From Fifteen Thousand Miles by Stage, vol. 2, by Carrie Adell Strahorn (page 135)
It is through speech and association that souls are revealed to one another, and banding women together in active Christian service was not only for the good they might do for the town, but for an individual help in the interchange of thoughts and experiences.
25
Hallelujah
Now that I’ve said out loud my intention, I can no longer lay blame to Pard or anyone else for my homesickness nor loneliness nor spiritual drift. I have made a commitment and must now make frequent deposits toward that goal.
May 6, 1886
We, that is me, wanted to see a church with a real pastor in Caldwell and not wait for years to bring a missionary out first. It would mark the true distinction of a city that could build and sustain a remain-in-town pastor rather than rely on the sporadic visits of an itinerant reverend or a missionary sent to win souls as Delia’s father-in-law was.
It was my studied view that our souls had been won and what we needed now was a way to sustain our passion for the faith and to encourage our service. It was always my belief that our lives are the stories others read first. And I wanted my life story to say something besides “She was famous for traveling around the West with her husband.” Besides, making things happen was something I was certain I could do, though I hadn’t yet done anything more admirable than cook for my husband and write a few words for the entertainment of others.
Our purpose was, yes, to raise a church. But when we wrote up the formal organization—Presbyterians are known for their formality, sometimes to a fault—we added that, in addition to the formation of a church, the Presbyterian Society also existed in Caldwell to “encourage social intercourse, to preserve harmony, and create a more homelike feeling among the ladies.” To me, this is the message our lives ought to carry.
I had begun to think that perhaps my listening, serving food and offering shelter to young men to keep them from saloons, and welcoming men and women to a new community were acts of service, acts I had somewhat diminished because they weren’t healing the sick as my sister Hattie did and they weren’t raising a family up as my sister Mary was.
That first gathering was memorable. Bessie Donaldson left the meeting not long after it started because she said it wasn’t possible for our little Caldwell to make a go of raising such funds to build and operate a church, and she didn’t want to have the weight of a failing religious institution on her back. “I’m too old to carry a church around.”
After Bessie left, and tea and little cakes and croissants with cheese melted inside had been served, the first order of business was to elect officers. I was chosen as president though I did not seek it. Mrs. George Little—we always used our formal names—vice president; Mrs. Gibson, a widow, secretary; and Mrs. Meacham, treasurer, also a widow, whose husband had died after he and his brother founded the town of Encampment on the stage line in Eastern Oregon. She’d come to Caldwell because she couldn’t stand the winters anymore in that mountainous little village. She might have been lonely too. Mrs. Brown—Hester—also joined our group. Her husband operated the livery, always a good person to have on board.
The second order of business was apparently deciding where to meet next and when.
“After today, I think we should meet closer to town,” Mrs. Meacham said. “Your home is lovely, Mrs. Strahorn, out here in Sunnyside, but it’s so far out. My hips are of an age.” She walked with a crooked stick for a cane.
“Mine too,” Mrs. Gibson said. “Though taking the wagon isn’t so bad. And Mrs. Strahorn does have the softest divan and she gets Mrs. Gwinn to make those astonishing croissants. Or did you make them yourself, Mrs. Strahorn?”
“I like to support the local establishments.”
“Where does she get the butter?” Mrs. Little asked. Her husband was the probate judge and superintendent of Public Instruction.
“They’ve brought in a few neat cows,” Mrs. Gibson said. She had a missing front tooth so she rarely smiled, but something about the cows made her, just before she covered her mouth with her hand.
“It’s about time,” Mrs. Meacham said. “Mrs. Strahorn, didn’t you lose a pedigreed shorthorn the other night?”
“Yes. The evening my husband joined the Odd Fellows Lodge. He came home a little late.”
“Those men and their odd fellows. I suspect they do a little more than public service,” Mrs. Brown said.
“I’ve a funny story to tell about that . . . ,” I began, but thought better of it with Mrs. Brown’s raised eyebrow. “Some other time.” I could see how easily we could get off track. “Let’s meet here next week again, and meanwhile I’ll see if we can use our old quarters above the Land office. Can you make the stairs, Mrs. Meacham?”
