William Brooks

FUNERAL SERVICES HELD FOR WILLIAM BROOKS William Brooks, former Washington County sheriff and St. George postmaster, died of natural causes at his home here Saturday, March 28. He was 88. Mr. Brooks was well known in Washington County, having served as a St. George city councilman from 1917 to 1927, and as county clerk and auditor from 1921 to 1927. In that year he was elected assessor and sheriff, an office held until June, 1934, when he resigned to accept an appointment as St. George postmaster. He served in that capacity until his retirement in 1951. During his terms as sheriff, Mr. Brooks saw the days the mounted lawman give way to the automobile and was instrumental in tracking down the last of the old "outlaw" gangs in southern Utah. Mr. Brooks' life story, written by his widow, Utah historian Juanita Brooks, was awarded first prize for biography in the 1969 Utah State Fine Arts Writing Competition and will soon be published. Born April 23, 1881, in St. George, he was a son of George and Emily Cornelia Branch Brooks. He married Nellie Marie Stephens on Sept. 28, 1911, in the St. George LDS Temple. She died Feb. 19, 1932. He married Juanita Leavitt Pulsipher in the St. George Temple on May 25, 1933. A member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints he served as Sunday School superintendent in St. George for 22 years and was a member of the St. George Third Ward bishopric. He received his early education in St. George, but school terms were brief because of farm chores and harvests. When the city's Woodward School was completed in 1901, Mr. Brooks was one of a number of young men over 20 in the community who returned to complete elementary schooling. He later attended Brigham Young University and Utah State Agricultural College. In an USAC experimental station arid farm program west of Nephi, he operated the first steam traction engine used for plowing in Utah. In 1908 he began one of Utah's first dry farms in San Juan County. Survivors include his widow, St. George; six sons, one daughter, Walter S., St. George; Robert G., Logan; Clarence J., Salt Lake; Mrs. Thales (Willa Nita) Derrick, Tamaele, Hawaii; Karl F., Monticello; Joseph Kay, Fairfax, Va.; Antone L., Albuquerque, N. M.; a stepson, Ernest Pulsipher, Las Vegas; 33 grandchildren; 27 great grandchildren, four brothers and sisters, Edward P., St. George; Llewellyn, Los Angeles; Mrs. Cornelia Allen, and Mrs. Edith McIntyre, both of Salt Lake City. Funeral services were conducted Tuesday afternoon, March 31, at 2 p.m. in the St. George Tabernacle. Friends called at Metcalf Mortuary Monday 7 to 9 pm and Tuesday from noon until 1:30 pm. Burial was in the St. George City Cemetery. Washington County News - April 3, 1970 Also printed in The Salt Lake Tribune, Monday, March 30, 1970

FUNERAL SERVICES HELD FOR WILLIAM BROOKS William Brooks, former Washington County sheriff and St. George postmaster, died of natural causes at his home here Saturday, March 28. He was 88. Mr. Brooks was well known in Washington County, having served as a St. George city councilman from 1917 to 1927, and as county clerk and auditor from 1921 to 1927. In that year he was elected assessor and sheriff, an office held until June, 1934, when he resigned to accept an appointment as St. George postmaster. He served in that capacity until his retirement in 1951. During his terms as sheriff, Mr. Brooks saw the days the mounted lawman give way to the automobile and was instrumental in tracking down the last of the old "outlaw" gangs in southern Utah. Mr. Brooks' life story, written by his widow, Utah historian Juanita Brooks, was awarded first prize for biography in the 1969 Utah State Fine Arts Writing Competition and will soon be published. Born April 23, 1881, in St. George, he was a son of George and Emily Cornelia Branch Brooks. He married Nellie Marie Stephens on Sept. 28, 1911, in the St. George LDS Temple. She died Feb. 19, 1932. He married Juanita Leavitt Pulsipher in the St. George Temple on May 25, 1933. A member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints he served as Sunday School superintendent in St. George for 22 years and was a member of the St. George Third Ward bishopric. He received his early education in St. George, but school terms were brief because of farm chores and harvests. When the city's Woodward School was completed in 1901, Mr. Brooks was one of a number of young men over 20 in the community who returned to complete elementary schooling. He later attended Brigham Young University and Utah State Agricultural College. In an USAC experimental station arid farm program west of Nephi, he operated the first steam traction engine used for plowing in Utah. In 1908 he began one of Utah's first dry farms in San Juan County. Survivors include his widow, St. George; six sons, one daughter, Walter S., St. George; Robert G., Logan; Clarence J., Salt Lake; Mrs. Thales (Willa Nita) Derrick, Tamaele, Hawaii; Karl F., Monticello; Joseph Kay, Fairfax, Va.; Antone L., Albuquerque, N. M.; a stepson, Ernest Pulsipher, Las Vegas; 33 grandchildren; 27 great grandchildren, four brothers and sisters, Edward P., St. George; Llewellyn, Los Angeles; Mrs. Cornelia Allen, and Mrs. Edith McIntyre, both of Salt Lake City. Funeral services were conducted Tuesday afternoon, March 31, at 2 p.m. in the St. George Tabernacle. Friends called at Metcalf Mortuary Monday 7 to 9 pm and Tuesday from noon until 1:30 pm. Burial was in the St. George City Cemetery. Washington County News - April 3, 1970 Also printed in The Salt Lake Tribune, Monday, March 30, 1970

Mr. William Brooks of Monticello and Miss Nellie M. Stevens of this city were united in wedlock in the St. George temple, Thursday, Sept. 28th, 1911. The bride is a daughter of Mrs. Randall of St. George and the late John Stevens, an accomplished young lady who has been employed as deputy county clerk for some time, and who has considerable musical ability. The groom is a son of Mr. And Mrs. George Brooks of this city, a young man of sterling qualities, whom it is a pleasure to know. The young couple have a host of friends who wish them a full measure of happiness. A reception was given Thursday at the Brooks home in honor of the newly-wedded pair. The spacious lawn and home grounds had seats nicely arranged and rugs had been spread in front of them. Electric lights were strung among the trees giving the gaily dressed throng and their surroundings a beautiful effect. The bride, looking beautiful, and her happy husband met the guests as they arrived under an archway of roses and other flowers. A short program was delightfully rendered, after which refreshments, consisting of ice cream, cakes of various kinds, etc., was served. There were about two hundred guests present and they all appeared to enjoy the occasion thoroughly. Mr. And Mrs. William Brooks intend to make their home at Monticello, for which place they expect to leave in about a week.

MEMOIR JUANITA AND WILL BROOKS BY: Walter Brooks DATE: August 1985 SUBJECT: Juanita Brooks TRANSCRIBER: Christine Gustin WB: Observations of Juanita Brooks by her oldest stepson Walt Brooks. Mom, as we always used to call her, joined our family while I was in the Mexican Mission in the year of 1932. Mother (Nellie Stephens Brooks) died very suddenly in 1932. I left for a mission less than four months after her death. She 'passed-out' while attending Relief Society and never regained consciousness. At that time I was playing basketball in Rexburg, Idaho, for the Rocky Mountain Junior College Championship - the North and South Leagues - Dixie versus Rexburg - both Church schools at that time. My mother and I were very close so I have missed her very much. When I returned from my mission, Dad had married Mom (Juanita Leavitt Pulsipher) and she had a baby girl whom they name Willa Nita and called her Willa. Finally a girl in a family of six boys. Mom had a 12 year old son Ernest Pulsipher (Ern) from her first marriage. he had been named for his Father. I often heard her say, "I was a bride, a mother and a widow in less than a year." Mom, at first, thought I resented her for taking the place of my own mother but in a few months she accepted the fact that she didn't take the place of my mother - but was my father's wife and would make her own place in our lives. She was always very serious and had a hard time taking my jokes and stories which were in a lighter vein. Dad always got up early and cooked breakfast when Mother was living. After he married Juanita he continued this practice and prepared breakfast - then called Mom and the rest of the family. Before long Mom started to get up with him to study and write. She kept getting up earlier and earlier until she was getting up at 3:00 or 3:30 in the morning - a habit which she kept until just the last few years. One of my jokes that she didn't seem to appreciate was after I got to know the family pretty well and was carrying Willa on one of my shoulders one day. Ott Romney, the Coach at the Brigham Young University for which I was playing basketball at the time, came down to St. George during the summer to see if I was going to return for my senior year. He asked me what the baby's name was and, when I told him "Willa", he said, "I hope when she grows up she'll be a "won'ta" girl and not a "Willa" girl. This didn't set very well with Juanita. She was always a very strict person. Another thing that I'm reminded of is when they - Ern, Bob and Grant - were young, they were always having problems. Bob and Grant were always picking on Ern and Ern was trying to pick on them when they were alone. Many times she would say, "I'll tell Walt when he comes home if you don't quit fighting." I would get home and try to straighten out the difficulties. Bob was older than Grant and Ern was 2 years younger than Grant. I used to be able to catch Grant quite quickly - because of this it kind of made him a 'sprinter.' But when Ern came along, he was a little slower but he could run farther. I got slower so I made a 'distance' man out of him trying to catch him. Ern really became a very good distance runner. Dad had built a home down in town but the corral for the cows, etc. was up on the hill at Grandpa (George) Brooks' home. Many times Ern didn't get up early enough to get the cows milked before school and, as a consequence, found himself having to run up the hill to the corrals instead of walking - and then run back again to make it to school. This really built his running muscles. Mom never did trust the hospital and these modern doctors that we had then, so she always went to Aunt Rosina Blake's to have her babies - Willa, Karl, Kay and Tony. Willa had arrived before I returned from my mission. I remember Dad taking me down each time, with the rest of the children that were already born, to see his new son. Aunt Rosina Blake was a mid-wife and also a relative and Mom trusted her implicitly. We went down to her home each time there was a new arrival in the family. Mom was always very cognizant of the troubles of family and neighbors. Every time that any of the family had any troubles, she was always there to try to help to solve them. It was the same with the neighbors. But if they didn't have any troubles, she was always trying to feed them. Any time anyone came to visit - whether it was part of the family or a neighbor, or even someone who didn't have anything to do with the family or she didn't know - she was always trying to make them more comfortable and see to their wants - make them have something to eat or a place to stay, if they needed it. Trying to feed everyone who came in was quite a problem sometimes but she always managed to scrape up something to eat for everyone. There was one neighbor, Mary Conger, who, after she got so she couldn't take care of herself, each morning and each evening Mom saw that one of the boys carried over a good breakfast and a good supper. Finally, Mary got so that she couldn't even walk but if the meal didn't get there on time, she sometimes scotted over on her hind-end to see what had happened or what was the matter that her breakfast or her supper wasn't there on time. Mom was always a very active church worker until the Church kind of 'got down on her' because of her book, "The Mountain Meadows Massacre." I remember when she was Stake President of the Relief Society, she had to visit all the wards. We had one ward - way out about 50 miles south toward the Grand Canyon - called Mt. Trumbull. She visited the Bundys, Iversons and some others who were living out there. One day she needed to visit the Mt. Trumbull Ward. As I was on the High Council at the time and had a speaking engagement there, I offered to take her out. She didn't think she could go because the road was too rough and mountainous with many dugways, and she got seasick too easily. I convinced her that if she would go with me, I'd see that she didn't get seasick. Well, we took off in our 1933 Chev and she didn't get seasick. I kept her so busy holding on so tight to the side of the door and anything she could get a hold of, that she wasn't worried about getting seasick - she was just worried about ever getting there - period! We went out and back without her getting seasick and from then on she often said, "Well, I'd sooner get seasick than be scared to death." The interesting thing about this meeting out there was - when we got there, there was no one in sight. They had a big bell there so Mom said, "You go ring that bell - that's the way we do it!" So I went over and pulled the bell four or five times and, within a half hour, we had a great church congregation. They came in from all over the east, west, south and north. Those people who lived there didn't ever both to come to the church till the people came who were going to hold the meeting. They held their own ward meetings at a set time but on the missionary and visiting Sundays they waited till the people came - because the roads were so rough they didn't know whether they'd ever get there - so they just waited at home till the bell rang and then they all gathered for the meeting. One other time I remember when she didn't get seasick - at least not on the way back. We had been down to Las Vegas for a visit with some of her relatives there. Dad was driving and I was in the back with the younger kids. Willa was sitting right next to the back door and we were going along about 40 miles an hour in the old Chev. Dad was always a very staunch Chevrolet man. Before we knew it Willa had taken a hold of the door handle, pushed it down and it flipped the door open. The impact of the wind against it just threw her right out on the cement - on the pavement. It wasn't cement, it was an old oiled road. As Dad brought the car to a stop neither he nor Mom could move. They were both so scared. I jumped out and ran back to meet Willa coming up the road. She was a bawling and a bawling. I asked her, "What's the matter, are you hurt?" She answered, amid her cries, "No, but they're going to leave me and I've got to get there fast!" I picked her up and brought her back. Dad and Mom couldn't even move because they were so scared - both of them were as white as I have ever seen two people. One thing that always impressed me about Mom was the fact that she could get up at 3:00 in the morning and write 'till 6:00 and then get breakfast over, if Dad wasn't there to fix it, and have the ability to work all day in her kitchen and also do her housework - then not get to bed too early but get up again the next morning about 3:00 am. Her work as a writer was kind of a consuming thing with her and she spent many many hours doing her writing when she should have been sleeping. She has written many books in the wee hours of the morning. She also gained a terrific amount of knowledge of the history of Southern Utah, Northern Arizona, Southern Nevada and other points - because when she was first married to Dad, she had the privilege of supervising in the WPA a group of women who could type and who needed work. Mom would go around with Dad, or alone, and collect old diaries that had been either hidden away or the family didn't know much about where they were or anything. She collected diaries for years and years. She would have these ladies type them and make two copies of these old diaries. One copy was returned with the diary to the family, another copy was put here in the County. After the WPA quit Mom was hired by the Huntington Library in California to continue her research and copy old diaries, get them and send them down to the Huntington Library. I've often said if anyone knew more about the history of Southern Utah than Mom, it was Dad, because he would always read the old diaries and would help go get them. Having been the Sheriff, County Clerk and the Postmaster of St. George, he was well acquainted with many people. Anyone who was acquainted with Dad was a friend of his - and many times he could get these diaries when no one else could. Mom used him to help her get this terrific amount of knowledge about Southern Utah. You asked about Dad's hunting and fishing. Dad must have been a born hunter because, as long as I can remember, he was a very good hunter. In fact, when he was very young, his Uncle Frank, not his dad, would take him hunting often. Uncle Frank was a crippled brother to Dad's Father, George Brooks, my Grandfather. He and Uncle Frank had a little ranch up in Diamond Valley and he, being a cripple, would often take one of the boys - George or Will or Sam or one of the other boys - up to the ranch to help him do the chores and to work with hitching up the team and to unhitch it and do the chores that Uncle Frank couldn't do. One time Uncle Frank was taking Dad along and they had an old muzzle loader shotgun. They saw a covey of quail so Dad said, "Let me get out and shoot them." Uncle Frank loaded his shotgun, put quite a heavy charge in and Dad was looking for the quail. Suddenly he saw a chicken hawk swooping down. Dad was watching where it went. Just as it hit this covey of quail - you know where quail are threatened they huddle in a group (covey) - this chicken hawk was just going to hit this covey when Dad shot the old muzzle loader shotgun. When the smoke cleared, he went over and found he had killed 13 quail and the chicken hawk. One of the first things I can remember about Dad was when I must have been about 6 or 7 years old. Dad came home from a hunting trip with a big horn sheep. We had the old horns and the head of that sheep around for quite a long time. I got a great kick out of showing it to my young friends. Dad enjoyed hunting. I think if he would have had his way, he'd declare the deer season and the opening day of fishing season a national holiday because he surely did enjoy hunting and fishing. From my earliest memories when I was old enough to hunt - which was then 14 before you could carry a shotgun - Dad was always prepared and would take me and his other boys hunting with him. For instance, in deer hunting, he spent many days before deer season every came getting his bedding, his grub and everything all fixed up so he would never be found wanting when the day arrived. We always went up to the camp the day before and had a good Brooks' reunion every time we went deer hunting. Dad also like to hunt rabbits, quail and pheasants. He was a very good shot with the rifle, shotgun or pistol and he enjoyed hunting with them all. He was such a good shot with the pistol - especially when he was County Sheriff. He would take me out, would show me how to shoot his pistol, and then he would - as an example - shoot at a jack rabbit that was on the dead run and usually get it with this big long barrel 38 Colt that he had. Dad taught all of his boys to enjoy the out-of-doors and to use a gun safely. For instance, when my brother, Karl, was in the "army bootcamp" and was being presented with a medal for the outstanding marksman of the camp, he said, "I don't quite understand this. I've got a lot of brothers and I'm the poorest shot of the whole bunch of them" I might add, though, that Karl has practiced a lot and he's a "crack shot" with the rifle. He's a very good shooter. Like I said before, deer hunting was prepared for a week or two in advance and then, after deer season, it was talked about the rest of the year. One year we had all gone out to hunt and I was with Dad - he was Postmaster at this time. Before deer season all the post office crew had been buying telescopes to put on their guns. Dad and I both had 30/40 Krag guns. He had put a telescope on his gun. We were going up this big 'draw' and a herd of about 30 deer jumped up and "took out" over the mountain side. Well, I started shooting. Dad was looking all over - he hadn't practiced using that scope - and he couldn't find the deer in it. Finally he handed me his gun and took my gun saying, "Here, you take this damned thing and let me use yours." It surprised me because it was really strange to ever hear Dad swear. We also used to go to about the same place. However, before this he had five or six special places. First he hunted in Central or above there, then he moved over to the Magotsu Wash, then to Motoqua, then the Danish ranch, then to Pinto. This Pinto country seemed to be his favorite because we hunted there for about 40 years. It still is a place where the rest of the Brooks family - since Dad has passed on - go to hunt every year. It was a camp along the side of the road. We were within a few miles of water. We always camped there so some of us could hunt on the north side of the road and the rest of us on the south. In fact, last year, 1984, we had the Will Brooks' family Reunion at the 'deer camp.' There were about 60 of us around the campfire telling stories about Dad and the deer hunt and many of the stories were really interesting. The year that Dad was 87 I think was the last deer hunt that he went on. We had a horse and we let him ride it up on a ridge. I told him to stay there on the ridge and to tie the horse up - then wait for me while I circled around the area hoping to scare something back to him. Well, he got nervous and when I came back, he was gone. I didn't know where to find him. The horse was still tied there and I thought I'd better find him. I found him walking up the ridge toward where the horse was tied. I said, "What's the matter, did you get lost?" He said, "No, are you lost?" I said, "No." He answered, "Well, I thought Id come out and see if you were lost." He couldn't sit still very long when out deer hunting. A little after that when we got home, he said, "Well, I'm getting a little too old for this deer hunting business. I'm going to give it up and let you 'carry the ball' from here on." He was a very proficient and great hunter. You asked something about fishing. He always had his little special fishing creeks, too. He didn't like to fish in the reservoirs or in the lakes - he liked stream fishing. He had a little stream up in Pine Valley that we would take him to - drop him off there - and then we'd go on up the creek farther to a bigger place or something else. He'd fish up this little Spring Branch, as it was called, up toward Pine Valley Mountain, then fish back. By the time he got back he always had his limit. Then the limit was 30 fish. I took him up to Enterprise Reservoir quite a few times, too, and he got so he enjoyed fishing from the boat - trolling or just sitting and casting a spinner, or something, into the water. He didn't like to 'still fish", he didn't like to put the worm - or whatever it was - in the water and just hope the fish would come by and take a bite of it. He liked to attract them with something, I remember one time I took him to Ensenada, Mexico, with me. He had the time of his life. He caught four big yellow-tail. You should have seen the grin on his face when he would 'hook one' and would rear back to work for about 20 minutes trying to get that yellow-tail in. He liked all kinds of sports - coaching was my profession - and all of his boys and grandsons were very athletic. He always supported us. He had a rough time sometimes when Grant, his son, was playing on the Dixie team and I was coaching over in Hurricane. When we played against each other, he would always be able to yell for every basket that was made. In fact, he got so interested in sports that there was a time when the girls of the Dixie High Pep Club invited him to be an honorary member of their group. At nearly every game that he attended, whether basketball or football, he always had a little treat of candy or something for the Pep Club. They even thought so much of him that when they made him an honorary member, they gave him a stadium robe they had made - on which was inscribed "Uncle Will." He would get to the football game, wrap up in his 'robe' and enjoy the game seated right in the middle of the girls' pep club. One time I asked him if he didn't get bothered by the noise in the pep club. He said, "No, if they get too loud, I just turn down my hearing aid and it doesn't bother me at all." My own mother was a perfectionist. She was a very beautiful woman and I don't remember of ever seeing her with her hair uncombed and not dressed well. She had a beautiful singing voice and was called upon nearly every week to sing in some funeral, civic function or church gathering. She was also a beautiful penman. She was Recorder in the County Court House and had the job of writing - by hand - all the descriptions of the properties in Washington County so that they could be read well. She was always very exact. I spent many hours proof-reading with her - her descriptions - so they would be exact. She was an immaculate housekeeper. I used to mop the kitchen floor or dust the furniture or seep the rug and, if she found any dirt or dust I had left, she made me do it over again. For instance, when we would mop the kitchen floor and she found a little dirt behind the wood-box or something, she'd pull out the wood-box, grab the old tea-kettle off from the stove and pour water all over the floor. By the time I got the water all mopped up again the floor was immaculately clean and I had learned to do my job well - being taught by both Mother and Dad. Dad used to say, "Anything worth doing is worth doing well." I appreciated the lessons they taught me when growing up. Mother had a little saying in the kitchen on the wall that said, "Willful waste makes woeful want!" That was more than likely her creed. She always took very good care of everything she had. I've often said that I was the oldest girl in a family of six boys. Mother did not enjoy good health. She was quite sickly from the time her first boy was born. I was that boy. Dad and all the boys always did most of the housework and we enjoyed doing it because we knew it helped Mother. She was a wonderful woman and Juanita (Mom) has been a wonderful second Mother to all of us. We do appreciate Mom and thank her for all the things she has done for us.

