(From Betty Jones Richards Files)
Prologue
It was 9:54 a.m., Thursday, August 13, 1992. I sat reading an article written by Jim Thomas from the Idaho Enterprise Newspaper of Malad, Idaho, dated May 24, 1990.
The Late Annie Evans – An Angel in Repose
“Annie Evans, 92 of Malad, died Tuesday at the Oneida County Nursing Home. The funeral services will be held Saturday in Malad. Friends may call at the Benson-Horsley Funeral Home Friday from 7 to 9 o’clock p.m.”
This terse notice appeared in column two, page three of my hometown newspaper a few years ago. A casual reader might have dismissed it as if it were no more than a Want Ad advertising the sale of a load of baled hay. The item stung me like a cattle prod and then triggered one of the most pleasant memories of my youth. My mind raced backwards sixty-seven years to that memorable day I entered the first grade. “Miss” Evans, the lovely lady mentioned above, was my first teacher. She was the angel who had captured my heart and, in addition, became one of the most influential persons in my life.
I’ll never forget the fateful morning in September 1923 when, as a six-year old lad, I became eligible for grammar school. I viewed this so-called opportunity with mixed emotions. My carefree days were over. I was leaving behind my toys, my daydreams and Sport, my dog. Even though my two older brothers assured me otherwise, I envisioned giant monsters and fire-breathing dragons out there, ready to pounce. I prayed for a blizzard to close the school. Maybe the school would fall and crush the schoolhouse. But no such luck.
Mother had “shingled” my hair and spruced me up in fancy duds. She had made me a book sack from old, blue denims, in which she stuffed a bologna sandwich, a pencil and a notebook plus all her blessings. Her strong arms hoisted me up on Old Fox behind my brother Con, and off we went out the front gate and up the gravel road lined with tall, cottonwood trees.
Old Fox, a white colored nag my Dad had acquired from an Indian for a sack of wheat, ambled along at a slow, jerky lope, encouraged by well applied slaps on the rump with a stinging switch. The switch was our throttle; if we let up on it Old Fox would slow to a walk. The gravel road followed a zig-zag route toward the red brick schoolhouse, about two miles to the northeast. One of my hands clutched Con for support and the other clutched my book sack to keep it from bouncing and ruining my lunch. Finally arriving at our destination, Old Fox, much relieved, puffed his way to a dead stop.
Con tied him to the barbed wire fence in front of the school, next to a dozen other horses. A gang of new kids, as confused and frightened as I, was milling about in front of the building. We walked towards them. Though tempted, I didn’t hold Con’s hand for security, although I did hover at a safe distance. To break the tension created by the start of a new school year, some of the older kids were chasing the prettier girls while paying no attention to us or anyone else. The big second graders looked me over but moved on.
“What do those big words say over the doors?” I asked.
“They say, St. John Public School, District No. 1, 1915,” he replied. “1915, that’s the year it was built.”
Our one to eight-grade grammar school was the biggest building in St. John, the farming village four miles west of Malad. It was across the road from the small, adobe Mormon church.
(Bottom of the page is a picture of two buildings)
These two buildings formed the social center of the district. Constructed of pale, red brick, the two storied school, with its functional design, was cleancut and imposing. Its perimeter was exactly square and a tall flagpole jutted skyward from its gently sloping roof. There were four classrooms, with two grades in each room, taught by a single teacher. One class studied while the other recited. The first and second grades were on the first floor and the other grades were upstairs. We had the luxury of a play room, in case of bad weather, a storeroom, and an assembly hall with a hardwood floor, an upright piano and a raised stage, hidden behind a roller curtain sporting a scenic design. Steam heat came from a furnace in the basement which was fed by a handy coal chute from a nearby coal shed. Since there were no bathrooms, two privies were fifty yards to the rear.
Con opened the big, double-door at the east entry and pointed to the room on the left. “That’s your room, You have a woman teacher,” Con said. “She’s new here. Go in and meet her. Good luck. See you at recess.” With an encouraging flick on my ear, he turned and left me standing alone in this cold, empty hallway.
With my heart pounding a tom-tom on my temples, I descended the steps and shuffled towards the door. What was my teacher like? Was she a witch that ate little children and slapped their hands with big sticks? Some guys said there were teachers like that. Or was she an angel with wings and halo. Suddenly, the door opened and I froze into a state of paralysis. Instead of a witch, out stepped a beautiful, smiling lady, wearing a tasteful, black dress with a white, fluffy ruching. Thank heavens, she was an angel.
(two pictures at the bottom of the page. The one on the left is a girl standing in a dress, in front of a shrub. The picture on the right is a woman sitting on a swing.)
She leaned down, grasped my sweaty hand and gently said, “I’ll bet you are Jimmy Thomas. I’m Miss Evans, your teacher and I’ve been waiting for you. I know we are going to be friends. I have a nice desk waiting for you. Please come in and see it.” I had fallen in love for the first time in my life.
My spell was broken by the ringing bell, signaling the call to classes. I was to hear that familiar sound for the next eight years. My schooling career had begun. My cautious classmates shuffled in and gingerly took their seats. We eyed each other with candid reserve. They looked like a nice bunch. There were twelve of us, eight boys and four girls, most of whom became my close friends. I remember all their names to this day.
Miss Evans wasted no time. She immediately explained the rules in a firm but
non-threatening manner: no talking, no giggling, no cheating, no tardiness and no tom-foolery. School started at eight and ended at two-thirty, with a fifteen minute recess at ten and one hour recess at noon. The upper grades had another fifteen minute recess at two-thirty and stayed until four. Furthermore the toilets were out back, one for the boys and one for the girls. You held up two fingers for a visit to the toilet and one finger if you wanted a drink of water from the inside fountain. Permission would not be given to leave the room during recitation. And lastly, there would be no loitering outside the room.
After having us introduce ourselves, she passed out a first-grade “reader” that we clutched and kept for the rest of the year. It was the story of “The Little Red Hen.” I eventually memorized that little book, but first, we had to learn the alphabet, then the consonants, then the vowels, then the words, and then the sentences. Paragraphs and punctuation came later. She patiently taught us how to write from a jumble of crooked lines, through meaningless squiggles, to legible scrawls. We learned how to add and subtract all the way up to ten. But above all, she taught me the joy of learning. This was the beginning of all I have ever learned and all I will ever know.
Yes, “The Little Red Hen” found a seed. It was a wheat seed. She asked the pig, the lamb and the cow to help her plant the seed. They walked away. She said, “I will plant the seed myself and she did.” Looking back, I guess my mother was the hen and I was that seed.
I gave Miss Evans a proverbial apple for Christmas and a big, homemade valentine on Valentine’s Day. To please her and win her admiration, I studied hard and stuck to the rules. She rewarded me with good grades and never once ruffled her halo. She played the piano as we rehearsed our first stage play. I was a Hollyhock draped with garlands of paper flowers made in class. Though stiff with stage fright,I sang to a room full of proud parents, “Hollyhocks arrayed in white, each handsome fellow. Hollyhocks in pale moonlight, dressed in red and yellow.” It didn’t bring the house down but Miss Evans smiled her approval and that was enough. I knew I was no thespian and wisely decided not to pursue a theatrical career.
The year slipped by and summer vacation was approaching. I dreaded that last day of school when the last bell rang. I rushed to Miss Evans and hugged her tightly and sobbed a sad goodbye. She patted my head, thanked me for being a good boy, and told me to study hard, go to
college and make my mother proud. She left to teach elsewhere and I went on my way.
