OREGON FOLKLORE - WORK PROJECT ADMINISTRATION
Title: Life in Oregon in the 1880's

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OREGON FOLKLORE STUDIES

Name of worker Sara B. Wrenn
Address 505 Elks Building, Portland, Oregon
Name and address of informant: Mrs. Flora Ellen Jarisch South Oswego, Oregon
Date and time of interview: March 3, 1939 -- afternoon
Place of interview:  Home of informant, South Oswego
Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant: Mrs.
Truchot, Oswego, Oregon

Description of room, houses surroundings, etc.

Large kitchen of the old fashioned kind, with several windows; linoleum on
the floor; range or cookstove, cupboards, a dining table, and kitchen
chairs. The house must be 60 years old, one-story, once painted white. The
roof is green with moss. A small, narrow porch, much warped [on?] the
flooring, and at the entrance, a box of firewood. The interviewer was
invited directly into the kitchen, where the informant, in a print dress,
sat at the table, busily "tying a bright-colored cotton comfort" with
bright-colored cotton yarn. The surrounding yard, perhaps 100 feet or more
square is enclosed with an ill-attended hedge. There are many
wide-spreading old cherry trees about, and a few feet from the kitchen door
is the water supply, an old well with moss-green curb and windlass. Beyond
the well is a woodshed. A genuine folklore environment. Shabby neighborhood.

1. William R. Bagby, father; Harriet McCauley Bagley, mother Irish
Scotch-Irish
2. Molalla, Oregon. July 1, 1869.
3. Husband, P. H. Jarisch; Children, three daughters: Mrs. Leona Barclay;
Mrs. Mary Bickner and Mrs Martha Harbin (twins). Husband and children
living.
4. Always lived in Oregon -- in Clackamas County.
5. District schools.
6. Housekeeping and some nursing.
7. General community interests; needlework.
8. Member of Grange for 50 years - 7th degree member; Ladies Aid Society.
Attends Methodist Church.
9. Short, plump and jolly, with bright blue eyes and youthful pink and
white complexion. Gray hair, neatly arranged.
10. The sort of person who has got a lot of fun out of life, though her life
has never been one of ease.


Text: My people crossed the plains in '52, in the same party with Harvey
Scott, Abigail Scott Duniway and all of them, but I was born in Oregon, as
I told you back there -- born in Molalla. Like most people in them days we
lived in a log cabin; that's the first home I can remember, just two rooms,
and there was sixteen of us children. It sure was pretty crowded, but we
managed to get along. We had trundle beds, and there was bunks along the
wall, one on top the other. We had an awful nice fireplace. It was built of
rock; there was four big rocks, each one of 'em cut square -- one for each
side, one for the back an' one for the hearth. The rocks came from some
place up about Salem. I s'pose the chimney was mud an' straw like most of
'em them days. Anyway it was a nice fireplace, drawed good and we was proud
of it.

With so many children of us, mother had to be kind-a strict -- only she
wasn't very. We all went to church every Sunday. It was five miles to
church, so bright an' early mother would get my oldest brother up to go
after the oxen, and while he was gone she would have the rest of us
scrubbing ourselves and getting ready, all dressed in our best
bib-an'tucker --which wasn't so much, but we was clean and shinin'. When the
oxen was brought in and hitched to the wagon -- the wagon-bed had a lot of
clean straw in it -- we younguns all piled in and off we went, jostlin' over
the rough road that was full of muddy chuck-holes in winter an' dust a foot
deep in summer. We jolted an' bounced so it's a wonder, talkin' like we all
did, some of us didn't bite our tongues off. One thing mother told us -- if
somethin' funny happened an' we must laugh in church, to be sure an' cover our
face with a handkerchief. Seemed like we was always finding somethin' funny to
laugh at. But there was one thing mother wouldn't stand for, an' that was
makin' parodies on hymns. She'd larrup us every time she caught us doin' it,
but we'd keep on. Seemed like we just couldn't help makin' parodies on them
old hymns.

I recollect we had a minister. His name was Dart -- the Reverend Dart. He
was an old man an' he had a farm. Perty well off I guess. Anyway nobody
ever paid him anythin' for preachin'. Them days I don't remember ever
seein' a basket passed for collection in church. One thing this old man
said every Sunday that always tickled me. He always ended up with it, "I'll
be with you next Sunday, if I'm here and God's willing." I was always
imitating him -- when mother didn't hear -- an' then one Sunday he wasn't
there. He had died, an' I never did get over feeling sorry about how I
imitated him.

