Outlaws, Greeks and Bartenders in a Utah Cemetery

The Price City Cemetery is perhaps the most ethnically diverse burial ground in Utah. Along with early Mormon settlers are immigrants from Greece, Italy, Japan, Austria, and many other places. Sprinkle in some cowboys and a Masonic section, and you have a ripe combination for a fascinating graveyard.

The first settler, Caleb Rhoades, came to Price in 1877, where he built himself a cabin. He later brought his family and soon others followed, many from Utah County.

The railroad would be completed just a few years later, drastically changing the character of the town. Coal mines opened up and thousands of immigrants poured into the valley. Most of the new citizens were non-Mormon, making Price a unique town in Utah, one that is still noted today in its demographic and political makeup.

A walk through the cemetery clearly displays this cultural peculiarity. Large sections of headstones display writing in Greek, Japanese, or Italian. Many grave markers make use of the cross or the Virgin Mary (both which are not used in typical Mormon symbolism). Also, especially in the Greek section, there are several mausoleums, even one containing four different people. This is also a feature not common in Utah.

A quick perusal of the cemetery database shows men and women born in places from all around the world: Yugoslavia, Spain, Austria, New Zealand, Denmark, Scotland. Within the United States I found people from Oklahoma, Arkansas, South Dakota, Alabama, Oklahoma, Massachusetts, and probably about every state in the Union. Occasionally I found Nauvoo, Illinois, or Winter Quarters, Nebraska, which is a tale-tale sign of a Mormon pioneer. All of these people brought their religion and customs, creating quite the ingredient list for a hodge-podge soup.

Perhaps the most notorious person buried in the Price Cemetery is outlaw, Matt Warner, best know for his alliance with Butch Cassidy. Born in 1864 in Ephraim, Utah as Willard Erastus Christiansen, he was raised in a typical Mormon family. While living on a farm they ran cattle and had a neighboring existence with the Indians.

At age thirteen, while living further north in Levan, Willard got into a fight with the town bully over a girl. After beating the daylights out of the boy and thinking he was dead, Willard saddled up in the middle of the night, said goodbye to his parents, and fled in the veil of darkness through canyons, over a cattle trail, across the Indian inhabited Strawberry Valley, and into Wyoming.

Young Willard Christiansen then took on many aliases, one of them being Matt Warner. He began a career in cattle rustling, bank robbing, and train heisting, and eventually met up with the likes of Butch Cassidy, Elza Lay, and Tom McCarty.

Matt Warner first met Butch Cassidy (then known as Roy Parker) at a saloon in Telluride, Colorado. Of Butch he said: “. . . I noticed a neat-dressed cowboy hanging around the bar like he wanted to talk to me. I liked his looks and sidled over to him, and we began to buy drinks for each other.”

Matt had brought to town a race horse that he hoped to race against the fastest horse in Telluride. When Roy Parker told him he would lose, Matt bristled up and said, “The hell you say. How much you got to bet on that?” Roy didn't have much, but would bet everything he had.

When race day came and the victor proclaimed, Roy Parker handed over his chaps, gun, spurs, and saddle to Matt Warner.

The two men partnered up and went to horse races all over southwestern Colorado, winning lots of money, and spending nearly everything they won. Eventually, they couldn't get their horse paired up for another race, leaving them in need of cash. That's when they conjured up the idea of a little bank robbery in Telluride.

Seven years later in 1896, a gunfight left two men dead and Matt Warner in prison. After serving a four year sentence, Matt decided to turn his life around and begin a new life within the law. He moved to Carbon County where he lived a respectable life and was eventually voted in as Justice of the Peace. 

Matt Warner died in 1938 and was buried in Price.  His headstone is modest and says nothing of his notorious life as an outlaw.  Instead, their is a simple drawing of a horse, an animal that Matt loved his whole life.

The Castle Gate Mine disaster was one of the most tragic events in all of Utah. On March 8, 1924, three separate explosions burst through the quiet morning air, coming from mine no. 2. The blast was so big that it ripped the steel entrance door of the mine off its hinges and hurled it across the canyon and into the mountain side.

