On this Father’s Day, my thoughts have turned, of course, to my father, and I thought it would be appropriate to share a couple of pieces from his funeral program. He died at age 97, on September 15, 2022, and the funeral was held on September 23 in his ward’s meetinghouse in North Ogden, even though I had brought him to an assisted living center in Provo after he fell and broke his hip in May 2020, so I could look after him. We wanted the funeral to be at his ward’s meetinghouse for two reasons: first, because it was completed when he was bishop, and, second, because he had so many dear friends in that ward, whom he had cared for in so many ways, and who loved him dearly and missed him. Because he had only two children, my sister, Jolene, and I were the main speakers, but I wanted his friends to learn a little something about his early life, so I abridged the first part of his personal history and had my oldest son read it. I also felt there was something for us today to learn from his growing up in the Great Depression and his years serving in World War II. What follows, then, is Dad’s description of his early life followed by my remarks.
Orvil Terry, Early Life Sketch
Because no one alive today remembers Orvil Terry’s early life, and because he tells it so well in his personal history, we decided to let Orvil tell his own story today. This account is excerpted from the personal history he wrote in 2014.
My mother, Eunetta Elliker, was born November 30, 1887, at Cedar City, Iron County, Utah. It was primarily from her that I learned to work hard. This she did throughout her life, partly of necessity. With a large family, and very little of the world’s goods, due mostly to losing everything during the Great Depression of the 1930s, she was forced to do many things just to help provide meager necessities for the family. During that time, dad could not find employment, except for a period with the WPA (Work Projects of America).
As a result, mother, in addition to caring for the family, which included scrubbing clothes by hand on a washboard, used to do such things as bake and sell donuts door to door, pick all kinds of fruit, berries, and vegetables, taking her pay and the children’s pay in kind to provide much of the food needs of the family. It was during those early years I learned, at her side, that work is a necessary part of life.
There were 10 of us born to my parents:
Eunetta May
Jennie Louella
Frances Pearl
Pheby Idella
Amos Franklin
Ivena Ann
Irene Vilate
Orvil Kay
Verda Louise
Louis Vee
My first memories of childhood start at age 5 when we lived in Lehi, Utah County. It was there that I have my first remembrance of Christmas. One of the older children must have received a sleigh, as my sister Vilate and I were taking turns going over a head gate in the creek across the street onto the ice about 3 feet below. On what turned out to be my last turn, the ice broke, and I ended up downstream a few feet under the ice. Vilate called for help and my brother Amos came and fished me out.
We then moved into an old frame house on the west edge of Santaquin. There I attended the 3rd and 4th grades. One day in the fall, dad made a wooden barrel full of sauerkraut, which he put behind the house. How delicious it tasted when we were permitted to dip out an icy hand full & eat straight from the barrel. Hard times and scarce food can make one learn to enjoy many things. That’s no doubt why, all my life, I have found almost every kind of food pleasant to the taste and have enjoyed trying new things.
From Santaquin, we packed up to move into a rental in Lehi, only to find when we got there that the owner had rented it to another party. There we were, all our goods on a vehicle and no place to live. Dad had to turn to his brother, Thomas, who lived in Payson. He let us move into part of his house, where we lived until the spring of 1937, when we moved into our home in Enterprise.
Shortly before leaving Payson, I acquired a medium-sized black dog, which became my constant companion during leisure hours over the next couple of years. One day, he jumped off the back of dad’s truck when another dog came out barking. He landed in front of the rear wheels, was run over and killed. For me, it was like losing a member of the family. I have not since become really attached to another animal.
By the time we moved to Enterprise, the Depression was ending. Since few people there had much, and I was only 12 years old, I never really felt the hardship or felt deprived, as I might have had I been a few years older during those difficult years. I do recall, however, the embarrassment of not being able, as a teenager, to afford a five-cent candy bar when my friends occasionally bought one. Sometimes, I pretended not to like candy, while at the same time wanting one so much I could hardly stand it. Usually, one of my friends would offer to buy me one, but mostly my pride would not let me accept. The few times I did accept their offer, I ate the bar so slowly, savoring each bite that they thought I didn’t care for candy.
