Archived Farrar Family Tree

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  • ID: I2
  • Name: John Franklin FARRAR
  • Given Name: John Franklin
  • Surname: FARRAR
  • Nickname: Jack
  • Sex: M
  • _UID: 12FAB98CBB59D54E9EBC5BF248C26CF59ACA
  • Change Date: 14 APR 2008
  • Note:


    Obituary of Jack Farrar
    Twin Falls Times News

    Jack Farrar, 38, manager of Joslin field and commander of the Idaho wing of the civil air patrol, died Friday night of a heart attack after he collapsed while acting as toastmaster at a banquet for the Aerospace Educational conference at the Turf club.

    Mr. Farrar was a native of Twin Falls and attended Twin Falls high school upon graduation from public school at Berger. He married Nelda Wagner at Elko, Nev., on July 23, 1942.

    Survivors are his widow; two sons, James Farrar and John Farrar; his mother, Mrs. Louella Farrar; three brothers, Elmo J. Farrar, Homestead, Ore., James E. Farrar, Jacksonville, Ore., and Elbert L. Farrar, Cheyenne, Wyo.

    Mr. Farrar's home in Twin Falls was at 1828 Dorian drive. He attended the University of Idaho for one year and worked for KTFI in Twin Falls for 11 years. During that time he produced two daily farm programs and was farm editor.

    He became airport manager in 1957, a position he held at the time of his death.

    His career in the civil air patrol began in 1944, and he served at various times a public relations office, adjutant, lieutenant colonel and wing commander of Idaho's 16 squadrons.


    Funeral Service by Rev. Earl W. Riddle


    We have gathered here this afternoon as family and friends of Jack Farrar. We have come to pay respects, to share in our memories, to question a bit of justice of it all, and to express our faith that this is not all there is to life.

    It is not an easy thing that we do today. For we cannot take lightly the loss of one who has meant so much to a community and who has been so much a part of the community as has Jack. But yet, these things are on our hearts and we must say them. We would not spend a great time in eulogy for we know that this would not have been Jack's way. Let us pause for a moment and remember the qualities of his life that will never be forgotten.

    First of all we will remember his service to our community. Jack was born and raised in this area; he was a part of it. He knew the people and they knew him. He new the land all around here. For many years in his short life, he has been the servant of the community in radio announcing. His farm programs were appreciated by all who heard them and by all who followed them faithfully.

    Jack's experience and his love of people caused him to be in demand as a Master of Ceremonies on many occasions. Certainly, he was a civic-minded man and had a feeling of what his community needed. His active service with the Civil Air Patrol attests to his interest in the welfare of his fellow men. And the presence of so many of his associates in the Civil Air Patrol, today, attests to the esteem in which his fellow men held Jack. Perhaps it is well for us to question our own service to our community to see if we are doing our part which is so much needed.

    Another thing that we will remember about Jack Farrar was his interest in people. He always met people well and liked people very much. Even if he was busy and pressed for time, he would take time to visit. He had a way of bringing out the best in every man. His way of congeniality was able to set others at ease, and he always had a story to share with those he met. Although we always accomplished a great deal, he gave us all the impression that he was "easy-going." This memory, as we share it today, leads us to question our own sincerity in truly loving people and in showing interest in them.

    There is still one other thing that we will remember about Jack. We remember his concern for the soil and its conservation. Jack's heart was still in the soil and in its use. He farmed a place and kept his hand in it even as busy as he was. In fact, his interest in Siberian Wheat Grass and the possibilities of it, caused him to be somewhat of an authority in the field.

    In his talks on Conservation, it was evident that he recognized God as the Creator and Sustainer of the soil and of all His people. In a very real sense, then, we are co-laborers with God. Such a memory as this leads us to strengthen our concern for the soil and for the God Who created it.

    Well Jack was a very versatile fellow and perhaps we was called on to do many things because he was so willing. He gave himself tirelessly to his place in serving our community. It leads us to wonder if we have done our part as we were able.

    Some of us may ask at such a time as this, "Why should we lose so young a man?" Why should it have been one who contributes so much?

    I am sure that it was not God's intention. Perhaps it is, in part, because we did not do our share of the work. None of us knows the future or what it holds of "wonder or surprise." It is simply our task to seek to know the God who does know the future. In a moment such as this, we can depend on God to stand with us in our hour of trial; to sorrow as we sorrow, to sustain us when we seek strength.