A total of 172 men died that day, including one rescuer.

Fifty of the miners were Greek and because there was not enough room in the (Greek Orthodox) Assumption Church, funeral services were held in a public hall. The Salt Lake Tribune reported on March 13, 1924: “The caskets were laid side by side across the center of the floor, and were completely covered with floral offerings evidencing the deep sympathy felt for the bereaved.”

The church bought burial plots for the deceased miners, but the responsibility of grave markers was put on the families, and not all could afford them. Twenty-nine of the miners never received a headstone.

In 2005—eighty-one years after the disaster—a memorial was finally erected for the fallen miners. Money was raised after a conscientious citizen, Andrew Hillas, discovered the social injustice and decided to take matters into his own hands. The memorial is located in the Greek section of the cemetery.

For me, the Price Cemetery is a special place because I have many family members buried there, including two sets of great grandparents. They, like many of the citizens of Carbon County, came from other parts of the country. Hailing from Kansas, Earl and Garnette Lacy spent a few years in Palisade, Colorado before moving to Wellington (just six miles south of Price) where Earl worked in the Columbia Coal Mine.

Earl was a former professional wrestler in the Mid-west, making the circuit at carnivals and once wrestling for the light heavyweight championship of the world. He had slickly combed blonde hair, and the physique of a body builder. Although very kind and lovable, he rightfully had the reputation of a tough man.

Garnette was the solid partner in the relationship. She was smart and knew how to manage money. Patience and hard work made her a good mother to their four children.

The family lived on a farm for a while, then moved into town in 1949 where they ran a tavern. The bar had tables and a dance floor. In a back room, their son, Claude, would deal poker at an oak table that they had cut in half. They also had a punch board where people could pay to push out a piece of paper from the back of the board and possibly win a prize. All the gambling was in the back room.

As could be expected at a place with lots of drinking, there were plenty of fights at Lacy's Tavern. My favorite story is one that shows the “charitable” side of my great grandpa Earl.

Orval Rich frequented the bar, never drinking a lot, but tending to nurse a drink for a long time. He liked to play the punch board and visit with people. Orval had no legs, having lost them both in a mining accident. One day, a large, husky man came into the bar on the fight and started harassing Orval. Earl was tending bar and told him to leave him alone. Then, the rabble-rousing man pushed Orval off the stool.

Earl was out from behind the bar like a bullet! Within seconds, a no-holds barred fist fight was in full swing.

Earl's young daughter, Alice, watched the fight in horror, knowing that her dad was in his fifties, and that this man was much younger and much bigger than her father. She ran to their adjacent apartment where she found her mother mending a pair of pants.

“Mom,” she yelled in a panic, “Dad's in a fight with a great big guy!”

Garnette seemed unconcerned and continued her task. “Your father can take care of himself.”

“He's going to get killed, Mom!”

“Your father can take care of himself.”

When Alice returned to the bar, she found her brothers, Claude and Earl Jr., watching the fight with arms folded. I think all these people knew a little more about Earl Lacy than did young Alice.

Earl was having to swing upward because the guy was so much taller than him. Somehow they tripped, and the guy ended up in Earl's lap, where Earl continued to pummel him. Claude and Earl Jr. eventually pulled Earl off because they were worried that their dad would really hurt the guy. When they did, the man who chose to pick on Orval Rich couldn't see out of his right eye.

When they pulled him off, he kept saying, “I need to talk to that guy (referring to Earl).”

Claude told him, “You don't want to talk to him. He's the wrong guy for you to talk to.”

The Lacy's had other ventures in the area, including a sawmill that they owned near Schofield. Earl was also the town Marshall in Hiawatha, and then in Wellington.

Hard times eventually drove them from Carbon County, first to Wendover, Nevada, and then to Dugway Proving Grounds, a military facility, where Garnette had found a small job. Earl was at the age when he could soon start drawing social security. After getting all the paper work squared away, he was excited about getting his first check.

