Part 4

Mr. Griffin liked to give advice to the young. My chum, Maria Tanner, and I were frequently given the benefit of his wisdom, but child-fashion, did not care to be "preached at." We would see him coming and would start to evade him. Sometimes we would dodge around the house, but finally he got on to our trick and would meet us and corner us and give us whole lot of advice. He thought it dreadful for young girls to be as frivolous as we were; for he called it frivolous because we went down to the woods and sang songs and laughed. That was one of my sins--to laugh. We would often lie in bed singing and laughing and Mr. Eells would call up for us to be quiet. We would be still until we thought the old man had settled down and then we would start in again. Children were not supposed to be in evidence at all in those days, and I sometimes got double doses of advice and correction. But my school days ended--when I was thirteen.

I went back to the Gieger farm where I washed, did housework, sewed and cared for the children. Sometimes if there had been a good deal of trouble in the church, the man I lived with (Mr. Gieger) would not allow me to go to the Grove to church. But we had a meeting at Mr. Walker's home and Mr. Walker preached. Sometimes in the winter it was so lonely and cold that it would be three or four months until we could go out to church. We looked forward to the campmeetings in June. We had an old mud oven outside to bake in. The people got together and furnished provisions; some would bring meat, some potatoes and some materials for bread. I went with Mrs. Gieger's folks. One old lady said she went to campmeetings because she got to see all the old neighbors; and I think they were pretty nearly our only salvation from entire stagnation. Sometimes we would go fifty miles to a camp. One of the tricks of the boys was to shave the tails of the horses; another was to throw tom cats with their tails tied together in the crowd at the mourner's bench. This would stop the praying for awhile.

We always picked berries in the spring and summer. There was not much tame fruit--a few seedling apples. The only way we travelled was on horseback. The first printing press that was brought to Oregon was stored in Mr. Griffin's house. We used to go to the old press and try to sort out the type. Mrs. Griffin had a sister, Rachel Smith; the Griffins arranged a match between her and the Rev. Henry Spalding and she came out from Boston to marry him. We were invited to the wedding, which occurred in a schoolhouse used for a church, and the "infare" was arranged to be held at Mrs. Griffin's the next day. I had never been to a wedding and I had a great desire to go; so I went to the wedding in preference to going to the infare, since I had my choice. Mr. Griffin performed the ceremony. Mr. Spalding preached the sermon and Mr. Griffin played the organ and sang. The bride was attired in a white dress and a long, thin scarf with purple stripes in the ends and fringe and she had on a rough straw bonnet. Mrs. Griffin called it "Rachel's Dunstable bonnet." When they were ready for the ceremony, Mr. Spalding stepped forward and Mrs. Griffin placed her sister by his side, putting Miss Smith's hand in his; they stood there a little while and Mr. Griffin said the words that made them man and wife. That was my first wedding.

My next experience at a wedding was when I was chosen to be the bridesmaid. I was to wear a thin blue dress and I went to the place where the wedding was to occur, carrying my dress. Our dressing room was to stand on the bed with curtains around it. The bride was dressed first and then I dressed myself. We knew of another bride who was coming and we waited to get the white ribbon bows for the bride to wear in her hair and the white ribbons to wear around her wrists. The men were all standing outside the house, as the table was set for dinner--the cooking was done at the fireplace--and there was not room in the small house for them. Finally when the bride was ready the best man came in. His name was John Kane. I discovered he had about half of his coat sleeve ripped out, but in spite of torn coat, the ceremony proceeded and then we sat down and had the wedding dinner. The Rev. Walker performed the ceremony. Among other goodies which we had on the table were glasses of syrup. There was something a little bit white in it and I found that it was pie-dough cut out with a thimble and baked and dropped in it for an ornament. The next day the bride and groom and myself were to take a trip. The best man's sweetheart got very jealous of me because I acted as bridesmaid with her intended husband as best man. Engaged couples at that time were supposed to look only at each other. There were two couples besides the bride and groom, who took a horseback trip to Scroggin's valley; we went about fifteen miles, I should judge, and ate dinner with a brother of the groom. They had not been married very long and were starting in housekeeping. We went on to Mr. Tanner's and spent the night, leaving the bride and groom at his brother's. Our trip covered about fifty miles.

