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In Memory

Lorane Stephens - Class of 1925

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.

Biography written by his son: Douglas Wayne Stephens in 1997
 
Dad arrived on this Earth shortly after the turn of the century, the youngest of two sisters and a brother. I never saw a photo album picture of him as a child, in which he didn’t appear in a dress, with long curly hair and looking very much like his sisters. Such was the custom then, in the early nineteen hundreds, to dress little boys like girls, until they were four or five years old.
 
Those were horse and buggy days, too. The horseless carriage was experimental, but probably just as numerous as indoor bathrooms. Dad saw many changes throughout the world. The advent of automobiles, airplanes, radios, television, computers, to spacecraft and a myriad of new technologies occurred throughout Dad’s lifetime. What is left for us to experience and marvel at as we each approach our Autumn years?
 
As a young man, Lorane—as he was referred to by his parents and family—had visions of becoming a sailor. One day he got as far as a Navy recruiting office only to have our grandmother catch up to him, latch on to his ear and drag him all the way home.
 
His teen years were eventful. Dad excelled as an athlete. He was a superb sprinter and played basketball on the Montpelier High School team. The Bear Lake region of Southern Idaho was Dad’s geographical realm as he grew to young manhood.
 
When his time came to leave home, Grandpa sent him to the University of Utah, where he studied for two years. At this juncture, he was tempted by a brother-in-law, who owned a popular and productive beer tavern in Salt Lake City, to take up the trade of bartending. Perhaps the freedom and peace of mind of being able to earn his own keep created a comfort level for Dad, at work behind a bar. It was in that environment that his middle name, Lorane, was traded in for Steve, a name that would stick and be his the rest of his life.
 
It was about this time he met and fell in love with another Idaho girl, named Grace Maurine Thomas, which he eventually married and became the mother of six of his children. It was during his earliest married years, when he quit bartending and went to work at the Garfield smelter near Great Salt Lake.
 
However, by the time Janet was born, Dad was back to work at Smitty’s, the tavern which would provide ad took the role of provider to heart, and whle at bartender’s wages (with tips) he was unable to provide a mansion, house servants and a fleet of family autos, he did provide everything that he had and was capable of doing.
 
Bartending as a profession became Steve’s way of life. With the exception of working at Remington Arms Plant and the Navy warehouse at Clearfield, to support the war effort of World War II, Dad was busy being the best barkeep a person could possibly be. His ambitions, if he had any which were grander, went unannounced. He became the epitome of humbleness and truly believed the meek would inherit the Earth.

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.