I was born April 23, 1881, in St. George, Utah, the fifth child and second son of George and Emily Cornelia Branch Brooks. My father was a stonecutter by trade; he had been trained by his foster father, Edward L. Parry, who was the master mason for both the Tabernacle and the Temple. My mother was a skilled housewife and a sweet-tempered, cheerful person. Her hands were never idle. When she sat down to rest after cooking or washing, she would pick up a piece of mending, or fancywork, or knitting. In the evening she often read to us, or played her organ. My parents were comfortable in the new rock house on the hill, although its two rooms were already becoming crowded. I was the third child to be born in the new house. My sister Josephine (Dode) was first, then came my brother George. Emma and May, the two older girls, had been born in rented homes downtown. On the day my brother George was born, December 21, 1879, Father brought home two locust saplings from where he was working away down on 165 West Fourth South and planted them in honor of the birth of his first son. It was a long hike uphill at the end of a day's work, even without the extra load. In telling of it later, Pa always said, "They were about six feet long and as big around as my middle finger." This same tree is now 12 feet in circumference, and a plaque labels it an historic tree. These trees were important to us, and also were the mulberry trees that were put in a few years later when the people were counseled to raise silk worms. Each tree was planted beside a solid cedar stake to which it was tied with a wide denim string, and woe to anyone who disturbed it in any way. The Tabernacle steeple and spire with the bell and clock, also had special meaning for us. Our top step was on a direct line with the ball on top of the steeple. We often had our friends look along the top of the stone to prove it, and to show how high our house was. We could read the Town Clock easily, and we always checked our own to see if it was running right. In the quiet morning hours we could hear the big clock strike, if we were out of doors. The same was true at night. Besides ringing for all of the regular meetings, the bell was tolled for funerals. Mostly that just meant that it was rung very slowly, but when Old Brother Pymm died, it was struck with a hammer, slowly, waiting for the sound to die, one stroke for every year of his long life. I thought they would never get through. No matter what went on outside, our home was a pleasant place in which our mother's sunny disposition colored everything. Evenings during the winter were spent before the fireplace in the living room; in the summer we played in the yard. As each new baby arrived every two years, we all rejoiced and loved it and moved up one notch to make room. I have no memory of any special preparations beforehand or any talk about it. When the day arrived, we were all sent down to Aunt Pal Miles' house just off the hill and across the street, and when we came back there would be a little new brother or sister. My little world soon extended to the corral and to all the farm animals. I remember especially the large stone pig troughs, cut wide and deep enough to hold several buckets of water or slops. There were two of them, one in each pen, for the pigs were very important in our economy, and the brood sow must have a special place away from the growing or fattening pigs. These stone troughs could not be pushed around or turned over. Some people thought them expensive, but lumber was scarce, and Father's business was cutting stone. The horses also had scooped out, hollowed stone feeders from which they ate their grain. The corrals and sheds were a challenge to a climbing child, for in this hot climate the pigs must have a shelter of cottonwood boughs covered with straw, beneath which was a "waller hole." The horse shed was high and covered with cane bagasse. Only the cows had no shelter, for they were turned out each day to the pasture or to the herd's boy. So the horses, cows, pigs and chickens, and the garden beyond the row of fig trees along the east fence were my little world. On the front it was bounded by the ditch. Father had built the ditch in a series of falls, one of them high enough to put the big water bucket under for filling the barrel. This fifty-gallon barrel had to be filled every day for drinking water and for our culinary use. It was a task so hard that as soon as we were large enough to lift a bucket to the top, we all took turns filling the barrel. Father's real reason for the fall, though, was that he liked to hear the sound of running water. He called it part of "the music of the spheres." For the first four or five years of our lives we were kept consistently on our own lot. Only those past five years of age went down the hill to Primary and Sunday School. Mother would stay home to keep the younger ones and have dinner ready when the others came back. The Tabernacle bell would ring out loudly a half-hour before the service was to start as a reminder to all the people in the valley that it was time to be on the way. The strokes of the Town Clock announced the beginning of the service. During the half-hour between, the older Brooks children would start down the hill, all washed and starched and ironed, shoes soot-polished, hair beribboned or greased into place. Our nearest neighbors across the street and out the lane a short distance were the Samuel Adams family. I remember them especially because I wore Nell's shoes when we had our family picture taken. Mother did not want posterity to see me dressed up and barefoot; it was better to have borrowed shoes though they were girl's shoes. Our first visit unattended came when Mother let George and me go by trail over the hill west and south to the John E. Pace home on Second West. Here was a large family of children in what seemed to me a very large house. One mother had died, and the other had taken in all of the children along with her own. As we came near the fence, we hesitated, for we were strange, and several boys on the other side were eyeing us closely. George, always quick to rise to any occasion, took me by the hand and said, "Come and see!" As they drew near, he held up my left hand with the third joint of the little finger cut off. They were all held by this strange sight--a short little finger without a nail. Then George told them the story of how, before I was even two years old, I had dragged a chair up to the table, which during the summer had been kept in front of the fireplace. I climbed from the chair to the top of the table. By stretching hard, I could reach to the top of the mantel piece, where I could barely touch Uncle Henry's razor. It was in a case, which I opened. Then taking the razor out, I opened it, looking at the sharp blade like the one I had seen Father scrape over his cheeks. Father always wore a mustache, and in telling the story later we were always careful to say that it was Uncle Henry's razor. This fact relieved our father of any guilt of carelessness. But George warmed to his story: "He was just going to try to shave himself, when he heard someone coming, so he hurried to close the razor and put it back into its place. But that sharp blade shut exactly in the top joint of that little finger and WOOPS! it fell to the floor, and blood spurted all over the place." Later the story became embellished to add that the severed little joint bounced and wiggled on the floor, like the end of a snake's tail that has been cut off. The real story was better. After the doctor arrived post haste to dress the wound, he wanted the missing end to bind back on, in the hope that it might grow into place. It was not to be found! They looked everywhere, and after the wound was dressed and the doctor left, Mother found it clutched in her own palm, held securely by her middle finger. Told by George on this warm afternoon, the story held the listeners captivated, and I felt a sudden sense of importance, of being different. This stubby little finger was something no one else had, and often in my early years I would show it as a sort of conversation piece. It was my one claim to fame. Actually, it meant nothing. I was just the fifth one of a family of twelve, taking my place and my little responsibilities as I grew up and sharing my experiences with those older and younger than I. Always there was a kind, understanding Mother to turn to, and a firm, just Father to follow about and work with as I grew up. Some of our happiest evenings were during the winter when Father would have a big sheet of paper on the table--heavy paper like butcher paper--and would be trying out designs of lettering or decoration for headstones. We would all coax him to draw us a "story." It became a game. He would put down a little mark here and a few others in another place and still others in different parts, and we would try to guess what he was going to make. "A tree," "a horse," "a dog" we would call out. Then with two or three heavy strokes, the picture would be finished. He worked with charcoal for many of these, so they were large and plain. The story of Farmer Brown and his pig was done so often that any of us could do it. It began with Farmer Brown, who lived in a little three-cornered house with a window and a door. He searched up hill and down dale for that lost pig, thinking he saw it here, but it was something else, thinking it was there, returning home discouraged, looking out of the window, and going directly to the place, where "he cracked his whip, and started it home," and the tail went on with a curl and a flourish. That would end the entertainment, and we must all go to bed so that Pa could go on with his serious work. Often Mother would read to us from our Bible Stories book the stories of David and Goliath, the Three Hebrew Children, and others, or she would drill us in little verses. In summer we would play on the grass in the front yard, or play running and hiding games. On Saturday evenings, after he had taken his bath and had supper, Father often got out his fiddle, moved the low, rawhide-bottomed chair out under the trees--we had mulberry trees now, besides the locust, and a plum tree--and played his fiddle. He played only by ear and he played the old country tunes, but it was real music to us. Now we did not play noisy games, but lay on the grass to hear the music. We all knew the story of how as a boy, he had traded his pony for that violin, when it didn't have a single string on it, so we sensed how precious it was. I think no music has ever sounded better to me than some of those "concerts" on a summer evening under a high moon, especially at the nesting time of our little bird, when the father bird sang along, too. We always claimed these birds as our special ones, and they came back year after year. Even to this day Ed and I will note their return. "I see that my bird is back," Ed said to me this spring. "What do you mean, your bird," I answered. "That has been my bird for as long as I can remember." We make a joke of it, but we both know how many memories that night-singing bird brings back. We learned early that while we could not go down town except on an errand from which we had to hurry right back, the youngsters of town came to us. That is, the boys in their teens came. Too young to be on regular jobs, they often wandered in the hills to the north. The Sugar Loaf was a favorite place, and right on the trail was the Brooks pond, formed from the spring on our lot. Often their trip ended right there. The pond was emptied twice a day, morning and evening, to water the garden. By mid-afternoon it would be deep enough to swim in, and by sundown it would be a real challenge. During the hot months it was a favorite gathering place. Father saw to it that we learned to swim soon after we could walk, for that open pond was a real hazard. Some told the story that he threw each child in on its second birthday, and forced him to swim or drown. That, of course, was not true, but we could all swim well when we were quite young. Only a few months ago (October 1968) I went to visit my old friend, Athele Milne, at Washington. When I introduced my wife to him, he said, "You see, Mrs. Brooks, I've known Billy Brooks all his life. He's the kid that damn-near drowned me the first time I went to the Brooks Pond to swim. I was older'n him and bigger, but I hadn't been where I could learn to swim, and as I walked out into the pond, he jumped at me from the bank and rode me under. I had a bad time gittin' out-a there alive." I didn't remember the incident, myself, but it was likely true, for we enjoyed introducing new kids to our pond. I do remember how, when I went to be baptized at the Temple, Mother got me all ready in the regular outfit and sent me out. I climbed the high steps up to the edge of the font, and when I looked into that big clear pool, I just dove right in and started swimming about. Poor Brother Granger he stood beside the steps with his hand out ready to help me down, and coax me in, as he had to do with so many of the little eight-year-olds. He thought I had fallen in, and was catching about frantically trying to save me! I did stop and he baptized me properly, but not before I had made a round or two in the font. What I started to say was that our pond was a drawing card that brought lots of boys up the hill. Many little girl groups came, too, but not to swim. They would bring lunches and start on a hike up the hill. Some would go on up to the Sugar Loaf, but to others, by the time they reached our place the shade and grass looked so inviting that they often ate their lunch right here. The water barrel and tin cup was another advantage over drinking from a stream. So from May through September we had many callers. No matter what age they were, we had Brooks children the same age, all ready and willing to play at any games, or to just sit and visit. Quite often the callers would help us finish our jobs--pulling so many rows of weeds from the garden or cleaning up the yards or cutting wood--do that then we could play. Dode was our chief entertainer during our early years. She loved to dress us up, put on programs, tell stories. She ordered us about and we obeyed her gladly. If it was only to make paper caps and get stick guns, we marched and sang and counted off "hay-foot-straw-foot" around the yard. But her real genius lay in story telling. I can still chill a little at her "Sister Annie, Sister Annie can you see them coming yet?" Of course there were the "Three Bears" and "Little Red Riding Hood," but there were also impromptu tales in which witches and goblins and especially "Old Shiney Eyes," held us spellbound. Stories of Dode and her doings always entertain family gatherings to this day, for as long as she lived she meant the unusual, the surprise, the joke on somebody. Although the tale of her narrow escape from being drowned has been told so often, I must include it here. She loved to visit, to go to one home or another with a girl of her age and get to playing until she would forget the time. Suddenly she would realize that it was after sundown, which was her deadline for being home. It was actually dark. She would hurry up the hill, running across the yard to fall breathless in at the front door. Again and again she had been scolded and warned and threatened. Always she promised solemnly--"cross my heart and hope to die"--that she would get home right after school. And for a while she would keep the promise, but it was usually because she had persuaded some friend to come up with her. Then came the unlucky night when she was even later than ever. Supper was over, the dishes washed, the littlest baby in bed, and the three or four others of us ready for bed. The days were so short now; dark came too early. Dode came in panting and crying a little, to meet a very stern father. "Well, Dode," he said, "Your mother and I have decided that you are not worth raising. You lie to us all the time. You say that you will come home before sundown, but you never do. And here it is past bedtime." Dode's cries raised to wails, but Pa was unmoved. "We've talked it over and decided that it would be better to drown you now than to raise you up to be a person that no one can believe or depend on. Don't bother about getting yourself any supper. You won't need any tonight. We'll go right up to the pond now and get it over." Now the whole family of children burst into tears. Emma and May began to promise that they would help Dode and remind her and see that she did get home. But Pa was unmoved. Taking Dode firmly by the hand, he started up the path to the pond. The dismal crying procession followed behind, while Dode's cries wakened the echoes. He did not stop until we had reached the edge of the pond, when he made a quick move, picked her up and stepped back as if to toss her in. Now the shrieks of all the others joined in. Pa set her down. For the first time he seemed to listen, to pay any attention. "Well," he said at last. "If you will all help Dode, and if she will remember herself, maybe we can give her one more chance. But we just don't want to raise a girl who can't keep her promises." Instantly we all felt better; the three older girls turned and hurried back, Dode way ahead of the others, lest Pa should change his mind. George and I followed, while Pa picked up