Memories of Abigail A. (Vaux) Smith
As told to my family in 1930, at age 86
Tell me about your childhood
I was born on October 28th, 1844, in Aurora, Erie County, New York, the third child of six in our family. My dear father Samuel came from England with his parents as a young man - he carried with him stories of the old country and a determination to make something of himself in America. My mother Mary Ann Underhill was born right there in New York state, her family having deep roots in this country.
We were a bustling household with six children. My older sisters Mary Almeda and Celia Ann were my constant companions - Mary Almeda was five years older than me, born in 1839, and Celia Ann just two years my senior. Then came me, followed by my brother James in 1847, my sister Elizabeth in 1849, and finally little Amos in 1854. The house was never quiet with all of us children about!
Father worked hard as a farmer and did well for himself - by 1850, he had accumulated $1,166 in real property, which was quite respectable for those times. I remember our farmhouse in Aurora, with its large kitchen where Mother would cook for our big family, and the fields where Father grew his crops. The seasons marked our lives - planting in spring, tending the crops through summer, harvest time when we all pitched in, and the quiet winter months when we'd gather around the fire in the evenings.
School was a joy to me, even starting so young. I remember walking with Mary and Celia Ann to the little schoolhouse, my small hand in theirs, learning my letters and numbers. The teacher was strict but fair, and I took to reading like a duck to water. Mother always said I was the bookish one in the family. Even at age five, I was already sitting with the primer, sounding out words while my sisters helped me along.
Our fun came in simple pleasures - picking berries in summer, sledding in winter, helping Mother with the cooking and learning to sew. I was fascinated watching Mother mend and make our clothes, and she taught me the fine art of needlework. Little did I know then how valuable those skills would become! We'd have corn huskings with the neighbors, barn raisings where the whole community came together, and church socials where we children would play games while the adults talked.
But the biggest adventure of my childhood came when I was about eleven. Father made the momentous decision to sell our New York farm and move us all the way to Wisconsin. The frontier was calling, with promises of cheaper land and greater opportunity. What an upheaval that was! I remember the wagon loaded with all our possessions, saying goodbye to everything familiar, and starting the long journey west to Burnett township in Dodge County, Wisconsin. The frontier was wilder than New York - more forests, fewer neighbors, and a sense that we were truly building something new.
What occupations did you have?
My primary occupation, and the one I was proudest of, was being a wife and mother. But that doesn't tell the whole story of the work I did to help keep our family afloat through all those years of moving and uncertainty.
I became skilled as a milliner - the art of making and trimming ladies' hats. This wasn't just simple sewing; it required an eye for fashion, knowledge of the latest styles, and the ability to work with delicate materials like silk, velvet, ribbons, and feathers. I learned to shape felt, to sew tiny stitches that wouldn't show, and to create confections that would make any lady feel beautiful when she wore them to church or social gatherings.
During our time in Kansas in 1875, when we lived in Lincoln township in Cloud County, the census taker recorded me as a milliner with $340 in personal property from my hat-making business. That might not sound like much now, but it was a significant contribution to our household income. Devier was running a livery and sale stable then, and between his business and mine, we were making a decent living.
I took great pride in my work. Ladies would come to me with specific requests - perhaps they'd seen a hat in a catalog from back East, or they needed something special for a wedding or funeral. I'd listen carefully to what they wanted, take their measurements, and create something beautiful just for them. Word spread, and soon I had regular customers who trusted me to keep them fashionable even out on the Kansas frontier.
The work was meticulous and required good light, so I'd often work by the window during the day, my fingers flying as I stitched. I taught both Della and Mary Ann some of these skills, though they both took more to music. Still, they learned to appreciate fine handwork and attention to detail.
When we moved to Nebraska and Devier started the Blue Front livery stable in McCook, I continued my millinery work when I could, though keeping up with his various business ventures and managing our household kept me plenty busy. The income from my hat-making often meant the difference between getting by and having a little extra for necessities.
What were the hardest challenges in your life?
Oh my dear ones, where do I begin? Life tested me in ways I never could have imagined as that young girl in New York.
