Oh No, It's Over! . . . .

I have always loved Christmas. Growing up in Panaca, my Christmases were steeped in love and tradition. I remember my first Christmas as a wife. I worked so hard to replicate a Panaca Christmas. I decorated our little apartment and tree as near to what mother used to do as was possible with what we had. I went to the mailbox each day in anticipation of receiving my Christmas box from her filled with traditional goodies; suet pudding, fruit cake, pine nuts, and homemade candy. There was always something special she had made; a crocheted doily, embroidered dresser or table covering with a crocheted border, an afghan, or a set of kitchen towels.

I remember the first time my sailor husband had duty on Christmas day. It was incredibly sad for me. I was without family on Christmas day for the first time in my life. When we had children, I continued the traditions of my childhood. Several times when they were small, we were able to take them home for an old fashioned Panaca Christmas. I loved to decorate the "perfect tree" I had decorations for a blue tree with beautiful white spun glass lights and blue ornaments, a red tree with red ornaments and red poinsettia lights, a traditional tree with old fashioned ornaments and multi-colored lights, and always hundreds of icicles. I spent hours hunting for the perfect present for the special people in my life, both family and friends. Santa's gifts to my children had to be special. With all of this, we always remembered what the true meaning of Christmas was. We kept our Savior, Jesus Christ, in our lives and the lives of our children. The most important part of our Christmas celebration was our traditional trip to beautiful Balboa Park in San Diego to view the large Nativity scene that was always there.

So, when and why, when I loved it so much, did I begin to suffer from "after Christmas depression"? Perhaps, it was because I did love it so much and after all of the preparation, could not let it go. All I know, is that it would hit me Christmas night and it was unbearable. It became a joke with my husband and later with my children.

The day after Christmas in 1978, I forced myself to go to work at George's shop. I was supposed to be working, checking in a huge load of carpet and pad, but instead found myself struggling through my Christmas "let down" ( I hate the word depression) by writing the following poem:

TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS or IT'S ALL OVER BUT THE MESS

or IS THIS WHAT CHRISTMAS IS ALL ABOUT?

Twas the night after Christmas and all through the house,

was heard the unhappy mutterings of George's sweet spouse.

The stockings were scattered about with great flair,

twas obvious that St. Nicholas had recently been there.

The family was nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of Christmas still danced through their heads;

And Craig with his dog and George with his book,

had just settled down after one last long look.

When down in the living room there arose such a clatter,

George sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.

Away down the hall he flew like a flash,

tore open the door, as he heard a loud crash;

As what to his wondering eyes should appear,

but a frightening sight of one he held dear.

He quick looked around, then jumped in the air,

as she aimed a swift kick at the big easy chair!

More rapid than eagles, her laments, they came.

She ranted and shouted and called them by name.

"I licked! I stamped! I cleaned and shopped!"

I baked! I wrapped! I scoured and mopped!"

"To the line at the post office! To the dirt on the wall!

Now dash away, dash away, to the El Cajon Mall!"

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky.

So, up on the table top poor George flew,

dodging boxes and pillows and his Ina Mae, too!

And then in a twinkling, she came on the run,

he jumped and he ducked, but she still wasn't done;

As he drew in his head and was turning around,

down the top of the table, she came on the bound.

She was trimmed up with ribbons from her head to her toe,

and on top of her head perched a gleaming red bow!

A bag full of trash, she had flung on her back,

and she looked like a peddler just opening her pack.

Her eyes how they glittered! Her dimples weren't merry!

Her cheeks were like roses, her nose like a cherry!

Her droll little mouth was drawn up in a sneer,

and the look on her face struck his heart with cold fear!

The end of a candy cane she held in her teeth,

and tinsel encircled her head like a wreath.

She was waving her arms and kicking her feet,

and her body, it shook to some primitive beat!

She was stomping and kicking like a mean little elf,

and he laughed when he saw her, in spite of himself.

But, the glint in her eyes and the tilt of her head,

soon gave him to know he had plenty to dread.

So, he spoke not a word; but went straight to his wife,

gave her a hug as he said, "My dear, that's just life."

And laying his arm round her shoulders, he said,

"It'll look better tomorrow, Come, let's go to bed."

He gave her a kiss, to himself, loosed a sigh,

as her eyes filled with tears to begin a good cry.

"Having our children home made it a wonderful day,

remembering Jesus, watching Justin at play."

Then, you could hear her exclaim as he turned out the light,

"It was a Merry Christmas for all. I love you! Good Night!"

Now, 30 years later, Christmas 2008 is over. Thanks to Steve and Rhonda and the rest of our wonderful family, it was a beautiful day. I did have a few pangs last night, but I think I am finally getting a handle on my Christmas day "let down". After all, now I just go along for the ride enjoying all of the beauty of Christmas with little effort on my part. I just enjoy! And, thanks to Clement Clarke Moore who wrote the beloved poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas" so many years ago. I have used it as the format for my poem.

Christmas Memories . . . .

I wish these pictures were better. They are 63 years old and color film was not the best then. I posted them to show the large area of frozen pasture we were skating on. It is a very small portion of the frozen pastures that were our arena. This one is the first pasture on the right side as you are leaving Panaca traveling toward the Y.

These are the beautiful skating outfits mom made for Delores and I that I wrote about in my Christmas Memories. The other girls pictured are our twin cousins, Joyce and Janice Mathews. They received their figure skates and red and white outfits that Christmas, also. They were our favorite skating partners.

One of my earliest vivid memories of Christmas was the year David, Delores and I actually saw Santa Claus in our home. I don't know for sure how old we were, but from my memories of where we were sleeping, I think David would have been six, me four, and Delores two. We were living in the "Castle". The downstairs bedroom was mom and dad's and the three of us were sleeping in the little half room connected to it. We came home from the Christmas Eve program at the church, hung our stockings and snuggled into our beds. The Christmas tree was in the dining room. You could see it from our little room. We lay there too excited to go to sleep, watching the bubble lights that I loved so much, bubbling merrily away. I don't know if we ever went to sleep, but sometime later David came to my bed and told me Santa Claus was out there. Sure enough, we could see his shadow as he was placing gifts under the tree. David had asked for a red wagon and we watched with bated breath as Santa pulled a wagon, we were sure was red, over to the tree. We could see something in the wagon. He took it out and sat it under the tree and I was positive it was the doll I had asked for. Then he sat a big, colorful spinning top under the tree and made it spin around and around. We watched him fill our stockings that were hanging on the mantel and then he left. When we got up in the morning, there under the tree was David's red wagon, my doll, and the big spinning top that Delores had wanted. Even today, when people say there is no Santa Claus, I tell them there "Certainly is. I know because I actually saw him."

Christmas was special when I was growing up. It was full of traditions; making Gingerbread Houses, decorating sugar cookies, mother making candy, pine nuts, suet pudding, tarts, and her famous fruit cake.