After supper one evening, Earl said he was feeling bloated and was going on a walk. He never returned. Garnette went out to look for him, and after getting help from the landlord, they found Earl in the camp trailer, fallen back from the edge of the bed, dead of a heart attack.

His first social security check came within a week. They had to send it back.

Earl's body was returned to Carbon County, to the place they called their home. He was buried in the Price City Cemetery, where he would be joined nineteen years later by his beautiful wife. ♠

A private mausoleum in the Price City Cemetery.

A headstone in the Masonic Section.

The use of crosses and other Catholic symbolism is less common in Utah. 

Headstone with Greek letters.

Sources

Barker, Alice Lacy. Interview by John Lacy, March 30, 2009.

Gorrell, Mike. "Greek miners get their due 81 years after their deaths." The Salt Lake Tribune 6 March 2005.

Warner, Matt, updated by Joyce Warner, and Steve Lacy. Last of the Bandit Riders...Revisited. Salt Lake City, Utah: Big Moon Traders, 2000.

Meditations

An Atheist friend recently told me he was taking an interest in Buddhism. The comment took me off-guard because the two beliefs appear to be contradicting. Although Buddhism doesn't believe in a deity, such as God, they do believe in reincarnation and a continuation of the soul (or mind) after death—at least until Nirvana.

Upon further inquiry, I learned that my friend felt like the belief in reincarnation was a matter of interpretation. Instead, he admired many of the concepts of Buddhism. The idea he liked most—and had actually practiced—was the act of meditation.

“So how do you meditate?” I asked him.

“I just cross my legs and keep my spine straight. Sometimes I go out in the hills and meditate there, but usually I just do it in my room.”

The conversation got me thinking about the idea of meditation, especially in an East vs. West context. I've seen this before where a person—especially of the younger generation—latches onto meditation as if they had never heard of it before, or that it didn't exist in Western Culture.

I will admit that the East has probably refined the art better than we have. In fact, the Buddha, as it is represented in statues, has  several different postures. There seems to be a technique, or even a science to it.

Eastern culture defines meditation a little differently than we do in the west. They focus on using concentration to develop mental awareness. We in the west tend to define it as pondering, or contemplating upon a specific subject. I think that both are useful, although slightly distinct.

But, in the west, we aren't really known for our meditating practices. With the story of my friend, it got me wondering if we really do meditate.

Going back in Western Culture, one of the more famous examples is the book Meditations by Roman Emperor, Marcus Aurelius. This is a collections of daily thoughts written down by the Roman leader, never intended to be published. Although not as concise as I would prefer, it is an interesting collection of personal thoughts from a powerful man. 

When I think of meditations, however, I usually think of it in the Judeo-Christian context. It is interesting that one of the earliest known recorded instances of meditation takes places in Western Culture, around the year 1900 B.C. : “And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide.” (Genesis 24:36)

The meditation that I am familiar with often involves prayer, and is used to heighten our relationship with God. We use quiet moments to ponder and contemplate scripture and how we can apply it to our lives: “This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth; but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein.” (Joshua 1:8)

My own Mormon faith gives several opportunities to contemplate our personal relationship with God. Every week during church we participate in the sacrament, which we believe is a continuation in theme of the Lord's Supper. We partake of bread and water and for fifteen minutes or so, the chapel is in relative silence as we spend that time pondering the covenants we have made and the atonement of Jesus Christ.

We are also encouraged to attend the temple, which for us is a sacred building where we make covenants. Inside the temple there is a very quiet and peaceful atmosphere and probably the best place we have to meditate on anything in life that needs attention. Every time I leave the temple, my mind and spirit feel cleansed.

If there were a “posture” that Mormons or Christians would use, it would have to be on their knees. Belief in the power of prayer is strong among us, and when possible, we pray on our knees. Some of the answers that I have sought have come while remaining on my knees after prayer, and there studying the matter over in my mind.

Outside of a religious setting, I think that a simple “walk” is a great way to clear the mind and to be able to think. This could be a walk around the block, or a hike in nature.