(At the bottom of the page is a picture of a young woman standing in front of shrubs. No caption.)
Twenty-two years later, in 1946, after college and my return from the Japanese prison camp, I met Miss Evans in Malad. Our greeting was warm and affectionate, as if there had been no time lost since our last goodbye in 1924. Even though she was still teaching first grade, the years had been kind to her. She was still the gentle, sweet angel I had fallen in love with on my first day of school a lifetime ago. Ever the grand lady, she was anxious about my health and well being. On parting, she squeezed my hand and said, “Jimmy Thomas, you were one of my best students. I’ve thought of you often. I’m very proud of you.” That was the most precious compliment I have ever received.
I read the terse notice again and silently thanked her for helping me to cope with the vicissitudes of life and for introducing me to a world of ideas, excitement and adventure. May she rest in peace.
I finished reading it and suddenly realized I couldn’t go to Malad to the old Evans home and visit Aunt Annie. She wasn’t there. Her bright, brown eyes and ever ready smile were gone. Her sharp mind and quick sense of humor were not mine to enjoy anymore. She just wasn’t there for me and I realized how much I missed her and how much I had loved her without actually acknowledging it before. I wondered through my tears if I had ever told her this. Did she know she was our anchor? It seemed she grew old so slowly, I didn’t realize it was happening. How could she have died? I hadn’t spent enough time with her. I wasn’t ready for her to leave my life, but then are we ever ready to give up a treasure, often used, greatly valued but held in reserve in a special place, within easy reach, so whether by want or need, it’s always available?
Suddenly, of vital importance to me was June 30, 1992, when a few nieces and nephews met in the Logan Temple to participate in Holy Ordinances and with priesthood sealing power, our Aunt Annie had been endowed with glory and sealed to her parents. What a great feeling of peace and serenity now settled upon me. She was not lost nor gone from us. She was happy. I prayed I would be with her again and have the opportunity to give her the praise she richly deserved.
The year of 1899 was a good one for W. R. Evans. He had been awarded, on 18 January, the position of Cashier in Malad’s six year old J. N. Ireland and Company Bank.
(a picture in the center of the page. Shows a man sitting in a chair looking back at the photographer. The desk is up against the wall.)
What a joy it was to his family to know he had a steady job. A fall from his horse years before had left him lame on one leg, and it eventually was necessary for him to use a crutch to walk. He had been a wiry freight-wagon driver, going from Corinne, Utah to Butte, Montana. In later years a carpenter with his brother. But this bank job seemed to suit him to a T. He was well liked, performing his job with diligence and a near perfection that earned him the reputation of being a fair and honest man.
That spring, Mother Margaret was overjoyed to discover a new spirit would come to live with them. Their youngest child, Stella, was past five and a baby in the house would be welcomed by all.
(A picture on the right hand, lower side of the page. A dark-haired girl, with long curls, holding a baby. Caption says: Stella and Annie.)
An added bonus to the entire community was the erection of the first school building, and fitting end to the year was the birth of the Evans’ seventh child on 17 December. They named her Ann. It was a wonderful Christmas, with only eight year old Billy a little disgruntled to have another sister after he had specifically asked for a brother.
The world was beautiful, even winter and the snow. But fate has a way of ending anything that seems too good, and in February of the new year, all the children and their mother came down with Smallpox, including the baby.
Margaret sighed as she sponged them with warm soda water baths. This too shall pass, she decided. Only their son Billy gave cause for concern, a delicate child with a weak heart. Their fears were confirmed as his condition gradually became more pronounced, and on 14 January 1901, Baby Ann’s only brother went home to his Father in Heaven. They missed him. They would always miss him.
(A headshot photo of a young boy at the lower left hand side with the caption below saying: William, son of W. R. and Margaret Evans.)
Obituary:
Born: March 29, 1891. Died: January 14, 1901.
Age: 9 years, 9 months and 15 days.
‘Tis hard to break the tender cord,
When love has bound the heart.
‘Tis hard, so hard, to speak the words,
“Must we forever part.”
Dearest loved one we have laid thee.
In the peaceful grave’s embrace.
But thy memory will be cherished,
Till we see thy heavenly face.
But now what joy and comfort they found in the baby sister who toddled her way into all their hearts. Her wish was their command, from nineteen year old Alice, to seven year old Stella.
Little Annie was their sister, their master. “Spoiled rotten,” the Aunties whispered. They knew it, her family knew it, no one seemed to care. They all loved her.
Somewhere in the middle of growing up, Kate had Diphtheria and no one was allowed in the room. Annie, being adventurous, decided that if she tip-toed through very quietly, the disease would not hear her and wouldn’t catch her. She was right, she escaped!
The next year, the family got smaller, or larger, however you looked at it, but everyone sort of ignored baby Ann in a rush of work and fun, as her sister Maggie was married, at home, to David Rees Evans. The sisters teased Maggie about not even changing her last name. So, 9 April 1902 was a busy Spring day. As if that weren’t enough, things had just settled down, when Alice and her beau, Tallisin Reynolds, went to Salt Lake City on 11 June and were married in the Salt Lake Temple. The rest of the summer passed in the peaceful haze of ordinary day-to-day things.
Annie enjoyed the trips to the barn with her mother, who seemed to readily accept the challenge of milking the cow. Ann liked the barn, it was warm, and the cat, her favorite pet, was always available for loving or perhaps the baby chickens were so soft and cuddly. She always remembered to hold them just so, and they rewarded her with a tiny peep or settled down for a quick nap as she snuggled them close to her ear.
The next year, on 29 January 1903, Maggie came home with tiny baby David. Annie was informed she was now Aunt Annie. (Little did she know that would be her name for the next 87 years.)
Exciting times were Christmas, birthdays, the 4th of July, with a parade and fireworks, (almost scaring her to death.) One constant she loved was the privilege of going with Ma as she harnessed up the horse, hooked him to the buggy and once seated, away they went to town to pick up Pa from the bank. How handsome he looked in his suit and tie. She loved him so much and knew he was the best father in the world.
How proud she felt the day in 1905, when they all dressed up to have their pictures taken.
(In the middle of the page is a large family photo. The family is standing in front of a side of a building. The caption says: Back row–Kate Evans; David R. and Maggie Evans; Alice and Taleasen Reynolds; Mary Evans.
Front row–W. R. and Margaret Evans; David E. Evans; Annie Evans; Edith Reynolds; Stella Evans.)
Momentous events took place in Malad, Idaho in 1906. On January 1, the train tracks had reached town and the monster train came huffing it’s way into town, blowing black smoke all over the clean snow and making an awful lot of noise. Everyone turned out to greet it, a carnival atmosphere prevailed, with the band playing and people cheering the progress the train would bring to their town.
Another milestone on August 16, was the blessing of electric lights in shops and homes. But to Annie, much more exciting than either of these events was the fact that she could go to school. How grown up she felt, but held tightly to her big sister Stella’s hand and was glad she was there to show her where to go.
( Bottom of the page is a picture of the Malad Elementary School. Caption says: Elementary school building–erected 1900–consisted of thirteen classrooms and combination office/bookroom–served the first eight grades and was the beginning of the first high school.)
