Willden Family History

Anne Jane Willden Johnson

The Long Journey of a Mormon Girl

Lest we forget the days when joy was measured by a strip of blue calico

by MIKE KING

Introductory Note: My father was Charles Willden of Sheffield, England; a steel refiner by trade, He was a Baptist Minister, but became a Mormon missionary while he lived in England. My Mother was Eleanor Turner of Sheffield. She was Methodist but joined the Mormon Church. They were married in England in 1831. They did not believe in polygamy so my father did not practice it. Of the marriage there were four boys and five girls. I was born in Sheffield on May 5, 1845.

In the year of 1849 my parents decided to go to America.

While on board ship, we children were bathed in big tubs and barrels of sea water, which we did not fancy. Many people were on board, and the weather was very cold. One day I was sitting on a little stool near a stove. A woman with a baby wanted the stool, so she pulled it from under me, causing me to fall against the stove and my hand was badly burned.

The United States of America

We arrived in the States in 1849 and as we were going up the river to Iowa, my little sister died and we were forced to land that we might bury her. I was about five years old, and the burial service made a deep impression on me.

We first settled in a neighborhood where there were no little children. The Scotch settlers thought I was a fine "wee lassie" and asked Mother to let me visit them for a day, which she did, but I returned with the germs of the "itch". Soon the whole family had contracted the disease. Mother was much troubled and worried, for this was a new disease to her.

I was much interested in our first cow. When churning day came, I was standing close by with my mouth open and my hands behind my back. Father saw my interest, so took one of my hands and folded up my fingers, leaving the index finger free. He put this free finger on the churn dasher, which was covered with thick rich cream, then put my finger to my mouth that I might taste it. Thus I was taught a cunning little trick for which I was severely punished later on. This little incident was of use to me when I was grown, however; for when I had babies of my own, I vowed that I would never teach them anything that they would be punished for later.

When I started to school I knew my "A, B, C's" and the teacher thought that she had a wonderfully bright pupil. She pointed out the letters to me from "A to Z", and I knew them all. Then she skipped from "Z" to "A" and I knew not a single one.

When we had gone up the Mississippi River we settled at Council Bluffs, Iowa in a Mormon colony. Here my father bought a fine farm and was quite prosperous. We lived on this farm for two years, then came the call to go to Great Salt Lake, Utah. In 1847, Brigham Young, with a band of Mormon followers had gone from Council Bluffs to Great Salt Lake. My father arranged with an agent to sell the farm, as we had to leave right away. This agent traded the place - 160 acres of the best land - for an old second hand watch.

We loaded our covered wagon with our household goods and the family, and started on the long journey. Earlier in 1851 other companies had gone to Utah. The traveling was so hard that their stock had given out, and to lighten the loads many of the household goods were thrown out and left behind. Pots, pans, tubs, heavy articles of wearing apparel and feather beds were strewn all along the roadside. Our party would have liked to have picked up many of these things, especially the feather beds. Our teams were in good condition, and we could have carried many of these things, but we did not do so for fear of disease.

The stock would stampede if they saw a dead animal by the roadside. One time some women were walking ahead of the wagons when they came upon a dead ox. They knew there would be trouble if something were not done, so they stood in the line between the dead ox, and the road, holding out their long skirts at their sides, thus making an effective screen while the long trail passed by.

An old Indian chief once came to our wagon. I saw him coming and ran to the far end of our prairie schooner. He saw that I was afraid of him, so to tease me he ran his long spear as far into the wagon as he could reach. I surely was frightened for I thought he was going to kill me.

One day all of the men who could get away from the wagon train went after a herd of buffalo. All returned from the hunt, but my father and a companion. The train could not wait for them. Sas camp had to be made farther on, so they were left behind. At nine o'clock that night they had not reached camp, and the company became uneasy about them.

A lantern was hung on a tall tree and guns were fired every few minutes. About three o'clock in the morning an answer came to the watching and anxious people. The answer was a gunshot fired by the lost ones.

A few day later my brother Charles was lost for four days. He had gone back to help another company, which had taken the wrong road; my brother, in trying to find it, was lost himself, but he kept up the search and at last found where they were camped. He led them back to the main road and to the camp of the wagon train.

One day Charles was driving the wagon, and John was driving the sheep behind the wagon. There was another company behind our outfit, and our parents got out of our wagon and said they would walk awhile and talk with the people. Mother told me to stay in the wagon and care for my little sister. After awhile John came to the wagon and called to me, "Annie, won't you come drive the sheep? I am so tired>"

I was willing to do so, and had I gotten out of the wagon on the high side all would have been well, but instead I got out on the opposite side.

The oxen, not being accustomed to this, kicked me under the wagon, a wheel struck my back and squeezed up my dinner, and my prized lead pencil was lost in the food. This pencil was a piece of common lead that I had in my mouth chewing and trying to shape into a pencil. Though I was not badly hurt, I mourned the loss of my pencil.

While being run over I kept calling frantically to my brother, "Stop that wagon!" I must of been made of India rubber not to have been seriously injured. My frantic parents came running to learn the trouble and there was great excitement in the train for a little while, but I was able to walk the next day. The great prairie was covered with thick high grass and underneath the grass was cactus. When the wagon train left the main road to camp, I was walking behind in my bare feet. The cactus thorns would get into my feet and as I would sit down to get them out, I would get them into my hands. The wagon soon got so far ahead of me that I was sure I was lost. The people behind did not know of the cactus and thought I was lingering because I had gotten into a stubborn spell. In a short time, which seemed like hours to me, my brother came for me on horseback. After my thorny condition was discovered and doctored, I was petted and comforted.

While passing through Echo Canyon we found it to be a very wonderful place. There were great rocks and high cliffs, the first we had ever seen. We children shouted, "Hurrah," and there came back to us, the answering "Hurrah." Again we called, "Who are you?" and again came the answer "Who are you?" So we called, yelled and shouted just to hear that mysterious, answering voice echoing from the rocky cliffs. The older people soon tired of our noise, and we were forced to stop. It was also feared that our commotion would stampede the cattle.

