passage home. In this town of Berry they had one of the most beautiful cemeteries I have ever seen. Some of the boys told me later they thought they were going to bury me there. They assigned Elder Wardel to take me home and he was not to dessert me for a moment. I have heard since he was given instructions for a sea burial in case that was necessary. He stayed right with me until we got to Ogden, then I told him I could go on home. I stayed in a hotel there that night and came home the next day.

I kept getting weaker all the time, as I went to see Dr. Ormsby and he told me I would have to have an operation because of pleurisy in my lung. He set a morning for the operation. I went to the shed and was taking care of my animals and cleaning out a little. When it was time for the operation, I decided I had better go into the house because he might think it strange to find me out there. I waited for him all day. He did all of his other work first, because of the possibility of spreading the germs from my operation.

He had a druggist with him. He had me sit straddling a chair, and when he got ready to cut, told me to lean against the back of the chair. They had put snow on my back to kind of freeze it. When he cut, the puss squired up his arm it was so tight. They drained about two quarts, put a tube in my back and put me to bed, and I was really sick from then on. About ten days later it started to close, so he stuck a needle in the side of the hold but nothing came. That evening it broke. Albert Kirby's mother came over and told us she would stay all night. I coughed continually and each time the opening would drain. They were kept busy waiting on me all night long. Henry Hancey, Rast Lamb, J. W. D. Hurren, Robert Daines and some of the other neighbors used to come to see me every night or two all winter. In the spring I got a little better.

Will Daines persuaded me to buy the Hobbs Furniture Store in Preston, which was by his clothing store. I stayed there until some time in December. I worked all the time with a tube in my side; it seemed to me that I dusted furniture all summer long. I was in such pain they would have to give me a drug so I could sleep and when I got to sleep I would dream and dream.

I kept getting worse and Dr. Cutler predicted I would be dead in three days. I would get so thirsty. One day I drank almost continually all day long. The food would not go through my system and it had not done so for about three weeks. About noon every day the regurgitation would begin. George and William Parkinson and Bishop Larson came one day and administered to me. After the administration I asked for some beef steak and told them to put some bread in the grease in the pan and give that to me too. They consulted and decided I would die anyway, so they would let me have it. I at it and it never gave me a bit of trouble and I immediately started to get better. One Sunday morning just before that Belle Daines and her family came in to see me the last time alive, but even then I thought I would be all right.

I continued to improve and in the spring we moved back to Hyde Park. I plowed two acres of land and planted sugar beets in it. When the beets were ready to thin, I used a long handled hoe and spaced them, and Clyde thinned the double beets. He was only nine years old. I was so weak I would have to stop and rest every round or tow. Robert Galloway, who had just come from England, helped us on the farm that summer.

I had somme cows and was busy with them and working in the soil, and I kept getting better all summer and overcame my illness. Myra kept telling me I should go into the canyon for a few day's rest, but it seemed I could never get the time.

I always felt that my mission had been a failure, but a your Farr fellow came and preached in meeting one time and bragged me up and made me feel better. The missionaries felt I was away ahead of them, because I knew my scriptures pretty well before I went over. I did work hard and did a lot of tracting. I would give out so many more tracts than the others that I would almost feel ashamed to give my reports.

Another time I was pretty sick too. That was when I went to Salt Lake City for an operation. I had to stay at my brother Lyman's home for two weeks getting my system ready for it. Dr. Hatch said I really w3asn't ready then, but I was so anxious to get it over with. During the operation they gave me a local injection to deaden the pain. Because of my lung condition they did not think I could stand an anesthetic. I thought they would never get through sticking those needles in. I was uneasy on the operating table. They thought they had better give me a little more gas. When they did my lungs collapsed. Everyone thought I was dead, but I rallied and started to breathe again. That night after the operation I chilled and they had to pump my veins full of water to overcome it. Then I started with the hiccups. I had them for ten days and nights. Every doctor in the clinic came to see me. They all thought I would surely die. I did too. But, as you see, I got over that too.

When I was about 12 or 13 years old, Father received an order from Brother Card, who was superintendent of the building of the Logan Temple, to get lumber for flooring. For two days I hauled lumber for the Temple. We hauled rock for a week. Robert had a horse and team and Charlie and I had a yoke of cattle. Robert would go to the upper rock quarry to load up; we would go to the lower one, then we traveled down together. Charlie would sit on the wagon to pull the breaks and I would drive the cattle. Sometimes I would walk ahead of the cattle. When we got to the river, I would jump on the wagon to ride. They were working on the walls of the Temple at that time.

