After Eight Generations of Holyoaks...

The email hit my in-box at 3:37 p.m. on February 27, 2020. It simply stated, “Hey Mark, you are recorded on this land!” And with that, it came to an end. After approximately 165 years and eight generations of Holyoaks, our direct family line no longer owns land in Parowan, Utah.

George Eli Holyoak

The Holyoak coming-to-America story goes way back to the mid-1850s. George Eli Holyoak and his family joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and started their 4,800-mile emigration journey to Utah from their home in England. They survived what must have been an eternally long nine-week journey on the ship “Windemere.” Along the way, a number of fellow travelers became seasick and developed cholera resulting in multiple deaths and burials at sea. The ship later caught fire and started to leak. Men, women and children used buckets and pans to keep it afloat until finally reaching the final destination up the Mississippi River at Quarantine Island in St. Louis.

From there, they later camped at the Missouri River where George’s oldest daughter died, leaving behind a husband and two young children. While crossing the plains, George’s beloved wife Sarah died of mountain fever. Ten days later a second daughter, Ann, passed away from the same sickness. He buried them both and painfully left them behind on the plains of Nebraska. 

Original farmhouse (1860's-1929)

The Holyoaks forged onward and arrived in Salt Lake City in September of 1854. Shortly thereafter, George and his family answered a call to settle in Parowan in the southern part of Utah. They purchased property and homesteaded at the southern end of what is now 200 South Street, but to this day locals still call it Holyoak Lane.

Fast forward to four generations later. Grandpa Vern had passed away leaving the old stone block farmhouse vacant. Dad asked us kids if we wanted to take over ownership of the farm and two pieces of outlying property. We each had families, busy lives and none of us lived anywhere close to southern Utah. We declined so he and Mom continued to care for the place by taking two trips there each year.

In September 2017, Lori and I decided to take an impromptu trip the farm to spend about a week with my parents. It was so nostalgic. And so fun. 

                             Rabbit Hunting                                                Mom + Hi-Q + only 2 pieces left = "A Sharpie"

We ate together around the old farm table, did a little rabbit hunting from the back of the pickup like old times, watched general conference via the Internet, played vintage games, laughed until we cried (at least Mom and I did), ate burgers and milkshakes at the Dairy Freeze in town, and Dad and I repaired fencing and then used shovels and Grandpa’s old 1954 Martin-Harris tractor (that still purrs like a newborn kitten) to drill holes in the ground to construct a fence out of old cedar posts on the outlying 37-acre property. It was hot, hard work but it was great to have some quality one-on-one time with Dad. Before Lori and I left for our Montana home later in the week, I wandered through the house to take photos. Not knowing the future, I didn’t know if I would ever have the chance to return.

In the late summer of 2018, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. He passed away about four months later. He knew Mom did not want to oversee upkeep of the farmhouse and land but he hung onto it for tax purposes. After his passing, Mom and I chatted and I offered to help her sell the land. We found a buyer for the house and surrounding couple of acres. After a burial service in Parowan in early March, we all took one final opportunity to walk through the old farmhouse and adjacent garage/shop before heading to Cedar City to sign paperwork to sell it. Each of us claimed some things that tied us to the old place. Lori and I, who only several months previous finally moved back in our home after a house fire, acquired some things to help furnish our rebuild house including four old wooden chairs, a couple of wood bins (actually acquired earlier), some kitchen items, an old quilt and a few other things. I was very fortunate to receive Dad’s old farm truck to eventually be used as a plow truck to deal with snow in the winter, and Kenny got some tools and the old tractor with a blade, bucket and several other attachments.

Not very long thereafter, my back-and-forth dealings with the realtor and several suitors continued and led to the sale of the larger, 120-acre piece of outlying property where Grandpa used to run his cattle. Mom signed the final paperwork and it was sold. That only left the smaller piece of land where Dad and I built the fence.

We initially received a couple of low-ball offers but we passed. In early February 2020, we relisted the property with a reduced price. We had two immediate offers and started negotiations. One offer was clearly superior so we pursued it. Again, after a flurry of paperwork the process came to a successful conclusion on February 27.

Now in my late 50s, I look back on my time in Parowan on “our” land with a flood of fond memories including visiting my Great Grandma, many trips rabbit hunting, successful fishing outings to Panguitch Lake, borderline out-of-control races with my siblings on Grandpa’s three-wheeler (which is now sitting in my shed – he originally acquired by trading his horse to get it), hunting for arrowheads, and my favorite and by far most anticipated activity of all of hopping in Grandpa’s Vern’s old, dusty pickup to go with him everywhere – to feed the cows, grocery shopping, cutting and bailing hay, picking up the mail, going to church, stopping by his brother’s or sister’s houses, bottle-feeding orphaned calves, shooting prairie dogs, trips into the mountains, eating mints out of his glove box, climbing atop the old barn with my brothers to hammer loose nails back into the old trusses, being given a metal rod and sent into the chicken coop to dispatch of invading sparrows that ate the chicken feed and just plain spending time with him.

I’m so grateful to have those memories yet I am so sad! The next time I drive down I-15 in southern Utah, pass Parowan and look to the east on the southern edge of town, it will be the first time I pass the old farmstead in eight generations of Holyoaks that it won’t be “ours.”

The old chicken coop