[Orson and Edna Richins] were in their fifties by the time I was old enough to understand that they were growing older and that they had lived such a rich, full life that I knew very little about. I felt somewhat cheated that I had missed out on so much in their lives and the early years of my brothers and sisters. It was for this reason that I asked Mother to write a history that I might share more richly in their joys and sorrows - I did just that - I have shed many tears and had many good laughs, but most of all I have enjoyed every minute of it. — Beverly R. Porter, editor.

My father, Charles Edmund Richardson was of English descent though he had Irish-red hair. His height of six feet and three inches proportioned his broad shoulders and a well-built body made him an imposing figure. Of his mental capacities, the President of the Brigham Young University, Franklin S. Harris, once said, “Edmund Richardson is one of the most intelligent men I have ever met. He is a renowned scholar, an avid reader, has a photographic mind and a remarkable memory.” Edmund carried a book with him wherever he went in order to utilize every spare moment for study.

Above everything else, Edmund prized his membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, his testimony of its truth and the Priesthood, which he held. His religion became his way of life, characterizing all he did. He tempered strict obedience required of his children with kindness and love. He also insisted that they show obedience and respect to their mothers. He honored and revered his wives.

My Mother, Caroline Rebecca Jacobson, was of Danish and Swedish descent. She was sweet, even-tempered, cheerful, ambitious and neat in person. She was a wonderful and tasty cook. Her husband often said she could make a fine meal out of nothing. Her first thought was always of others for whenever there was an unpleasant job to be done, she would say, “Oh, let me do it, I’d rather do it than not.”

She was a woman of great faith and a lover of the gospel and one who tried to keep all the commandments. At her funeral, Patriarch Mickelson said, “This woman has kept all of God’s commandments including plural marriage.”

My parents were married in old Mexico by Alexander F. McDonald. They lived in a small two-roomed adobe house, which they made as comfortable as their means would allow, having a fireplace as its chief comfort. This was their home at the time of my birth.

I have fond memories of my grandfather, James Jacobson. He lived on the southwest corner of the next block west of our home. I loved my only grandparent very dearly. He often came to see Mother and usually ate with us. He lived alone, as Grandmother had died very soon after they came to Mexico when Mother was a girl of fourteen or fifteen. I loved to go see him, for he was so kind and seemed to love children. He was somewhat stooped and he had a crippled finger caused from a severe cut while pruning trees. I loved to hold his hands and look at that finger he could never straighten out. I asked him once why that finger didn’t come up and he went into detail and showed me it was bent and stiff.

After we moved on the Dusty Dale Ranch, Grandfather Jacobson often visited us two or three weeks at a time. I hadn’t started school when I had a large seed wart growing under my thumbnail from the center and down along the side. The outer edges were red and inflamed and some of the seeds were large at the head and quite loose and extremely sore. It was similar to a partly hidden sliver, which itched and troubled me especially at night because of rubbing against the bedding. Grandfather sympathized with me and often held me on his knee looking it over closely. He said, “I’m sure I can help that wart to die, if you will let me pull just one seed a day until we get all the big mother seeds out.” He would soak my hand in extra warm and sour bran, which was prepared each day for hog feed, and would then carefully pull a seed. He was cautious to keep blood from touching other fingers so as not to get another wart started. The treatment was so effective I hardly knew when the wart went away. His tender way drew me even closer to him.

He was very neat about his dress, work and premises. I remember him holding my hand as we went out to feed his cow and around his haystack the ground was clean from the last bit of waste. He would talk to his cow and pet her and she would come up to him as he spoke to her.

Grandfather was a horticulturist. He grew an orchard and a grape vineyard. He taught me the difference in grapes— Thompson seedless, white muscat and blue concord. I always knew he’d give me a cluster of each and a little something to eat if only a cube of sugar and I looked forward to that.

I loved his cabbage roses, as he called them. Each time, as I was leaving, he picked one and as he handed it to me, I was touched by the tears that fell. He would then retell the story of Grandmother bringing her rose cutting from Utah and how she loved them. She had died from sunstroke soon after arriving in Mexico and never lived to see them in bloom.