Some of my favorite places to meditate are high places, especially at the top of an isolated or rugged mountain peak. It is a time not only to marvel at the wonders of God, but to block out the chaos of the world and inhale crisp, pure air and to be grateful for being alive.

Back to my atheist friend, I think it is good that he has taken up meditation. I don't care if it is Buddhist, or that he disassociates it with deity. As much as I love technology, I also believe it has been a curse, constantly keeping us connected to this world of chaos, and also to trivial matters that mean nothing to our eternal well being. Meditation can be an escape from this.

Sogyal Rinpoche, a Tibetan Buddhist Master, said: “Despite major breakthroughs of recent years, especially in mind/body science and transpersonal psychology, the great majority of scientists continue to reduce the mind to no more than physical processes in the brain, which goes against the testimony of thousands of years of experience of mystics and meditations of all religions.”

The enlightened mind, the edified mind, the illuminated soul, come to those who take the time to quietly ponder the things that are of the greatest importance in life.

A phrase keeps returning to my mind: “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10) ♠

Lake Powell Thunderstorm

I was excited to be back. It was the first time in several years. This time my family was with me, including young kids who had never experienced Lake Powell. We parked on hot pavement, high above Halls Crossing Marina. Some changed in the van while others slipped their sandals on and undressed in a wooden bathroom at the edge of the parking lot.

With swimsuits on we carefully made our way down to the water. A long yellow lizard dashed quickly across the hot sandstone ground and hid behind a boulder. The water was dark blue, just as I had remembered, perhaps even better. We found a small cove. Not the same one that had been there when I was a kid; all of them had disappeared. The water level was much lower now, causing the contour of the lake to change. My old swimming spot was now a dry, chalky-white rock, above where we now stood.

I slipped off footwear, lifted my shirt over my head, and sat glasses on a small rock. Then I stepped into the cool water, inching further in until I was up to my knees, and then my thighs. When the water began to soak into my bathing suit, I stopped, paralyzed by the sudden frigidity that seized my skin. My feet remained motionless, not daring to venture further into the cold. I ran my fingers across the surface of the water, creating figure eights at my side. Then, in one big motion, I plunged downward, immersing my shoulders, face and head. When I felt satisfied that my entire body was wet, I shot back upward, reemerging from the water, dripping incessantly. My cupped hands slowly ran backward over my hair, wringing out the water, and then I wiped my eyes dry. Now that I was wet, the temperature of the water wasn't too bad.

I pushed off from the rock below my feet and crawled across the water on my belly, arms working like a windmill, reaching into the water and propelling myself forward. I did this for several strokes, then non-nonchalantly flipped to my back and lazily paddled myself along, making large angelic sweeps with my arms.

The kids enjoyed the water also. We made them wear life jackets, even the older ones, as Lake Powell was not your average benevolent body of water. We tied a rope to a giant inflatable fish and I pulled it across the cove while one of the kids rode like a horse.

We ate sandwiches and potato salad for lunch and then it was time to take the older kids to the “deep end,” which was around the corner and inside another cove.  

Not only was the land at a steep slope, but the moss that grew on the rock below the surface was slick. The kids liked that. Once they got the courage to jump into the water, they struggled to get out. Brittany would crawl up the rock like a giant amphibian, get two hands and a knee above the water, then swoosh, she would slip back in. She giggled and laughed at this.

They would float in the deep, cold water with their life jackets on and wait for the waves from the boats to come across the bay to where they were floating. Then they would bob up and down like buoys.

We found a good diving rock that was about eight feet above the water and I let them take turns diving in. I let Jordan take off his life jacket. He jumped off the rock, feet first, plunged several feet below the surface, then reemerged, and swam playfully back to shore.

After several hours, the breeze began to pick up and storm clouds appeared in the north, across the bay above Bullfrog. We gathered everything and climbed back up to the van.  I stopped and took a picture of lightning that shot across the bay.

Part of the purpose for this small trip to Lake Powell was nostalgia. When I was younger we used to come to this same cove to swim, and we fished for striped bass from a boat. At night we caught crawdads beneath rocks and during the day we went to the store at the marina and bought self-serve ice cream cones and piled them so high that they looked like the leaning tower of Pisa! This was our final plan before we left—to find the ice cream machine!