We never traveled on Sunday, for the Mormons were strict Sabbath Keepers. While traveling, the weaker members of a family rode in the wagon; the others had to walk. Mother should have ridden, but she walked over half the way. After many long, weary, interesting days we entered Utah.

When our company reached Cedar City, Iron County, Utah, the men were examined to see what type of work they were fitted for. My father was a steel refiner. A company had already built a furnace, but the refined iron was inferior because of poor quality or because of poor workmanship. The company wanted Father to build his own furnace, but he would not go to the expense till he found if their refined iron was good enough to make into good steel, so he went to farming and was considered one of the best farmers in all that country.

The first year in Utah, the people worked to build a fort. Each man had his portion to build. The fort was half-a-mile square, houses being built in the center. We built a cellar and our large family lived in it for some time. We slept, cooked, and ate in that room. The beds were piled in one corner during the day and spread out on the floor at night. This did not last very long for my father was an enterprising man. He built a house, the kitchen first, with two more rooms being added later.

While living in the cellar, an old Piute Indian came to trade. Mother had to step out a few minutes and told me to watch and see that the Indian did not try to steal anything - thought there was not much to steal. When Mother left, the Indian took hold of me. I was dreadfully frightened and thought I was to be killed then and there. I pulled away and ran, and left the Indian to steal what he would.

After the second harvest, the company built a grist mill. Everybody had to have his wheat ground before cold weather came on and froze the mill stream. Father had all his ground. He took care of the bran and shorts, which were to be fed to the stock in the Spring if the family did not need it. It was a blessed good thing that we kept it that year, because cold weather came on early and lasted late, and no one else had all their wheat ground.

Everyone was out of flour and did not have even bran to eat. Father would not let anyone have his flour, as there was only enough to carry his family through the winter; but Mother was free-hearted and tender, and she could not eat nice bread and see her neighbors, and those who were sick, suffer, so she kept giving away flour, a little at a time, praying that a thaw would come before her family would be in need. But a thaw did not come and our family was at the starvation point. First we ate the bran, then began on the shorts, but we did not have to eat them very long, for the prayed -for thaw came and the mill was kept running day and night. It was a hard old winter, and the salt-rising bread made of bran flour was the poorest food anyone could possibly eat.

Shortly after the birth of Mother's last child, she was taken very ill. We could not get anyone to help us, so I had to do the family washing when I was but eight years old. I had to wash with soft soap and it was so strong with lye that when I would dip it out with my fingers to put it on the clothes, it would eat my fingers, and they would not have time to heal before another wash day. I had raw and bleeding fingers continually. The blood would stream off my fingers while I worked. I would cry, and my poor mother, in her weakness, had to see me suffer. One brother was to have helped me with all the work, but his interests were along other lines, so I had to do it all alone. After a few weeks, Mother was quite well again.

One day I took the baby and went with some other girls to the mill, leaving some housework undone. Soon I saw Mother coming after me with a stick. I put the baby down and ran home. When she reached home, I was busily washing dishes. "Well, Madame, you just saved yourself a whipping," she said, as she saw me thus busily engaged.

I went to school very little. When I did go, I went to a large building wherein was a large dance hall, which was the schoolroom. There was a man as principal and two women teachers. Sewing was taught- and how I did want to learn to sew! I asked Mother for some quilt pieces, but she had none, so I hunted about and found some old rages, and the girls at school gave me a few pieces. I had no needle, and Mother had only one, so of course she would not let me have that. But, oh - I was so very anxious for it that I took it and went to school.

The teacher started me on my block for a quilt - then I lost my needle. Down it went through a crack in the floor! I got down on my knees, hoping to find it by peeping into the cracks. Then along came the principal an hit me over the head with a stick. So ended my first sewing lesson.
That evening Mother wished to sew but she could not find her needle. She turned to me and said, "Ann, did you take that needle?" There was no way out of it; I had taken it, so I took my punishment.

Later, Mother was able to secure needles, but she had no thread. I was so intensely interested in learning to sew that I went to the barn and got horse hairs and used them for thread. After that, horse hairs were very precious and I took good care of any I found anywhere.

I sewed enough pieces to help Mother a great deal in making a "Wild Goose Chase" quilt. My mother was very proud of my quilt work and exhibited it at every opportunity.

We lived in the old fort for three years, then, as there was no longer fear of the Indians, we moved into a house in New City, which was near the mountains.

Here I learned to spin. We made our own thread with a "toe wheel." Later I learned to run the big spinning wheel and made all the yarn for our clothes. I had learned to knit when I was eight years old, and always made my own stockings.

An old lady came to room with us in our new house, who knew all about looms and making cloth. Father wished to make a loom, so the lady stayed right by, and he worked under her direction until a fine one was built. We were now quite independent, for we could make all of our wearing apparel.

I also learned to weave, or braid, the long slender stems of the wheat straw, then sew and shape the braids into hats. I thereafter made all the headgear for the family.

The Mormons called July 24 their Independence Day, for that was the date the first company of them entered Utah. All the men of our family wished new hats for that day, so I had to make them, and there was very little time in which to do the work. I braided and braided, and sewed and sewed, and shaped and shaped, and on the twenty-third I had finished the last hat.

We all went to the celebration, but because of this continuous hard work with my hands and fingers, a felon grew on my thumb which caused me to spend a suffering holiday. Many people had to stand up during the speeches, but I found two seats. I told Mother, but she did not wish to separate herself from the family, so I called a girl friend and the two of us occupied the seats. Father saw me call the girl, but he did not see me ask my Mother to take the seat. When I got home I was scolded by my father for my neglect of my mother. He would not listen to my explanation and I was nearly broken-hearted. The pain of the felon, the sorrow of being misunderstood, and my hard work in making the hats seemed little appreciated.

When we were preparing to build our house in New City, my father made adobe bricks and I had to pile them after they were dry. This I did all the day long. At night my body would be in a very tired condition. My father really never meant to be harsh and unkind - he had just been brought up to spend life digging and digging.

