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A Most Remarkable Lady
Lydia
Carlin Smith
Born in the Washington, Territory July 18, 1885, Lydia Carlin would live through a most interesting period of time. Her earliest recollection was of an Indian uprising on Whidbey Island, and during her lifetime, she would witness the transition from horse and buggy to the automobile, man’s first powered flight, two World Wars, the onset of the Atomic Age, and through the miracle of television, witnessed man’s first walk on the moon. It was a technological span of years unparalleled in the history of man. Lydia’s life was fraught with misfortune, sadness and hard work, but her strength and determination would be an inspiration to all those who knew and loved her. In later years she enjoyed telling me the story of one frightening night during her 5th year of life in 1890.
Lydia’s father John Carlin was a veteran of the Civil War, having served three years with the Union Forces as a private with “Company C, 1st Regiment, New Jersey Cavalry.” After traveling into the South, where he participated in numerous operations, he had returned to the North where he fought in the Battle of Gettysburg. (See “John Carlin’s Civil War.”) Following his discharge from the Union Forces, August 27, 1864, he married Percilla Middletown on January 23, 1865, and during their marriage they would have 7 children, of which Lydia was the 7th. By 1878, John and Percilla gathered up their family and moved from New Jersey to Whidbey Island, a remote little island in the Washington Territory, and it was here that Lydia was born.
John farmed, bred and raced horses in a local circuit, and when a horse was no longer suited for racing he virtually gave the horse to the local Native Americans who inhabited the island. John was well thought of and respected by the Native Americans population, and it was this fact that was to account for the family’s safe harbor from an evening of potential terror that spawned my grandmother’s story.
The Carlin family had just settled down to eat their evening meal when the door burst open and the kitchen was immediately filled with a war party of Native American braves. I can not even imagine the fright that everyone must have felt with the sudden and frightening invasion of their home. It was not customary for the Indians to knock before entering a home, however the sight of a war party must have intensified their anxiety. The Sub-chief approached John and informed him that there was to be an uprising that evening and that to safeguard his family he should take them to the nearby block house to spend the night out of harms way.
John and Percilla took their family from the dinner table, hastily gathered some necessities, and as they walked to the barn in the bright moonlight to load the wagon, they passed several Cedar dugout canoes that had been beached. As the moonlight glistened across the water illuminating the bow of the lead canoe, a frightening sight met their eyes. There on the “fish fork,” securely attached, was a human head. The immediacy of the moment, the fright, the moonlit scene and Lydia’s age precluded her from being able to identify the severed head as a white settler or a Native American.
At that moment, the identification of the head was quite irrelevant to the terrifying and stressful situation in which they found themselves.
The moon assisted John in his journey and they soon reached the blockhouse. The blockhouse had been constructed in 1855 from heavy logs, with a thick slab barred door. The lower portion was a large open space, and a steep ladder lead to the second story and rampart walkway that extended around the entire square structure. The second story of the blockhouse extended some three feet out over the first story and was supplied with three loopholes (gun slots) on each of its four sides. Other than the door, these were the only openings in the otherwise solid building. The12 small square loopholes were the only means by which those inside had visual command of the surrounding area. This particular design had been proven during the Indian Wars, and was a great comfort for those brave individuals who settled these remote and often wild areas of the ever advancing American frontier.
The Carlin family spent the night in the blockhouse and at first light they ventured forth and started their homeward journey. As they rode along the rough dirt road, the uncertainty of the previous nights happenings, made them wonder if their house would still be standing. Their anxiety was quickly dispelled as the house and barn came into view in the bright morning sunrise…they were delighted.
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Lydia offered no further account of that night’s happenings, and a search for information of such an event was fruitless. During that time period of limited media coverage, such remote uprisings were commonplace and were not recorded in the annals of frontier history. In this, the 21st Century, one would surely learn of such events before the initial hour had passed, or even as the event was unfolding.
The second, but the most outstanding memory in Lydia’s young life happened a short year later. At the age of six, Lydia’s mother was stricken with “lung fever” and after a short illness passed away on September 14, 1891, at the age of 47. The account of Percilla’s death is sketchy, however the image that was burned in Lydia’s mind for the remainder of her life was the sight of her mother laying in state in their living room, with pennies on her eyes. It was a heart wrenching image that no six year old child should have to retain in vivid recall for the remainder of their life.