The Christmas Eve program at the church was very special. We always hoped for snow. It was so beautiful to walk through softly falling snow to the church. The presentation of the Nativity was always special and very often I had a part in it. The singing of our traditional Christmas carol, "See The Camels Coming From Afar" by my cousins Bruce and Rulon Wadsworth, always followed the Nativity. I can still feel the excitement and the anticipation that built with unbearable sweetness as we sang "Up On The Housetops" and then as we sang "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town", Santa would burst through the door and we could hear sleigh bells ringing. As he brushed the snow from his beard, we would form a line for our turn to sit on his lap and tell him what we wanted for Christmas. I can still hear his jolly "Ho, Ho, Ho" as he handed us our bag of candy. Then, we would walk home through the snow and find the longest stocking we had to hang on the fireplace mantel. We would leave cookies and milk for Santa and go to bed. We would snuggle in our beds with the warm stove lid wrapped in cloth to keep us warm and watch the lighted angel on the top of the tree and the bubble lights as they softly glowed and merrily bubbled. We would be up way before it was light and the first thing we would do is look out the window to see if our lights were the first on the street to go on. We thought it was hilarious if they were. Then, we would run in to see what Santa had left for us. There was always an apple or an orange in the toe of the stocking, some nuts and candy; always a crystal candy Santa, reindeer, Christmas tree or angel, in red, green, or gold. Because we hung one of the long stockings we wore in Panaca's cold winter (and this was the only time we were happy about having to wear them), there was room left in the top for something special that mom always managed to find for us. It was a traditions for us to receive a book each Christmas. Usually one of the classic children's literature; Little Women, Little Men, Freckles, The Girl Of The Limberlost, The Call Of The Wild, A Tale Of Two Cities, and as Delores and I got older, a Nancy Drew Mystery.

We always received the one present of our dreams; the special doll was always there. When I got older, I remember my first pair of gold hoop earrings. There came the time when I began to know that mom and dad were paying for these things and I was amazed and touched that our Christmas could be so perfect when there was a large family and very little money. I realized that it was made possible by a mother who made dolls, doll clothes, stuffed animals, and designed and sewed the most beautiful clothes for us.

A favorite tradition that followed the opening of our gifts was a Christmas Concert by our dad. We would bring him his harmonica and he would play for us Christmas songs and several hymns and then he would end with a rousing and foot tapping rendition of "The Irish Washerwoman". He could really play that harmonica! Sometimes, Leo played along with him on the Jew's Harp. After that, we would don our jackets, gloves and hats, and those who played musical instruments would take the lead as we formed our Wadsworth Family Marching Band. We would meet Uncle Frank's family in front of our house, march the block to Uncle Lafe's home where they would join us, and then the several blocks to Uncle Earl's home (Aunt Dora), to be joined by their family. From there, we would make a circle around town, singing and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. It was great fun and a tradition that continued until World WarII when so many of our family members went to fight in the war.

Ice Skating was a favorite winter activity for the children and young adults of Panaca. It had been for as long as the town had been there. We had the perfect skating arena. The pastures on the west side of town would all freeze over. We used to laugh and say we could skate the entire 15 miles from Panaca to Caliente without ever having to leave the ice except to cross the highway several times. The biggest challenge was having to occasionally climb over a pasture fence, often with barbed wire on top. Crack the whip was a favorite sport we played while skating. We would build a bonfire on the ice in the center of a particular large frozen expanse. We would skate around and around and one by one, grab hold of the hand of the last person in line, making a long line, or "Whip". The oldest and biggest boys were always at the head of the line. The trick was to avoid being the last two or three at the end of the whip. It could get very wicked as the long line was cracked back and forth and the last two or three on the whip would be sent flying. I remember a couple of broken arms and a broken clavicle, a few chipped teeth and cuts and bruises. Our parents always told us, "No crack the whip", but we couldn't resist the excitement and didn't want to be labeled "chicken". Looking back today, I am amazed that nothing more serious happened.

We wore the ice skates that clamped onto your shoes. They were usually black. When I was 14, my dream was to have a pair of white figure skates, the boots with a toe pick on the end of the blade. I didn't think it could be possible as David and Delores also wanted them. Still, that Christmas I told mom that if I could just have a pair of those skates, I didn't need one other thing, not even candy. In faith, that night when I went to bed, I didn't hang my stocking. Christmas morning, I saw that my stocking hung on the mantel with the others and on top of the traditional candy and nuts, was a beautiful pair of white angora gloves, warm red stockings, and a red, blue, and yellow scarf. I was in heaven when I opened my gift and found a beautiful pair of white figure skates. It was perfect, I was ready to go skating! Then, Mom handed Delores and I each a beautifully wrapped box. I could not believe what was in it! Mom had made ice skating outfits for us. She had chosen a plush, brushed velour corduroy material. There was a short circular skirt with matching "panties" to wear under it, in red, and a fitted, long sleeved military styled jacket in a deep, almost navy, blue. They fit to perfection! We could hardly wait to go skating that day. Many of our friends were there with the new skates they had received for Christmas, but none of them had such beautiful skating outfits sewn so lovingly by their mother. It was a wondrous Christmas and I felt loved and very blessed.

Christmas 1956 . . . .

In 1956, we were living in Garden Grove, California. Paul had celebrated his second birthdy in August. Our beautiful dog, Duffer, a Border Collie-Shepherd mix, was four. He was Paul's best friend. George's mother was living with us.

I was pregnant and had a due date of December 23rd. Thinking there was a chance I would deliver early, I had been frantically doing my Christmas shopping. As if that wasn't enough, George's brother Jack had stopped by after a fishing trip with a huge tuna he had caught. The smell of the fish turned by stomach but I felt I needed to do something with it and so I had spent the whole day canning. When I finished, I decided I needed to clean my stove and oven. By the time George got home, I was feeling terrible and ended up rushing to the hospital. Thank goodness, Mom was there to be with Paul. We were so happy when the baby was born and Dr. Bartel told us it was a little girl and she was just fine. For being almost a month early, she wasn't as tiny as we had feared. She weighed just over 6 lbs, but by the time we left the hospital, she had lost several ounces. I was happy to be home and have our baby before Christmas.

Paul had told Santa he wanted cowboy stuff for Christmas because he was "a real cowboy". He also said he "needed" trucks and a train. He and George picked out the tree and brought it home. Paul was so excited to decorate it. I had always had a fetish about putting icicles on my tree. I used hundreds and hundreds of them and they had to be just right, starting from the trunk out to the tip of each branch. Needles to say, Paul did not put them on that way, but he was having such a good time I didn't have the heart to say anything. I waited until he finally went to bed and then I redid them.

Very early the next morning, we were awakened by a loud crash. We ran into the living room just as Duffer disappeared behind the couch. Paul was sitting in the middle of the floor with the tree tipped over and almost on top of him. There were some ornaments in a pile in the recliner and broken ones all over the floor. It seems he and Duffer had been redecorating the tree. Paul looked at us with a big grin and said, "Duffer did it. Bad dog!" But then, explaining it to us as only a two year old can, he said he wanted to see the angel on the top of the tree and so he was climbing up to it. It took us a while to get Duffer to come out from behind the couch. He finally came out with his tail between his legs, covered with pieces of broken ornaments, icicles, and pine needles. Poor dog, I think he actually thought he tipped the tree over.

I'm sure I remained calm?? We had to purchase some new ornaments and for the third time, I painstakingly placed the icicles on the tree.

It was a wonderful Christmas, though. Rhonda was a beautiful baby and we were so delighted with her. Paul loved his "cowboy stuff"; notice his hat, boots, and guitar. He also loved his train and trucks. Duffer was out of "the doghouse", and little Rhonda Loie was just loving the fuss we were all making over her.

The Great Store Caper. . . .

The Perpetrators in disguise.
L to R - Edna, Delores, Ina, Theresa,
Martha


The unsuspecting parents with
their children (David not pictured)


James and Lois cutting their cake
in celebration of 50 Golden Years.




Some of the innocent children
Back - Les, Matt,Felicia, Gordon, Susan,
Thea
Front - Rhonda, Shane, Lisa

Dad and Mom with the
Hostess and Host, Kathy and Leo



In 1967, the family of James Allen and Lois Stewart Wadsworth gathered in Panaca to help them celebrate their 50th Wedding anniversary. It was a beautiful, festive, and emotional celebration. The Open House was held at the old home, "The Castle", Leo and Kathy's home. Joined by his six siblings, they served as the hosts and hostesses for the event. The people of Lincoln County, other parts of Nevada, Utah and California, came to pay their respects to our parents. Letters and cards arrived from the State Capitol and from the legislative offices in Washington D. C. It made me realize what an important part of the history of Lincoln County and the State of Nevada this wonderful, stalwart couple were. Mom and Dad accepted all of the accolades and attention in their usual sweet and humble manner, but you could tell they were very touched by all that was happening in their honor.

