[This document was sent by Almeda's son Lelon P. Wagner to Elmer Clifton "Cliff" Peabody, the son of her brother Edwin Peabody. It was later found by Cliff's granddaughter Cynthia Peabody Anderson who gave a copy of it to the St. Lawrence County Historical Society in Canton, New York, where I (Wilson Gateley) found it in 1994. The document starts and ends with comments by Lelon.]

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San Francisco, Calif. Aug. 13, 1934

Dear Cousin;

When in Breckenridge I promised your very charming wife that I would send to you a copy of some notes that my Mother made, bearing on the history of our family, and here they are. In the main these notes may not be of no great interest to you folks, but there are some dates and comment relating to the Peabody side that will possibly be of some value, and since I could not very well segregate that portion, am sending the whole account. Mother's physical condition at the time this was written was very poor, and her mental condition also showed the effects of a long life of hard work and more than her share of hardship and worry, so that the rather disjointed narrative, or that feature of it at least, is easily accounted for.

Kindest regards and best wishes, to all,

Sincerely,

L. Wagner
122 Flood Ave.

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Some time in the earlier years, two brothers came from England and after wandering around finally settled in the Green Mountain Country of Vermont - settled down and became what was called "Green Mountain Boys". Their names was Peabody - most likely were Moses and Joseph or Daniel and Benjamin, as all these names were used in their families often as was James and other Bible names. These thrifty Green Mountain boys were productive and raised large families, one having eleven living children, being my grandfather.

These children, my uncles and aunts, and my father, (James, Moses, Joseph, Benjamin (my father), Blake, Harvey and Lorenzo.) The sisters, Sally, Betsy, Cynthia, Nancy, lived to old age, being from seventy-five to nintey and past in years. Benjamin, my father, was eighty lacking two months; Moses 86, Joseph over 90 years.

This family drifted down to New Jersey, then up to central New York. Four of the boys and two girls finally settled in Northern New York in St. Lawrence County. Most of them raised large families. My father met my mother in Herkimer County, New York. Her father's name was Wright. Her mother before marriage was Reed. My grandfather Wright was killed in the Army; when my Mother was eight years old her mother died, leaving her a lone orphan. Her grandmother took her and cared for her, they two being alone made their living by knitting and sewing. My father met her when she was eighteen years old, a beautiful delicate girl, while he, like most Peabodys was a large tall man - six feet two inches. All were poor. Three months before my birth (I was their seventh child) they move to Northern New York and settled in East Pitcairn, St. Lawrence County, in what was then known as the big woods, my father chopping down big hardwood trees to build a cabin, and then when they got moved in their little cabin, after using the fallen trees to build it, he chopped down more trees to build a log house, which had two rooms, one up stairs and one down stairs, and a good cellar. That log house being the only home that I ever knew until after I was twenty-five years old when I came to Colorado. Our whole family grew up in that log house. My Mother died there and is buried there in a little cemetery in East Pitcairn, St. Lawrence County, alone.

These were early times, and hard. There were no wealthy people near, every one living as we did, in log houses. The winters were quite severe, and men banked up their houses in early fall by shovelling the ground up around the base to keep the cold out, and to keep their cellars from freezing. We lived mostly on buckwheat, corn and potatoes, of which we had an abundance as soon as ground could be cleared to raise enough on, and there was a great deal of wild fruit, and there were great numbers of maple trees, so we had plenty of maple syrup, and we knew no other. Nearly everyone had a few sheep, and made their own woolen cloth and stockings, the women carding the wool, into rolls and then spinning and weaving into cloth or doubling the yarn and twisting and then knitting stockings and mittens. No one could buy these things ready made. Then all girls learned very young to knit, and did knit their own stockings. When I was eight years of age I had the proud pleasure of boasting that I had knit a pair of gloves for my Father and one for my brother Daniel. I never wore but one pair of stockings that I did not knit until I came to Colorado, past twenty five years of age. My Mother's old spinning wheel was still there in the old house when I left there, and I and my sisters had learned to spin on it. I heard my Father say after I was a grown girl that none of his eleven children has ever worn a pair of shoes until after they were seven years old. We had no coddling and grew up hale and hearty, and we, one and all, had to amuse ourselves with no playthings purchased for us, and was no doubt happier for it.

