Naming Ben Lomond Peak

Ben Lomond 

Mary Wilson Montgomery

(named Ben Lomond Peak)

Born April  20, 1811

West Greenock, Renfrewshire, Scotland

Died  May 7, 1876

North Ogden, Weber, Utah Territory, United States

To Ben Lomond, beloved mountain of my home town:

Silent Sentinel - by Lettice O. Rich

You stand in silent majesty, unchanged by age or wind-lashed storm,

Guardian of a home-filled valley cradled in your mighty arms.

Sculptored (sic) by a master hand, of earth and tree and craggy stone,

Each season paints an overlay and claims your splendor all its own.

Your snow-capped peak, cloud-mantled, reach up to azure blue,

Where silver beams pierce fluffy clouds to let the moonlight through.

In the solemn stillness of a winter’s listening night,

Your beauty seems transplanted from some celestial sight.

O symbol of strength, I wonder…if words were yours to speak,

Would history be unfolded beneath your towering peak:

did you see the roaming redman (sic) wing arrows at deer or moose,

Or a patient dark-skinned mother croon to a dusky papoose?

Did you feel their apprehension when white intruders came,

Encroaching on their homeland, killing their fish and game?

Did you smell the fragrant upturned hearth, see sagebrush cleared for schools,

Marvel at channeled mountain streams, with bare hands and faith for tools?

Did you reel their pangs of hunger, slow numbing of winter’s cold,

The sorrow of parting with loved ones, too weak for life to hold?

Remember a Scottish mother…homesick, discouraged, alone who named you 

“Old Ben Lomond” because you brought memories of home?

I wonder what you think of us and the way we live each day,

If you could speak, Ben Lomond…

I wonder what you’d say.

"The Gift of Christmas"

The Gift of Christmas

Published in Salt Lake Tribune Sunday, December 25, 1994

By Nat Taggart, as told to Colleen Bliss

Gift in a Manger Recalls True Meaning of Holiday

When I was 7 my dad Charles Taggart died.

My mom was teaching school and my brothers and I were helping out all we could.

We lived in North Ogden on a beautiful farm on the hillside, with a freshwater spring. Large willow trees grew beside the small stream that ran down the hill and through our fields.

Uncle Roy, Aunt Floss and their baby, Alice lived in a big farmhouse next door. Uncle Roy played baseball with us in the summer, shot marbles with us on the living room floor on cold winter nights, taught me how to drive his 1914 Dodge touring car and kept us all laughing with his dry wit.

In the summer of 1928, I turned 18, and my brother Jack and some friends and I were going to take on a special project. We had five calves and with the help of Mr. Chadwick we were going to feed, groom and show these pretty Jerseys in 4-H competition at the fairs next fall.

We drew straws to decide who worked with which calf. By fall, we were all pretty good at showing in the ring and knew how to scrub down those animals and make their coat shine for the judges.

There was something special about the heifer I was showing, because by the time we went to the Utah State Fair, I had already won several blue ribbons with her. On the way home, I could hardly believe my good fortune to have won first place and a cash prize of $7.

My brother and I put our heifers on the lower pasture and watched them feed and fatten up with each passing day. By the time our heifers were 2, we had acquired another Jersey and all three had calved. Jack and I had a good start on a dairy herd.

The peaches had been picked and bottled weeks before, and the leaves had fallen from the trees to the ground, still thick with tall green grasses. We moved the cows with their calves into the corral near the orchard. Somehow, during the night they broke loose and began feeding in the peach orchard. Peach leaves are poison to calves. Within a week, four of the six died in spite of all of the efforts of the vet, myself, Uncle Roy and Jack.

Life teaches hard lessons, and there seems always to be one more thing to learn. My little cousin Alice stood beside me as we cried over the huge loss of those beautiful animals, one of them the blue-ribbon calf.

            Soon Thanksgiving came and went. The pain of losing those young animals seemed to lessen just a bit each day. Life went on and Christmas was suddenly a few days away. Everyone was planning surprises and making gifts for each other. Though we didn’t have much money, the excitement and challenge of gift giving kept everyone in high spirits.

            Then it was Christmas morning 1930. It was our turn to go to Uncle Roy’s house for Christmas. It didn’t take long to open the few presents under the tree. Santa had come once again and filled our stockings with nuts and fruit.

            Aunt Floss prepared a lovely Christmas breakfast. Alice was only about 7 years old and seemed especially excited. She handed me a card that said, “Your gift is in the stable. Love, Alice” She could hardly eat her breakfast.

            As I finished, she handed me my coat, took my hand and led me across the wide expanse of snow-covered yard surrounding our homes and into the stable behind our house.

            As we approached a stall filled with fresh straw, there stood a calf tied to the manger with a red ribbon around its neck. It was a beautiful Jersey. The tears streamed down my face as I realized she was giving me the calf her father had given her last summer.

            It was a Christmas I shall never forget. That calf was the beginning of my first dairy herd with many calves to follow.

            There we stood in the quiet and warmth of the barn remembering the first Christmas long ago celebrated in a similar place.

            As we admired the beautiful brown eyes of the calf watching us so curiously, we decided on a name for her – Gift.

Nat Taggart, 84, lives in Salt Lake City, but is moving back to his North Odgen Farm near his cousin Alice Snooks Wyatt, who gave him “Gift”. His daughter Colleen Bliss, Bluffdale, is a kindergarten teacher in the Jordan School District. Her father tells this story every Christmas.