One day Mother went to visit some friends and told me that when I had finished my work, I could do anything I wished. I hurried and did everything up nicely. Inasmuch as I was not used to having a half-holiday, I really did not know what to do to celebrate the occasion, so I secured some sheep skins, put them on the floor, then lay upon them and began singing. My father came into the house and found me thus celebrating and said, "If ye hae't got naught to do, I'll gie ye summit to do." As a result I went out in the garden and hoed weeds all afternoon.

There were bathing holes in the creek near the town where the girls went bathing. It was a secluded place so the girls, except myself, went in the water without suits. I gathered a number of old scraps of cloth and sewed them together into a slip. It was a coat of many colors! This slip I used for a bathing suit just once, for my father saw it and traded it (as part payment) for a buckskin, and this was the last of my bathing in the creek.

One day I went to a picnic. Mother wished me to wear my old gingham, but all the girls were to wear their prettiest clothes and I wished to do the same, so I persuaded her to let me wear my white dress. I had nothing for my head, but my winter hood which was made of colored silk thread.

A rainstorm came up while we were in the hills and we all became thoroughly wet. The colors ran in my beautiful hood, all over my face and my white dress. How funny I must have looked when I reached home, all wet and muddy and bedraggled, showing all the colors of the rainbow. The colors never came out of my dress, my hood was spoiled, and my hair was nearly ruined. It was red, white, blue, green, and orange, for a while.

I always helped with the work on the farm; I drove the ox-team and sowed the grain in the spring. Father had a threshing floor and the ripened grain was spread out on this floor. Then the horses were driven round and round over the grain, and in their tramping, threshed the grain. The straw was then raked off and the wheat gathered up and fanned with a fanning mill. There was no one to do the fanning, but father and me. I had to turn the fan from early morning until late at night. The only rest I had was in carrying half-bushel baskets of the wheat on my head to the bin at the house.

One day my father sent me down to a neighbor's on an errand and there I met a young man who was boarding in the home. I met him again at a party where we played games together, I thought that he was the nicest and handsomest man I had ever seen. He had come from Denmark when he was seventeen years of age and had worked his way over the United States to Missouri where he joined a hand-cart train and crossed the plains to Utah.

This young man came riding by one day and stopped for a visit. I said a few words to him but I was so shy and bashful that I could not stand a longer visit, so I made a rush for the sheep-fold. I remembered that I had not let out the sheep. I drove them far away, allowing them to take their time. When I returned my visitor had gone. I met him a day or so later and overcame my shyness enough to explain to him that I had gone to let the sheep out to pasture the day he had called.

He often called as the months went by. Sometimes I wondered who the man would be that I would marry, for two old men had already asked my father for me to become a second wife. One of these men has a wife and six children, but my parents did not believe in polygamy, so it would not be possible to let they daughter enter into such a marriage.

This young many and I kept company for some time and when the work in the house did not go right, Mother would say, "You are thinking too much about Neils."

Neils Christian Johnson of Denmark and I Ann Willden of England were married January 9, 1860. He was born October 3, 1832. I was not quite 15 years old when I was married, but that was not unusual, for may girls married at an early age in pioneer days.

The president of our Branch of the Mormon Church was present at the wedding, and my father performed the marriage ceremony, the same ceremony as that used in orthodox churches. My brothers tried to celebrate by firing guns, but Father soon put a stop to that.

We rented to rooms in my parents' home and went to housekeeping - with nothing, whatsoever. Mother made us a straw bed and two little pillows by taking feathers from her own feather bed. We cooked in pans borrowed from mother, and did our cooking in the fireplace. Very little money was in circulation, so men traded work for supplies.

My husband had always dressed well before we were married, but a wife and a home were an added expense and soon his clothes were looking quite worn. Mother was having some cloth woven, as was another woman in the community, so mother traded three yards of her cloth for three yards of the other woman's cloth, as she wished to make Neils a pair of trousers. She would not make the trousers of her own cloth, for she did not wish Father to know it. She feared that he would not approve of her helping young married folks too much!

As the months went on, Father thought it best that we move into a house of our own, so we bought a lot and built a cellar with one room. We constructed a fireplace and moved in. By now we had two horse and one saddle, but no wagon. If we went anywhere I rode behind my husband on the horse. The little wild horse would always whirl and twist when I started to mount, but I could manage to get on with my husband's help.

Neils worked all the time, but we could barely live on what he earned, so he and one of my brothers went to Salt Lake to find work. When they reached there they pastured their horses, and they were stolen. It had taken two weeks to ride to Salt Lake and then they spent some time hunting for their horses (which were never found), so it was four weeks before we heard from them. My other brother, who remained at home, went up with a horse, and my husband returned as there was no work at Salt Lake.

We lived in our cellar home till fall, then both went to Salt Lake. We now had two horses and a wagon. We rented a house, where my husband, brother, and I lived all winter; but there was no work to do, so the men went out and shot rabbits to sell. They also dug up sagebrush and sold it as wood to the people in the city. When spring came, there was no more sale of rabbits and sagebrush and no other work to be found, so we packed up and started back to Cedar City.

While we were away Father bought some land at Cove Creek and wrote us to come back and help him farm, but we did not get the letter and so passed right by his land not knowing he was there.

We reached Fillmore in a terrific snowstorm. We met my other brother Charles, there on his way to Salt Lake to find work. We told him there was no work there, so immediately he started back home. When he arrived at the next starting place he remembered that there was a long stretch of road where there were no settlements or houses, and he knew if the snow were deep when we reached there we would not be able to get through. He also know that we were out of provisions so he waited for us and told us where we could find some wheat that Father had buried, or "cached," at Cove Creek. But this was wheat that Father was saving for his spring planting.

My brother left us and went on home. We traveled slowly to Red Creek, nine miles from Cove Creek. It took us from early morning till late evening to make that trip of nine miles, for the snow was so deep we had to walk every step of the way. Near the journey's end, the brother who was with us, had to almost carry me I was so exhausted.

Because of the deep snow, I had to wear a pair of my husbands boots, the weight of which helped to tire me. My husband had to spend all his time driving and looking after the team.

