Owen Kay Reynolds -- 6 May 1932 - 17 February 2018
IN MEMORIAM
Services for Kay were held at the Venice Ward Chapel on March 23, 2018
Family and friends gathered for family prayer prior to service
A family made urn with Kay's ashes was interred in a grave vault at the Venice cemetery.
A west-desert Utah photo by Dr. James Reynolds, March 2018
Opening Congregational Hymn
Kay's brother, Newt
A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE
TO
MY BIG BROTHER
by
Robert Newel Reynolds
March 23, 2018
Venice, Utah
Dear brothers and sisters and friends. I am honored to be here to pay tribute to my brother, Owen Kay Reynolds.
The red soils of the Sevier Valley are a welcome site to me because I came here often as a small child. I remember many fields of sugar beets where now exist hay and alfalfa fields.
In many ways this is Kay's ancestral home. All four of Kay's great-grandfathers were Mormon pioneers. Between them they had 12 wives and 92 children. And one great-grandfather, Archibald Waller Overton Buchanan spent his last days and died right here in Venice. So, it seems only fitting that Kay's DNA – the ashes of his old dry bones be returned to the red soils of this ancestral valley.
The earliest photo we have of Kay was of my mother holding him at one year of age while visiting her parents in Richfield. Grandpa Newel K. Young was Principal of the LDS seminary there. He was a most interesting man. One evening he returned home after walking down Richfield's Main Street and to my grandmother displayed a silver dollar he had just received. He said: “a man came up to me and said, 'I have been carrying this silver dollar around in my pocket waiting for the chance to give it to someone uglier than myself, and you are he.'”
Last November I turned 80. My brother Kay called and wished me well. We talked about our health and concluded that neither of us would see 90! So far we are only half right!
During my first fifty years I often chose to follow my brother's path. The tracks were U shaped, like Alars, (displayed a chromed horseshoe) and, we always wore a western hat. He influenced me more than any other mortal. I followed him all over the west and even into Oklahoma to attend Arabian Horse shows.
Thirty years ago I removed this hat after dropping off my horses at his place in Holladay. I moved to Wyoming and on to Colorado and never looked back! Now, thirty years later I dusted off this hat and I am honored to pay tribute to Owen Kay Reynolds, my big brother.
If asked about my brother Kay today, I will describe him by saying, “Horses, dogs, and my children loved him.” And I think that’s about the finest thing that can be said about anyone. Because dogs know—they have a sixth sense about who can be trusted. And children feel—they feel in their heart who loves them, and recognize a kindred spirit, and horses have been near the heart and best side of man for centuries – ever since recorded history began.
BIRTH
Kay was born on May 6, 1932 at the height of THE GREAT DEPRESSION to Owen Ford and Vernessa Young Reynolds. He was the third child of his parent's 3 year marriage. He was born at his parent's Holladay home early on a Friday morning. On that eventful day his father soon left for work but while there neglected to tell a single soul about his newborn son!!
Mother never forgot that slight! And over time this neglect became a precurser of negative behaviors by both father and son that played out during Kay's childhood years.
Five years younger than my brother, I grew to love him more than gold, but the predominate feeling etched in my brain, of those years, is one of always feeling sorry for Kay's constant predicaments and father's punishment. About this, one of my older sisters said, “Kay was always crying and mother usually took his side.”
ANCESTRY
A tenth generation American. Kay's third great-grandfather, Jeremiah Reynolds was a Revolutionary War soldier who, at age 80, was laid to rest in the rich soils of the Genesee River Valley of western New York state, where finely bred horses ruled the day.
Kay's great-grandfather Warren Ford Reynolds was the only one of nine Baptist raised children who responded positively to the message of the Restoration. The year 1846 found Warren and his bride being baptized in the Mississippi River as they joined with the homeless saints pushing westward. About this time Grandpa Warren wrote: "I was left in Nauvoo with but one horse and wagon & had my wagon robed at farmington and I was turned out - as the huskers would say to eat root little pig or die.”
Warren, with his younger brother, William heard the call of Brigham Young soliciting for the Mormon Battalion at Garden Grove and Winter Quarters. Brother William joined and served as teamster for the Battalion doctor, George B. Sanderson who earned the nickname, Dr. Death. At the conclusion of the Battalion's march to Los Angeles, William was chosen as one of fifteen escorts, using horses and mules, to return Colonial John C. Fremont to Fort Leavenworth. Continuing on to his home in Michigan, William never joined the church. Meanwhile, Warren's horse skills carried him west with the pioneer saints and upon reaching the Salt lake Valley, he set out a homestead on Big Cottonwood Creek. He earned a reputation, like his forefathers, for always having good horses.