In winter we had a hand sled to slide down hill on, and to haul our loads of wood and other heavy things on. While green things were growing in summer we had all kinds of vegetables to eat, and melons, both watermelons and muskmelons, and green corn, either boiled or roasted before the coals of fire; beech nuts and butternuts in great quantities by gathering them and laying them up to dry, and what one doesn't see now, we peeled pumpkins and hung them up under the rafters to dry and in winter these great rings of dried pumpkin were cooked and used for sauce or pies, for in those days there were no apples in Northern New York, so our everything and anything that children love to gather and dry for winter use. Everyone raised their own pork and deer were very thick there so we had plenty of meat but not much butter, and in summer we had butter.

If the hay and other feed gave out, the men went into the woods and cut down young limbs from trees, and drove the cattle (which no one had many of) into the woods to eat and browse on it.

Sometime about the twentieth of March men began their sugar making. Men made their spiles or spouts by cutting the required length of wood, shaving a trough in it and boring a hole for the sap, then driving it into the tree about two feet from the ground, putting large buckets underneath for the sap to run into. When the buckets were filled they drove around with a sled on which was a large tub and gathered up the sap. Those were busy days, for men had to boil the sap, keeping a fire night and day. When it was about as thick as syrup it was taken up and after standing overnight to settle, then boiled into sugar, or as we said, "sugared off".

Money was a scarce article in those days. Quite a good many men hunted deer for about three of the coldest months in winter, and used the forequarters for meat, and the hind quarters, or saddles as they were called, were sold to venison buyers, who came from the cities of Boston, Philadelphia and New York, and purchased all they could get and shipped it to those cities. That hunter's life was a hard one too, but it must have been fascinating too, as well as some money in it, some days a man would not see a track, and other days might get one or two, or even three once in a great while.

My mother died October 4, 1855, and lies buried in a little cemetery in East Pitcairn, N.Y., all alone, so far as her family is concerned. My youngest brother Edwin J. was then seven years old. My father married again the next spring, and had three more children, one of which died in infancy. The other two I have lost track of. I do not know whether they are living or not. One named Anne E. married a Mr. Sutton. They settled down on the Blue River in Colorado. The other, Robert, was married and lived in Kansas the last I heard of him. He had two sons, who may still be living at Grand Junction, one was a permanent cripple. (Since writing the above I have learned that Mrs. Sutton is still living at Gypsum, Colorado, and that she had a large family all grown and scattered.

My father had eight children - five boys and three girls. Their names were -

Benjamin Peabody, borne January 1, 1830; died April 1906.

Daniel Peabody, borne April 27, 1832: died April, 1900.

Lelon Peabody, borne February 4, 1834; died April, 1898.

James Peabody, borne April 14, 1836; died in 1920.

Alvira Ann, borne March 15, 1839, died August 4 1917.

Salome, borne April 7, 1842; died September, 1913.

Almeda, borne January 22, 1844. Died

Edwin Judson Peabody, borne May 9, 1848; died 1918.

I was borne in East Pitcairn, St. Lawrence County, N.Y. and so was brother Edwin. All the older ones were borne in Herkimer County, New York. Brother Lelon was the youngest of all my father's children (when he died), he being only sixty-four years, but he did not die a natural death.

The summer that my Father remarried we children all left home except the two younger brothers. James remained with Father until he was 21. When Edwin was ten years old he went to live at out brother Daniel's on a farm fifteen miles from home. I wandered around a year or two, and then went to work by the week. The year I was fifteen I received 75 cents a week for 28 weeks, which had to clothe me. Of course I had to go scantily clad, with no shoes most of the time. I was very small for my age, but the next year I received one dollar and was glad to earn it. If I was absent or sick one day, that day was lost time. It was a great farming country, and people hired girls and men too, for about eight months of the year, but they were in demand so we never need hunt a job or place to work. We were sought. I have had men drive thirty miles to hire me to work for them. No girl need ask for work if she was old enough and would work. The hardest place I ever got into (although I had other hard ones) was named Almira Hazelton. She had two sons and two daughters. I received $1.25 a week there. I was 18 years old. I stayed there 27 weeks, arising at 4:30 in the morning, milked nine cows (each of the boys the same). I could retire at 9:00 most of the time, but never allowed to sit down except Saturday p.m. and then only to do the family mending. I was only allowed to sweep my bedroom on Sunday. If I was gone a few hours I lost my days time, even not allowing me the Fourth of July. If I sewed a little while for myself I lost my time. Most of my mending I did on Sunday. If she purchased anything and could over-charge a dime she did so. I was not allowed to enter the pantry where she kept her provisions. Of course I was not in love with her, but being a very timid girl I did not dare say anything, no matter how badly I was treated, but now after 59 years I can truly say I am satisfied and glad I did not do her any harm, and she and her family have gone to their resting places. After that I had life a little easier and I learned to do required of me and do it well and make friends.