Zillie and carried her back. All the time this was going on, Mother had not said a word or stopped her knitting. It was so good to run back from the threatened disaster to the warm room, the fireplace, and Ma there busy and cheerful. It was always like this. Pa had different ways of managing and disciplining the children, but she never interfered once. At another time he used a novel method of learning who was guilty of cutting down a young almond tree. This tree was the one he had purchased especially because it was a softshell and valuable. He had taken great care in planting it and putting a protective stake beside it, and here it was, whacked off clean. Naturally he was angry. He called the whole crowd around him, and asked each in turn if he had cut down that almond tree, or if he knew who had. George and Sam and I were all there, and five or six neighbor youngsters. No one would admit he had done the deed; no one would say that he had seen someone else do it. Yet it had been done within the last few hours for Pa himself had put a bucket of water around it just at noon. Father walked away to something else for a few minutes and then came back by the tree and called us all together again. Now he had a round rock about the size of a hen's egg. "Look here, all of you. Come here and line up against the wall. Do you see this rock that I have in my hand? It is a magic stone. I call it my 'true stone,' because it will not hit anyone who tells the truth, but it goes straight to the one who is telling a lie. Now you all stand right still. Don't move, and you'll not be hurt. But the one that cut that tree down had better look out! He'll get it! He'll get it sure!" He stepped back twelve to fifteen feet and began winding up his arm, still cautioning us all not to move. As he raised his arm to fling, one little fellow dashed out and ran for home as fast as he could go, bawling at the top of his voice. Now we all knew who had cut the tree down. We all loved our father, but we knew enough to obey him promptly. We each had our chores, and while we might bargain with each other as to whose turn it was to fill the barrel or cut the kindling or carry in the wood, these tasks must be done, and done on time. I don't think he ever whipped one of us further than a cuff that would send us reeling, or a swift kick, or a cut with a willow. But we never dared him or defied him or talked back to him. We did as we were told at once, and then later made explanations or protests, for we knew that he would be fair with us. My first trips down town were with the older girls and George to go to Primary on Saturday afternoon. Primary was really just a preparation for Sunday, for it meant that we would all be run through the big wooden tub in the middle of the kitchen floor. Mother would oversee the scrubbing; from the shampoo of our hair down to the toenails, we were scoured and dug out and trimmed up. Then with clean underwear, we put on our best every-day outfit to go to Primary. It was only for children under twelve, but it was good training. These Saturday afternoon excursions were wonderful for us. We went leisurely, and explored as we went along. At the bottom of the hill we cut across Diagonal Street to Johnson's corner where the printing shop was, past Croft's Trunk Manufacturing Company, then Morris's Store, to the Riding Tin Shop on the corner. It occupied the site of the Big Hand Cafe today, and was a most interesting place to get into, for tin pans and tin cups of different sizes, wash dishes, candle molds, colanders--there seemed no end to the things Brother Riding made from tin, and he didn't mind if you came in and looked around. The center of most of the business in St. George was the Wooley, Lund & Judd store, which had been built for the first Social Hall in the valley. Across the street to the east was the Big House, three full stories high and awe-inspiring it was so grand. There were always horses tied to hitching posts, or an occasional wagon stopped by the sidewalk. We often peeked into the St. George Co-op because its double-doors were flush on the sidewalk and the screens a little ajar. The Tithing Office was always a busy place, but no children ever got into there unattended, and from there on down to the corner and all across the bottom of that block was a high stone wall. It looked terribly high to us, though it was only six feet. We knew that it enclosed the Tithing Office yard, the storage for grain, and hay, and all the other things people brought in. Across the street was the Tabernacle safe inside its white picket fence that went all the way around the block with trees on the outside edge of the sidewalk all the way around the block too, like a double edge of decoration around the building. I liked to rub my hands across the stone as we hurried around to go in at the back door, for Primary was held in the basement. This is the house Pa built, I always thought, though perhaps a few others helped. So it was week after week during these early years. From my home to the Tabernacle and back became a regular pattern every Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. I was only six years old when Sam was born, and was with the other children down to Aunt Pal's house, when word came that we had a new little brother. I have heard the story many times of how at his birth Sam was Mother's largest child, weighing 13 pounds and 8 ounces. Sister Church, the midwife, had a hard time managing the delivery. Though Sister Church was still busy with her, Mother could see at once that the child wasn't breathing. "Look, George! The baby! He isn't breathing! Get the doctor, quick! Do something, somebody! The baby needs help!" Pa ran from the corral to get old Bonnet and ride for the doctor, when by the grace of the Lord, there was old Dr. Higgins coming down the road in his little buggy. Pa ran out, stopped his horse, and told him to hurry to the baby. He would take care of the horse himself. Dr. Higgins immediately started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and soon literally breathed the breath of life into Sam's limp, quiet body. From that instant Sam seemed to thrive. A large baby at birth, he had a prodigious appetite; all food agreed with him. He loved the world and everything and everyone in it. With five sisters and two brothers to pay attention to him, he had a happy babyhood. He fairly glowed with good health and good spirits. He seemed the eternal optimist. But he was clumsy; he would fall down. When he was just cleaned up and started down the hill, Mother always admonished us to, "Keep hold of Sam's hand. Don't let him fall down and get all dirty." Rare was the time when Sammy reached his destination unsmirched on the front. Dode took over Sam as her special charge. One day she persuaded Ma to let her take him to school. There was to be a program after recess, and school out at noon, so she could manage fine. Ma consented reluctantly, but Dode insisted, so they dressed him up in kilts with braid trimming, and Dode set out with him, his gold-blond hair smooth as silk, his fair pink skin shining. Sam always wore a smile, for he looked out upon the world with the highest expectations. Dode took him down in the little wagon; she knew that his chubby little legs could not negotiate that hill, either down or back. He was not yet two years old. When they reached the schoolhouse, Dode lifted him out and brushed him off. She was more than gratified with his reception. He was a beautiful child; everyone, even the teacher, said he was a beautiful child. So for a while things were rosy. Dode was having such a good time that she neglected to notice certain signs in Sammy's behavior which would have prevented the disaster. She was brought back to reality with a start when a big boy at the back of the room stood up and called out in a loud voice, "P-H-I-E-WOO! Let me outta here!" And out he charged, followed by another boy, and another. Sammy, innocent of offense, stood in the midst of the evidence and smiled. Poor Dode! There is no way to measure her humiliation. We shall not go into detail, but the teacher dismissed the group for a short, early recess, and one way and another Dode managed to get the baby into a condition where she could put him into the wagon and take him home. The teacher was kind, though not very helpful. She did give Dode access to the janitor's bucket and some cleaning rags for the floor. For a while after that Dode did not offer to take Sammy along when she went anywhere, but she soon forgot. Later when he was so trainable in acting the part of the bear in a little stunt she put on again and again, she became all the more attached to him. About this time there came to St. George a man who called himself Professor Manseneeta. He had a small display of various animals, but his prize actor was a dancing bear. He would have it do a few little tricks, and then pass the plate for contributions. Dode, always a mimic, put on his identical act with Sam as the bear. She dressed in some of George's things--shirt, pants, coat and shoes. Then she stuffed her hair up under a little hard-boiled derby hat, pasted on a small mustache, got her long, sharp stick, and assumed the same poise and tone of voice. Little rolly-polly Sam was willing to try anything; he enjoyed this business as much as she did. With a coverall suit, stockings on his hands, and his hood arrangement boasting some pinned-on ears, he made a good little imitation bear. At least he was always a pleasant one. "Professor Manseneeta" would give his initial announcement in a loud voice, and then proceed to show off his world-famous bear. She would begin with him on all fours and then order him onto his hind legs, with some poking and prodding. "Roll over like a drunken man," she would call out, at which he would fall down and roll onto his back with all four feet in the air. "Stand up tall. Smile at the folks," and Sam would do the perfect grin. "Now dance in a ring, jig-a-te-jig," and he did a good imitation of a bear's shuffling, after which he passed the plate in all seriousness and expected something to be put into it, if only a button or marble or bit of rock. A family joke was the story of his being sent to herd the cows, and not to bring them in until the sun was in the Devil's saddle on the black hill. He got very weary. "I cried three times, but the sun didn't move," he reported. At home one cry usually got him what he wanted. I remember well the time of the polygamy raids, when the two federal officers, Jim McGeary and Johnny Armstrong, came to town. They always traveled in the same little one-seated, black-topped buggy and put up at the Big House at the bottom of the hill. We didn't have to worry about them because Pa had only one wife, but we knew that some of the families were pretty concerned. Everyone in town recognized the outfit and the officers in it, and all were curious to know which men they caught--if they got any. It was like a grown-up game of hide-and-seek, and all of us were interested in the ones who had to hide. Most of them were our church leaders. I knew that some of the families on Swiss Block down near where I herded the cows on the Rodd Lots were plural wives of men who lived in Santa Clara. They would be far enough away so that the officers would not know who they belonged to. The plural families in St. George had their own special hideout places for the father, places that even their own children did not always know. One thing was certain. Every polygamist in St. George was warned before the officers got here. They had to stop at Silver Reef to rest and feed their team. That would take several hours, and the trip from there down would take four or five hours longer. Well, as soon as they drove into Silver Reef, the boy at the telegraph station would wire to the one in the St. George Tithing Office to "send me up two chairs." That was the code to say that there were two officers on their way, or if there would be another man along on horseback, as there often was, the order would be for three chairs. Word would be sent out at once to every family where the father had more than one wife so that he could plan his get-away. I remember one time when I was playing with Stephen Whitehead down in front of the Co-op Store. The officers drove up and got out. As they passed us, McGeary stopped and took hold of Stephen's arm and asked, sharp like, "What is your name?" "Stevie Wells," he answered promptly and clearly. Stevie had been trained what to tell strangers. His mother was a Wells, and he was to use her name. I remember, too, a song that the youngsters would sing about the officers. It was a long one, with a verse for several of the local men. D. D. McArthur was our stake president, and his verse went like this: "McGeary searched McArthur's house Goodbye, my lover, goodbye And all he could find was the tail of a mouse Goodbye, my lover, goodbye. Bye-lo, my baby. Bye-lo, my baby. Bye-lo, my baby. Goodbye, my lover, goodbye." Many stories were told of how the officers had been outwitted. One man rolled up in his bedding under the springseat, and had his boys drive the wagon right through town and down to the field. Dudley Leavitt was at the Washington factory when the black-topped buggy drove up, and the officers got out. One of the clerks said to him, "There they are! McGeary and Armstrong! Run, Brother Leavitt! Quick! Hide!" But it was too late to run, and there was no place to hide. Dudley just jerked off the cap of one of the employees and put it on, took his oil can, and proceeded to oil the machinery, climbing up a ladder to get at the intricate parts. The officers were not hunting for him especially, but for whoever was there that belonged to the wagon stopped outside. They looked everywhere in the cotton bins, behind the stacked sacks, around the house, but did not suspect the busy employee who was oiling the machinery. We heard the story of Brother John S. Stucki at Santa Clara. He had not gone into hiding at all, for it was harvest time, his fruit was ripe, and he must save his crop. The officers drove up to his place in the late forenoon, as he was coming in with a bucket of grapes. He went up to the buggy, greeted them, and of-feted them a bunch of grapes. Then he invited them to the orchard and told them to help themselves to the peaches that were ripe, giving them some to take along with them. "I think the girls have dinner ready," he said at last. "Would you like to join us?" The officers were glad to accept. Both wives were there, the youngest with a small boy. They served a good nourishing meal. The visitors talked about the weather and crops, but did not mention their real business. At the end, they thanked them all, Brother Stucki and his family, and went away without any mention of arrest. Nor did they ever trouble Brother Stucki again. They did arrest and take Doctor Higgins soon after Sam was born, and took him to court at Beaver, where he was sentenced to two years in the state prison. I remember well when the doctor came home in the fall of 1888. All the town went out to meet him, for he was one man that everybody loved and trusted. Pa took us in the wagon--the older girls went with friends, I think--and we drove out to the east end of town where the band was and the choir and all the town officers. They had their wagons arranged, and waited until some horsemen, carrying flags, came with Brother Higgins' outfit. The band played before and played again after; the choir sang a number or two, the leaders made short speeches, and Dr. Higgins responded. Then he went through the crowd shaking hands with everybody. The next Sunday Dr. Higgins made a report in the Tabernacle, and the Brooks family down to and including me, was present. I think Dode stayed home to tend the younger ones, for there were four, and Edith, the baby, was just three months old. I don't know how many men from our town served time in the "pen" for polygamy. The other one that I remember going out to greet was Brother Hardy, the man with the carpenter shop and turning mill at the east end of town. He made our toys, too, and had worked with Pa on the Tabernacle and Temple. This time was about like the welcome home for Doctor Higgins, only that this time I was horseback. That meant that I was more free to do as I pleased. Brother Hardy waved at us and called out our names, and I was surprised that he should remember us. He himself looked so different with his beard shaved off, that I don't think I would have known him if I met him alone on the street. Since I have grown older and my wife has done some research on this subject, I have become interested in the hiding places of these brethren, and in their code for keeping in touch with each other and warning each other. I think an interesting study could be done on this subject. ________________________________________ *Juanita Brooks (1898-), a well-known historical scholar and writer of remarkable charm, is the mother of a large family and is a pioneer of sorts. She is the author of Mountain Meadows Massacre and biographies of Dudley Leavitt and John D. Lee. She also edited the diaries of Lee and the journal of Hosea Stout. A frequent contributor to local and national journals, she has published most recently Uncle Will Tells His Story (1970), a biography of her husband, from which the above has been excerpted.