Just west of Warren's homestead, between Holladay and Murray, his grandsons and Kay's uncles, Heber Clyde and Rulon Jay Reynolds worked and operated the Welch Fish Hatchery located where springs of fresh water arose and passed through a large pasture. There, horses were collected from around the valley and pastured, until their worth was reduced to “fish bait.” Our home in Holladay was within walking distance and on a bike it was just a breeze.
Upon this historic scene entered my brother, Kay, at a very early age. Knowing first hand the relationship between my father and my brother I once asked Kay, when we were old, what he thought of Uncle Jay. He answered. “If Jesus was as good a man as Uncle Jay he would have to have been a very great man.
Not a little, but throughout his life, my brother was captivated and enthralled with horses. I remember as a young boy he went to the Utah State Fair to see Gene Autrey and Champion. He came home with one of Champion's tail hairs!
Again, I have a vivid memory of Kay, about 12 or 13, swinging a bridle over his shoulder and heading down the road to the fish hatchery to obtain from Uncle Jay one of the “fish-baits” to ride on his paper route. Once, he brought home a ridge-backed gelding, whose ribs you could actually count, for me to ride while I followed him on his long route. It was not a fun experience as I had no saddle!
As his little brother, I basked in his adventures—He always had a lot of them. Fishing, hunting and archery were seasonal priorities that often took precedence over everything else.
I learned early that my larger-than-life brother was invincible. He could do anything, perform any risk to get in trouble, but in the end survive. But, that said, there was one major fault he carried into adulthood. He was afraid of the dark. When we were children Kay solved that problem by making me look under the bed for spooks every night before we climbed in.
When daylight came another tactic was employed. Very early we would hear our daily chore assignment as Dad called down the stairs to our shared bedroom before he left for work. “ Weed three rows of corn and two of beans for Kay, and one row of carrots for Newly boy.” Then the successful plead. “You will do mine, Oh please?” And, I would and did, to keep him from being punished.
Kay was always testing boundaries, exploring the limits—which was excellent, because then I knew exactly where they were and I made sure I didn’t break the rules. Describing our youth, my sister Barb said to me the other day. “You were good and he was bad. I felt so sorry for him.”
One of our favorite family images is Kay with his gift of a prized double barreled BB gun. So responsible, right. Wrong! Then followed the shooting of windows at the nearby Junior High School.
Trouble often ended with Kay's threats to run away from home. He did on occasion and did not always come back in time for supper. Thankfully, Mother's pleadings would always prevail.
AFTER HIGH SCHOOL – THE INTERVENING YEARS
I call the time between High School and 1977 “the intervening years” for it was during this period that Kay's life was most vulnerable to making consequential eternal mistakes.
First, there was his joining the US Marine Corps during the Korean War. He could have been a casualty of that awful conflict but instead he, once again proved his invincibility by skirting a couple of dead-falls. Instead, he scored high on the required tests, went to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina and became a cook. Rating at the top of his class he was given the right to chose his duty station which returned him to the comforts of Camp Pendleton, California for the duration.
They say “those who constantly cheat death are living life to the fullest. Perhaps it’s the lack of fear that opens up one’s world, allows one to take risks that constrain lesser mortals.” If this is true it may explain the whys and wherefores of my brother's life – but unfortunately with one stark caveat, “Almost.”
Like when he returned from the Marines without a scratch and then went to work for Uncle Art driving a faulty backhoe – when an un-serviced cable snapped and narrowly missed taking off his arm. But caused a severe injury that eventually healed.
He even survived some bad marriages, to wives whose names, for convenience sake, now escape me. But after that he married a wonderful woman named Linda who has been constantly at his side for the past 41 years. I witnessed their marriage in Las Vegas and I attended their sealing at the Manti temple.
But, now our hearts and minds are reminded that in this mortal sphere all good things have an end point and so we search, we yearn, we reach with all our might for eternal explanations.
Kay called me the day before he died. We talked wonderfully and lovingly for fifteen minutes. He reminisced briefly about the positive changes he had made to his life over the past twenty years, and he was at peace and happy to be worthy of the Lord. I said to him, “If you get there first, when I get there please pull me in.” He responded, “No, I will be there to push you in.” – Always the helper!
Either way will be fine!
During this phone call I offered to send Kay a couple of my woodturnings. Reflecting on that conversation now, it seems strangely coincidental that his ashes now rest within this urn that became a family project. Without the help of my son John and my wife, Allie it would never have happened.
IN FINAL TRIBUTE
Those of us who knew him, who respected him, who got angry with him, who loved him —we’ll miss the boy, and the man he turned out to be.
We’ll miss the friend, who was always quick with a funny line,
We’ll miss the brother, the son, the boy who tested his limits, who brought home the trophies, who befriended and defended the neighborhood dogs and children.
