Bart and Rindy Harrison Part 1
Written by Eveard T. Harrison
Mom and Dad, otherwise known as "Rindy" (Morinda Martina Larsen) and "Bart" (Bartholomew Harrison) to their many friends in Bear Lake Valley, settled down to wedded bliss at Georgetown, Bear Lake County, Idaho. Their first home was a two story log house which Grandfather Larsen had left to her. I was born in this fine old home which still stands mid the poplar trees now approaching three feet in diameter.
We are blessed with noble parentage. Our grandparents embraced the Gospel in the old country. The spirit of gathering prevailed and they immigrated to Zion in the early sixties. They crossed the plains in the front rank of the westward movement and helped lay the foundation for our western homeland. For generations my father’s family were skilled artisans, machinists, weavers, et cetera – the same that produced the wealth of England. Mother’s heritage stems from a long line of Denmark to endure when larger ones have vanished. Father and Mother were the first generation born in this goodly land.
My earliest memories are of the big old log house, the Smith ranch down by the river, ferocious Bear lake blizzards, trips to Montpelier by team and buggy or bob-sled, the old-fashioned silver sacrament service at the little white church, and many happy times with friends and relatives from Bear Lake on the south of Soda Springs on the north. It was one wintry day when a blizzard had just played out that Uncle Nels’ store burned down. One summer evening, out on the Smith ranch, I contended with a suckling foal for the right-of-way between the barn and the creek. I came out with a kick in the face that left a sizeable scar.
Stanford and Blanche were born in the old ranch house down near the river. Stanford was a tow-headed, wiry little fellow who became the family prankster, and many was the time when I reaped the blame for his mischief. This started at the early age of three when he fell into a muddy irrigation ditch and I got the blame for pushing him in, even though I was 101 yards away. This happened at high noon and a hungry threshing crew starved it out while Mom rinsed mud out of the white hair.
Blanche was a shy little blonde who later turned brunette. Very early in life she developed a "solid right" which was frequently used, both in defense and retaliation, against prankster brothers. She can still use it very effectively either to motivate or immobilize.
When I was about five years old, Dad lost his lease on the Smith ranch and was forced to look for other land to support his wife and three children. It was a sad day when the old home had been sold; and all our furniture, implements, and cattle were loaded into a big box car at Wooley Spur, on the Oregon Short Line Railroad. A hired man went with the car to care for the cattle and Dad trailed our horses. A few days later Mother and we children followed on the "Ping Pong," a local passenger train that would stop wherever there was an extra pair of rails. Dad met the train at Way, another spur on the same line, and took us to our new home three miles north of Way and seven miles east of Bancroft in Bannock County, Idaho. We learned to love our new home, but to me it never possessed the glamour and colour of Georgetown.
My schooling started in Common School District No. 33 in Bannock County, Idaho. The little one-roomed school house was three miles from home. Mother took me to school in the little black-top buggy. Nona James was my first teacher and how she did so well with all eight grades I will never know. That winter on a cold January day, while the wind piled the snow in huge drifts, my sister Edris was born. A black-haired squalling mite of humanity, I have always wondered that she grew up tall, blonde, and good-natured. By the light of a smoking coal-oil lamp in the little school house, Elder Orson F. Whitney, of the Council of the Twelve, organized the Ivins Ward. Elder Albert Banks was sustained as Bishop with Dad as one councilor and Enoch Cornia as the other.
Late in my second year of school, District 33 moved into its new two-roomed brick house. Every one was proud of the new structure and I thought I owned it because Dad was on the school board. This year and the next I rode our old white horse, "Charley," to school. He was the survivor of the team, "Buck and Charley," that provided the transportation when Dad courted Mother. Through mud, rain or snow to his belly he carried his young master faithfully. It’s too bad he didn’t live to get a diploma along with his master.
Stanford started school the second year we were in the new building, and we both rode Old Charley. When Blanche started a few years later a school wagon was hired to take all the children in the neighborhood.
The activities on a diversified farm such as our offered almost unlimited opportunity to develop one’s talents. My earliest delight was the sand pile out by the windmill where Stanford and I developed many model farms. Mother soon directed this love for the good old earth toward the family garden, and dirt and weeds took on a new meaning. Machinery is ever a challenge to the farm boy. I spent my apprentice-ship losing most of Dad’s small tools and building tractors and wagons out of the press-wheels from the grain drill. Stanford and I found that work could mean something more than aches and pains when Dad gave us a little red wagon for weeding ten acres of sugar beets. All the kids in the neighborhood turned green with envy. Cows were always a part of our farm business. Each summer evening at five o’clock I had to go out on the school section to bring them home for milking. The pony brought the cows home and I went along for the ride. It is surprising how far old bossy can walk in a day. It was often dark when I got them home. At first I was ill-at-ease when they coyotes would start their evening serenade, but after a time I learned they were both harmless and entertaining. The coyote pups the sheepherders found were as playful as the family kitten but once the puppy notions are outgrown, they loose their gentle manners.
Each spring large bands of sheep passed our place on their way to the summer range out on the Blackfoot River. One outfit, Brown Brothers from Grantsville, Utah, stayed in the valley each spring until lambing and shearing were completed. The herders would give Stanford and me the orphan lambs. We were successful in bottle feeding with cow’s milk enough of these to start a small flock of our own. Although never more than a hundred, it made a welcome contribution to the family finances.
Church activities were always important in our lines. Father was called to the High Council of the newly organized Idaho Stake. On the third Sunday of each month he had to visit one of the neighboring wards. Some of these were long, hard trips, especially in winter when the snow was deep. I attended Primary and Religion Class. My first part on a program was in a Primary conference. The youngest members were to sing, "Speak Kindly to Mr, Dear Mother." Sister Nellie Banks, the Primary President, did the singing and we (the Class) did the shaking and trembling. Mother was principal of Religion Class and was beyond a doubt the best the ward ever had. When Bishop Banks moved from the ward, Dad was called to be Bishop in his place. From then on, if I wandered near the edge of the straight and narrow path, I was promptly reminded by the nearest person, that I was the Bishop’s son. The end was not yet, for Mother was chosen President of the Ward Relief Society.