These were happy years. The house was filled with music, love and laughter. Kate and Mary sang duets so beautifully and often sang at funerals, church or social events. But in the fall of 1907, they both moved to Logan, Utah, where Kate would attend college and Mary would keep her company. How quiet the house was with only Stella and Annie to keep their parents busy. She was always happy when her two older sisters came to visit and brought nieces and nephews for their Aunt Annie to play with, or when Kate and Mary came home for a visit.
It seemed that for such a small town, something exciting happened every year. In June 1908, the old Deep Creek Dam became pitted with badger holes, and after a lot of spring rain, it broke and flooded part of the Malad Business District. The old bell on the CourtHouse Hill by the Presbyterian Church toiled long and loud, calling the local populace to rally round, and that they did. No one was hurt, but lots of damage was done by the flooding water.
On 30 August 1908, Annie was proud and pleased to be baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Milton H. Welling was the Stake President and William H. Richards was her Bishop.
The front room at their home overflowed with a Christmas tree and wedding bells, on 21 December 1910 as Mary was married to Henry Lewis. As if that weren’t enough to create a fuss, Kate, who was supposed to be Mary’s attendant, was in bed with a fever and sore throat. Kate, however, would not disappoint Mary and took her place alongside the bride.
Life was not always happy. Relatives Annie loved died; friends moved away; her sisters married and left home; all these things were sad, but it was the deaths she could never quite accept. There was the initial shock of hearing the sad news, the decisions that had to be made concerning caskets, burial clothing, funeral arrangements, meals and then the depression that came forever after.
Well, Annie thought, at least Kate was in and out of the house, but on 10 April 1912, she and her chosen mate Henry Jones, were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Now surely the house was quiet. Annie was a big girl of 13, and Stella was 18 and looking at boys, which Annie found a little hard to accept, but she enjoyed watching the excitement of the dating game.
Annie awoke with a feeling of pleasure and for a few minutes she lay quietly in the warmth of her bed and wondered what made her feel so good. She cautiously opened her eyes and looked about her room, and there it was, hanging just where she had left it the night before. Her beautiful, white, graduation dress. There was lace around the high neckline and on the sleeves, which ended just below her elbows. The waist was deliciously small with its tucked waist-band and the skirt had two wide tucks with a very short skirt just halfway to her ankles. Smooth black stockings and shiny black shoes with a heel at least an inch and a half, completed her outfit. She would wear her curly, dark brown hair in ringlets that fell over her shoulders. (At least they wouldn’t be frozen solid as they were when she had walked to school on cold winter mornings.) She was so proud of her new watch, which would accentuate her dress as it hung about her neck on a beautiful gold chain.
(On the right side of the page. Is Annie standing by a stand, in her graduation dress)
What an important day in May 1913, when she graduated from eighth grade. Now she was a young woman. She had watched five sisters travel down this road, and now that it was her turn, she knew just how to enjoy all the fun and excitement of growing up.
That fall, Annie went to high school where music and studies now filled her days. The childhood games of Run-sheep-run, Kick-the-can, Hide-and-seek, or a good ride on the horse, seemed to be over or at least exchanged for Saturday nite dances, picnics in Power House Canyon, or up Deep Creek with the family, or a group of friends. Regardless of where she was she never lacked friends, Eva Jones, just across the street, and Iris and Mable Jones were best friends.
There were lively things happening in Malad in 1914, and the town was really growing. There were: 2 banks; 9 stores; 2 meat markets; 3 barber shops; 2 pool rooms; 2 picture shows; an electric supply house; 2 livery barns; 2 ice cream parlors; 2 drug stores; 3 hotels; 3 restaurants; 4 grain elevators; 3 lawyers; 3 doctors; 2 dentists; 2 abstract offices and a newspaper office: The Idaho Enterprise.
But all was not well. World War I began and soon they knew men would be leaving to fight for liberty; men from Malad; men who were friends and relatives.
However, they were happy to see a new church house being built which would house the Second Ward. (Another building had been started in 1888 but before the roof was on, construction ceased because of the disfranchisement of Mormons for their polagamy beliefs. By the time they finished the church of the Seven Gables, in 1900, weather conditions had rotted much of the wood. The Malad 1st Ward continued to use the building until 31 March 1928, when it was declared unsafe for use.) The 2nd Ward Church was finished in 1915. By then anti-Mormon feelings were mostly gone, and all were proud of their new church house.
(Fourth paragraph down, across the center of the page is two pictures of church buildings. Picture with church spirals on the left side, captions says: Old Malad Ward meetinghouse, later Malad First Ward. Picture of building on the right hand side, caption says: First Ward meetinghouse, dedicated May 1, 1932.)
Stella and Annie were not only sisters, but the best of friends. Stella, trying hard one day to learn the art of mixing bread (especially since her betrothed owned a flour mill,) was not having much success, when Annie, flitting through the kitchen, stopped and advised her to “Punch it, call it Edward, and it will raise six feet”. On 24 February 1915, Annie found herself the only child left in the Evans home, as Estella married Edward N. Crowther in the Salt Lake Temple.
The quiet was happily broken at Christmas time when all her sisters , their spouses and children came for the holiday.
Maggie and Dave and three sons. (One daughter had died in 1908 when she was 4 months old.) Alice and Tal with three daughters and one son. Mary and Henry with their two sons, and Stella and Edward with their new daughter. The only sadness was the fact that Kate and Henry had not been able to have any children, but they seemed to love their nieces and nephews all the more.
(Picture of a couple in an automobile on the second paragraph on the right side of the page)
The year of 1916 was a strange one. The war was being fought in Europe and many families were suffering the loss of a loved one. Patriotism abounded and so did money. The townspeople built a new dance hall on Main Street and named it The LaGrande Hall. Henry Ford was selling their new Model T Automobile at less than $600.00 and the Evans Family bought one. Their first car, and another first they had yet to enjoy, was a vacation. After many deliberations, they decided to go to California. Such a thing was practically unheard of! They traveled in style too. Once they reached Salt Lake City, W. R. purchased tickets on the train. Annie was elated. She was a junior in a small town high school, and here she was going to California on the train. Best of all, her friend Eva and her sister Sarah went with them to visit friends near Los Angeles. They were on the train for two days, and everything was good–the meals in the dining car and sleeping in the little berths on the sleeper were experiences she would always remember.
Once they reached Los Angeles, they traveled to a small town on the ocean called Redando Beach, where they rented an apartment and spent the next two months reveling in the strange new world the ocean offered them. Annie and W. R. spent hours just sitting on the beach feeling the never ending rhythms of the water; watching the birds, the sky, the clouds; enjoying the warm dampness of the air; picking up the shells the waves left for them; going on excursions around the area; attending church services, then all too soon it was time to leave–sad to have such a wonderful time end–happy to be back home with their family.
Fall came and Annie began her last year of high school. Music was one of the most important aspects of her life.
The New England Conservatory of Music sent teachers all over the country to teach young musicians, and Annie took advantage of these piano lessons to improve her playing. She became an excellent accompanist, (but never felt comfortable as a soloist.) She accompanied the male chorus, the choir, her sisters–whoever needed her. She also began giving piano lessons at home.