When we went into the house at Cove Creek, we found there were no doors, nor any glass in the windows; there was, however, a good fireplace and plenty of wood. We put blankets over the openings and built a roaring fire. Soon supper was ready. The worn-out horses had to dig and paw under the snow for "bunch grass" for their food. We could not travel farther for the snow had drifted into Wildcat Canyon and blocked the road, only horsemen being able to get through.

The mail carrier came by, going south and carried news to Beaver City of our helpless condition. About midnight I was awakened by a great yelling, shouting and shooting. I was terribly frightened for I was sure it was Indians. I awakened the men. They got up to investigate and discovered that it was a number of young men from Beaver City, twenty miles away, who had come with provisions for us.

We sat up the remainder of the night and visited as we sat around the big warm fires. In the morning the young men breakfasted, then started on their journey home.

Brother John stayed with us a day longer but felt that each day he remained with us, he would eat up just that much more of our precious food, so he started out on foot for home, his heart heavy at the thought of leaving us.

After a time our provisions gave out. If we had not found the cached wheat, we might have starved. The wheat was all we had to live on. At first we ate it boiled, and then my husband decided to make a Danish mill of two flat stones. We ground the wheat and sifted it through my veil, then I made some salt-rising bread. Though it was some what gritty, we did not care as it was far better than the boiled wheat. The house was so cold that we built a cellar and made a fireplace in it.

The mail carrier returned bringing word from my father for us to remain at Cove Creek and, when the snow had melted to some extent, he and mother would come to us.

A party of people from Salt Lake on their way to Cedar City stopped one day and when they heard of our flour mill they had to see it. When they went away they left us all the provisions that they could spare. After they reached Cedar one woman went to Mother and told her how we were situated, but exaggerated the conditions so that my parents came to us sooner than we expected. Father brought doors and windows for the house, and soon they had a very comfortable home while we were snug and cozy in our cellar. And into this little cellar home came our first child, Hanna Jane Johnson, born April 24, 1861.

My brother Ellott and his family moved to Cove Creek and built a house of two rooms. Ellotts wife was ill with a severe attack of rheumatism at the time of Hanna's birth, so my Mother had her hands full, hardly being able to give either of us all the care we needed.

My small sister was permitted to see the baby a few hours after its birth. Sister came in with a rush and went out with a rush, slamming the door as she left, but not closing it. It flew open and blew live coals from the fireplace right onto the bed, and had it not been for a big buffalo robe on the bed, the covers would have caught fire. I called, but one heard me, so I got quickly out of bed, closed the door and brushed the sparks off.

The baby was born on Monday, and before the end of the week I was up, baking my own bread and doing the washing.

My parents remained at Cove Creek, while we moved to the old fort. Here we found many vacant houses. We chose a two-story one, but we used only two rooms. Neils worked at anything he could find, and I did washing for the neighbors at fifty cents a day. I received my pay in pork at 25 cents a pound and eggs at 25 cents a dozen.

While here we made in large quantities a kind of unfermented beer from barley and wheat which we traded for more barley wheat. We had no cow for milk and nothing to eat but dry bread and this beer. When I weaned the baby, I had to feed her on bread and boiled beer. I ate just the bread as I did not like the beer. While we were in this season of hard times I wore no shoes, and our clothes were old and worn, patched and repatched, darned and redarned.

Another dear baby girl, Mary Eleanor Johnson was born to us, November 30, 1862 at Cedar City. I had no help, except a woman who came in to do the washing. The baby came on Sunday and the woman came to wash on Wednesday and I was able to be up and help. During the winter the two babies had the Whooping Cough. Mother came down from Cove Creek and took Hanna back with her.

My husband was an expert in horse breaking, so he broke two horses, then we drove them to Mother's to get Hanna. One of the horses was quite wild and when we were going down a canyon, the breast strap broke and the tongue of the wagon fell; the horses became frightened and tried to run away. My husband stopped them by making them run up a hill.

I was out of the wagon as soon as my husband. I spread a blanket on the snow and put the baby on it and ran to help with the team. We soon mended the harness and quieted the horses and were on our way again, arriving at Cove Creek the next day. We found all well. Hanna, fat and rosy, did not know me after a six-week absence, and this hurt my mother-heart - oh, so much. I took her in my arms and held her a little while, the she laid her dear little head against me and would not leave me.

On our return home, we were within six miles of home, we met a man who hired my husband to break horses for him. While Neils did the work of breaking horses, I did the washing for the man's family. My work paid the board for myself and my two children. These people had drygoods to sell. I would wash a day and half for a spool of thread, equal to 70 cents. Everything else was just as expensive, but I managed to get clothes for my babies. My husband took stock - cows and horses - for his pay.

The coyotes were so numerous and hungry that they would run the colts away from their mothers down into the swamps where they could easily catch them, then kill them and feast. I went down to the swamps one morning to learn to meaning of a great commotion. I found that some nine mountain lions and coyotes had killed a colt and they were all stirring around and feasting. I hurried away to the house for safety.

A neighbor for whom I did washing said to me, "I knew that you would never finish spinning that nine pounds of yarn if you started it on Friday." She said this when she found that another little daughter had come to our home on Sunday. Maria Christina Johnson was born January 24, 1864, in Johnson Fort, Cedar City, Utah. Later I did finish spinning the yarn belying the woman's superstition.

That was the year we and a few others planned to leave Utah. We had a good wagon, three horses, and two cows, and a years supply of flour and plenty of other supplies.

My brother Charles, hearing of our plans for leaving, came to see if I was really wanted to go or if I was being forced. I told him that I very much wished to go, that I wanted to get far away from Utah.

Some of the Mormon's believed any Mormon that left Utah would lose his soul. When I was to be married, my father talked very seriously to Neils and me about not leaving Utah. He told Neils that he would never let him, or anyone, take me out of the Territory, that he would rather see me dead than to see me leave the valley. His thought was "Better to be dead than to have a lost soul.

When my father and another brother of mine heard we were planning to leave, my father had my husband arrested, pretending that he had stolen horses. There was nothing my husband could do but pay for the horses, which took nearly all of our flour and one of our cows.