The greatest heartbreak - one that still brings tears to my eyes even now - was losing two of my precious babies. Little Agnes Bell, our fourth child, was born on February 26th, 1868, in Rolling Prairie, Wisconsin. She was such a sweet baby, with the prettiest smile and the most trusting eyes. But when we moved to Bedford, Iowa, she took sick. Despite all our care and prayers, she died on April 23rd, 1870, when she was just two years and two months old. I can still remember holding her little body, so light it seemed she might float away, and the awful finality of laying her to rest in Bedford Cemetery.
Then, as if losing Agnes hadn't broken my heart enough, we lost our youngest, Lucian H., whom we called "Lutie." He was born June 16th, 1875, in Lincoln, Kansas - our little surprise baby when I thought my childbearing days were behind me. He was such a bright little fellow, always getting into mischief and making us laugh. But in March of 1878, when he was not quite three years old, he took ill in Concordia, Kansas. We tried everything - the doctor, home remedies, prayers - but on March 19th, 1878, our little Lutie slipped away from us. They buried him in Pleasant Hill Cemetery in Concordia. A mother is never supposed to outlive her children, and to lose two... well, there are some sorrows that never fully heal.
The constant moving was another great challenge. Count them up - we went from New York to Wisconsin, then to Iowa, then Missouri, then to different parts of Kansas, then to Nebraska. Always it was Devier with another grand plan, another opportunity that was going to make our fortune. Sometimes I felt like a nomad, never able to put down proper roots or make lasting friendships because we'd be packing up again before long.
Each move meant leaving behind everything familiar - neighbors who'd become friends, a church community we'd grown to love, a garden I'd tended, rooms where my children had played. It meant packing up our entire lives into wagons, wondering what the new place would be like, hoping the children would adapt, praying that this time we'd find our permanent home.
The separation from Devier in our later years was perhaps the most complicated challenge. After I came to California in 1889 to help Della with her first baby, I found myself reluctant to return to Nebraska. The truth was, I was tired of moving, tired of uncertainty, and California felt like the first place in years where I could truly rest. Della needed me, little Lyle needed his grandmother, and Henry Carringer welcomed me into their home like I was his own mother.
But it meant living apart from my husband for the last years of his life. We wrote letters, and there was talk of him joining us in California or me returning to Nebraska, but somehow it never happened. When he died in 1894, I felt the weight of that separation - the conversations we never had, the companionship we missed in those final years. It was a choice that brought me peace but also carried its own burden of regret.
Financial uncertainty was a constant companion through most of my married life. Devier was a dreamer and a hard worker, but his various ventures - farming, running livery stables, speculation - brought mixed results. There were times when my millinery income was what kept food on the table. I learned to make do with very little, to stretch a dollar until it squeaked, and to find contentment in simple pleasures because fancy ones weren't always within reach.
What major life decisions did you make and how did they work out?
The most momentous decision of my young life was accepting Devier Smith's proposal of marriage. I was barely sixteen when we wed on April 4th, 1861, in Rolling Prairie, Dodge County, Wisconsin. Some might say I was too young to know my own mind, but I knew I loved this man with his ambitious dreams and gentle way with me.
Devier was seven years older than me, born in New York like myself, and he had such plans for our future together. He promised me we'd build something fine, that our children would have opportunities we never had. In many ways, he kept that promise, though not always in the ways either of us expected.
Our marriage weathered thirty-three years together, through five children born and two lost, through more moves than I care to count, through lean times and better times. Was it always easy? Heavens no. Devier had a restless spirit that sometimes clashed with my growing desire for stability. But he was a good man, faithful to me and devoted to our children. He worked hard, even when his ventures didn't pan out as planned. And he supported my millinery work, never thinking it beneath his dignity to have a wife who earned her own money.
The decision to come to California in 1889 changed the entire course of my later life. Della had married Henry Carringer two years earlier, and when their first child Devier was born, she needed help. The journey from Nebraska to California was long and difficult for a woman of forty-five, but when I held that little grandson in my arms, I knew I was where I belonged.