Confronted with the rearing of 6 children, John’s oldest daughter, Laura agreed to take Lydia into her home. Laura had married Percy Watson, and so Lydia was raised by the Watson family. Laura was a loving and kind person, with a great sense of humor, and Lydia would flourished in their household. At the age of 17, Lydia was to have an accident that would change her life forever. While attending a play in the “Opera House,” in Mount Vernon, Washington, a fire broke out. Lydia had been seated in the balcony, and as she joined the panic stricken crowd that was attempting to leave by the stairway, she fell and in the ensuing pileup of people, her left knee joint was fractured. The injured was so severe that the joint could not be restored and the doctors set the knee in a slight bent position and the leg was allowed to heal. For the rest of her life Lydia walked with a limp, not having mobility in her knee joint. But disability had little effect on her life, she was socially popular and in an Autograph book, which included writings from her 14th to 18th years of life, her friends had written many wonderful things. There were the usual “Roses are red, violets are blue” entries, however one of the writings penned by her friend Maud Smith was to stand out in the book. The Autograph book had been saved in a small drawer within an ornate photographic album stand, passed down to my mother and then to me. The writing had been dated, December 22, 1899, and I was privileged to be able to read the poem on the 100th anniversary of its writing, December 22, 1999. I stared at the now faded words on the yellowing page and wonder how many times my grandmother Lydia had read the following poem.
Dear Lydia
We may write our names in albums,
We may trace them in the sand,
We may chisel them in marble,
With a firm and skillful hand.
But the pages soon are sullied,
Soon each name will fade away,
Every monument will crumble,
Like all earthly hopes decay.
But, dear Lydia, there is an album,
With its leaves so pure and white,
Where no name is ever tarnished,
But forever pure and bright.
In that Book of life, God’s
album,
May our names be preserved with care.
When our journey here is ended,
May we meet just over there.
Your
true friend,
Maud Smith
Avon, Wash.
Dec.
22, 1899
“Forget Me
not”
I am sure they have met!
At the age of 17, Lydia met and fell in love with Henry Joseph Smith, a
farmer and acquaintance of John
Carlin. Henry “courted” Lydia
for over a year and they soon set
the date of their marriage for the 24th of April, 1903. The following “Certificate Of
Marriage” was obtained from the Washington State Archives.
STATE OF
WASHINGTON.
COUNTY
OF.....................Skagit.
I HEREBY CERTIFY, that on the.... 24th... day of.....April....... in the year
of our Lord one
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Filed for record this........8th...............day
of.............May.................A.D. 1903.
By.............M. Martin.....County Auditor............
.........W.H. David........County Clerk
Henry and Lydia settled in the Skagit Valley, close to Mount Vernon, Washington where they rented a small farm. By the end of 1903, their first child, Pearl had joined the Smith family. Nearly two year later Lydia had given birth to their first son whom they named Howard. Howard suffered from respiratory problems and in the first few months of his life, he succumbed while sleeping between his parents. It was a tragic event in their young lives that would haunt Lydia for the remainder of her days. (When I was born on 30 December, 1929, my mother had suggested that I be named Howard, and grandma Smith persuaded her to choose another name. Thus I was named Harvey after a cherished friend of Henry and Lydia’s, who was “heavy set, jolly and good natured.” My mother, Veda Alice Smith (later taking the first name of Alice), was born on 15 February, 1907, and she was to be the final child of Henry and Lydia’s marriage.
In 1911, Henry, Lydia, Pearl and Alice moved from the Skagit Valley having renting a farm and large two story home from the Marriott Family (Pearl’s daughter Evelyn would marry Harmon Marriott). This move was made during the winter months while the Skagit River was in flood state. My mother related the story of her father Henry, carrying her and Pearl from the house, placing them on a raft, ferrying them to dry land for the wagon trip to Alger and their new home. Henry farmed, and Lydia took care of the home and their two daughters. It was a difficult life for the farm family of these times, there was no “running water” or indoor plumbing in the homes. On wash days my mother remembered carrying water with Pearl from Friday Creek, to the house which was perched high on a hill top overlooking the little settlement of Alger. When my mother started to school it was at the little two roomed Alger school house, where she first met my father.