My mother was 91 years old when she died. She was very proud, an' just the
night before she passed away she asked me to be sure an' have her hair
curled when she died, so she would look nice in her coffin. She wasn't sick
then or anythin', but the next day, I fixed her some toast an' tea an' took
it to her, an' she was gone -- peaceful, just like that. Mother's father
was a weaver. He was a weaver in Ireland, an' it's always been a proud
story in our family that he wove the material for Queen Victoria's wedding
dress. It had a crown in it. An old bachelor uncle of ours in Ireland -- a
great-uncle or more he was - was a sculptor. He left a big fortune of
more'n a million pounds, an' the money wasn't to be paid the heirs till the
third or fourth generation. We're the third generation, but we can't prove
identity, and so his money is all in chancery, an' we can't get any of it, an'
it's getting more an' more all the time, compoundin' interest, they tell us. I
sure could use my share of it.

I remember my first beau, 'cause he used camphor on his handkerchiefs, an'
how he did slick his hair down. It was black an' shiny, an' he always wore
high celluloid collars. He was tall anyway, an' them high celluloid
collars, an' his slick hair seemed to make him look taller.

One of the times I got most tickled in church was when a red-headed boy --
I guess you'd call him a young man -- he was all dressed up an' everythin'
-- an' a mosquito got on his neck. He had an awful white neck, I remember,
an' that mosquito, every time he slapped at it on one side, would buzz over
to the other side of his neck, so he was slappin' right an' left, an'
tryin' to act as if he didn't notice it; and perty soon his neck began to
get red an' swell, an' I got so tickled I almost laughed out loud. Sister
whispered, "Put your handkerchief over your face, quick." I put it over,
but my shoulders was goin' up an' down, an' I got to stranglin' an' had to
get up an' leave church. Mother got after me good for that, I can tell you.

They used to tell a story about an ol' man that got religion. He was
tellin' about it. "Oh! Oh! I got religion!" he sez. "I got religion. I got
it so hard I hed to stop in a fence corner." I s'pose he meant he stopped
in a fence corner to pray, but it didn't sound like that.

When I was a girl our beaux always took us buggy-riding. They'd spend half
a day mebbe polishin' up the buggy after cleanin' off the mud, an' curryin'
an' brushin' the horse till he shined. Mebbe there'd be a span of horses. I
was goin' riding once, and I was wearing hoops, an' for same reason those
hoops of mine was bright red. Most generally they was pink or white. But I
guess I wanted something extra fine, and I had red ones. The hoops then had
straps that came down from the waist to the wire hoops that was about a foot
from the bottom of the skirt. I got in the buggy all right, what with being
helped an' all, stepping off the horse-block on the step of the buggy an' then
over the side very carefully into it. But when I went to get out! Goshen! I
put my foot through the hoop and there I was! I couldn't move, lessen I picked
up my skirts, an' that was an awful thing to do. Show your insteps? Why, the
girls in town -- the nice girls -- wouldn't ever pass the hotel porch where
the drummers set along with their chairs pushed back on two legs, 'cause they
said they just set there to watch for a girl's ankles. Well, I was in for it
if I wasn't going to fall an' disgrace myself; so I jus' put a bold face on
it, an' laughed an' picked up my skirts. I guess my beau saw all my
underskirts, but I got my foot out of them hoop wires. But wuz I embarrassed!
I jest blushed all over. An' I laugh every time I think about it all these
years.

That wasn't anything though, to the time I went with a young man to
Hillsboro to somethin' or other. It was a good ways to go, an' I had a
stomach ache. I jest had to get out, an' I didn't want to tell him what for
o' course. I jest didn't know what to do . Finally we came to a steep
pitch, an' I sed: "Fred, let me out. I'm goin' to walk up that hill. It's
jest too much on them poor horses, pullin' you an' me up that steep hill."
An' he sez, "No, you don't walk up that hill neither. You jest set still.
Humph"! he sez, "I guess these'd be perty ornery horses if they couldn't
pull the two o' us up a little hill like thet." I wuz feeling worse 'n
worse all the time, an' finally mebbe he guesses, for after a lot more
arguing, an' him insisting I set still, he let me out. An' when I got up
over the pitch of the hill, there he was waitin' for me, lookin' kinda
funny-like, an' I got in an' we both talked fast, not knowing what we was
saying, I guess.

What with so many in our family, we had lots o' fun, though o' course my
older brothers and sisters was mostly gone to work or married when I got
bigger. I could dance from the time I was six years old. I could just hoe
it down. We had an accordion an' a violin and an organ in the house. By
this time we didn't live in that little old log cabin o'course. We hed a
perty good house, an' one o' my brothers played the violin an most o' the
rest o' us could pick out chords anyway on the accordion an' organ. What
with all of us an' the young folks that come in, there was usually a perty
big crowd around. Taffy pulls was what we usually ended up with. I'd like
to get a nice long piece of taffy an' throw it 'round the boys' necks. I
was al'ays up to somethin' like that -- jest full of the Old Nick, I guess.
But I sure loved to dance. It wasn't long after I hed joined the church,
an' there was a Fourth o' July celebration at Wright's Springs, an' a dance
pavilion, an' I jest danced all afternoon. 'Course the minister heard about
it, an' he come to me, an' he sez, "What's this I hear about you're
dancing, Flora?" an' I sez, "Yes sir, I did dance out there at Wright's
Springs. I danced all afternoon, an' I jest had a wonderful time," an' he
sez, "You danced, an' you had a wonderful time? Yes, Flora, I'm sure you
did." An' he didn't say nothing more about it, not a single word. An' when
I left out there to come here to live I asked for my church letter, an' he
wrote me the nicest letter, an' he sez, "You could have the letter, Flora,
but I don't like to have your name go out o' my church. I'd like to keep it
here." An' so I left my name in his church as long as he lived."