California was a revelation to me. The climate was gentle, the growing season long, and there was a sense of possibility that reminded me of my youth in Wisconsin. Henry and Della made me feel truly welcome - not like a burden or an obligation, but like a cherished member of their family. For the first time in years, I felt settled.
The decision to stay in California rather than return to Nebraska was gradual rather than sudden. Months turned into a year, then years. Devier and I wrote letters discussing it, but somehow I kept finding reasons to stay a little longer. Lyle was born and Della needed me. Della's health wasn't strong. Henry's business was doing well and they had room for me. The truth was, I was bone-tired of moving and starting over, and California felt like home in a way no place had since my childhood in New York.
When Devier died in 1894, that choice became permanent. By then, I'd been in California for five years and had become part of the fabric of Henry and Della's life. Looking back, I believe it was the right decision for all of us, though it came with the cost of those separated years from my husband.
Another significant decision was purchasing property in City Heights in San Diego in 1908. At age sixty-four, I invested in Lots 15 and 16 in Block 97, which gave me a measure of independence and security I'd never had before. Having my own property meant I wasn't entirely dependent on Della and Henry's generosity, though they never made me feel unwelcome. When I deeded that property to Della in 1922, it was with the satisfaction of knowing I could contribute something substantial to the family that had cared for me so well.
What was your biggest accomplishment?
Without question, my biggest accomplishment was raising my three surviving children to be decent, capable, productive adults despite all the upheaval and uncertainty of our nomadic life.
Della, my eldest, became everything I could have hoped for in a daughter. She learned music and became a teacher, which gave her skills and independence. When she married Henry Carringer in 1887, she chose a man of steady character who would provide the stability our family had often lacked. Henry has been a carpenter and cabinet-maker, skilled with his hands and reliable in his work. Together, they've built a good life in San Diego, owning their own home and raising their son Lyle with love and firm guidance. Della has the refined accomplishments I wanted for her - she can play music, she's well-read, she keeps a beautiful home - but she also has the practical strength that came from all those years of moving and adapting.
My son David, whom we called "Davie," took after his father in his entrepreneurial spirit but with more steady success. He ran our Blue Front livery stable in McCook, Nebraska, and made a good living at it. The railroad was bringing more people through town, and David understood how to serve travelers' needs. He married twice - first to Leava Smith in 1889, had a daughter Eva in 1890, and after they divorced, he came to San Diego. He married Amy Ashdown in 1902, and they had a daughter Maybelle in 1902. Though he died too young in 1920 at age fifty-six, he lived to see success in his business ventures and to contribute to his community.
Mary Ann, my youngest daughter whom we called "Matie," had perhaps the most challenging path. She was always spirited, sometimes too much so, and she married three times - first to George Chenery in 1889 in Nebraska and divorced in 1895. She came to San Diego and married Joseph Cramer in 1904, who died in 1920 in Oregon, and finally to John Morrill in 1921 in Los Angeles. Each time, I hoped this marriage would bring her the happiness and stability she sought. She became a music teacher like her sister Della, which gave her a way to support herself between marriages. She had no children. Though she died young in 1922 at age fifty-six, she lived life on her own terms and never lost her determination to find happiness.
All three of my surviving children learned to work hard, to value education and refinement, and to adapt to changing circumstances. Despite our many moves, they grew up knowing they were loved and that family comes first. They learned practical skills alongside book learning, and they all contributed to their communities wherever they settled. In a time when many children were lost to disease, accident, or the harshness of frontier life, I kept three of mine safe to adulthood and helped them become people of character.
Perhaps just as importantly, I helped create a family legacy that continues. My grandson Lyle is now a fine young man of thirty-eight, working in finance in a downtown department store - a field that didn't even exist when I was his age. He's steady and reliable like his father Henry, but also curious about the world like his grandfather Devier. Watching him grow from that tiny baby I came to California to help with into the man he is today may be the sweetest fruit of all my labors. Then there is my great-granddaughter, Betty Carringer born in 1919 to Lyle and his wife, Emily. She is growing up and is very artistic.