I was at the dedication of the Logan Temple on the third day. They asked for a deacon to stand up for something special. I looked around to Will Follett and he stood up; he was my counselor. I was too bashful to stand up myself. I also attended the dedication of the Salt Lake Temple. In 1945 when they dedicated the Idaho Falls Temple, I went up there by special invitation from the First Presidency of the Church.

In 1894, not long after I was married, I was called by President Merrill to work in the Logan Temple. I started in April and worked until the next April. I rode horseback back and forth from Hyde Park to Logan most of that year. For about two or three months in the middle of the winter we rented a little place in Logan. George Daines, Henry Seamons, J.W. Seamons, and Charlie Ashcroft were going to school that winter. They lived with us and Myra cooked for them.

Although I had been honorably release from my mission, I always felt that I had made a failure of it, so when President Joseph R. Shepherd called me to work in the Logan Temple in 1922, I thought I would work there for two years to make up for the time I had lost as a missionary. I worked there as an officiator from 1922 to 1936. In May of 1936 President William A. Noble called me to be his counselor, and that summer I moved my family to Logan, After the death of President Noble, I was called to be counselor to President Joseph Quinney, Jr. for about six years, and in 1949 am now counselor to President Christiansen (El Ray L. Christiansen). (He acted as counselor to President Christiansen until 4 February 1962, making a total of 35 years he spent as a Temple worker at the Logan Temple. After that he was retained to help with sealings, but was relieved of his presidency duties.)

I have baptized over 150,000 people for the dead, as well as many who are living, and have done around 100,000 confirmations. I have ordained and sealed thousands and thousands. I have married five of my own children in the Logan Temple and also some of my grandchildren. (In all he spent about 38 years working in the Temple, 35 of which were very active years.)

(After he did not have a responsibility except to assist with sealings he did many endowments for relatives and others until he had done about 400. When he was about 90 years old he was unable to go any more. He was enrolled as an officiator in the Logan Temple longer than any other person up to this time, from April 17, 1922 to December 22, 1959, and during the year of 1894-95. He worked under six of the seven men who have presided there up until this time, all except President Budge.

At the time of his death President Raymond said, "We didn't release him. The Lord did."

In August 1941 there was a monument built at the Logan Temple saw mill site. To construct the monument they used a scraper and cart wheel that were used at the mill and used rock from the old mess hall. He was asked to dedicate the monument. He had helped to build the temple, had worked in it for many years, and at that time was one of the temple presidency. He was also asked to dedicate the monument to the first settlers of Hyde Park, both of which made him very happy.)

I always had quite a time raising my family, especially when I was left alone with them. I can see many things now that I should have done. I can see things in which I was lacking. It always kept me busy to keep the family going -- there were 16 in all. The older children, especially, never had much to spend. If they had a quarter or fifty cents for a holiday, we thought that was a lot.

When I was first married I just had five acres of land. I used to go to the canyon and get a little lumber out and get a little cash. In 1905, soon after I was over the pleurisy, Myra died and left me with six children to take care of. Clyde was only 13, Mervin 11, Delmar 9, Hazen 6, Amy 4, and Orson was just a baby. I had to wean him. A hired girl too care of him during the day and I did at night. We had a number of girls come in and take care of us. Sometimes we got along quite well and other times did not make out so good.

One time Louella Cowley and Robert suggested my getting married again. They named the names of two schoolteachers, one of them being Louie. I went to see one that evening and later on I went to see Louie. She was not at home. She happened to be at the schoolhouse and saw me going home. She watched me jump over some mud puddles and decided maybe I wasn't so old after all. She wrote me a letter and invited me to see her. She was a wonderful letter-writer. Between visits she would write me letters, but she didn't get many from me. I didn't write so well and I didn't get up there very often either. I usually went by horseback and it was about 20 miles from Hyde Park to Franklin. We were married in 1907.

Louie had a weak heart, left from diphtheria when she was seven years old. After Earl was born the doctor told her not to have any more children because it would kill her. She said she was not going to listen to him; she was going to raise a family. But she died about a month after the next baby came. She was awfully sick during that month. The baby lived a few weeks after that, but he finally starved to death, because they could not find any food to agree with him.

