April 14, 1960, Union, Our Home. Dad died yesterday April 13, 1960. Wildene called us at Vernal as soon as they
were notified. He was in the Veterans hospital at Fort Douglas. Dad had asked
to stay in bed that day. Being attended by a Doctor, who stepped out for a
minute, Dad died before he came back.
I went into his
room this morning and saw his old straw hat lying on a pile of clothes. I could
not help but think how his rake and shovel, his years of constant labor had
hallowed the ground around this old home. I never remember the year he did not
have a garden. I never remember the evening that he did not work till dusk
tilling the soil. I remember the meticulous care with which he leveled and
raked the ground before planting the seeds.
His care of his
family, his sons, was a full life labor. There were few if any days till he
retired that he was not working for a living. He wanted to pass on a
substantial material heritage to his sons. As a young man he was well
established toward that goal. But God would not have it so. Instead he passed
on the priceless heritage of a good name, the love of labor, the desire for
education, and self-improvement.
Even though for
many years we had just the necessities of life, we were never poor in spirit. We
boys never felt poor at all. Without the benefit of electric lights, radio,
washing machine or iron, we always had food and warmth and security. Our goals
of missions and college were always uppermost in our minds.
Discipline,
training and self-improvement never lagged. Dad was not only educated but
refined. At the dinner table no foolishness was allowed. Clean hands and faces
were required. “Please” preceded every request for further victuals. “Thanks
for the lovely dinner”, were the only words that allowed one to leave the
table. The dinner table was the great
school place of my youth. It was there, I was taught the art of living by my
father and the gospel of Jesus Christ by my mother.
Dad was a
disciplinarian of speech. He could not stand and did not allow poor grammar. We
were constantly helped and corrected in our English. The dictionary was as much
his tool as his shovel. The difference was, he asked us to use the dictionary.
Everyone worked in our house. Dad and Mom worked
by far the hardest of all. Every boy had daily chores to do. But never did
chores or any work interfere with church or school. Dad and Mom were ever
willing to milk the cow or split the kindling if other duties or boy-scout
trips called us. We learned the privilege of work by love alone. The only job I
believe, we ever failed Dad on was weeding the carrots. We never did that job to his satisfaction.
Not only were we
always allowed and encouraged to be faithful in our church responsibilities but
we were taken to them. Snow or sun, depression or prosperity, Dad took us to
the church and came and got us.
A good deal of
wear on his seven Chevrolet’s can be attributed traversing the distance between
the Howells’ Homestead and the Union Ward chapel. Dad had a constant fear that
one of us might get hurt. No one ever left the house with Dad’s knowledge
without having been admonished to “Be careful”, “Walk way over on the side of
the road”, “Look both ways when
crossing”. In view of this fear Dad must have suffered when we went to the
mountains. Three or four times a year some of us would take our packs and bed
-rolls and have Dad drop us off at Big Cottonwood Canyon or Bell Canyon or
Ferguson Gulch or Willows Canyon. We
would tell him to come back in 2,3 or 4 days and we would be at that spot. I never remember the time that we waited for
him. Dad and the little Chevrolet were always there.
Not far from the
old straw hat with the sweat stained band are Dads golf clubs. They show
another side of him still. He loved
-sports and he loved people. He played up until just four year ago. He came out
of retirement to teach me how to play just last summer. His last words to me
were, “It is a good game, I am glad you got started”. He smiled as he said it. He
was probably thinking how at 72 years he had soundly beaten me.
Dad left some big
steps for us to stride. I hope that I
can stride as consistently as he did.
Thomas
Frederick Howells
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