In Honor of H.C. Jackson

Grandpa you have lived to see the ripe old age of 83.
In noble deeds these years have been spent.
As through life’s battles you’ve bravely went.
A man of peace you’ve surely been,
To inspire love and banquish .
And, now you’re race is nearly run.
When you go to your heavenly home
Please prepare a place for us;
That we may dwell with you
Throughout all eternity
(Given at a family reunion in 1902 in honor of H.C. Jackson on his 83rd birthday at
Parker, Fremont,Idaho. Given by granddaughter Esther Jackson(Rudd) 12 years of age.
Compose by her eldest brother Henry S. Jackson)

Roberta Ann Schade Bullock

Roberta grew up in the large city of Los Angeles, California, and lived in the same
house all of her childhood. She was the youngest of four daughters of Marlon and Nell
Jackson Schade. During her childhood, her favorite activities were roller-skating on
the sidewalk in front of her home and climbing the big tree that stood by the sidewalk.
At about the age of 8, she started piano lessons which lasted 5 years and prepared her
for many opportunities to serve as an accompanist for choirs and other singing groups
and as a organist for Jr. Sunday School and Sunday School.
While at Hollywood High School, she was very active in student affairs. She held many
offices, including that of Student Body Vice President and Cheer Leader. There were
about 10 LDS in her high school of 2000.
At 17, she left home to attend Brigham Young University. The 2 ½ years she spent living
with and associating with mostly LDS, were very happy years for her. She loved the
testimony meetings at the student wards and her young testimony grew stronger. During
the 3rd year at BYU she met Burt Warren Bullock, a football player from Wyoming, who
was also attending the “Y”. They fell in loved and were married 16 February 1961, in
the Los Angeles Temple.
Roberta was anxious, as a new bride, to establish a new patterned in many ways after
the home of her parents where there was much loved and affection shown for each other.
Her goal was to have a loarge family and to each them the gospel and to love the Lord,
as her mother had taught her. To date, Roberta and Burt ahd 9 children and loves her
role as a mother, wife, and servant of her Heavenly Father.
Roberta and Burt have moved several times in their years of marriage. Their homes have
included: Rawlins, Wyoming; Hollywood,Califonia; Northridge, California; Arcadia,
California; Saratoga, California; Lake Oswego, Oregon. Each time the family moved, it
was for business opportunites for Burt.
Each ward they have lived in has blessed their lives. Roberta has worked in all the
organizations of the church and has considered each calling a choice opportunity for
growth and service. She has loved doing genealogy work too.
Her greatest goal is to stay close to the church and to help each of her children to
gain a strong testimony of the gospel that they might all be found worthy to return to
the Celestial Kingdom with their Father in Heaven.
Written 5 June 1979……….

Poem Composed by Alvin S Jackson

Yes, its been years, a score or more,
Since a lad stood by a Blacksmith’s door,
Watching the sinders from his anvil fall
And counting their number large and small,
When the good kind smith from his work did turn;
“Kepp back me lad, those sparks will burn.”
Oh I learned to love him then
Because he was one of God’s noblemen.
Because he was gentle, kind and true.
‘twas for this I learned to love him too.
Yes, I see him with his bended back
Shoeing a horse or an ox in the rack
Or molding in shape the plow share
And sweat twinkling from his silvery hair.

Yet he was always pleased the children to see
And would oft take them upon his knee.
Good counsel and kind words he would give
“Be true to your parents and long you will live.”
Oh, those days when I stop and ponder
Just seem a little way over yonder.
The childrens laughter and birds a singing,
The roaring bellows and anvil ringing.
But this was only a childhood day
When oft from my mother I would run away.
For I was always happy and content
When at Grandpa’s home my time was spent.

As time rolled on I grew harder to rule,
When father said we will send him to school,
So at Grandpa’s home I was sent to stay
Where I could attend my school in a better way.
‘Twas there I learned that God’s ways were best
By living pure lives and putting him to the test.
For oft we would hear of an officer in town
Taking men who were on the underground.
How oft my heart would beat
When I would see them coming up the street,
For I would fear my Grandpa they would take
And place in jail for the Gospel Sake.