At some point, before and after the festivities, their five daughters, Theresa, Edna, Martha, Ina, and Delores, found time to talk about the subjects close to our hearts. Under the spell that Panaca and the old home always held for us, we found ourselves talking about our love for all things Panaca and how life wasn't always fair. When our grandfather, Nephi John died, he had left no will and so his estate went into probate. He had a large family and it took a long time for it to be justly settled. The more we talked about it, the more unfair that "justly settled" seemed.

We were sad and dismayed at the condition of the wonderful little store that had been so much a part of the history of Panaca and the George Allen Wadsworth family. It had been boarded up for years and had been subjected to vandalism and other indignities. It had fallen into disrepair and neglect. Even though it had been operated as a family business by Nephi John and some of his children, eventually our father, James, became the sole proprietor and ran it for almost 20 years with the help of our mother and eldest sister, Theresa. Therefore, we reasoned, when the estate was settled, it should have gone to our father. It didn't, Dad's sister, Jennie Culverwell (older than Dad) who lived in Caliente, was deeded the store building and the lot on which it stood. It was never operated as a business again. It was boarded up with a treasure trove of wonderful antiques inside, many dating from the first days of the store's existence. It had continued to decay during those years. The sign, which had so proudly proclaimed it a part of the Wadsworth Family legacy and the history of Panaca, was hanging by a few nails on one side and part of it had fallen off and was heavily damaged. Aunt Jennie had died years ago.

You have heard the saying,, "Beware the wrath of a woman scorned!" We are talking five woman here. That is scary! And so, we plotted and planned. We were going to save some of those wonderful treasures before the thieves and vandals removed, or destroyed, what was left of them. We were going to save that wonderful sign. The first thing we needed to do was to gain entry to the store and see what was there.

We were each assigned a role to play. True to our reputations, Martha and I were appointed to be the "Cat Burglars". Our first assignment. . . .case the joint. The next day, at dinner time when we reasoned that most of the town's residents would be inside and Main Street would be virtually deserted, Martha and I donned our old clothes and sturdy shoes. We meandered aimlessly to the store, acting nonchalant and lazy. We were unable to gain entry through the door at the back of the store and were forced to go to the window on the side of the building, making us more vulnerable to being seen. This worried us a little, but we forged ahead. We were able to remove some boards and slither inside. Our first act, while there would be few people out and about, was to remove the sign and lower it to the ground. We made our way up to the attic and from the small window over the covered porch, attempted to gain access to the sign. Almost immediately, we hit our first snag. Two boys appeared in front of the store, standing in the middle of Main Street. To our horror, we saw that it was Matt and Paul. "Hey", yelled Matt, "Whatcha doin'?" "Can we come up?", hollered Paul. We shushed them and shooed them away, breathed a sigh of relief, and went about our business. We were carefully unhooking the sign and preparing to lower what was left of it to the ground, when the call came loud and clear from Paul, "We're going to come up and help with whatever you are doing!" "Or else", threatened Matt, "give us some money so we can go to the store before it closes!" We threw a few quarters down, lowered the sign to the side of the building, no easy feat for sure, did a quick look over the rest of the interior, and beat a hasty retreat before our nemesis made another appearance.

George's truck with an overhead camper, was going to serve as our get-away vehicle. We returned to the camper and called our sisters together. We told them what we had discovered in the store and related our experience in lowering what was left of the sign to the ground, where it was leaning against the side of the store by the window. We formulated our plan for the heist; Martha and I would continue our role as the cat burglars. Delores was designated as the driver of the get-away vehicle. Theresa was assigned as lookout number one and Edna as lookout number two. After dark, we would all get into the camper and Delores would drive us to the store, using a diversionary route. We would be dropped off on the street running along the side of the building. Delores would circle the block with her lights out, relying on what light was available from the street lights, and park just up Main Street on the same side as the store. Martha and I would immediately go to the side of the store where we had simplified our entry by leaving the window unbarred and open. Theresa and Edna were given flashlights, but cautioned about using them. They would be positioned in the empty field behind the store. Theresa would be at the back of the store and close to the street, midway down the field, and Edna would be close to the street at the end of the field. Their job. . . .watch for the "law" who, with all of the extra people in town, would be stepping up their patrols. In this case, the law was the notorious Sheriff Bicknell.

The teens and older preteens who would be in town in larger numbers, delighted in making mischief. They went out of their way to "outsmart" old Bicknell, as they called him, and were ingenious in their methods. Some of our own were included in that horde of mischievous juveniles. It would be embarrassing if any of them were up to no good while we were planning our own hiest. We had to be very careful that we were crossing all of our T's and dotting all of our I's.

If the coast was clear, the lookout's job was for Edna to hoot like an owl, one long drawn out hoot. Theresa, being closer to the store, would then hoot once to relay the signal to Martha and I, and loud enough for Delores to hear. If either of the lookouts detected anything suspicious, they would hoot twice and after a decent interval, two hoots would be relayed to us. If the law was spotted, the spotter would give three quick hoots. I want to say here that they had been practicing their hoots all day, and though Martha and I had not heard them, assured us they were confident their hooting was mastered to perfection.

All seemed to be progressing smoothly. Martha and I had covertly moved the sign closer to the street and were inside getting ready to set some of the antiques outside of the window. Then, Martha decided she wanted the wonderful old cash register and we lost precious time trying to move it. It was securely fastened to the counter which is undoubtedly why the previous thieves and vandals had been unable to abscond with it. (Thieves and vandals, I might add, who had no right to it??) Suddenly, we heard a hoot, and then two hoots, and then three hoots, and then four hoots. . . .four hoots?. . . .and then a virtual chorus of continuous hoots, sounding increasingly more frantic and wild. . . .What were those owls doing? We didn't have time to try and figure it out, but literally jumped out of the window, running before our feet touched the ground. We heard running and mad hooting behind us, which was accompanied by a weird sloshing sound. It seems, unbeknownst to our lookouts, that it was time for the field to be irrigated. The ditch at the end of the field where Edna was stationed, was full to overflowing, as was the ditch running along the street. The overflow was covering the field. It was dark and our lookouts were doing as they had been instructed, leaving their flashlights off. Edna stumbled into the ditch. Flaying wildly, she climbed out of it and plowed through the muddy field. Theresa started running toward Edna, then realized what she was doing, made an abrupt turn around, and sloshed through the ditch at the side of the street. They were wet and muddy almost to their waist, which explained the sloshing sound that was madly pursuing us.

At the same time that she saw a flashing light coming down Main Street, our get-away driver heard wild hooting and the pounding and sloshing of running feet. She quickly opened the passenger side door, started the truck and gunned the engine. As preplanned, the back door into the camper had been left open. Still hooting and with water and mud flying everywhere, the lookouts jumped into the cab of the truck. The burglars were racing to the back of the camper. Delores already had the truck in motion, leaving me to wonder if she had never heard that marvelous pledge, "No man Left Behind!" Martha jumped onto the bumper and with a mighty heave, Ina shoved her in, and with one foot on the bumper and Martha with a death grip on her hands, swung perilously back and forth as Delores tromped on the gas and took off. As we roared up the street, we heard Delores say, "I think you can stop with the hooting now".

