Going Home to Willard: A Reminiscence

Going Home to Willard A REMINISCENCE BY EVAN STEPHENS Like a weary toiler, at the end of a long day's labor, laying aside his tools and wistfully turning his gaze homeward with a dream of dear ones and cherished things before him, hastening his steps, so I, at the end of nearly forty years of labor and absence from the home of my youth, lay down my baton, and, in imagination, turn my eyes of memory back to the happy scenes of boyhood and early manhood, as if there were rest there for me now, when formerly activities were so alluring and sweet to me. You say, why in imagination? Why not make it a reality? Why, indeed, attempt the impossible ? The little town is still there, nest- & ^0^K .A wP^ * ^^ ' -.^^P V V "" '"' "!..'! I J. 4 * -•' -+~ , *-i ^m 1 j i THE WASATCH MOUNTAINS AT WILLARD ling under its great, towering" cliffs rising six or seven thousand feet above it, on the east, and the great Salt Lake shimmering at its feet, to the west, like a great mirror. Its grass-grown streets, and its peaceful little homes embowered in fruit and shade trees, are all there even more, a few of the dearest of my heart's treas- ; ures, what the years have left of them (like myself) are still there. But my youthful paradise to which I am returning can be reached now only by imagination, and seen only through memory's lens so, I prefer for the present to return to youth's fond dream, as lived between forty and fifty years ago, rather than to the present site of the bygones.

GOING HOME TO WILLARD 1089 There are many spots on the way between the great temple and tabernacle at Salt Lake City and Willard that have faint associations, even wit h that prime one, sixty miles away to the north. For instance, I see coming over the "sand ridge" a group of wagons filled with the merriest crowd of singers in the world — my Willard choir, on their way to the "fall conference" to sing with the choir at Salt Lake. And near the "Hot Springs" I come upon ground made very familiar indeed with the memories of toil and visits weekly, on foot and on handcar, as a railway section hand for four years. Scores of incidents connected with my fellow-laborers and chums come up, but I hasten past them to still more cherished things. Within a half mile of the real Willard I am back in my ( thirteenth year) I find the old Taylor home on one side of the road, backed by those great, steep foothills upon which I herded sheep, and even dragged loads of cedars down their steep sides by hand. While, like an unevenly drawn line, extends the old stone wall which I helped to build, clear up to the south end of town. And there I see, through memory's dim veil, dear old Shadrach, with little Evan near by, piling the stones to their places, the while hearing some of those wonderful tales of great musicians which the boy is absorbing in that hot July sun. Every once in a while I am casting a longing eye over the sand lot to the house beyond, where Mary is busy making the daintiest, flakiest pies in the world for dinner. That sand lot My first and hard- ! est clay's plowing ! I still remember the long, weary nightmare of the following night, during which old Tom and Jerry pulled me and the plow in every direction but in the straight furrows I wanted to make. Here winds the road over which many and many a time I and Eveline walked or ran home hand in hand, some times from spelling schools, singing as we traveled, I later to be supplanted by Big John, not so much to my regret, as I really loved Big John quite as much as I did his sweetheart. But here I am at Willard City, south entrance. Every house seems a part of the history of that little chap I used to think to be myself. To my right is the little log hut we first occupied on our arrival in "the valley." I see my dear old mother tidying the only room. An old dry goods box or two, neatly covered with paper, with some cheap, beflowered piece of goods, neatly draped around the three sides of it, serving for cupboard, dresser, etc. One or two small, plain chairs, and a box or two, served for seats. A home made bed in one corner, and my bedding rolled up in another, on the floor, a very small stove, all mostly fitted up by my brother, Tom soil enough on the roof to make a roof ; garden, a nest of tarantulas, and a snake or two, completed the collection of living things. A nice little peach orchard, in fruit,

1090 IMPROVEMENT ERA surrounded it. Across the way was a slightly larger home where I worked for my board. And still, in another corner, lived first the choir leader 1 most loved, and from which I saw him pull away within a couple of years, to my great sorrow, to live in Malad. I see now the little, poorly-clad boy, on the mountain above, herding sheep, crying his heart out at the loss. Some years later, the same boy used to bring his "lady love" home nights to this first corner home. little And the people across the way became like most others in Willard, sort of second parents to me. Their eldest daughter, the sweetheart of my best and only chum, John. Ah, the very mention of the name lands me in the very center of everything connected with this paradise. Without "John" nothing was worth while. With him, everything; even the hardest toil was EVAN STEPHENS AND HIS heaven. What a treasure a chum is to MOTHER an affectionate boy From him I radi- ! ate to everything else during the twelve years of real life in Willard. Up at daylight, through work at dark, chores done, away to the meetinghouse to choir, meetings, rehearsal, dance, Sabbath school.. How we raced home together, both too fleet-footed for one to beat the other to the stackyard, where we shared the genial work of attending to the horses in summer, and the cows as well, in winter. That stackyard There we slept in summer. T can hear him whistling a tune now, as he returns from his sweetheart. I was al- EVAN STEPHENS AND HIS FklEND JOHN J. WARD ways home first.