In 1917, she graduated from high school. A time to relax after a job well done, but once again sadness visited them. Sister Mary was expecting another baby, but she, like their brother William who had died, also had a bad heart. On 27 July, she gave birth to a son, Daily, but her condition slowly deteriorated, and on 17 August, Mary died, leaving a shocked and saddened husband; three sons ages five, three and the baby not yet three weeks old; and the Evans Family. A numbness enveloped them. They went through the motions of living–seeing to the funeral and burial, waiting for someone to tell them it was only a bad dream. But no one came. Their uppermost attention was on the little boys. It wasn’t enough. Six weeks later the baby died.
(two pictures at the bottom of the page. Left hand side two small boys standing on the porch and a woman sitting by them. Caption says: Theras and Elmer Lewis, Aunt Annie. The second photo on the right is Three people in an automobile at the cemetery. Caption says: Grave site of Dailey Lewis.)
They cared for the boys, and little Theras and Elmer became the joy of their lives. Nothing was too good for them, no effort was too great. Annie spent the next year at home seemingly caring for all of them, and all of them realizing she needed to get on with her life.
That year the war ended, or rather peace was restored, but in the aftermath came disease. An influenza, with nothing to cure it, swept the county indiscriminately taking whom it chose. There was no cure, only prevention. All public meetings were banned, even church. Funerals, and there were many, were held outdoors at the cemetery. Following that, came the depression. Banks went broke, factories closed and food lines were common. It was not uncommon to have people begging for food on the streets or on your doorsteps. Those who had jobs considered themselves most fortunate.
(Picture of a young woman standing on a porch)
On a fall day of that fateful year Annie began an entirely different adventure. Once more she boarded the train to Brigham City, Utah–change trains–on to Cache Junction and over the mountain to Logan, Utah. Her heart felt lighter as she rode along with the chugging steam engine, anticipating her college career. Once in Logan, a taxi took her to her new living quarters, a room in the Nielsen Home on West Center. She felt so grown up, and a little frightened, but confident in the lovely dresses her mother had made her. Only her coat was store bought.
The college was then called Brigham Young College, or BYC. She felt almost at home after listening to Kate and Mary tell of their experiences there in 1902. She learned so much, not just school things, but about life; living away from home; new friends; what was good and what was bad in people. Her special love was the private piano lessons with Dr. Clark.
She completed that year, and then stayed at home for a time, always helping, and giving piano lessons. By then she had decided the thing she loved most were little children. Watching, teaching, helping them grow and learn. She chose her profession. She would be a teacher of little children. One of the best schools for that seemed to be in Albion, Idaho. It was a Normal School, a school just for teachers.
Annie rode on a bus to Burley, Idaho, then took the local stage from there to Albion. She was pleased to find herself in a beautiful little valley, surrounded by farmland. After that one year, plus her year at BYC, and by taking classes during the summer, she received a teachers certificate, complete with graduation exercises. She did feel a little conspicuous in her black cap and gown, but happy to have succeeded in her goal thus far.
(Picture upper right hand corner of page. Photo of young woman standing on a bridge in cap gown: Caption says Graduation from Albion, 1919.)
More time at home, and in September 1923, she selected her first teaching position. She would be only three miles from home in the farming community of St. John, where sister Kate and Henry lived. She would teach first and second grades. She was overjoyed. (See newspaper article on page 1.) Her happiness was short-lived. Halfway through the teaching year, on 14 February 1924, another angel came and took her beloved father from them. Forever more, Valentines Day would be her day of love for the father who had left her.
(Photo of a man with a mustache in the center of the page, no background)
Once again she was needed. Whatever would their mother do? The ten and twelve year old sons of Mary were lost without their grandfather.
That fall, their father Henry re-married after seven lonely years, and he and his new wife Amelia Davis, provided the answer to a permanent home for the boys.
Annie, after teaching at the St. John School for three years, decided it was time for her to have a change also, and began teaching first grade in Malad. It was nice to be able to walk to school.
Annie was thankful for her chosen profession. It seemed there were always children to teach and how blessed she felt to have a job she enjoyed so much. Her best friend Eva Jones taught school also, and they met often, at home and at school to discuss their respective pupils. They were also rather pleased, in their own private way, to note they were two of the best dressed young women in the community.
Two pictures in the center of the page. Side by side. The picture on the left shows two women standing in front of a shrub, the woman on the right is holding a bag in front of her. The other picture on the right hand side. Shows two women one sitting on the grass the other is standing by her.)
By the year 1925, a new hospital was built in Malad, and each year also brought its share of loss. In January Stella and Edward had their fifth child, a girl, and Kate and Henry adopted a nine month old girl in April. Autumn came and Maggie and Dave buried their sixth and final child, a baby boy who only lived one day. How Annie loved them all, and continued to hate losing them and the subsequent funerals…
Annie did not lack for male admirers. Her mirror told her she was a beautiful woman, (but one completely unaffected by it). Many men vied for her affections, but none seemed to steal her heart. Her mother teased her about being too fussy, telling of an experience when she was a young lady and saw an ugly, freckled-faced boy from Logan, Utah at school. However, by the time she was 20 years old, she ended up marrying him!
Joe Ward was one of her ardent suitors, and for years after they had dated, he carried one of her gloves in the inside pocket of his jacket next to his heart. Another was Lorin Richards who courted Annie for a long time (however popular and desirable, Annie and Eva remained single women all their lives.)
(Picture on the upper right hand side of the page. Four women and a gentleman holding a child. Caption says: L. Annie and Eva.)
Finally, one day, Annie decided she had completely ‘used up the old family car. She went to the Chevrolet Garage and bought a smart, little, black car called a Whippet. On the radiator was a classy emblem of a Whippet dog. In the back of the car was a rumble seat. The salesman gave her one lesson and found her to be an able driver. In the years that followed she never had a wreck.
Annie decided that whether she was married or single; whether she was employed or jobless; whether she lived with her mother or owned a home, she was beholden to no one. Her independence was, and would always be maintained at any cost.
One thing for sure Annie learned, teaching school was never dull. If any of the students played hooky, it was reported to the sheriff, and he took care of that problem, so it really wasn’t much of a problem after all. One year, however, the high school students found themselves with a leader who was almost impossible to tolerate, so they solved that problem by kidnapping him. He was later released, but without a single lock of hair on his head. Annie on the other hand never had a problem she couldn’t solve herself. She never used physical punishment and loved her job. Even the day when an earthquake shook the chimney off the school she was able to remain calm, but hoped it would never happen again.
Annie had a strong testimony of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and always paid an honest tithing. One of her Church positions, other than being an organist, was her calling on the Sunday School Stateboard as leader in the Kindergarten Department. Many leaders were uneasy in their assigned visit to the community of Washakie on an Indian farm project, owned by the Church. Annie felt it was a privilege to visit the Lamanite people and give them instructions from church leaders.
After she bought her car, one of her favorite leisure time activities was to take her mother or perhaps Stella’s children for a ride. Often they went to St. John to visit Kate. If it were late afternoon, they always seemed to end up with the rumble seat full of children they picked up, who were walking home from school. It was interesting to talk to some of her former pupils again and to see how they had grown. Lives she had touched seemed to have become a part of her and she never lost interest in them through the years.
(Picture on the upper right hand side of the page. Four women. Three standing, one sitting. The captions say: Neal and Margaret Crowther, Annie and Margaret Evans.)