We still had supplies and two cows and were still determined to go. We heard that my father and brother had taken other steps to detain us, so we had to be very careful in our planning. My husband took two horses and made a pack horse of one and rode the other. We had to travel all alone through a land of hostile Indians, taking the Overland Route which ran through Nevada. Here I was left with to follow later with Mr. Raisor's family.

Mr. Raisor sold our wagon, as he did not have horses to haul it. He sold it for a cow, but when we were ready to leave none of the cows could be found. We really could have taken a little time and found them, but I knew that Mr. Raisor was not anxious to take them, for that would require the buying of another horse, and paying a boy to go with us to ride the horse and drive them.

Mrs. Raisor had given my husband an old calico skirt, and Neils was to hang a piece of cloth at all his camping places, on some tree or bush, to act as a guide to us and also to assure us of his safety.

The wagon in which I rode was driven by a young man by the name of David Bullock, whose business it was to drive teams for people traveling across country.

We knew that as soon as my father learned that I was leaving, he would immediately follow to take me back, so my husband and friends went to the president of the Cedar branch of the
Church and gave him money for any inconvenience he might be put to for us, and persuaded him to take my part against my father.

Nothing startling happened on our first day of traveling and making camp, but when we were ready to start out the second day, Mr. Raisor found that he would have to remain behind to arrange some business affairs. Our party moved on for several hours and had crossed the valley, then when we looked back - oh, how frightened I became. There came a white-covered wagon, and we all felt certain that it was my father.

Our teams were stopped and we prepared for resistance, the men saying, "Your father will not take you, Ann."

As the wagon neared us we saw that it was not my father, but Mr. Raisor in his top buggy. The sun shining made it look white in the distance. My father did start after me, and got as far as Wildcat Canyon, but the canyon was filled with so much snow he cold not get through, so he returned home.

After a few days there was a thaw, and both he and Mother started out. They got as far as Wildcat again, but there was a very steep hill to climb just before entering the canyon. The horses could not pull up the steep grade, the roads being so soft and muddy, so there was another turning back home. Plans were made to start a few days later when the roads were drier, but Father was taken ill and the attempt to stop my leaving the valley was entirely given up.

When we reached our second camping ground, we found no sign of my husband being there. We saw plenty of Indians and I became so worried and frightened about his safety, I could not eat.

I was sitting in the wagon feeding the children when I saw, far up the road, something moving on a bush. I jumped out of the wagon and ran to see what it was. Joy of joys, it was a piece of the blue calico! I snatched it from the bush and waved it to my eagerly watching friends. After that, at every campground we found a piece of the blue calico - but at one place we almost missed seeing it, for it had been tied to a limb overhead. Neils had tied it there as he passed beneath the tree.

We found Indians all along the way, and they were always on the Warpath. We made peace with them by giving them presents. I had to give away nearly all my flour, also all my clothes but those I was wearing. But I was happy, for at every campground I found the piece of blue calico.

At last we reached the first Government Station on the Overland Road. Here was a fort and soldiers, placed in this part of the country to keep the Indians quiet. We continued our journey but found no more signs of my husband till we reached Egan Station, where we found him working in the silver mines. When I saw him I jumped right out of the wagon into his arms. The soldiers at the station had told him that if my father would not let me leave the valley, a complaint would be made at headquarters and the commander would send an escort and bring me to Nevada.

We began hearing a great deal about a famine that was coming upon the land. A famine was prophesied and preached, and I thought we might just as well have been killed by Indians, as have to starve to death, but when we arrived at Austin, Nevada, a mining town, we found a large number of stores all well stocked with flour and other foodstuff. We laid in a good supply of flour, and here bought our first sugar - lump sugar at that! - Oh, how good it was. We ate it first like one would candy, and for the short while we remained in Austin, we lived on the best of everything.

Then we moved to Dayton, which was a large place, and decided to stay there for there was plenty of work. In Dayton we met David Bullock, who had driven the wagon in which I rode when we left Cedar City. When we learned that he was returning to his home in Cedar City, we sold him the two cows and the calf that we had left there for $25. (Forty years later, when there was an excursion from Utah to Los Angeles I met David Bullock again, and how we did talk about those "old pioneer days.")

While we were looking for work in Dayton we met two young men we had known in Salt Lake , who told us that if we let people know we were from Utah we would never be able to get work, as everybody was down on those who came from that Territory. I thought this was all foolishness; I was not ashamed of Utah, and I declared to myself that I wold tell the truth if I were asked any questions.

We were camped outside the city where there were very few people, so I did not expect to have any unpleasant questions to answer; but one day a man came to my door and his first question was "Where are you from?" (Alas for my proud boast.) "Missouri" I answered. "What county?" he asked. I hesitated, then said I did not know.

I made up my mind anew, however that I just wold not tell any more lies - and I never did.

The next man who came wished to know if we wanted work,. I told him we did, so he left word for my husband to bring his team and do some hauling. Neils had a small wagon and two little horse and with these he was able to earn ten dollars a day.

We lived in Dayton for two years, then work grew scare so we went to Eldorado. There I did the cooking for our employer's family, which paid the board of myself and children. Neils worked in lumber and wood. My husband was taken ill. and we did not know what the trouble was but concluded that he had too much blood. We heard of an old doctor who lived far up a canyon, so I rode there on horseback to borrow a lance. (This doctor was the man to whom I had told the lie.) He loaned me the lance and when I arrived home my husband had everything ready - the int, the bandages, and the brown paper. He rolled up his sleeve and made a cut at the inner bend of the arm, and out flowed a pint of blood. Then he bandaged the cut. He knew how to perform this operation, for he had undergone it in the Old Country (Denmark).

On November 13, 1865, Willard Willden Johnson, our first son, was born. I arranged for a woman to come in to wait on me, but she was not very capable. When the doctor arrived he gave the woman instruction in caring for the baby. I had lined our little rooms with barley sacks to make them look nicer and to help keep them mor comfortable.