Before the baby was born Louie needed help and she got Martha to help her. I remember how happy she was when Martha said she would come, because she felt she would be a good help to us. Martha stayed and took care of the house and Earl. She and Earl were talking about something one day that gave me the impression she would accept my proposal of marriage. A little later she did and we were married in October 1911. When she came we had seven children, and as one of the older ones would get married another one would come along, so we always had at least nine at our table. It was a wonderful thing she did. She was only 21 and my older children were getting close to that, but she never had any rows with any of them. If anything came up, she would let it go by and say nothing. All of them are welcome to come here as they wish and there are no hard feelings that I know anything about. She has raised seven children of her own.

For the most part my children have got along pretty well. They have done well in school and in their occupations. Most of them are engaged in Church work. However, there have been some accidents that have brought sorrow to our lives.

After Marvin finished school at the B. Y., he had been offered a position in the First National Bank in Logan, but he thought he preferred being out in the open. So when he was asked to go up to the hills and work in a mine, he decided to do that.

He wanted to pitch his tent in the timber on the hillside, but I objected to that because of the snow slides up there. Delmar took him up there that first day. When he came home he said, "Dad, we pitched his tent right down below the hills about 15 rods away from the grain field. You won't worry about that, will you?" Of course, I would not worry about that.

I remember of going up to the mine with Mervin one time that winter. I saw some tracks that I thought were bear tracks. Mervin came down the hill in such a hurry, jumping over the rocks, off the snow ledges and past the brush. I couldn't keep up with him. He felt that the Bishop was going to call him on a mission, but he hoped he would not right then, because he was planning to get married in March, just two months away.

Appy Woolf, Mervin's friend, had taken some bedding and food up and had spent some time with Mervin in his camp. The latter part of January Appy's mother-in-law came down from Idaho to visit them. They needed his bedding. That morning before they went after it, Mervin and I did the milking. He felt sad over something, but I never knew what it was. I wanted to talk to him, but it just seemed I couldn't get the words out; we milked the cows in silence. Delmar hitched up his team and the three boys started for camp. When they reached the dugway on the north side of two-hill, the snow had drifted so much that the team could not go through it. One of the horses got down in the snow and they had to unhitch the other to get it out. Mervin advised Delmar to take his team home and he and Appy could put their snow shoes on and go after the quilts and they intended to carry them home.

The east wind was terrifically cold that night. I suppose that is why they decided to stay. They had a good camp stove, coal, food, and bedding and did not come home. I dreamed about the boys up there. I could see them up on the hillside and knew they were in some kind of danger, but I did not know just what.

The next morning Appy's folks called and were quite concerned about their having stayed all night. I told them they would be all right, but said that as soon as the wind died down a little, Delmar and I would go up and help them home. We saddled two horses, took our snow packs and left home about one o'clock. We could see no sign of the boys coming.

About half was up there one of our horses got down in the snow. After working with it for some time we managed to get it out, tied the horses to a telephone pole and walked the rest of the way on snow shoes. At one time going up the dugway, Delmar said he could see the stove pipe sticking out of the tent and smoke was coming out of it. As we neared the tent I could see the stove pipe, but no smoke was coming out of it. A snow slide was covering about a quarter of the tent. We hurried to it, glanced around to see if the boys had gone some place for protection, but could see no place for them to go.

They had used their shovel to clean the snow away so they could get into the door of the tent. The shovel was standing by the door. We untied the tent strings and entered. We could see their boots and shoes right on the south side of the bed where they had placed them. We could see part of the quilts that were on the bed. The stove and food had not been touched. The entire south side of the room was intact, but the boys had been covered with the snow. We took their shovel and shoveled the snow away from them. It couldn't have been more than two feet deep. When we started shoveling I heard a noise inside the tent, and immediately had hope that they were all right, but, of course, it was just the air escaping.

It took just a minute to remove the snow. The tent had the imprint of their faces in it. THey both laid on their left sides with their heads facing the east. The slide had come down a little kitty-cornered from the northeast and hit Mr. Woolf''s face first. His cheek was bruised a little. There seemed to have been no struggle.

I told Delmar to go home and get some help and I would stay there. But he said he would not leave unless I would too. It was getting late and we had to do something quickly, so we recovered their bodies for protection and went home for help. On our way home we me Will Follett east of Hyde Park. As they were worried, he had started out to meet us. He hurried to town and spread the news of the tragedy. Half of the boys in town must have gone up there. Delmar went, but I did not go back; I felt that I could not. The crowd went back and did the rest of the job.

