Eulogy to Sadie L. Davis Stewart Bailey
Written by Sadie S. Bailey
I was born on September 19, 1896 in a log cabin on the canyon ranch of my parents,
Bernard and Nancy Killian Snow, the last child of a family of six children. There was no doctor
in attendance and as was the custom in those days, my mother was attended by a midwife. I think
her name was Lombardi. I have been told, by people who knew my parents at that stage of their
lives, that mother kept that little home spic and span. Scrubbing the four inch floor boards until
they were always white and clean as a table top. She kept dainty white lace curtains at the
windows and a white bedspread on the bed. The home was lit at night with kerosene lamps or
candles and the glow of the fire in the fireplace. She had few conveniences, but the true
homemaker spirit. With time left to make, we children felt loved and wanted.
This was my home until I was four years old when my parents sold the ranch. With my
father’s boyhood chum and his wife and family, we moved to the Grande Round Valley of
Oregon. Uncle Will Clegg and Aunt Mary had a family of five children and our four, as my
oldest sister had married Harry Fuller and they had gone to Uinta Indian Reservation where
Harry’s father and sons were engaged by the government to teach the Indians to irrigate and farm
their lands. But the rest of us made the move to Oregon. Our belongings being shipped by rail
and I shall never forget the wonder and misgivings I had as a four year old child when Uncle
Will and my father boarded that freight train, but the rest of us soon followed aboard a passenger
train and what a happy day when we were all reunited at La Grande, Oregon.
My parents bought a farm in the valley and Uncle Will and Aunt Mary settled in Island
City, a distance of about five miles from our farm. By the way, the Cleggs were not really related
to us, but the two families always addressed the other as Aunt and Uncle. Uncle Will played the
violin and I remember the happy times we had when we made that five mile journey with a team
and wagon, hay and extra quilts as we would stay all night and in the evening after a good filling
dinner, we would pop popcorn and wash a big pan of apples. Then Uncle Will would get out the
violin and there would be music and songs. One time I remember we were at their place and in
the night the river reached flood stage and we did not dare cross the bridge as it was threatening
to wash out, but by mid-day the river dropped and we were able to go home.
During the time we lived on that farm, my father raised sugar beets. One spring Lula
Clegg and I were to thin the beets, following my father who went down each row with a hoe,
leaving two or three beets in bunches with the hoe’s width between. Our job was to crawl along
and pull all but one healthy looking beet in each bunch. About half way down the field was one
lovely apple tree offering shade and a drink of water as our jug of drinking water was placed
there in the shade. Lula and I stopped at the apple tree and I discovered an almost full plug of
tobacco. Good ole horseshoe chewing tobacco in the overalls that my parents had borrowed for
me to wear. I tried to get Lula to try a chew of it with me but she firmly refused. Nothing
daunted, I took a good husky chew and as I was ignorant as to how to manage the art of chewing
tobacco, I just went ahead and swallowed the juice. We started back down the beet row in the
warm sunshine and soon I became very ill and fainted.
My father carried me to the house and my mother, being a nurse, placed cold cloths on
my head, but in the process she smelled tobacco and all fear that I had suffered a sunstroke left
suddenly and I found myself being chastised instead of humored. That was my first, last and only
try at chewing tobacco.
Father hired Indians to harvest the beet crop in the fall and they would camp at the west
end of our farm where a creek ran along the edge and there was good level ground for their
teepees. It was their custom, if one of them caught a cold or were ill, to sit in a small tent with a
fire where big rocks were heated. When they became very hot and the Indian was hot too, one of
their members would throw water on those rocks and great clouds of steam would rise. Then, just
as you would think the Indian must be cooked, here he would come on a dead run and plunge
into the icy water of the creek into a deep pool they had built. I did not believe this until I
secretly went down there and saw it happen. The house on our farm consisted of a large living
room, the floor covered by a hand loomed rag run; two windows with white lace curtains; a
heating stove that burned wood and coal in the winter. It was taken down in the summer and
stored in the grainery. Also in there was a couch and several straight back chairs. There were
several large pictures of relatives in huge wooden frames on the walls. My mother’s and father’s
bedroom with a closet that ran across the west end of the room where the stairway led up to one
large room with a window in each end. The north window was my favorite.