    And then, we can be thankful for these years of enjoyment that we have had as family and friends. We can seek more thoughtful living, more service to our own communities wherever they are, an honest interest in people, and a closer knowledge of the soil and the God Who created it all.


    The Light


    by Jack Farrar

    Marty Bevin closed the door slowly and sighed. A crooked grin spread over his scarred face and his eyes narrowed as his hand withdrew a folded paper, yellow with age, from his breast pocket. He unfolded it and read it for the hundredth time.

    He refolded it and returned it to his pocket, his eyes widening a fraction. His wicked grin remained frozen on his face as he took his cane from the crook of his arm and hobbled down the corridor of the courthouse.

    Larrouy's Bar on 41st street was a dump. But it was home to Marty Bevin and it had never seemed more so as he made his way through the smoke and chatter to a table in the rear.

    "Hello Marty. Long time no see," a voice that he recognized said.

    Marty turned, smiling broadly. "Hello boys," he said, "been keeping New York's finest busy since I been away?"

    There were two of them. The taller one, Joe Darnelli, pumped his hand and said "been a long time Marty, what's doing?"

    The other man, a short, stocky little fellow with a derby and a Cuban cigar said "Marty, there's dough to be had around here. You come back at a good time. We're makin' more and more money every day off of bootleg butter and gas coupons. Hell, by the time the war's over with, we'll be able to retire."

    "Marty," Darnelli paused and sipped his beer and looked at the floor, "Marty, with your brains behind us it'd be like the old days."

    Marty sipped his beer and studied them over the rim of the glass.

    "Just like the old days, eh?," he said.

    "We'll be rich, Marty. Rich. Do you understand? There's a war going on and it's gonna make us very wealthy," said the little man with the derby.

    Marty brushed the foam from his upper lip with his coat sleeve and said "thanks, boys, for the swell welcome. It's nice of you guys to offer to cut me in on your racket, but. . ." His voice trailed off.

    "But what?" said Darnelli.

    "But I've got a few old scores to settle before I get into the business again. I'm not gonna let this gimpy leg go by without someone paying for it." His eyes narrowed and small pin-points of flame began to dance in them.

    The man with the derby said "if you mean Jake Lazarus, if it's him you're lookin' to get even with, then he's moved on to Chicago. Runnin' bootleg whiskey. We let 'im know we didn't want 'im around after you left."

    Marty lit a cigarette and blew out a long feather of smoke.

    "Naw, it ain't Jake I'm lookin' for. It's someone you guys don't even know about. But you guys can help me out, though."

    "Anything, Marty. Whadda you need?" said the man in the derby.

    "Either one of you guys gotta rod I could borrow for a couple a days?" Darnelli gave him the gun, a .38 automatic.

    "Thanks Joe, this is just what I'll need." He snuffed out his cigarette on the edge of the table, got up and hobbled towards the door.

    The man in the derby remarked to his companion, "I wonder what's come over him. He was always ready for a new racket before he left, but now somethin's wrong with 'im." His questioning gaze followed Marty out through the door and into the night.

    When he reached the street, Marty limped into the nearest drug store and went into a telephone booth. He picked up the directory and started looking, jotting down addresses on a soiled envelope which he'd had in his pocket. It was eight o'clock.

    By the time he'd finished his supper it was half past nine. He had another beer and smoked a cigarette. He sat as though in a stupor.

    He was roused from his reverie by a sharp pain on his left hand. His cigarette had burned down to his fingers. He got up slowly and limped out the door toward a taxi stand. He stopped and turned, as if struck by a thought or a feeling of remorse, shook his head and crossed the street.

    The clock on a nearby corner was striking eleven as he pushed the doorbell on a house on 82nd Street. He drew a final puff from his cigarette and flipped it out into the street. He could feel his heart beating in his chest like a trip-hammer. He'd never had this feeling before, not even in the last eleven months. Well, it'll soon be over, he thought, and then the debt would be paid. His hand caressed the gun in his coat pocket as he heard footsteps coming towards the door.

    It was a man who answered, a gray-haired man in his late fifties. He looked inquiringly at Marty.

    "Do you know what time it is, young man?" the old gentleman asked.

    Marty's hand came out of his pocket with the gun in it. He stared deeply into the eyes of the gray-haired man and a voice that he barely recognized as his own said, "I've come to pay you back, Swinn."

    Swinn looked at Marty and at the gun in his hand. "Who are you? What do want?" he demanded.

