Life History of Ivan E. Lauper
While I was born on October 28, 1902 in Lehi, Utah, my parents moved to Northern Utah into Bear River City, along the Malad River. During my very early years my remembrances are there at our cottage home on the edge of Bear River. Back of the cottage, down the embankment a bit was a cistern, which is an open water storage facility, a well about the size of a room. This was the source of our household water supply. A very early recollection is of John, when just a little lad, falling into this water and nearly drowning before we found him and fished him out. Later, I had a near-tragic experience of a similar nature in the river flume, where I went under water; and I learned that day I could hold my breath for quite a while. A neighbor lady discovered and rescued me from the flume. As I came 'around' following that incident, I felt no pain, but can still feel how sleepy I was. Jumping from those experiences, it was at that place that I remember my first days in school, walking along, even taking by the hand, our little brother John. I, like many others, remember still my beautiful teacher in this little Bear River School, and of falling in love with her.
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| Ivan, John & Serge, 1905 |
Dad took us to the beet fields at very early ages --I being between 4 ˝ and 5 years of age. The farmer we worked for was an old Danishman, and I remember his broken English dialect. Mother came into the fields with us at that time too. As the children came along, I would sometimes combine my fieldwork with caring for the little ones whenever mother was able to work. I remember later when little Alice, as an infant, was brought along. When she cried too much, I had to get mother from the end of a row to come and attend her.
We moved around many times within those northern counties, and many times we were some distance from school. Although we mostly walked, at one time I do remember we rode a 'hack'. While walking during the severe winter months, in Bear River Valley, we would carry a blanket over our heads to fight against the bitter cold on those three mile hikes to and from school. And then during the harvest season there was always beets, sometimes tomatoes and corn. Dad was in charge and somewhat stern in his assignments. He would leave me in charge of my young brothers, John and Felix, for sometimes one day, or even a week's absence, while he, Dad, was away making arrangements for other work. Then I would have to report of the work accomplished. I dreaded this. As stated, my brothers and I were all working at an early age, I being about 10 or 11 years when I was put in this supervisory charge. I remember how the sunflowers and the weeds would be growing high among the beets, and Dad would leave with the assignment of so much weeding to be done before his return. This was the younger boys first time in the fields and they were supposedly learning to work. This was difficult; they weren't interested, and I didn't understand my problem of how to relate to them. They would want to play, and the sun would be constantly moving toward the end of the day; and I would be watching fearfully in realizing the day would be gone and fewer rows of work completed than was expected. Just toward the end of the day they would sometimes be inclined to speed up a bit, but it was always too late. To aggravate this situation, I made many mistakes. I would do my best to get them to work and we sometimes found ourselves in a row and even wrestling, thus, losing more time. They would both attack me, and I had to take them both on. Even though I can't blame the little fellows, they proved how unsuccessful I was at being straw boss. I always knew it, and I was never able to get them to realize that Dad would ask me to report. When Dad did return I was always embarrassed and depressed. During these early work years, Serge was usually assigned to be horseman; that is, whenever a cultivator was to be driven, or the teams taken somewhere, he was given that job. He was the oldest, and most natural for those assignments, and I was given other jobs inside and out.
Dad was stern, a very hard worker himself, and we did what he told us. In figuring Dad's background, he had no brothers with whom he had worked, not even his father. His father was a Charome, which is a French word for Wheelwright; so he worked with different tools ---a plane a shaper and that sort of thing. Our Dad had not learned this trade, nor did he follow his father's occupation as poultryman (games keeper for the Baron of Rothschild). Now the fact was, our Dad had these several boys, and had no particular training as to how to manage them, other than to keep us all busy. WORK was to be the cure-all. Many times I have said 'work is a blessing in disguise'. I hated it then but have never regretted it since. Some of the work which Dad insisted upon, to the denial of all else, was too much; and yet this was our basic training; and if some of this program would be employed today, it would answer or alleviate many of our society's problems. Farm life is still the best life if it can be diluted with proper education and directed leisure time, but these are the things we did not have.
None of us ever had a full year of school on the farm. We were absent at both the beginning and end of school terms. It was necessary to knock off in the spring to plant sugar beets; and then our frequent moves were also disrupting. By this time we had moved to a Dry Farm in Box Elder County, which Dad homesteaded, taking three years to 'prove up', so-to-speak. One does a certain amount of work and improvement before the place becomes your property ---this is called a homestead. This acreage had been partially proved on by a local resident. We bought his rites and continued on at Penrose, Box Elder County. I remember trudging to school there with little Alice during month of March through three feet of snow ---the highest I ever remember. I had to break trail first by taking two horses, one ahead of the other, pulling a long log in order to make a trail, then taking the little sister to school. It seems this was about two miles from the top of the hill to Penrose School. In those days, after completing eight years of school, we graduated ---receiving a diploma. It was at this place that I graduated; and ended my school career. I did not even have the year of high school, which Serge mentions when he went to Brigham City.
I must here reflect back to an earlier childhood incident. In exchange for mercantile needs, I had to take buckets of eggs on many occasions as well as live springers to the store for trade (springers were live spring chickens). This was way back while we were at Bear River, and the store was about eight miles from where we lived. I remember coming home one night when my wagon broke down. I was only eight years of age and felt very sorry for myself on that dark night alone. It was about eight p.m. when I found a farmer and was telling him my sad story and asking for help, and I remember distinctly telling him that this happened to be my eighth birthday.