My few years at Enterprise were so pleasant and carefree that I still think of it as home, though I have no desire to return there to live.
An
exceptionally large crop of pine nuts in the fall of 1936 made it possible for
us to purchase an old frame home on the west end of
Much of my leisure time, during those teenage years, was spent with a 22-caliber rifle and my dog, wandering the fields and washes hunting rabbits. The favorite swimming hole for us boys was a waist deep pool southeast of town in the irrigation canal. We swam in the nude. I doubt that any of us knew what a swimming suit was and couldn’t have afforded one had we known. One day, after stripping for a swim, I did a backward dive into the canal, only to find that someone had thrown big rocks into the bottom of the pool. I hit the top of my head on one and might have drowned, except that a friend pulled me out.
At 16, I bought my first car, a 1928 Chevrolet, which cost me $25.00. The radiator leaked so much that I had to carry considerable water to make a trip of 50 miles or so. About 5 miles was all the car would go without starting to boil. My friends and I had some good times in the old clunker, and the freedom it gave us.
In the middle
of [the 11th grade], I quit and went to Las Vegas, Nevada, to work.
My uncle John Elliker, in one of his less rational moments, had suggested I
come to
After going home for a few weeks, I went back to Las Vegas and worked as a machinist draw filer in the machine shop at the same plant. I should have stayed with that job. It paid exceptionally well and the building was air conditioned. Oh, the foolishness of restless youth. It was the job in the machine shop that made it possible for me to pay off my parent’s debts and buy mother her first electric washing machine.
I left Las
Vegas about November of 1942 and went to Salt Lake City, where I worked for
Nelson Ricks Creamery, which company supplied eggs, butter, cheese, and other
products to the military bases in the Salt Lake and Ogden areas. In May of
1943, restless to return home, I quit my job. In doing so, the company
threatened to turn me in to the draft board. To which I foolishly said go
ahead. Since the company was considered necessary to the defense effort, I was
exempt from the draft, and might have remained so for some time, perhaps even
the remainder of the war. But being young and foolish, I quit and went home. In
2 weeks, I received my notice to report to
I reported on June 12, 1943, and was immediately sent to Camp Roberts, California, for basic training. In addition to the regular training designed to break one’s independent spirit and make a person completely subject to authority, I was trained on the 105 mm howitzer, learning to load and fire at targets out on the firing range. One of our regular activities was to run an obstacle course of 2 or 3 miles over rough terrain and along dry, sandy river bottoms. I saw the benefits of not smoking as week after week nonsmokers, mostly LDS fellows, consistently finished the course well ahead of those who smoked.
From Camp Roberts, I was sent to Fort Riley, Kansas, for what is known as line training. There I was assigned to the Flash Section of the 288th Artillery Observation Battalion. I was also assigned to drive a Jeep to chauffeur one of the officers on our regular field exercises. This duty carried over to Europe, where I drove a Weapons Carrier pulling a trailer, during the remainder of the war.
My training at
In September
of 1944, we shipped to England. In November, we sailed to La Havre, France. On
December 19, 1944, we drove through
We hadn’t gone
far into
After a few
exciting times on the border, the artillery and air pounding of German defenses
began, which lasted for three days. Then the ground war was launched into
In March of 1946, I was transferred from Germany to Fort Douglas, Utah, where I received my honorable release from the service. At the time I held the rank of Staff Sergeant.
During my time in the service, I came to realize just how lacking my education was and determined to return to school with the intent of becoming a little more educated. Having heard of the federal high school equivalency test, I signed up, passed, and was able to get my diploma from Dixie High in the spring of 1947. By then, I had enrolled in Dixie Junior College and completed 1 year of class work. I started out majoring in mathematics but graduated in the spring of 1948 with an Associate Degree in accounting. That fall I enrolled at the University of Utah, graduating in the fall of 1950 with a Bachelor of Science degree in accounting. As a result of my army service, I was able to get my education under the G. I. Bill. I also worked to help with the expense of living.