On cold winter nights, we frequently could see the northern lights or Aurora Borealis in
all its glory. There were four beds in that large room each with a straw mattress made by mother.
She sewed the heavy ticking to fit the bed, leaving an open space in the top where it could be
stuffed with fresh straw, covered by a comfort quilt, then made up with sheets and quilts.
Our pillows were made with down picked from the ducks my folks raised. The duck eggs
were hatched under a duck hen in the spring. We had dressers of various makes and kerosene
lamps for light. The kitchen was built across the back of the main building in what they call a
lean to. It was a long, narrow room with our cook stove, a wood and coal burning stove with four
lids that could be lifted. Two of these covered the fire box where the wood burned on a grate
providing air to keep the fire going. There was a damper in the stove pipe where the heat could
be controlled. There also was a reservoir at the back that held about five gallons of water that
was kept warm by the heat from the stove. Our culinary water was obtained by a pitcher pump in
the kitchen. The water was pumped from a surface well under the kitchen floor. There was a
pantry at one end and I can still picture the five pans of milk on the shelves. Every morning and
night father would milk the cows and mother would strain the fresh milk into clean pans and
place them in the cool pantry where the cream would rise to the top and at night she would skim
the cream from the milk that had been placed there in the morning. This cream was put into a
crockery jar where it was kept until mother had enough to churn them in a redwood churn with a
dash that was pounded up and down the butter would form and with a butter paddle mother
would lift the butter from the buttermilk and wash it and work it until all the buttermilk was
worked out of it. Then she would mold it into one pound bricks and wrap it in butter papers that
had her name printed on them. What we did not need for family use was sold at the store in La
Grande in exchange for other groceries as were the surplus eggs produced on the farm.
There was a vegetable cellar where potatoes, carrots, parsnips, cabbage, onions and
squash along with clean flour sacks of dried corn, apples, and apricots that Mother dried in the
warm summer sun atop the gently sloping roof of our kitchen. They were all stored carefully in
the early fall for use during the winter.
My mother made her laundry soap in a big black iron kettle over a fire in the yard. This
soap was made with waste fat and lye as I remember, in this same kettle my father heated the
water to scald pigs after they had been butchered. The hams, shoulders, and bacon were “cured”
to provide us with meat. I recall how on Saturday my mother always cooked food to take with us
to town on Sunday where we attended the Latter Day Saints Church. It was a weekly ritual on
Saturday night. The wash boiler was put on the stove and filled with water for our baths. Each
took their turn bathing in a round tin wash tub. On Sunday morning we left early with horse and
buggy to attend Sunday School and church. We ate our lunch, on the church lawn in the summer
and in the Relief Society room in the winter. My only brother Charles Eben Snow married
Estella Perry while we lived on the farm and went to manage one of the many farms the Sugar
Company owned in the valley. Effie’s, my oldest sister, husband died during this period and she
and her three small children came to live with us on the farm. Both Effie and my sister Ellen
Susan went to work at the Hot Lake Sanitarium. Effie met and married Henry Winn and Ellen,
who we affectionately called Nell, married John Harvey. Soon after the three older children left
the farm, my folks sold it and bought a home in La Grande where Alice and I went to school
until we were old enough to go to work.
Father worked as a meat cutter in a butcher shop and mother did a lot of home nursing.
She was President of the Relief Society for several years and under her supervision, both Alice
and I learned a lot of lessons in helping our unfortunate neighbors while she served in that
capacity.
Our next move was to Portland, Oregon where both my older sisters with their husbands
and families had moved. Nell became ill and mother went there to take care for her and loved the
city so much, we closed the house in La Grande and moved down there. We all lived in a huge
old home that had been converted into three apartments. It was a happy time of our lives, all of
us working except mother and Nell. Then after quite a period of time mother, father, Alice and I
went back to our home in La Gradne. We had been away for many months, yet we found that
home just as we had left it. Not even a broken window. We had only been home a few months
when my mother received word my grandmother in Salem had broken her hip and that her sister
Patience Coon, who lived with grandma Killian, was not able to care for her. So once again, we
closed up the house, packed our clothes and traveled by train back to Utah. In Salt Lake City, we
stopped long enough for my mother and father to go through the Temple where Alice and I were
sealed to them. Then on to Salem where we found grandma in a rather deplorable condition and
Aunt Patience very ill. Mother decided that she must stay as long as her mother needed her. Aunt
Patience Coon died a short time after we arrived in Salem. My grandmother was an invalid as the
doctor, who was called when she broke her hip, felt she could not survive and failed to set the
hip properly. So she sat on the edge of her bed until years later she passed away.
