My Story: A Memoir by Mary Ann (Underhill) Vaux
As told to my grandchildren in January 1882
Come sit close to me, my dear ones, and let me tell you about the
life I've lived—a life that began when your great-grandfather was
still alive to remember the very founding of this great nation. At
sixty-six years, I've seen this country grow from scattered
settlements to a land of railroads and telegraphs, and I want you to
know the story of how we came to be here together.
The Beginning: My Childhood in Aurora
I was born on the fifth day of March, 1815, in Aurora, Erie
County, New York, to parents who had already seen the turn of the
century and the birth of a new nation. My father, Amos Underhill, was
born in 1772—imagine that! He was already a grown man when
President Washington was still leading our country. My dear mother,
Mary Metcalf, married him in 1801, and together they carved out a
life in New Hampshire where they had a farm, and moved to Aurora in
western New York 1812, still considered frontier country, just as
the War of 1812 was starting.
I was the fourth of five children, right in the middle of our
little tribe. My older brothers, Cyrus and James, were always getting
into some mischief or another, while my sister Almeda and I tried to
keep up with them. Poor little Frederick, born when I was five,
didn't live to grow up with us—the Lord called him home when he was
only ten years old. Such losses were common then, children, though no
less heartbreaking for their frequency.
Our farm in Aurora was a place of endless work and simple
pleasures. I learned early to churn butter, tend the garden, preserve
fruits for winter, and help my mother with the never-ending tasks of
keeping house. Father grew wheat and corn, and we had cows, pigs, and
chickens. I can still remember the sound of my mother's spinning
wheel in the evenings, and how we children would gather around while
she worked, listening to stories or helping card wool.
The winters in New York were fierce—snow that reached the
windowsills and cold that would freeze the water in our washbasins
overnight. But oh, how beautiful the world looked covered in white!
We children would slide down the hills on wooden sleds Father made,
and in summer we'd wade in the creek and pick wild berries until our
fingers were stained purple.
Meeting Your Grandfather Samuel
When I was twenty-one years old, in 1836, I met a young man who
would change the course of my life forever. Samuel Vaux had come to
our area from England—all the way from a place called South
Petherton in Somerset. He was just twenty years old, with dark hair
and kind eyes, and he carried himself with the quiet determination of
someone who had crossed an ocean to build a new life.
Samuel's journey to America with his parents, James and Mary Vaux,
and everything familiar to seek opportunities in this new land. When
he told me stories of the green countryside of England, with its
ancient stone walls and centuries-old villages, I could barely
imagine such a place. But he said America held more promise for a
young man willing to work hard.
We courted for nearly a year, walking together after church
services and sitting on the porch while my parents kept watchful eyes
on us. Samuel was learning American farming methods and working for
neighbors to earn his way. He had such dreams of owning his own land
and building something lasting.
We married in 1837—though we never found the time or money for
fancy wedding portraits or elaborate ceremonies. Such things seemed
less important then than they do now. What mattered was that we loved
each other and were ready to build a life together. I was twenty-two,
and Samuel was twenty-one—so young, but we felt ready to take on
the world.
Building Our Family
Our first child, Mary Almeda, arrived in 1839, not quite two years
after our wedding. Oh, how my heart swelled when I first held her!
She was so perfect, so small, with tiny fingers that would grasp mine
so tightly. Being a mother was everything I had dreamed it would be,
and more frightening than I had ever imagined.
Then came Celia Ann in 1842—May 23rd, to be exact. She was a
spirited little thing from the moment she drew breath, always into
everything, always curious. Where Mary Almeda was gentle and careful,
Celia was bold and adventurous.
Abigail—our dear Abbie—came along in 1844 on October 28th.
Even as a baby, she had such a caring nature. She seemed to
understand when the younger children needed comfort, and she grew
into the most helpful daughter a mother could ask for.
James Pierce was our first son, born January 8th, 1847. How Samuel
beamed with pride! To have a son to carry on the family name and help
with the heavier farm work—it meant everything to a man trying to
build something in this new country.
Elizabeth followed in 1849, born on August first. She was our
summer baby, born during the busiest time of year on the farm, but
somehow she fit right into the rhythm of our busy household.