During my
first year at
Anyway, I
learned from a neighbor that the bishop in
It was not until I started courting Arlene that I became active again. I knew that if I was to develop a lasting relationship with her, I had better change the direction of my life. Those first few Sundays of attendance were really difficult. I felt so out of place. I have since had a greater understanding of those who are inactive and who are investigating the church and are somewhat reluctant to commit to becoming active or to baptism.
On July 5, 1950, I went to work for Arlene’s dad, Karl S. Storey, CPA. My starting salary was $185.00 per month for a 44- hour week. When I married Arlene the following June, he gave me a raise to $225.00 per month. (That sly old fox knew she was going to be high maintenance.)
Arlene no
doubt has her own version of our courtship and marriage, but I believe mine is,
if not more accurate, somewhat more entertaining. I contend that her father
came down to the
Had I not been so innocent and naive, I would have been alerted by the nature of the job interview. No questions were asked relating to my accounting skills. He seemed only interested in my religion, my attitude toward temple marriage, and whether or not I was seriously involved with anyone.
I have often
referred to ours as a “shotgun marriage,” because I had to sell my shotgun to
afford our honeymoon trip to Washington and Oregon. This action would not have
been needed had I not been deceived about Arlene’s financial situation. I was
led to believe she had money, which turned out to be three $25.00 war bonds,
which had some years yet to maturity, so they weren’t really worth $25.00. I
feel it necessary to mention that the first night of our marriage was spent at
a second-rate motel called the Shady Lane in Tremonton, Utah. We hadn’t made
any arrangements ahead, and this was the only visible motel we saw that night.
The next morning, however, as we left town, we spotted a very modern motel just
a block off
Now that I’ve had my fun, perhaps it’s time to get serious. My marriage to Arlene, our many years together and the children she bore for us have been the real joys and satisfaction of my life. Could I do it over, I would without hesitation make the same choices. Ours has been a very comfortable and satisfying relationship. I love Arlene dearly.
After our
marriage on June 12, 1951, we lived in an apartment on
I took the summer of 1952 off work and returned to school at the University of Utah, in order to prepare myself better for the CPA exam scheduled for that fall. I sat for the CPA exam that fall and passed, getting my certificate the next spring. One hundred ten took the exam, with 2 of us passing on the first sitting. I must admit, however, that I barely scored enough on the accounting theory section to pass. I was then accepted as a 45% partner in my father-in-law’s firm. As it turned out, this promotion resulted in a reduction in my earnings.
My 4 plus years in public accounting turned out to be disappointing and not the type of experience I had anticipated while in college. In fact, over the approximately 40 years of my working life, I have wished many times that I had trained to work in some other field. The physical part of accounting was enjoyable. I found working the problems and applying them to business transactions both challenging and enjoyable, but having to deal with the conflicts of interest between management, government, and regulatory officials was mostly unpleasant.
After leaving public accounting, I spent a year with Coombs & Company, a penny stock brokerage business. The company went broke when the uranium stock market collapsed. I then went to work for Western Mortgage Loan Corporation, where I was employed for about 32 years. Most of that time was spent as Treasurer and manager of the Loan Servicing and Accounting Departments.
Orvil’s personal history goes on for many pages and many years, but others will talk about the rest of his life.
Remarks by Roger Terry
First, I need to apologize to
Dad’s neighbors for taking him away from them, but I really didn’t see any
other option. I know you missed him, but many of you called and visited over
the past two years and almost four months, and I want you to know he was well
cared for. For the first six months, I couldn’t visit him because of Covid
restrictions [except through a window, talking on cell phones], but after he
fell in his room on Thanksgiving night 2020 and broke his second hip, he went
into kidney failure, and they told me he had only a week or two to live. At
that point, they let me start making end-of-life visits, and when his kidneys
started working again and he recovered, I just kept on visiting, and I visited
him every day for over 21 months with the exception of a couple of weeks when I
was out of town. Those 21 months were both difficult and rewarding [he was
bedridden the whole time], but we are happy that he has finally been able to
rejoin Mom and other loved ones who have been patiently waiting for his body to
wear out.
There’s a lot we can learn from
Dad’s account of his early years.