But he would always stay at work in the shop
Where these men would drive and be sure to stop.
“Put up your team and take dinner with me.”
Was the words from Grandpa so free.
“ The old man we will leave him alone
We wil always find him right at home.”
Was stated by those men with the laws
Trying to over throw God’s own righteous cause.
As I sit and think of things that are past.
Me thinks I see Grandpa there in the Glass
With that noble face and silvery hair.

And hear his words ring on the air,
“Be honest my boy, be noble and true,
For God has in store great blessing for you.
Honor the Priesthood and those that are in power
And on your head great blessings will shower.”
But, alas, he has gone, God took him away
For the good he done, He is happier than they.
Composed By Alvin S Jackson

FOR YE KNOW NEITHER THE DAY NOT THE HOUR

The late afternoon sun shining through the living room window made a hallow around the
gray hair of Margaret Brown. A smile played around her lips as thoughts wandered away
from the yarn running slowly through her fingers. She was thinking of a letter received
that morning from her daughter, carol, and Carol had gone into raptures over the lace
table cover she had sent her for her birthday. My, it was nice to make things for
people who appreciated your hours of labor.
The ringing of the telephone brought her thought up with a start.
“ That you, Margaret?” cane the voice of her husband
“Yes, of course”
“Be right home”
“Better bring some….” But the click on the other end of the wire told her Charles had
hung up.
What had happened to cause her husband to speak like that—so excited you could feel it
over the wire! She went to the kitchen to see how dinner was progressing and set the
table on a screen in porch, all the while wondering what was the matter. Margaret was
out cutting roses for the table when her husband arrived home; but he didn’t admire the
flowers she held up, just motioned her to hurry in.
“What in the world is the matter, Charles?” but Charles looked pale and worried. He
held out a letter for Margaret to read.
“Dear Brother Charles: This is to invite you to meet the Savior at the temple the
first session on Tuesday morning. Be sure and be on time, as great crowds will be going
every day to each session. I was given the privilege of bringing one and I chose you. I
think it would please mother for us to go together.”
Margaret stopped in amazement.
“I think it’s wonderful. I wish they would invite the sisters.”
But Charles only said, with tears in his eyes, “Read the Postscript.”
Margaret Read. “Please bring your recommend and all your temple things, white suit and
shirt and Temple robes as you won’t be able to obtain the here. We haven’t been able to
hire them for some time.”
The full significance of the postscript burst upon Margaret, why, Charles didn’t own
one article that goes to make up the temple apparel. Today was Monday and fast drawing
to a close. Charles couldn’t possibly get ready. What could they do at this late hour?
She looked at her husband to see if he could answer these questions and saw only
disappointment and failure written on his face. How blind they both had been to let the
years slip by with no preparation. She had not cared for temple work and Charles had
thought he was too busy. Truly they had procrastinated the Day of the Lord.
“Charles you can get the things from Aunt Polly. She always had so many things on
hand,” Margaret’s face beamed. Why, here was the solution to the whole thing. But
Charles face refused to brighten.
“I’ve already been there—went first thing, and Aunt Polly is gone.” It seemed only
yesterday when Aunt Poly had jokingly remarked “Do I have to wait until you’re gone
before you’ll make your temple clothes?” if the dead won’t bother me, I won’t bother
them, had been his motto.
And now, after years of success in everything he had undertaken, he felt like he would
have exchanged it all for the privilege of meeting with the Savior. If the Savior only
smiled at him he would ask nothing more.
Margaret stood still with letter in hand. How she blamed herself. If she had insisted
they would have been going to the temple right along. But when she didn’t care for the
work and was always getting something wrong in the temple, and she really didn’t have
the time, and there were so many things she would rather do, the parties and church
duties were conflicting, and she didn’t know a thing about her ancestors.
The excuses were piling up fast—almost a salve over her conscience but her conscience
wouldn’t be still.
“Didn’t have time,” it seemed to say. Why everything in the room belied the statement.
She turned away, sick at heart, and sat down by her husband, wishing she could comfort
him. Forgotten was the dinner, the flowers lay wilting on the table.
Then the words of the Savior came to them:
“Then shall the Kingdom of Heaven be likened unto Ten Virgins, which took their lamps
and went forth to meet the Bridegroom, and five were wise and five were foolish. They
that were foolish took their lamps and took no oil with them. But the wise took oil in
their vessels with their lamps. While the bridegroom tarrie, they all slumbered and
slept. And at midnight there was a cry made ‘Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye to
meet him’ then shall all those virgins arose, and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish
said unto the wise, “Give us of you oil, for our lamps are gone out’ but the wise
answered saying, ‘Not so, lest there be not enough for us and you, but go ye to them
that sell and buy for yourselves’ and while they went to buy, the bridegroom came and
they that were ready went in to him to the marriage and the door was shut. Afterwards
came also the other virgins saying “Lord, Lord, open unto us.’ But he answered and
said. ‘Verily, I say unto you, I know you not.’ Watch therefore, for ye know neither
the day nor the hour wherein the Son of Man cometh.
This was given to Henry Jackson at the Logan Temple by Brother Christensen