Bicknell didn't catch us, if those flashing lights were even him, and two dirty, disgruntled and empty handed thieves, two tired, panicked, wet and muddy lookouts, and one frenzied, fired up and manically giggling get-away driver, were forced to abort their "Great Store Caper. It was such a perfect plan. . . .Where did we go wrong?

George wasn't too angry. It only took him two days to get all of the mud and water out of the truck and fix the door to the camper, and after he wrung a confession from us, he laughingly said, "Well, that was quite a "hoot", to say the least!" We still weren't done, though, as Martha and I had to sneak back to the store and make sure the window was closed and boarded up once again. Needless to say, we then laid low, kept our mouths shut (now, there is something to brag about) and didn't share the story of this "Caper Gone Wrong" with our families for quite some time.

The Amazing Pinion Pine Tree And The Equally Amazing Nut It Bears. . . .

Justin Paul Wimsatt


Thanks for the Pine Nuts
and the "Trip Down Memory Lane!"




A Pinion Pine Tree of the species that grows
on the Panaca Summit.

A close up picture of an open pine cone.



About ten days ago, I had a telephone call from Justin. He said, "Hey Grandma, I'm mailing you
some pine nuts. I'll be putting them in the mail tomorrow and you should receive them Friday or Saturday.' I was so excited when they arrived. They were very large pine nuts in the most beautiful deep brown and mahogany shades. I say "were" because I have already eaten all but a small hand full, and there were three very full zip lock bags.

When I was "Growing Up Ina" in the beautiful little town of Panaca, pine nuts were a normal part of my life. As a child, I don't think I realized what an amazing tree the pinion pine tree is, or what a delicacy the pine nut that it bears is considered. We just always had access to them. Referred to as "The Manna of the Mountains", in the history of the Southwest, the pinion pine tree (also called pinon or pinyon), grew in wild profusion on the summit going out of Panaca into Southern Utah. The species that grows there prefers elevations of 4,000 to 7,000 feet and likes a dry, rocky, alkaline soil. They are drought tolerant and can withstand fluctuations in the temperature. Among this species, a tree that reaches 35 feet can be often be found but generally they are much shorter, from 10 to 20 feet. They have a gnarled trunk and branches with bark that is irregularly furrowed and scaly. The pine nut is an important food source to many birds, especially the Pine Jay. Many animals, some large like the mule deer and black bear, forage for them. They are a healthy treat for humans, having more protein than any other nut. I have written in several of my stories of the pine nut's importance to the Indians of the American Southwest, as a means of sustenance and revenue.

Each year, Mom eagerly awaited the pine nut season. She had an uncanny sense of whether or not it was going to be a "good" pine nut harvesting year. In the spring when the trees started to bloom, she would ride to the summit and look at the trees. She could easily tell which were the male trees and which were the female, by the color of the blossoms. She would actually stake out areas where there were more of the male and female trees in close proximity.

When she deemed the time was right to start the harvest, we would rise early in the morning. Mom would have packed a substantial and delicious picnic lunch and would have plenty of water. We would have gloves, gunny sacks and tarps. Long sleeved shirts, long pants, and sturdy shoes, were worn to protect arms and legs from scratches and the sticky sap (pitch) of the trees. We seldom picked the cones. Mom preferred to harvest the nuts by gathering those that had fallen to the ground under the trees. From her previous scouting excursions, she knew which trees would have released the most pine nuts. It was a more painstaking chore to pick them up this way but you knew they were mature and you were leaving cones on the tree to assure that all of the pine nuts ripened. Plus, you avoided a lot of the sticky sap. Before picking up the nuts from the ground, we would spread a tarp under a tree and gently shake it. The cones that were mature and were open, would release many of the nuts that had not already fallen onto the ground. We would transfer them from the tarp to a gunny sack and then pick up those that were on the ground.

These were fun, joyous excursions. Often, Aunt Theresa would come from Alamo with our cousins. She would also have packed a picnic lunch and between the two there were many different and delicious foods to eat. Sometimes our Panaca cousins, Janice and Joyce Mathews, would join us. There was lots of love and laughter shared as we sorted the pine nuts under the shade of the pinion pine trees and huge boulders. We loved to watch the lizards and horned toads basking in the sun while the pocket mice, squirrels, chipmunks, and birds were busily doing their own harvesting around us. We would often see a family of owls nesting in one of the trees.

After we returned home with our harvest, one of the most delightful perks of our excursion took place as Mom roasted the pine nuts; the heavenly smell of pine and the outdoors which permeated our home as they roasted. Some of the nuts were stored raw for future roasting.

When I was in my teens, the "Pine Nut Bandits" were operating in large numbers. They decimated the pinion pine forest, destroying the trees and terrain. The BLM and local law enforcement agencies, working together with law enforcement from Southern Utah, did all they could to catch them and halt the destruction. It proved to be almost impossible. They would strike after dark, arriving in trucks and armed with chain saws. They would drive their trucks under a tree and cut off the entire top to get as many cones as they could, many of them not yet mature. Thus, trees were destroyed and pine nuts taken while they were far from being ready to harvest, with hundreds of pounds wasted. Large fines were levied if they were caught, but as most of these bandits came from out of state, few were. We watched large sections of the pinion forest destroyed and die before our eyes. It was so sad.

After I married and moved away, I eagerly checked my mail each day during the pine nut season. I knew that one day when I opened my mailbox, there would be a package from Mom containing a heavenly cache of pine nuts. Thanksgiving and Christmas always brought us pine nuts, suet pudding and lemon sauce, fruit cake, and peach melon and plum preserves. Those were the most precious of gifts; gathered, prepared, baked, and sent with love, by Mom.

AN ITEM OF INTEREST. . . .

I was looking through some of the old James Wadsworth Tribal Gazettes the other day for a piece of information I needed. While browsing the November 10, 1965 edition, I read this in Mom's news: "I have gone pine nutting some. Have picked up thirty-five pounds . I don't have that many left because I keep cooking some. I am going out today at noon for the first time this week. (Roxie Clay, Rachel, and I.)"

I am sure some of those thirty-five pounds were sent to us in California for Christmas.

ROASTING PINE NUTS THE LOIE WADSWORTH WAY. . . .

I have always roasted pine nuts the way Mom taught me; Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Spread a layer of pine nuts on the bottom of a cast iron skillet. Add water to come just to the top of the nuts. Add 1/8 to 1/4 cup of sea salt (personal preference). Place in oven and cook 15 to 30 minutes, size, thickness of shell and how done you want them, determining the cooking time. Check frequently, taking a nut from the center and checking to see if it is done to your preference. I like mine to be cooked to just seconds after the meat becomes translucent. Remove from oven and rinse with cool water to stop the cooking process. Drain and spread out on paper towels to absorb moisture. You can then place them back in the cooking vessel and return to the oven for a very few minutes to draw moisture from the shell (not long enough to further cook them). I like my meat soft. Some prefer to cook them to various shades of butterscotch. You will have more hard nuts at this point.

Talking to Paul the day I was roasting the pine nuts, he said he likes to go to the oven several times while they are cooking and open it, which lets that heavenly smell permeate the room. I agreed with him that it is a lovely thing to do.

HOW TO EAT A PINE NUT THE INA WIMSATT WAY. . . .

Throughout my 77 and a half years of life, I think I have become an expert on how to successfully eat a pine nut. If you watch George and I eat them, you will see that he does not have near the expertise in this field that I do (finally, something I do better than him!)

Here are my instructions of how to eat a pine nut; Grasp a pine nut by the small end between your thumb and forefinger. Insert nut into mouth. Fix your teeth a little below the half way point of the nut. Gently bite to crack the shell. Pull to remove the portion of shell held between your fingers. With you tongue, flip over the nut, allowing you to remove the remaining piece of shell while savoring the meat of the nut for a few heartbeats, until slowly and with complete joy, you chew and swallow. Often, with Brinton in mind (but that is another story), happily humming as you do so. If you have cooked them properly, this is a seldom fail experience.