On July 27, 1918, at the age of
76, John Carlin passed away at Friday Harbor, Washington, and was laid to
rest beside Percilla.
FUNERAL NOTES
CARDIN
- John Carlin, age 76 years, a resident of Friday Harbor for the past 5 years,
passed away at a local hospital at an early hour Friday evening, July 27, after
an illness of two weeks duration. He
was a veteran of the Civil War, holding
a membership in the Grand Army post at La Conner, Wash.
He leaves to survive him four sons, Lewis, of Arizona: Albert and John of
Salt Lake City, Utah, and Edward of Mount Vernon, Wash., and two daughters, Mrs.
P.E. Watson, of Sumas, Wash., and Mrs. Henry Smith, of Alger, Wash.
Funeral services will be held Monday
morning, July 30, at Coupeville, the trip being made from here by automobile and
internment will be made in the family plot in Coupeville Cemetery under the
direction of Arthur C. Harlow, 1055 Elk Street.
Lydia
inherited $1,800 from John’s estate and with this money they purchased a large
farm on the outskirts of Alger, across the road from the school house.
Henry started a diary farm, and at peek operation, my mother and Pearl
milked 22 to 24 cows morning and night. In
a big dairy operation everyone in the family worked and with no boys in the
family, the girls were given the tasks that were often designated for boys.
When I was a very young boy, I can remember seeing my grandmother driving
the “fork team” (Frank and Doll) while she ran behind them in an uneven gate
to lift the hay from the wagon into the mow, and then turning the team around
and driving them back for another fork load.
The farm was a busy place and Pearl was soon engaged to Oscar
Rice, a Canadian who had been working in the states for some time.
When Pearl and Oscar were married in 1922, most of Pearl’s farm work
fell to my mother. Pearl was with
child early in their marriage and in the 8th month of her pregnancy
she contracted sleeping sickness. This
condition caused much concern for the unborn child. My mother came to Pearl’s aid and spent considerable time
with her while she was in the hospital and continued her help in the home upon
Pearl’s release from the hospital. Following
the birth of Evelyn, my mother remained in Pearl’s home to assist her in
Evelyn’s care. Evelyn was a
normal healthy child and was to be Pearl’s only child; however one year later
Pearl miscarried.
In addition to Sleeping Sickness, Pearl had a stroke which left her
partially paralyzed on her right side, rendering her right arm limp and useless.
Her right leg was also effected, and as she slowly walked forward, with
an uneven and unbalanced gait, her leg had to be pulled forward.
Her body was constantly trembling, at about the rate of two per heart
beat, in a throbbing like motion which was diagnosed as “Saint Vitas Dance.”
The most life threatening results was that her throat had been effected.
Pearl could not control her saliva and spoke only in faint almost
unintelligible whisper. At this
point, the muscles in her throat were paralyzed and each mouth full of food had
to be forced down her throat. The unusual combination of Pearl’s medical
conditions were quite rare, and in the early 1920s there were only three known
such cases in the world.
When
Evelyn was three years of age, Oscar divorced Pearl, and she and Evelyn move
back into grandma and grandpa Smith’s home.
My mother was still at home and was able to assist grandma in this added
task in her life. Early on, Evelyn
was trained to help care for her mother and she was one of those unfortunate
children who never had a “childhood,” but was devoted to the care of her
mother. Although Pearl was married
once more to a man named George Coughman, the marriage lasted but a brief time
and she and Evelyn would once more live with Lydia and Henry. The added work was
a strain on Grandma, and Grandpa became more difficult to live with, insisting
that my mother spend more time helping on the farm. My mother was discontent at home and soon found a job as a
“domestic” with the Morrison family in Bellingham, Washington.
My
mother and father had experienced an off and on relationship over a several year
period, however by July 2, 1929, they were married in Bellingham, Washington.
(For some reason unknown to me, my grandparents did not care for my dad,
and it would be 7 years before he was
invited to their home…I well remember the day.)
My mother’s marriage placed a strain on my grandmother and grandfathers
relationship as grandma had to spend more time with Pearl and Evelyn’s needs.
To my knowledge, Lydia did not complain, and from my early observations she was
very devoted to Evelyn and Pearl.