What are you proudest of?
I'm proudest of my resilience - the way I learned not just to survive but to find joy and purpose wherever life took me. From that farm girl in Aurora, New York, to a grandmother in San Diego, California, I adapted to each new place and situation while holding onto what mattered most: my family, my faith, and my sense of dignity.
I'm proud that I never became bitter, despite the losses and disappointments. When we buried little Agnes and later little Lutie, I could have let grief consume me. When Devier's various business ventures didn't work out as planned, I could have become resentful. When we had to move again and again, leaving behind friends and familiar places, I could have grown hard and closed off. But I chose, again and again, to look for the good in each new situation and to make the best of whatever circumstances we found ourselves in.
I'm proud of my work as a milliner and the way it allowed me to contribute financially to our family while also bringing beauty into women's lives. There's something special about helping a woman feel lovely and confident, whether she's going to church on Sunday or attending a community social. My hats weren't just accessories - they were little pieces of artistry that brought refinement to the frontier.
I'm proud that I could read and write well throughout my life, and that I passed that love of learning on to my children. Education was sometimes hard to come by in all the places we lived, but I made sure my children valued books and knowledge. Both Della and Matie became music teachers, which required not just skill but also the confidence to stand in front of others and share their knowledge.
I'm particularly proud of the way I've been able to be a true help to Della and Henry in their marriage. Rather than being the interfering mother-in-law that causes friction, I've tried to be a support and blessing to their household. I've helped raise Lyle, kept house when Della was unwell, and provided the wisdom of experience without being overbearing. Henry treats me like his own mother, and that's a testament to the relationships we've built over these forty-one years I've been in California.
I'm proud that I learned to find contentment in simple pleasures - a well-tended garden, a letter from family, a grandchild's laughter, a beautiful sunset over San Diego Bay. After all those years of chasing after bigger and better things, following Devier's dreams from place to place, I found that happiness was often in the quiet moments right where I was.
(AI Enhanced image of Abigail A. (Vaux) Smith and family in about 1900, from family sources)
How do you want to be remembered?
I want to be remembered as a woman who loved deeply and held on tightly to what mattered most, no matter how many times life tried to shake it loose from my grasp.
Remember me as someone who faced loss with grace. When we buried those two precious babies, I could have let it destroy my faith or my capacity for joy, but instead I chose to love the living children I had even more fiercely. Let that be my legacy - not that I suffered, but that I survived with my heart intact.
Remember me as a woman who found strength she didn't know she had. I was just sixteen when I married Devier, a young girl who'd never been away from home and family. But life asked me to cross a continent, to start over again and again, to bury children and keep going, to make homes out of nothing but love and determination. I did things I never thought I could do, and I want my grandchildren and their children to know that they have that same strength in them when they need it.
I want to be remembered as someone who valued beauty and tried to create it wherever I went. Whether it was a hat trimmed just so, a garden planted with care, or a home made welcoming even if we'd only be there a year, I believed that life was better when touched with grace and loveliness. Don't remember me as someone who just endured - remember me as someone who tried to bloom wherever she was planted.
Remember me as a woman who adapted without losing herself. Yes, I followed Devier from Wisconsin to Iowa to Missouri to Kansas to Nebraska, and finally came to California. But in each place, I found ways to be useful, to contribute, to make friends, to help my children feel at home. I learned new skills, met new challenges, and kept growing even as I grew older.
Most of all, I want to be remembered as someone who understood what family really means. It's not just the people who share your blood - it's the people who stand by you through thick and thin, who make room for you at their table, who celebrate your joys and comfort your sorrows. Henry Carringer isn't my son by birth, but he's been a son to me in every way that matters. That's the kind of family I tried to create and nurture, and I hope that legacy continues long after I'm gone.
Remember me with a smile, not with tears. I've had a long life, longer than many of my generation, and I've seen my grandson grow into a fine man. I've lived to see automobiles and airplanes, electric lights and moving pictures - wonders I never could have imagined as a girl in New York and Wisconsin. I've been blessed beyond measure, and I want that to be what you remember most.
