Genealogy Ludwig » William Edward Smith (1909-1976)

Persönliche Daten William Edward Smith 

• Er wurde geboren am 29. September 1909 in Silisia, Carbon County, Montana.Quelle 1
• Alternative: Er wurde geboren in 50CR-ZG.
• (Fact 2) am 18. Februar 1976 in Clarksville, Johnson County, Arkansas.Quelle 1
• Er ist verstorben am 12. Februar 1976 in Orem, Utah County, Utah, er war 66 Jahre alt.Quelle 1
• Ein Kind von John James Smith und Rosa May Author

Familie von William Edward Smith

Er ist verheiratet mit Virginia June Brand.

Sie haben geheiratet am 19. Januar 1944 in Mesa, Maricopa County, Arizona, er war 34 Jahre alt.Quelle 1

Kind(er):

1. Lauren Rose Smith  1945-1952
2. (Nicht öffentlich)
3. (Nicht öffentlich)
4. (Nicht öffentlich)
5. (Nicht öffentlich)

Notizen bei William Edward Smith

[Brøderbund WFT Vol. 7, Ed. 1, Tree #0812, Date of Import: Nov 25, 1997] !Bill attended schools in Fromberg, Montana and worked as a surveyor, road builder, printer and lithographer for Yellowstone Park before he entered the Army. At the time of his marriage he was stationed in Muskogee, OK. He & his wife traveled throughout Europe on assignment as a combat engineer. He was a veteran of World War II & Korea and was retired as a major in 1962 with the rank of major. He worked as a highway engineer technician in Orem, UT. He retired from that job in 1974. He is buried in Clarksville Cemetery. Bill spent a few winters in Yellowstone to feed the elk. Bill enjoyed expressing himself with his writings. He wrote "The Homestead" about his childhood home. It reads: "Beyond these dry and lonely hills, great mountains rise in majesty...so far away they seem to float upon a gray and misty sea. Down those green slopes cool water flows, bubbling, singing, constantly, ever moving, ever searching, going home to Mother Sea. But these dry hills grow dryer still beneath a baleful, brassy sky... while horned toads pant in meager shade and grasses fade, turn gray, and die. Dust devils dance across parched fields that hope has planted lovingly. Clouds build, then break, and drift away, false promises of hope to be. I love this land, each rock, each thorn, the wonder of its star swept night...the spring, resplendant with its flowers- it is a land of pure delight, for I am young, my heart roams free, though parents toil through endless day. But more and more I turn my eyes to those green mountains far away. Hang on and hope another year. Hang on and hope and toil and pray. There is no better land on earth- Dear God send rain, for rain we pray. Great clouds assemble, roil and rise, and crashing thunder rakes the sky and dimly seen as night comes on the rain falls- on those mountain high. Wearily the sleepless father walks the dry earth through the night. He stops to rest beside the wagon at the first of morning light. "This is my land, to hold in trust. This land the Good Lord gave to me! Here I will stay, though no rain fall, here in the dust, 'til dust I be!" Years on years have told their story; miles on miles are left behind; this world's green mountains yielded little that I journeyed forth to find. Now I understand the yearning that will never set me free- No matter what the world may offer those dry hills are home to me." Later in his life, Bill wrote, "A Man Grows Old". "From the still darkness the northland is calling me...back where the rivers flow north to the sea. There where the willows bend low to the water...a fair, dark-eyed maiden long waited for me. When the bright sun shone clear on the hoar-frost of morning...'Twas good to stand tall in the morning of life; now the shadows grow long and the night is fast falling, and wild, golden memories cut like a knife. Once, in the days of my youth and my vigor I rode the wild rivers that search for the sea and some of the strength of the rushing white water came through the frail craft to lend glory to me. I led my men forth in the wars of the nations-- then led them all back, bone-weary, but sound, while the deep searching fire from the enemy's cannon paced our withdrawal, round upon round. I loved, and was loved, in the season of summer, and counted myself with the fortunate ones, to have a good wife to thrive under my care-- to hold three fair daughters, to hold two strong sons. Why travel northward, or why live in Midvale, or why climb high mountains, or why travel east? Why be a merchant, or why be a farmer, or why be a hunter, or why be a priest? Why be a hermit, or why be a bachelor, or why be a lover, or why take a wife? Because , for each one, it is part of the answer in his endless quest for the meaning of life. Oh, why did God give me the soul of a pagan, then set me down here in the midst of the throng, to punish my feet on the unyielding pavement, to scramble for bread, and try not to do wrong? Oh, where are the days when I stood with the living? Oh, what sort of life ties a man to a chair? Why do I sit, while my life's years are wasting? And what sort of man ties his life to a chair? Let the evening be warm and the sunset be red. Let the shadows grow deep as the last prayer is said. May the roses still bloom, may the thunder still roar, and the bright sun burst forth when the wild storm is o'er."

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