My Daughter, the Doodler

In our home we tend to have a lot of notebooks. Some are for school, others for personal use. They may be used as a diary, for class notes, shopping lists and so on. With our older notebooks, there is usually one common denominator: at one time or another Brittany “borrowed” them to doodle. 

Now that she's been gone for ten years, this has been a blessing. Every time I open a notebook and find a sketch of the Eiffel Tower or a poodle, it always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eye. 

Between writing stories and drawing random pictures, she left treasures behind everywhere in our home. Her bedroom, which has largely been left untouched since her passing, is a trove of artwork. School projects remain on the wall. Pieces of loose paper or 3x5 index cards sport fancy little drawings. Of course, she owned several notebooks of her own, each displaying her skills. And then there's her journals. She didn't just write her daily events, she drew them. 

Last year I conceived the idea that I would pore over all those notebooks, scour her room looking for those stray pieces of paper, and dig through her journal to collect her drawings. Then I would capture the images with a camera. It has taken me a while to get around to it, but the last two months have been a pure delight, coming across memories that I hadn't recalled in years, and discovering new snippets I had never known. 

One such discovery was a book she wrote and illustrated. It was a retelling of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. The most touching part, however, were the words on the inside flap: “For my two little sisters, Jenna and Savanah. I hope you both love reading this book or having it read to you!” Jenna is now 19 and Savanah, 16. It was as if their sister in heaven had written them a book. 

As parents, it took a while to realize that Brittany's doodling was healthy. In the beginning, when she doodled at school or church, she would get in trouble because we felt she wasn't paying attention. But then we learned that she was paying attention and if she were allowed to draw while listening to a teacher give a lesson, then it would help her focus. 

One of the amazing things about her drawings was that she never needed a reference point. Jenelle recalls one evening when she needed to draw a picture of a Confederate soldier for school the next day. She went in her room and ten minutes later came out with a perfect picture. She didn't need to go on the internet or look in a book to know how to draw it. 

Most of her artwork reflected herself and her real world, as well as her fantasy world. Common themes included girls, fairies, poodles, friends, cousins and anything to do with France, especially the Eiffel Tower. 

A couple weeks ago I was fortunate to meet up with one of Brittany's best friends. Ame is now grown and married, but back in the day they had a playhouse in Ame's backyard. In the playhouse was a fridge and the rule was that anyone who came inside had to write something on the fridge with an erasable marker. Brittany scribbled some words, then drew a picture of a beautiful girl in a pearl-strap dress. Ame's family never erased the drawing. Ame shared that story with us and sent us a picture. What a delight to come across another little treasure! 

For the most part, Brittany's drawings were never official pieces of art, but just doodles. Exceptions usually came in the form of assignments or contests at school. One such project was a “Peace Poster Contest.” Brittany spent time on the computer studying different flags and peace symbols from around the world. She then proceeded to create a drawing that included the Eiffel Tower, a pyramid, the Taj Majal, Statue of Liberty, peace symbols and flags from around the globe. The crowning feature was two doves with their tail-feathers intertwined in such a fashion to form yin and yang. 

The contest was held on a city-wide basis and she won second place. It was only two months before she passed. Now the poster sits behind glass and is on display in Jenelle's room at the elementary school. Young kids come in all the time and are fascinated by the poster. 

Another drawing we are fond of is that of an angel. Brittany drew it for her friend, Lauren. The angel sits atop a cloud with a large crescent moon behind her. A four-point star hangs from the moon and a small bird stands atop one of the points. We didn't know that Brittany had drawn this picture until Lauren showed it to us after she died. She made us a copy and now it is embedded forever on the corner of her headstone at the cemetery. 

It's hard to know what would have become of Brittany had she lived a longer life. She passed away just nine days after her fourteenth birthday. Would she have honed her skills and become a great artist? I don't know. Her greater passion, I believe, was writing. A lot of times her drawings were an enhancement to her writing. In addition to all those doodles scattered around our house are page after page of mostly fantasy stories that she began to write . . . some of them ending abruptly in mid-sentence! As I combed through her room I found one such novella that was 109 pages long and unfinished. 

The legacy of Brittany lives on. Not only do we talk about her and reminisce on her life, but now others are benefiting in her name. Shortly after her death, my brother created a scholarship in her name at Southern Utah University. It is intended for freshman students in the college of Performing and Visual Arts and is called the Brittany Lacy Memorial Endowed Scholarship. It has been a pleasure for Jenelle and I to attend banquets with the recipient of this award. 