When Willard was three weeks old, I stepped out of the room to get some wash water, and when I returned a moment later, the room was all ablaze. I caught up the baby and dragged the other people out, then put the baby in Hanna's arms and ran back in and threw all the wash water on the fire, yelling at the top of my voice. Men rushed to my aid and the house and pretty nearly everything in it was saved. My pretty new calico dress that I was so proud of was partially burnt, though, so it was cut up and made over into clothes for the children.

When we first went to Nevada a man gave Hanna a little Primer which contained English words, both in printed and script form. I secured paper and pencil and hunted for the words that I wished to use in a letter to Mother. I would write the word as much like the word in the book as I could; thus word by word, I wrote my first letter.

One word I could not find, so I spelled it "id" for "idea". Mother was delighted with her letter, but when she answered she told how she and Father laughed at the my of spelling idea. She told it very lovingly, but just the same I was very much hurt. So I wrote to her again telling her that had we not been so poor, and had I not had to work so hard when I was a little girl, I would have learned to read and write and spell. When I grew older, I was sorry that I had written Mother unkindly and let her know how I felt.

When we went to Eldorado, a man who was a good writer "set" copies for me and I learned to form letters. Whenever I had a minute's time I would practice writing, and when we had pen and ink, I wrote with them.

When he saw that I was so interested in learning, the neighbor who advised us not to tell that we came from Utah, gave me a dictionary. So little by little I learned to read and write and spell.

In the Spring of 1866 my husband went to Owens River, California, to see what work he could find. There were a few settlers in this part of the country and the prospects looked good, so he returned to Eldorado where he bought provisions for a year, and enough grain for the spring planting. We moved to Owens River. There we bargained for a ranch, buying a Quit Claim deed to the land. There was a shanty on the place and the ranch was fenced. We put in our crops immediately.

One day a big herd of cattle was being driven by the place. These cattle had never been in a corral and were frightened at the sight of a man on horseback. My husband offered to trade his best span of mules for eight cows and their calves. We could not drive them into the corral, so the two of us on horseback surrounded them. My husband on a third horse would jump off, catch a calf and tie it down, then he would catch another and so on until all the calves were all tied. We then loaded them in a wagon and unloaded them into a strong pen inside the corral. Then we tried to drive the cows into the corral but could not, so we went away leaving the gate open.

The cows began circling around, coming closer and closer to their calves. Everything was so very still. We dared not speak or let a child cry. The moments were tense - then the cows went in, timid and frightened. As the last one entered, my husband jumped out of a grass covered ditch and closed the gate.

Two of us went in the corral on horses and separated one cow from the others, and Neils lassoed her and tied her up. We did this till all of the cows were tied; then we got off our horses and quietly approached them and touched them, and gently patted them, then milked them and fed the calves milk. We left the cows tied during the night, with the calves loose in the pen. In the morning we again milked the cows and let them loose in the corral. When milking time came in the evening we had to tie the cows again.

Neils, Hanna and I were very gentle with them. We moved quietly and spoke in soft voices, and in due course of time the cows became quiet and gentle, except one which would hook and kick and even bite. We always had to tie her head and her feet when we milked her. When it was time to untie her we had to go outside the fence and reach in. We had to unfasten her head first, for it we untied her feet first she would kick and never allow us to get near her head. After a time she broke a leg, so we killed her and sold the meat to the Indians.

That year we made five hundred dollars worth of butter. We packed it in barrels and carried it to the mines near Mono Lake, and to Independence, where we sold it.

We bought seven more cows from a herd which was being driven through the country. They were foot sore and tired out, but otherwise in good condition. One steer was so footsore he would not leave the yard. My husband decided to drive him away, so he took an iron rod from the wagon end gate and faced the weary animal. Neils struck with such force that the rod swung out of his hands and as he whirled around, the steer horned him at the seat of his trousers and tossed him away. I ran out to help, and the steer took after me, and would have hooked me - perhaps gored me - but he ran against a rope tied from the wagon to the fence. We killed and sold him to the Indians, too. The others were allowed to range. Someone stole two of them, and finally we sold the others.

The next spring, 1867, we made and sold four-hundred dollars' worth of butter. One woman who wished to bring discredit upon our butter, because she too made butter, kept saying untruthful things about it, but her husband told her that she must be more careful in making hers, for it was dirty. Ever after that, this woman was called "Dirty Butter."

Men often wore buckskin pants, and when we had the skins I would make such pant for anyone who ordered them. I would cut out the pants and sew them by hand with a three-side needle. One time my husband wished to sell a pair to a young man, who said, "No I do not want a pair, for I have no wife to wash them." He evidently knew nothing of buckskin pants and, besides, such pants were never washed.

On May 24, 1867 at Owens River, California, another little son was born to us, Charles Willden Johnson. We were twenty-five miles from any neighbor, so my husband and I cared for our baby alone.

For fear there would come a time when trouble would arise over irrigation water, we decided to leave Owen River. In the fall of 1867 we sold out everything but four horses and a wagon for a thousand dollars, and started for Los Angeles.

A terrible storm came up so we stopped at Elizabeth Lake. We were wet through, with no dry clothes to change into. The baby, Charles, had croup and there was no dry place where I could put him. We found a big deserted house, where we hurriedly got out little stove set up and made a fires of old scraps and trash left in the rooms. We remained there a number of days, until the stormy weather was partially ended. One day, while we were in this house, Christina had a knife in her hand. An older sister, in taking it away from her, drew it through her closed fingers. Her thumb was almost cut off. We were very much afraid of blood poisoning, but the wound healed nicely though the scar remained.

When we left Elizabeth Lake it was still somewhat stormy and the creeks were full of water. In San Francisco Canyon we came to a ditch about four feet deep and two feet wide that was cut across by the rushing waters.

We were all in the wagon - Neils, the children, and I. The old fashioned lantern, with its three-sided glass chimney, was hanging from one of the front bows. A tub of dishes was on top of the other household goods.

The horses objected to crossing the ditch, but Neils rushed them and they jumped across; however, the wagon went down as the banks caved in. The front wheels were on the bank with the back ones in the ditch. The dishes came tumbling down upon us, the glass in the lantern was broken, and some of the children were cut.