And finally, little Amos came to us in 1854. By then I was
thirty-nine years old and thought my childbearing days might be over,
but the Lord blessed us with one more sweet baby. He was such a joy,
our youngest, and all his older siblings doted on him.
Life on the Farm
Oh, children, how can I describe the endless work and endless love
that filled those early years? Samuel would be up before dawn,
tending to the animals and working the fields. I would rise with him
to pack his dinner and start the bread for the day. By the time the
children were stirring, I'd already have the fire going and breakfast
started.
Every day brought its own tasks. Mondays were for washing—heating
water in great kettles, scrubbing clothes on the washboard until my
knuckles were raw, hanging everything on lines that stretched across
our yard. Tuesdays for ironing with heavy irons heated on the stove.
Wednesdays and Thursdays for mending, sewing new clothes as the
children grew, piecing quilts for warmth.
Fridays were for baking bread for the week and cleaning the house
thoroughly. Saturdays for preparing for Sunday—polishing shoes,
laying out our best clothes, preparing food that wouldn't require
work on the Sabbath. And Sundays, blessed Sundays, when we would all
walk together to the little church in town, dressed in our finest, to
give thanks for another week of life and health.
But it wasn't all work. We had corn husking bees where neighbors
would gather to help each other, and the children would play games
while we adults shared news and gossip. There were barn raisings when
a neighbor needed help, and everyone would come together—the men to
work, the women to cook great meals, and the children to run wild
with excitement at having so many playmates.
In winter evenings, we'd gather around the fireplace. Samuel would
read to us from the Bible or the few books we owned, while I mended
or knitted. The children would play with corn husk dolls or wooden
toys Samuel carved for them. Sometimes we'd pop corn in a covered pan
over the fire, and what a treat that was!
The Call of the West
By 1853, we began hearing more and more about opportunities in the
western territories. Wisconsin was advertising for settlers, offering
good land at reasonable prices. Samuel had done well as a farmer —
we had over a thousand dollars worth of property, which was
substantial for the time. But he dreamed of more land, more
opportunity for our growing family.
The decision to leave Aurora wasn't easy for me. It meant leaving
everything familiar—the church where our children had been
baptized, the graves of relatives, the friends who had become like
family. But I trusted Samuel's judgment, and I could see how the
older children were excited about the adventure.
We sold our fifty-three acres to Robert Bartlett for $1,500 in
July of 1853. I remember packing our belongings into wagons, trying
to decide what could come with us and what had to be left behind.
Every pot, every quilt, every book had to earn its place in our
limited space.
The journey to Wisconsin was both exciting and exhausting. The
children saw it as a great adventure, but I worried constantly about
their safety, about getting lost, about what we'd find when we
arrived. Samuel drove one wagon while I managed the children and our
household goods in another.
New Beginnings in Wisconsin
Dodge County, Wisconsin, was beautiful—rolling hills, good soil,
and plenty of timber for building. We settled in Burnett township,
where Samuel could continue farming and we could give our children
room to grow. The air seemed cleaner there, and there was such a
sense of possibility.
Our older children were growing up so fast. Mary Almeda was
becoming a young lady, helping me with the younger ones and learning
all the skills she'd need as a wife and mother. Celia Ann was still
our little spitfire, always ready for any adventure. And James was
becoming a real help to his father in the fields.
Wisconsin was where we really came into our own as a family. The
children attended school when farm work allowed, and we became part
of a community of families all trying to build something better for
their children than what they'd had themselves.
In 1861, Mary Almeda married her James Woodward, Celia married her
first husband, Milo Redfield, and Abbie wed her Devier Smith and
started their own families nearby.
The Missouri Years
In 1869, when I was fifty-four years old, Samuel decided we should
try our luck in Missouri. We bought forty acres in Andrew County,
Missouri, from a couple named Munger for $2,000. It was good land,
and the climate was milder than what we'd known in New York and
Wisconsin. James was still with us, helping his father, and Elizabeth
and young Amos were still at home.
Missouri gave us some of our happiest years. The farm prospered,
and we had Mary Almeda and her family living with us for a time. What
joy it was to have grandchildren running through the house again!
Little Orpha and Mary Woodward brought such life to our home.
Elizabeth married Samuel Crouch in 1871, and James married Mary Alice
Patrick in 1877.
