Earl rushed me over there, and I ran along the side of the pool, scanning the bathers playing ball in the water. Each moment seemed an eternity. Finally I spotted Arturo. How he’d matured since he had administered anesthesia to me years earlier for my appendectomy. “Arturo!” I waved my arms as I ran. “Arturo!”
He spoke perfect English. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Dr. Hatch said come as you are! It’s a matter of life or death.”
He grabbed his towel and dried himself as he ran to a small bathhouse and snatched up his clothes.
Please God! I prayed as we dashed along with noisy, hurried steps. Please let it be over soon for Lucy’s sake. Don’t let her suffer!
Arturo and I burst into the delivery room, expecting to hear Lucy’s cries. Instead she lay quietly on the table, covered to her shoulders with a green sheet. I realized that a nurse was working with an infant nearby. I looked at Lucy, shocked. “Did you have it?”
Dr. Hatch interrupted my questioning. “I had to go in and pull it out. We couldn’t wait for Arturo. It was coming placenta previa [afterbirth before baby]. Lucy could have hemorrhaged if we’d waited any longer. I’m sorry to tell you, but the baby is dead. She had an eight-pound girl, but it suffocated at home when it fought so violently inside its mother.”
“Can’t you do something? Give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? Give it oxygen, artificial respiration? Anything?” I desperately pled.
Dr. Hatch shook his head sadly. “It’s no use, Irene. There’s nothing we can do.”
I was filled with rage. I wanted to scream at God. Lucy had already lost a baby—little Roland, who had lived only fifty-three hours. Why hadn’t he and my Leah been enough? Why did it have to happen to poor Lucy again? She opened her arms, and I fell into them, both of us sobbing. No grief in the world compares to the agony of losing a child, especially without your husband there to comfort you and mourn with you. How well I knew it. Wishing I could have shielded Lucy from it, all I could do now was share in her grief. Once I’d thought of her as my enemy, yet here we were now, united in sorrow and desperation.
I held the lifeless baby, placing her one final time in Lucy’s arms. She wept as she examined her chubby body. “She’s the prettiest child I’ve had. She’s just beautiful. I know I’ll have her again in heaven. She breathed inside me; I know it, and I’ll have her again. [Brigham Young said unless a child breathes the breath of life, we couldn’t claim it in heaven.] She’s my little Clara,” Lucy declared. “Take her home and prepare her for a decent burial.”
Earl and I left Lucy and Aunt Sylvia at the clinic with Dr. Hatch. I carried the lifeless little body out through the back entrance to the car. We hardly spoke during the thirty-five-mile drive home. I sat wondering how I could take this bad news home to the family, especially those expectant kids. I unfolded the receiving blanket and gazed at Clara. She had beautiful dark hair, a perfectly formed mouth, tiny long lashes. I sighed. I dared hope this would be the last heartbreak we’d have to endure.
We dressed the baby for burial in a nicely mended secondhand dress. I laid her out for viewing on top of Charlotte’s Singer sewing machine cabinet and raised the window to allow a cross breeze to keep the baby’s body cool. Donna, almost seven, wailed uncontrollably. She went up to where the baby was laid out, patting and kissing her, crying, “Wake up, baby! Wake up!” She was in such despair, I pulled her away and had her lie down on Charlotte’s bed, there in the same room. I begged her to settle down, but I finally had to leave her there, crying hysterically, because all the other crying kids needed to be fed in the kitchen. I had to hurry up so I could line the wooden casket Earl was making out in the yard.
I was relieved when it seemed Donna finally quit her crying. I figured she fell asleep, and I went back to check on her. I was flabbergasted to see her sitting in her little rocker with Clara in her arms, rocking her back and forth. Quietly sobbing her little heart out, she was unable to accept the fact that the baby was dead. I found it most difficult to explain to her that Clara had gone to Heaven, while her precious little body would now have to be buried like we’d had to do with Leah.