Mr. William Brooks of Monticello and Miss Nellie M. Stevens of this city were united in wedlock in the St. George temple, Thursday, Sept. 28th, 1911. The bride is a daughter of Mrs. Randall of St. George and the late John Stevens, an accomplished young lady who has been employed as deputy county clerk for some time, and who has considerable musical ability. The groom is a son of Mr. And Mrs. George Brooks of this city, a young man of sterling qualities, whom it is a pleasure to know. The young couple have a host of friends who wish them a full measure of happiness. A reception was given Thursday at the Brooks home in honor of the newly-wedded pair. The spacious lawn and home grounds had seats nicely arranged and rugs had been spread in front of them. Electric lights were strung among the trees giving the gaily dressed throng and their surroundings a beautiful effect. The bride, looking beautiful, and her happy husband met the guests as they arrived under an archway of roses and other flowers. A short program was delightfully rendered, after which refreshments, consisting of ice cream, cakes of various kinds, etc., was served. There were about two hundred guests present and they all appeared to enjoy the occasion thoroughly. Mr. And Mrs. William Brooks intend to make their home at Monticello, for which place they expect to leave in about a week.

MEMOIR JUANITA AND WILL BROOKS BY: Walter Brooks DATE: August 1985 SUBJECT: Juanita Brooks TRANSCRIBER: Christine Gustin WB: Observations of Juanita Brooks by her oldest stepson Walt Brooks. Mom, as we always used to call her, joined our family while I was in the Mexican Mission in the year of 1932. Mother (Nellie Stephens Brooks) died very suddenly in 1932. I left for a mission less than four months after her death. She 'passed-out' while attending Relief Society and never regained consciousness. At that time I was playing basketball in Rexburg, Idaho, for the Rocky Mountain Junior College Championship - the North and South Leagues - Dixie versus Rexburg - both Church schools at that time. My mother and I were very close so I have missed her very much. When I returned from my mission, Dad had married Mom (Juanita Leavitt Pulsipher) and she had a baby girl whom they name Willa Nita and called her Willa. Finally a girl in a family of six boys. Mom had a 12 year old son Ernest Pulsipher (Ern) from her first marriage. he had been named for his Father. I often heard her say, "I was a bride, a mother and a widow in less than a year." Mom, at first, thought I resented her for taking the place of my own mother but in a few months she accepted the fact that she didn't take the place of my mother - but was my father's wife and would make her own place in our lives. She was always very serious and had a hard time taking my jokes and stories which were in a lighter vein. Dad always got up early and cooked breakfast when Mother was living. After he married Juanita he continued this practice and prepared breakfast - then called Mom and the rest of the family. Before long Mom started to get up with him to study and write. She kept getting up earlier and earlier until she was getting up at 3:00 or 3:30 in the morning - a habit which she kept until just the last few years. One of my jokes that she didn't seem to appreciate was after I got to know the family pretty well and was carrying Willa on one of my shoulders one day. Ott Romney, the Coach at the Brigham Young University for which I was playing basketball at the time, came down to St. George during the summer to see if I was going to return for my senior year. He asked me what the baby's name was and, when I told him "Willa", he said, "I hope when she grows up she'll be a "won'ta" girl and not a "Willa" girl. This didn't set very well with Juanita. She was always a very strict person. Another thing that I'm reminded of is when they - Ern, Bob and Grant - were young, they were always having problems. Bob and Grant were always picking on Ern and Ern was trying to pick on them when they were alone. Many times she would say, "I'll tell Walt when he comes home if you don't quit fighting." I would get home and try to straighten out the difficulties. Bob was older than Grant and Ern was 2 years younger than Grant. I used to be able to catch Grant quite quickly - because of this it kind of made him a 'sprinter.' But when Ern came along, he was a little slower but he could run farther. I got slower so I made a 'distance' man out of him trying to catch him. Ern really became a very good distance runner. Dad had built a home down in town but the corral for the cows, etc. was up on the hill at Grandpa (George) Brooks' home. Many times Ern didn't get up early enough to get the cows milked before school and, as a consequence, found himself having to run up the hill to the corrals instead of walking - and then run back again to make it to school. This really built his running muscles. Mom never did trust the hospital and these modern doctors that we had then, so she always went to Aunt Rosina Blake's to have her babies - Willa, Karl, Kay and Tony. Willa had arrived before I returned from my mission. I remember Dad taking me down each time, with the rest of the children that were already born, to see his new son. Aunt Rosina Blake was a mid-wife and also a relative and Mom trusted her implicitly. We went down to her home each time there was a new arrival in the family. Mom was always very cognizant of the troubles of family and neighbors. Every time that any of the family had any troubles, she was always there to try to help to solve them. It was the same with the neighbors. But if they didn't have any troubles, she was always trying to feed them. Any time anyone came to visit - whether it was part of the family or a neighbor, or even someone who didn't have anything to do with the family or she didn't know - she was always trying to make them more comfortable and see to their wants - make them have something to eat or a place to stay, if they needed it. Trying to feed everyone who came in was quite a problem sometimes but she always managed to scrape up something to eat for everyone. There was one neighbor, Mary Conger, who, after she got so she couldn't take care of herself, each morning and each evening Mom saw that one of the boys carried over a good breakfast and a good supper. Finally, Mary got so that she couldn't even walk but if the meal didn't get there on time, she sometimes scotted over on her hind-end to see what had happened or what was the matter that her breakfast or her supper wasn't there on time. Mom was always a very active church worker until the Church kind of 'got down on her' because of her book, "The Mountain Meadows Massacre." I remember when she was Stake President of the Relief Society, she had to visit all the wards. We had one ward - way out about 50 miles south toward the Grand Canyon - called Mt. Trumbull. She visited the Bundys, Iversons and some others who were living out there. One day she needed to visit the Mt. Trumbull Ward. As I was on the High Council at the time and had a speaking engagement there, I offered to take her out. She didn't think she could go because the road was too rough and mountainous with many dugways, and she got seasick too easily. I convinced her that if she would go with me, I'd see that she didn't get seasick. Well, we took off in our 1933 Chev and she didn't get seasick. I kept her so busy holding on so tight to the side of the door and anything she could get a hold of, that she wasn't worried about getting seasick - she was just worried about ever getting there - period! We went out and back without her getting seasick and from then on she often said, "Well, I'd sooner get seasick than be scared to death." The interesting thing about this meeting out there was - when we got there, there was no one in sight. They had a big bell there so Mom said, "You go ring that bell - that's the way we do it!" So I went over and pulled the bell four or five times and, within a half hour, we had a great church congregation. They came in from all over the east, west, south and north. Those people who lived there didn't ever both to come to the church till the people came who were going to hold the meeting. They held their own ward meetings at a set time but on the missionary and visiting Sundays they waited till the people came - because the roads were so rough they didn't know whether they'd ever get there - so they just waited at home till the bell rang and then they all gathered for the meeting. One other time I remember when she didn't get seasick - at least not on the way back. We had been down to Las Vegas for a visit with some of her relatives there. Dad was driving and I was in the back with the younger kids. Willa was sitting right next to the back door and we were going along about 40 miles an hour in the old Chev. Dad was always a very staunch Chevrolet man. Before we knew it Willa had taken a hold of the door handle, pushed it down and it flipped the door open. The impact of the wind against it just threw her right out on the cement - on the pavement. It wasn't cement, it was an old oiled road. As Dad brought the car to a stop neither he nor Mom could move. They were both so scared. I jumped out and ran back to meet Willa coming up the road. She was a bawling and a bawling. I asked her, "What's the matter, are you hurt?" She answered, amid her cries, "No, but they're going to leave me and I've got to get there fast!" I picked her up and brought her back. Dad and Mom couldn't even move because they were so scared - both of them were as white as I have ever seen two people. One thing that always impressed me about Mom was the fact that she could get up at 3:00 in the morning and write 'till 6:00 and then get breakfast over, if Dad wasn't there to fix it, and have the ability to work all day in her kitchen and also do her housework - then not get to bed too early but get up again the next morning about 3:00 am. Her work as a writer was kind of a consuming thing with her and she spent many many hours doing her writing when she should have been sleeping. She has written many books in the wee hours of the morning. She also gained a terrific amount of knowledge of the history of Southern Utah, Northern Arizona, Southern Nevada and other points - because when she was first married to Dad, she had the privilege of supervising in the WPA a group of women who could type and who needed work. Mom would go around with Dad, or alone, and collect old diaries that had been either hidden away or the family didn't know much about where they were or anything. She collected diaries for years and years. She would have these ladies type them and make two copies of these old diaries. One copy was returned with the diary to the family, another copy was put here in the County. After the WPA quit Mom was hired by the Huntington Library in California to continue her research and copy old diaries, get them and send them down to the Huntington Library. I've often said if anyone knew more about the history of Southern Utah than Mom, it was Dad, because he would always read the old diaries and would help go get them. Having been the Sheriff, County Clerk and the Postmaster of St. George, he was well acquainted with many people. Anyone who was acquainted with Dad was a friend of his - and many times he could get these diaries when no one else could. Mom used him to help her get this terrific amount of knowledge about Southern Utah. You asked about Dad's hunting and fishing. Dad must have been a born hunter because, as long as I can remember, he was a very good hunter. In fact, when he was very young, his Uncle Frank, not his dad, would take him hunting often. Uncle Frank was a crippled brother to Dad's Father, George Brooks, my Grandfather. He and Uncle Frank had a little ranch up in Diamond Valley and he, being a cripple, would often take one of the boys - George or Will or Sam or one of the other boys - up to the ranch to help him do the chores and to work with hitching up the team and to unhitch it and do the chores that Uncle Frank couldn't do. One time Uncle Frank was taking Dad along and they had an old muzzle loader shotgun. They saw a covey of quail so Dad said, "Let me get out and shoot them." Uncle Frank loaded his shotgun, put quite a heavy charge in and Dad was looking for the quail. Suddenly he saw a chicken hawk swooping down. Dad was watching where it went. Just as it hit this covey of quail - you know where quail are threatened they huddle in a group (covey) - this chicken hawk was just going to hit this covey when Dad shot the old muzzle loader shotgun. When the smoke cleared, he went over and found he had killed 13 quail and the chicken hawk. One of the first things I can remember about Dad was when I must have been about 6 or 7 years old. Dad came home from a hunting trip with a big horn sheep. We had the old horns and the head of that sheep around for quite a long time. I got a great kick out of showing it to my young friends. Dad enjoyed hunting. I think if he would have had his way, he'd declare the deer season and the opening day of fishing season a national holiday because he surely did enjoy hunting and fishing. From my earliest memories when I was old enough to hunt - which was then 14 before you could carry a shotgun - Dad was always prepared and would take me and his other boys hunting with him. For instance, in deer hunting, he spent many days before deer season every came getting his bedding, his grub and everything all fixed up so he would never be found wanting when the day arrived. We always went up to the camp the day before and had a good Brooks' reunion every time we went deer hunting. Dad also like to hunt rabbits, quail and pheasants. He was a very good shot with the rifle, shotgun or pistol and he enjoyed hunting with them all. He was such a good shot with the pistol - especially when he was County Sheriff. He would take me out, would show me how to shoot his pistol, and then he would - as an example - shoot at a jack