“I can. I have a few to climb to my loft at night.”
A mouse ran behind the divan and out toward the kitchen. No one saw it but me. They were a constant nuisance. I needed a cat. And a dog.
“That’s settled if we can agree on a date.”
“Let’s set Tuesday afternoons as our regular day at 2:00 p.m.” Mrs. Brown was a problem-solver. That was one reason I’d invited her.
“That worked this week, but usually I have my knitting group at that time.” Mrs. Little clicked knitting needles on her lap. She’d not taken a croissant. “Mavis Kline had to visit her sister in Hailey,” she continued. “She wouldn’t be there and we meet at her house. Thus, knitting was cancelled.”
“There’ll be many conflicts, I suspect. And we travel some.”
“Some?” Mrs. Gibson giggled at that.
My face grew warm. “Yes, some. But I am committed to remaining closer to home to launch this enterprise. I’ve already gotten a commitment from the Land company for twenty-five dollars.”
“A fine start,” Mrs. Brown announced. “Money is hard to come by here.” She had started a millinery. “No overnight millionaires like at Bonanza City or Yellowjacket. Miners are generous with their fast successes.”
“Giving is a gift,” I said. “We’re offering people a chance to be generous and to feel good about it. But first, is there an alternate date we can agree on?”
Mrs. Meacham piped up. “I think church business ought to come before knitting, Mrs. Little. And as vice president you really ought to be willing to forgo that commitment for this one.”
“We’ll all have conflicts,” Mrs. Gibson said. “Let’s decide now to forgive each other when we have to miss and instead send a new person along, so that we expand our group.”
“An excellent idea. We’ll have proxies.” I did think it a good idea.
“Proxy?” Mrs. Gibson said. “But will they be . . . of a good . . . nature? A good reputation.”
“Would we know anyone who wasn’t?” Mrs. Little said.
“Let’s patch that quilt when winter comes.” I wanted this group to include all sorts of women, not just the pillars of the community. We’d already lost one of those who thought the effort would be too demanding. Younger women would be important to engage. “An alternate day, ladies?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“That’s the only time I have to be with my husband.” Mrs. Little again. He and Henry Blatchley had a druggist business. Very busy men.
“Be with him on Tuesday afternoons after our meeting.” Mrs. Meacham sounded testy and I knew we had to move on to important things. We were bogged down in insignificant issues of when to meet. We’d never get a church funded. Maybe Mrs. Donaldson was right!
“Please. What about Monday afternoon? I know we usually do our wash then, but perhaps later in the day, while the sheets and pillowcases are drying in the wind we could meet here. Next Monday?”
“That would work if I can bring my laundered items to hang on your lines, Mrs. Strahorn.”
“Certainly. All of you are welcome to do that.” I’d get Robert to sink another two posts and string more lines. “And Mrs. Gibson, would you be willing to pick up Mrs.
Meacham and we’ll have our meetings here instead?”
“Why, of course,” she said. Mrs. Meacham looked quite pleased.
“That way we can also avoid the stairs at the Land office. We’re agreed, then?” Heads nodded. “Good. You have that in your notes, Mrs. Gibson?”
“How do you spell proxy? With an i or a y?”
“Put the day and time down for now. The first order of the day is that we publicize our beginning efforts. Who would like to write up a little article for Editor Cuddy?”
Mrs. Brown spoke up. “You do that well, Mrs. Strahorn.”
“You write it up and I’ll deliver it. I’ll be sure to limp with my trusty cane and appeal to his sympathy to publish it.” Mrs. Meacham shook her cane for us.
“Excellent. And while you’re there, perhaps you might ask how the paper plans to support our endeavors.”
“Won’t they have to be neutral as a member of the press?” Mrs. Gibson licked her fingers of the sugar-dusted cake, then shook sugar from her paper where she was taking notes, I hoped. “There are other churches in town. The Baptists. And Mr. Gwinn’s a Methodist.” She whispered that last.
