PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF A. F. MACDONALD

By Nelle Spilsbury Hatch

First remembrances of him was as just one of the authorities in town and in the stake - but one that stood out from the rest in a way because he was tall. (I always admired height in men), and had a distinct Scottish burr in his accent. His bush gray beard was no different to those worn by other men in his class, except that it was brushed and groomed a little better. Other than that he had no particular charm for me until he began to spend time in our home and take an interest in me.

We lived at the Palo Quemado Ranch at the time, a dry farmstead about eight miles from Colonia Juarez. Father had a lumber hauling contract that made that location convenient for him. From there he could go to the Hurst Sawmill on top of the mountain and return with a load of lumber in one day. And from there he could deliver his load to the end of the track (Guadalupe) and return in one day. Three trips a week were possible and each night he could be at home.

In the spring of 1902 I left school in town to be with my mother when her thirteenth child was born, and stayed on with her instead of returning to school.

Brother MacDonald had one family (Fanny) living in Colonia Juarez, and another (Lizzie) living in Garcia. In order to be with each a part of his time, several trips a month had to be made up and back over rough mountain roads. To break the trip into more comfortable shifts, he asked permission to stay with us at the Ranch both going and coming. He would leave Colonia Juarez in the afternoon, stay with us all night, and be able to make it to Garcia before dark, and best of all before he and his mule team were tired. On his return he'd do the same, make it to our Ranch in the evening, rest himself and his mules and be with Fanny for the noonday meal, fresh and clean and not too tired.

We grew to look forward to these trips, for it usually meant a full evening of interesting talk and reminiscence. He and Mother had much in common, both had lived in the Salt River Valley, and in adjacent towns in Utah prior to that, and they had scads of common acquaintances. They both liked to talk. Both liked their cup of tea and sipping it together always started an interesting line of talk. I learned more of his background, of the hopes and his disappointments and of his general character and makeup through listening in on their more or less intimate conversations, their confessions or admissions or whatever each thought they were, than I could have learned from reading his life story.

One topic I never tired hearing him dwell on was of his love for his daughter Bessie. It seemed it would be wonderful to hold such a place in a father's life, and I wished I might get to see her some time. Later on it began to appear that I might have the chance to, for word came that her husband had died, that she had little means of support for herself and two little girls, and that he was looking for something to come up to make it possible to send for her and have her come to him.

It's possible also, that my interest in Bessie was aroused by his stating that I reminded him of her. I still remember the thrill it gave me when he picked up my notebook one morning and asked whose handwriting was in it. Mother told him it was mine, and he said, "There's character in that handwriting mi girl. It looks a little like Bessie°s."

A few days after that, when Mother and I were alone on the ranch with the little children, a terrific rainstorm struck suddenly and fiercely. For a half hour it poured while the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed, at the end of which time the whole country was under water, and a river that would "swim a calf" ran between our house and the corral. No sooner had the rain clouds lifted than we saw Brother Macdonald coming from town. He was alone in an open buckboard, and I've never seen anyone or anything look so drenched as he did. His hat brim dripped over his ears, his beard was sodden and his clothes were streaming with water. Still he was feebly urging his mules to make haste and get him to shelter. "He'll never make it through that torrent," said Mother as we watched, and we both called to him to wait until the flood had subsided. But he was too chilled to heed us and continued to urge his mules toward us.

He probably would have driven them right through if they'd done his bidding. But they didn't. They got to the edge of the stream and then stopped, flinching when he rapped them smartly with his whip, shaking their heads and all but rearing when he prodded them further. Fearful that they'd overturn the buckboard in their stubborn resistance, I took off my shoes and stockings, seized an oak stick to help me keep my balance, and waded through the stream to him. The water was almost waist deep and ran swift and angry. But I made it through to him and got hold of the mules bridle bits. They quieted down a little as soon as I had a firm hold on them and began to talk quietly to them. In a few minutes they were under control so I led them through the steam. It.was a flash flood and was falling fast. Even in the short time I was with them it had noticeably lowered, and getting them to follow me through the water was relatively easy. I led them into the door yard where mother helped him from his seat and had him by a cosy fire in a jiffy. I took care of his mules and then carried his wet bedding and lunch box in the house.

He never let me forget that incident. "I've never seen so welcome a sight in all my days" he'd say again and again, "as the sight of that girl making her way to me through that flood. I've never been more in need of just that kind of help.