As Annie taught the children, she strictly adhered to school principals, but also had her own code. Phonics were taught and her pupils learned to ‘sound-out’ each word. She also insisted they use the real word, not slang, such as yup for yes; ain’t for isn’t; huh for what, etc. She always spoke correctly and expected those about her to do the same. Even when her own nieces and nephews were in her class, they too called her Miss Evans, but she gave them a knowing smile if they forgot and called her Aunt Annie. But then that’s who she really was.
Each year passed full of school work and the freedom the summers brought. She loved doing hand sewing, mostly embroidery and was pleased with the end result, which often brought ribbons of achievement at the Oneida County Fair each fall. An occasional trip to Salt Lake City to L.D.S. June Conference was an exciting, enjoyable learning time too. In 1932, she had the pleasure of another trip to California. Winter or summer, her joy came from the children. Stella’s family were like having children of her own. Their problems were hers, their joys, her bonus, whether it was taking Valene for car rides to sooth her when she had Rheumatic Fever, or some special pins for Margaret’s graduation dress. Each thing was special to her.
About 1935, she thought it would be nice to be at home year round, and decided to start a kindergarten in their home. There were two big rooms on the west side of the house that were easily converted for class rooms. Little tables and benches were needed, and Stella’s son Neal solved this problem by building them in his shop class in high school. The whole family was excited about the school. Little chairs were purchased, and paint, pictures, and toys completed the effect. School was in session. The first kindergarten in Malad.
(picture in the center of the page. The first Kindergarten group with Miss Evans standing on the upper left hand side.)
One thing that was always present in her realm were her house plants. Whether it was in her classroom at school; the wide window sills throughout the house; the kitchen table or her kindergarten rooms, there were the flowers. Geraniums, Wandering Jew, Ivy, Coleuses, whatever grew in a pot, grew for Annie, and anyone who admired them received a “start”.
Summer was a good time. Time to visit her sisters and their families, time to plant flowers around the yard, time to help Stella’s children with the garden, or the chickens. Some summers were made extra pleasant by a trip to beautiful Bear Lake on the Utah-Idaho state line.
It began several days before with planning sessions. Reservations were made for a cabin at the Lakota Resort; what clothes to take and how many towels would be needed; how many would go; what they would eat and how much to take. Stella and Annie planned carefully so the trip would be a success. Although Stella seldom went far from her home, she was as much a part of each excursion as if she were with them. And what a joy the trips turned out to be. Each stored their own private happenings, along with a favorite rock, stick or little shell, to be shared with mother when they got home.
Often, Annie thought about what she had missed by never having given birth to children of her own, but wondered just as often, if she could have loved them any more that she did her nieces and nephews, or even the little children who came to her classes.
Anyone whose life she touched could look back and say, “She was a caring woman”. She had the ability to be one with any person or age group. Her smile could warm the coldest heart, because it came from within. It was genuine.
Her caring and sincerity extended all across the piano bench too. How she enjoyed helping each student learn not just to play a tune, but to read music; how to sit; the proper hand position; the desire to improve, or to please others. She was what she wanted to be, a teacher. Her joy came from their accomplishments more than from the many little gifts they were forever bringing her. The lovely handkerchiefs, the candy or apples. The thoughtful cards and pictures small hands had created were joys she treasured and saved to be savored on cold winter nights or lonely, rainy days.
The 1930’s, like every other year, brought its share of joy and fulfillment along with pain and sorrow. Alice and Tal had bought a little house just straight through the block from her, but Alice had a stroke which affected her speech and left her paralyzed on one side. What anguish it brought to all the family, especially to observe Alice’s acceptance of her handicaps with a patient smile.
The Spring of 1938 found their sister Maggie laying in her bed suffering from a stroke. On June 1, a hot breeze blew through the open windows and Maggie’s spirit floated away with it to join the father, brother and sister she loved in Heaven. What a blessing it would have been if she could have been a patient in the new hospital that was finished that Fall in Malad.
As September 1939 approached, Annie decided to discontinue the kindergarten and go back to teaching first grade at the elementary school. It had been a success and she loved the children, as always, but there were so many rules and regulations, it seemed more bother than it was worth.
Each year Annie faced the Angel of Death with more loathing, and each year he ignored her and took his toll. She had decided they would escape his judgements in 1939. Malad had a new courthouse, and a happy holiday season lay ahead. No one was sick in the family, but on 17 November, Kate’s Henry died of a heart attack down by their barn. The next year it was Alice’s son Billie. Was there no end to their sorrow? Only in the children did she find comfort.
Annie was glad she wasn’t a morbid sort of person and thought of pleasant things. Her mother’s health was fair, nieces and nephews were getting married and having children of their own. She was Aunt Annie to all of them.
Alice’s granddaughter, Kay Tovey, her husband Bob Harrison and their daughter Janette found a home when Annie converted the school rooms on the west side of the house into an apartment. Never a day went by that Annie did not have the joy of visiting with them and the pleasure of watching the baby grow in stature and love for all those around her. What a special place they held in her heart. She shared their happiness when Bob came home on leave from the Navy, and how she felt Kay’s pain when his leave was over and she waved him goodbye at the bus stop. The only way Annie could think of to help, was to have a lovely, hot dinner prepared for Kay and little Janette when they came home. How happy it always made her to be of service to those she loved.
When the Harrison’s vacated the apartment, to Maggie’s son Bill, tall gentle Bill, (handicapped after a horse had kicked him in the head years before), she opened her heart and her home. Bill lived there and worked as a farm hand. He enjoyed this work, and hadn’t been so cared for since his mother had died. On 25 March 1955, death visited them once again. Bill had a tractor accident and went home to his mother in Heaven. With each death a little of Annie died too, and yet she became stronger.
No one ever forgot her care for one of Maggie’s grandsons who was spastic. Aunt Annie was more than an Aunt to him. She taught him, listened to him and mothered LuDell after his own mother died. Later his father’s new wife felt he would benefit by going to school for the handicapped, where he died a short time later.
As each summer drew to a close, Annie, Stella and the Crowther girls would plan school wardrobes. Then early one morning they piled into the car with Father Edward for a trip to Logan. The ladies went on a shopping spree while Edward retreated to the peace and quiet of the temple. What fun they had, each choosing their clothes, using Aunt Annie’s fashion expertise as a final judgement. Lunch was special, usually in the Bluebird Cafe, and finally, by late afternoon, they collapsed on the lawn of the Logan Tabernacle to await Dads coming to collect them and their packages. There was a quiet ride home. And then the fun of showing Stella what their wise shopping had produced. Across the yard to home, with aching feet and the satisfied feeling of a day well spent, Annie fell into bed.
On a darker side, World War II was being fought in Europe and the United States declared war on Germany. The country had survived one war fought in Europe, but now there was the threat of fighting at home as Japan bombed Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands on 7 December 1941. She kept track of the boys she had taught in school. Had she taught them to read “The Little Red Hen found a wheat seed” only to see them travel halfway around the world and then stop an enemy bullet? The nephews were sucked into the military, Kate’s son-in-law, Stella’s three sons, Alice’s grandchildren, Mary’s son. As she read the local newspaper, The Idaho Enterprise, it seemed that half the boys and girls going off to war were her relatives. The minor food rationing and the scarcity of silk stockings or gasoline, seemed such a small price to pay for the life of an innocent man,–regardless of whose side he was on.
Annie awoke from her nap with a start. She was safe at home, she only thought she heard a gunshot. There it was again-only a thunderstorm, but she threw a coat over her head and ran through the first spattering of rain to Stella’s house. No one was at home there to calm Stella’s fears during the storm. She had always been afraid of the thunder and lightning and Annie was glad she was near enough to be there for her.