“Caldwell needs a Presbyterian church,” Mrs. Meacham reminded her. “When we meet at the school, any number of men rise to read the Scripture and pontificate with a dozen different theological views coming our way. None of them are pastors. Well, the itinerant ones we sometimes get from the Episcopal Diocese and the Methodists, they’re fine enough. But not steeped in issues of discerning God’s direction until we know ‘the way to be clear,’ as Presbyterians must.”
“I wish we could sit with our husbands,” Mrs. Brown said.
“Yes. This is the West, for goodness’ sake.” Mrs. Little’s voice carried passion. “Women work side by side with their husbands or brothers in the fields and stores and then have to sit separately in the schoolhouse church?”
“When you say, ‘for goodness’ sake,’ you’re taking the Lord’s name in vain.” Mrs. Meacham chastised Mrs. Little. “‘Goodness’ is a perversion of the word God. We aren’t going to go down that road, are we, ladies?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mrs. Little said.
“That also borders on cursing.”
“Well, not—”
“Ladies, ladies. Please,” I said. “Let’s first talk about a goal that we are reaching toward. Yes, to form a Presbyterian church, but at what amount of money raised would we feel secure in seeking a pastor? Ideas? We aren’t building a structure, we are building a congregation that will need an ordained pastor.”
“If we can get donations as your husband gave of $25, we’ll only need twenty more subscribers for $500. I think that would be enough.” Mrs. Little seemed relieved for the change of subject from her theologically impaired language choices.
“Five hundred is a fine goal.” I almost said, “Goodness, what a good idea,” but let that fade away. “Are we agreed on that?” Heads nodded again.
“Is that enough to build a church and call a pastor?” Mrs. Brown asked.
I looked to the faces before me. Would it be? I could ask Robert. He was better with numbers than I was. “We can always increase it as we move along.”
“Should we have a date by which, if we haven’t reached the goal, we would end the plan and return the money?” Mrs. Little again. “And would it be enough to get a choir director too? One can hardly offer a pastor just a building. He’ll want a choir director.”
“Maybe he can do that himself, get someone who has musical abilities. What should I put as our end goal then, Mrs. Strahorn? Five hundred dollars?”
“Let’s take a vote. All in favor of five hundred dollars, please raise your hand.”
All went up except Mrs. Meacham’s, our treasurer. “I don’t know how I’ll keep track of small donations enough to hold them so if we have to give them back we can. It’ll be too much for me. I’m an old woman.”
We’re losing our treasurer at the first meeting too?
“I’ll help you, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Brown not only offered to help but put us on a first-name basis.
“Thank you, Hester,” I said. “Right now, we’re voting on a goal. We can talk next about what happens if we don’t reach our goal, how we’d keep track of the funds, where we might divert them if we disband our efforts toward the church and pastor.” I was already tired myself. I sighed. “What I do know, ladies, is that making a commitment to something changes everything. A writer I know of, Von Goethe, a German, wrote that ‘Knowing is not enough. We must apply. Willing is not enough, we must do.’ We know what we’re about. Now, we must begin to do. Let each of us approach one other person to join our cause and bring them here next Monday when we’ll hang our wash and then put our heads together for how to build a church. Agreed?” Even Mrs. Meacham agreed. “All in favor say aye?” All said the word. “Opposed, nay? The ayes have it. Hallelujah!”
“There’s no need to ask for the nays if everyone here has said aye,” Mrs. Little said.
“A very good point. I’ll remember that in the future and hopefully next week, there’ll be eight of us to say aye.”
Mrs. Little spoke up again. “Hallelujah in Hebrew means ‘Praise ye Yahweh’ or ‘Praise ye the Lord.’ It should be reserved for more sacred occasions.”
“Meeting adjourned until next Monday,” I said. “Bring your laundry. And bring a friend.”
“There is something sacred in everyday things,” Hester added.
Goodness, it had been a long afternoon. Hallelujah, it was over.