rabbit that was on the dead run and usually get it with this big long barrel 38 Colt that he had. Dad taught all of his boys to enjoy the out-of-doors and to use a gun safely. For instance, when my brother, Karl, was in the "army bootcamp" and was being presented with a medal for the outstanding marksman of the camp, he said, "I don't quite understand this. I've got a lot of brothers and I'm the poorest shot of the whole bunch of them" I might add, though, that Karl has practiced a lot and he's a "crack shot" with the rifle. He's a very good shooter. Like I said before, deer hunting was prepared for a week or two in advance and then, after deer season, it was talked about the rest of the year. One year we had all gone out to hunt and I was with Dad - he was Postmaster at this time. Before deer season all the post office crew had been buying telescopes to put on their guns. Dad and I both had 30/40 Krag guns. He had put a telescope on his gun. We were going up this big 'draw' and a herd of about 30 deer jumped up and "took out" over the mountain side. Well, I started shooting. Dad was looking all over - he hadn't practiced using that scope - and he couldn't find the deer in it. Finally he handed me his gun and took my gun saying, "Here, you take this damned thing and let me use yours." It surprised me because it was really strange to ever hear Dad swear. We also used to go to about the same place. However, before this he had five or six special places. First he hunted in Central or above there, then he moved over to the Magotsu Wash, then to Motoqua, then the Danish ranch, then to Pinto. This Pinto country seemed to be his favorite because we hunted there for about 40 years. It still is a place where the rest of the Brooks family - since Dad has passed on - go to hunt every year. It was a camp along the side of the road. We were within a few miles of water. We always camped there so some of us could hunt on the north side of the road and the rest of us on the south. In fact, last year, 1984, we had the Will Brooks' family Reunion at the 'deer camp.' There were about 60 of us around the campfire telling stories about Dad and the deer hunt and many of the stories were really interesting. The year that Dad was 87 I think was the last deer hunt that he went on. We had a horse and we let him ride it up on a ridge. I told him to stay there on the ridge and to tie the horse up - then wait for me while I circled around the area hoping to scare something back to him. Well, he got nervous and when I came back, he was gone. I didn't know where to find him. The horse was still tied there and I thought I'd better find him. I found him walking up the ridge toward where the horse was tied. I said, "What's the matter, did you get lost?" He said, "No, are you lost?" I said, "No." He answered, "Well, I thought Id come out and see if you were lost." He couldn't sit still very long when out deer hunting. A little after that when we got home, he said, "Well, I'm getting a little too old for this deer hunting business. I'm going to give it up and let you 'carry the ball' from here on." He was a very proficient and great hunter. You asked something about fishing. He always had his little special fishing creeks, too. He didn't like to fish in the reservoirs or in the lakes - he liked stream fishing. He had a little stream up in Pine Valley that we would take him to - drop him off there - and then we'd go on up the creek farther to a bigger place or something else. He'd fish up this little Spring Branch, as it was called, up toward Pine Valley Mountain, then fish back. By the time he got back he always had his limit. Then the limit was 30 fish. I took him up to Enterprise Reservoir quite a few times, too, and he got so he enjoyed fishing from the boat - trolling or just sitting and casting a spinner, or something, into the water. He didn't like to 'still fish", he didn't like to put the worm - or whatever it was - in the water and just hope the fish would come by and take a bite of it. He liked to attract them with something, I remember one time I took him to Ensenada, Mexico, with me. He had the time of his life. He caught four big yellow-tail. You should have seen the grin on his face when he would 'hook one' and would rear back to work for about 20 minutes trying to get that yellow-tail in. He liked all kinds of sports - coaching was my profession - and all of his boys and grandsons were very athletic. He always supported us. He had a rough time sometimes when Grant, his son, was playing on the Dixie team and I was coaching over in Hurricane. When we played against each other, he would always be able to yell for every basket that was made. In fact, he got so interested in sports that there was a time when the girls of the Dixie High Pep Club invited him to be an honorary member of their group. At nearly every game that he attended, whether basketball or football, he always had a little treat of candy or something for the Pep Club. They even thought so much of him that when they made him an honorary member, they gave him a stadium robe they had made - on which was inscribed "Uncle Will." He would get to the football game, wrap up in his 'robe' and enjoy the game seated right in the middle of the girls' pep club. One time I asked him if he didn't get bothered by the noise in the pep club. He said, "No, if they get too loud, I just turn down my hearing aid and it doesn't bother me at all." My own mother was a perfectionist. She was a very beautiful woman and I don't remember of ever seeing her with her hair uncombed and not dressed well. She had a beautiful singing voice and was called upon nearly every week to sing in some funeral, civic function or church gathering. She was also a beautiful penman. She was Recorder in the County Court House and had the job of writing - by hand - all the descriptions of the properties in Washington County so that they could be read well. She was always very exact. I spent many hours proof-reading with her - her descriptions - so they would be exact. She was an immaculate housekeeper. I used to mop the kitchen floor or dust the furniture or seep the rug and, if she found any dirt or dust I had left, she made me do it over again. For instance, when we would mop the kitchen floor and she found a little dirt behind the wood-box or something, she'd pull out the wood-box, grab the old tea-kettle off from the stove and pour water all over the floor. By the time I got the water all mopped up again the floor was immaculately clean and I had learned to do my job well - being taught by both Mother and Dad. Dad used to say, "Anything worth doing is worth doing well." I appreciated the lessons they taught me when growing up. Mother had a little saying in the kitchen on the wall that said, "Willful waste makes woeful want!" That was more than likely her creed. She always took very good care of everything she had. I've often said that I was the oldest girl in a family of six boys. Mother did not enjoy good health. She was quite sickly from the time her first boy was born. I was that boy. Dad and all the boys always did most of the housework and we enjoyed doing it because we knew it helped Mother. She was a wonderful woman and Juanita (Mom) has been a wonderful second Mother to all of us. We do appreciate Mom and thank her for all the things she has done for us.

I was born April 23, 1881, in St. George, Utah, the fifth child and second son of George and Emily Cornelia Branch Brooks. My father was a stonecutter by trade; he had been trained by his foster father, Edward L. Parry, who was the master mason for both the Tabernacle and the Temple. My mother was a skilled housewife and a sweet-tempered, cheerful person. Her hands were never idle. When she sat down to rest after cooking or washing, she would pick up a piece of mending, or fancywork, or knitting. In the evening she often read to us, or played her organ. My parents were comfortable in the new rock house on the hill, although its two rooms were already becoming crowded. I was the third child to be born in the new house. My sister Josephine (Dode) was first, then came my brother George. Emma and May, the two older girls, had been born in rented homes downtown. On the day my brother George was born, December 21, 1879, Father brought home two locust saplings from where he was working away down on 165 West Fourth South and planted them in honor of the birth of his first son. It was a long hike uphill at the end of a day's work, even without the extra load. In telling of it later, Pa always said, "They were about six feet long and as big around as my middle finger." This same tree is now 12 feet in circumference, and a plaque labels it an historic tree. These trees were important to us, and also were the mulberry trees that were put in a few years later when the people were counseled to raise silk worms. Each tree was planted beside a solid cedar stake to which it was tied with a wide denim string, and woe to anyone who disturbed it in any way. The Tabernacle steeple and spire with the bell and clock, also had special meaning for us. Our top step was on a direct line with the ball on top of the steeple. We often had our friends look along the top of the stone to prove it, and to show how high our house was. We could read the Town Clock easily, and we always checked our own to see if it was running right. In the quiet morning hours we could hear the big clock strike, if we were out of doors. The same was true at night. Besides ringing for all of the regular meetings, the bell was tolled for funerals. Mostly that just meant that it was rung very slowly, but when Old Brother Pymm died, it was struck with a hammer, slowly, waiting for the sound to die, one stroke for every year of his long life. I thought they would never get through. No matter what went on outside, our home was a pleasant place in which our mother's sunny disposition colored everything. Evenings during the winter were spent before the fireplace in the living room; in the summer we played in the yard. As each new baby arrived every two years, we all rejoiced and loved it and moved up one notch to make room. I have no memory of any special preparations beforehand or any talk about it. When the day arrived, we were all sent down to Aunt Pal Miles' house just off the hill and across the street, and when we came back there would be a little new brother or sister. My little world soon extended to the corral and to all the farm animals. I remember especially the large stone pig troughs, cut wide and deep enough to hold several buckets of water or slops. There were two of them, one in each pen, for the pigs were very important in our economy, and the brood sow must have a special place away from the growing or fattening pigs. These stone troughs could not be pushed around or turned over. Some people thought them expensive, but lumber was scarce, and Father's business was cutting stone. The horses also had scooped out, hollowed stone feeders from which they ate their grain. The corrals and sheds were a challenge to a climbing child, for in this hot climate the pigs must have a shelter of cottonwood boughs covered with straw, beneath which was a "waller hole." The horse shed was high and covered with cane bagasse. Only the cows had no shelter, for they were turned out each day to the pasture or to the herd's boy. So the horses, cows, pigs and chickens, and the garden beyond the row of fig trees along the east fence were my little world. On the front it was bounded by the ditch. Father had built the ditch in a series of falls, one of them high enough to put the big water bucket under for filling the barrel. This fifty-gallon barrel had to be filled every day for drinking water and for our culinary use. It was a task so hard that as soon as we were large enough to lift a bucket to the top, we all took turns filling the barrel. Father's real reason for the fall, though, was that he liked to hear the sound of running water. He called it part of "the music of the spheres." For the first four or five years of our lives we were kept consistently on our own lot. Only those past five years of age went down the hill to Primary and Sunday School. Mother would stay home to keep the younger ones and have dinner ready when the others came back. The Tabernacle bell would ring out loudly a half-hour before the service was to start as a reminder to all the people in the valley that it was time to be on the way. The strokes of the Town Clock announced the beginning of the service. During the half-hour between, the older Brooks children would start down the hill, all washed and starched and ironed, shoes soot-polished, hair beribboned or greased into place. Our nearest neighbors across the street and out the lane a short distance were the Samuel Adams family. I remember them especially because I wore Nell's shoes when we had our family picture taken. Mother did not want posterity to see me dressed up and barefoot; it was better to have borrowed shoes though they were girl's shoes. Our first visit unattended came when Mother let George and me go by trail over the hill west and south to the John E. Pace home on Second West. Here was a large family of children in what seemed to me a very large house. One mother had died, and the other had taken in all of the children along with her own. As we came near the fence, we hesitated, for we were strange, and several boys on the other side were eyeing us closely. George, always quick to rise to any occasion, took me by the hand and said, "Come and see!" As they drew near, he held up my left hand with the third joint of the little finger cut off. They were all held by this strange sight--a short little finger without a nail. Then George told them the story of how, before I was even two years old, I had dragged a chair up to the table, which during the summer had been kept in front of the fireplace. I climbed from the chair to the top of the table. By stretching hard, I could reach to the top of the mantel piece, where I could barely