The next thing that came into my life, of any importance, was meeting my first husband. In the fall of '52 Mr. Gieger had two brothers come from Michigan and they spent the winter with him and in the spring went to the mines in Southern Oregon, then on the northern California, where they mined a while and then started a store. There were the two Grieger boys and associated with them were the two Hazlett brothers and Mat Fultz. Someone was always coming down with pack animals to get supplies, as they had to be packed out from Portland or Scotsburg. This summer Everett Gieger came and one of the Hazletts came with him and spent the summer, returning in the fall with supplies. One morning I was sweeping the floor and was around with the children. About ten or eleven o'clock a man came to the door. He had long hair down over his shoulders; he wanted know if this was where Mr. Gieger lived. I was barefooted and not in trim to see visitors, but the stranger said "Everett Gieger would be along the next day; that he had stopped to visit someone and he had come on ahead." They spent the summer there. During the summer, they made up a party--Mr. Gieger and his wife, her sister and myself, and a man by the name of Mr. Blank, made a trip over to Tillamook Bay. We went up to the head of the Yamhill valley, that is now the Siletz Reserve. We crossed the mountains on just a thread of a heavily timbered trail and were the second party of women that had crossed the mountains. We were two days going over the mountain to come down into the valley of Tillamook and on down to what is known as Traskville. A man by the name of Trask lived there and made butter and took it to Portland to sell.

Mr. Grieger and Mr. Trask were acquainted. We spent a night and a couple of days there; then went on down and camped on Tillamook Bay and hired a boat to go down the bay to the mouth of the river and I had my first glimpse of the Pacific ocean. That was the first time I ever saw any clams. The gnats were terrible. We spent a few days near the shore and then came back to Yamhill and Mrs. Gieger's father's home. We staid there a few days and then returned to our own home. In the meantime Mr. Everett Gieger had fallen in love with Narcissa Cornwall, Mrs. Gieger's sister. I was promised to marry Mr. Hazlett. The two men went away in October, back to the mines. In February they were to return and we were to be married and go back to Illinois to live. But meantime they changed their minds and concluded they would go into the stock business in the Little Shasta valley. They took up a farm there and didn't come down until May. They bought a lot of stock to drive down, two yokes of oxen and a wagon; the oxen had worked or been driven across the plains.

Even in these early times, the subject of clothes claimed some attention of the feminine mind. When I was about thirteen years old I was very anxious to have a white dress. I had never had one. Mrs. Smith had kept Joe Gale's four children during the winter, while the parents went to California to the mines. He had sent up some white goods, scarfs, shawls and so on, but I wanted a white dress. Mrs. Smith told me if I would come down and do four washings she would let me have everything to make me a dress, so I went to the river to wash and I got the goods for my dress and when I went to board with Mrs. Eells, she made the dress with flowing sleeves and three tucks in the skirt. She made undersleeves, too. The first pair of gloves I ever had I bought from a peddler, paying twenty-five cents for them. I earned most of the money that bought my wedding outfit. The wedding dress was a white one and I trimmed my own wedding bonnet. Mr. Gieger bought my shoes, which were poor leather slippers, with no heels, such as the men wore. I was very much disappointed in my shoes, for they were just like old bedroom slippers. I had my hair braided and wore a big horse-shoe comb. I had white ribbon around my wrists like a cuff. Abigail Walker, my girl chum, came over and helped me dress. The wedding day was the fifth of June and the Rev. Walker performed the ceremony. His family, Mrs. Eells and family and other friends were there. Mr. Walker was a very nervous man and when he preached he would shake like a person with a mild nervous chill. Mrs. Eells said that she could hardly keep from laughing during the ceremony, Mr. Walker's clothing shook so. I had the usual congratulations from the guests and the single men's congratulations was the privilege of kissing the bride. We had the wedding feast. Mrs. Walker came over to make the cake. She was the best cake maker in the neighborhood. She couldn't manage the cake on our stove as well as on her own, so she carried the batter in a bucket, four miles on horseback, baked it in her own stove, and brought back a fine wedding cake with green cedar laid on the plate and the cake set on that. The trimmings were cedar boughs, wild roses and honeysuckle.