I do have one fetish connected with eating pine nuts. I can't stand to waste one. If I accidentally bite too hard and cut the nut in half, rather than discard it, I find myself using my fingernails to open each half to get the meat out. Tedious, but I think each pine nut, regardless of how lowly, deserves their moment of martyrdom.

A GREENHORN'S PINE NUT EATING EXPERIENCE. . . .

I will end with this humorous story; After George got out of the navy, we were living in Garden Grove, California. George was working for his brother Jack, installing carpet. Jack and his wife Lee, were our nearest immediate family and we spent a lot of time at their home. We raved about pine nuts to them. They had never eaten them. One day, after a package containing pine nuts arrived from Mom, I excitedly showed them the nuts. Before we could stop him, Jack grabbed a hand full and popped the unroasted nuts, shell and all, into his mouth. He chewed and chewed while a slide show of expressions moved across his face. Finally, as we watched in awe, he gave a great gulp and swallowed. He grimaced and announced, "Well, I don't see what is so great about pine nuts. Eating them is not what I would call a pleasant experience!"

Thank you, Justin, for this "Trip Down Memory Lane".

Muggles and Grady. . . .BFF

The beautiful dog shown here with Muggles and I at Quail Run Dog Park is Grady, a Harlequin Great Dane.

Grady and Jillian, the young woman who owned him from the time he was a tiny puppy, always went to the park early in the morning. Since Muggles and I also go early in the morning, they soon became friends.

Grady was always a perfect gentlemen. He was gentle and well behaved. He was very old for a Great Dane, almost eleven, which is past the average life span for a Great Dane. One day I asked Gillian, "How old is Grady?" She looked at me and whispered, "He is almost eleven but we don't tell him that."

It was so much fun to see Grady and Muggles playing together. Their size and coloring were such a beautiful contrast. Gillian would throw a ball for Grady and Muggles would wait her chance to grab it and then just try getting it away from her, it was now her ball. Tease that she is, she would pretend she was going to give it back, but when we would make a move toward it, she would give a little growl, grab it and dash away. Gillian and several other people at the park, began to bring an extra ball so when Muggles grabbed one and ran, there would still be a ball for the other dogs to play with. Grady was very patient with Muggles. He acted like he didn't notice her running under his belly and in out of his legs. . . . it was her own personal obstacle course.

Sadly, Grady passed away a few months ago. But when it happened, he was doing what he loved the most; playing at the dog park with Gillian and the rest of his friends. He was so happy and there was no pain, but I was glad that Muggles and I were not at the park that day.

George printed these pictures for me today and I decided I would post them as a tribute to Grady and thank him for being mine and Muggles' friend.

Love Is In The Air. . . .Sweet, Sweet Love. . . .#3

The picture of Delores and I was taken in December of 1950 in front of our house. Oh No!, We're standing by Ollie's new Oldsmobile.

The picture of George was taken in 1948. What a hunk! You could drown in those eyes! We started dating soon after the picture was taken.

In Chapter 2, writing of my romance with George Wimsatt, upon the advise of my sweet sister Theresa, I had ignored the "take a hike" letter he had written me in February from Washington D.C. and replied with a friendly, "How are you?" I told him I would be returning to Panaca in a week. I did, and once again found myself waiting, with butterflies in my stomach, for his letter to arrive.

I settled in at the job I had waiting for me. I would be taking care of two little boys five days a week while their mother, Margaret Jones, worked. It wasn't a bad job and as I had been interviewed and hired as secretary to Esther Rollins, the Lincoln County Clerk, I knew it was only going to be for a few weeks.

I was glad to be home and soon settled into a routine; up every morning at 6:00 and to work by 7:15. My days were filled with all of the activities necessary to keep two little boys entertained and happy; food, play, food, reading endless stories, food, putting shoes and stockings back on several times an hour, food. . . . .Would nap time never come?

The highlight of each day was our walk after lunch to the post office where I eagerly looked into P.O. Box 72 for a letter postmarked Washington D.C. Each day was the same, no letter from George, making the walk home with two little boys dripping ice cream down the front of their shirts, unbearably long. I didn't give up, though. I mean, how could he possibly be so dumb? I never doubted (well, maybe just a little) that soon he would come to his senses.

One cold, windy February day , I had just put the little boys down for their nap, when I heard knocking at the door. I opened it, and to my heart racing surprise, Gino and George were standing there. We very politely exchanged hellos and a subdued "I didn't know you were back." Then Gino said, "We came to see if Wanda was here." Yeah sure, as if Gino, who had written Wanda every few days from D.C. didn't know that she was working in Caliente. I felt a sense of triumph when George, who had barely spoken to me, blandly asked, "Are you going to Las Vegas to the regional basketball finals this weekend?" With ideas already spinning in my head, I replied, also in a bland way, "Yes, I am." They left and I started formulating my master plan.

The previous December, I had sent some beautiful red and green velvet material home from Salt Lake City with a picture of a jumper, asking mom if she could make it for Delores and I for Christmas. I also sent some luxurious white satin and told her I wanted a blouse with long full sleeves to wear with it. I had purchased gold metal link belts and black suede duck bill shoes to complete our outfits (see above picture). I loved the finished product and felt very feminine and pretty when I wore it.

I wore my beautiful outfit to the game. I was with a group of friends and was very aware of George sitting in the bleachers several rows above me. I could feel him watching me and it took all of my will power not to turn and look up at him. I knew I looked good and was trying very hard to show him what a great time I was having and that I was not even aware he was there.

The game was exciting and intense. At half time, with our Lincoln County Lynx hanging on to a slim lead, I was exhausted from the frenzy and tension of the game and the effort of all of my dramatics (for George's benefit). I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and George was standing there. He said, "Can I come and see you Tuesday?" I said, "Yes." He walked away and feeling as if I was going to faint, I turned back to my friends.

I guess the second half of the game was as exciting and intense as the first half had been, but I was hardly aware of what was happening around me. There was a roaring in my ears that could not have been attributed to the excitement and frenzy of the crowd. It was taking all of my willpower to stay focused. I desperately wanted to turn and see if George was still there. When the game ended with the Lynx victorious, I finally turned to see George laughing and talking with Gino and several other friends. He looked at me and smiled.

With dramatics forgotten, I smiled back and prepared to return to Panaca where, with butterflies in my stomach, I would wait for Tuesday to arrive.

To be continued. . . .

A Story of Two Best Friends and the Family Who Loved Them. . . .

When I was a little girl and into my teens, Dad had an agreement with several sheepherders to allow them to drive their flocks through his range as they moved them from the spring and summer grazing pastures in the mountains and high country in Southern Utah and Nevada to their winter grazing and holding pastures in Arizona.

Those were exciting times for Delores, David, and I. Dad would go to one of his several range camps where there was water and fence. Usually, The Well, Sheep, or Uvada, to meet with the sheepherders who had become his good friends. Often, he would come home with one, or more, newborn lambs who would not be able to make the drive. We would bottle feed them and love them. They would sleep in a box, fixed snug and warm by Mom near the wood burning stove, until they were old enough to move to the barn.

One time when I was about 14, instead of a lamb, Dad brought home a puppy. He was a Border Collie, Shepherd mix. He was black with grey and tan markings. He had been born to one of the sheepherder's dogs during a drive.

