Uncle Fay

In loving memory of Ann Harris Messer 

(July 29, 1931-February 18, 2015)

Harris Family Home cir. 1950

The house I live in now (at the time of writing) is the same house in which Orville was born. It has had rooms added since then.

Lafayette "Fay" Tolton Harris (1902-1990)

Orville and Fay, San Diego, CA, 1952

Orville's youngest brother, Lafayette Tolton, nicknamed Fay, came to live with us at the time of his mother's death. He had been living in New York but decided to stay in Beaver. Fay was a knowledgeable young man, very clever with his hands. There wasn't anything he couldn't do if he made up his mind to do it. He and his cousin, Thomas, spent the next fifteen years mining in the hills. Orville grubstaked Fay and Thomas's brother, Roy, grubstaked him. They were always on the verge of striking it rich but nothing ever came of it. Lots of money and time was wasted, to say nothing of two wasted lives. Fay had great potential but he never lived up to it. He had great acting ability like his brother, Orville, and they were in lots of plays put on by the MIA and also directed many of them. Fay had no interest whatever in the Church. He smoked and drank quite a bit but in spite of these shortcomings, he possessed a natural charm which attracted people to him. He was easy to talk to and could discuss poetry and classical literature for hours. He had a good command of the English language and was easy to communicate with.

                                                                                                                                                                 

Following are excerpts from the history of Ann Messer with vivid memories of “Uncle Fay” who was Orville's  youngest brother:

            I was in the first grade (abt 1937) when Uncle Fay began renovating our kitchen, adding cabinets, plumbing and updating the electricity.  What a dramatic change plumbing made in our lives.  We had previously had an indoor faucet, but no drains.  Water was poured into a side reservoir on the old cook stove to heat, or in a tea kettle always kept hot on the back of the stove, but dirty water had to be carried outside and emptied.  A modern bathroom made the chamber pot, the old tin tub and outhouses obsolete.

            Uncle Fay ran a water pipe through the cook stove and into a hot water tank for our new, up-to-date bathroom.  This amazing invention gave us water that was usually hot, especially in the winter when the stove was needed for heat as well as cooking.  How blessed we were to be able to turn on a tap and get hot water to wash dishes or have a bath.  But, best of all, you could just pull the plug and let the water drain out.

            Mary (Orville and Hester's second daughter and Ann's sister) remembers the cesspool:  Uncle Fay took it upon himself to dig the cesspool with a shovel and a pick which was situated just north of our house.  We checked the ever-growing hole frequently as the dirt flew up over the sides and watched it expand into one very large hole.  In the meantime, Uncle Fay also worked on the new bathroom that occupied part of the pantry and had the essentials in place (tub, toilet and sink) about the same time he had finished digging the hole.  I must have been about 4 years old but I can vividly remember helping Albert Muir Junior test the water flow to see if it was working.  I was looking out of the window as Junior jumped into the trench leading to the cesspool and began digging a holding pond with a big spoon.  He had it all dammed off so the water would stay in his pond.  That was my signal to fill the sink up with water and then to pull the plug.  I would then run to the window and watch as the water magically reached the pond and filled it up to the brim.  Then I had a brilliant idea.  Why don’t I just flush the toilet?  That idea not only washed out the pond but almost obliterated Albert Muir Junior. 

            Ann remembers the outhouses and tin tub baths:  We were classed, in my early years, as a two-bathroom family.  Two outhouses graced our yard.  The old two-seater at the very back of our lot was kept stocked with outdated Sear’s catalogs, and was way out of reach for little girls who had waited too long.  The newer one was under the apple tree not far from the house and was an updated version.  It had a latch on the door, a cement floor, a lid that could be raised or lowered and real toilet paper on a roller.  But, unless I was in a hurry, I preferred the old one.  There were things in that old sear’s wish book that I didn’t even know existed in this world.  Perhaps my habit of reading in the bathroom commenced there. 

            I don’t remember much about bathing in the old tin tub, except that it was placed near the stove on Saturday night and filled with a bucket.  We girls bathed first then were sent off to bed while Mother and Dad bathed.  Even with the bathroom, the Saturday night ritual was about the same.  After our hair was washed we would beg dad to brush out the snarls.  He was much gentler than Mother.  Ringlets were the style of the day but they required a night spent sleeping with rags in our hair. We each had our own bundle of rags.  We would hold one end of a foot-long strip on the top of our head while Mother wound a lock of hair around the middle of the rag.  The ends were then tied together to keep the hair in place.  Voile!  The next morning, with a little brushing around a finger, we were as beautiful as Shirley Temple. 