Christmas 1884- Vernessa Miller Nagle

Mother found that first Christmas in the upper valley of the Snake River very different. There had been a comfortable home in Davis County, Utah. But this one-how primitive, how formidable, it seemed. But home it was to be, and there was no turning back, so stated Grandfather whenever he observed a half-wistful, half-longing expression on the face of any one of the children old enough to make comparisons from poignant memories of another home.
The snow had come unusually early that year, the November rains turning to frost with snowdrifts piled high about the few dirt-roofed log cabins that hugged the frozen ground. The mad Snake had gouged its brush lined banks, the frozen slush spreading out into the valley inundated all signs of vegetation.
From various points south, the early colonizers had trekked into the valley, crossing the Oregon Trail at Fort Hall, plowing their way on northward, thirteen days from Farmington, Utah to Egin Bench, a distance of approximately two hundred sixty miles-a record trip. They had used a span of splendid horses on wheel with mules on the lead pulling a lead wagon. Resting the horses at intervals of two or three hundred feet, the women and children had often walked to lighten the load. Over Anderson’s toll bridge at Eagle Rick, the trail led, then followed the Corrine-Butte freighting road to Market Lake, on across the sands and lavas to journey’s end.
And now Christmas Eve. A few homemade candles threw questioning shadows about the dark corners of the mud-chinked wall logs and played about the rough puncheon floors. A huge kitchen stove sputtered rebelliously, coughing and hissing as pale flames bravely attempted to eat their way into foot lengths of semi-dry sapling boughs. Mingled odors of foods in preparation for the Christmas dinner permeated the room, foods that would do justice to the occasion. Water barrels but recently filled with icy water from the river bottoms of the Snake had been placed in their respective corners of the kitchen. An uncrated wooden hogshead placed near the washstand was evidence of a recent addition to the family supply of staples, hauled by sleigh outfit from Market Lake, a distance of about thirty miles. Contents? Frozen potatoes shipped by friends from old home in Utah. On the morrow they must be placed out of doors to prevent thawing.
A hewn log work table near the stove was piled high with the ordinary and unusual specimens of culinary achievement. This dinner was to be the highlight of the first winter in the valley. Baked venison, headcheese, finale of the lone porker brought into the valley with the personal belongings; vinegar pie in tallow pie crust; steamed “Lumpy Dick” frozen potatoes with crackling gravy; home-bleached hominy grits, and cornbread constituted that well-planned menu.
Several beds had been spread down on the well scrubbed floor, with the smaller children clambering for the feather tick. From nails conveniently pounded into wall logs, knitted stockings had been suspended, their grotesque contours suggesting the contents; popcorn balls, molasses taffy, hand carved wooden toys, and rag stuffed Punch and Judy dolls.
As the fire burned low, the contracting wall logs loomed ominously through the night as though to register the rapidly descending temperature without.
A lone coyote call hurtled across the frozen stillness and, reverberating, was picked up and mingled with discordant yelps and howls of approaching band as they slunk across the frozen drifts of buck-brush-studded sand dunes. Father and Mother exchanged knowing glances, and the former looked hurriedly toward his rifle.
Then all was silent; the few gutted candles burned low. A dark shadow cast by the moon, stalling momentarily behind a low cloud, enveloped the valley for a brief second, then all was bright again. Stars flashed beacon-like across the sky. Far across the junipers one star stood out brighter than the rest. A new land, a new home, new friends, yet the same bright star looked down in benign benediction to light man’s way.