My brother Leo, was home on leave from the Air Force and he named him Tony after his best friend, a member of his flight crew. Tony, given name Antonio, was a big, handsome, funny, and charming, Italian boy. Leo's last instructions to us were, "The next time I come home, I am going to bring Tony. No matter what you do, do not yell "Here Tony, Come Boy, Bad Boy, or any of those dog things." Well, we didn't take his advice, and to his and Tony's horror, we began hollering at Tony, at one time even referring to him as a very 'naughty dog'. Leo had to talk like mad to assure Antonio that Tony was named after him because he was truly "Man's Best Friend", loyal, loving, and very intelligent.

Tony had no professional training as a herd dog, but his instincts told him he was one and he had the herding dog's natural instincts. He went with Dad, Leo, and David when cattle were rounded up for branding, and was a help, but he was never more happy than when he joined us on our horseback rides. I can still picture him racing along at the side of a horse with his ears laid back and his long beautiful coat flying in the wind.

When I was in high school I was often teased by my friends because Tony rode standing on the top of Dad's old car, legs braced so he wouldn't fall. He adapted to the hot metal of the car in the summer and the slippery top in the winter. Of course, Dad didn't drive fast. I never knew when one of my friends would yell, "Here comes Ina's dad crawling down the middle of the road with that dog on top of the car! " Embarrassing, to say the least!

One winter morning when we were having our first significant snowfall of the season, I woke up early and went outside to watch it float down. On the porch, laying beside Tony was a beautiful sable and white Rough Coated Collie. He looked at me and wagged his tail. One of his legs had been chewed up and he had wounds on his head and ears with lots of dried blood. Mom and Dad cleaned him up and treated his wounds. Dad said he probably belonged to one of the sheepherders and had suffered the injuries and became separated from the flock during an attack by a wild animal, probably a Cougar, during an altercation to save a lamb or bring in a stray.

We always thought it more than happenstance that he came to the home of the man who probably knew his master and would be the most apt to reunite them. Dad knew, though, that with the coming of winter and the snow, they would have passed through with their flocks.

Not knowing his name, we called him Bruno. He and Tony became the best of friends. Bruno was a true working dog. He was beautifully trained and was the happiest when he was herding. He herded anything he could. He would go into the lot between the house and the corral and herd the chickens and ducks. He herded the pigs and the milk cows. It was not unusual for us to look out and see him with some chickens and two or three cows, bunched up into a group, with him circling around and around them. Tony would go with him and Bruno taught him some of the tricks of his trade. They herded us and our friends, nipping at our heels, all in fun, of course. Bruno joined Tony on our horseback rides and they were beautiful to watch in their enthusiasm and joy.

As winter faded into spring, Bruno became agitated and antsy, pacing back and forth on the porch, and sniffing the air. One day an old beat up truck stopped at our front gate and an old man got out, He called "Shep" and Bruno ran to meet him, almost bowling him over in his wild joy and elation. It was a joyous reunion and brought tears to our eyes. It was as Dad thought, Shep had been sent by his master to get a ewe who had just given birth. It was snowing, an early storm that was not expected. Bruno didn't come back. They decided he had been attacked, possibly even killed, by a cougar. They couldn't find him and had to move on.

The old sheepherder continued to make inquiries and had heard of a dog who showed up at "Jim's" home and had spent the winter and early spring months there.

Even though their reunion was wonderful, it was a heartbreaking moment for us, and Tony, when Shep was put in the back of that old beat up truck and they started to drive away. They hadn't gone far when Shep, our Bruno, jumped out of the truck and raced back, tail wagging a mile a minute, to lick each one of us and have a quick romp with Tony, before running back and jumping into the truck once again. I cried as they drove away. For several days, Tony was lethargic and sad, but soon he was back to his happy, carefree ways, racing beside us as we rode our horses through the country around Panaca. It was a fun, happy moment the first time we looked out and saw Tony attempting to herd some chickens and a couple of milk cows into a tight little group. The cows looked at him like he was crazy and the chickens "crow hopped" and fluttered away, making quite a racket. And somewhere out in the hills, Shep, our Bruno, was joyfully herding his flock of sheep and looking out for the tiny, newborn lambs.

1963 Reunion-The year I wrote CONTEMPLATION

1963
My parents - James & Lois Wadsworth
in front of the old Pine Valley Cabin

George & Ina Wimsatt

My brothers - Leo & David Wadsworth


Cousins - Rhonda Loie Wimsatt and
Lisa Kay Horlacher
Even then Rhonda was quite the little
cowgirl.


Sisters- Thea Ann Lee (Thomas) and
Marsha Lee (Somers)



Cousins - on horse - Kirk Jacobson and
Craig Wimsatt
Standing - Lft to Rt - Mike Wadsworth, Paul Wimsatt, Kent Horlacher, Gordon Wadsworth, Mark Horlacher

CONTEMPLATION. . . .

I wanted to post something this morning but find that the creative juices are not flowing, so I dipped into my store of already created masterpieces, and this is what I came up with.

On a day in 1963 when Ina's day seemed to be too short for what she had to do, and responsibilities seemed overwhelming, she took a brief respite and had a little fun.

CONTEMPLATION

I like to sit and contemplate upon my lot in life,

to ponder what I might have been if I wasn't George's wife.

I dream of being unattached to lead a life of ease -

a life where I can come and go and do just as I please.

I've often thought the life for me was that of a fat, old maid,

eating yummy slices of bread with peanut butter and marmalade.

But, when I think of Mom and Dad and the cross they'd have to bear,

to have me home year after year, would hardly seem too fair.

So, I let my thoughts drift off again to something much more daring,

than worrying about the fatty bulge and what I "can't" be wearing.

I think that I would like to be performing upon the stage;

with my loud, clear voice and knack for talk - I'm sure I'd be the rage!

The thought of starring in the movies, also gives me joy.

I'm sure I'd be another Liz with my own sweet "Dickie" boy!

Then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window pane,

"Ouch!" , I think, "Not even the Asp would bite a Marjorie Main!"

So, I think of simpler ways,

in which to spend my remaining days. . . .

Gee, how fun to be a female Tarzana of the Apes -

just swinging through the jungle eating purple wild grapes!

But when I had to clean my hut, this I would abhor -

seeing all the ugly spiders leaving dust trails on my floor!

I'd like to go to Africa to watch the wild game,

but, after climbing Kilimanjaro, I'm sure I'd be too lame.

Doctor, lawyer, stewardess, nurse -

Writer, beatnik, snatcher of purse,

Dancer, comedienne, Indian Chief -

This and that, and "Oh, good grief!"

Just when I'm exhausted and feeling blue,

I hear my baby whisper, "Mama, I love you."

George comes in and says, "Boy, do you look beat,

I think perhaps I should take the family out to eat!"

Paul and Rhonda rush around -

and bring my shoes on the bound,

Nana yips,

and out I trip,

and, so ends another day -

I think I'll quit while I'm ahead, and accept my lot in life,

and concentrate on being "just a better George's wife!"

The end by,

you guessed it! - GEORGE'S WIFE - Ina Mae Wadsworth Wimsatt

Do you realize how young I was when I wrote that? George's wife looking in the window pane that day certainly wouldn't see what she sees when she looks in it today.

And yes, my grandchildren are not too familiar with Liz, "Dickie" boy and the Asp, and I am sure none of them have a clue who Marjorie Main is. . . .but that was then and this is now!

Theresa and Edna's Memories of the N. J. Wadsworth Store. . . .#2

Theresa, the oldest of my four sisters, wrote of working in the store from the time she was in the 5th grade until she married and left home. She said, "It was often hard work and I wished that I could be out having a carefree good time with my friends, but I knew that I was needed there and that I was helping to insure that mom could run it when dad was gone. I enjoyed working side by side with my mother. I learned so much from her during that time. She was amazing."