ON SEPTEMBER 30, 1962, I gave birth to my daughter Barbara. She was such a beauty, with dark hair, green eyes, and a smile that told you she was up to something. I delivered her at home with a neighbor’s assistance. We all felt she was a special blessing from Heaven, but Donna especially did. It had been seven years since I’d had a girl. After getting stuck with four brothers in a row, Donna was overjoyed to finally have her own little sister. I didn’t have to remind her that she could have the baby. Donna immediately claimed her, carrying her around like a doll. But she just couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t let her sleep with the baby at night.
“Don’t lie, Mom! You gave her to me.”
I felt so bad, I let the baby lie next to Donna on a small cot while I watched cautiously until my older daughter fell asleep. A while later, when Donna awoke and realized I’d snatched her little sister, she happily joined me and three other sleeping kids in my bed.
Though I always put the children to sleep in their own beds, they would all somehow manage to wake up in mine. They loved to listen to me sing and tell stories at night, especially when the wind was howling. Thunder and lightning would also bring them rushing into my room. My bed was a safe haven; there were always more kids than covers. Sometimes I didn’t realize any of them had snuck in until I felt the wet spots in my bed.
The children were none too happy when Verlan came to sleep with me on the occasional coveted night when he was in town and I popped up on his rotation list. Sometimes, neither was Verlan. Once, when he and I had just gotten in bed and covered ourselves with a light blanket, my son André’s kitten jumped onto the bed and frightened Verlan. He immediately tossed the kitten to the floor. The poor thing meowed and jumped right back up. No matter how many times Verlan threw it out of the bed, it came right back, insistent on sleeping with us. Finally, Verlan thought he’d made his point. The kitten disappeared. Much as I disliked cats, I commiserated with its desperation for a little love.
After a sound sleep, I awoke early in the morning and put my arm around Verlan, hoping for a little extra attention before my turn was over. He rose up, intending to turn toward me. I cupped my hand under his side in order to pull him into an embrace, but instead of pajamas, I felt fur. Without our knowing it, the kitten had quietly snuck back into the bed. In his sleep, Verlan had accidentally rolled over on it, squishing the life out of the poor little thing. Verlan felt bad, but not as bad as André and the other kids felt. They cried buckets of tears as they prepared their kitty for burial in a cardboard box. To console them, Verlan dug the hole, buried the cat, and for the kids’ sake, put a wooden marker on the grave. Knowing our neighbor had an abundance of kittens, we let André pick out another one the next day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The spirit of expansion seemed to be contagious. Not only were the LeBaron brothers busy multiplying their wives and children for the sake of their heavenly kingdoms, but Joel (our prophet) decided it was time to start expanding the earthly kingdom as well.
The scriptural prophecy in Doctrine and Covenants, Section 85, claimed that “the One mighty and strong” would set the house of God in order and arrange by lot the inheritances of the saints whose names were listed in the book of the law of God. These lots were to be our “eternal stewardships,” deeded only to those faithful saints who complied with the rules. For this purpose, property was purchased in the midst of the beautiful Sierra Madre, west of Colonia LeBaron in the town of Nicolás Bravo (or just Bravo). This was to be the next step toward fulfilling Joel’s dream of world domination.
Joel directed the new enterprise, selecting several dedicated brethren to help launch it. These men left Colonia LeBaron with their families, honored and excited that God found them worthy of such an undertaking. In less than a year, a dairy farm, lumber mill, cheese factory, and mechanic shop had been set up as preliminar
y stewardships. The participants were elated to work directly under the guidance of their prophet.
Common sense rather than God convinced Joel that Verlan and a few other good men needed to work in the States so they could make money to pour into these projects. I was thrilled when Joel asked Verlan to move his families from the colony to the mountains. Anything had to be better than what we had. But I was deeply saddened when I learned Verlan would again be gone for two or three months at a time, leaving us all behind so he could minimize expenses. Verlan seemed determined to sacrifice all he could for the cause.
I prayed to God repeatedly, telling him I wasn’t cut out for all this. I wanted to do his will, but I needed a man whose loyalties weren’t so divided. It was too heartrending to share Verlan with other women. I also resented his submission to Joel. Except in a crisis, such as the loss of Leah or my own near death from typhoid, my rights and needs rarely made it onto Verlan’s radar.