As you read this post and look at some of our favorite doodles, I hope you feel just a little bit closer to Brittany. Left behind are gems and jewels more valuable than a chest of gold. My advice to all of us is that we look around and recognize the value of our riches. Not the wealth of the world, but the worth of souls. ♥

 

 

The Vision of Samuel Orton

Samuel Taylor Orton was no stranger to divine manifestations. In 1856, as part of a handcart company crossing the plains, he became sick and fell behind. All at once a voice spoke to him and asked, “Samuel, are you here?” He answered,”Yes, I am here.” But when he turned around, he saw no one.

This experience got him thinking and he asked himself, Why am I here? He wanted to know if the cause he was walking for was a true cause. Just a year earlier he had been baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Now was a time of reflection. Did God the Father and Jesus Christ really appear to Joseph Smith? Was Brigham Young his true successor? If these things were true, Samuel determined he wanted to see a halo of light around the head of Brigham Young when he arrived in Salt Lake. 

He regained strength and was able to catch up with the rest of the company. They soon met with a team from Salt Lake who brought them flour. This helped immensely as they were all on rations and very hungry. They successfully made the rest of the journey. 

They arrived October 5th. The following day was conference and they met in the old bowery. Samuel took his seat and watched the people coming in. Then he saw President Young. Rays of light surrounded his head, just like he had envisioned on the plains. Even the brethren next to him had a faint halo about them. Then he heard the same distinct voice he had heard on the plains: “Now Samuel, if you ever apostatize, here is your condemnation.” 

Samuel Taylor Orton.

This was a powerful witness that stayed with Samuel his entire life. 

During that same month Samuel made the trek to Southern Utah in company of Joel Hills Johnson, who would become his future father-in-law. He lived and worked with Brother Johnson for eighteen months.

In the spring of 1858 he moved just a few miles northwest to Summit Creek where he and other single men took up farming ten acres. They were the first men of European descent to settle in that place. 

It was here where Samuel had his marvelous vision. The account is stated in his own words: 

“One day while I was plowing in the field, my oxen stopped suddenly and refused to go any further. No amount of persuasion, coaxing, or whipping did any good. So I finally unhitched and went home. The next day I started again, and when I got to the same place, they again refused to go, so again I went home. The third day I went again, determined that nothing would stop me from doing my work, but when we got to that same place, again I was stopped and I was rather provoked, so I went up to see if I could persuade them to go by leading the leaders. When to my surprise I then beheld a great battlefield with men fighting hand to hand. I recognized at once the Nephites and their colored brethren the Lamanites that I had read about in the Book of Mormon. I was convinced that we were standing on the battleground where they had a great battle. After the vision passed, my oxen plodded along without any further trouble.” 

Final Nephite Battle by Jody Livingston.

The location of the vision took place near the Summit Cemetery in Iron County, obviously many years before it became a cemetery. Even before I heard this story, I was told that the cemetery stood atop an ancient Indian burial mound. 

The cemetery is small and now has grass. There are several burials from the 1800's, the oldest I could find was 1864. There is a distinct mound in the middle of the graveyard, upon which there are several headstones. I don't know if this is the burial mound referred to by early settlers. There is no doubt that this entire area is hallowed ground. 

That fall Samuel Orton built a dugout where he spent the winter. The following spring he built a modest cabin. During that same season three families came from nearby Johnson's Fort and settled along the creek. That was the beginning of the little town of Summit. 

In November of 1860, Samuel would marry Julia Johnson, the daughter of Joel Hills Johnson. Thus began another saga, one which would take a tragic twist. Of this story I will write later . . . ♠ 

 

Summit, Utah Cemetery.

 

 

 

Sources 

“Samuel Taylor Orton (autobiography),” Family Search, online. 

Samuel T. Orton, “The Testimony of Samuel Taylor Orton,” handwritten ms. in the possession of decedents of A. Hills Orton, youngest son of Samuel; transcript available online at Family Search.

Thai, the Tuk-tuk Driver

We planned on spending the day on-foot, exploring Phnom Penh at our own leisure. After tramping along the wide Norodom Boulevard, we came to our first obstacle. The gigantic roundabout at Independence Monument spanned at least three lanes and vehicles zipped around at a constant pace. Crossing it would be a challenge. We stood at the corner sizing it up and deciding our next move. 

Much to our surprise and unsurprise, a tuk-tuk driver pulled to the side of the road and asked in broken English where we wanted to go. I pointed across the roundabout at Wat Langka, one of the many Buddhist temples in Phnom Penh. He shook his head. “This one,” he said, “only for monks. No for public.” 

And then he gave his pitch. “I take you for three hours, five places.” He pulled out a laminated sheet of paper that had pictures of all the places he had in mind. 

“No, thank you,” I said. “We just want to walk.” With two fingers I made a walking motion just to make sure he understood. This was our first morning in the city and I just wanted to be left alone. We were one of the few foreigners and I knew we had a bulls-eye for anyone trying to make a dollar. 