How close they were. A night seldom passed that the three sisters, Annie, Kate and Stella did not visit with a telephone call. Those were the days of the radio shows. Each morning as they did their housework, they listened to “Our Gal Sunday” and “Helen Trent.” At night the “KNX Drama Hour”, “Fibber McGee and Mollie”, and without fail, they listened to “One Man’s Family”. Then after 10:00 they telephoned each other. To Annie, the phone numbers 255 and 096-J3, were numbers she used often. The trials of Claudia were discussed, the humor of “Amos and Andie” or “The Jack Bennie Show” were recounted and laughed over.
The day’s happenings were spoken of in what was almost a code, because in those days there were Party Lines with as many as six or seven phones on one line, and anyone of those people could listen to your conversation and usually did.
Annie probably knew more about each of her sister’s children than their mothers, but she never betrayed a confidence, and advice was never given unless it was asked for. All through the years, her back-up, the main purpose in all she did, was her mother. Tiny little Ma in her dark dresses and starched front aprons. Always there; always ready to listen; to help; to comfort her with a warmth to equal the old wood cook stove. Ma was the hub of the wheel around which all of them revolved. How the grandchildren loved her. Most of them took their piano lessons from Aunt Annie, but a personal visit with Grandma came before and after the lesson. She was never too busy or tired to dry mittens or warm cold toes and fingers after a winter outing, or to dispense cookies and lemonade on a hot summer day. Maggie’s diabetic son Eldon had often eaten lunch at the kitchen table during his school days, and Betty was forever forgetting lunch money and dropped in for a sandwich.
After Alice’s son Billie died, his family lived nearby and Annie almost seemed to have adopted these sons of his. When they moved away, Aunt Annie was persuaded to take one of their dogs whose name was Tip. Tip was of unknown origin, small, black and white, and of course with a white tip on his tail. On advice from Ma, Annie fed him cooked meat only, believing raw meat made animals vicious.
As Tip grew older, he developed Arthritis and could not jump into his favorite, well cushioned chair, so Annie had Gordon saw the legs shorter to accommodate the ailing Tip. Each time he grew more feeble, the legs were cut shorter until finally Tip ceased to need the chair.
Tip was not the beginning of Annie’s friendships with animals. She still enjoyed her trips to the chicken coop to gather eggs, and always had a good laugh when she thought of the day they discovered a mother cat trying desperately to dislodge a big white hen from her nest, only to be repeatedly repelled by a vicious peck from the hen. Finally, one of the boys lifted the hen and discovered a nest full of baby kittens who were more than happy to welcome their real mother and a good meal. Cats seemed to be a permanent part of the household, wanted or not Annie fed them all. Too compassionate to turn away even the mangiest old cat.
Anne sat thinking about cats and chicks, only to be disturbed by a strange sound near the chicken coop. Listening closely, she discerned Stella and her daughters were laughing full blast. Annie went to the back yard to observe and discovered Stella in the wheelbarrow, and the girls giving her a royal ride up and down the drive. Annie laughed with them. They were family and they were fun.
On 2 September 1943, Alice’s husband Tal died and the next year proved to be the worst Christmas of her life. Her sister Alice died also.
The war ground on and the years were times to be frugal. President Roosevelt encouraged everyone to produce a Victory Garden but that was nothing new to them. They had always raised a garden, preserved and used the produce. The old cellar behind the house was full of canned fruit, baskets of carrots and potatoes, boxes of apples from their own trees. Annie loved to go down and look at the shiny glass bottles of food she and Ma had preserved. Especially the bottles of jelly. It seemed everyone welcomed a little jar of her jelly and many more were given away than they would ever consume.
Finally, Germany surrendered to Allied Troops and Japan signed the peace terms presented to them. The war was over. Her nephews and niece came safely home. Their joy was clouded. On 10 May 1945, Ma died. Their sweet little mother was 84, but they really thought she would live for a long time. She didn’t. She was gone. Gone to the cemetery beside her W. R., Maggie, Alice, Mary and Billy. Only the three sisters left and all those grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who loved her and would miss her.
All of them knew what their Aunt Annie would do. She would carry on and be the one to ease the loss for them. And she did. What pain and loneliness she felt were seldom visible, yet more and more, Annie now became the hub of the family wheel.
The next year she began substitute teaching in Malad, only to end up in the hospital too ill to even think about school, so intense was her pain. Doctors decided her appendix had probably ruptured and the resulting infection spread to the lining of the stomach and peritonitis was the diagnosis. Finally, two weeks later, she was well enough to go home and recuperate. What a sign of relief from her concerned family and friends.
The summer of 1946 was pleasant. To celebrate, the Crowthers planned a trip. With gasoline rationing lifted, and Neal as driver, Lucille, Leanore and Sharon, escorted Aunt Annie on a tour of Yellowstone Park. Valene elected to spend the quiet days at home with their mother. Annie treasured each day as she marveled at the scenic beauties all around them. Even the half tame bears, (though they half scared the life out of her), were fun to watch, and just to see the enjoyment of the others brought pleasure to her.
Each year brought more weddings, more grand nieces and nephews, until sometimes she wondered how her heart would hold them all. But love had a way of growing to encompass each new person who entered her life, (no matter whether they were half grown or brand new).
Sometimes it was sad to have them marry and move far away, but if there was one thing Annie was capable of, it was change. She may not approve, but accept it she did. Only one thing she seemed to never be able to accept was death. She understood it, but was always shocked when it came. She and all who knew her intimately, also knew what her first reaction would be. She would scream. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. Perhaps for the good. It came out, and then she could rationalize.
In 1948, Maggie’s son Eldon left to join his mother. Bless him. She had done her best to help him. As she did with all of them.
The Spring of 1949 brought a new experience to her. For the first time since she had graduated from college at Albion, she lived away from Malad. Valene had graduated from Utah State University at Logan, and Annie went to stay with her for three weeks until Lucille and Leanore would move to Logan, and they would attend classes while Valene worked as a secretary at the University Library. How she loved these nieces and to have one to herself was most rewarding. Annie enjoyed fixing lovely meals for them and hearing about Valene’s work at the end of each day. The closeness would be remembered all their lives.
In October 1950, Valene went on a LDS Mission to California. The next summer, Annie, Kate and Sharon ventured into the unknown by Greyhound Bus to pay her a visit. They boarded the bus at 10:00 A.M., September 3, 1951, stayed in the Temple Square Hotel that night and caught the bus at 3 A.M. for San Francisco.
(picture placed on the top center of the page. Photo of three sisters standing on a city corner street. Caption says: Sharon, Annie, and Kate, leaving Malad on their trip to California in 1951.)
They saw bits of towns as the bus stopped in Wendover, Elko and Reno Nevada, and reached San Francisco at 9:30 that night. Valene had reserved a room for them at the Federal Hotel, and they were happy to go to bed and get a night’s sleep.