They took a bob sleigh and hitched a number of teams on it. Also they took a number of other teams that took turns going ahead of the sleigh helping to make a track for it. They got the sleigh right up to their tent and put their bodies in it. The kerosene lanterns the men took with them formed a light brigade as they came back the three miles in the dark. It was a sight to see from the town. It seemed to me they would never get back; they had to move at such a slow pace.

We held a double funeral for the boys. It was cold, and when all the standing room was gone, there were many people turned away. George F. Richards of the Council of the Twelve was the main speaker.

It was unusual for a snow slide to come in that place. Many friends commented, "There probably was never one there before and never will be one again." But the wind had come down from the east, turned to the north, and there was a flat place where the snow had accumulated. It had thawed just before the storm and the snow had slipped down on them. There were many "ifs" and suppositions, but the snow had come down, hit their faces and we had lost our boys. We had many happy memories and some regrets. From dawn until twilight the pile of snow that we could see near the hill three miles away kept us constantly reminded of their grave in the snow. We were glad when summer came.

Soon after that Clyde named their baby Mervin. That Mervin passed away when he was still just a baby. Amy named her oldest boy Mervin and when he was 11 years old he met with a fatal accident when a tractor fell on him and crushed his body.

World War II brought us another tragedy. Richard, Nolan, Hazen and two sons-in-law were in the service. Richard had come from his LDS mission to the Central States on December 7, 1941, the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. He really dreaded to go into the army the next February 10th. He was fortunate in being able to stay in the states until May of 1944; he was home twice on furlough. He left here on the Queen Elizabeth and went to England for more training in his fighter plane.

It was on August 20th, 1944 when we were called out of the Fourth Ward chapel just as Sunday School was about to commence. Bishop Hayward took us into his office and told us that a "missing in action" telegram had been delivered at our home. Richard's plane had been shot down; we knew not where or how. The two following months were hard ones. We were constantly waiting and praying for a message that would let us know he was all right, waiting and praying for something to let us know he was not dead, not a prisoner of war, and not enduring hardships and pain.

October the 15th Ray Perry Greenwood of Sandy, Utah came to see us. When Richard had gone on his last mission over Europe, Lt. Greenwood had been his flight leader. Eight fellows, each in a P-47 fighter plane, were called on a strafing mission. Their target was a German ammunitions train. Richard was the last one of the eight that day, and by the time he reached the train the enemy was firing from the ground. Evidently it was this fire that hit him and he fell against his guns, as they were shooting when he went down, and he made no effort to use his radio. The plane went down, nosed over and exploded.

Our feelings were a mixture of shock and relief. At least we were quite sure he wasn't enduring hardships, but we were also quite sure we had lost another boy. It was nearly a year later when the War Department sent us word that a "finding of death" had been made in his case, so we held memorial services for him September 9, 1945 in the Logan Fourth Ward. The chapel and recreational hall were filled.

Someone had found his remains and buried them. Later they were transferred to a French burial spot about fifty miles west of Paris. He was one of 1800 American boys buried in the St. Andre de Eure cemetery, a temporary burial spot. Joe Quayle visited the cemetery and took pictures of the area and his grave. When they moved the cemetery, we had his body brought home and buried in the Hyde Park cemetery.

During the time that Richard was missing in action, Delmar met with a serious accident, when his horses dragged him for quite a distance and mangled part of his body. As a result tetanus set in and for a long time we thought he might die at any moment. Clyde, Hazen, and Orson did all in their power as medical doctors to save him. They called in the help of other doctors here in Utah, especially those of army personnel, who were able to help considerably. That, along with the answer to prayers and administration of the Elders, saved his life.

After the war years with their sacrifices and tragedies, Joseph continued his temple work with renewed energy in spite of the weakening of his body. He worked in the evening as well as in the daytime and went early in the morning until 4 February 1952, and after that went for sealing appointments.

In September 1949 he had another severe illness -- pneumonia. For some time his possibility of recovery was in doubt, but he returned home from the hospital and after several weeks was able to return to his work when the temple reopened after its renovation.

He spend much time during the latter years of his life reading scriptures, Church magazines, and other publications by church leaders.