The next day my husband had to go to Portland on business and we went as far as Hillsboro, where I visited Mrs. Eells until he returned. Then we began to get ready to go to my future home in Shasta valley, traveling with the stock and ox team. Part of the time I rode horseback and part of the time I helped drive the cattle. We went on until we got into the Umpqua valley and it was very warm and the grasshoppers were eating up the whole country; they had eaten all the foliage on the trees. We came to the Cow Creek canyon, but the military road had not been built and we had to travel the old road in the bed of the creek for miles. It was very rough and rugged and the hills were steep. We had traveled one day to put up camp. Next day we started, but in going up a steep hill one of the oxen stopped and trembled and we thought he had got poisoned. We cut up some sliced bacon and he didn't object to eating it and licked his tongue out for more. We gave him some more bacon and still he wouldn't go. Finally we hired another team which got us through the canyon, but we concluded it was only a trick of the old ox, as he had been raised on bacon and that was all he wanted. We came to the Grave Creek hills which were very steep. We camped just as we got to the summit of them and after a rest traveled on; in just two weeks from that time two men were killed in that place by the Indians. We just missed being killed. We traveled on in the Rogue River valley which was not very much settled, save in the lower part. It showed evidence of the conflict between the white men and the Indians by the lonely graves that were scattered along the roadside. We came onto Wagner Creek where Mrs. Harris and other settlers were killed by the Indians in '55. They were harvesting some fine fields of grain as we came through the valley. The towns were all small--they could hardly be seen. There was Waitsburg, where Mr. Wait had a flouring mill, and a large log house; and at the time of the Indian trouble, the people flocked there for safety. In going through the Rogue River valley the Indians came to our wagon and were very inquisitive and even got into the wagon and frightened me; and when the men had to be away I would become very much frightened. One evening when in camp on the bank of the Rogue River, we saw across the stream some soldiers who had some Indians with them. The Indians finally took up their belongings and started across the mountains. The soldiers crossed the river and the bugler rode down to our camp and told us it would be better for us to go up to a nearby farm house; that while he did not apprehend any trouble, we would be safer there. We went up there and found seven men, including a fifteen year old boy. They had a log cabin and very kindly made all the preparation that they could for our safety. The boy was very anxious to kill an Indian, so he put seven bullets down in his muzzle-loader gun and said: "One of those bullets would surely hit an Indian."

So we traveled on to the head of the valley and across the Siskiyou Mountains into California and we camped over night on the summit of the mountains. Three weeks afterward, three teamsters camped there and were killed by the Indians. We came on down into a rough looking country--a little mining camp we called Cottonwood, where my husband had been mining. We staid there a week, then took our way on south to Willow Creek in Shasta valley, where my husband had a home for us to live in and where he was to follow the stock business. We were there about two months and a half, when the Klamath Lake Indians began to make trouble. We lived close to their trail and we were afraid of being killed and so we put up our belonging and went back to the little mining camp. I never saw the home again. We lived in this Cottonwood district near the Oregon line and raised stock, and my husband put out fruit trees and started raising a garden. In the year '60 he had to be operated on for cancer. We had to go across the Trinity and Scott mountains to Red Bluff, where we took the boat down the Sacramento river. Friends thought he would not live to make the trip. The doctors said his disease was incurable and that he would not live more than three years at best. They operated on him. I had left our ten-months old baby at home. In the June before we went down to San Francisco, our house and belongings were destroyed by fire and we went into a bachelor's house and lived there.

Many amusing incidents occurred during the long winter months in the mining districts of northern California, when the placer miners, waiting for the water to open up, found time hanging heavy on their hands. Isolated as we were, we welcomed anything that would break the monotony of life. One locality in which we lived had always given a Democratic majority and the Republican brethren of course did not take kindly to this. One year they determined to beat the Democrats in the coming election and set about it with considerable vim. As there were several men in town who did not care particularly which ticket they voted, they worked on them. I took in the situation and as all my men folks were Democrats, I decided to have a little fun and help our party at the same time. I, too, worked on those who could be influenced to vote either way. One of these persons was named Davey Crockett and he claimed to be a nephew of the famous Davey Crockett of "Alamo" fame. This Crockett was known as "Dirty Crockett," because it well described his personal appearance. He lived in a "tepee" out in the hills and hunted deer. He always wore a red cap that had the corners tied up to look like horns. He said he could always get the deer, because they would stop to look at his cap long enough for him to get a bead on them. Another of his accomplishments was his ability to catch live skunks. He offered to rid the neighborhood of them if he were paid fifty cents for each one he brought in alive. He was given the job and soon came carrying a live skunk by the tail. He said he caught them by the tail and held them so tight they could not scent him. He collected his fifty cents from two or three persons. He repeated this several times; in fact, so frequent became his appearance with a live skunk that some of the business men became suspicious and upon investigation it was found that he had caught just one skunk and whenever he wanted money he would reappear with the same skunk and collect the bounty. A Welchman, who was a staunch Republican, offered Crockett a fine rooster if he would agree to vote that ticket. To this he readily agreed. When I learned this, I went to him and offered him two dried mink skins that I had, if he would agree to vote the Democratic ticket. These looked better than the rooster, so he transferred his allegiance to the Democratic party. Four or five "floaters" seen with equally good results kept the balance of power on the Democratic side on election day.

The Welchman who had labored so hard to make a Republican of Crockett, gave me a write-up in the paper after election, telling how the Democrats won the day by the aid of skunk-catchers and wood-choppers, but little did I care. We won the day by using his tactics and I had considerable fun with my experience in early day politics.