Grandpa Killian owned quite a bit of farming ground and cows, so my father managed
the farm he had left to grandma, and mother took care of her. I met Frank Roy Davis and married
him. We lived in a nice brick home Roy built for us before we were married. It was on what had
been his father’s ranch and well I remember how the howl of a coyote would break the stillness
of the night. In those days we did not have a car, a radio or even a phonograph and the nearest
house was a half mile from ours. We had a good artesian well and used the flowing water from
that well to cool our food. We would place it in buckets with tight lids, then in a box where the
water ran around the buckets to keep them cool. When Venna was three years old and Mont eight
months, Roy passed away with the flu in the 1918 influenza epidemic. I remember we had to
hold the funeral service in the open air, the mourners standing on the snowy lawn and the
speakers and singers on the porch. Bessie Gardner and Cora Simpson sang, and I mention this as
I found Bessie years later in my life. I later met and married Bryan G. Stewart who proved to be
a wonderful father to my two children and a good companion to me. We lived the first two years
of our married life on the Stewart Ranch and my brother Charles managed my farm after my
brother-in-law came to live with my father and sister Alice after my dear mother passed away,
following an operation, at the Arred Hospital in Provo. My baby Venna was four months old at
that time.
Alice and Nell both stayed on with father and helped care for Grandma. Alice had kept
company with Theodore Hatch and after Nell and her little girl Jane had been there for awhile,
she and Ted were married.
Father gave up trying to care for Grandmother’s affairs after her son Jake and his wife
Rose expressed the wish to take that obligation. He made his home with Alice and from the time
he left the farm. Nell married Arthur Hatch, Theodore’s older brother. Bryan or Bish, as he was
called, and I moved back on the Davis ranch where we raised cattle, chickens, hogs and did a lot
of farming; raising beets, peas and other row crops for the cannery along with hay and grain. Our
life was a happy one with frequent trips to the canyons in summer with both members of my
family and of the Stewart family. On Sundays the Stewart family would gather at the Ranch and
Grandma often killed, dress and cooked four or five chickens along with all the trimmings.
Joyous times with a family that grew up close and remained that way to celebrate their Golden
Wedding, with a family of six sons and six daughters there and most of the sons-in-law and
daughters-in-law as well as the children. Pearl and Harold Baily came from Denver; Beth Hayes
and two of her children from Ontario, Oregon; Will and Devetta and their daughter Merle from
Myton, Utah; and the other members lived close by. Marie and Merrill being the farthest away.
They lived on Provo Bench now known as Orem. Oh yes, and Dora from Driggs, Idaho. Soon
after that Grandpa Stewart passed away. Grandma made her home with Bert and Lois. She being
my cousin as well as sister-in-law, we were very close and shared many joys and sorrows. Bish
and I lived on the farm for nearly twenty years and were active in the American Legion and
Auxiliary. Also, I was precinct chairman for my political party and played in many home
dramatic plays. I recall we were playing a three night stand at the theater in Spanish Fork for the
Mutual to raise money for some project they were working on. We were playing, “Dust of the
Earth,” and on the last night Stake President, Henry Gardner, brought Elder Joseph Fielding
Smith up on the stage after the last curtain to meet the cast. Elder Smith put his arm around my
shoulders and kissed me on the forehead and complimented me for my portrayal of the lead part
in the play. That was a thrill I will never forget and today that moment is as glorious as ever as
that same Elder Smith is today’s President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints,
and I have a memory that will never die. Bert and Lois, a friend Dick Sawyer, Bish and I built a
log cabin in Dip Vat canyon up Spanish Fork Canyon and it was the scene of many happy fishing
and hunting trips, many family gatherings and we enjoyed by many of our friends. It was rustic
but a shelter from cold or storm and brings both joyous and sad memories to me. It was while we
were there on a hunting trip Bish was stricken with a perforated ulcer from which he died of two
months later in the Veterans Hospital in Salt Lake City. My daughter Venna had married Ross
McQuivey and they lived in Garfield, Utah. That town no longer exists. It belonged to the
Kennectott Copper Company and they sold and moved the entire town. Now only a few trees and
broken sidewalks and foundations mark where it was. My dear father had passed away at our
home just a year before Bish died and both Mont and Harold were facing their tours of military
duty. I did have to fight hard to keep from being bitter, but made a resolution to find some good
thing to thank God for each day of my life and this philosophy has carried me over many rough
spots. Today it is still a daily habit and I find many things to be thank ful for.