1. Life was hard, but simple
pleasures were to be relished, even ice-cold sauerkraut.
2. Work was a big part of his life.
If my math is right, he started working full time at age 16.
3. He made some mistakes and rash
decisions, but in the end, he was satisfied with the way his life turned out.
4. His parents didn’t provide for
him very well, but he was a good son. I had heard the story before that he
bought his mother a washing machine with his pay in Las Vegas, but I never knew
until I read his personal history that he also paid off his parents’ debts.
That tells you something about who he was. And he did this as a 17-year-old.
Orvil Terry was not just a good son; he was a good father, a good grandfather,
a good friend, and, most of all, a good husband. Since he fell in May 2020 and
broke his hip, it has been my privilege to help take care of him and manage his
affairs. My only desire was to follow his example and be a good son.
When I edited the life sketch, I
left the part in about him wishing he’d studied something other than accounting.
In spite of that, he worked for 32 years at Western Mortgage Loan for a boss he
didn’t particularly care for. He commented on this decision: “Looking back over
my years at Western Mortgage,” he wrote, “I think about things such as the
pressure, my dislike for supervising people, being out of harmony with the
business operating policies of the ownership, and looking forward to the day
when I could leave and do something else. It raises such questions as: Why did
I stay under these conditions? Was it the financial security? Was it family
pressure to remain in the area? Fear of beginning over and not being able to
find work with equal pay? Perhaps a bit of each of these questions was the
reason. Regardless, I put in more than 30 years with the company. They treated
me fairly and paid me what I was worth. Knowing what I know now, I would likely
choose a different path could I travel life’s road again.”
Personally, I think he stayed
those 32 years primarily because he remembered not having enough to eat as a
child and didn’t want his family to experience that. Toward the end of his
career, he took over his father-in-law’s cherry orchard, bought a piece of land
next to it, and planted a peach orchard. Some of you might remember his
orchards. They also provided a glimpse into who he was. I don’t think I’ve ever
seen another orchard without a single weed. The trees were expertly pruned. It
was a labor of love, but it was a lot of hard work. Imagine a senior citizen pruning
hundreds of trees all through the winter every year. After eight years, he
finally sold the orchards because, as he put it, this was way too much work for
someone his age. He and Mom also wanted to do some traveling. And I suspect
that all that orchard work may have been interfering with his golf.
My dad was, without question, the
hardest worker I have ever known. Nobody else even comes close. If you wanted a
job done and done well, you would ask Orvil Terry. I remember, when I was young,
the evenings he would spend in the basement doing other people’s taxes, all
this after working a full day at Western Mortgage. Later in my life, when we
were raising the level of our backyard, I ordered a couple of dump truck loads
of topsoil that needed to be moved by wheelbarrow from the street to backyard.
I was going to get to this after work, but Dad came down to help, and by the
time I got home, he had already moved half of it by himself, at age 75. When he
was 81, we had a tree that was getting too big. Dad said he and Ray had all the
equipment and they knew what they were doing, so they would take it down for us.
Sheri and I were at a funeral that Saturday morning, and by the time I got
home, the 81-year-old and his young 73-year-old sidekick had the whole tree
down except for one branch that was reaching straight up to heaven. And there
was Ray, legs wrapped around that last branch, hacking away with a handsaw. I’m
sure those of you who were Orvil’s neighbors could tell many stories like this.
But Dad didn’t work all the time.
He also knew how to enjoy himself. First and foremost, he loved golf. He played
until he was 88. He once told me he wanted to sink a 50-foot putt and drop dead
on the green. That would have been easier than the long, drawn-out demise he
eventually suffered. I reminded him of that wish a few months after he broke
his hip, and he told me that not even his hole-in-one worked. And it was a
strange hole-in-one. No one saw it. His foursome was teeing off to an elevated
green. He knew he’d hit it well, but when they reached the green, they couldn’t
see his ball. So they looked in the hole, and there it was.