The winter of '60-61 being very cold, many cattle died and this same Crockett made considerable money skinning the dead animals and selling their hides. One cold and stormy evening, quite a distance from his home, he skinned a large steer that had just died and was still warm. As he could not reach home that night, he rolled himself up in the warm hide. During the night it froze so hard that it was with considerable difficulty that he was able to cut himself out in the morning.

An Irishman named Pat O'Halloran was a prospector and miner, and like most of the early day miners, was fond of a drink now and then. He would frequently sit around the saloons watching the card games until a very late hour, or rather, early morning hour. One dark night he started for home, loaded a little beyond his capacity. Not being able to keep the road, he fell into a prospect hole. The hole was about forty feet deep and Pat went to the bottom. The next morning the ditch-tender going his rounds, heard someone calling and finally located old Pat in the bottom of the prospect hole. He went for help. The men got a windless and bucket and after some effort drew him near the surface. Now Pat was an uncompromising Democrat, and as he approached the top he noticed that a preacher, who was the leading Republican in the neighborhood, was one of his rescuers. He commanded them to lower him again and "go and get some Democrats to haul me out," saying "I don't want that black abolitionist to help me out." So they had to lower him until they could find Democrats enough to pull him out. We were eating breakfast when a man came to get my husband to assist in pulling the Irishman to the surface and he came back laughing heartily at Pat's political stubbornness. The editor of the Democratic paper gave him a life subscription to his paper and Pat lived fifteen years to read it; he then decided he had enjoyed it long enough and suicided.

We had many interesting neighbors, men and women of considerable force of character. In the early days of the gold excitement in southern Oregon and northern California a man and his wife, by the name of Redfield, located a homestead on Cow Creek. They built a house and ran a station where travelers were accommodated with lodging and food. Attacks by Indians were frequent, but they stayed and fought it out with them. In one of these attacks, Mrs. Redfield was severely wounded in the hip, but even this did not dismay them and they staid with their home and continued to fight it out. During the civil war she was a Union sympathizer and he was equally strong on the rebel side. Whenever they would get news of a Union victory, she would give a banquet and invite all their friends to celebrate; when news of a Rebel victory came, he, in turn, would give a banquet and call all the friends together. After the close of the war, he was told that he would not be allowed to vote and that if he attempted to do so, his vote would be challenged. He said, "All right"; but on election day he was at the polls. He had a long muzzle-loading gun and was known to be a sure shot. He folded his ballot and stuck it in the muzzle of "old Betsy" and handed it to the clerk, who took it without protest and no one else challenged his vote.

There was a German citizen named Haserich who was known as "Slam Bang" among the miners, because of his frequent use of those words in describing any thing or event. He was the proprietor of a billiard hall and lodging house. Being Republican committeeman one year, he called the boys in and told them that a Mr. Van Dueser, who was the Republican candidate for the Legislature, was coming to make a speech. Knowing that the boys were always playing pranks, he implored them to be "nice" and to listen attentively to what he had to say. They promised to behave, but when the old man escorted the speaker into the hall the night of the meeting, there were about two hundred men there, each with his face blackened and wearing a high paper collar. The meeting proceeded without disturbance, but the speaker was not to get away in peace. The horse he had hired was one that had been trained to stop in front of every saloon and sit on his haunches. This he did as usual and the boys had their fun in assuring the dignified speaker of the evening that his horse wanted a drink before he would pass the saloon.

In early days, dishes were not very plentiful. Most people had only tin dishes and these were hard to get. One man, to avoid the risk of loss, nailed his dishes to the table. When he wanted to wash them he would turn the table on it's side, take the broom and some hot water and scrub them well; after rinsing them, he would turn the table back with the dishes thoroughly cleansed.

The Rev. Childs (the abolitionist preacher) took a claim with two young men who were both in their teens and full of pranks. The Reverend often used to tell them of the fine eels he used to have in the East, what good eating they were and how he longed for one again. The boys concluded they would treat him to one for his dinner some day. One day they caught a rattle snake and skinned it. As one of them always prepared the dinner, the snake was cooked and sizzling hot when time for dinner arrived. The frying pan was put on the table, containing what the boys said was a nice fat eel. The minister stuck his fork into a portion and put it on his plate, saying, "This is the toughest eel I ever saw." The boys were a little dubious about allowing him to eat it, for fear it might poison him; so one of them said, "If you had seen the string of rattles on it, you would have thought it was tough." The preacher took the frying pan and snake and threw them into the Klamath River.

Ministers were frequently the victims of the rude wit of the times. One day one drove into town with a team and buggy, saying he was the Reverend Bullock and that he had been told there was no church nor anything of a religious nature in the place; so he had come to try to convert the people and build up a church. He made an appointment to come and conduct services in two weeks. He was there, true to his promise, and most of the people attended the service. When the collection was taken up, they responded liberally.