Bright and early the next morning, Valene came to the hotel and they walked around Market Street, marveling at all the stores and enjoying the fall air. Wednesday they visited China Town, and Sharon went with Valene to spend the night at the Mission Home. After supper, Annie and Kate went to the movie, “Show Boat” and went back to the hotel at 11:45. Thursday morning they just enjoyed the luxury of sleeping until 9:00, and then Kate’s niece and nephew, Ed and Edith Williams came and took them on a grand tour of the city. They visited the Zoo, Fisherman’s Wharf, The Civic Center, and enjoyed dinner at the Williams’ home. Next day Edith took them to Macy’s Department store, and to a show ‘USA and I’. Back at the hotel they had an early dinner in their room. Sharon stayed with Valene. Saturday, they did a bit of shopping, went on a tour of the city, had supper and prepared for Sunday. Valenen spent the night with them, and they had such a good visit. Sunday at church they visited Mollie Corbridge, Darrel Call, and Glen Lee Williams from Malad, and had dinner with Valene at the Mission Home. That afternoon Elder Hislop took them on Buena Vista Hill to view San Francisco Bay, and by evening they were all ready for bed at an early hour.
Monday Edith, Ed and their sons, Geraold and Sidney took them over Golden Gate Bridge, across the ferry and around some of the nearby cities. They ate supper at Fisherman’s Wharf, and Valene and Sharon went back to the Mission Home. Tuesday morning found them back at the bus depot by 11:00 where they boarded the bus and went to Sacramento, California.
(Picture on the right upper hand side of the page. The picture shows two boys, and three women standing together.)
They were met by some Price Cousins, Belle, Lorraine, and Valate Richardson. They visited their homes and had a look at that city, but the weather was hot and they were tired, so had another early bedtime. Wednesday, they slept in as Kate’s back was giving her some problems, but they went to some stores and enjoyed visiting with more relatives.
Picture in the center right hand side of the page. Three women and a small girl. Caption says: Kate, Vilate Richardson, Annie, Shirley Thompson.)
Next day they visited Sutter’s Fort, and that evening went to a drive-in movie. Friday they left Sacramento at 4:10 headed for home. Going over Donner Pass was beautiful, and the moon on Lake Tahoe and the forest was breathtaking, but the bus was very crowded and the ride tiresome. Finally, they arrived in Salt Lake at 7:50 A.M. After breakfast they visited the Temple Grounds, got a hotel room and rested until 5:10 where they were once again on the bus and arrived in Malad at 8:00. A wonderful trip, Annie decided, but felt the best thing about a trip was getting home.
In the years from 1944 to 1954 there were eight weddings among the nieces and nephews. Annie was always there. Whether it was making trousseaus; helping choose wedding dresses; planning the dinners and parties to feast the bride; seeing them to the temple; being there when they came out, bringing with them a new member to the family. Always smiling, always helpful. Always their Aunt Annie.
As often happens, her animal friends became a source of comfort to her. Of course the cats, and there always seemed to be a dog. Tip, Jeff, Muggs, or Mike. The joy of their devotion and the pain of their deaths were all accepted as a part of life.
One constant in her life was her friend Eva Jones. How they enjoyed visiting and talking over old times. Eva’s total teaching time came to 49 years. Annie could be proud of her 26 years. Mostly teaching the little first grade children; so new, so eager, so teachable. Annie still found joy in teaching piano lessons. The Piano Recitals, usually held once a year in the church house, were a trial to prepare for, but rewarding, as the parents smiled and nodded at each success or even at a failure from one of Annie’s Pupils.
As she contemplated the years past she was often amazed at how swiftly they flew by. All the nieces and nephews were married, and now the second generation were producing more nieces and nephews. Each marriage, birth, school picture or death were duly reported to Aunt Annie, who never forgot the name or date of any of them. Each of them were part of her family and loved accordingly.
(picture on the lower right hand side of the page. Picture is of a tall woman and a shorter woman standing side by side. Caption says: Joan Richards and Aunt Annie.)
Her day seemed to be complete, if one of them came to visit her, wrote a letter, or called on the telephone. It was such a pleasure to hear of things they had done, or what the children were doing in school or church. She was so proud to hear they were taking piano lessons too. It was her gift to them.
In 1958, Edward underwent surgery for a bowel obstruction and some malignancy was found, but few were aware of his problems. However in the Spring of 1963, it became quite evident that he was not well and became weaker and weaker. Annie was there helping and providing support to Stella, who, with her heart condition, was having a difficult time coping with the situation. By autumn, Edward was taken to the hospital in Malad, and the next week, Stella too became ill and was taken to the hospital. On 30 August 1963, Annie’s big sister left her to join the other members of their family, and thirteen days later, on 12 September, her husband joined her, not knowing she would already be there to meet him in their Eternal Home.
(Picture in the center of the page. Picture of the hospital building. The Caption says: Oneida County Hospital, dedicated October 19, 1938.)
Only Annie and Kate left, they clung together and were thankful for the family who rallied around them to provide help and comfort.
The Christmas of 1966 promised to be a pleasant one. Kate was not very well, and had been staying with Betty throughout the Fall, but wanted to be with Annie for the holiday. How wonderful it was to have her home again, but on 23 December, Henry’s birthday, Kate had a stroke and died in the hospital a few hours later. “Merry Christmas, Annie,” She thought. First Alice had died on Christmas Day in 1943, and now Kate.
She was alone. With people all around her she was still alone. Would she ever love Christmas again? But she endured that too. Christmas did not stop. It came every year, and every year she began planning for it in the summer.
Annie knew she couldn’t afford a store bought gift for all those she loved, but she looked about her and took advantage of what was available. The old cellar held many empty glass jars and the fruit trees produced an abundance of plums, apples and the little rosy Crab Apples. Just a bit of that cooking expertise again and she had a beautiful burgundy Plum Jam and clear sparkling jelly. Some pale gold and some luscious pink. All delicious.
Annie water the Nasturtiums growing along the porch and sat down to rest on the old Porch bench her Pa had made so many years before. How she longed to go to Stella’s and visit with her, or call Kate on the phone for a chat. Has it really been 15 years since that had happened? How fast the years flew by, and yet, how slowly each day passed. She had one more piano student coming this afternoon.
For 60 years she had tried to teach hundreds of young people to love the piano as she did, and for the most part, she had succeeded. Some learned only the notes, others followed in her footsteps and became accompanists, teachers, professionals, but no matter what, they never forgot who taught them. It was Aunt Annie Evans.
Now she is 80 years old, and her eyesight seems to be getting worse every year. Time to retire. How she would miss them. She picked up her cane and decided it was time to go to the chicken coop and gather the eggs for Gordon. The only bad part about that was the pesky old rooster she had to battle with every day. “Get away from me Rooster, you might run the coop, but I’ve been here longer than you.” And a little rap with her cane showed him who was boss.
Stella and Edward’s house had been sold to Lloyd and Celia Sorensen, and she could not have hand picked better neighbors. Celia was like one of her own nieces, always bringing a tasty lunch, getting things from the store for her, watching to see the blinds down for the night, and up in the morning, and faithfully administering the eye drops the doctor had ordered for her eyes.
How she disliked trips to the dentist, (but at least she still had her own teeth.) Still worse were the trips to the doctor. Oh, well, you did what you had to.
One thing she could always count on, and that was company in December. If not for her birthday on the 17th, then for Christmas or both. These nieces and nephews always thought up such wonderful gifts.