In an hour or two, after much digging, we managed to get the wagon out, and thankfully continued our journey. That evening we arrived in San Fernando. We slept in the wagon, with our supplies placed beneath it. During the night Mexicans stole all our food, so for breakfast there was nothing. We went to a nearby house to see about getting more. The house was occupied by a Negro and his Mexican wife. They gave us breakfast for 50 cents each. We had tortillas and frijoles. We also had burned coffee. We bought more tortillas and frijoles for lunch and went on our way.

We arrived in Los Angeles that day, and made camp at the corner of Sixth Street and Hill. We had a hard day of it, driving over Cahuenga Pass and through the adobe mud. There were a few days of clear weather, then came a terrific rainstorm.

A German family lived near our home, which was our covered wagon. They asked us to come to their house to do our cooking, as it was too wet for a campfire. We used their stove for a day, then found a shed of two rooms which we rented for ten dollars a month. This shed stood on the corner of Fourth and Broadway.

The shed leaked almost as much as our covered wagon, but we stopped the worst of the leaks and set up the stove, and my husband went out to Arroyo Seco for wood.

When fair weather came, Neils went to the Arroyo to get wood to sell to the people in the city of Los Angeles, which had a population of six to eight thousand. After he had gotten his load and was on his way back, his wagon turned over on the bad roads. The wagon tongue was broken, but he straightened and mended it, reloaded his wood and came home. When one woman offered him three dollars for his load, he said, "Oh no, I'll burn it in my own stove before I'll sell at that price.

Our money was going fast, so we decided to tent out again. We located at Fifth and Pearl (now Figueroa Street). This was the site of Los Angeles' old woolen mill. When we were at Fourth Street, we had to pay fifty cents for the water we got from a neighbor's well but here we got it from the little mill stream.

Neils had gone away to work, for we supposed the worst of the winter rains were over - but no, this was the wet winter of 1867-1868. A great rainstorm came upon us and our tent was poor protection in such a downpour.

The small children went to bed, and the older ones and I pulled the wagon cover over them and ourselves. Rain fell on the stove and I could not keep a fire so we stayed in bed all night and nearly all day. We did this for several days till the storm was over.

A woman who lived a block away put on her husband's rain pants and coat and rubber boots and came over to see how we were getting alone. She found us in bed, and said, "I haven't very much room at my house, but it is warm and comfortable, and if you don't mind two calves in the house, come over and be welcome." It was pouring down rain, and I thought we were better off as we were.

After a week, Neils returned and we moved into a house at the corner of Fifth and Main. One day three Indian squaws came down the street, reeling drunk. They tried to jump over the Zanja, which ran across Main Street. Two of them were able to get over, but the third one jumped into the middle of the stream.

Neils could not get steady work, so decided to take all the money we could spare, buy groceries, and take them to Owens River to sell. He bought the goods of A.C. Shouvin and started out. When he got as far as Soledad he found that he could get some unsurveyed land there. Knowing that settlers would be coming in, he stopped right here and set up a grocery store. He left the goods in the care of a man who was living there and returned to Los Angeles for us.

When my husband told me of his plan of going into the grocery business, "I exclaimed, "I'll never sell a drop of liquor to anyone!" All stores sold liquor at that time.

When we returned to Soledad we found that the caretaker of our goods and another man had stolen about forty dollars' worth of them. As we opened boxes of soap, and barrels of sugar and other containers, we found they were not full. We kept exact account of the missing goods, supposing, of course, that Mr. Shouvin had made a mistake, but one of the thieves became annoyed with the other man and came and told us. They had stolen sugar from each barrel.

When Neil had returned to Los Angeles for us he had about three hundred dollars. He did not like to be carrying it around with him, and almost decided to bury it deep down in the sugar, but on second thought he carried the money with him. This was good fortune for us, for no doubt the thieves in stealing the sugar would have found it.

We had a large tent partitioned into two rooms, using one half for the store, and the other for our living room. I did our cooking in a shed made of pickets. BEARS! There were so many bears in this part of the country! At night when we heard the cows calling to their calves we knew the bears were near. They would come up close to the tent and the campfire. If we heard a sudden noise out there in the darkness we knew that a bear had gotten a calf, but we could do nothing.

One "bell" calf, a yearling was killed by a bear and half eaten. The bear buried the remainder, which was found a day or so later. This calf belonged to the man who had stolen our goods, so he blamed us for his loss, saying. "No bear would go after a bell calf." But when he found the buried remains he apologized, and also paid us for the groceries he had stolen.

We did very well with our business, but a store was no place to make a home for our growing children, so Neils carried the goods to Owens River where he sold them to the merchant shop. While he was attending to the business I packed up our household goos and as soon as the first freight team came along I paid the driver twenty-dollars to take us to Los Angeles.

I rented an adobe of two rooms at the corner of Sixth and Spring Streets. There was a weeping willow in the yard. I hired a nurse to be with me later and paid her in advance. Neils came, and at the same time came a terrific storm. The house leaked. I needed a doctor and the nurse, but the storm was terrible' we were unable to get them. Neils and I had to care for our new baby daughter - Olive Lenora Johnson, born December 23, 1868. The nurse was later with me three days, then she went shopping up on Temple street and was gone all day. The children got into mischief as there was no one to look after them, my husband being at work. Mrs. Shouvin came to see me in the afternoon. I was weak and hungry, so I told my trouble to her and cried a little, but she cheered me up and went to her home and brought back some hot tea and warm food, which surely made me feel better.

The nurse returned in the evening to tell me she could not stay, but said that she would do my washing for the money that I had paid her. She did the washing once, then I never saw her again, though she was paid for two weeks work.

When Lenora was two weeks old, we decided to go back to Soledad. We started early in the morning so we could reach there by evening. Neils had taken the older children a day or two before and had gotten them settled.

When we were within six miles of our destinations, the horses were too tired to go any farther, but we just had to get to the children, and we had no accommodations for staying out at night when it was cold and cloudy. The horses just would not move.