But things didn't look like they used to. Since the water level had dropped so drastically, the whole marina had shifted to another location about a mile away. In fact, the more I thought about it, I wasn't even sure if the ice cream machine was here at Hall's Crossing, or across the bay at Bullfrog.

We drove over to the marina, but didn't see anything resembling a store, so we turned around, but not before stopping on the hill for a few minutes to attempt to get some more pictures of the lightning across the bay. By now, the wind was picking up and there was no doubt that the storm was coming. We returned nearby the parking lot where we began and I stopped at a small gas station at the entrance of town.

“Is there another store around here?” I asked a young blonde lady that was tending the building.

“Yes,” she responded in a genuine English accent.

She pointed out that it was where we had just come, down a road marked “closed,” and then across the floating walkway, thus locating it in the middle of the lake. No wonder we didn't find it, I thought.

“Does it have a self-serve ice cream machine?” I had to ask.

“Yes, it does.”

I hurried back to the van and assured the family that we were going to have ice cream after all . But things were quickly changing as we made that mile-long ride back to the marina. We looked down across the lake and the entire bay—that was once a gentle dark blue—was now pock-marked with waves of white. Boats were scrambling to find refuge and the lines of vessels parked at the marina bobbed up and down and side to side.

We parked the van within forty yards of the water and knew that we had to hurry. The storm was coming fast, with gales quickly picking up dust and trash. Our entire family raced to the water's edge and it was there that I first saw the floating walkway and its long stretch to the marina store. The floating walkway was maybe eight feet wide with wooden planks and nothing at all for a side railing. What seemed like fifty yards to the store, also seemed very daunting. The long walkway undulated with the waves of the water and twisted it like a rubber band.

I gripped Jenna's hand tightly and together we stepped onto the floating causeway and walked across about fifteen planks. My feet swayed up, then down, as if I was on a surf board, or perhaps a bucking bull. The wind's gust took shots at us, trying to blast us into the water. I balanced myself out with my arms and looked side to side, being quickly reminded that there was nothing to grab onto. The only thing flanking our position was the deep water that rumbled in turbulence. This was crazy! Jenelle and I took one look at each other and knew we had to turn back.

We hadn't made it but a few steps from the floating walkway when the rain hit. Nothing was gradual, but quick, hard pelting drops pinged nearly horizontally from the sky. The air turned a wet white and in less than two seconds we were all drenched, only able to look down and run to where we knew the van to be. I stooped down and swept Jenna's into my arms, holding her face into my shoulder. A box flew into the air and mud ran off the hillside and onto the pavement.

I unlocked the van as fast as I could and within a few panic-struck moments, we were all inside the vehicle and breathing a sigh of relief. The rain continued to erupt all around, cascading across the windshield so thickly that we couldn't see a thing.

Instant relief infused my body, grateful that we decided to turn back when we did. Had we been further along the causeway, no doubt we would have been bucked into the water like a cowboy from a bronc.

We waited for ten minutes until deciding that the storm would not subside anytime soon. I turned the ignition and switched the wipers to rapid motion and we drove up the hill away from the water.

This is not how we planned to end the day.

The road out of Halls Crossing passes a couple parking lots, another small store, and a boat launch. We didn't notice any of this with the rain pounding all around and a low cloudy mist that almost touched the ground. There is a good view of the bay before you crest the hill, but that was behind us and we didn't bother to look.

The area around Glen Canyon is rugged and barren, yet majestically beautiful. Canyons and gulleys of Navajo Sandstone intricately run together, creating a funnel effect to any burst of water found beneath its breadth.

After cresting the hill, the road drops into Castle Wash, named by the Mormon pioneers who trudged through the same place and found Anasazi Indian ruins that resembled a castle. I clutched the steering wheel as the canyon road began to snake, and a sheet of water glazed the pavement.