But Missouri also brought us our greatest heartbreak. In 1876, our
youngest, Amos, caught typhoid fever. He was only twenty-two years
old, just coming into his own as a man. For weeks, I nursed him,
barely sleeping, praying constantly for his recovery. But on August
23rd, 1876, the Lord called him home.
I don't know if I've ever recovered from losing Amos. A mother
isn't supposed to outlive her children, and to lose him when he was
so young, so full of promise—it nearly broke my heart entirely.
Samuel grieved deeply too, but he kept his sorrow more to himself, as
men do.
Coming to Kansas
After Amos died, the Missouri farm held too many painful memories.
In 1880, we sold the land to William Bulla and came here to Kansas to
live with our dear Abbie and her family. At sixty-five, neither
Samuel nor I felt up to starting over again on our own land. We no
sooner moved to here in Concordia than Samuel died in October 1880,
and I was very sad for a time, reliving our 43 years together.
Kansas has been good to me in these final years. Abbie takes such
good care of me, and I've enjoyed watching her children—your
parents—grow into fine young people. The country here is so
different from the wooded hills where I grew up—these endless
prairies that stretch to the horizon, the way the wind never stops
blowing, the enormous sky that makes you feel so small and yet so
connected to God's creation.
Living with Abbie's family has given me the gift of truly knowing
my grandchildren. In the busy years of raising my own children, I
sometimes felt I barely had time to breathe, let alone sit and really
talk with each child individually. Now I have that luxury with you
dear ones.
Reflections on a Life Lived
As I sit here in January of 1882, looking back over nearly
sixty-seven years of life, I'm amazed at how much our world has
changed. When I was born, it took weeks to travel from New York to
the western frontier. Now there are railroads that can carry you
across the entire country in just days. When I was young, news
traveled slowly, by horseback or letter. Now there are telegraph
wires that can carry messages instantly across vast distances.
I've seen this nation struggle through difficult times—wars and
economic troubles, disagreements about slavery and states' rights.
But I've also seen it grow stronger and more prosperous than my
parents could have ever imagined when they were young.
Most of all, I've learned that home isn't a place—it's the
people you love and who love you back. We moved from New York to
Wisconsin to Missouri to Kansas, but wherever Samuel and our children
were, that was home. The house might be different, the landscape
might change, but love travels with you and makes any place feel like
home.
I want you children to remember that your heritage is one of
courage and hard work and faith. Your great-grandfather Amos came to
western New York when it was still frontier country. Your grandfather
Samuel crossed an ocean to build a new life. Your parents and
grandparents were willing to pack up everything they owned and move
across the country when they thought it would give their children
better opportunities.
You come from people who weren't afraid to take risks for the sake
of family, who weren't afraid of hard work, and who always believed
that tomorrow could be better than today if you were willing to work
for it.
Words for the Future
My dear grandchildren, I may not live to see what you become or
what wonders await in the years ahead, but I have such hope for your
futures. This country offers opportunities that existed nowhere else
in the world when I was young, and I believe those opportunities will
only grow.
Remember always to be kind to each other, to work hard, and to
trust in God's plan for your lives. Remember that every generation
builds on what came before—my parents worked to give me
opportunities they never had, Samuel and I worked to give our
children more than we had, and now it's their turn to build something
even better for you.
Take care of each other. Family is the most precious thing you'll
ever have. Friends may come and go, fortunes may rise and fall, but
family—true family—lasts forever. The love I've felt for each of
my children and now for each of you has been the greatest joy of my
life.
And when you're old like me, I hope you'll sit with your own
grandchildren and tell them stories about their
great-great-grandmother Mary Ann who crossed the country in covered
wagons, who helped build communities in the wilderness, and who loved
her family more than life itself.
That's the legacy I hope to leave—not money or property, but the
knowledge that you are deeply loved and that you come from people who
faced whatever challenges life brought with courage, faith, and love
for each other.
Now come give your old grandmother a hug, and let's have some of
that gingerbread I made this morning. There's nothing that makes me
happier than having my family close around me, just like this.
[Mary Ann (Underhill) Vaux would pass away just ten months
after telling this story, in November 1882, at her daughter Abbie's
home in Concordia, Kansas.]