    "You don't know who I am, but I know you very well, Swinn." The words came tumbling out of his mouth just as he'd prepared them in mind. "You see, you sent me to hell. And you did it just by sitting back in your chair and telling them to take me."

    He waved his cane at him. "This is your fault, you crippled me Swinn. And it's gonna cost you."

    Swinn showed no sign of understanding a single word that Marty had spoken.

    Marty continued, his rage mounting with every breath he took. "I promised myself I'd come back, even if I had to come back from the dead, to settle my score with the five of you. And, by God, I am back. Do you understand me? Do you?"

    His voice had become shrill. He said nothing for a few seconds, then with a slow, deliberate deadliness he spoke again. "Yes, I'm back. And I'm going to give each one of you what you deserve." He was grinning as his thumb flipped the safety catch on the gun. "I'm going to kill each all of you. One by one. Say your prayers, Swinn."

    Marty's voice was cold, his tone final. It was going to be easier than he had anticipated.

    His eyes wandered around the room, coming to rest on a picture which was sitting on the mantle. Marty's heart skipped a beat as he stared at the picture above the fireplace. It was a photograph of a young man in an army uniform, with a boyish scrawl on it that read "To Mother and Dad from Dick." His eyes jerked to the window and he saw the blue-bordered banner with a gold star in the center.

    Marty's thoughts raced back some four or five weeks prior to a hospital in England, where a young man of nineteen with a blanched face had lain beside him in pain. The boy was dying. But before he did, he handed Marty a jeweled cross and begged him to give it to his parents when he got back to the States. They wheeled him away later that night.

    Marty slowly replaced the gun back in his pocket and took out his billfold. From it he took a jeweled cross. With shaking hands he held it out towards the man in front of him. Swinn's eyes dropped from Marty's face to his hand and, as he recognized what was in his hand, his eyes welled with tears. With a stifled sob he took the cross and stared at it. He said nothing. He lifted his head and he looked into Marty's eyes, seeing something which Marty had never known was there.

    That Sunday Marty knelt before the cross in St. Patrick's Cathedral and did something he had never done before: he prayed.

    Yes, Marty had changed. He had seen a light, a brilliant light.

    1953 Christmas Radio Address
    KTFI Twin Falls, Idaho


    by Jack Farrar

    This morning friends, with your permission, I would like to deviate from the usual program outline of farm stories and farm news . . . to sort of discuss a lot of things and really, nothing I guess, in particular. Because, this Christmas morning, many of you would just as soon not keep your nose to the grindstone . . . instead maybe let our memories wander.

    It is this letter that I would like to dwell upon momentarily. Each year, we hear Irving Berlin'ss White Christmas quite frequently and when there isn't snow at Christmas time, it seems that there is something lacking. Such as this year, I know that I have heard dozens remark that it sure didn't look like a White Christmas . . . and quite sadly they said that too. Well, I know that I can think back to quite a few Christmases when there wasn't snow in the Magic Valley.

    It didn't seem to make too awfully much difference at that time . . . in fact the only time I can really remember when it came into the conversation was when a neighbor boy and I had a terrific battle as to which field Santa's airplane had landed in. We knew that he came in an airplane because there wasn't any snow for his reindeer to pull his sleigh. I would hate to tangle with that boy right now. He would make about two of me . . . his name is Derral Hupfer and I think he lives around Gooding now and I know that he will bear me out on our misunderstanding that cold Christmas Eve years ago. It really meant a lot to us . . . so much so that we searched all of the surrounding fields the next day in hopes of locating the tracks of the plane . . . but there were none.

    When I think about that Christmas party where neighbors go together . . . it was quite a bit different than those today. If my memory serves me correct, Santa appeared without his usual red suit, instead, he was wearing a tan sweater and pants tucked into lace boots with the toys and presents in a burlap sack which he had thrown over his shoulder. Perhaps, Santa was like the rest of us, he couldn't afford the expensive trappings that year. Anyway, the Christmas was a merry one and I think everyone was happy with the usual Christmas spirit, even though dollars were scarce.

    I sometimes think that life on the farm can bring an entirely different insight into Christmas. This, I could be very wrong in, but I do know that for my own part, I would never trade my life and experience in a rural school before consolidation. Before a lot of educators jump down my neck, the reason is purely sentimental and not for education reasons. I won't argue that point because this is not an editorial.