As if he were anticipating our next step he added, “Royal Palace, no open. Closed for pandemic.” Well, that's a bummer, I thought. What other bad news does this guy have?  “What's your name?” he asked. I gave him our names. Then he put forward his hand, “My name is Thai, like Thailand.” 

In my mind I was conjuring up another excuse as to why we wanted to go it alone, but then it dawned on me. Why am I fighting this? This guy knows far more places than I do and he can drive us there faster than we can walk. Am I just trying to save thirty bucks? 

I took another look at his laminated sheet of paper and this time I took note that there were several places I hadn't ever seen on the tourist websites. It suddenly looked like a grand opportunity. “We'll do it!” I told him.⸺That was the best decision we made the entire trip. 

We climbed into the back of the tuk-tuk and Thai turned around with a big grin. “Very good choice,” he said. “You will be happy!” 

He proceeded to drive us around Phnom Penh, first stopping at the lawns of the Royal Palace. Even though it was closed, he allowed us to get out and take all the pictures we wanted. 

Then he drove across the river to the old Royal Palace where the kings lived 200 years ago. It was now abandoned. Next to the palace was an old cemetery. We got out and explored on our own while Thai stayed at the tuk-tuk and waited. 

I will admit that on that first day we didn't pay close attention to Thai. Although he was super nice, I considered him as some guy who would drive us around for a few hours, and that we would never see again. He looked like your typical Khmer with a slender build, dark hair and brown eyes. He wore a light brown plaid shirt, blue jeans and crocs. The most noticeable thing he always wore, however, was a big smile. 

After three hours of visiting Buddhist temples, feeding monkeys and giving piggy-back rides to Cambodian children, we were well-satisfied with our time. Every place but one was a place we had never considered. Thai had won our favor. 

During the drive back to our hotel, Jordan and I devised a game plan. Tomorrow we had two places, both out of town, that we wanted to visit. It would be ideal to already have a driver lined up to take us. As we disembarked at the hotel, Thai readily agreed to drive us again. 

He promptly picked us up at 9 o'clock. In fact, he was in front of our hotel ten minutes before the hour.

For the next hour and a half we sat in the back of the tuk-tuk with a gentle breeze blowing at our face. It was a pleasant experience as we rode with the traffic, albeit at a slower pace than the cars. Little by little the bustle of Phnom Penh faded away and the countryside now became our venue. 

Along the way, Thai stopped at a gas station to use the restroom. What we saw next was a surprise. He got off the motorbike and as he walked toward the restroom, we saw that he walked with a huge limp. His right foot, it appeared, pointed outward and was stiff like a board. The poor man was partially crippled. We could see that it was difficult for him to walk. Now we understood why he chose to wait at the tuk-tuk yesterday while we walked around. 

We arrived at a large lake called Tonle Bati. A row of nearly empty wooden huts on stilts sat along the shoreline over the water with small dangling bridges leading to the huts. After relaxing in one of the huts it was decided that we would go on a boat ride around the lake. Since there were only two of us and the boat had room for more, Thai asked if he could come along. Of course I said yes, and at that moment we could see a sparkle in his eye and the exhilaration of a child. 

You see, even though Thai had driven people to this lake before, he had never been on the boat. Even though he lived only a couple hours away from this beautiful place, he could never afford the ride for himself. 

As the driver shuttled us on the water, Thai pulled out his phone and face-timed his daughters. “Look where I'm at!” he said in Khmer. He turned the phone around so Jordan and I could wave to his daughters. It was quite a touching moment. 

The boat ride was a good place for conversation. Although his English was broken, he still spoke well enough to get across his idea. We learned many things about Thai. 

First we learned that he had polio, and that was the reason for his crippled leg. He has five kids and lives in a tiny house. He sleeps on the floor and showers outside using a bucket. He used to own his own tuk-tuk, but during the pandemic he somehow lost it, and now he has to rent one. 

He works hard to make a meager living. He works seven days a week until 9 or 10 in the evening. After work he might read a book or drink a beer. He lives about 8 kilometers out of town and it takes him an hour to drive home. 

He likes both Trump and Biden, but not his own government. He feels his government has done nothing for the people. Nothing has changed in thirty years. 

During our boat ride we stopped at the other side of the lake to walk around an old Buddhist temple and cemetery. Thai, of course, stayed with the boat. It made me think of the unfortunate hand he's been dealt. Not only was he dealing with physical limitations, but also limitations due to the country where he was born. 

After our visit to the lake we drove back toward Phnom Penh. Our second stop would be at the Killing Fields. Anyone familiar with the history of Cambodia will know the devastating story of the Khmer Rouge and the Cambodian Genocide. 