                                                                                                                                                                   

            With my nose pressed against the window of the Early Bird Café, I watched, wide-eyed, as Uncle Fay tossed a pancake into the air, catching it expertly on a plate.  Adding another to the stack, he saw me watching and waved.  He was back from wandering, goodness knows where, this time working as a chef at the Early Bird.  Dad took me in to sit at the counter and enjoy a cup of hot chocolate while I basked in the glory of being related to Beaver’s renowned “flap jack flipper”.  This job lasted just long enough for Uncle Fay to get “a stake” and the spring thaw to set in, then he and Uncle Tom Harris were off to the hills looking for gold, or tungsten, or whatever it was they spent years searching for.  Every two or three weeks we three girls (Ann, Mary and Joyce, sisters) would ride up North Creek with Dad to leave some supplies at Zote Manhart’s cabin where they could be picked up when Uncle Fay needed them.  This was never done with Mother’s blessing, but Dad was very indulgent towards his little brother.  I expect the money spent on those supplies came out of Dad’s pocket or the family larder.

            On occasion Uncle Fay descended out of the mountains with some ore samples in his back pack and I would be invited to go with him to Cedar City to the Assayer’s office.  How grown up and special I felt riding along with him, listening to enchanting tales about the places he had been.  Uncle Fay had the family gift for storytelling and the well-known family habit of exaggeration.  He explained to me once, “I have embellished that story for so long, not even I remember the exact truth.” While in Cedar City he would take me to lunch at a restaurant, something I never got to do at home.  In fact, a trip to Cedar City was a very rare treat in itself. 

            When home, working in Beaver, Uncle Fay was nearly always involved in the cultural aspect of our little community.  He was highly sought after to direct and act in plays.  Several times he talked Dad into taking up his acting skills again to be in a play he was directing.  “Come on Orv, this part was just made for you.”  Trouble was, Dad never memorized anything in his later life.  He just read the script to get the general idea and then made up his part as he went along.  This technique made him look like a hero and everyone else look like bumbling idiots.  Eventually both Dad and Uncle Fay gave up acting but Dad continued on with giving readings.  People loved to hear him.  They’d start laughing and cheering as soon as he stood up and wouldn’t quit until he had given every reading he knew.  I should amend that statement to:  Until he had given every reading Mother found appropriate.  I have discovered lately that people remember a few readings that I’ve never heard.   At this point it has been 50 years since he died and I still have people stop me and say, “I remember your Dad.”  I now see that story-telling talent cropping up in my Dad’s posterity. 

                                                                                                                                                                     

            We all stood transfixed, staring, so shocked we were incapable of action.  Then Uncle Fay ran out of the darkness, rolling him in the dirt to douse the burning pant leg.  Our friend was saved. 

 Our home was the gathering place for children from blocks around.  Summer evenings were filled with joyous laughter as we gathered to play Hide and Seek; Run, Sheepie, Run; or Kick the Can.  We often made a bonfire in the street to act as home base.  On this particular night, after we were through with our games, the boys were showing off, jumping over the flames to see who could be the most daring.  Before we knew it one of them was on fire.  Without Uncle Fay’s quick action a terrible tragedy would have marred our young lives.

                                                                                                                                                                   

            “Run!”  He gripped my hand tightly, my ten-year-old legs taking flying leaps as he pulled me along towards the last car of the train that was chugging slowly out of the station.  Uncle Fay gave me a boost and I was in.  He quickly followed with my suit case.  We had nearly missed the last evening train going north.  The Bamburger Train, a small commuter line, ran between Ogden and Salt Lake City.  I was giddy with excitement at the thought of my first train ride.  I slid into a seat next to the window and watched the scenery whizzing past the window, each click-clack of the wheels taking me further from home than I had ever been before.  Uncle Fay had picked me up at Aunt Gerties and was to deliver me there again Saturday evening.  A whole two days with my beloved Uncle.

Bamberger Train

          I went to work with him for a while on Friday.  He was foreman of a construction crew building some apartments.  In the afternoon he introduced me to the wonders of big city department stores.  He patiently wandered the many isles with me, looking for a special gift to take home to Mary and Joyce.  I’d never seen so much stuff in my whole life.  Not even the Sears wish book had that many things to tempt a body with.  We finally decided on some miniature china baby dolls dressed in exquisite christening dresses.  He bought some for me and some to give to my sisters.  That was a mistake.  Once I had those beautiful dolls in my possession I was so excited to share them with Mary and Joyce that I could hardly stand it.  Homesickness set in immediately.  The rest of the trip now had to be endured instead of enjoyed.

                                                                                                                                                                   

            I corresponded with Fay while he lived in Ogden.  I even wrote to his girl friend a couple of times.  Then one day one of my letters was returned with the notation “No one at this address by this name”.  The United States had entered the war and he was gone, wandering, goodness knows where.  A year or so later an envelope addressed to me and post marked Hawaii arrived in the mail.  Inside was a $25 War Bond made out in both our names.  Dad solemnly stored it away in his desk.  We received several more and then we heard  nothing more from him until many years later.  But that’s a story for another time.