Mont married Bettie Quinn. I went to work for a lady in her café in Spanish Fork and
when she decided to give the café up I took it over. The building and equipment belonged to
John Booth who was a very good friend. I ran the Corner Café for seven years and met some
very wonderful people and is always the case when you serve the public, some who were far
from wonderful. But, people never the less and very interesting. The hours were long and the
work hard and at the end of seven years my health broke and I was forced to give the café up.
Venna and Ross came to Spanish Fork and cared for me until I was able to be moved to
Magna where my youngest son Merrill David and a friend Bill Holmex ran a beauty shop and
lived in an apartment owned by Jim and Elenor Coon. I rented my home in Spanish Fork and
later sold it. My furniture fit nicely in their apartment and I kept house for the boys until they
married and made my home with Merrill and Macel for quite awhile after their marriage.
Merrill D married Macel Taylor Evertts and she had two children Judy and Dennis. I
worked at various places there: Parley’s Sweet Shop, Richardson’s Bakery, The Joker, Sam
Matz’s Clothing Store, and the Salt Lake County General Hospital, where I worked until I
retired. I have many fond memories of the people I worked with in the hospital.
During my days there, watching people bravely facing their problems in life, I was
inspired to do a little writing of poetry. I shall include a couple of poems that you may know
some of my inner thoughts. Life was inspired by the death of my daughter-in-law’s mother.
LIFE
Let’s think of the joy of living,
The wonderful gift of life,
The awe of being a mother,
The joy of being a wife.
We start as a sun kissed snowflake,
Our journey on through life,
To meet and mingle with others,
To learn through our sorrow and strife.
Then comes a slower pace,
As we reach a level plain.
Assume life’s obligations ‘gainst which
We must push and strain.
Now the lowland valley
Where the water runs slow and deep,
And the arms of the fathomless ocean,
Each snowflake will safely keep.
So it is with us in life’s journey
Whether mother, Statesman or “clod,”
Like the snowflakes that rests in the ocean,
We’ll rest in the arms of God.
The other poem I feel might give you an idea of where I turned in moments of weakness,
when at times I felt that I should be making more of my life than I was accomplishing. I think we
all have those times, and though I am one of the many small people who make up the world, I
know my place can be filled by no one else and I thank God for giving me this niche to fill.
MY PRAYER
I stand on a tall bleak mountain
as the setting sun goes down,
Beneath me the quiet valley and a
sleepy little town.
I see in the far off distance the
shimmer of gold on a lake,
And I know the lights in the houses
like the stars in the sky will awake.
Beside me a rugged pine tree
looks down on the scene below,
I hear its gentle whisper,
As the breeze through its branches blow.
I hear a dove’s soft cooing,
in the eerie evening light,
And I know that all of God’s creatures
are preparing for the night.
Some in the warmth of a cozy home,
Some in the depths of the blue, blue lake.
Some in the fields and forests roam
As the twilight softly thickens
and the dark night settles down
I see a lone star glisten
in heavens endless dome.
And I feel a deep, deep longing
for the love and warmth of home.
Now the lights in the tiny village
send out their mellow glow.
And I fancy the eyes of children,
down there in the valley below.
Each home holds its own little story,
Its joys, its sorrow, its tears.
The glorious feeling of oneness
We gain in the passing years.
I turn to the rugged pine tree,
Kneel there on the mountain sod,
Raise my eyes to a star sprinkled heaven
Give thanks to a merciful God.