You reminded me of my daughter Bessie, always on hand to help in any way needed." That was pay for me. To be likened to one whose praises I had heard sung so much was music to my ears. It was a stimulus that bore me up and really put me in the clouds. He kept me there too. Nothing I did after that but was noted by him, and the first thing I knew I was half believing that maybe I did have character-maybe with it I could find an opening into a better life than just ranching. Maybe if I kept hoping, something would turn up for me better than milking cows, hoeing corn, feeding pigs. Maybe I could go back to school, maybe graduate and then --but farther than that I couldn't see. But his casual remarks had awakened something that changed my whole outlook on life, and gave me an incentive that never died.

Funny isn't it, what little things can change the current of a stream. Or what a few words of praise can do to one so starved for them. I also wondered did he realize the magnitude of the effect those few words had on my life?

I still listened as he and Mother talked, often exchanging confidences. I think it was some of these talks that I heard him tell of his conversion as it is related in COLONIA JUAREZ. It was later related to me by his son Wallace Ayrd Macdonald. He also gave me some pictures of his home life, pieced together that made me know his family too.

And I still looked forward to his visits for he never failed to feed my hungry soul, and whit my ambition.

As summer approached and my sisters would soon be home from school to help with the work on the ranch, he one day said to Mother, "I need a scribe, (he was a Patriarch) someone to copy my blessings. I offered it to Lucy, feeling it would be a good chance for me to get to know the girl, but Fanny can't or won't spare her. So if you will let me have Nellie „ I'11 take good care of her and she can be earning a little besides. That is, if she will come." If I would come! I jumped at the chance. And when he made his first trip to Garcia after school had closed I was with him. I sat by him all day as we jogged over the rough, the bumpy roads, both talking with, listening to and watching everything he did. By the time the sun was ready to set, we were still ten miles from Garcia and he was tired. "We'll just have to camp"

We hadn't come prepared, or at least I hadn't except with the good lunch Mother had prepared for me. But he said, "We'll make out." And funny as it may sound we did. We camped, hobbled the mules, ate the rest of my lunch and then he spread his bedroll on the ground. He lay down on one side and told me to lie down on the other, and I did. I've never had a more peaceful night - curled up with my back to his I was asleep in a minute and knew nothing until I heard him breaking the kindlings for a fire.

That summer in Garcia still stands out in my memory. I remember everything now as when it happened. I took over the outside chores, milked the cow, took care of the calf, fed the mules, and then helped Aunt Lizzie in the house. As soon as the morning chores were done, I sat to the desk to write - to copy into a great volume the blessings he had given and which had been taken down by some member of the family as he gave them. I remember many of those blessings too and my wondering how he could tell what promises to make to people and which individual merited a special blessing. It was amazing, even to a sixteen year old girl how very different each could be. Sometimes he'd sit by me as I wrote sometimes he let me stop writing to listen to something he particularly wanted me to understand. Once he told me he had special blessing for me, but that he wanted to give it to me in my home and when he could give one to every member of the family at the same time. I wanted that too, and have always regretted that the time to do it never came.

I went with him to Pacheco to write his blessings as he gave them to people who had requested his visit. I remember one family where we spent the day. I found out afterwards that Brother Macdonald was insisting that harmony and peaceful relations be restored in the family that they become united and have good feelings one for the other before he could or would give them a blessing. "Blessings come only through the Spirit of the Lord", he had told them, "and the Spirit of the Lord can't dwell in discord." He had stayed with them until that spirit was in the home before he gave them the blessing they had asked for.

My life that summer with Aunt Lizzie was equally as satisfying and interesting as that with Brother Macdonald. She was so generous and kind that everyone loved her. She had a laugh for everything. She was Bessie's mother, but other than that she had little or no charms for Brother Macdonald. But when Aunt Agnes was killed in the very home and carrying on the same business that Aunt Lizzie was now doing and he was left alone in the home in Garcia, she willingly came from her home in Lehi, near Mesa, to fill her place. For the first time he really realized her real worth and came to feel the grandeur and bigness of her soul, and her inherent goodness. "How could I have overlooked her for so long?" he asked Mother in one of his talks with her. She was just what he needed. She took care of him physically, and was a tonic for his every mood beside. She was just as good for me too.

She took up where Brother Macdonald left off, kept me buoyed up with her witty comments and her genuine teasing "Just watch that girl," she'd say to a neighbor when she thought I couldn't hear. "She can milk a cow, train a calf, saddle a horse and ride like an Indian, harness up the mules and bring in a load of posts, or take off with the mules on the run. Then she can come in and play you a piece on the organ, say a recitation, or tell you a story she has just read. Anything that needs to be done she can do.

