In the beautiful land of Upsala, Sweden, John N. Matson was born on December 6, 1877, a son of John and Christina Matson.  When he was 7 years of age his parents became converts to the L.D.S. church and as soon as possible the family immigrated to Utah making their home at Ogden.  For approximately 6 years this was their home;  then purchased farm land in this vicinity.

During these early years he assisted in making canals, ditches, bridges and in clearing more land for cultivation.  Later he followed the carpenter trade being employed by the railroad in building bridges and depots from Nevada to Ashton.

While following this trade he became acquainted with Ethel Whiting of Mapleton, Utah, who was teaching in La Belle.  This acquaintance ripened in to love.  On December 22, 1906 they were married.

Immediately following their marriage they came to their present location.  Foot by foot they cleared more land, making their home what it is today.

Tis true, the privilege was not theirs to rear a child of their own.  Only one was born to them and he died at birth.  But a boy and girl belonging to John's brother came early in life to make a home with them.  So they have known the thrill of graduation, of making a beautiful girl more lovely in a new dress.  They have felt the sting of death.  And thru their teachings have watched a fine man grow older in the service of his church and community.  They have known childish laughter, the patter of little feet, and fingerprints on furniture for their door was open to all children.  John's clever entertaining way drew a ready response from all who came.  Few parents have in their home so many cherished gifts from children, a crude bit of carved wood, an unusual rock or colored pebble, unsteady embroidery work adorns their home.  Even mud pies have been left in the shanty all winter.  John truly loved all [children?].

It was during these later years that flowers became their hobby, and it was a joy to him to take a bouquet to some sick friend or old person.  So many have come seeking flowers and returned time and again as friends, pausing to listen to one more good joke or story from John.  They met him smiling and left him smiling.  His friends were among his most cherished possessions.  In heaven he would be as Abeau Ben Adam.

"Abeau Ben Adam, may his tribe increase, awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, and saw within the moonlight of his room making it rich like a lily in bloom, an angel writing on a book of gold, exceeding peace had made Ben Adam bold.  And in the presence of the room he said, "What writest thou," the vision raised his head, and with a look of sweet accord answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."  And is mine one?  said Ben.  Nay not so.  Then write me as one who loves his fellow men.  The angel wrote and vanished.  The next night he came again with a great awakening light and showed the names of those whom God loved best, and Lo!  Ben Adam's name led all the rest.

John was a sportsman and was always happy to be out with his friends or relatives on the streams or shooting.

He was devoted to his parents and was specially loved by them.  His Mother-in-law spent many summers in Idaho and was welcomed as a mother of someone very dear to him.  His last farewell to her was;  "We'll be looking for you next summer, Mother."

He was a respected and valuable man in our community, having given his services in the construction of several churches, and was one of the most liberal in his contributions to the church.  As Shakespeare said, "His life was beautiful and the elements so mixed in him that nature might stand up and say to all the world, "This was a man."

He passed away July 21, 1952.  He is survived by his wife, his foster son, Lorenzo Matson, one brother Edward of Van Couver, Washington, one sister Emma Browning of St. Anthony.

I cannot say, and I will not say that he is dead,
He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land,
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you --- O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return ---
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the Love of There as the Love of Here;
Think of him still as the same, I say:
He is not dead --- He is just away.

James Witcomb Riley