Father, being an old-country-man, knew the handle, the pitchfork, shovel and hoe. As I before said, since he had no experience with horses, Serge fell into this job, although he had no training, and Serge learned it quite well. I began the fieldwork at a very early age. Serge was only one year older. We did all our own work and then contracted with other farmers. They liked our type of work and we needed their money badly. Always, the most demanding work was stoop labor in potatoes, but mostly sugar beets. Dad would often take us away from home for a week or more at a time, even boarding out. I recall our experience at the Thatcher farm. It was very forlorn and I guess I do not care to even recount at this time.
Brother Dennis has here asked me to tell of my beet thinning record. In describing a good beet field, one must mention the yield for that makes the difference. In our fields, our personal yields were never more than about 13 to 15 tons per acre; but a good yield is somewhere near 20 tons per acre. Further, a good job of thinning beets in a good-yield-field would be about 1/2 acre thinned per day. That would be a good day of work for an average strong kid. Of course if there are skip rows, or if the beets haven't been planted correctly, then the work would go much faster. Usually, the planting is done with a planter that just indiscriminately lets out a flow of seed. Now ‘germination' had not yet been developed; so one small seed would probably produce half dozen plants, which had to be spaced. The art of thinning is to take a small handled hoe, cut a bare space of twelve inches about, and then make sure there was no more than one plant left within space of twelve inches apart. It could be pretty easy to leave a double plant by mistake in one’s effort to move along fast. This would result in a smaller and punier beet in that spot. This was the whole 'art'. One had to get on your knees to do it correctly. Sometimes Dad would make the twelve-inch spaces with a long-handled hoe, and we boys would follow behind to thin the plants with our fingers. Our fingers were always, and I do mean always, blackened and stained, as well as sore until they became calloused. Likewise, the knees and back were always sore and breaking. This was stoop labor.
Since our personal harvests were never productive enough, we were forever working for other farmers to get some cash money. The word had gotten around that we were pretty good workers. Dad did a thorough training job. It bothered me to hear him talking and bargaining with others as to how much should be done within a given time ---always expecting the maximum amount of work within a very limited time. Actually, I often wished some of those farmers didn't like us and our work so well, hoping they wouldn't be back for us; but they came, and moreover, Dad would leave to 'go and make the contract'. It was on one of these farms where we were called back year after year, and where we usually camped away from home while doing the work ---the Lyman White farm. He had good ground and his beets yielded twenty tons per acre or more ---no alkali there. Good work had to be performed for he was very particular. Japanese workers were very prevalent in that area. Dad looked across the area toward some neighboring field one evening watching some of these Japanese work. Although we always got into the fields in the early morning, it seemed these Japanese were always there as early as we. The word had also gotten out that some of these Orientals did an acre of thinning within one day, although to this day I’ve not seen it proven. Among our family we had achieved, some of us, some times, as much as 3/4 acre in a day ---this was not the usual. Dad said, "I wish sometime one of my sons could do an acre", and he repeated it. Then he said "I would give twenty dollars if one of my sons could do an acre". Well that made me angry, for I knew we were already doing a lot and it angered me that he would ask more; but when he put out that challenge, I couldn't let it fall unheeded. I must comment that there is an easy way of knowing how much is an acre, for it took exactly twenty rows of 80 rods to make up an acre. Brother Serge had returned from Brigham City, having partially finished a year of high school, and I believe he had the whole sum of two silver dollars from unused tuition money. He hadn't worked that year with us, but was there that day and when he heard me say 'I'll do that acre!” Serge said, "I'll bet you a dollar you can't". Well the 'gauntlet' was down. As a usual routine, Dad would trot us out early in the morning; but I started preparation the night before for an even earlier rising. I made a poor little lunch, consisting mostly of two lumpy slices of bread; and without losing time the next morning, I was able to sneak out before anyone heard me. We were camping in a granary, upstairs, but I slipped down the steps and was out in the field ahead of even the Japs that morning. I had two rows completed when the others came out, and by noon I had twelve rows done --eight to go. Serge conceded and gave me his dollar. Then the race with the sun was on. All eyes were on me and mind you, I had to do perfect work. I knew how much was required and although my back was bothering me, I was not suffering too badly; however, it was the timing that really mattered now. As darkness approached, the mosquitoes were coming, and the darkness really fell on that last one-third of a row. Dad and the rest had, of course, already quit but Dad came walking by me and I can well remember him saying. “Well son, I would like to help you, but you know how it is". He knew and I knew that I had it whipped. Actually, at noontime, I knew I would make it.
But I finished my acre and then all those farmers, including White, looked hard to see if they could find signs of doubles, or if I'd skipped or killed a beet, or for any type of flaw. I played to a large crowd that day. A wisp of a boy doing an acre in as heavy a stand of beets as anyone ever saw in that country. I didn't try for that record anymore. Like President Grant said he played on the winning baseball team until he won and then he quit!
On these trips away from home we lived on dry bread and cheese, cereal with some canned milk, if we could get it. When we could get home on the weekends it was a real pleasure. These were experiences not only during beet thinning, but also during hoeing and topping of beets. Some of those weeds, which we hoed out for about $2.00 per acre, would grow pretty large ---and fast.
During the winter season, Dad usually went into the mines to work. One season he was working at Bingham Mines when he asked that we market the turkeys during his absence. I remember getting fifty - sixty turkeys hung up in a line around the barn, heads down; and doing what was considered the humane butchery of cutting into their throats, then allowing them to bleed. All this as we were told to do --and then we put them into a barrel and shipped them to Bingham. Dad was having a rough time himself, down there, working as a strikebreaker. During one incident he almost lost his life. In a small cabin, he was guard; and in regulating the heat to suit several, one of the foreign workers became infuriated and jumped on Dad with a knife. Until this man was disarmed, Dad's life was truly in jeopardy. Mother received letters from Dad during those days, usually written in French. She understood them, would read and interpret to the pleasure of all of us.