Somehow, Charlotte managed to talk Verlan into moving her to Las Vegas to live with him for the school year. Because Lucy had just lost a second baby, I insisted that he take her for a short trip also. She needed his love and comfort at this time.
I was bogged down at home with my six little kids, plus Lucy’s four. The oldest was my eight-year-old, Donna. With what little help she could give me, I figured I could bear the extra responsibility for two weeks while Lucy was gone.
After only one of those two weeks, I received a letter from Verlan instructing me to pack Lucy’s and my belongings and move to the mountains. He wanted me all settled in when Lucy returned.
The day before leaving, I canned a hundred quarts of peaches to take with me. I cooked twenty-five bottles at a time in a galvanized tub of water over an open bonfire in the backyard. I packed the jars in wooden crates to be shipped on the train with all our other belongings.
I packed clothes, diapers, baby bottles, and lunch for our eight-hour train ride into the mountains. The next morning at 6 A.M., we loaded everything onto Harold Tippetts’ old flatbed truck and left for Casas. There, the load was transferred onto the freight train as the children and I settled down in the passenger car.
Although we were all excited because this was our first train trip, I was exhausted before it even began. I ached from lifting stoves, beds, dressers, butane tanks, and all our other worldly possessions. I was beat as soon as I sat down, but we had many, many miles to go before I could rest.
The kids were having a grand time, especially when the train passed through several tunnels. I held four-year-old Brent close to me, telling him not to be afraid as we went through the longest one. There were no lights on the train. It seemed like we’d never reach the end. When we did, little Brent’s face lit up as he exclaimed, “Mommy, we just came out of a gopher hole.”
Early on, one of the children dropped the two-quart bottle of milk I had brought, splattering it all over the floor of our car. I had two hungry, crying babies on my hands for the remaining six hours.
Dan Jordan, one of our new converts, met us at the station with his big truck. I helped him load it with our heavy furniture and boxes while the babies screamed, crying to be changed and fed. I took the youngest four in the cab of the truck with Dan and me; the other six kids crowded together in the back with our furniture.
Reassuring the children we’d soon be to our new home, I asked them to be patient for the remaining thirty miles. Dan announced that his two wives were preparing a hot supper for us to enjoy on our arrival. He instructed the kids to sit back and enjoy the ride.
Leaving the train station, we traveled for about twenty miles on a terrible muddy dirt road through cornfields as far as the eye could see. It was the rainy season in the mountains. The roads were gooey with soft mud. Three times, we got stuck. Each time, we had to pull up a couple of fence posts and wedge them under the dual tires to give us enough traction to drive out of the deep trenches we made.
While we went along this way in muddy fits and starts, the sun went down, and black clouds moved in to cover our sky. It was evident we were in for another hard rain. As the dusk settled in, many large, hungry mosquitoes buzzed in through the broken window of the truck. It was a nightmare just trying to keep them from biting the children.
Dan slowed the truck down, coming to a near stop before a huge mud puddle, unsure if we could make it through. The water along the fence line covered the road for several yards in front of us. Deciding to make a run for it, Dan floored the gas pedal, and the truck charged into the sea of mud. We swerved, swaying back and forth. Then we sank as the wheels sprayed mud and water in all directions. The truck was hopelessly bogged down.
“Well, we’re here for the duration,” Dan said matter-of-factly. “Irene, you’ll have to stay here while I walk into town for help. I’ll have Joel bring back his car, and I’ll bring a tractor to pull us out. The wheels are buried up to the axles. I’ll have to walk eight or ten miles, so be patient. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
It grew darker, and armies of mosquitoes now feasted on us. I had Dan’s big metal toolbox and a couple of long, thick chains under my feet. I tried to keep the two wailing, fourteen-month-old babies soothed by bouncing them both in my arms, singing to them.
The first loud clap of thunder sent the six kids in the back into hysterics. I went outside, stepping into mud as I searched around for the oil cloth I used to cover my kitchen table. I found it packed in a cardboard box. Then I ordered the children to crouch down and hold the oil cloth over their heads. When it started sprinkling, they all laughed, enjoying the feel of the cool rain. But the sky soon exploded in torrents, and a gust of wind tore their covering off, blowing it into the muddy weeds.