So Aunt Lizzie made a place for herself in my heart. I've remembered her and revered her like a mother. I give her credit for stirring ambititions and building up a needed morale. Further proof of her genuine goodness came a few years later after she was left a widow and she took Bessie's children and raised them. Brother Macdonald's plan to bring Bessie and her two little girls to Mexico materizlized right away, and I had the privilege of admiring her from afar, but never became really acquainted with her. She married Orson P. Brown January 15, 1901 and moved with him to Colonia Morelos where he was made the first Bishop of the newly organized ward. There she lived, and died in 1904 of Typhoid after nursing Clyde Brown of Typhoid.

Aunt Lizzie took the four children, two older girls, Elsie and Marguerite, and the two younger sons, Donald and Duncan. Though she was approaching old age, had no way of making a livelihood other than from the little store and post office she still operated in her home, she accepted the responsibility of these four precious souls and without a murmur did both a mother's and a father's part by them. When the Exodus came in 1912 forcing all Stake members to evacuate their homes, she had these children raised past childhood. She settled in her old home town of Lehi, near Mesa, and near her only other daughter Maggie Sorensen, and still kept up her filial duties to these children. She fed and clothed and schooled them for the ten or fifteen years she lived. They all had high school education, Elsie and Marguerite both married there, and both have been staunch Church members and showed it by the activities they carried on in the Ward.

I read just recently of an honor coming to one of Marguerite's sons, made counselor to a Mission President I think, but just now I can't recall for sure. But it was proof of the faithfulness of the mother.  The two sons became good business men, Duncan distinguishing himself in Consular work on the International border in Nogales Sonora or Arizona. There he lost his life, but had remained a respected and respectable citizen by all who knew him during his short life.

In spite of hardships Aunt Lizzie had begun again from scratch in Lehi after abandoning all she had in Mexico, and seeing all of those children through high school and making every dollar she had the hardest way. When she died and her burial clothes - carefully made and gotten ready by herself - were unrolled, there was $100.00 in currency pinned in an envelope to pay burial expenses. She died just as she had lived - on her own, and asking nothing of anyone that she could do for herself. Charity or a need for was ever abhorrent to her. She asked nothing better of life than to be able to work, to keep herself from being burdensome to others, but rather to be able to do her part in the care of others. Bless her memory!

She taught me so much. She was never beaten. She faced life as she found it. And though all she had was from the efforts of her own two hands. She made them yield her the necessities, comforts and a rich, full life.

But getting back to Brother Macdonald and my last memories of him. The last time he was in our ranch home to spend the night as usual, he was ill. Some form of kidney trouble, he told Mother, as she commented on his drapping steps, his puffy face and sagging eyes. But he would soon be all right he assured her. Nothing had ever gotten him down physically, and he wasn't old enough yet to start letting it get the best of him now. He had to be all right soon, he said brightly, for he had a trip to Sonora to make. If he didn't pick up before the trip started, he was sure he would afterwards, for the change would surely do him good. But all the evening he sat slumped in his chair, and the conversation between him and Mother was fitful and punctuated with long silences. During one of them he sat looking at me as I sat crocheting a wide edge for Mother's white apron. He finally asked, "When is your birthday, Nellie?" "The 22d of March," I told him, and then wondered why he had asked. "The 22d of March," he repeated. "Well, I'll remember you on that day. And here's something to remember me by now" he said, as he pulled a little parcel from his pocket. "It is something I intended to give you at the end of the summer in Garcia, but let it slip my mind." And he laid a pair of cufflinks in my hand, the large ruby setting sparkling beautifully. I remember thinking as I looked at them that they were a keepsake, I would keep forever. They were something I would be glad to show my children when I'd tell them of this great friend of mine. I'd tell them also what he did for me on my birthday too, after I found out for myself what it was. I knew it would be something I could treasure all my life.

Well, he died on March 21, 1903, and was buried on my birthday - my 16th. Word of it reached me just after the shout of "Surprisel" had sounded and the hilarous greetings had died down and the party in my honor was in full sway. But what happened between his visit to our ranch home - I remember distinctly it was February 22 - I had to get later from Aunt Lizzie.

"Mac didn°t take that trip to Sonora," she said, "though he never stopped saying he would. But by the time the date to leave arrived, he had worsened so fast that I prevailed on him to take a rush trip to El Paso and consult a doctor, though he still maintained he didn't need a doctor and would soon be all right. He was still protesting the idea when we bypassed your ranch on his way to Juarez, and that he had business to transact in Sonora and of course that was why he had to go. Jim driving us and would stop for nothing.