I pray for strength of the lone pine tree
that stands as a sentinel tall,
For the peace and serenity
That dwells in the Valley small.
For the depth of the moonlit lake
With its silver path so bright,
May these blessings that surround me
Help me to seek Thy light.
J. Harold Baily and his wife Pearl Stewart Baily took Carl Griffith, the six week old son
of Ed and Dora Stewart Griffith, to raise her as their own when Dora died from injuries received
in an automobile accident. Carl became part of my life when nine years after Pearl’s death,
Harold and I were married at my youngest son’s home in Salt Lake City. Carl at that time was
stationed in Texas and was a pilot in the Air Force and had recently returned from his tour of
duty in Europe. He attended the college in Ft. Collins and met and married Lynn Vanderhoof.
While there she and their daughter Cynthia accompanied Carl to Europe and their son
Richard was born while they were over there. When Harold and I were married, we came to
Denver to live in the home where he had lived for twenty-six years. It is a very comfortable
home with many kind and sociable neighbors. Carl and Lynn ad their two children moved to
Boulder soon after we were married and Cal attended the University of Colorado for two years
then went to the Air Force Academy to teach Thermo Dynamics. While there, he and his wife
separated and he later married Marilyn Schaus. They have one son Robert. They are not
stationed in California where Carl, now a Lt. Colonel in the Air Force, is preparing to go on his
second overseas tour of duty, this time to Viet Nam.
Our home here is a far cry from the home of my birth, it having all the modern
conveniences to make my job as a homemaker easy and pleasant. All of my own children have
visited here with us and many of the grandchildren and great grandchildren which brings us a lot
of joy. Soon after I came here, the ward teacher from my church came to visit and during our
conversation, I found his wife was the Bessie Gardner who sang at my first husband’s funeral.
She is now Mrs. Wallace Hales and we had many nice chats recalling memories of our mutual
friends in Spanish Fork, where the Hales moved and are now living. I still drive the car but when
we wish to go downtown, we catch the bus which stops a half block from our front door. Two
years ago last September, Harold and I flew to Salt Lake at the same time my son Harold and his
wife Bettie were there after bringing their daughter Lana to enter the Brigham Young University
in Provo.
My entire family joined together at the Salem Lake Park for a picnic. It was the first time
my entire family had been together for several years and as I looked at their happy faces my
heart swelled with pride. May God bless and keep each of you.
Last year in my 73rd year, my oldest grandson Kent McQuivey, his wife Dolores and their
five lovely children stopped here on their way to Flaming Gorge, Utah from their home in St.
Louis, Missouri. I joined them and we met my daughter Venna and their entire family for a three
day camping trip. There were 28 of us, three beautiful trailer houses, an enclosed truck and two
large tents to house us. A typical breakfast was hot cakes, eggs – five dozen each morning,
bacon, hash brown potatoes, fish and coffee and coca, cooked on three camp stoves. The stoves
were placed on a long folding metal table with a well organized group of cooks. I made two trips,
along with as many people as could be safely loaded, in the three big rubber rafts that they own
and maintain for that purpose. Down the river for seven miles through the beautiful canyon just
below the dam over the famed Green River rapids which was a great thrill. My grandsons with
Carl as head oarsman have leaned to navigate those rapids very well. He and Val managed the
oars on my first trip down. Then he and Wayne on the second trip. It was an outing I shall never
forget. We are growing old Harold 86 and I, 74. But, we still find joy in having our family and
friends in to visit. Our eyes, ears and legs are not so good as they once were, but we do have our
two easy chairs where we sit side by side to watch our favorite programs on the color television.
Mostly the sports and news programs with an occasional variety show. We also enjoy the radio
on which we listen to our Rocket Basketball team play.
We also love the program that comes to us each Sunday evening from the Salt Lake,
Mormon Tabernacle where Elder Sills speaks and there is always good music sometimes the
Mormon Choir, the Youth Symphony or a real good soloist and we especially enjoy the one half
hour organ recital by Alexander Shriner. Our life moves at a slower pace, but we are still
enjoying many blessings for which we give thanks.
Writeen by Sadie S. Baily
November 11, 1970