From Fifteen Thousand Miles by Stage, vol. 2, by Carrie Adell Strahorn (page 136)
Homesickness is one of the most formidable of diseases to contend against, and only the hope of bettering one’s worldly condition could make such a life even tolerable. . . . It may have been that pathetic need of sympathy that drew the women of Caldwell together so easily into the Presbyterian organization, for it was soon composed of representatives of widely diversified beliefs, but with the will to work that became the envy of many an established church in other towns.
26
Offerings
Sometimes, while exploring for gold, one finds diamonds instead. I discovered this while devoting my time and energy to the church building and finding—in addition—friends, a deeper understanding of my own desires, and the true pleasure of hospitality. Diamonds don’t always sparkle when they’re found, I’ve heard. They are like clear agate, transparent, with the promise of their beauty, a beauty often overlooked by the uninitiated.
July 19, 1886
My parents decided to visit us at last. I could share my finished home that had become a happy place on our Monday gatherings and afterward. Happy that my parents made the effort, I also knew it couldn’t have happened at a more intensive time. The Presbyterian group—we shortened our name to First Pres in our meetings—planned a major fund-raising fair with kissing booths; dunking sites; bobbing for apples with a dollar amount carved into the side, telling what coins they’d have to donate if they bit into that fruit. Hester worried they’d bite at the amount and deliberately try to eat the evidence, but they’d get charged twenty-five cents as a minimum if we couldn’t see the price.
There’d be three-legged sack races with a small entry fee and donated prizes for the winners. For weeks, we’d been collecting bayberry candles, penny whistles, a new hammer, and a black-and-white spotted roasting pan as donations from local merchants, and this was to be our big fund-raiser for the summer. Robert had secured an ice source and we needed to go into the mountains to get it packed in straw to keep it from melting. Timing was everything with that addition, but we’d have ice cream, a real treat, and could charge ten cents a scoop.
Into this, my parents traveled west and we were to meet them in Ogden and ride back on the train with them from there. I’d left the planning in the care of the committee, Hester at the helm.
“How was your trip? Have you eaten?” We offered both traveling questions to my parents when we met
them at Ogden. I hugged my mother, bending my head to maneuver around the wide-brimmed hat she wore, feathers bobbing between the flowers made of dyed straw. I wore a tall, red felt hat with little trim, a wide brim in the front and cut out in the back to make room for the bun twisted at my neck.
“Used the last of the cheese and meats out of your mother’s hamper just before Ogden. Worked fine. The Pullman car is luxury, isn’t it, Mother?”
“It was fine. What happened to your face, Carrie?”
“I got careless.” I touched my cheek. My makeup hadn’t hidden my bruise. “I was shooting jackrabbits from the porch with my pistol on my knee and it backfired, breaking my glasses and cutting my checks. So careless of me.”
“I told her she must have used her game eye because she got the rabbit. Had it for supper that night.” Robert sounded proud.
Robert, my father, and I laughed at that. My mother tsked.
“Facial cuts always bleed profusely.” My doctor-father eyed my face, then kissed each cheek. “Healing well.”
“Yes, it is, Daddy. I had two black eyes, which caused quite a stir at the First Pres gathering.”
“You wouldn’t believe the rumors that ran through town after that,” Robert said.”
“Oh, my heavens.” My mother patted my arm. “Poor Carrie.”
“Rumors about my poor shooting, Mama, not that Robert was the cause of my facial distress.” I pointed toward the mountains. “Look at that view.” I’d developed diversion to a fine art. The Wasatch peaks rose up like cathedrals to the sky.
Of course, Pard had to show them the Mormon Square when we reached Salt Lake, which was a good idea with its grand Gothic-like temple, fruit orchards, and streets tidy as a new wife’s kitchen the day her in-laws come for dinner. Caldwell wasn’t quite so grand. “Our little babies like Hailey and Caldwell are still at the primary age,” Robert told my father, “but this is what it could be one day.”
“You’ve a big lake near Caldwell, do you?” my father asked.