When I was 16 years old I was very sick with typhoid fever. I was then working for a family named Hildreth. There was a Homeopath Doctor called who lived 2 ½ miles, charging one dollar each trip. He came three times, and cured me. I worked at that place 34 weeks for $1.00 each week. They were very good people to work for. They had a dairy farm and made cheese part of the time. One morning when we went to the vat to strain the milk there was a big spotted adder sailing around in the last night's milk. The lining of the vat was smooth tin and he could not climb out. We did not make any cheese that day. I also worked at my brother Daniel's, where they also made cheese, and I think I could make cheese yet. I don't mean cottage - I learned to make that from my husband's brother, Karl, as it takes a German to know how to make good "Schmearcase" of cottage cheese.

Then I had an opportunity to attend school at the Seminary (Gouvenier Wesleyan) or Academy. It was supported by the Methodist Episcopal Church, and was under the Regents of the State of N.Y. I think the M.E. Church sort of adopted me, as it got me a free tuition and soon I received an education enabling me to teach school. I studied hard and did my very best, very thankful for the support that was given me. The teachers were very kind to me and who shall say that I did wrong to love that church that did so much for me. It was the church of my Fathers and Mothers choice, and is the church of the poor people, and the poor who belong to it are looked after and helped. WE welcome all to our church who do not belong to other churches and come asking admissions, wanting to live Christian lives, God being their Judge. Gourveneur Wesleyan Seminary kept close watch over its students educationally, morally and spiritually. Students were required to keep study hours, beginning at 7 o'clock at night, after which none were allowed on the streets or in other rooms unless excused by a teacher or some member of the faculty. All were required to be at chapel at night and morning for sound and prayer service. Very soon after the beginning of each school term there was a social given in Chapel so students would get acquainted with each other and we all enjoyed it very greatly. It is now 52 years since I left that dear old Seminary. Most of the students and teachers have done their work and gone to rest. My brothers and sisters have all gone, I alone remaining, I might say of all that throng.

My two brothers, Benjamin and Edwin, came to Colorado in 1868. My brother Lelon left New York in 1856, stayed in Iowa until 1859, then joined an emmigrant train and travelled across the plains with ox teams, 40 men with their families together, as there was no railroad further than Omaha. It took six weeks to make the journey to Denver, that City (of Denver) consisting of three houses. He then left the others and all scattered, roaming around the foothills and into the mountains. There were small colonies there, at one place two miles east of where Golden now stands, there was at one time five hundred people living. The name of the place was Arapahoe City, but not one mark is left to show where the little city stood. It was necessary to keep pretty close together on account of Indians. The Sioux, Arapahoes, Cheyennes being troublesome and all fighting against the Ute tribe who were as friendly with the whites as Indians are expected to be. But the Whites were something of a protection to the Utes, so the Utes were a protection to the Whites.

When my sister and I, together with Henry Wagner and one of his army chums arrived in Cheyenne, we were compelled to finish out journey by stage. There were many people traveling through then, but the two soldier boys, through strategy, succeeded in getting a seat for the four of us on the same stage. There were three seats so nine of us rode inside and six on the out, besides trunks and other baggage strapped on. It was a hard ride for we were packed in like the proverbial sardines. There were four horses on all the time. When we were nearing a station which was every ten miles, it being 100 miles to Denver, the driver gave a shrill whistle and four fresh horses were standing ready and as our tired horses were unhitched, the fresh ones were instantly hitched up and away we were whirled, riding all night. At the last station there were six white horses taken, so we rode into Denver I style; stopping at the Car House, where we remained overnight. Henry and his chum, a soldier too, hunted another team to carry us on to Hamilton. Henry went with us, but his chum remained in Denver, as he was a maker of fine shoes. Hamilton was to be our last stopping place before crossing the Range. We stayed our first night at Slatt's Ranch, where we had snow on our bed, and our breakfast consisted of very salty salt side, potatoes, bread and coffee. I could not eat, so we rode on, and just before reaching South Park, our driver "Bob" stopped at his mother's house, as she kept an eating place, and he got us a real good breakfast, inviting only Henry and Sister and myself to eat with him. It was a free lunch and a good one, after which we drove on across the park to Hamilton, which was where the Peabody ranch now stands, arriving early in the p.m. There were then two hotels there, one of which was kept by a German and his wife named Leillienthal where we remained, and I wrote a letter to my Brother Lelon, which the mail carrier S. Davenport, carried to Gold Run on snow shoes, eighteen miles, my brother returning with him the next day. We had not seen him for 14 or 15 years. We left the hotel after supper and rode in a wagon as far as the horses could haul it through the snow, then waded further for a while and then camped east of the range and waited for the snow to freeze so we could walk over the crust. There were twenty-two people there at camp that night. Some made beds on the snow by cutting down limbs of trees and putting blankets on them and other bedding over, but there was a big camp fire and my sister and I and some others sat up all night. Next a.m. early we walked over the crusty snow until we reached a place where L. Peabody had horses to carry us to Breckenridge. But we were not used to horseback riding and so our ponies had to be led. We arrive at Breckenridge at 9 o'clock and had breakfast there; then on over Gibson Hill, one side of which was, as we thought almost perpendicular - and what a climb for a Tenderfoot! We had to cross Gold Run ditch, which was wide. We crossed it on horseback over a bridge made of poles lengthwise. My pony's feet went down between the poles, which frightened him so the man who led him grabbed my arm and pulled me across. The pony never allowed a skirt to approach him again.