Led by a communist dictator named Pol Pot, over two million people—nearly a fourth of the population—were killed. This happened in the late 1970's. Many were captured and taken to the S-21 Prison in Phnom Penh, then transferred to the Killing Fields where they were executed. 

By this time we were taking a liking to Thai and wanted to support him and his family. We decided to have him take us around the following day, which would be our final day in Cambodia. We had no idea where to go, so we received suggestions from him. 

Once again, promptly at nine o'clock, Thai met us in front of our hotel. It was decided we would go to Oudong, the old capitol of Cambodia. On this day we didn't have many long conversations with Thai. The drive lasted two hours, most of it pleasant except for a brief stint spent in a traffic jam just outside Phnom Penh. 

When we arrived he stayed at the tuk-tuk as usual while we spent a couple hours exploring a small mountain filled with temples, stupas, monks and monkeys. In the end we came off the mountain and found a cemetery tucked behind a monastery. 

Before we left I knew I wanted photos with the three of us. Thai summoned another tuk-tuk driver to take our picture. Thai also wanted to be our friend on Facebook. He pulled out his phone and surprisingly I was able to find my name with a search. This was when I learned that his full name was Thai Son. 

But I also had one last question on my mind. Was he affected by the genocide? 

The atmosphere immediately turned somber and he turned around to face us. We learned that both his parents and a sibling were killed in the genocide. He doesn't remember them. He was just a baby. He was placed in an orphanage where he lived for fifteen years. He said he remembers going to the Killing Fields when he was ten and crying because he was sad. His finger touched his face just below his eye to indicate a tear. He did not know his original name. “Thai” was given to him at the orphanage. 

What a sobering note to end our tour. It brought the genocide closer to home. It also made me wonder how many others were directly affected. 

As I write this I sit at my computer over 8,000 miles away. Thai has reached out on Facebook and we have had a couple small interactions. I will admit that I feel a twinge of guilt living a life of prosperity and in a place that has been relatively peaceful during my lifetime. We have had our share of trials, but nothing near what the entire Khmer people have had to endure. 

But Thai kept a smile. He always seemed to be happy. Although his life situation may somewhat limit him, he had a positive attitude. He had a simple life. He made the most of what he had. There's a lot to be learned from him. ♠ 

Too Little Time in Tokyo

The Tokyo Skytree as seen from the Asakusa District.

As we descended toward the land of the rising sun I looked out the window and watched the morning's first rays dance on the clouds. Mount Fuji rose majestically toward the sky. Ahead of us we had an unknown adventure.  

We had never attempted a stunt such as this, nor did I think we could pull it off. We had an 8-hour layover at Tokyo's Haneda Airport. Our goal: to visit Sensoji Temple in downtown Tokyo. 

We weren't even sure if we were allowed to do this. I had received an email stating that if we were in transit, we had to stay in the airport. Upon landing the announcement over the intercom stated something about quarantine. Making matters more complicated, Japan had only been open four days after being closed for over two years due to the Covid-19 pandemic. The deck was stacked against us. My plan was to find an employee who could speak good English and ask them flat out if our plan was even possible. 

We landed, strapped our bags over our shoulders and as soon as we exited the plane I asked the first employee: “We have a long layover. Is it possible for us to leave the airport?” ⸺Everything was lost in translation. I was 0 for 1. 

Shortly afterward I became 0 for 2. I was becoming hopeless as we made a long walk down the corridor and passed through security. Surely now we couldn't go back. But I asked one more person, a friendly-looking Japanese girl. At first she didn't understand, but when she did, she smiled and led me to where I needed to go . . . all the way back at the beginning! 

This is not a narrative about being trapped inside Haneda Airport, so I will not bore the reader with those details. To sum up, we spent over two hours trying to leave the airport. Part of it was spent cutting through Covid red tape. Most of it was wasted waiting in a long line at Immigration. We also exhausted valuable time searching for a place to store our luggage. 

Catching the train to Asakusa.

At last we found ourselves in front of a confusing kiosk selling train tickets. Honestly, the kiosk itself wasn't confusing. It was the sheer amount of options that was overwhelming. Luckily for us, a friend of mine who is a Japanese expert coached me through the process before our trip. He also gave me a 10,000 yen bill. 

We found Asakusa Station and purchased two tickets for ¥530 each. We descended the escalator and found the correct train (not the one going to Yokohama). Within minutes we were on the Asakusa Line, speeding into town. 

Although Jordan was half asleep from getting little rest on our previous overnight flight, I was excited for him because this would be his first true subway ride. The train to Asakusa was overground until Shinagawa Station, then it went underground. 

I enjoyed the overground part. We peered out the window at the tall buildings and spotless city streets. Occasionally we spotted a religious shrine surrounded by a cluster of trees. Twice I caught a glimpse of a cemetery, both with narrow tall headstones in the Shinto style. 

