Written by her
I was born in London, England, in 1863, the youngest of a family of eight children. When about five years of age I went with my parents to Kent, England, where my mother was born, and where she lived until she was married. We went to bid her parents goodbye before starting on our long journey to Zion; a place almost as unknown as are the wild of Africa now. Some of my memories of that time are that my Grandmother sent my sister and myself into the garden to pick some raspberries and other small fruit of which she made us a pie in her sweet clean kitchen with its sanded floor, and a Ladder to go upstairs.
With my parents, two brothers and a sister, we embarked with the sailing vessel “The Hudson,” from the great London docks, June 2, 1867. We were 58 days crossing the Atlantic, landing Brooklyn in September. I was a very delicate child so was laced into the berth most of the time to keep me from falling out, and also to keep me dry, for the old ship would rock so that the big air tunnels would scoop up the water and flood the lower deck where the saints were. It was a very old ship, this being the last trip it made. It might not have mad it this trip had it not been for the faith of the saints and their implicit trust in their Heavenly Father. My parents had already sent my oldest brother Alfred who was about 15 years old to Zion, and the next year a daughter, Esther, 17 years old and newly married and another son 14 years old — what faith!
My parents were advised to stay in Brooklyn a year as the Indians were on the warpath through the black hills. Again the hand of the Lord was made manifest for father and my brothers obtained work in Brooklyn, enabling them to obtain supplies for their long journey over land. In the Spring of 1868, we started across the plains. We journed as far as Omaha, Nebraska by train, this being as far as the railroad went. We traveled in cattle cars with only a board put across for seats, with no backs to lean against. I still remember how dreadful those cars smelled. We ferried the Missouri river a little below Omaha, at Pacific Junction, where father was stricken with sunstroke, as he was buying provisions to start across the plains. We stayed here for a week, while waiting for our wagon train to be made up. Our train had two span of mules to a wagon and we would travel 10 or 15 miles a day because it took so much time for the men to care for the animals, and for the women to wash, cook and do enless things after walking miles. Some of the men would be sent out to hunt for food, such as rabbits, deer and buffalo, and others to scout for Indians and the next camping place. I remember a big herd of buffalo stampeding our mules, and it took days to find them. I remember another time being attacked by indians with their faces all painted red and white, yelling and screaming as they rushed onto our camp. The attack was at a place called Whiskey Gap on the Sweetwater River in Wyoming and occurred at noon on Friday. Captain S. S. Loveland, a huge man was in camp and yelling for volunteers to rush to the rescue of the herders. It took all of that day and night to regain the cattle. There was one train ahead of us and one behind us. The wagons were formed in a circle at night with the tongues in the center. I think the attack was made before the men were able to get the mules inside the circle after taking them to water as I know there was terrible excitement. I recall the steep canyon roads both up and down but mostly down. It seemed where the wagons would slide off the huge boulders. We forded streams so deep the mules and cattle would swim and the men made rafts to take the wagons across. I remember seeing my mother and others dragging through sand more than ankle deep and again through rain and mud while hunting a place to camp.
I will never forget when we arrived at Echo in Echo Canyon in the Rockies. There was a ranch house along side the road with a picket fence in front and father bought a pound of fresh butter. I shall never forget the taste and smell of that butter, perhaps the first real fresh butter in my life, but the first of any kind for a year. We had always lived in a city and bought our butter from kegs. I have another memory of moonlight nights around the campfire, and after singing and prayer there would be dancing, while some mended clothes and harness by the light of the campfire.
We arrived in Salt Lake City in August 1868 and were met by my oldest brother Alfred who had arrived in 1862 and my sister Esther and brother George who had arrived in 1864. What a reunion! Father built our home on what is now 5th Avenue and F Street in Salt Lake City which was then one quarter mile farther north than any other home. He was instrumental in getting culinary water for this locality, later.
My first school teacher was W.W. Willis, then Karl G. Maeser. Then I finished my school under Theodore B. Lewis. Another memory I have is of going on the bench to dig sego roots. These tasted very good. It was the indians that told the Saints they were good for food. Once when the people were all gathered to celebrate the 24th of July at a bowery near the 20th Ward Meeting House and where the Lowell School now stands there appeared a black cloud in the sky in the southwest and before we could gather our things together, the crickets or grasshoppers swooped down and before we could reach home, a few blocks away, our vegetable garden was stripped and every leaf was eaten off of the trees and they even got into the house and ate great holes in the lace curtains. My father and brothers dug trenches into which we drove them, then they would cover them with soil. Then was the scourge of catterpillers. They were gray, about 2 inches long and there were millions of them.
After my school days, I worked for my brother Harry in the “Times” printing office. I began setting the type for the history of the Salt Lake Theater.
In June 24, 1854, I was married to Arthur Beals Simmons in the Logan Temple. We have been very happy. We have always had a peaceful happy home, raised eight children four wonderful sons and four beautiful daughters.
For many years I have helped support the family by having boarders and have been a dressmaker for 35 years. We have had many things to try us and many testimonies of the goodness of God. He does hear and answer prayers. We have lived in a number of homes, Salt Lake City, Mexico, Park City, Spanish Fork, American Fork and Provo.
In 1893 I witnessed the laying of the capstone of the Salt Lake Temple.
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Mary Culmer Simmons did a great deal of Genealogical and Temple work, also was active in the Daughters of the Pioneers. She died February 28, 1945 at Norma’s home, a loved and respected Latter-day Saint.