To
add to the turmoil in Lydia’s life, the depression years were very difficult
for everyone. Living on a farm had it definite advantages,
for there was no shortage of food for my grandparents.
My grandmother told the story about a Hobo who stopped in one morning for
a “handout.” It was haying time
and grandma had just fed the haying crew. The
Hobo came to the back steps and asked if he could have something to eat.
As there was hotcake batter, bacon and eggs left over she made him
breakfast. He sat on the stair
steps that let to the back porch to eat, and
when he had finished his meal he returned the plate to grandma and said,
“thank you mama, for the little I got.”
This ungracious statement took my grandmother by surprise,
and over the years she retold the story time and time again…she just
couldn’t get over it.
Lydia
managed to hang in there working on the farm, while off and on taking care of
Pearl and Evelyn. When Pearl had to
be placed in the Northern State Hospital for care, and Evelyn married Harmon
Marriott, Lydia’s life made a drastic change as the work seemed to pile up on
her, and Henry became more difficult to live with. After 39 years of marriage, Lydia filed for divorce from
Henry in mid-1942. Lydia moved from
the family home and rented an apartment in the middle of the little town of
Mount Vernon, Washington. She found
a job cleaning rooms at the President Hotel, which was less than a block from
her apartment and settled in to make a new life for herself.
In addition to her work at the hotel, she was soon manager of the small
apartment building in which she lived. At
the age of 57, she was not eligible for Social Security and had to make her way
all by herself…a difficult task at best. Lydia was a strong and driven lady.
When
Henry sold the farm, Lydia received her share of the proceeds and they each
purchased a home. Henry had a small one room cabin on the southern outskirts of
Alger, along Highway 99, and Lydia
purchased a two bedroom home close to the Greyhound Bus Depot and within walking
distance of the President Hotel where she continued to work. Lydia’s home was
in the same block as the Washington Agriculture Stabilization building, and she
was soon hired to clean their offices. The
added money helped to make the house payments and keep body and soul together.
When Ione and I were first married Lydia still lived in the apartment in
the center of Mount Vernon overlooking the main street.
We visited her on several occasions and after she had purchased her new
home, we had the opportunity of visiting her in the 1960s with Harvey and
Debbie. Both Ione and I were so
glad that they had the opportunity of knowing grandma Smith.
I
started to take flying lessons in July of 1946, and we had purchased a Cessna
120 on March 5, 1947, while Lydia still lived in the apartment.
I often flew my mother and father up to Mount Vernon to visit Grandma
Smith and Grandpa Green in Alger. During
the course of the time that I flew, I had asked grandma on a number of occasions
to take a flight with me. In early
July of 1947, Lydia came to Forks to spend a week with us, and one day during
her vacation, I asked her once more to please take a ride with me.
Much to my surprise, she agreed to go.
I was somewhat taken aback, and quickly got her to the airport before she
could change her mind. At this
point she had never been close to our plane and I explained each part as we
walked around in a pre-flight check.
As
Lydia’s left leg was stiff, it
was a challenge to get her into the right seat of the plane.
The Cessna 120 is a small two passenger plane, with a cockpit that is not
overly large. To complicate matters even further, it had a duel control
system which somewhat reduces the leg room on the right side. At first there
seemed to be no way that grandma could get her stiff leg into a position so that
she could get in. Grandma was a
petite lady, standing 4’10”, and weighing less than 100 pounds.
So with her permission, I lifted her high enough so that her leg passed
inside and she was soon seated and safety belted in the right seat…my copilot!
I spent some time explaining the instruments (the numbers of which were
small), the controls and it finally came time to have my dad “spin the
prop.” I called to my dad, “off
and closed,” (which indicated that the switch was off and the throttle was
closed) as he primed the plane by turning the prop. When dad had completed two
turns, he stepped back and I called out, “Breaks and contact” (breaks and
switch on), at which time my dad stepped up and spun the prop.
The plane fired right up and at this point grandma grabbed my right upper
arm and I felt her hands tighten their
grip as we began to move.