Before we go any further I want to tell something that happened when I was
a little bit of a shaver. There was a circus at Oregon City an' I was with
my married sister at Canby, an' she gave me money to go to the circus, an'
got me a ticket to ride down on the train. No, I think she let my buy the
ticket, for when the conductor come to get it from me I wouldn't let him
have it. "It's mine," I told him. "I paid for it, an' I'm goin' to keep it."
He laughed an' went away, but perty soon he came back, an' at last he got me
to give it to him, an' he just laughed and laughed. My! but I hed a good time
at that circus. What I enjoyed most was the bareback riders. They was just
wonderful. I could hardly wait to get home to see if I couldn't ride bareback
too. I had a little white Indian pony, an' I could ride good. Just as soon as
I got home I went out an' got Prince an' put the bridle on him, an' I got a
stick to balance myself, an' I stood up. An' when they found me I was lying on
the ground in the barnyard, an' that was the last of my bareback ridin'.

To go back to dancing. They was most all square dances. I used to call a
good deal, but I don't remember much of the calls, mostly:

     Honor right an' left
     Promenade single file
     First couple to the right
     Cheat or swing, etc.

The music we danced to most was "That girl, that pretty girl, that girl I
left behind me." Then there was the "Flying Dutchman" that was a round
dance. An' the mazurka; an' other music was "The Irish Washerwoman", an'
"Turkey in the Straw."

Yes, I c'n remember when we used to have Chinamen to do most all the
grubbing. They always worked hard an' was honest. They liked to gamble, but
that's nothin', so did the Indians, an' so did a lot of white men. We had
one Chinaman, Ol' Sam, we called him, an' he was with us for years an'
years. He'd cut wood an' wash an' make garden -- everthin' there was to do
of that kind. My husband had a nursery then, an' when we would go away,
like on the Fourth of July or somethin', we could leave Ol' Sam in charge,
knowin' everythin' would be taken care of jest the same as we was there.
Once the county -- or mebbe it was State -- fruit inspector came to look at
the trees, an' he asked Ol' Sam "Any San Jose scale? Any tree lice?" That was
what Ol' Sam told us when we got home, and he laughed an' laughed, an' said,
"Allee time I tell um, I no sabe -- I no sabe." When the children would ask
him for anything he would say, "I not your papa. Go ask your papa. I not your
papa." Then one day a letter came from his wife in China, an' he told us he
had to go home; he sed, his wife write, "Come home; sell girl, buy boy a
wife." Ol' Sam just cried, He sed, "I likes Melican way more better. I no
likee sell girl, buy boy wife. I likee Melican way, 'You lovee me, I lovee
you.'" Well o' course when he went to China we never saw him again. He
couldn't come back to America.

 I was married by Rev. T. L. Eliot in the Unitarian parsonage at Portland. We
went to California on the steamer. My husband's parents lived in San Jose.
Crossing the bar down at Astoria the steamer broke its main shaft, an' we
drifted for 90 miles out of the channel. We was out five days, an' nights, but
I was too seasick to care what happened. Finally, somewheres near San
Francisco, some of the sailors got in a boat an' went ashore. Land o' Goshen!
how sick I was. There was a parrot on board, an' every time I was anywhere
'round it, it would begin to gag an' throw up, an' that would only make me
worse. I never been able to stand parrots since. "U-K" he'd go, "U-k," an'
then I'd start all over again. When at last a tugboat came in sight, mebbe I
wasn't happy, but they wanted a lot of salvage money, knowin' the steamer was
broke down. "Give it to 'em," I said to the Captain   he'd been perty nice to
us on the trip, al'ays askin' me how I felt   "Give 'em ev'rything on the
boat." When we finally got off at San Francisco I was steppin' high -- not
because I felt so good, but it seemed like that ol' boat was raisin' under me
all the time. We went to a hotel there. It wasn't the Palace, but it was one
o' the ol' time good hotels, an' when my husband wrote in the register he said
"P. H. Jarisch" an' - what do you think - "an' Flora Bagley !" The hotel
clerk, he looked at my husband an' then he looked at me, funnylike as you
please; an' then I begin to giggle, an' I sez, "I thought I changed my name,
up there at Portland." An' then the hotel clerk laughed, an' my husband turned
red as a beet. When we got up to our room, my husband said he guessed he'd go
up town. I was wearin' bangs then, an' jest as quick as he was gone I got out
y curling tongs. I wanted to look all pretty when he got back, an' I sure 
hadn't been pretty on the way down. I hadn't ever been used to anythin' but
candles and kerosene lamps. I al'ays curled my hair with a lamp, putting the
curling tongs down the chimney. But they didn't have any lamps at this hotel,
just gas. I don't know jest what I did, but perty soon I got awful sleepy, an'
when I came to a doctor was workin' over me.