touch Uncle Henry's razor. It was in a case, which I opened. Then taking the razor out, I opened it, looking at the sharp blade like the one I had seen Father scrape over his cheeks. Father always wore a mustache, and in telling the story later we were always careful to say that it was Uncle Henry's razor. This fact relieved our father of any guilt of carelessness. But George warmed to his story: "He was just going to try to shave himself, when he heard someone coming, so he hurried to close the razor and put it back into its place. But that sharp blade shut exactly in the top joint of that little finger and WOOPS! it fell to the floor, and blood spurted all over the place." Later the story became embellished to add that the severed little joint bounced and wiggled on the floor, like the end of a snake's tail that has been cut off. The real story was better. After the doctor arrived post haste to dress the wound, he wanted the missing end to bind back on, in the hope that it might grow into place. It was not to be found! They looked everywhere, and after the wound was dressed and the doctor left, Mother found it clutched in her own palm, held securely by her middle finger. Told by George on this warm afternoon, the story held the listeners captivated, and I felt a sudden sense of importance, of being different. This stubby little finger was something no one else had, and often in my early years I would show it as a sort of conversation piece. It was my one claim to fame. Actually, it meant nothing. I was just the fifth one of a family of twelve, taking my place and my little responsibilities as I grew up and sharing my experiences with those older and younger than I. Always there was a kind, understanding Mother to turn to, and a firm, just Father to follow about and work with as I grew up. Some of our happiest evenings were during the winter when Father would have a big sheet of paper on the table--heavy paper like butcher paper--and would be trying out designs of lettering or decoration for headstones. We would all coax him to draw us a "story." It became a game. He would put down a little mark here and a few others in another place and still others in different parts, and we would try to guess what he was going to make. "A tree," "a horse," "a dog" we would call out. Then with two or three heavy strokes, the picture would be finished. He worked with charcoal for many of these, so they were large and plain. The story of Farmer Brown and his pig was done so often that any of us could do it. It began with Farmer Brown, who lived in a little three-cornered house with a window and a door. He searched up hill and down dale for that lost pig, thinking he saw it here, but it was something else, thinking it was there, returning home discouraged, looking out of the window, and going directly to the place, where "he cracked his whip, and started it home," and the tail went on with a curl and a flourish. That would end the entertainment, and we must all go to bed so that Pa could go on with his serious work. Often Mother would read to us from our Bible Stories book the stories of David and Goliath, the Three Hebrew Children, and others, or she would drill us in little verses. In summer we would play on the grass in the front yard, or play running and hiding games. On Saturday evenings, after he had taken his bath and had supper, Father often got out his fiddle, moved the low, rawhide-bottomed chair out under the trees--we had mulberry trees now, besides the locust, and a plum tree--and played his fiddle. He played only by ear and he played the old country tunes, but it was real music to us. Now we did not play noisy games, but lay on the grass to hear the music. We all knew the story of how as a boy, he had traded his pony for that violin, when it didn't have a single string on it, so we sensed how precious it was. I think no music has ever sounded better to me than some of those "concerts" on a summer evening under a high moon, especially at the nesting time of our little bird, when the father bird sang along, too. We always claimed these birds as our special ones, and they came back year after year. Even to this day Ed and I will note their return. "I see that my bird is back," Ed said to me this spring. "What do you mean, your bird," I answered. "That has been my bird for as long as I can remember." We make a joke of it, but we both know how many memories that night-singing bird brings back. We learned early that while we could not go down town except on an errand from which we had to hurry right back, the youngsters of town came to us. That is, the boys in their teens came. Too young to be on regular jobs, they often wandered in the hills to the north. The Sugar Loaf was a favorite place, and right on the trail was the Brooks pond, formed from the spring on our lot. Often their trip ended right there. The pond was emptied twice a day, morning and evening, to water the garden. By mid-afternoon it would be deep enough to swim in, and by sundown it would be a real challenge. During the hot months it was a favorite gathering place. Father saw to it that we learned to swim soon after we could walk, for that open pond was a real hazard. Some told the story that he threw each child in on its second birthday, and forced him to swim or drown. That, of course, was not true, but we could all swim well when we were quite young. Only a few months ago (October 1968) I went to visit my old friend, Athele Milne, at Washington. When I introduced my wife to him, he said, "You see, Mrs. Brooks, I've known Billy Brooks all his life. He's the kid that damn-near drowned me the first time I went to the Brooks Pond to swim. I was older'n him and bigger, but I hadn't been where I could learn to swim, and as I walked out into the pond, he jumped at me from the bank and rode me under. I had a bad time gittin' out-a there alive." I didn't remember the incident, myself, but it was likely true, for we enjoyed introducing new kids to our pond. I do remember how, when I went to be baptized at the Temple, Mother got me all ready in the regular outfit and sent me out. I climbed the high steps up to the edge of the font, and when I looked into that big clear pool, I just dove right in and started swimming about. Poor Brother Granger he stood beside the steps with his hand out ready to help me down, and coax me in, as he had to do with so many of the little eight-year-olds. He thought I had fallen in, and was catching about frantically trying to save me! I did stop and he baptized me properly, but not before I had made a round or two in the font. What I started to say was that our pond was a drawing card that brought lots of boys up the hill. Many little girl groups came, too, but not to swim. They would bring lunches and start on a hike up the hill. Some would go on up to the Sugar Loaf, but to others, by the time they reached our place the shade and grass looked so inviting that they often ate their lunch right here. The water barrel and tin cup was another advantage over drinking from a stream. So from May through September we had many callers. No matter what age they were, we had Brooks children the same age, all ready and willing to play at any games, or to just sit and visit. Quite often the callers would help us finish our jobs--pulling so many rows of weeds from the garden or cleaning up the yards or cutting wood--do that then we could play. Dode was our chief entertainer during our early years. She loved to dress us up, put on programs, tell stories. She ordered us about and we obeyed her gladly. If it was only to make paper caps and get stick guns, we marched and sang and counted off "hay-foot-straw-foot" around the yard. But her real genius lay in story telling. I can still chill a little at her "Sister Annie, Sister Annie can you see them coming yet?" Of course there were the "Three Bears" and "Little Red Riding Hood," but there were also impromptu tales in which witches and goblins and especially "Old Shiney Eyes," held us spellbound. Stories of Dode and her doings always entertain family gatherings to this day, for as long as she lived she meant the unusual, the surprise, the joke on somebody. Although the tale of her narrow escape from being drowned has been told so often, I must include it here. She loved to visit, to go to one home or another with a girl of her age and get to playing until she would forget the time. Suddenly she would realize that it was after sundown, which was her deadline for being home. It was actually dark. She would hurry up the hill, running across the yard to fall breathless in at the front door. Again and again she had been scolded and warned and threatened. Always she promised solemnly--"cross my heart and hope to die"--that she would get home right after school. And for a while she would keep the promise, but it was usually because she had persuaded some friend to come up with her. Then came the unlucky night when she was even later than ever. Supper was over, the dishes washed, the littlest baby in bed, and the three or four others of us ready for bed. The days were so short now; dark came too early. Dode came in panting and crying a little, to meet a very stern father. "Well, Dode," he said, "Your mother and I have decided that you are not worth raising. You lie to us all the time. You say that you will come home before sundown, but you never do. And here it is past bedtime." Dode's cries raised to wails, but Pa was unmoved. "We've talked it over and decided that it would be better to drown you now than to raise you up to be a person that no one can believe or depend on. Don't bother about getting yourself any supper. You won't need any tonight. We'll go right up to the pond now and get it over." Now the whole family of children burst into tears. Emma and May began to promise that they would help Dode and remind her and see that she did get home. But Pa was unmoved. Taking Dode firmly by the hand, he started up the path to the pond. The dismal crying procession followed behind, while Dode's cries wakened the echoes. He did not stop until we had reached the edge of the pond, when he made a quick move, picked her up and stepped back as if to toss her in. Now the shrieks of all the others joined in. Pa set her down. For the first time he seemed to listen, to pay any attention. "Well," he said at last. "If you will all help Dode, and if she will remember herself, maybe we can give her one more chance. But we just don't want to raise a girl who can't keep her promises." Instantly we all felt better; the three older girls turned and hurried back, Dode way ahead of the others, lest Pa should change his mind. George and I followed, while Pa picked up Zillie and carried her back. All the time this was going on, Mother had not said a word or stopped her knitting. It was so good to run back from the threatened disaster to the warm room, the fireplace, and Ma there busy and cheerful. It was always like this. Pa had different ways of managing and disciplining the children, but she never interfered once. At another time he used a novel method of learning who was guilty of cutting down a young almond tree. This tree was the one he had purchased especially because it was a softshell and valuable. He had taken great care in planting it and putting a protective stake beside it, and here it was, whacked off clean. Naturally he was angry. He called the whole crowd around him, and asked each in turn if he had cut down that almond tree, or if he knew who had. George and Sam and I were all there, and five or six neighbor youngsters. No one would admit he had done the deed; no one would say that he had seen someone else do it. Yet it had been done within the last few hours for Pa himself had put a bucket of water around it just at noon. Father walked away to something else for a few minutes and then came back by the tree and called us all together again. Now he had a round rock about the size of a hen's egg. "Look here, all of you. Come here and line up against the wall. Do you see this rock that I have in my hand? It is a magic stone. I call it my 'true stone,' because it will not hit anyone who tells the truth, but it goes straight to the one who is telling a lie. Now you all stand right still. Don't move, and you'll not be hurt. But the one that cut that tree down had better look out! He'll get it! He'll get it sure!" He stepped back twelve to fifteen feet and began winding up his arm, still cautioning us all not to move. As he raised his arm to fling, one little fellow dashed out and ran for home as fast as he could go, bawling at the top of his voice. Now we all knew who had cut the tree down. We all loved our father, but we knew enough to obey him promptly. We each had our chores, and while we might bargain with each other as to whose turn it was to fill the barrel or cut the kindling or carry in the wood, these tasks must be done, and done on time. I don't think he ever whipped one of us further than a cuff that would send us reeling, or a swift kick, or a cut with a willow. But we never dared him or defied him or talked back to him. We did as we were told at once, and then later made explanations or protests, for we knew that he would be fair with us. My first trips down town were with the older girls and George to go to Primary on Saturday afternoon. Primary was really just a preparation for Sunday, for it meant that we would all be run through the big wooden tub in the middle of the kitchen floor. Mother would oversee the scrubbing; from the shampoo of our hair down to the toenails, we were scoured and dug out and trimmed up. Then with clean underwear, we put on our best every-day outfit to go to Primary. It was only for children under twelve, but it was good training. These Saturday afternoon excursions were wonderful for us. We went leisurely, and explored as we went along. At the bottom of the hill we cut across Diagonal Street to Johnson's corner where the printing shop was, past Croft's Trunk Manufacturing Company, then Morris's Store, to the Riding