They had spent the night in Colonia Juarez with Fanny, and Aunt Lizzie had urged Fanny to go to El Paso with him. She said she was sure a ride out and back together would heal a rift between them that was becoming too apparent. But Fanny was tied up with boarders, had her own children in school and of course couldn't leave. So Aunt Lizzie had gone with him taking good care of him on the train and later at the hotel. They didn't stay long in El Paso, however. There was no need. In fact, there was more need to get him home again and soon. The doctor found the malady, Bright°s Disease he called it, had progressed too far for any help to be given him. In fact, it was in its last stages, and home seemed more inviting to spend his last days than in a hospital. They took the first train for home.

They bypassed Dublan and went on to Nuevo Casas Grandes rather than seek the help Aunt Lizzie thought was due him from Helaman Pratt, the one who had taken his place in the Mission Presidency and with whom he had had "words." His proud heart would not risk a refusal. They were taken in by a Mr. Elldredge, Editor of the EL PROGRESO, and were treated very kindly.. Everything that could be done for them was done.

"But Mac was in a state of coma by the time he was put to bed." she continued. Hardly had he been tucked in bed than he asked, 'Lizzie, who are those men standing by the door?" "There's no one standing by the door; Mac," I answered mystified. 'But there is someone," he insisted. "No one but you and me - and Jim if he gets here in the night." "No, someone is there, it looks like Moses or some of the Prophets.'" At that I chuckled, and told him he sure had an imaginary idea in his head. But my chuckle died when I got a good look at his face. His eyes were set, and the pallor of death covered his features. In another moment he was gone... And I was alone among strangers, although very friendly strangers.

But they were not of our faith and could do nothing toward giving a fitting burial to a staunch Latter-day Saint. There was nothing to do but put Mac's pride in my pocket - I hadn't any of my own - and seek the help Mac had ignored. I had to risk the refusal his proud heart could never take. I had to ask Helaman Pratt to help me now in my dilemna, or to take me to someone who would."

"How glad I am I made that decision," she said with a chuckle, but with tears streaming down her face. "I found not only a friend, but one who was instrumental in giving Mac the type of funeral and burial he deserved. He was so happy to do something for Mac to show me and his family how unhappy he had been over the rift their friendship had suffered, and regardless of what had happened in the past Mac was still a revered and esteemed friend. He was glad of the chance to show everyone he was. "Just leave it to me," he said as soon as he learned the purpose of my visit, and we'll see he has everything that money and friends can get for him."

And that"s what I did - just sat and watched every wish of my heart for him come true. I saw him dressed in the nicest clothes that could be had, laid away in the trimmest casket that loving and expert hands could do, I saw banks of flowers carried in, mostly potted plants for it was March, to decorate the room and with some to be carried to the cemetery. I heard the finest tributes paid him.by men. who knew his worth and were aware of the service he had rendered the Church in early colonization days.. I saw the house packed with neighbors and loved ones who thronged to pay their last respects with tear-filled eyes, and then saw him laid to rest by hands that could have done it no more tenderly had he been their own father. My only regret is that Mac didn't live long enough to find their enmity was imaginary, that there was really nothing to keep them from being the best of friends."

So passed the life of a great and good man, one who accepted the Gospel in its entirety and had given long years of service to the Church, most of it on the frontiers. Details of his service in Utah, in his Seventy's Quorum, of his mission to his native land, of being placed in charge of the steamship full of emigrant converts from the Continent on their way to Utah, of his service as first president of the Maricopa Stake and the scout work he did in Sonora and Chihuahua in Mexico, in search of lands on which homeless people could colonize, are all matters of history and may be read by those interested in searching them out. What is recorded here is only my personal contact with him, during the last two years, of his life.. He is a precious memory to me. Whatever I am, or whether I ever reach any of the goals I have set for myself, thanks is due to him for giving me my first estimate of myself.

By NELLIE SPILSBURY HATCH (written
at the request of his granddaughter
MARGUERITE B. SHILL

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Sources:

PAF - Archer files = Orson Pratt Brown + (3) Elizabeth Graham Macdonald < Alexander Findlay Macdonald + Elizabeth Atkinson. Elizabeth Graham Macdonald Webb Brown is Marguerite B. Shill's mother.

Newspaper article and biography courtesy of James Duncan Brown Jr.. Elizabeth Macdonald Brown's grandson.

Copyright 2001 www.OrsonPrattBrown.org