Singing Mothers

In 1923 a new department was added to the Relief Society organizations. Sister Louse Y. Robinson, General President of the Relief Society, was ever mindful of the needs of each member, so she and Dr, Florence Jeppson decided that there should be more singing among the mothers. Accordingly in all the wards a Singing Mother Chorus was organized. Parker Ward was one of the first to function in this field.
Because the church was not kept warm except for meetings, the singing Mothers went in the homes of those who owned an organ or piano to practice. The husbands were interested and helpful in the endeavors of their wives. They would go from house to house with their sleighs to gather the women and take them home. Light refreshments would be served following practices. At Christmas time there was always a pot lunch supper party.
A collection of selected hymns and songs arranged for the use of the Relief Society was published in book form. One of the first songs learned was “we Love To Serve”, and another beautiful song was “How Lovely Are Thy Messengers.” The latter song was sung by hundreds of Relief Society Choruses at the Centennial celebration of the organization of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints-Katie Rudd

How Vaudrey Strawed the Road

In 1913 in Parker Idaho, there was a group 'Dry Farmers who celebrated a party, at one such party this following poem was composed.
The Juniper is fair to see, the Juniper’s a land of gold,
And Lies between the dunes of sand, and Camas river gray and old,
Where game abounds, and oats and wheat; and fleecy clouds of summer sails;
And yet one blot has laid its hand upon this region of the brave,
And frightens back the sons of toil who seek its haunts their crops to save.
It is the one dark fatal bar, that bid defiance to the strong,
And hold as in the bondage sure the valiant poor who fright the wrong
This evil that we hate and fear and burdens with its heavy load,
Is that “bill “ Flint and Vaudry bold, have scattered straw along the road.

‘Way back in misty ages past; in auld lang sine’ and long ago,
Before Columbus had a dream, or Alexander crossed the Poe,
The Juniper lay blushing fair, the pride of many blushing maids,
Whose dark brown lovers sought for them, in its sequestered silvan shades.
They never hear of Old Fremont, or Washington or General Strode,
They never dreamed that Vaudry, he, would dare to come and straw the road.
This empire laying near the door, of every railroad in the state,
Has been reserved for the good few, who now redeem it from its fate;
The sunken rivers hiding now beneath the burnished brow of sand,
Will soon be shooting from the deeps to irrigate the fertile land;
And when this evolution sees, fair cities where the cowboys rode,
Will anybody have the nerve, to say that Vaudry strawed the road?
If William Flint, commissioner, should ever ride his car that ways
He’ll tell about his joys, and how it was he came today,
That far and near where he had been, he never heard a man that crowed,
So long and long as Vaudry did, because he made the old straw road.

The Allans and the Hopkins too, the Josephsons, and Jeff’s and Browns,
The Hixes and the Froks and Haights, the Millers and the Rubberdowns,
And all the men of Juniper whose names I cannot think of now,
Will come and say at close of day, me thinks I hear them say it, how
In spite of love or fear or hate, or hell that hides the floating mode,
Bill Flint and Vaudry take the cake, because they strawed the road.

Come all you sons and daughters too, who love this dry farm land of ours;
That catch the latest snows that fall, and rising meet the early showers,
The coming empire of the west, the crown of all the dry farm train,
Rejoice with me and come and see the harvest fields of golden grain;
And what you see and what’s to be, would ne’er have been the farmer’s code
If General John C. Vauderee had never made and strawed the road.

Behind the white frosts falling zone, that hides the hills of Juniper,
We hear the voice of Spring command, to build a road of Flint and fur,
To build it wide and deep and high, where naught can stall the heavy load
Because Friend Vaudry in the night, might slip out there and straw the road