There wasn't a speck of trash or even dust on the subway. Although plastic rings dangled from the ceiling for hand-grasps, at this time of day the coach was scarcely crowded. Everyone minded their own business and sat quietly in their seats. Most looked at their phones except one lady who had a laptop. 

Beautiful Tokyo.

It took us 45 minutes to arrive at Asakusa Station. We followed the signs for exit A4 through the underground labyrinth and up the escalator until we emerged into downtown Tokyo. After all the struggle and stress, here we were! We emerged onto a narrow pedestrian street. It felt as if we were on a side-street in Disneyland because everything was so meticulously clean. Across the way I noted a ramen shop. 

It wasn't long before we came to a major roadway. From here there were countless people on the sidewalks, but scarcely a vehicle on the road. Off in the distance to our right we could see the iconic Tokyo Skytree, the tallest tower in the world and over a third of a mile high. A rickshaw puller conveyed a stylish couple in a two-wheeled cart. Those on the side of the street waited patiently for the light to change before they crossed the road⸺a stark contrast to the chaos of Saigon. 

Kaminarimon Gate leads to the Sensoji temple grounds.

Nakamise Street, a popular shopping road in Tokyo.

A couple enjoys a rickshaw ride.

We now came to Kaminarimon, or Thunder Gate, the portal that would lead us to the temple complex. A giant red lantern hung from its beam. Throngs of people were everywhere as we passed through the gate and walked along Nakamise Street. This pedestrian walkway was full of shops, all selling traditional souvenirs, toys and food. Nakamise is one of the oldest shopping streets in Japan. It is said that in days of old, locals were given permission to open up shop in exchange for cleaning the grounds.

We observed the people. Some were robed in traditional Japanese dress. Some of the women adorned themselves in kimonos. We saw one lady dressed as a Geisha. It was a sight to behold. Families walked together, parents holding their child's hand or carrying them on their shoulders. People were polite. There seemed to be a natural organization to things. 

Family walking in traditional dress.

The elegance of a Geisha.

Tokyo street art.

This was a place of worship. They had many rituals I did not understand. Some gathered around a cauldron of incense and waved smoke onto their face. 

We now stood at the entrance of the Sensoji Temple, an iconic structure that is one of the most important in Japan. Sensoji is a Buddhist temple and contains the statue of Kannon, a Bodhisattva in the Buddhist religion. The statue was found by two fisherman in the Sumida River in the 7th century AD. It was recognized by the village priest as a sacred figure. A shrine was built to house the statue and in subsequent centuries more was added to the complex. Much of it was destroyed in World War II, but later restored. 

We saw lines of people queued up to pay homage to the Bodhisattva. The devotees stood in line, and when they got to the front they tossed coins down a metal grate and made worshiping gestures by bowing their heads with hands clasped together. 

The Great Hall of Sensoji Temple.

A cauldron of incense.

Panorama of the Sensoji Temple complex.  Hozomon Gate on left, Gojyunoto Pagoda, center, and Grand Hall, right.

Gojyunoto Pagoda.

Much of the complex was closed to the public. This included the gardens and Gojyunoto, a five-story pagoda that contains Buddha's ashes. In spite of that disappointment, we were still able to enjoy the temple grounds, including a statue of Buddha. Hozomon, or the Treasure House Gate, is a double-decker gate similar to the Kaminarimon, and leads to the Great Hall, which is the building that houses the Kannon statue. 

We didn't have time to sit on a bench or soak up the moment. No. We had to keep moving. By this time we were getting hungry and it would have been ideal to sit down ad enjoy a bowl of authentic ramen. But we didn't have time for that either. 

Hozomon Gate.

Giant straw sandal on Hozomon Gate.

Buddha statue on the temple grounds.

At one point we wandered off the temple complex and onto the streets of everyday Tokyo. We didn't stay there long. We returned to the booths and vendors, this time to look for souvenirs. Jordan found a wall decoration and I a small replica of the Gojyunoto pagoda. We also bought two small bags of unfamiliar food, one that looked like different varieties of rice cake. 

We looked at the time and knew we had to start heading back. We walked one last time through the crowds of people on Nakamise Street and through the Kaminarimon Gate. 

Japanese treats.

Across the street I spotted a 7-Eleven. I was told by my friend that 7-Eleven is the best place to buy cheap, but filling food, including ramen. We entered inside the small convenient store where we found several unfamiliar cooking appliances and refrigerator sections filled with unknown food. I knew that this was my chance to try some unique ethnic food, but I just didn't know what to do. And, anyway, we didn't have the time for it. So we settled on a package of sushi that we could take back to the airport.

