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Show The Ogden Valley news Volume XVI Issue III Page 9 January 15, 2009 Century Echoes – Part IV By Miriam Renstrom Whiteside Note: This is the fourth in a series of articles by the same author that will appear in following issues of “The OGDEN VALLEY NEWS.” The history was submitted by Jane Renstrom, wife of the late Darrell Renstrom who is the son of Arnold Renstrom and grandson of Andrew P. Renstrom. Also note, the following information has been condensed from the original transcript of “Century Echoes,” a history that combines world, U.S., Utah, LDS, and Ogden Valley history. Because of a severe winter, Arnold was baptized on January 18 at home in a summer kitchen at the back of our house. There my father had installed a big tub to be used by those who just couldn’t get in a small round one. It was filled with water, pumped, carried over to the kitchen, heated on the stove there, then carried to the tub that had an outlet through the floor to outside. I believe it was the only one in the Valley. I remember that day well because Arnold’s toe sprang up out of the water and the baptism had to be repeated. Since my birthday is in October, I didn’t start school until I was almost seven and then was enrolled in the beginners’ group where mostly we entertained ourselves. The Rock House was divided in the middle with a curtain; on one side on the back row was Carol’s desk. Often we pulled the curtain aside and whispered together. We also shared an eraser. Grandmother Erickson had been living with us for several years. She gave my father money to buy Perry Farm and was reimbursed this way. She lived in one front room with a corner closed in for a small kitchen. Arnold and I would go in while she was eating and beg for some of her food. I can’t tell you how that delicious gruel was made. One day Arnold led me down a wicked path of sin; we went into Grandma’s and I, pulling up my dress, he his pants down, turned up our well covered bottom ends on her. Her indignation sent us fleeing back to our side; relentlessly she followed. Arnold crawled under a small table by the east window holding potted plants, with me squeezing in last, so when Mama came after us, Grandma watching yet, I got the most whacks and loudly let my mother know how unjust the punishment was to almost innocent me. That was the only whipping I ever got from my mother. On my birthday, Grandma’s present consisted of ribbon grass and geraniums with some money—a big silver dollar. Grandma fell down some steps and broke her hip at age 82. That was an added burden on my mother. A commode was in her room that my father emptied. He was always good and kind to his mother. One day, I was late for school, a terrible disgrace. First I loitered crossing the square. I met Hazel who was used to being late. She coaxed me to go in with her but that I couldn’t do. Since it was only a short time after nine and I couldn’t go to school, and certainly couldn’t go home, I furtively passed the school house across the street and went down to Aunt Emmie’s. Sylvia was younger than I and at home, and although Aunt Emmie was suspicious of my early visit, she couldn’t check on me since there were no telephones in town, and I played happily on. When it seemed close to noon, I left for school again only to find the doors closed so crossed the street to where the town ditch ran; a source of pleasure and disaster to the town children. It started in the southeast corner of the town and zigzagged all the way through, ending by the river below the cemetery hill. I played around daring myself to jump the wide, deep ditch; finally tried and fell in. My last recollection of that truant morning was running away and hiding in our alley. In 1902 at April Conference, my father and mother journeyed down the canyon by buggy and team, left them there at a livery stable, and took the train to Salt Lake City. The day after they left, Aunt Tillie came up to Huntsville to visit the schools scattered around town due to the burning of the schoolhouse. She wanted to take me back to Ogden with her. So Moiselle and Carol held a conference to decide yes or no while I played around and waited. This conference was necessary due to a peculiar condition I had picked up at school—pediculosis, or, in other words, head lice! This decadent affliction was prevalent in the poor or slovenly homes and when carried into better families, was as a disgrace. Aunt Tillie didn’t know or she would have fled in terror. I was supposed to be cured, so with no valid excuse to offer, they let me go away with her. She lived in an apartment house where a seamstress was located who would sew a spring coat for me. Dear Aunt Tillie was always generous. The coat would be made from alpaca that she had purchased. I stayed there during the daytime for fittings, then was put on a street car and sent to Aunt Emmie’s place in Five Points to spend the evenings and nights. They had recently moved from Huntsville to Ogden. Sylvia and I had a good time together, they not knowing of my trouble. At week’s end, we left, Aunt Tillie and I, for Salt Lake City with my