Theresa often talked about Clara Syphus, one of the elderly women in Panaca. She said, "Clara lived alone in a little house that always seemed to be in need of repairs. Dad tried to see that these were done. Clara befriended stray cats and had many in her house and on her property. She often couldn't afford food for herself and yet would come into the store to get canned tuna for the cats. No matter how dad tried to talk her into a less expensive food for them, she insisted on the tuna. The end result was always that she left with it. He also made sure she had food for herself. Clara had a running bill at the store which dad never pushed her to pay. He would say to mom and I, " When Clara has a little extra, she will take care of it."

What I enjoyed the most was the quality time, one on one, that I got to spend with my father who was often gone from home. I was proud to see the love and respect he was given by the people of Panaca. The love given to him from the older people in town made me feel warm and happy. I loved his aunts, whom my siblings and I also called Aunt. Several of them were widowed and needy. Like Clara, he gave what would have been his profits to them, and made sure they had food and clothing. I especially enjoyed it when Chief Foster Charles and members of his tribe came into the store. It was heartwarming to see dad let the Indian children choose a candy stick from the jar on the counter. Their shy smiles and giggles were infectious. I think dad knew the store would never make him rich, but he ran it the way his heart dictated.

There were so many wonderful antiques in that little store. I loved dusting them and moving them around to make sure they always made an attractive display. As I did this, I found myself reminiscing about my ancestors and picturing them in the store looking at these very same items. These are all very special memories for me when I think of that little store."

Edna, 18 months younger than Theresa, was often baby sitter to David, Delores and I when Theresa and Mom worked in the store. She said, "Dad's country store was a haven for the lonely and the needy. He gave freely, whether comfort or sustenance. Dad literally gave the store away because he loved people and trusted them to do the right thing and pay when they could. He didn't press them, just grieved when they didn't. In essence then, he was paying for them.

I can still see, in my minds eye, each detail of that wonderful little Country Store. It had the usual porch across the front and the usual pot-belly stove with "fenders" to rest your feet on so one could tip their chair back. It had a deep cellar that kept the "soda water" cold and the perishable items fresh. It had a small walk in closet where fresh meat hung on wall hooks and the round balls of cheese were stored. There was a large cutting board on the front counter and a large knife. These things did not come ready packaged then. The store had an attic for storage where, way before my time, there was a corner sectioned off that held a counter and a small round table where "homemade" ice cream was sold. This was the towns first Ice Cream Parlor. I was told that ice cream could be purchased during the week only on a specified day. Back then, ice was cut in blocks from the reservoir and stored deep in sawdust or straw, in a protected building. It would last into the summer. Thus, the hand cranked machines could turn out ice cream even when the weather became hot. I go back far enough in years that I do remember what was probably the last ice storage of that kind in town. Dad stored ice for the store in huge blocks buried in sawdust in the cellar."

Edna also talked about the Indians and how they were part of the history of Panaca and the store when she was growing up. She said, "They would come to the store and stay almost the whole day. They would buy one thing at a time after long deliberations. Dad always ended up giving them things he knew they desperately needed for the papooses. The Indians were still doing leather and bead work. This took skill and great patience. They camped above town and stayed until the pine nuts were ready to harvest. They picked many pounds and cooked them over their campfires in big tubs. They wintered in another area and subsisted mainly from the sale of their pine nuts and handicrafts. I missed them when they left and looked forward to the day they came back."

Leather by George - MacFest

George is enjoying displaying his leather work at downtown Mesa's MacFest. It will run every Saturday from October through May. This picture was taken on October 4th, the opening Saturday of the festival, by the Arizona Republic and was published in the paper. There has been a lot of interest in his work. In addition to the Republic, he has been mentioned in the Mesa Tribune. Many people have stopped to watch him work and ask questions about leather working. They want to touch and feel his work.

He has wrist bands available for the children and they have been a big hit. They can choose what they want on it from his many designs, he then adds their name and paints it. In the picture he is finishing one with a Boy Scout design for a young scout.

Come and check out MacFest and watch him "work". It's fun!

George started doing hand tooled leather work in 1953. While in the navy during the Korean War, he was stationed at the Naval Training Center in San Diego. He wanted to get a job to give us a little more money. He went to the Hobby Shop on base and asked them if they needed any help. They asked him if he had ever done any leather tooling. With a perfectly straight face, he told them "yes". Maybe he thought banging the mallet a couple of times when he was a very young boy scout, counted as leather work. At any rate, they hired him.

At first he worked the counter; selling supplies, collecting payment, stocking shelves, etc. It wasn't long before he was actually tooling leather and giving lessons as if he really knew what he was doing. I guess he did as there were never any complaints. While working there, he made his first purse, a stirrup bag for me. It has Brer' Rabbit, from my favorite fable, tooled and painted on it and is finished with red suede. I still have it.

In the early days of our marriage, he would do a little leather work. He made wallets for Christmas presents, belts for him, Paul, and Craig, and a couple of purses for me. While running his business, he never really had time to work at it seriously. It became just a leisure hobby. As a long time Scout Master, he taught the basic steps of leather work to many scouts, and served as a Boy Scout Merit Badge Councilor for Leather Work.

It wasn't until he retired and we moved to Mesa that he had the time to really work at it. Still, it was just a hobby, making gifts for family and friends. After we had been here several years, I talked him into entering a piece of his work at the Arizona State Fair for judging. That very first entry won a Premium Blue Ribbon for first place. For the next few years, he entered one or two pieces and received a ribbon on each piece he entered; first, second, third, or honorable mention. He realized he was good at this, and he was hooked!

Now, he would like to make people aware of what is involved in tooling leather. With so much commercial work being sold where the designs are stamped on and much of the finish work is done by machine, hand tooling and finishing, is becoming a lost art. To keep it alive, and because he enjoys it so much, he will continue with his leather art. MacFest is his first venture in taking his work to an Arts Festival.

N. J. Wadsworth and Sons General Mercantile. . . .#1

My father, James Allen Wadsworth and his father,
Nephi John Wadsworth, proprietors of the store.

Ina and Delores on Pardner in the shade at the side
of the store. Beans is laying under one of the trees.

It is a giant stretch for me to get into the saddle, but
I refused to let anyone help me. I think Delores is
upset because I insisted I go by myself.

We were wearing sunsuits mom had made for us. I think I was 6 years old in these pictures.


My grandfather, Nephi John Wadsworth, was very active in the spiritual, cultural, and political affairs of Panaca. One of his positions was as a trustee to the Panaca School district. While serving in that position, he sold the old Wadsworth Store building to the school district to be used as an addition to the grammar school. It had been sitting empty after his brother James Allen, who built, owned, and ran it, died. When the new cement block school building was built in 1909, Nephi bought it back and with his sons, restocked it. Running it became a family affair, and once again, it was serving the people of Panaca and the outlying ranches. The sign that hung above the porch, under the attic window, boldly stated that it was the N. J. Wadsworth and Sons General Mercantile. On the reverse side was printed: Mitchell Wagons - Hay, Grain and Stabling.

In 1922, several years after returning from serving in the Infantry in World War 1, Nephi's son, my father James Allen, took over the store and in addition to his farming and ranching, school teacher, senator, and chairman of many state and national committees and organizations, he became proprietor of the store. He ran it until 1941. My mother and oldest sister, Theresa, worked with him in the store and ran it when he was gone from home for his senate and other state and national appointments.

As I was growing up, many of my most precious memories are of the store. I loved it. I remember as a little girl how I would walk from our home to the store, sometimes holding my shoes and stockings as I waded all of the way in the irrigation ditch that ran beside the sidewalk. In the summer, it was the most refreshing adventure to wade in the cool water under the shade of the huge trees that formed a beautiful canopy along the ditch bank.