We
taxied to the North end of the field, and parked at a 45 degree angle to the
runway where I check the “Mags.” With
the final preflight check completed, I made a 180 degree visual sweep to check
for incoming aircraft, and before entering the runway to start our takeoff run,
I turned to my grandmother and said, “We are ready to go.” As I looked into
her eyes, I saw a frantic look, a look that must have been there on that night
so long ago when the Native American war party burst into their home. I smiled
and taxied the plane out onto the runway and started the takeoff run.
We were quickly airborne, and I could feel her hands tighten down as we
began to make a right turn (the tilt of the plane made her most uncomfortable)
to follow the traffic pattern. I
quickly broke the pattern and flew out over the prairie in level flight and
started a shallow climb. I made a gradual right climbing turn over the town of
Forks, attempting to point out our house, and her tight grip began to relax on
my arm as she looked down at the little town of Forks.
Our
flight was quite short, and as we headed back to the Forks Airport, I explained
that we would have to make two right turns before landing, reassuring her that
she was tightly belted in and that there was no danger of her falling from the
airplane. Her grip on my arm was a
barometer by which I could easily ascertain her anxiety, and although it had
relaxed a bit, the pressure was always there…to the point that I began to feel
a tingling sensation from the reduced blood flow to that limb. We entered the
right hand pattern with a left turn, and as we made the right turn onto the base
leg and once more onto the final approach, her grip tightened.
As we touched down and rolled out, her hands relaxed and she removed them
from my right arm…my arm had a stinging sensation for a brief time as the
blood flow was restored. Grandma was all smiles as my mom and dad walked up to the
plane, and I got out to help grandma deplane. Grandma was proud of that flight,
her first and last. It had been a
long way from the horse and buggy driven by her father, to the airplane piloted
by her grandson. Grandma often spoke of our flight and I teased her about
shutting off the blood supply to my arm. I
was excited and honored to have taken Lydia on her first and only airplane ride,
it was a thrill for me. Grandma was the only grandparent that I had the
privilege of taking for a ride. (The
only other relative to fly with me was my Dad’s younger brother Garland.)
Over
the years, Ione and I had taken Harvey and Debbie to Mount Vernon to visit with
Lydia, it was such a special treat to be able to see them with her, realizing
that her life span was nearing it’s conclusion. Lydia will be alive in their
memories, and through them a part of her will live. Whenever we went to visit
with her we had the opportunity to take her along with us to visit Evelyn and
her family. In addition, we took
here to see Sue Wayland, who was Grandpa Green’s sister, and we drove to the
many places where my parents and I had lived in Alger, Clipper and Van Zant,
Washington. It was always a
pleasure to have her along with us. In
the 1960s, grandma had a close friend named Fred,
who had been a cook on ships, and we had the pleasure of meeting him,
enjoying his pastry, and knowing that she had such a close friend to share the
remainder of her life.
During
the time that Lydia lived in Mount Vernon, she gained a number of friends whom
she worked with, in addition to a few old friends who had managed to survive
over the years. Evelyn lived in
Alger and from her marriage to Harmon Marriott she would give birth to 7
children. Evelyn and Harm’s
family tree virtually exploded, and
they were blessed with many grandchildren and great-grandchildren…so many in
fact, that over the years I have lost track of the count.
At later family reunions the attendance was well over 100 individuals.
My parents often visited grandma, and my mother helped her with some of
her living expenses whenever it was necessary.
Lydia was a very independent lady and I am sure would not have taken the
help form my mother unless it was virtually necessary for her survival.
On March 3,1969, the Mount Vernon news paper ran the following article
about grandma Smith.
At
spry 83, Mrs. Smith is employed daily at her jobs
A woman with determination and a goal in life can do most anything.
Mrs. Lydia Smith of Mount Vernon, who will be celebrating her 84th
birthday in July of this year, is just such a lady.
Petite and quick moving, Mrs. Smith is interested in continuing working
daily. That’s right! She is
regularly employed.
An active person, Mrs. Smith is much more spry and agile than most young
matrons. She reports for work at
the Greyhound Bus depot in Mount Vernon at 4:30 a.m. each weekday. In addition to her daily cleaning job at the bus station, she
is also responsible for keeping the Agriculture Stabilization offices clean and
the lobby in the President Hotel.