new coat and a wonderful ride on the train to meet my mother there. By that time, I was suffering terribly with homesickness, wishing away the hours and for a reunion with my mother whom I thought I would never see again. There were telephones in Salt Lake, and as soon as we reached there, Aunt Tillie called Dahlquists where my parents were staying. They weren’t there, and wouldn’t return until late that night. Poor Aunt Tillie had to get a hotel room—the Wilson, which is now torn down for Penny’s Store) but bravely proceeded to entertain me with a restaurant dinner and a show in the Salt Lake Theater (also torn down for the Telephone build- The Ogden Valley News is looking for Ogden Valley and Ogden Canyon historical biographies, stories, and photos to use in its publication. Please mail, email, or call Shanna at 745-2688 or Jeannie at 745-2879 if you have material you would like to share. Celeste C. Canning PLLC Attorney at Law 2590 Washington Boulevard, Suite 200 Ogden, Utah 84401 Local: (801) 791-1092 Office: (801) 612-9299 Email: ccanninglaw@aol.com Meeting the Legal Needs of Small Business and Their Owners FREE Initial Thirty Minute Consultation. Appointments in Ogden Valley upon request. ing). That was my first visit to the lovely, famous theatre and I saw my first picture show that night in 1902. The first part was a slight of hand performer and I remember one act the magician threw a handkerchief on the floor. It turned into a chicken and ran off stage. Second part was a mind reader who answered questions, unspoken, from the audience. Third part was the enchanting, unbelievable picture show, fragmentary and haunting, which I remember even yet. The title must have been “Uncle Sam” for it was he walking jauntily along, swinging a cane, then two women whom he passed turned and followed him. He stepped along a little livelier, more women followed and more and more, he hurrying faster and faster around corners down one street after another, then, alarmed, running fast, the women running fast until in desperation he plunged into a lake leaving the frustrated women on the shore. The hotel was a novel experience also, and before going to bed, Aunt Tillie put my hair up in rag curlers as my mother usually did for Sundays. I, feeling fearful, while she combed my hair, was reassured when she saw nothing unusual. We slept well together, but, alas, the morning came and with it, disaster. I decline to comment on what followed. By noon we were at Dahlquists and seated around the dining room table where several women were; the men had left. All I saw was my dear mother’s face. I hurried to her and put my head on her lap, fighting back tears. She caressed me with her hands while, with horror, I listened to Aunt Tillie’s report of the past week. I didn’t know then how safe our secret was, that Aunt Tillie would have died before betraying the disgrace to that circle of women. I’m sure later she told my mother how grievously she had been betrayed, also Aunt Emmie and family. If anyone of them suffered from the exposure to lice, I never knew. Sunday morning I went to Conference with Mama and my father. The LDS tabernacle was filled full but we were promised leftover choir seats at five minutes to ten. A crowd soon gathered there and when the doors opened, it was a mad scramble up the stairs, but we made it and that was my first visit there. It was a week of firsts. That summer the new Huntsville schoolhouse was completed. So, in the fall, at the age of seven, approaching eight, I started there in the first grade. My teacher was Mary Loftgreen. She had pets definitely known to all of us, and I wasn’t one of them. It was a two-story building—four rooms per floor with a basement and no floor boards there. In the winters we played in the basement rooms, designated into grades, two in each room. The dust billowed up in clouds around us from the dirt floors; we raced around the rooms, hallway, and around the furnace— a favorite hiding place. One day while playing a game where we chased and caught each other, I grabbed Selma Wood, my best friend, and tore her mother-hubbard dress in a long straight tear. She rushed upstairs to dear teacher in tears, and a sad tale ensured I guess for when we reassembled, I was told to stand in front of the class and was shamed before that room full of kids. I stood there until noontime, then my turn came to rush home to my mother in tears. After comforting me, she marched across the square to Wangsgard’s store and bought material for a new dress and sent me down to Sister Wood with it. Sister Wood marched back to Mama with the cloth, refusing it, said Selma’s dress was old, and she knew it was an accident. Whether Sister Wood or my mother or both of them visited dear teacher, I don’t know, but from then on there was a definite improvement in our relationship. In February she put on a patriotic play, and I was given the part of George Washington; Mama dressed me in a suit of Arnold’s, powdered my hair, and I felt quite grand and important. Historical Photo Shown above is the Clark family farm home located in Liberty, Utah. Photo courtesy of Rod Clark of Liberty. |