We’ll mourn the man who’s gone, whom we lost so tragically, but we’ll remember him, and remember that above all, he would want us to remember him as he lived, on his horse farm with Linda.
I’d like to read a poem, by Joyce Grenfell:
If I should die before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell.
But life goes on.
So sing as well.
The red soils of the Sevier Valley are a welcome site to me because I came here often as a small child. I remember many fields of sugar beets where now exist hay and alfalfa fields.
In many ways this is Kay's ancestral home. All four of Kay's great-grandfathers were Mormon pioneers. Between them they had 12 wives and 92 children. And one great-grandfather, Archibald Waller Overton Buchanan spent his last days and died right here in Venice. So, it seems only fitting that Kay's DNA – the ashes of his old dry bones be returned to the red soils of this ancestral valley.
The earliest photo we have of Kay was of my mother holding him at one year of age while visiting her parents in Richfield. Grandpa Newel K. Young was Principal of the LDS seminary there. He was a most interesting man. One evening he returned home after walking down Richfield's Main Street and to my grandmother displayed a silver dollar he had just received. He said: “a man came up to me and said, 'I have been carrying this silver dollar around in my pocket waiting for the chance to give it to someone uglier than myself, and you are he.'”
Last November I turned 80. My brother Kay called and wished me well. We talked about our health and concluded that neither of us would see 90! So far we are only half right!
During my first fifty years I often chose to follow my brother's path. The tracks were U shaped, like Alars, (displayed a chromed horseshoe) and, we always wore a western hat. He influenced me more than any other mortal. I followed him all over the west and even into Oklahoma to attend Arabian Horse shows.
Thirty years ago I removed this hat after dropping off my horses at his place in Holladay. I moved to Wyoming and on to Colorado and never looked back! Now, thirty years later I dusted off this hat and I am honored to pay tribute to Owen Kay Reynolds, my big brother.
If asked about my brother Kay today, I will describe him by saying, “Horses, dogs, and my children loved him.” And I think that’s about the finest thing that can be said about anyone. Because dogs know—they have a sixth sense about who can be trusted. And children feel—they feel in their heart who loves them, and recognize a kindred spirit, and horses have been near the heart and best side of man for centuries – ever since recorded history began.
BIRTH
Kay was born on May 6, 1932 at the height of THE GREAT DEPRESSION to Owen Ford and Vernessa Young Reynolds. He was the third child of his parent's 3 year marriage. He was born at his parent's Holladay home early on a Friday morning. On that eventful day his father soon left for work but while there neglected to tell a single soul about his newborn son!!
Mother never forgot that slight! And over time this neglect became a precurser of negative behaviors by both father and son that played out during Kay's childhood years.
Five years younger than my brother, I grew to love him more than gold, but the predominate feeling etched in my brain, of those years, is one of always feeling sorry for Kay's constant predicaments and father's punishment. About this, one of my older sisters said, “Kay was always crying and mother usually took his side.”
ANCESTRY
A tenth generation American. Kay's third great-grandfather, Jeremiah Reynolds was a Revolutionary War soldier who, at age 80, was laid to rest in the rich soils of the Genesee River Valley of western New York state, where finely bred horses ruled the day.
Kay's great-grandfather Warren Ford Reynolds was the only one of nine Baptist raised children who responded positively to the message of the Restoration. The year 1846 found Warren and his bride being baptized in the Mississippi River as they joined with the homeless saints pushing westward. About this time Grandpa Warren wrote: "I was left in Nauvoo with but one horse and wagon & had my wagon robed at farmington and I was turned out - as the huskers would say to eat root little pig or die.”
Warren, with his younger brother, William heard the call of Brigham Young soliciting for the Mormon Battalion at Garden Grove and Winter Quarters. Brother William joined and served as teamster for the Battalion doctor, George B. Sanderson who earned the nickname, Dr. Death. At the conclusion of the Battalion's march to Los Angeles, William was chosen as one of fifteen escorts, using horses and mules, to return Colonial John C. Fremont to Fort Leavenworth. Continuing on to his home in Michigan, William never joined the church. Meanwhile, Warren's horse skills carried him west with the pioneer saints and upon reaching the Salt lake Valley, he set out a homestead on Big Cottonwood Creek. He earned a reputation, like his forefathers, for always having good horses.
Just west of Warren's homestead, between Holladay and Murray, his grandsons and Kay's uncles, Heber Clyde and Rulon Jay Reynolds worked and operated the Welch Fish Hatchery located where springs of fresh water arose and passed through a large pasture. There, horses were collected from around the valley and pastured, until their worth was reduced to “fish bait.” Our home in Holladay was within walking distance and on a bike it was just a breeze.