We returned the way we came, searching for the Asakusa Line and Haneda platform. Everything seemed easier on the way back. We paid ¥530 for our return tickets and entered the busy subway. This time there was no room to sit. We watched out the window as we came above ground, wondering what other adventures lied within Tokyo. I'm sure there were hundreds. 

Jordan hanging out on the subway.

Our total time on the street in Tokyo was only 1½ hours. In hindsight, we probably could have stayed longer and we should have sat down to a bowl of ramen! But like they say, hindsight is 20/20, and we had a flight we couldn't miss. 

We made it back to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I'm glad I can now say I've been to Japan, but really it was just a tease. I'll have to return and visit the country in depth. My curiosity has certainly been piqued. ♠

 

 

Shumway, Arizona

Old schoolhouse in Shumway, Arizona.

During the early summer of 1839 Mormon missionary, Elisha Groves, passed through the Wisconsin countryside. He stopped to visit a couple of men working at a sawmill. 

“What brings you to this part of the country?” one of them asked. 

“I'm a preacher,” answered Elisha. 

Half jokingly the other man asked, “What do you preach?” 

In a solemn manner Elisha answered, “I preach Jesus Christ by the power of God.” 

After pondering the preacher's statement, one of the young men replied, “That sounds alright. If you do that, we will listen.” 

Elisha Groves bore witness to them that the gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored to the earth and showed them a copy of the Book of Mormon. They were very interested and asked if they might read it. Elisha said they could, and also invited them to a meeting of the young church. 

Charles Shumway.

One of these young men was Charles Shumway, probably thirty-three years old at the time. He seemed very impressed with the message of Elder Groves and took the invitation to heart. He read and studied the Book of Mormon and prayed about it. He felt it was true, but was not one to accept things blindly.

During one of the meetings held by the Elders, a mob broke in and threatened to kill Elisha Groves. When Charles saw what was happening “it came to him all at once as if someone had spoken to him, that what the missionary was telling him was the truth, and that he must defend him.” 

Charles Shumway stepped between Elisha and the mob and said, “If you commit this terrible crime, it will be over my dead body!” The mob backed away, hindered in their purpose. Those in the little meeting were left in peace. 

Charles Shumway was soon baptized as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and never looked back. He became a strong and faithful member of the church and could be depended upon to carry out many difficult tasks as the young church pioneered westward. 

In the years that followed, Charles became a body guard to the prophet Joseph Smith in Nauvoo, and later led the first group of wagons over the frozen Mississippi River as they began their trek to the West. He arrived in the Salt Lake Valley two days before Brigham Young in 1847. In Utah he helped settle the Sanpete Valley, Payson, South Cottonwood, Mendon, Wellsville, and Kanab. 

In 1880 he moved southward into Arizona, following his sons who had driven a herd of cattle there the previous year. They lived in Concho, a small town west of St. Johns where the church had bought property. They began to have trouble with some of the Mexicans and Indians already living in the area so they decided to move again. 

Silver Creek as it runs through Spring Valley, now called Shumway Valley.

This time they moved further west to a place called Spring Valley, so-called because of the abundance of springs. He purchased land and water rights and this became home to two Shumway families. Charles built a house, constructed a gristmill, planted orchards and remained here the rest of his life. The town would later be renamed in his honor. 

To be sure, Charles Shumway and his family were not the first to settle on the banks of Silver Creek. The towns of Snowflake, Taylor and Shumway are all side by side, and all are along Silver Creek. James Stinson, a non-Mormon, had a ranch at the current location of Snowflake. He was bought out in 1878 by William Flake, a Mormon. James Pearce, also a Mormon, arrived six months prior to Flake and squatted on land at present-day Taylor. 

Old Shumway Gristmill.

Shortly afterward Pearce found some land a few miles upstream on Silver Creek that he felt could be irrigated. A man by the name of Felix Scott had a small farm there and Pearce traded it for two cows. The men labored to till the ground and plant what they could during the last few months of summer. They scooped out dirt and built a dugout. It was in that humble home that Elizabeth Pearce was born—the first baby born in the future location of Shumway, Arizona. 

Undoubtedly, the Stinson's, Pearce's and Scott's were not the first families here either. When the Denham family moved to Shumway a decade later, they lived in an “old rock house for a while which was in the lower part of the field near the old Indian ruins where a number of skeletons and pottery ha[d] been dug up.” 

Another old-timer had this to say about the previous settlers in the valley: “There were several large burial grounds which were the remains of what were undoubtedly fortifications. In the valley were also remains of an old canal along the hillside and ruins of an ancient village which had a considerable population at one time. The possibility has also been advanced that this valley had been a battlefield between warring tribes. The burial grounds had been violated by vandals searching for pottery which the Indians placed at the head of their dead and also by archaeologists who dug up the skeletons and used them for scientific purposes.” 