GOING HOME TO WILLARD 1091 There still stands the little tithing- granary, over the wheat bins of which on a temporized board floor I had my little cabinet organ. And we, the glee club of six, three girls and three boys, held our singing practice, where we even learned some of the great Mendelssohn's part-songs, and some fine Welsh glees. The girls had gallantly to be helped up over the well-filled wheat bins. Now I see us tugging away at a little sled over the snow, with the aforesaid only organ in town carefully placed thereon, up to the meetinghouse to prepare the choir for a grand concert at which I had my only special training for my appearances as conductor at the great Tabernacle, temple, festival hall, Chicago, Madison Square Gardens, New York, and * , ,, T n THE OLD TITHING GRANARY, WILLARD . not least, the AWhite L . House, at Washington It was doutless giving a hand to those ! girls to climb the wheat bins that led me to do likewise to sitch queens of song as Nordica, Melba, Gadski, and others; apparently to their satisfaction. But why leave my Willard just yet. Oh, the joy of pioneering, the breeding of resourcefulness, the learning not only that "where there is a will there is a way," but the having of the will. Opportunities were not waited for in Willard. A gallon of molasses paid for a term of singing school, sixty bushels of wheat paid for a cabinet organ, quite as useful in its way as the sixtythousand dollar one now in the tabernacle. Did we need new music suited for an occasion? If so, we made it. Did we fear criticism ? Just enough to seek it. It was our habit to appoint three wise men to sit at our concerts and give a just judgment in writing to us on every performance. Music held its complete and right place, but by no means excluded other useful things ; besides there were the regular organizations of the Church all which were all generally attended. — The dances were regular events the central social functions of courters and courted. The drama flourished as it certainly could not have done more since Shakespeare's time. With "Bob"

1092 IMPROVEMENT KRA and me for authors and comedians, John for villain, aye, and all of us for scene painters, with Chandler, Cordon, Cook, Brunker, Jones, Eubbard and others for leading male roles, we could not 1 outshine in the least our splendid talent in "leading ladies" Helen, Gwenn, Mary, Sarah, Annie, Mary Anne, and others. Our range of plays ran all the way from "The Idiot Witness," "< )1 1 Honesty," through "Ingomar" and the like classics, to the homemade article. The enthusiasm of our auditors was^enoug'i Uj enable us to rise to considerable heights of realism, which created many an impressive "Oh" to reach us even on the stage. And here I am at the dear old house where it all took place. It is not all joy even in memory. There are heartaching tragedies lurking among the happiness of it all. Just over there on the "square" stood the "bowery." Here I saw Brigham Young and heard him preach. Later in the same bowery I heard with astonishment the veteran George Goddard declare to the congregation, whom he and Brother Willis had just delighted with "Scatter Seeds of Kindness," that, "You good people of Willard need not think you can keep this young man to yourselves. A wider field awaits him." After the meeting a lady friend, still liv ng there, said to me most earnestly, "Don't leave : us, Evan. You can be loved nowhere as you are here. Here you just belong to every one of us." She was not far from the truth, but it appears that Brother Goddard was not far wrong in his prediction. Then the place on West Street, which I bought from Brother Dan, in my twentieth year ! Only two rooms, and a roof garden of wild flowers but what memories ; !It soon became the rehearsal and class home, called jocularly the "opera house on West Street." As many as fifty youngsters would rehearse operettas here the young people's singing class would study an hour and ; a half, then spend another hour in pleasantries, even playing snowballing with little red apples, sometimes. The grand orchestra of five instruments perfected their work there. L. D. Edwards and R. B. Baird studied harmony, counterpoint, and composition there. The two old chums alternated between there and the old stackyard and the home of the bishop. Everybody came there when occasion required, and every child or young person between ten and thirty apparently considered Evan and his home their own particular property. It was always a "house of order" when work was on, though discipline was not insisted upon when lessons were over. Where are they all? The dear old song tells much of it in, "Time goes on and the happy years are dead, And one by one the merry hearts are fled." But that wonderful little community of a few hundred has

GOING HOME TO WILLARD 1093 become the backbone of a score of the best communities of northwestern Utah and southern Idaho. And I dare say there isn't one left living that, if need be, but would share the home with "Evan" today. Their boys and girls have grown up to seem as much mine now as they were then, even though we have been long separated. This is already a long story, but the one written in my heart is many times longer, and some of it even too sacred to be told freely only to myself. In the panorama that passes before my view, what a host of well-loved forms dot the scene all on— their way, like myself, to the great crossing. Many, indeed most, have safely crossed, prominent among them, with a great sheaf of reward left behind him, was the ever energetic and encouraging schoolmaster, Charles Wright. What life and action he planted all around him But I must go no fur- .1 ther, ,. m my ^ story would u j1 beEVAN STEPHENS' HOME, SALT LAKE CITY come a volume of names, all deserving a place. Dear reader, story tellers are great frauds, they tell you far less than they conceal, notwithstanding their long-drawn-out yarns. Just so with me. While I touch upon a number of things that are ever present in my mind, in this little imaginary journey, there are many, many things never forgotten by me that my pencil knows but little about, so I shall again pack up my few "duds," and, as I did many years ago, board the train for Salt Lake, a place almost as dear to me now as Willard was thirty-odd years ago, but not to take up my old work this time, rather to look on at the performance of others in whom I am also deeply interested notwith- , standing they are not from Willard.