As you travel along Highway 89 in Franklin, Idaho, and come to a bridge on the West Cache Canal, stop. There on a sagebrush hill above you, you will see an abandoned cemetery. A few crude headstones still stand there among the bunchgrass. These headstones are those of the brave men, women and children whom settled the land along the Bear River. The George Mendenhall family was among those hardy pioneers. They built a log home on the property that is now owned by Cornell Stanger, had a family of six, and were happy among their relatives and friends. They lived a typical frontier life, plowing, reaping, weaving, spinning, and trusting in the Lord for His protective care. There was no need for a lawyer among these brave people along the river bottom, then known as Franklin Meadows. A man's word was his bond; and if a man needed help, it was freely given without thought of getting anything in return. The long winter months of 1879 passed by, and then, with the last of March and the return of Spring, came diphtheria. The Mendenhalls were stricken.

"George," called a neighbor from a safe distance. George appeared at the door. "George," the neighbor continued, "how many have diphtheria today?" George answered in melancholy tones, "Leslie has taken a turn for the worse. There are two that are very sick today, and we were up with Valerie all night."

"Is there anything we can bring you?"

"Yes, the wood is getting low with burning a fire all night and day, and we will need a gallon of kerosene before nightfall." The neighbor backed away slowly, thinking of the diphtheria germs that were floating about the yard, then answered George saying, "I'll bring it." When he cut the wood, he would go into the hills and cut some that wasn't in George's lot. In the late afternoon, a sister brought a package and dropped it over the fence, and was almost out of hearing distance before she dared call the family. As George came out to get the package, she ran faster than if he had aimed a six-shooter at her. But this was Diphtheria, and the germs lurked everywhere. "Valerie and Leslie are worse!" he yelled, as he took the package of dried apples and bread into the house. The news spread to Dayton that the Mendenhall children were dying. This was more than the kind heart of Aunt Sarah Phillips could stand. Aunt Sarah was a widow with a large family; but she was blessed with the divine touch of healing, and would never stay away when someone needed her. "Lizzie," she called to her daughter; "the Mendenhall children are dying, and I feel that I must go help them. I know the Lord will spare me from this disease, and from bringing it back to my family. Will you take care of things until I return?"

"Yes, Mother," replied the faithful Lizzie, "and I will pray for you and the Mendenhall children, too." As Aunt Sarah alighted from the wagon in front of the Mendenhall home, there were tears of joy and relief in the family: Help had come at last! She put on her white waist apron, and began swabbing the swollen throats with drops of turpentine, and trying to get the little ones to swallow oil and sugar. Dark haired Leslie, just 5 years old, was growing more limp and blue each hour. There was no time to be lost, but what could they do? With a final weak choking spell, he lay lifeless in his mother's arms. There was no time for tears; Valerie, age 7, had also passed away. Aunt Sarah bathed the little bodies, and laid them on a rough board beside an open window. Someone brought a sack of snow, which was put into bottles and laid beside he little bodies to keep them cool. When Cal Boyce heard of the double tragedy, he said, "It ain't right for a man to have to nail a coffin lid on his own children. I'm going in and help them." And the next morning, he was there. The neighbors made a rough box big enough to hold the two little bodies; and Aunt Sarah and Cal Boyce drove them to the new cemetery on the hillside, and there, they buried them.

Spring came with all her natural beauty. The willow trees along the river began to bud; and the hills grew bright green with the new grass. Then, tragedy struck again in the Mendenhall home. This time, 3-year-old LeRoy fell victim to the disease. Friends came again, and put packages of food, kerosene, and wood. "Be of good cheer," they said; "Surely the Lord will ask no more of you." But, man's judgement is not always correct. On the 27th of March, Leroy died, and was buried beside his brother and sister. Two weeks later, the wagon of George Mendenhall once again stopped at the graveyard hill. This time, the father and Brother Boyce lifted another rough box out of the wagon; this time, containing the body of 9 year old little George. They also laid him beside the other three. That left the Mendenhalls with only Elvira, age 11; and a babe in arms - Arthur John. Through this crushing experience, there was no time for bitterness. There was work to do, and always hope for the future. Sustained by their religious beliefs that there is life after death, they were able to go on.

After being tried like Job of old, God blessed them with other children. Of course, none ever took the place of those they had lost; but there was music and laughter once again in the Mendenhall home. Times grew more prosperous. Hunger and want were crowded out; but then, in 1902, Diphtheria struck again. There were doctors then, but nothing could be done to save the two beautiful Mendenhall girls. Zella was taken first, then six days later, Elsie followed her. Diphtheria had taken a toll of six from the Mendenhall family.

I stood on the hill and looked at the graves of George and Celestia Ann Mendenhall and their children. I marveled at their stamina and courage; and in my heart, I was proud to say that I lived in a valley made possible by such pioneers as these.

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"I have heard my mother say whenever Grandmother Mendenhall went out the door, she always looked over toward the graves on the hill." Wilma Mendenhall Kent