Concerning Charles Shumway, I couldn't find a lot of detail of his time in Shumway. He remained there for the balance of his life, except for a brief return to the Kanab area. Before his death he was ordained a Patriarch by Apostle Henry Smith. He died on May 21, 1898 and was buried in Taylor (because Shumway didn't yet have a cemetery) alongside his wife, Louisa Minnerly. In later years he would be joined in burial by another wife, Elizabeth Jardine. 

Grave of Charles Shumway in middle.  Wives Elizabeth Jardine on left, Louisa Minnerly on right. Taylor, Arizona Cemetery.

Charles and Louisa Minnerly Shumway.

The little community took on the name of Shumway in 1891. That same year they received a post office and a district school. The town sought to honor the stalwart pioneer that lived in their midst. The year before he died, Charles was celebrated as the oldest living survivor of the first pioneer company of 1847. 

Over the years new families moved into Shumway. Of interest is that of Llewellen and Sybil Harris. In 1895 they planned to move to Old Mexico, but after having issues at the border, they returned to Mesa, Arizona. Sybil's health took a turn for the worse, so they left the heat and headed for the mountains to a town called Linden. They lived there a few years while she regained her health, after-which they moved a few miles north to Shumway. There they built an adobe house and lived until Llewellen's death in 1906. The interesting connection is that Sybil was the daughter of Elisha Groves, the missionary who baptized Charles Shumway in 1839. 

During his time in Shumway, the following story is told of Llewellen: “The Indian missionary, old Llewelyn Harris, probably knew the Indians better than anyone. For many years he had labored as a Mormon missionary to the Navajo and Hopi Indians and was almost like an Indian himself. About once a year he would load his scrawny pony with camp gear, including such items as blankets and food, camp utensils with an axe and shovel and go off into the mountains or desert for days at a time. He would return with a sack filled with roots and herbs and under his direction his wife would concoct a number of tonics, bitters and salves which he had learned to make from the Indians with whom he had labored as a missionary. Many of these remedies were surprisingly effective in curing the aliments of the people.” 

Family of Llewellen and Sybil Harris.

Some of the best descriptions I found of Shumway in earlier days came from Albert Minnerly Shumway, a grandson to Charles. In his autobiography he states: “The small town of Shumway, where I was born, lies in a beautiful valley located on Silver Creek in northeastern Arizona. Unfortunately there is no record, and no one seems to know who discovered this valley. Whoever it was must have been impressed by the many clear sparkling springs of water which lined the stream from the point where it emerged from the canyon at the upper end of the valley to its confluence with Showlow Creek at the lower end of the valley. The length of the valley is approximately one and one half miles, while the width varies from about one half to one mile. Because of the many springs, the valley was first called Spring Valley. The settlement was named Shumway after my grandfather Charles Shumway who settled there in the year 1882.” 

Albert further expounded on the geography: “The town is surrounded on the east and south and southwest by a mesa or flat-topped tableland. This mesa was formed of lava and volcanic ash which ages before had poured from the butte, a small volcanic cone with an almost perfect crater in the top. This butte is located on top of the mesa, about one mile south and west of the valley. Silver Creek rises from a large and beautiful spring located about ten miles southeast of Spring Valley and just above what is now the Bill Bourdon Ranch. This ranch was at one time the headquarters ranch of the old Indian scout Croyden C. Cooley who lived there for three years before returning to his ranch in Showlow. The stream had cut a gorge through the tableland or plateau and the canyon was the part which lies between the Solomon Ranch and our valley. There were many holes in the rimrock on the east side of the canyon. These were called “devil dens” and the big boys loved to scare the small boys by telling them that the devil actually lived there and had been seen by them. 

“Half a mile to the north and slightly to the west on the road to Taylor is what we call Bald Hill, there being no trees on the slope facing the valley. This side of the hill was quite steep and was a good place for sleighing. The road passed over the top of the hill and it was here that we always looked for the first appearance of those whom we were expecting or any other traveler who might be coming our way.”

View of Shumway Valley.

After reading stories from some of the former residents, it was now my turn to give an accounting of Shumway. I have longed to come here. Charles Shumway is my great-great-great grandfather and I have always been interested in places connected with my heritage. 

The small community is located just a few miles south of Taylor. There are no businesses, but ample farmland and green pastures nestled inside a little valley. Silver Creek runs through the middle of the valley providing ample water for livestock and irrigation. 

Old Shumway Schoolhouse.

We stopped at the old schoolhouse. It has been restored in recent years. We peered inside the window and could see school desks and pictures on the wall, but the door was locked and we couldn't go inside. I secretly hoped that someone driving past would stop and offer to unlock the doors and give us insider tips on what to see. But that didn't happen. 