Upon this historic scene entered my brother, Kay, at a very early age. Knowing first hand the relationship between my father and my brother I once asked Kay, when we were old, what he thought of Uncle Jay. He answered. “If Jesus was as good a man as Uncle Jay he would have to have been a very great man.
Not a little, but throughout his life, my brother was captivated and enthralled with horses. I remember as a young boy he went to the Utah State Fair to see Gene Autrey and Champion. He came home with one of Champion's tail hairs!
Again, I have a vivid memory of Kay, about 12 or 13, swinging a bridle over his shoulder and heading down the road to the fish hatchery to obtain from Uncle Jay one of the “fish-baits” to ride on his paper route. Once, he brought home a ridge-backed gelding, whose ribs you could actually count, for me to ride while I followed him on his long route. It was not a fun experience as I had no saddle!
As his little brother, I basked in his adventures—He always had a lot of them. Fishing, hunting and archery were seasonal priorities that often took precedence over everything else.
I learned early that my larger-than-life brother was invincible. He could do anything, perform any risk to get in trouble, but in the end survive. But, that said, there was one major fault he carried into adulthood. He was afraid of the dark. When we were children Kay solved that problem by making me look under the bed for spooks every night before we climbed in.
When daylight came another tactic was employed. Very early we would hear our daily chore assignment as Dad called down the stairs to our shared bedroom before he left for work. “ Weed three rows of corn and two of beans for Kay, and one row of carrots for Newly boy.” Then the successful plead. “You will do mine, Oh please?” And, I would and did, to keep him from being punished.
Kay was always testing boundaries, exploring the limits—which was excellent, because then I knew exactly where they were and I made sure I didn’t break the rules. Describing our youth, my sister Barb said to me the other day. “You were good and he was bad. I felt so sorry for him.”
One of our favorite family images is Kay with his gift of a prized double barreled BB gun. So responsible, right. Wrong! Then followed the shooting of windows at the nearby Junior High School.
Trouble often ended with Kay's threats to run away from home. He did on occasion and did not always come back in time for supper. Thankfully, Mother's pleadings would always prevail.
AFTER HIGH SCHOOL – THE INTERVENING YEARS
I call the time between High School and 1977 “the intervening years” for it was during this period that Kay's life was most vulnerable to making consequential eternal mistakes.
First, there was his joining the US Marine Corps during the Korean War. He could have been a casualty of that awful conflict but instead he, once again proved his invincibility by skirting a couple of dead-falls. Instead, he scored high on the required tests, went to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina and became a cook. Rating at the top of his class he was given the right to chose his duty station which returned him to the comforts of Camp Pendleton, California for the duration.
They say “those who constantly cheat death are living life to the fullest. Perhaps it’s the lack of fear that opens up one’s world, allows one to take risks that constrain lesser mortals.” If this is true it may explain the whys and wherefores of my brother's life – but unfortunately with one stark caveat, “Almost.”
Like when he returned from the Marines without a scratch and then went to work for Uncle Art driving a faulty backhoe – when an un-serviced cable snapped and narrowly missed taking off his arm. But caused a severe injury that eventually healed.
He even survived some bad marriages, to wives whose names, for convenience sake, now escape me. But after that he married a wonderful woman named Linda who has been constantly at his side for the past 41 years. I witnessed their marriage in Las Vegas and I attended their sealing at the Manti temple.
But, now our hearts and minds are reminded that in this mortal sphere all good things have an end point and so we search, we yearn, we reach with all our might for eternal explanations.
Kay called me the day before he died. We talked wonderfully and lovingly for fifteen minutes. He reminisced briefly about the positive changes he had made to his life over the past twenty years, and he was at peace and happy to be worthy of the Lord. I said to him, “If you get there first, when I get there please pull me in.” He responded, “No, I will be there to push you in.” – Always the helper!
Either way will be fine!
During this phone call I offered to send Kay a couple of my woodturnings. Reflecting on that conversation now, it seems strangely coincidental that his ashes now rest within this urn that became a family project. Without the help of my son John and my wife, Allie it would never have happened.
IN FINAL TRIBUTE
Those of us who knew him, who respected him, who got angry with him, who loved him —we’ll miss the boy, and the man he turned out to be.
We’ll miss the friend, who was always quick with a funny line,
We’ll miss the brother, the son, the boy who tested his limits, who brought home the trophies, who befriended and defended the neighborhood dogs and children.
We’ll mourn the man who’s gone, whom we lost so tragically, but we’ll remember him, and remember that above all, he would want us to remember him as he lived, on his horse farm with Linda.
I’d like to read a poem, by Joyce Grenfell:
If I should die before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell.
But life goes on.
So sing as well.