    One of my reasons for that statement is the annual Christmas play. What an occasion. Boy, we weren't thespians but accidently we were good comedians and through innocent forgetfulness of lines and miscues the audience would roar with laughter a good many times before the final curtain would close or get stuck and couldn't close whichever the case might be. Bobby might say a poem between acts and forget part of it, stutter, or get turned around, but mom was sure proud of him and he did the best job of the whole bunch. Pride is wonderful. The quartet might have been off key and didn't sing together, but the message was there for all to hear.

    One of the actors in the three-act play might trip on the worn stage carpet and fall flat on his face, but in the typical style . . . and?the show would go on. Ah! Those were the days. Gene Griff on the Salmon tract and plenty of the other guys will remember programs like that. Of course, after the program bags of candy with oranges and nuts would be given away from under the big Christmas tree and the wonderful evening would be complete.

    After it was all over, we would go home and build a fire in a cold house, sit there all bundled up until the house got warm and discuss all of the topics of conversation of the evening and what was going on around the community. If it was real late, dad might even set the milk out so that the milk man could pick it up at six o'clock without us having to get up. You see, in that cold weather, you could keep milk for more than a day without it souring. Boy, we took advantage of it. Whatâ??s the old saying . . . we didn't make much money, but we sure had fun.

    Then on Christmas day, when we opened our presents in the morning, I found out that the long narrow box wasn't a music stand as mom had mentioned it might be when I pestered her in those days before Christmas. I didn't look forward too much to opening it because the memory of the daily hour of practice at the piano wasn't too inspiring. But, it was a joke and there was a brand new set of children's golf clubs which were afterwards converted into hockey sticks for our rough game of shinny on the frozen-over pond. Or perhaps, you opened up that football that you had found a week before high in the top shelf of the closet when you were snooping around to get a glimpse of your present outlook for December twenty-fifth. If my boy does that, he will feel my wrath . . . you see, that's different.

    Everyone has certain memories of their youth around Christmas time. There may have not been many presents and the dinner menu might not have contained a big variety, but generally you could be sure that there was plenty of it. My uncle would surprise me with a quarter or dollar for my very own to spend as I saw fit. He might have received in turn a fifteen cent pair of socks, but he was plenty happy about . . . or seemed to be. Mom and dad would get socks and beads, maybe two-bits per if they weren't cheaper.

    I don't know, it seems that farming and Christmas fit pretty close together. When Christ was born, angels made known the birth to shepherds nearby. It is written in the second chapter of Luke . . . And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them and the glory of the Lord shone round above them, and they wee sore afraid. And he angel said unto them fear not; for, behold I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.

    Of course farm people and townspeople alike pray on this birthday of the Prince of Peace for a world that is free of war . . . yes, peace on earth, good will toward all men. We talk about our production goals . . . it seems that this is certainly a goal well worth working toward and trying to accomplish. Well, perhaps these country gatherings were a good example of how people can get along together.

    It's a fast world and getting faster every day. As the old timers would say . . . things sure aren't the same as they were when I was a kid. That's sort of what we've been talking about I guess. Things weren't so bad when we decorated a sagebrush that grew so big in the fertile virgin soil. It didn't look so bad . . . at least it was a symbol. Yes, those were the days.

    But, would I want to go back. Would you? I doubt it. They were wonderful for memories, but they also had their trials and tribulations. The memories are wonderful, but the future is worth thinking about and everything connected with it. From the beginning of time, what was ahead looked tough and what was behind wasn't so bad. Here's hoping that your Christmas 1953 is the best yet, and with each succeeding year they are even better, and thanks for rambling along with me on this Yuletide morning.
  • Birth: 10 DEC 1922 in Twin Falls, Twin Falls, Idaho 1
  • Death: 20 JAN 1961 in Twin Falls, Twin Falls, Idaho



    Father: John Frederick FARRAR b: 17 APR 1884 in Warrensburg, Johnson, Missouri
    Mother: Lula Ella GIVANS b: 26 MAR 1884 in Ava, Douglas, Missouri

    Marriage 1 Nelda Florine WAGNER b: 21 MAY 1921 in Metamora, Woodford, Illinois
    • Married: 23 JUL 1943 in Ely, Nevada 1
    Children
    1. Has No Children James Frederick FARRAR b: 2 MAR 1957 in Twin Falls, Twin Falls, Idaho

    Sources:
    1. Abbrev: Kate McCarter
      Title: Kate McCarter of Portland, Oregon
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