Dad also loved to travel and loved
to drive through beautiful country. I remember long road trips to the national
parks in Alberta, Canada; the Oregon coast; Vancouver Island; California; the
Colorado Rockies; and the national parks of southern Utah. After Jolene and I
left home, he and mom took many trips, including Hawaii and a memorable excursion
to Alaska with Ray and Donna Coleman. They also had a timeshare, which took
them to some interesting places, and they sometimes invited our family to join
them. San Diego was one of their favorite destinations, and after they passed
the timeshare along to us, it has become one of our favorites as well.
One of Dad’s best qualities was
his generosity. He loved to give away vegetables from his garden, raspberries
from the plants that he let grow among the oak trees, and fruit from his trees.
He gave his physical labor to his friends and neighbors. And after Mom died, he
lived for the little kids in the neighborhood. They would come and visit him,
and he would give them ice cream treats and popsicles. After he broke his hip
and had to move out of his house, I think this was the hardest thing for him.
He felt he was useless. He couldn’t serve or give anymore. But the staff at the
assisted living center where he stayed spoke about his kindness. He was one of
the easy residents. He kept his sweet disposition to the very end, even when
some days he couldn’t remember his own name.
One of the ironies of his life
shows up in the first paragraphs of his personal history: “It seems a
considerable part of my life has been spent in finding excuses for not writing
a personal history, or getting involved in genealogical work. Neither has
really appealed to me. And yet, with some very colorful ancestry, it would seem
more natural to be excited to learn of and write about them. Perhaps my lack of
interest in these activities stems from a rather independent spirit, coupled
with a generally shallow interest in, and concern for, most people.
“General acceptance and a few
friends have always been important to me, but I have not been one to seek
recognition, or to cultivate many friends. I don’t particularly look at myself
as a ‘loner,’ yet, for most of my life, I have done many things alone, where
others would more often than not have sought companionship. I think this part
of my character might denote a bit of selfishness—an unwillingness to commit
the time and effort required to cultivate and maintain more than a very few
close relationships.”
I find this rather humorous,
because I know very few people with as many friends as he had. And I know they
were very important to him. The drive-by birthday party the ward threw for him
when he turned 95 a couple of years ago was a testament to that. [I’ll add here
that because of Covid restrictions, they couldn’t throw him a regular party, so
they decorated their cars, sat him in a chair in the front yard, and drove by
slowly, waving and honking horns. There must have been at least 70 cars. My
family and I and my sister were there that day and were amazed at how much his
neighbors loved him. He had served them for years, and they wanted to thank him.]
In spite of what some of you may
think, Orvil Terry was not perfect, as he well knew. One thing that Sue Oostyen
and I talked about recently is that he was very good at serving others but not
good at all at letting others serve him. And maybe this is the answer to the
question of why such a good man had to waste away and linger for so long. Maybe
it was so that he could learn to receive service and so that some people, like
me, could try to balance the scales of our relationship with him. But he was
imperfect in other ways as well. In a church that prizes dazzling teachers and
gives accolades to men and women who hold one leadership position after
another, my dad was never very comfortable teaching, and after serving as a
bishop over fifty years ago, he was quite content to serve more than 30 years
as finance clerk.
When I returned from my mission, young,
immature, and star-struck by a mission president who was an overpowering
speaker, I am ashamed to confess that I was a bit underwhelmed by my dad. But
as the years passed and I matured a bit, I came to understand that Dad was the
most Christlike man I knew. And he did it in all the quiet ways that really
matter. Many of you know this much better than I do, because you were on the
receiving end of his service.
As he lay in bed for the past 21
months, wondering when he could go be with Arlene again, I would sometimes
tease him that the reason he was still here is that they probably couldn’t
figure out what to do with him on the other side. Maybe they don’t have any trees to prune or leaves
to rake. If all they do is sit in meetings and preach to each other, that
wouldn’t be his idea of heaven anyway, and it isn’t mine either.
But I trust that the heaven he has gone to will be to his liking.
Arlene will be there, and his granddaughter Karla [who died of cancer at age 8],
and all his siblings, and many friends who have preceded him in death. I’m sure
he is happy, and who knows? Maybe they’ll even find a few trees for him to
prune.
Thanks, Dad, for the wonderful example you gave us, for your quiet love,
your patience, and your generosity. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
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