Somehow she felt guilty about accepting a gift, as if it were going to take away her independence. But she loved fixing the jars of jelly or jam, and one treat she found easy to make and everyone liked, were Rice Crispy treats, made with cereal and melted marshmallows. She always wrapped them and added a bow so they would look festive. Usually she managed to buy some small clever gifts too. She not only enjoyed making the jelly herself, but let the family know when the apples and plums were ready to pick, and she was pleased to think of each niece she had taught the art of jelly making. It was fun when they came for a visit and she could fix a nice lunch of meatloaf, coleslaw salad, a little chili sauce, a bit of cheese, and some bread and butter, that made a nice meal. Or a big bowl of tomato soup was always good, especially on a cold winter day. A small price to pay for all their attention.
Sometimes the things everyone did for her made her mad. Sometimes she wondered why she had to be so independent. The family always wanted to paint the outside of the house, and it surely did need it, but if she couldn’t pay for it, it didn’t need to be done. Besides, she reasoned, “I’ll die and they will tear the house down, so why paint it?” No one wanted to argue with her. She was glad they were all so thoughtful of her welfare and her feelings.
(Two pictures, side by side, of a house on the bottom of the page.)
Nieces Kay Harrison Morgan finally persuaded her to “use” a walker they had in their family as a “loan”, to help her get around, and it did help stabilize her. She did love and appreciate all of them so much she didn’t feel she could ever repay any of them for their kindness to her.
Annie sat in the old kitchen, thankful for the warmth and comfort of the oil stove. She even had one in the front room, but only lit it when company came. The house always looked nice and clean, and she had tenderly cared for the old furniture, and it was still in good shape. She wondered this cold winter night, how she would ever have managed these past years without Stella’s son Gordon. There was seldom a day he wasn’t there to check on her well-being and adjust the T.V. she had for company.
Annie was thankful for a sharp mind and pleased that she had become such a sports enthusiast. She kept up to date on current events, and the well being of every relative she had. Their interests were her interests. That occupied a great deal of her time, and she wrote a few letters or made a phone call on special occasions.
(Picture next to the above paragraph on the right hand side of the page. Of Annie sitting in her chair in her home.)
Neal’s wife Lila was another blessing in her life. Always there in time of need, and how she enjoyed her visits with Alice’s daughter Edith.
She thought about past summers and the pleasure she had derived in watching Gordon’s lambs, the chickens, and there was always a stray cat looking for a handout. Her little white dog whom she named B. J., was a comfort and a help too as she had to take him for walks and fuss about his food and bed. One day she came home to find him injured, and as she tried to lift him, he bit her hand. His injury was greater than hers and he had to be put to sleep. Never another pet, she vowed.
How proud and yet sad she felt, when in May 1989, Gordon and Betty went on their church mission to Guatemala City, Mexico. She tearfully wished them well, and said, “Well, I won’t be here when you come back.” But she need not have worried about what she would do without Gordon’s help. His son Bob stepped into his fathers shoes, and tenderly cared for her with love and compassion.
Annie lay in bed thinking about what she would do this day. One thing that old age had brought was the luxury of sleeping in each morning. She remembered the days when she taught school and how she would jump out of bed, eager to begin each day. Now she was content to just take each day as it came, some good, some bad. She tried to be careful of her health and take the pills prescribed for her blood pressure. The fluid in her legs caused them to be quite painful, and this morning when she got up they were badly swollen.
How many times she had fallen she couldn’t count, but no way to hide a black eye or a bruised arm, and now she took another tumble. This one really hurt and as the day passed, the pain became more pronounced. When Bob came she told him about it and thought perhaps she was having a heart attack, because of the pain in her left arm and shoulder which she couldn’t move. Bob was very concerned and encouraged her to have the doctor look at it. Finally she asked him to call Valene in Logan, and she and Eyre came immediately. They were concerned also and persuaded her to go to the emergency room of the hospital. Dr. Mitchell examined her and took some X-rays, and it was decided that she should stay there overnight, where she could be made more comfortable. They also put elastic stockings on her swollen legs and gave her a diuretic. The X-ray showed that she had a separated left shoulder and would need physical therapy, which she couldn’t get in the Malad Hospital.
Another decision to be made. But she reasoned that no matter how much she hated hospitals, you did what you had to do, so Doctor Mitchell arranged for her to go to the Logan Valley Nursing Center on 13 November 1989.
Once there, she discovered it wasn’t so bad after all. She began to regain the use of her arm, and with her usual determination she did the exercises, no matter how they hurt. While she was there, the doctor convinced her to have an eye examination to see if anything could be done for her vision. It really would be nice to see as well as hear what was on television.
On November 21, she was back at her home in Malad. How good it felt, even though it was just for a short time. On December 6, she was back in the Logan Regional Hospital where Dr. Gary Jones removed a cataract from her left eye. That wasn’t so bad, and she got to go home the next day. Well not really home, but back to Malad and the hospital there. She would stay there while her eye was healing and she would not be alone. She was determined to return to her home, but as the days passed, she could see that there was no way she could care for herself. There was not an opening in the nursing home, so she was permitted to remain in the hospital as a nursing home patient. Her positive outlook on life was still alive and functioning. “Well”, she quipped, “It’s too bad you have to wait for someone to die in order to have a bed.” And she settled down to the hospital routine. She still quietly resented having to get up early in the morning.
Christmas came and went in a flurry of Christmas Caroling; trees; gifts from far and near; family and friends wishing her well; the special Christmas programs and even Christmas stockings and flowers.
The next day, as she stood by her bed, she became dizzy, lost her balance and fell. The one thing she had most dreaded was a broken bone, and this time she had broken her hip, worse than just a bruise or a hurt arm. She was sent by ambulance to the Logan Hospital again. Ambulance rides seemed to have become a regular thing. She hoped the doctor would be as nice as the others who had cared for her. Dr. Joseph Nelson was just that, and performed the surgery, to pin her hip back together, towards the evening of that day. She was determined she wasn’t going to become another Christmas casualty in her family, and the operation was a success. She healed quickly and started the New Year out by being transferred once more to the Malad Hospital.
(Picture located on the bottom of the page. Picture is of a building. Caption says: Latest Oneida County Hospital-dedicated October 20, 1970.)
She was happy that the other ladies in her room were people she knew. Mary Gleed was one roommate, and then Anita (Mrs. Robert) Thomas, who lived right next to Stella’s home. Soon she was moved as a permanent resident into the Nursing home, and once again adapted to her surroundings with dignity and an attitude of helpfulness. Her new roommate was a nice lady from Downey, Idaho.
Days were filled with things to do. There was therapy for her hip, programs, lovely meals in the dining room with the other residents, and Bob, along with other friends and relatives were there every day. In fact Reid and Lucille had been visiting earlier in the week, and she hadn’t felt too well. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with the flu many of the others had.
It was the 22 of May, 1990, and it seemed there was a feeling of Spring in the air. Evening came and with it her faithful nephew Bob. She felt really sick, and asked him to call Valene and Eyre. He left the room to make the call, asking the nurses to check on her. When he returned, Aunt Annie wasn’t there anymore. She had gone to her family in heaven.
Her viewing was in the Benson-Horsley Funeral Home. The place she had never wanted to visit. She looked so beautiful and we all loved her so much. Speaking at her funeral, her nephew, Bishop Berthel Tovey gave comfort to all when he made the statement that seemed to be a fitting end to her earthly life. “Birth is not the beginning. Death is not the end.”
May we so order our lives that we may be with her in the eternities to come.
(Picture of a woman located on the lower left hand side of the page.)
Betty J. Richards–granddaughter
May 12, 1993