My husband an' I came back home on the train. I guess I must hev had a jinx
or something on thet trip, for at Red Bluffs the conductor took sick --
awful sick, an' nothin' would do but I must nurse him. I'd had some
experience in nursing, what with all those brothers an' sisters an'
everything. So my husband and I stopped off, an' I pulled him through all
right. Then later, at Cow Creek Canyon, we was snowbound for eight days.
The food all give out an' we didn't have a thing to eat, till at last a man
walked to Sims Station an' brought back something to eat. About all he
could get was some flour an' baking powder, an out of that I made same
biscuits; an' them was just about the best biscuits any of us there ever
tasted. I remember the president of the road was aboard, Colonel Crocker, I
think his name was. When at last we got to Portland we found the St.
Charles hotel, down on Front and Morrision, three feet under water. When we
wanted to go back to Oregon City the car track was covered. So finally we
got up there in an express wagon, an' then the ferry wasn't runnin' across
the Willamette, so back we had to go to Portland. An' then we got a horse
an' buggy an' drove up to where we was to live; which is now Marylhurst
where the Catholics have their college.

But in tellin' you all this I forgot something. I wanted to tell about
school. Father gave an acre for the Teasel Creek schoolhouse, where I went
mostly to school. I guess 'cause he was director or something I felt perty
smart. Anyway once when a boy sed I had looked at the book when I was
takin' an examination, I got some of the big boys together, an' we took
this boy out where there was an eight-foot rail snake fence, an' I laid all
the rails down, an' then we made the boy lay down an' we laid thet
eight-rail fence across him; his head an' body on one side an' his legs on
the other, An' we told him if he told teacher we'd beat him up. Well, you
bet he didn't tell teacher.

The teachers in them days punished pretty hard. There was a red-headed
teacher threw an inkwell at me once. A favorite way was to have you hold
out your hands, an' they'd hit 'em with a ruler. There was some orphans
went to our district school. I felt sorry for 'em, they never had anythin'
good to eat in their lunch, so I'd bring 'em apple pie and good sandwiches;
an' when they was due for punishment I'd sometimes take their lickin's for
'em. I asked teacher if I could an' she let me. But once I got mad an'
grabbed the teacher's switch and broke it in two.

Now this isn't school. It's about a funeral. There was an' old man an'
woman livin' near us. The old man had yellow jaundice. He was sick a long
time, an' finally he died. Mother was allays a pretty good Samaritan, so
she had the old lady come to our house an' have the funeral from there.
When we started to go to the graveyard the old lady didn't want to go.
Mother thought it was 'cause she felt too bad. So mother said, all right,
she'd look after everything an' for her to make herself at home an' be
comfortable. Mother had a nice dinner all fixed to put on the table quick
when we got back from the buryin', chicken ready to put in the fryin' pan,
an' everthin'. It was kinda late in the afternoon when we got home from the
buryin'-ground, an' what do you think? That ol' lady had cooked an' eaten
most every bit o' that chicken up!

Oh yes, we hed church basket socials, an' singin' societies. Or schools, I
guess they was al'ays called. We had debatin' societies. I mind an old man
in our neighborhood sez to me one day, "You goin' to the [de?]-batin'
tonight? My son James is goin' to be ther." His son, James! Why, he didn't
know "straight up"!

"Straight up", that was one o' mother's sayings, an' when she was put out
about something she'd say, "Tut, tut! tut, tut!" She'd say it four times
that way. An' we children used to say, when we was surprised or somethin',
"For crying in the sink!"

What, you goin' out the back door, when you come in the front? That means
more visitors today.

Extra Comment:

The narrative of this informant speaks for itself. She was simply
"chockful" of folklore reminiscences, talking very rapidly, as she cut her
cotton yarn and tied it in the brightly colored "comfort" she was
finishing. Once in awhile -- with the interviewer writing madly to keep
apace -- she would pause to recall a picture of the past. But she never
stopped her work. An interesting feature of this interview was that
whenever the informant started a new subject she would be more careful in
her speech; but once she hit her pace, back would come the vernacular, from
which there was only an occasional lapse.