Our hotel in Taylor had an old brochure in the lobby that gave information on the schoolhouse. It gave two contact numbers: one for Barbara and the other for Shirley. I called both numbers, hopeful that they could let us in. Only one of the numbers worked. An old man answered the phone and when I asked for Barbara he paused and then responded, “She's been gone for two years now.” I felt bad and now realized that our brochure was out of date. 

But it gave useful information on the schoolhouse. It is the only brick one-room school still standing in Arizona. Construction began in 1900 and was completed in 1904. The bricks were made locally. The school bell rang three times each morning to announce the beginning of another school day. One teacher taught grades 1-8. The school was also used as a church and hosted community activities. 

Old bridge behind the schoolhouse.  Probably crossed Silver Creek at one time.

The school closed in 1947 and students attended class in Taylor. Over the years it sat in disrepair and it wasn't until 1997 that the process of restoration began. 

We walked around the building and imagined what it would have been like a hundred years ago. On the north side dozens of students have etched their names into the bricks. Some had dates and the oldest I found was from the 1930's. There was a horseshoe pit and old farm equipment set out for display. Behind was an old bridge that I'm sure crossed the creek at one time. A few cottonwood trees provided shade and a white picket fence surrounded the perimeter. 

One of many etchings on the schoolhouse.

Horses across the road.

Across the road some horses fed in a field. They didn't seem to mind when I took their picture. The roads in Shumway (there are only two of them) are narrow and see little traffic. 

We drove to the other side of Silver Creek and up onto the rim. It provided a great view and gave proof that it is a very fertile valley. 

We then took Shumway Road toward Taylor. I knew there was more to the valley that I just didn't know. It was hidden from my knowledge. Where did Charles Shumway live? Were there old buildings still here from the 1800's? Are there names carved into any of the rocks above the valley? 

As we drove past farmland, each was posted as no trespassing. Cattle grazed in pastures. Mailboxes leaned next to the road. A tire swing hung from an old cottonwood tree.—Who lived there? Were they Shumway descendants? I knew they still lingered because I saw the name on a billboard along the highway. Many of these questions I would never know, but was satisfied for now with my visit. 

Old tree with tire swing.

One of the earliest settlers of Spring Valley was Wilson Glenn Shumway, who was a brother to my great-great grandfather, Peter. Wilson moved to Shumway close to the same time as his father, Charles, leaving the little settlement of Concho where they had problems with Indians led by Geronimo.

Wilson raised his nine children in Shumway and remained there all his life. He lived on a small farm of 10 to 12 acres and had an orchard that produced tasty fruit. He was very involved in church and other civic responsibilities. 

Zane Grey, the famous Western novelist, used to be a frequent guest in the home of Wilson Shumway. Grey maintained a cabin under the Mogollom Rim and the stage route from the rail station in Holbrook to the Mogollom Rim passed directly through Shumway, and even more specifically, stopped right in front of Wilson's home. 

By this time Wilson was an old man and Zane was in the dawn of his career. They sat for hours on his front porch, Wilson telling stories of the Old West and Zane intently listening. 

Wilson Shumway and family.

In 1912 Zane Grey published his novel Riders of the Purple Sage, which was very disparaging toward the Mormons. Wilson was furious and felt Grey had betrayed him by misrepresenting the church. All of the kids greatly anticipated Grey's next visit, hoping their father would give him a tongue-lashing he would never forget. 

To their disappointment, the next visit from Zane Grey was a quiet one. They had a friendly conversation on the porch and there was no tongue-lashing to be seen. Wilson later said that Grey apologized to to him for saying so many mean things about the Mormons and promised to never do it again in any of his novels. 

Wilson lived another dozen years. His wife passed away in 1924 and he surpassed her by nine months. The night before he died he asked his son, Wallace, to come and release him with a Priesthood blessing. Three hours after the blessing he said, “Here she is after me already.” He passed away peacefully the following morning. 

Shumway Cemetery.

Grave of Wilson Glenn Shumway.

On the west side of Shumway, across the highway, is a small dirt cemetery nestled among the juniper trees and wild grass. There is a modest headstone which reads: “In Memory of Wilson Glenn Shumway, Born Manti, Utah December 6, 1850; Died Shumway, Arizona, April 19, 1925.” 

Wilson was one of the earlier burials in the Shumway Cemetery. Prior to this era people were interred at the cemetery in Taylor. 

It is interesting to follow the course of a people and of a nation. Small decisions affect an infinite amount of people forever onward. And so it was with Charles Shumway, when in 1839 a Mormon missionary passed through the Wisconsin countryside and stopped to visit a couple of men working at a sawmill. ♠ 

 

Decedents of Charles Shumway in front of welcoming sign at Shumway, Arizona.