Douglas Lorane Stephens was born September 4, 1906 in Bennington, Idaho the son of William Cadwallader and Janet Perkins Stephens. He graduated from Montpelier High School in 1925. He died September 5, 1988 and was buried in the Salt Lake City Cemetery.
He was proud of his wife and children, and his one day off a week, which was generally every Sunday, was his opportunity to spend time with his family, which he loved to take to Liberty Park, Lagoon, Great Salt Lake, Saltair and sometimes Bear Lake and Montpelier, Idaho for an outdoor picnic and the opportunity to watch his children play. Few, if any of his children, did not experience both the thrill and fright of sitting in Dad’s lap, on a Liberty Park swing while he made it go so high you would swear you were going to do a loop-da-loop!
Our mother, Grace, brought a loving and larger family of in laws, who would embrace Steve and love and respect him as one of their own and the Stephens and Thomas union was of great dimension and added a rewarding living experience to the whole of Steve’s family.
To the best of my knowledge, dad never wrote a letter to the editor, to a state lawmaker, a Congressional delegate or a governor or president, even though he was gifted with keen insight, was well informed and pretty much in tune with the political scene, locally and nationally. But, many a bar patron revered and echoed Dad’s opinions and became astute constituents to Dad’s philosophy and wisdom.
Laughter was dad’s safety valve. Yes, dad was a teaser. He enjoyed teasing his children or indulging in a practical joke at the bar. And, he told stories that turned people into stitches with laughter and dad would laugh and laugh and laugh.
My favorite began on a Sunday, when Dad had taken the 1928 Buick, our family car with the wooden spokes, out to get gas in preparation of one of those terrific family picnic. He was driving down 5th East, when a motorcycle cop pulled him over and was about to give him a traffic ticket for having bad brakes. “There is not a thing wrong with my brakes,” dad told the cop. "I know my brakes squeak a little,” dad said, “but they work just fine.” “Well,” the cop said, “We'll just see about that.” With those remarks, the officer stepped onto Dad’s running board an told Dad to start driving. As Dad continued down 5th East, the officer kept saying, “go faster, go on, go faster.” Dad was going at a pretty good clip, when the officer yelled at him to hit the brakes. Dad hit the brakes alright and squeaked to an abrupt stop. The traffic officer, by then, had done about six somersaults down the center of the street. Steve watched the angry cop get up and limp back to the Buick and quickly said, “you can give me a ticket if you want to, but if you do, I’ll make sure that you become the laughingstock of the entire police force.”
The other night, half asleep, I swore I could hear some distant laughter. I strained to listen and discern who was laughing so hard. It was St. Peter. Farewell, father.