When I stepped onto the porch and into the store, I was immediately subjected to the most tantalizing sights and smells. It was a child's paradise. There was a bushel basket of peanuts, one of pistachios, a large crock of huge dill pickles made by my mother, a jar on the counter filled with candy sticks of all flavors, another holding horehound candy, and yet others filled with root beer barrels, all day suckers, and licorice. Any of this could be purchased with the pennies or nickel clutched in a child's hand or stowed in their pocket.

There was the wonderful smell of leather and textiles and the beautiful colors of gingham cloth. Often natural root beer soda would be brewing. In the cellar, big blocks of ice were buried in sawdust to keep the meat, cheeses, and eggs cold. I was fascinated by the old handle crank cash register that sat on the counter. I loved to hear the clicking noise as the purchases were rang up, and the musical clang it made when the money drawer popped open.

The grammar school was on the opposite side of the school, at the end of the block and when I was old enough to go to school, I would often stop on my way home and dad would hand me a candy bar. Sometimes a Snickers, but my favorite was the Three Musketeers bar. At that time, it was made up of three separate pieces; a chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla log, making it a genuine Three Musketeers. Delores related to me that she remembers those special times when dad would give us a candy bar. Like me, she also loved the Three Musketeers bar.

Dad had an American Saddle Bred horse named Pardner. He was beautiful. He was a tall horse, 17 hands. He was spirited when ridden by an adult, but was very gentle with children. He would stand like a rock as I shinnied up his leg to reach the stirrup. My favorite way to spend a Saturday morning was to go to the store with Delores and David. Dad would have Pardner there, saddled and waiting in the shade of the trees by the side of the store. My brother Leo's dog Beans, would be there, too. He and Pardner were the best of friends. Dad would put us on Pardner; David and I alone, or Delores and I together. He would slap Pardner on the rump, tell him "One time around, boy". There was always someone there to watch us and so Dad could go back into the store. With Beans following, Pardner would very carefully walk around the block, back to the store, and stop in the very same spot he left from. He then patiently waited for the process to be repeated. He and Beans would make as many a a dozen trips around the block and never deviate from the route designated for them. Dad knew he could trust them. One time, with Delores and I riding together, he stepped on a board with a huge nail sticking up. The pain must have been terrible, but with his muscles quivering, he stood without moving until Dad made sure we were off. He continued to stand immobile while dad pulled out the nail and disinfected the wound. I cried and cried.

I especially loved being at the store during pine nut picking time. The Indians who came and camped above town while harvesting the nuts, would come into town to the store. Foster Charles, also called Charlie Foster, was the chief of the tribe. He was no ordinary Indian for that time, having been educated at BYU. His father was an important chief and after his death, Charlie chose to go home to help his tribe when he probably could have had a good job. He and Dad were great friends and shared a mutual love and admiration for each other. Dad gave him, and others of the tribe, small jobs to do to supplement their meager income. Charlie would come into town with his wives and several other tribal members. They would sit on the store porch or lounge in the shade of the trees. I was fascinated by the women's brightly colored long dresses and the papooses in cradles on their backs. I became friends with some of the children, but they were very shy and wouldn't speak English, even though I am sure they understood most of what I said. I would stand enthralled for hours and listen to the adults talk among themselves in their native language. Because I was "Jim's daughter", they treated me with the same love and respect they gave their own children.

Delores was two years younger than me. She said her favorite memory of the store was when she was very small and she would go to the store with mom in the mornings. While mom was working, she would play in the store. There were many nooks and crannies where she could happily entertain herself for hours. She loved to play outside on the covered porch and in the shade of the big trees that grew to the side of the store.

All of the children of Panaca loved to go to the store to spend their pennies or nickel. There were several families whose children never had a penny and dad would let them choose some candy, just as if they did. In that same way, he gave goods to the poor, elderly, and infirm people of Panaca. That is why the store never made him rich. I loved the status Delores and I had with our friends as the daughters of the proprietor of that wonderful little store.

After I married and left Panaca, when I would return home and drive up Main Street, the first thing I found myself searching for was the little store building, long vacant, but still standing staunch and firm in the same spot it had stood for almost a hundred years. My heart broke when it started to fall into ruin and I rejoiced when it was designated as a Historical Building for the State of Nevada. It has now been restored and is a museum with pictures, artifacts, and histories of the people and events of the settling of Panaca by the early Mormon Pioneers. Once again, after 128 years, it is standing firm and true. I am proud that it is part of my heritage and proud to have "Grown Up Ina" in that beautiful little town. I have often talked to my children and grandchildren about the little store and it's role in my life and hope I have installed in them a love for it as part of their heritage.

To Be Continued. . . .

The Wadsworth Store

George A. Wadsworth and Elizabeth Broadbent Wadsworth

The Wadsworth Store as it looked in the early days, except now bearing the sign

N. J. Wadsworth and Sons General Mercantile

This picture was taken at least twenty years after my father, James, had quit running it.

It had been vacant all those years and was falling into disrepair.

It is the same building I remember as a child, except then it would have been painted and in good condition, with the surrounding grounds neat and tidy.

There is a little building on Main Street in Panaca. It has stood in the same spot for as long as I have lived, from before my father was born in 1888. It was there when the road that ran in front was dirt, filled with ruts from the many wagons that traveled it and the teams that pulled them. It was there when the early settlers of Panaca were still struggling with Indians and Outlaws. It has stood there through bitter cold and blistering heat and has survived several floods that threatened to wipe out the little town. It survived through at least three great depressions in the country.

I don't know the exact date it was built, but do know that it was built by James Allen Wadsworth, my father's uncle and his namesake. I have not been able to find the date James built it, but I know that he owned and operated it for years before he died in Panaca on January 3, 1887, at the age of 38. The store at that time was known as The Wadsworth Store. It served the ranchers and farmers of Panaca and the outlying ranches, as well as many of the miners in the area, with the goods necessary for their homes and businesses. It was a gathering place where the men could get together to share information or just to tell a good story.

In those early days of Panaca, George A. Wadsworth and his sons were farmers, cattlemen, merchants, and freighters. At that time, prior to the railroad, freighting was a lucrative business and good freighters were in great demand. The Wadsworth men were strong men with the best wagons and quality horses and mules to pull them. There was ore to be hauled from the silver mines in Pioche to the smelters and kilns in Bullionville and Bristol, Nevada, and Milford, Utah. There was a run to deliver supplies to the gold camp in Delamar, Nevada, and load the wagons with supplies to be brought back. There was wood to be chopped and hauled to fuel the smelters and kilns in the mining towns and camps.

George's son, Nephi John, my grandfather, was credited with hauling the first load of lumber into Pioche from Salt Lake City, Utah. He forwarded and hauled freight from terminals in York, a railroad station now part of Salt Lake City, Utah, to Bamberger, a station 12 miles below Caliente. He had a contract with Wells Fargo to tranport a safe that was constructed like a huge iron ball and weighed more than 8 tons. In addition to fine horses, he had a team of ten mules that he drove with a jerk line. Nephi's son, James Allen, my father, hauled freight and wrote in his history of driving his first freight wagon with a two horse team from Panaca to Delamar when he was 7 or 8 years old. This was in a group of several other freight wagons.

Changing stations and feed yards were necessary to keep the wagons running smoothly and the horses and mules rested, shod, and healthy. George and Nephi owned and operated feed lots and changing stations in Panaca and Milford, Utah. Nephi also sold Mitchell wagons, said to be one of the best wagons built at that time.

After James' death, the store was operated by my grandfather, Nephi John Wadsworth, brother of James. It became the N. J. Wadsworth & Sons General Mercantile. But, that is another story.

To Be Continued. . . .