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| William T. Williams |
Because of the lack of means and the ill health of my mother, I was passed on to Simeon Comfort Powell and wife, Edith Last Cornaby Powell at Salem, Utah, who cared for me until I was about eleven years old. I have a conflicting birth date records. In my father’s brief old Bible record my name is written as Davidd, the Welsh way of writing David, but the Powell’s changed my name to William Powell.
One Sunday afternoon in my early childhood, I think I was around the age of five to seven year old, I was instructed by Mr. Powell’s daughter, Mary, to drive some horses down the road a little ways as they were getting into the crops, as there were no fences around the farm, the crops would be ruined. The folks were away visiting at Scofield at the time.
Mr. Van Taylor was irrigating his field and had noticed me driving the horses. A few minutes later he saw the horses going down the road but couldn’t see me anywhere. He left his irrigating to investigate and found me in the road, unconscious, where a horse had kicked me in the head and crushed it. He took me home and quickly rode his horse to Payson. He returned with a young doctor, George Greer, who had just finished his training in medical. He cleaned out the broken bones and stitched the skin together. I was unconscious for three or four days. This accident left a bad scar and dent in my forehead where the bones were removed but has caused me no further trouble.
My only recollection of my father was, I think, somewhere around the age of eight to ten. I was living in Salem at the time with the S.C. Powell family. My adopted father, Samuel Cornaby, or some of the family, had made arrangements for me to meet my father at Grandpa Cornaby’s. I was dressed in my Sunday best one morning, and my step-parents said to me, “You may walk over to Spanish Fork and visit with your father at Grandpa Cornaby’s”.
It seemed strange to me at that young age that I was sent alone, but I am thankful that they let me see him. I walked to Spanish Fork and arrived at Grandfather Cornaby’s at ten or eleven o’clock. I knocked, and the door was opened. In one corner of the room sat an old man, his whiskers and hair were gray, and he wore a pair of spectacles. His head and hands shook with palsy. He was close to seventy at the time. I was then introduced to my real father, and I think it was the first time that I had ever been introduced to anyone. They asked me to go and shake hands with him as he was my father. I was rather bashful and shook hands rather shyly. He asked for a drink of water, and I was permitted to get one for him. We visited for perhaps an hour or two, and then I walked back to Salem.
One Sunday afternoon in my early childhood, I think I was around the age of five to seven year old, I was instructed by Mr. Powell’s daughter, Mary, to drive some horses down the road a little ways as they were getting into the crops, as there were no fences around the farm, the crops would be ruined. The folks were away visiting at Scofield at the time.
Mr. Van Taylor was irrigating his field and had noticed me driving the horses. A few minutes later he saw the horses going down the road but couldn’t see me anywhere. He left his irrigating to investigate and found me in the road, unconscious, where a horse had kicked me in the head and crushed it. He took me home and quickly rode his horse to Payson. He returned with a young doctor, George Greer, who had just finished his training in medical. He cleaned out the broken bones and stitched the skin together. I was unconscious for three or four days. This accident left a bad scar and dent in my forehead where the bones were removed but has caused me no further trouble.
My only recollection of my father was, I think, somewhere around the age of eight to ten. I was living in Salem at the time with the S.C. Powell family. My adopted father, Samuel Cornaby, or some of the family, had made arrangements for me to meet my father at Grandpa Cornaby’s. I was dressed in my Sunday best one morning, and my step-parents said to me, “You may walk over to Spanish Fork and visit with your father at Grandpa Cornaby’s”.
It seemed strange to me at that young age that I was sent alone, but I am thankful that they let me see him. I walked to Spanish Fork and arrived at Grandfather Cornaby’s at ten or eleven o’clock. I knocked, and the door was opened. In one corner of the room sat an old man, his whiskers and hair were gray, and he wore a pair of spectacles. His head and hands shook with palsy. He was close to seventy at the time. I was then introduced to my real father, and I think it was the first time that I had ever been introduced to anyone. They asked me to go and shake hands with him as he was my father. I was rather bashful and shook hands rather shyly. He asked for a drink of water, and I was permitted to get one for him. We visited for perhaps an hour or two, and then I walked back to Salem.
I left my adopted parents in 1882 and went home to my mother, brothers, and sisters, my father in the meantime having died. I went by the name of William Williams, but when I was eighteen or nineteen year old and working in Tucker, Utah, there were three if not four persons with the same name, so the first to the post office was served with the mail. Through the advice of David Clark, I adopted William T. Williams as my name but have no name for the letter T. I have done all business to this day in that name, and my children acknowledge it and use my signature as William T. Williams.
Somewhere around the year 1917, I arrived home after dark. There were chores to do, so I went out to milk the cows. After finishing the milking, I was hurrying into the house when I ran into the snubbing post (a post used to rope and tie cattle with) and hit myself in the nose. My nose swelled up for several days, and then apparently healed. After about five years a small lump began to form. The doctors advocated removing it, but I had no confidence in letting them remove it. About five more years passed, with it continued to grow and reached the cancerous stage. It would bleed and hemorrhage at night. Finally one day a man came to our home that had been healed of cancer at Dr. Nichols’ Sanatorium, Inc., of Savannah, Missouri.
Through his recommendation, my wife and family urged me to go there and have the cancer removed. With the money I had and the assistance of my oldest son, Allen B., who was herding sheep at the time for Thomas and Herbert Williams, I and my wife went to Savannah, Missouri, to Dr. Nichols’ Sanatorium, where the cancer was removed by escharotics or acid burning process. It was done without loss of blood and was painless, although my whole nose had to be removed. This cancer was removed in June 1927 and at this date I have had no signs of its return, although it has now been sixteen years ago this month since its removal. This didn’t disfigure my face, but the doctor had to take the whole nose off and an artificial nose was fitted on by an expert, when has proved perfectly satisfactory. Three months after this operation, I went back for an examination, and a growth was removed from my shoulder.
Since then I have been on crutches in the house, still looking at the beauties and wonders of the earth, wishing all people health through the front window. This brings me to my 72nd birthday on May 26, 1943.
I feel at this time that I would like to express my appreciation and thankfulness to my step-parents, Simeon Comfort Powell and Edith Hannah Cornaby Powell. As a youth I didn’t fully appreciate what they did for me, but I think I am not any different in that respect than any other child.
My step-parents cared for and took care of me at an age when it was impossible for me to fully care for myself. When grown, I married Hannah Caroline Powell, their daughter, so these good people are my children’s grandparents.
Decendancy
William T. Williams (1871-1949)
Allen Berry Williams (1905-2000)
LaVon Williams (1932-2015)
Diane Finlinson
SOURCE
Autobiography of William T. Williams, written in 1943 at the age of 72.
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