“I want to work until the day I die,” she said, “I really enjoy it,
and I need the money.” Mrs. Smith is buying her home and subsidizes her Social
Security check to make ends meet. Completely
independent of her family, Mrs. Smith walked to work and anyplace else she wants
to go. “I don’t go out in the evenings much, but I’ve walked all of my
life so I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me at all, I’ve always enjoyed
good health,” she said.
“The time passes so quickly when you’re busy and as you get older, it
seems to pass even more quickly,” she continued. “I’ve never been sick. In
the past 14 years since I’ve been working for the bus company, last month was
the first time I have had time off for illness and it was only the flu,” she
continued.
No one would come close to guessing Mrs. Smith’s age. She looks 25 years younger than her 83 years and gets around more like a woman in her mid-30s. The only surviving member of her family, she was one of seven children; her mother died when she was six years old. Mrs. Smith has a daughter living in Forks. Her other children, a son and daughter are deceased. She also has two grandchildren, nine great-grandchildren, and six great-great-grandchildren.
In summing up her way of life,
Mrs. Smith said: “Working each day helps me to stay young and with my house
payment due each month it is a necessity.”
Just goes to show what a
determined lady can do when she has a goal in life.
During the early evening of January 26, 1970 we received a phone call from my mother, it was one of those calls that brought great sadness to our household. Grandma Smith had passed away at the age of 85 years, 6 months and 12 days. It was like an electric shock. My mind raced to the past and once more to the present in a frenzied attempt to dismiss my mother’s words that still echo in my mind. As my mother continued, I remembered grandma shooting guns with me from her back porch, the smell of fresh baked bread, pealed apples, black walnuts, and the vision of her driving the team on the “hay fork,” carnation flowers, and her comforting words after a bee sting. The memories were many and came flowing with the tears that filled my eyes.
My words somehow managed to emerge, “how did it happen?” Mom filled me in on the details. As usual, Grandma was up early, and had gotten ready for work. As she walked from the bathroom she suffered a massive heart attack which quickly took her life. One can only pray that there was no pain, as God’s plan was swiftly carried out. The funeral was to be on January 30, 1970 at the Mount Vernon Presbyterian Church. Even though Lydia had not attended church regularly she did believe in God, as she had discussed the fact with Ione and me on one of our later trips to visit her. The graveside services were held at the Coupeville Cemetery, and Lydia Carlin Smith (grandma to me) was buried beside her mother, father, infant son Howard, and her eldest daughter Pearl Rice. (The Coupeville Cemetery is currently known as “Sunny Side Cemetery,” and is within the confines of Ebey’s Landing National Reserve on Whidbey Island.)
I’m sure that I have not done justice to Lydia’s life, there are so many more stories that run through my mind…it is difficult to commit them to paper. But to me she was a most remarkable person, a person who was very excited when last we spoke with her, as man had committed himself to space flight and had landed on the moon. I am often reminded that her life span covered over 8.5 decades, from the horse and buggy days to the first days that man escaped the confines of planet Earth…as her soul had done to join her creator. A men.
Over my nearly 71 years of life, I have come to realize how very fortunate I had been to have experienced my grandparents 19th Century farming operation. For my grandparents, time had virtually stood still. Henry Smith was a farmer form the “Old School,” and up until he discontinued dairy farming in 1942, he used his team, Frank and Doll, as the main source of horsepower for all operations. The buildings on the farm, including the house, had not been wired for electricity, and operations such as cream separation and churning were done with hand operated equipment. The plumbing was outside, and water was supplied from a well, which was located about 20 feet from the dozen or so steps that led from the back yard to the elevated back porch.
The fence line that separated their back yard from the pasture, held a special meaning for me. When I was around 12 years of age, whenever I would visit grandma Smith, I would take my .22 rifle, and she and I would target practice together. Grandma had a .22 Remington pump rifle, and I would set the cans up on the fence posts. When I had them set up, I would call grandma and she would come out with her rifle and we would take turns shooting at the cans on the fence posts. I can still see the cans on the fence, the shocks of hay in the field, and beyond the pastoral scene, Friday Creek and the mountains. I must admit that grandma was a much better shot that I was, and I learned a great deal from her, but as I mentioned earlier, the stories and memories could go on forever. I am so grateful that Ione, Harvey and Debbie had a chance to know Grandma.
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