Neils thought theat they might go if they thought they were running away; so he took off the bridles, and fastened the lines to the halter. As their blinds were off them, they could see what was behind them - the wagon, the freight, and the people. This frightened them and away they ran those six miles to home.

While we lived here, we turned the cows out to pasture in a canyon. Hanna had a little riding pony and every evening she would ride after the cows and drive them home. One evening she did not return at the usual time. I became so worried that I asked Neils if it would not be well to go see where she was; but he was sure she was alright - that, perhaps the cows had strayed farther away. I walked up and down the road listening and trying to peer into the darkness. The waiting was agony, for I feared that she might have met the bears.

Neils finally saddled a horse and was just starting out to hunt when we heard the tinkle of a cow bell and soon Hanna came, driving the cows. She was such a faithful little girl. She had hunted till she found them.



This time we lived in Soledad a year then sold out to Mr. Franklin and moved to a small valley in the hills just west of the town of San Fernando.

The roads to this place were no better than trails, and our goods had to be carried on pack horses. One horse was loaded with a trunk, a table, a churn, and a looking glass. The table leg caught in the branch of a tree and the horse was pulled off the trail. He rolled down into the creek, fell on his back, and dammed up the water. We rushed down and cut the straps that held the goods, and he got quickly to his feet, unhurt. Then we looked over the wreckage. The trunk was in the water, our clothes were wet, the table leg was broken, and our cherished mirror was in several pieces. We repacked the horse and went on our way somewhat downcast.

We tented here a few months, then moved into Brown's Canyon and bought a quit claim deed to some land and ran our cattle out on the range. Our house was built entirely of logs, and we always spoke of when we lived there as when we lived in the "Log House." Our son Walter Levi Johnson was borne here, October 27, 1871.

There was a better building site no far from the log house, so we moved and built another one. This home was always spoken of as the "Shake house."

Our last daughter, Emma Louise Johnson was born in the Shake House on April 16, 1873.

All my life, I had a great deal of sewing to do, and I did it all by hand. One of the most joyous surprises of my life was when my husband, returning from Los Angeles, brought a sewing machine home. What a wonder it was to us, and what a time saver.

In 1874 we moved once more and for the last time until forty years later. We took up one hundred sixty acres of the wildest Government land in the hills back of what is now Chatsworth. It was covered with high, dense chaparral; we had to use axes to cut our way thought. We found one small clear spot where there was a small winter lake. Here we built a temporary house and dug a well. About sixty acres was level land and all this had to be cleared of the wild growth. The whole family except the two babies, took part.

We worked on an acre or two at a time. The brush was cut and burned. Then the land was ploughed and the roots turned up. These were gathered day by day, week by week. Any working day you might have seen us all out "picking up roots." When the roots were dry, Neils hauled them to Los Angeles and sold them for firewood. In 1876 we built a substantial house of eight rooms at the foot of the great rocky hills, where ever-flowing springs bubbled forth.

The clearing of the land continued for months, and even years. When one acre was cleared, it was planted; then another acre was worked over and planted, then another and another, till the sixty acres of level land were covered with orchards, vineyards, grain fields, vegetables, and flowers. Ducks and chickens wandered at will in the barnyards and the meadows, and our cattle roamed over the hills.

When Neils could leave the work on the farm he would haul wood and grain to Los Angeles from the big ranches in the San Fernando valley. Our nearest neighbor, a fine Spanish family, lived at the foot of the hills. The other families, few and scattered, were either Mexican or Indian. I was the first while English speaking woman in the San Fernando Valley.

Our Post Office and trading posts were at Los Angeles, thirty miles away. There was no school within ten miles of us, so in the evening I taught the children their Primer, and helped them with writing and spelling. In this little evening school of ours, we did not know what "gopher" and what "sycamore" spelled. My husband knew no more that I of reading and spelling, yet in his later life he learned to read so well that he read the Bible over and over again, and memorized great portions of it. Neils and I kept gaining knowledge as we taught the children.

When the girls grew older, they went to live with families in the Los Angeles area, so that they could go to school and one by one, each was happily married.

Ten years after the birth of our little daughter, Emma, Norman Carvin Johnson was born on January 29, 1884 in Los Angeles. I had plenty of care and comfort, and a doctor, and Hanna to nurse me. Two years later, the last of our children was born, Oliver Eastman Johnson, June 29, 1885, at our home in the Chatsworth Hills.

In the year of 1880 a school was established in Chatsworth. A Sunday school was started which later became a Methodist Church. I never became a member, for I am a Baptist, as are a number of the family, yet I put my whole heart and soul into the work and worship of this little Methodist Church and Sunday School.

A branch road of the Southern Pacific was built from Los Angeles to Chatsworth about 1891, and in 1904 a great tunnel was built through the Santa Susanna Mountains, and thus gave us a through line to all points North.

The years were long and hard, but filled with happiness too. When the income from our place grew less, Neils went to San Jacinto to see what work he could find. That left me and my three youngest children to take care of the ranch.

Then Emma was married, and later, my son Norman. That left only my youngest son with me, and we two carried the burden of running the ranch. Finally I rented to place and went to live in the valley in a home built for me by my sons and daughters. Meanwhile Neils was at Monrovia with my daughter Christine. He was taken ill with pneumonia, and died on June 4, 1914.

He was a loving husband, a kind father, honest and upright. He never drank and he never smoked, so the two of us brought up our children to be honest, God-loving, law abiding men and women.

In my pleasant little home in the valley, I spent many happy days with my children and my grandchildren, and the great-grandsons and daughters, and many good friends.

My heart often turns to our mountain ranch with its far-reaching view, with its rugged wildness, and with its Old Rock Face (the George Washington Rock), so dear to us all; and I sometimes long to be living there, for that is the home, the real home which the whole family, working together, built and nourished.

On March 19, 1920, after a short illness, Ann Willden Johnson died. During her last days she was constantly attended by her nine sons and daughters and many of her grandchildren. She wanted them all with her, and she gave to each a loving farewell message. She was carried on a bed of flowers across the San Fernando Valley, over the land she had so often traveled,l and was laid to rest beside her husband in the Rosedale Cemetary.

Published in the Frontier Times September 1975