Arrived at last on May 17th, at out destination. Lelon Peabody's great log house where we were to cook for our brother's men who worked his mines. My Sister and I cooked for my Brother's men until in July another woman got sick so she went to take care of her so I cooked for the 25 men alone, cooking 175 pounds of beef and a barrel of flour each week, besides much other foods, until the mines closed. My brother Lelon took $12,000 from his mines that summer. He paid $1000 for his next winters provisions. His house being built of the largest logs he could get as a part of the protection from Indians, which often came there in crowds and demanded to be fed. Sometimes there was what was called an "Indian Scare", as they occasionally drove off stock and murdered the whites, especially the tribe Sioux, Arapahoes and Cheyennes. The Utes were always at war with those tribes and so did not often do much damage among the whites, but there was one old ugly Chief that we feared, if caught anywhere alone. That was "Old Colorow". I remember him for he would come and gaze at me through the windows or come in and sit in my way, and once he asked my brother to open the door and let him in. They never stopped for an invitation but threw the door wide open and entered, at the same time hallowed "How".

The first wagon to cross the range that first year was on May 31st. It brought us our trunks which we needed badly. My Brother Lelon was Justice of the Peace and so officiated at our wedding, he being the only person in thirty miles that could perform that ceremony, and I am sure it is safe to say that it was his last. He was pleased to do so as he was very fond of my husband. We paid him better wages than other men for he could trust him to do anything that needed to be done and never soldiered on the job.

My Brother Edwin returned to Michigan that fall and married Almeda Smith, but after a few years he came back to Colorado. After living in Golden and in these mines in the mountains he finally settled in Breckenridge where he died at the age of 69 years and 8 months. His wife and two daughters are there yet.

Mr. Wagner and I lived with my brother until the fall of 1871, he working by the month in winter and by the day in summer; I for my board in winter and $50 per month in summer. Our daughter, Maria was born in his log house August 12, 1870. She was the first white child borne in Gold Run. Lelon went to the Pit and told the miners that there was a four-pound nugget up to the house. During our first year in Summit County the Indians were somewhat troublesome. When my first child was only a few days old there was an Indian scare. It was reported that they were on a raid, and people living anywhere near came to my brother's bringing what they could of their valuables and remained a few days, keeping sentinels and watching for the Indians. We had the best and largest house, built of large logs. The scare proved false which was a great relief to me as I was unable to be out of bed. I think that was the last time the Indians troubled us, though they still came on peaceful terms. When most of the men had gone across the range one day I looked up at the window and saw a big Indian looking at me. I was startled and quickly went to the doors and locked them. Another day Old Colorow the big chief tried to get my brother to make me met him in, but my brother told him I was a bad white squaw, and wouldn't do it.

We lived in Summit County two and a half years, then I went back to York State in the fall of 1871. I stopped in Michigan on my way, to see my Father, and Brothers, Daniel and James. I passed through Chicago a few days before the great Chicago fire. The weather was very hot and dry everywhere, and as I went on down to home and to St. Lawrence Co., 800 miles, I was not out of sight of fire. Many buildings, fences, haystacks, and trees, everything inflammable, seemed on fire; often the heat almost burning our faces through the (railroad) car windows. I arrives at my sister Saloma Thompson's in October, remaining there until January 8th among friends and relations. When I went east Mr. Wagner was intending to go to Missouri and get a farm, but he changed his mind and sent for me to come back to Colorado. I arrived in Georgetown January 13, 1872. Mr. Wagner worked there in the stamp mills until the next spring, when he went to the Valley and got a homestead. We moved there about May 1st and bought a team of horses, harness and wagon. The land he purchased from a man, then took it up as a homestead. We had been married for four years. I had taken boarders and worked by the month and both saving as best we knew how, so that we had in all $2,500. In April 1873 we moved to the Valley on a ranch and homesteaded, pre-empted and purchased land of the railroad company and other ways until we owned 1200 acres. This was mostly stock or grazing land. Mr. Wagner being exceptionally good at handling cattle and horses. We lived at that place for 27 years. It was and now is called the Wagner Ranch.

