Weiser Flat

Reminiscences of a Washington County Pioneer Who Came With the Valliant Little Band of a Quarter of a Century Ago.

Years ago in an eastern home, when I told friends I was going to Idaho to live, they exclaimed: “Way off there! Why, it’s somewhere near the British possessions, isn’t it?” Idaho was not very well known then, only as an abode for Indians and bear, saving a few foolhardy people. Even to myself it seemed a long way from civilization, though I had invested it with a good deal of romance. I was a great admirer at that time of Fennimore Cooper’s tales and believed my future home to be something like his descriptions of frontier homes.

I imagined a picturesque log cabin in the midst of a luxuriant grove, fertile fields, limpid streams, mountains covered with giant trees, and among them all kinds of animals, including the noble red man. You see I include him with the animals, and if all of you knew him as well as I do, you would think I had given him a high place. Well, I have no doubt but that there are many places in Idaho that will come up to Cooper’s descriptions, but I must say, from my first view of Idaho until I reached Weiser, it was one grand disappointment. The miles upon miles of dry, dusty sage brush seemed unending in their loneliness. It did not seem possible then that it could ever be reclaimed and be what it is today, for by the many fertile fields, fruitful orchards and pleasant homes one sees now, truly it can be said of many places in Idaho, the desert has been made to bloom as the rose. I do not mean to infer that it was all desert land – far from it; but to one coming from green, rolling prairies, it seemed as if there was a vast amount of waste land.

When I first came here there was, where Weiser City now stands – old Weiser – one house of entertainment, for man and beast alike, called the Dead Fall. I have heard old timers say it deserved its name, from the bad whisky sold there, a very little causing a dead fall upon the part of the person partaking of it. John Hailey ran a daily stage past there then. I was going to say it was one of the stations, but I remember now the station was called Buttermilk station, and was over about where Mr. Westerveldt now lives. The next one was called the Old Canvas House station, and was somewhere near Mr. Styles’ place, below “Poverty Flat,” as it has been called for a long time, which I think is a mistake and a misnomer, as it is rich in brave, industrious people who, under great difficulties, have taken up the desert land and made themselves homes, which, when the hard times are over, will be made some of the beautiful homes. So, I say, it was named wrongly, as only men rich in strength and purpose could stay there and live. A great deal of freighting was done in those days, and teams were constantly passing on their way to Boise and below.

Our principal market was Boise, and nearly everyone did their trading there.

At Payette, close to Wm. Stewart’s, there was a branch store of D. Falks, of Boise, and one Mr. Toombs had another at the Payette river, afterwards owned and con-vducted by A. J. McFarland.

We paid double, yes, more than double for everything we had in those days, but hard times were unknown and everyone had an abundance of the necessaries of life, though of course we had very few of the luxuries; but we were happy without them. We did not raise fruit then, only Weiser strawberries – i. e., big brown beans – but they were pretty good to have and to sell at eight and nine cents per-pound. I do not see why they do not raise them now. I should think they would be profitable at five cents, and our merchants ship them in here and sell them for that; they ought to give a little more. The farmers in those days hauled their grain and their bacon to Boise and brought back six months’ supplies. They all had their own meat and flour, everybody had enough and to spare, so everyone was happy and the goose hung high. Our churches were our school houses and the attendance was generally good. We used to hear some good sermons, too. It seems to me the ministers were more in earnest then, or maybe we needed harder preaching to. Nearly all the old-timers will remember Father Allender, a good old honest Methodist minister. He was sincere and believed every word he said. Peace to his ashes; he was a christian and tried to make us all better. Our old school district of Ada county extended for miles. The first school house still stands at Lower Mann creek. The children, when I first came here, were taught by a Mr. Paine, in Jimmy Jeffrey’s house, now owned and remodeled by A. B. Anderson. Mr. Paine was an odd character, but he understood the art of imparting knowledge. One of Washington county’s best teachers studied under him, if he did not there learn the whereabouts of the longest railroad in the world. Our school house was used for years for church, grange meetings we did boast a secret society in those days, yes, two of them, for we had a Good Templar’s Lodge also  -and all social entertainments, dances included. While I haven’t a word to say against the dance of today as being a great pleasure to the young people – our old-fashioned dances were not of the money making kind. For forty miles around they gathered in the school houses of those days, just like one big family, not many brothers and sisters, but lots of second and third cousins, bent on having a jolly time. There was little ceremony or style, I’ll confess, for there were all sorts of people, the prospector and miner in their gum boots and overalls; the cowboy and teamster, with their assurance, helped out no doubt sometimes by a little of Jacob’s best; the young farmers and the occasional tender-foot, made up a motley crowd, but they did not interfere with each other, for all came for the same purpose, to have a good time, and they generally did. The musicians were backwoods fiddlers and I am afraid they kept them tuned up with some of Jacob’s, too, for they were never known to tire. The dancers had to say enough, and the callers. they were wound up for the occasion, too, and they meant business.

“Twas “Swing Sally Gooden, swing her grandma, turn, the whole Gooden family, and all run away;” and they did run away to a galloping tune, and if towards morning feet began to lag. how those fiddler’s played the “Flying Dutchman” and “Over the Hills to Charley,” until everyone was dancing gaily again, all fatigue forgotten, and, like the old song, “We danced all night, till broad daylight, and the boys went home with the girls in the morning.” and I guess that custom is observed yet. The culinary department was not forgotten, for it was a grand supper and breakfast, too, for the most, those who came any distance.

Our weekly, sometimes semi-weekly, budget of news was two old bachelors. Oh. you’ll never guess them, and I won’t entirely give them away, but I’ll give you a few points next time and maybe you can locate them, for they are still here and flourishing. But possess your souls in patience until you hear from me again.

ALEX