Tin Shop on the corner. It occupied the site of the Big Hand Cafe today, and was a most interesting place to get into, for tin pans and tin cups of different sizes, wash dishes, candle molds, colanders--there seemed no end to the things Brother Riding made from tin, and he didn't mind if you came in and looked around. The center of most of the business in St. George was the Wooley, Lund & Judd store, which had been built for the first Social Hall in the valley. Across the street to the east was the Big House, three full stories high and awe-inspiring it was so grand. There were always horses tied to hitching posts, or an occasional wagon stopped by the sidewalk. We often peeked into the St. George Co-op because its double-doors were flush on the sidewalk and the screens a little ajar. The Tithing Office was always a busy place, but no children ever got into there unattended, and from there on down to the corner and all across the bottom of that block was a high stone wall. It looked terribly high to us, though it was only six feet. We knew that it enclosed the Tithing Office yard, the storage for grain, and hay, and all the other things people brought in. Across the street was the Tabernacle safe inside its white picket fence that went all the way around the block with trees on the outside edge of the sidewalk all the way around the block too, like a double edge of decoration around the building. I liked to rub my hands across the stone as we hurried around to go in at the back door, for Primary was held in the basement. This is the house Pa built, I always thought, though perhaps a few others helped. So it was week after week during these early years. From my home to the Tabernacle and back became a regular pattern every Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. I was only six years old when Sam was born, and was with the other children down to Aunt Pal's house, when word came that we had a new little brother. I have heard the story many times of how at his birth Sam was Mother's largest child, weighing 13 pounds and 8 ounces. Sister Church, the midwife, had a hard time managing the delivery. Though Sister Church was still busy with her, Mother could see at once that the child wasn't breathing. "Look, George! The baby! He isn't breathing! Get the doctor, quick! Do something, somebody! The baby needs help!" Pa ran from the corral to get old Bonnet and ride for the doctor, when by the grace of the Lord, there was old Dr. Higgins coming down the road in his little buggy. Pa ran out, stopped his horse, and told him to hurry to the baby. He would take care of the horse himself. Dr. Higgins immediately started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and soon literally breathed the breath of life into Sam's limp, quiet body. From that instant Sam seemed to thrive. A large baby at birth, he had a prodigious appetite; all food agreed with him. He loved the world and everything and everyone in it. With five sisters and two brothers to pay attention to him, he had a happy babyhood. He fairly glowed with good health and good spirits. He seemed the eternal optimist. But he was clumsy; he would fall down. When he was just cleaned up and started down the hill, Mother always admonished us to, "Keep hold of Sam's hand. Don't let him fall down and get all dirty." Rare was the time when Sammy reached his destination unsmirched on the front. Dode took over Sam as her special charge. One day she persuaded Ma to let her take him to school. There was to be a program after recess, and school out at noon, so she could manage fine. Ma consented reluctantly, but Dode insisted, so they dressed him up in kilts with braid trimming, and Dode set out with him, his gold-blond hair smooth as silk, his fair pink skin shining. Sam always wore a smile, for he looked out upon the world with the highest expectations. Dode took him down in the little wagon; she knew that his chubby little legs could not negotiate that hill, either down or back. He was not yet two years old. When they reached the schoolhouse, Dode lifted him out and brushed him off. She was more than gratified with his reception. He was a beautiful child; everyone, even the teacher, said he was a beautiful child. So for a while things were rosy. Dode was having such a good time that she neglected to notice certain signs in Sammy's behavior which would have prevented the disaster. She was brought back to reality with a start when a big boy at the back of the room stood up and called out in a loud voice, "P-H-I-E-WOO! Let me outta here!" And out he charged, followed by another boy, and another. Sammy, innocent of offense, stood in the midst of the evidence and smiled. Poor Dode! There is no way to measure her humiliation. We shall not go into detail, but the teacher dismissed the group for a short, early recess, and one way and another Dode managed to get the baby into a condition where she could put him into the wagon and take him home. The teacher was kind, though not very helpful. She did give Dode access to the janitor's bucket and some cleaning rags for the floor. For a while after that Dode did not offer to take Sammy along when she went anywhere, but she soon forgot. Later when he was so trainable in acting the part of the bear in a little stunt she put on again and again, she became all the more attached to him. About this time there came to St. George a man who called himself Professor Manseneeta. He had a small display of various animals, but his prize actor was a dancing bear. He would have it do a few little tricks, and then pass the plate for contributions. Dode, always a mimic, put on his identical act with Sam as the bear. She dressed in some of George's things--shirt, pants, coat and shoes. Then she stuffed her hair up under a little hard-boiled derby hat, pasted on a small mustache, got her long, sharp stick, and assumed the same poise and tone of voice. Little rolly-polly Sam was willing to try anything; he enjoyed this business as much as she did. With a coverall suit, stockings on his hands, and his hood arrangement boasting some pinned-on ears, he made a good little imitation bear. At least he was always a pleasant one. "Professor Manseneeta" would give his initial announcement in a loud voice, and then proceed to show off his world-famous bear. She would begin with him on all fours and then order him onto his hind legs, with some poking and prodding. "Roll over like a drunken man," she would call out, at which he would fall down and roll onto his back with all four feet in the air. "Stand up tall. Smile at the folks," and Sam would do the perfect grin. "Now dance in a ring, jig-a-te-jig," and he did a good imitation of a bear's shuffling, after which he passed the plate in all seriousness and expected something to be put into it, if only a button or marble or bit of rock. A family joke was the story of his being sent to herd the cows, and not to bring them in until the sun was in the Devil's saddle on the black hill. He got very weary. "I cried three times, but the sun didn't move," he reported. At home one cry usually got him what he wanted. I remember well the time of the polygamy raids, when the two federal officers, Jim McGeary and Johnny Armstrong, came to town. They always traveled in the same little one-seated, black-topped buggy and put up at the Big House at the bottom of the hill. We didn't have to worry about them because Pa had only one wife, but we knew that some of the families were pretty concerned. Everyone in town recognized the outfit and the officers in it, and all were curious to know which men they caught--if they got any. It was like a grown-up game of hide-and-seek, and all of us were interested in the ones who had to hide. Most of them were our church leaders. I knew that some of the families on Swiss Block down near where I herded the cows on the Rodd Lots were plural wives of men who lived in Santa Clara. They would be far enough away so that the officers would not know who they belonged to. The plural families in St. George had their own special hideout places for the father, places that even their own children did not always know. One thing was certain. Every polygamist in St. George was warned before the officers got here. They had to stop at Silver Reef to rest and feed their team. That would take several hours, and the trip from there down would take four or five hours longer. Well, as soon as they drove into Silver Reef, the boy at the telegraph station would wire to the one in the St. George Tithing Office to "send me up two chairs." That was the code to say that there were two officers on their way, or if there would be another man along on horseback, as there often was, the order would be for three chairs. Word would be sent out at once to every family where the father had more than one wife so that he could plan his get-away. I remember one time when I was playing with Stephen Whitehead down in front of the Co-op Store. The officers drove up and got out. As they passed us, McGeary stopped and took hold of Stephen's arm and asked, sharp like, "What is your name?" "Stevie Wells," he answered promptly and clearly. Stevie had been trained what to tell strangers. His mother was a Wells, and he was to use her name. I remember, too, a song that the youngsters would sing about the officers. It was a long one, with a verse for several of the local men. D. D. McArthur was our stake president, and his verse went like this: "McGeary searched McArthur's house Goodbye, my lover, goodbye And all he could find was the tail of a mouse Goodbye, my lover, goodbye. Bye-lo, my baby. Bye-lo, my baby. Bye-lo, my baby. Goodbye, my lover, goodbye." Many stories were told of how the officers had been outwitted. One man rolled up in his bedding under the springseat, and had his boys drive the wagon right through town and down to the field. Dudley Leavitt was at the Washington factory when the black-topped buggy drove up, and the officers got out. One of the clerks said to him, "There they are! McGeary and Armstrong! Run, Brother Leavitt! Quick! Hide!" But it was too late to run, and there was no place to hide. Dudley just jerked off the cap of one of the employees and put it on, took his oil can, and proceeded to oil the machinery, climbing up a ladder to get at the intricate parts. The officers were not hunting for him especially, but for whoever was there that belonged to the wagon stopped outside. They looked everywhere in the cotton bins, behind the stacked sacks, around the house, but did not suspect the busy employee who was oiling the machinery. We heard the story of Brother John S. Stucki at Santa Clara. He had not gone into hiding at all, for it was harvest time, his fruit was ripe, and he must save his crop. The officers drove up to his place in the late forenoon, as he was coming in with a bucket of grapes. He went up to the buggy, greeted them, and of-feted them a bunch of grapes. Then he invited them to the orchard and told them to help themselves to the peaches that were ripe, giving them some to take along with them. "I think the girls have dinner ready," he said at last. "Would you like to join us?" The officers were glad to accept. Both wives were there, the youngest with a small boy. They served a good nourishing meal. The visitors talked about the weather and crops, but did not mention their real business. At the end, they thanked them all, Brother Stucki and his family, and went away without any mention of arrest. Nor did they ever trouble Brother Stucki again. They did arrest and take Doctor Higgins soon after Sam was born, and took him to court at Beaver, where he was sentenced to two years in the state prison. I remember well when the doctor came home in the fall of 1888. All the town went out to meet him, for he was one man that everybody loved and trusted. Pa took us in the wagon--the older girls went with friends, I think--and we drove out to the east end of town where the band was and the choir and all the town officers. They had their wagons arranged, and waited until some horsemen, carrying flags, came with Brother Higgins' outfit. The band played before and played again after; the choir sang a number or two, the leaders made short speeches, and Dr. Higgins responded. Then he went through the crowd shaking hands with everybody. The next Sunday Dr. Higgins made a report in the Tabernacle, and the Brooks family down to and including me, was present. I think Dode stayed home to tend the younger ones, for there were four, and Edith, the baby, was just three months old. I don't know how many men from our town served time in the "pen" for polygamy. The other one that I remember going out to greet was Brother Hardy, the man with the carpenter shop and turning mill at the east end of town. He made our toys, too, and had worked with Pa on the Tabernacle and Temple. This time was about like the welcome home for Doctor Higgins, only that this time I was horseback. That meant that I was more free to do as I pleased. Brother Hardy waved at us and called out our names, and I was surprised that he should remember us. He himself looked so different with his beard shaved off, that I don't think I would have known him if I met him alone on the street. Since I have grown older and my wife has done some research on this subject, I have become interested in the hiding places of these brethren, and in their code for keeping in touch with each other and warning each other. I think an interesting study could be done on this subject. ________________________________________ *Juanita Brooks (1898-), a well-known historical scholar and writer of remarkable charm, is the mother of a large family and is a pioneer of sorts. She is the author of Mountain Meadows Massacre and biographies of Dudley Leavitt and John D. Lee. She also edited the diaries of Lee and the journal of Hosea Stout. A frequent contributor to local and national journals, she has published most recently Uncle Will Tells His Story (1970), a biography of her husband, from which the above has been excerpted.