While we were in Georgetown, Carl Wagner came from Germany and boarded with us until we left. He was in the Franco-Prussian War and as soon as he could get away he cam to America. Our eldest son was born in Georgetown on November 17, 1872. Our three youngest children were born on our ranch. When we first went on the ranch the house was only a shell, but we kept building on until we had a comfortable house of seven rooms, besides a large store room and milk house, with chamber for men to sleep in, but all those things took much time and money and hard work, for to begin with we had no cellar, no well, just a little spring down in the meadow - no fence or sheds. Many cold mornings Mr. Wagner drove up to Coal Creek Canon over almost impassable roads to get slabs and poles and posts to build with, until at last we had sheds and corrals, miles of fences brought to the door in pipes, and our Son Lelon dug a cistern, so then we had plenty of soft water on the porch, as well as hard. Also hydrants in the cow yard; one in the barn, one in the house lot and one in the slaughterhouse. One winter after a dry summer there were severe storms and we were obliged to haul hay and grain from Golden. We lost heavily of our stock that spring after paying $700.00 for feed. Then we both got down with pneumonia - I in bed and he in Golden, unable to come home. Our oldest girl, Rie, only ten years of age, together with her brothers John 8 and Lelon 6, doing their best to care for the stock and get their own meals. The snow was two or three feet deep in places. Those two boys, so young worked like men, and Rie and had no idle moments for weeks. During the winter I taught the children at home as they had never been in school, as we lived three miles from a school house, but they studied well, so that when they began to attend school, they were well able to stand with any class of their ages. Now when I think of how hard those dear little ones worked, making no complaints, it brings the tears even yet. But taken all together, I believe that our happiest days were spent on that big ranch, and it was not always hard or bad after we got well started. We had plenty to supply all our needs or wants. We had teams and wagons and buggies and saddle horses, to go and come as we chose, and those big fields and mountains seemed all our own. Mr. Wagner was an extra good man with stock and he and his sons could guess the weight very close with our stock. He was also good at breaking horses to the saddle or harness, and he took good care that his stock did not suffer from hunger.

But the years flew by. All the children except the youngest grew up in the old home and married and left us to make homes of their own. Lulu our youngest, was our stay and helper during the last six years on the ranch. Mr. Wagner's eyesight was failing so she or I were needed with him constantly to be eyes for him while driving or riding or doing any kind of work.

In 1901 we sold the ranch for $14,000 and moved into Golden. We had the pleasure of raising our children in the country, among the hills and valleys and in the fresh mountain air, with plenty of room, no other building in sight but our own. All but one married while we lived there, and here let me say I have thanked my Maker for the privilege of raising our children in that county home, and of having a husband that did not play cards or use tobacco; had temperate habits, was kind in family, had many good friends who shed tears of sorrow at his death on May 20, 1906. Our oldest son was named for his Grandfather John Adam Wagner. He was seriously injured while riding a horse, from the effects of which he died after eighteen years of great suffering at the age of 36 years, leaving three orphaned children, his wife having been killed by a gunshot wound nearly three years before, he being shot at the same time though not fatally. After her death our daughter Lulu kept house for him until her own marriage. John was married June 12, 1895 to Flora Juchem. After their decease the sisters of his wife took the three children and finished raising them. John and his wife both died in the Park Ave. Hospital, Denver, Colorado.

The end

These pages are dedicated to my children, by their mother

(signed) Almeda Peabody Wagner

May, 1921

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NOTE: These memoirs I have copied from notes in Mother's own handwriting, written as the dates will show, when she was 77 years of age. At the time she was making her home with her youngest daughter, Lulu, at 2801 Second Avenue, Los Angeles, California. The original pages, written at my request are my most treasured possession, I hope to retain as long as I live, in memory of that which all men recognize as natures most noble creation - Mother.

San Francisco, Calif.

November 10, 1926

L. Wagner

P.S. Mother died at Los Angeles, December 31, 1925.

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