As the rain began to subside, another marvel emerged. Streams of water flowed over the brows of the slick-rock like lava spilling from a volcano. Water overflowed everywhere, off every cliff, sending new cascades off ledges, and creating new rivers down formerly dry canyon beds.

It was one of the most amazing sights we had ever beheld!

Even when the rain ceased to fall from the sky, it continued to tumble from the rocks. We stopped at a few places along the road to snap pictures and admire the power of nature. At Castle Ruin, the same ancient relic that the pioneers passed by one hundred and thirty years earlier, we pulled over and witnessed brown, murky water passing over the top of the alcove where the fortress lay. The ruin sat protected beneath the overhang of rock, behind a sheet of gushing water.

At the top of Clay Hill Pass, the narrow canyon widens its span and many of the raging rivers now subsided into rivulets. Red clay appeared as a bright color of ocher and the greens of rabbit and sage brush became more vibrant.

The rain had disappeared, but the strong misty smell of wet earth was everywhere. ♠

Life and Death

I wasn't sure what to expect when I hiked a couple of miles up the slopes of Harmony Mountain. Last summer the area was ravaged from fire. Thousands of acres of flora—up to the backyards of many homes—were brought to a mortal end. What would exist there now? Could new forage grow beneath the blackened branches, enough to feed any kind of animal population?

As I set out, I didn't know what to expect. The bridge that once crossed the lush creek existed no longer, replaced by a new one with fresh planks. Everything that was once there was now gone, as if a massive blanket of brush and trees was rolled back and a new barren ground rolled out, naked for all to see.

Skeletons of trees were still in existence, their charred branches pointing skyward and occasionally at the pinnacle, a remnant cluster of pine needles, reminding the passer-by of what once was. Below this ghostly forest, however, a new generation of growth sprouted from the ground, including grasses, daisies, and thick orange flowers the size of golf balls.

Death was still all around, despite the new life. On one side of a small stream, I saw the rigid hide of a rabbit, hollow inside, but propped sidelong, as if that is how he died. I found a cluster of cow bones—definitely from more than one cow. Speculation is all I can do, but I wonder if the cattle huddled together, not knowing how to evade the smoke and heat, and eventually succumbed as a group.

The dirt was a mixture of black or brown. Skeletons of many full-sized trees still stood, as I have noted, but many more were only tiny stubs that poked just inches out of the ground. Acorn shells flourished on the earth, dropped at a former time when living trees thrived above them.

When I began ascending the slopes of the hillside, I noticed something interesting. When I first saw the pile of straw, I thought that it was hay and perhaps a camper on horseback had dumped it for his animals. But then I saw it further up the hillside, and then I noticed it everywhere. Literally, the entire hillside was covered with patch upon patch of yellow straw. Baffled at first, I assumed that it was some sort of wild grass that had died during the fire and had now dried in bushels, lying where it perished. But then I observed some on the boulders and even a clump gathered in tree branches. Then I surmised that it must have been spread by helicopter, probably to cover new seedlings.

I searched the ground for any new treasure that might now be visible, that was once covered for years and years by foliage. I've heard of forest fires unveiling arrowheads and Indian artifacts in areas where those things exist.

Perhaps a snake would slither around without covering. In all the crags that were once hidden, I now peeked inside with curiosity. What about mountain lions or bobcats sheltering in the cavities of these rocks for shade? Now all were exposed. I saw neither snake nor cougar nor bobcat.

I did see a few chipmunks and a couple of lizards. At one time a large hawk sailed and landed on the branch of a tree near where I sat, but then took off quickly when I jerked back to look at him. I spotted three does that hurried away when they heard me coming, as well as a tiny fawn with spots still on her back. I got rather close to the fawn when she sprang up and bounded down the hill.

As dusk approached, I knew I was still some distance from the truck. I came across a large fresh print in the dirt that looked to be similar to the shape of my hand, only slightly bigger, and with claws. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck bristled stiff.  Yes, I concluded, there certainly is life after death in the forest. I quickly transferred my pistol from backpack to front pocket and hurried down the hillside. ♠