Wesley W. Craig - Childhoods in Valley County, Idaho 1904-1941: Five Accounts

My Father made several trips to Boise and then farther into the northern part of the state, where he wished to have our ranch, settling all the business of signing papers and making everything legal. He returned with greater enthusiasm than before and with stories of the wonderful valleys and mountains that I insisted upon hearing over and over. At the very beginning of our plans

Fathers plans worked out. He made the final trip into the valley where he had staked his claim, going on before us to prepare for our coming. It was not long, I think, until Mother and I followed, I in a perfect ecstasy of anticipation to see all the wonders that Father had described. At the end of our train journey, Father met us at a town called Council, with a wagon and team of horses-our very own horses, called Bill and Dan. I felt richer by the moment and loved those horses on sight! That must have been a long and arduous trip, from Council into the Valley, but for me it was sheer joy, every turn of the wagon-wheel. We stayed overnight at the Meadows, a place that could not possibly have been called a town or even a village, as there were not more than two or three houses at that time, and I think no store at all.

As we went deeper into the mountains, rising steeper on all sides, I was awed by the silence and beauty, the dark pines standing like guards up the mountain-side, and I could only drink in this amazing loveliness and believe, as Father had told me, that we had indeed come into Gods country. How he loved it! We all did; we had at last come home.

I do not now remember how long we were on the way, but I do clearly recall Fathers saying we are getting near, almost there now. I could scarcely contain my impatience. When at last, entering into a broad, open meadow-land, along which the road ran upon a higher plateau on the right hand side, Father said here we are, and we drove into a cleared space surrounded by a grove of aspen trees. This was not our home, but where we were to stay while our house was being built. A crystal-clear spring was nearby, from which came all our water, carried for cooking, drinking, and bathing (in the old-time galvanized tub) before the open fireplace. This was something quite new for me, and a lot of fun. Our food was plentiful and good and spiced by that best of all seasoning, hearty appetites. The men added to our menu with freshly-caught fish and an occasional wild fowl. Never since has any food tasted so heavenly. The wonders and treasures of this new land were inexhaustible, and every moment was filled with delight-the rushing brooks, the river, the meadows from which would come food for our cattle. But above all, secret and solemn and awe-inspiring, were the mountains-as though I had stepped across the threshold of Gods temple. Every day I could explore, and each time find new wonders. None of this could be compared to my childish experiences of visits to my grandparents farms in Ohio, where everything was known and understood and the only surprises consisted of nests of new kittens in the hay-loft.

Life in the Valley was a deep spiritual awakening, a lesson I had not learned before, because I was a child. Now, over-night, I ceased to be a child and became me, myself, with everything to learn.

Another miracle was taking place in the building of our home. Though there were no other houses in sight, and no near neighbors, yet men came from ranches up and down the Valley to help my father. They went into the deep forests, up the mountainside, felling trees of the proper size, trimming off branches, removing bark and sawing the logs into specified lengths. I will never know which architect designed our house, but everything turned out exactly right, every log the proper length, each door and window just where it was meant to be.

Through all the time of building, at the days end we would sit out under the night-sky, with its spangle of huge stars, (they were larger than any Ive seen since) around a small fire called a smudge-pot, I believe its purpose mainly to discourage the too insistent mosquitoes-and lift our voices in song. Mother had a beautiful alto voice and she and father had always sung together in the evenings. Now I added my voice to theirs and we really made the mountains ring-a song of praise from grateful hearts. Juanita, Sweet Nelly Grey, Ill Take You Home Again, Kathleen, Listen to the Mocking Bird, and many more songs of another era that are seldom heard today. Sometimes the men from the nearer ranches would return in the evenings, bringing a wife or son or daughter, to join in the singing, or perhaps just to listen, until their weariness from the days labors drove them home to a nights rest. That communion at the end of a weary day, that participation in pleasure as well as in the days toil, brought us all closer together. For Father, it was thankfulness for a dream come true-for these others it was satisfaction and a greater security in having a new neighbor, for human contact in a land where this was scarce.

In this primitive country, then, it was pretty much every man for himself in facing the great problems of mere existence, and they accepted joyfully the arrival of another pioneer, with whom to share both work and companionship. So they gave of their physical strength, their moral courage, reached out strong hands and hearts in human brotherhood.

Life took on a deeper meaning, a calmer satisfaction, now we were in our own home, and the daily routine of chores, the feeding of cattle, horses, and chickens became a ritual that tied our heartstrings tightly to this great primitive land, so fresh and clean and free from all man-made sordidness of the outside world. So firmly were my heart-strings tied, that all these long years of my life-time, from then until now, have never served to loosen them. Never have I lost the vision. It is still, in memory, my valley

I can be forever grateful to my Valley, and in memory I can see it all today, as it was when as a child I roamed its mountains and meadows. To those who have never seen the magic of snow piled many feet deep over meadows and river and mountains, who know not the splendor of tall pines in their robes of white, sometimes so heavy that great branches break beneath the weight, no words of mine can convey the beauty, can make real the breath-taking loveliness of this greatest of Natures pictures. The snow came in early October and we were snowed in until late spring. While the snow fell, for weeks on end, we had no sight of sky-all above us was dense snow clouds, the air so filled with falling snow that it was impossible to see objects quite near-by.

Father was busier than ever, making everything safe and as snug as could be, for the inhabitants of his little world. plenty of firewood had been cut and stacked in the woodshed, huge stacks of hay and sacks of feed for the horses and cattle stored in the barn and sheds. A wind-break had been built on two sides of the corral, to shelter the cattle, since the barn was not large enough to hold them all. Weather stripping was around doors and windows of our house, and we were all snug and warm within, with more food stored for the winter than I had ever before seen at one time. Huge cases of canned goods, of vegetables and fruits, large containers of flour and of sugar; our store-room looked very like a moderate-sized grocery store, or as if we planned to feed an army. Mother, we can never eat all this I said, but by spring the supply was amazingly depleted. Even then, some light-weight supplies had been added, through the winter, on Fathers infrequent trips in to Lardo.