What advice do you have for your grandchildren?
My dear Lyle, Edgar, Eva and Maybelle, listen closely to your old grandmother who has seen much of life's joys and sorrows.
First and most importantly, hold fast to family. Blood relations are precious, but don't limit your definition of family to just those who share your name. Your father Henry has been a son to me though we share no blood, and you'll find throughout your life that some of your dearest relationships will be with people who choose to love you, not just those who are obligated to by birth. Treasure these chosen family members - they are gifts beyond price.
Learn to adapt, but never lose your core self. Life will take you places you never expected to go and ask you to do things you never thought you could do. I went from a New York farm girl to a California grandmother, with stops in six different states along the way. Each place required something different of me, but I tried to remain true to my values of hard work, kindness, and dignity. Be flexible like a willow tree - bend with the storms, but keep your roots strong.
Always, always learn something with your hands. I don't care if you're a man or woman, rich or poor - learn to create something beautiful and useful with your own two hands. My millinery work wasn't just about money, though that was important. It was about the satisfaction of taking raw materials and turning them into something that brought joy to others. Your father's carpentry, your grandfather Devier's work with horses and cattle, your mother's music - we all found ways to make something good with our skills. Find yours and treasure it.
Don't be afraid of hard work, but also don't confuse being busy with being productive. Your grandfather Devier was always chasing the next big opportunity, always convinced that the grass was greener somewhere else. Sometimes that restless energy served us well - it brought us to new places and new possibilities. But sometimes it kept us from putting down roots and really flourishing where we were. Learn to recognize when it's time to move on and when it's time to dig deeper where you are.
Take care of each other in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in lean times. When your mother was a young wife with a new baby, I came to California to help her. When I grew old and needed a home, she and your father welcomed me without question. That's what family does - we show up for each other, not just when it's convenient, but especially when it's needed.
Be grateful for simple pleasures. Some of my happiest memories aren't of special occasions or grand achievements, but of quiet evenings with family, gardens blooming in spring, letters from loved ones, the satisfaction of a job well done. Learn to find joy in everyday moments, because they're the foundation that grand occasions are built upon.
Don't let hardship make you hard. Life will test you - it's tested every generation before you and it will test the ones that come after. You'll face losses that seem unbearable, disappointments that feel crushing, challenges that seem impossible. But don't let those experiences close your heart or dim your capacity for joy. I buried two babies and could have let grief consume me, but instead I chose to love the living children I had even more deeply. Let your struggles make you stronger and more compassionate, not bitter.
Remember that home isn't always a place - sometimes it's the people who love you. I lived in many houses over the years, but I've been truly at home here in San Diego with your parents because they made me feel valued and wanted. When you're building your own life, remember that the walls don't make the home - the love inside them does.
Finally, write things down. Keep letters from people you love. Record the stories of your family, even the difficult ones. Take photographs when you can. Someday you'll be the old one, and the young people in your family will want to know where they came from and what their ancestors were made of. These memories I'm sharing with you today - they're not just stories, they're your inheritance. Pass them on with pride.
The world is changing faster now than it ever did when I was young. You have opportunities I couldn't have dreamed of, but you also have challenges I never faced.
Trust in the strength that runs in your blood, the love that surrounds you, and the God who watches over us all. Make us proud, but more importantly, live a life that makes you proud.
And remember your old grandmother with love. I may not live to see all the wonderful things you'll do with your life, but I have faith that you'll do them well.
Written down by Della Carringer from Mother's words, December 1930
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I think that these relatively short memoirs are poignant and would be interesting to her family members, especially to her great-grandchildren, and even to her 2nd great-grandchildren.
This format provides a different perspective than a biography, doesn't it? It is historical fiction, but many of the historical facts from the genealogical sketch are included and it rings true to me.
In 1930, Abbie had four grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. She died on 11 September 1931 in San Diego at age 87.
I will write more of these memoirs or life memories as told by my ancestors as time goes on. This is great genealogy fun for me!
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Copyright (c) 2025, Randall J. Seaver
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