This time, I left the four screaming babies inside the truck just long enough to help the soaked and frightened children into the cab. Talk about misery. All eleven of us were sandwiched together, kids stacked on top of each other, hurting and complaining as the rain blew in through the broken window. With all the commotion and wailing, we sounded like a raucous mob at a wrestling match.
I knew I had to remain calm. Somehow we endured the stench of dirty diapers and the constant readjusting of pinched and numb body parts until all of us were completely worn out. The kids cried and complained until sleep finally subdued them.
Hoping this trip was not a preview of things to come, I listened and watched for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I spotted lights coming toward us through the cornfields. I heard the sound of a tractor approaching.
It took great effort on Dan’s part to walk clear into town through the rain and mud. Now he’d finally returned with Joel, plus a hired Mexican man, to rescue us. Dan was steering the car while Joel towed it with a tractor.
Joel began carrying the sleeping children from the truck cab to his car. “Good grief! How many kids you got in there?” he asked as he grabbed up the third or fourth one.
“Just ten,” I told him.
Dan left the hired man sleeping in the truck to wait for daylight, when Dan meant to return to pull the truck home and salvage our drenched belongings. The eight-hour train ride, the first twenty stop-and-start miles from the train station, and the four-hour wait for Dan to return with Joel was grueling enough. It then took us an hour and a half to travel the last eight miles. We repeatedly got stuck in the muddy roadway and had to be pulled out with the tractor. Finally, at around midnight, we arrived.
Lucy came to the mountains from Vegas two weeks later. We settled down together in the same house. For the first time in our married lives, we had electricity.
At first, I was back to scrubbing on a washboard. It was three months before Verlan bought a used wringer-washer for Lucy and me to share. Now that we had electricity and the appliance, it was a breeze to wash. No more fighting to keep the gasoline motor of the old washer running. It was also wonderful to have electric lights after using coal oil lamps for eleven years. I didn’t have to worry about buying coal oil or keeping the blackened chimneys clean. But it was still no li
fe of ease. We drew water from a well and used an old outhouse.
Verlan was slaving away in the Las Vegas heat, painting to pay off the debt he’d incurred for the dairy cows, plus the big barn that was being built on the flats outside of town. From this project, Lucy and I were allowed to sell milk and cheese to provide for our daily needs. The poverty of those around us sickened me. We were rich compared to our Mexican neighbors. To them, even milk was a luxury. I was soon giving away more than I could afford.
On cold winter days, Lucy and I sewed quilt tops from the used clothing provided by the Vegas secondhand stores. That first winter, we made forty quilts, which we gave to our appreciative neighbors. We were loved and esteemed by everyone. We formed bonds of friendship there in the mountains that have lasted ever since.
I CONTRACTED GERMAN MEASLES while pregnant with my eighth child. When it got close to the time I would have the baby, I insisted on going to the nearby town of Gómez Farías to deliver it in a clinic because I was alarmed at how small my stomach was. At nearly nine months, I was still the size I usually was at five. I’d never been able to afford prenatal vitamins during any of my pregnancies, and I was worried that maybe I hadn’t eaten well enough to sustain this baby. I had no transportation of my own, so about a week before my due date, I went and stayed at the home of Joel’s first wife, Magdalena, who lived near the hospital.
When my labor started at 5 A.M. on December 20, 1964, Magdalena woke up her two oldest boys, who were six and eight at the time, to run and get Dr. Bringes. He returned with the boys in his pickup and then took Magdalena and me back to his clinic.
With each of my prior childbirths, I’d resigned myself to being strong and just seeing it through, but this seemed like the four worst hours of my life. The baby was positioned to come out face-first. Furthermore, it was so firmly lodged, the doctor had to use forceps.
As I bore down, Magdalena joined in my screaming. The doctor tried to make her leave, but I begged him to let her stay. I needed someone I knew to be with me. With the help of our unified screaming, I finally delivered a tiny, six-pound baby girl at 9 A.M. I thanked God the measles hadn’t harmed her in any way.
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