A

Biography

of

William Floyd Knight

by His "Nephew"

(First Cousin by Marriage)

William Mortensen Vaughan

dated April 6, 2024

My Uncle Floyd was born on the 4th of July, in 1904.

He attended the same school that J. Willard Marriott attended, in Slaterville, Utah. In order to support his siblings, he stopped going to school after the 8th Grade, but he could read, write, and do arithmetic as well or better than most people.

With his good name and his word of honor, when he was about fourteen years of age, he borrowed some land and raised some hogs. He kept "wheeling and dealing" until he owned a 750-acre ranch in southern Idaho, and plenty of cows.

My Uncle Floyd was a "real cowboy." When I was a child, he took me for a horse-back ride on his ranch in southern Idaho. It seemed to me that we rode from sunrise to sunset, yet never saw the edge of his property.

He owned two horses, named Sherwood and Charlie. Sherwood was a family horse. My Uncle Floyd and my Aunt Sylvie allowed me and other children to ride Sherwood. We could beat and kick him, and pull his hair all we wanted, but he would just plod slowly along.

Charlie was a retired race horse. My Uncle Floyd never let me ride him until I was twelve or thirteen years old, and he regarded me as man enough. The day he let me ride Charlie, he told me, "I know you're used to riding Sherwood, but Charlie is different. Do not ever hit or kick him. If you want him to go faster, just press on his sides with your heels. "

I barely gave Charlie's sides a tap with my heels, and found myself flying like I'd never flown before, holding on for dear life!

When I was finally able to bring Charlie to a halt, I turned him around, rode him back to my Uncle Floyd, who was sitting where I'd left him, laughing like I'd never seen him laugh before, and I dismounted. I never asked to ride Charlie again, or any other race horse, for that matter.

My Uncle Floyd was the best checker and Chinese checker player I ever met. I never saw him lose either of those games, and I never heard anyone else claim that they had seen him lose either of those games.

He also played carrom.

He did not, however, know how to play Chess, and he refused to play any game of chance, such as poker. As far as I know, he did not even allow "face cards" or dice in his home.

Although my Uncle Floyd was "a true cowboy" in the most honorable senses of the word, I never knew him to cuss, or to chew, snort, or smoke tobacco, or drink any alcoholic beverage. My Aunt Sylvie told me that he had shaved every morning since they were married.

I only remember seeing my Aunt Sylvie angry one time, and that was because someone had called my Uncle Floyd "an old fart" to their faces. I don't think she ever forgave whoever that was.

In the summer of 1972, Floyd had some sort of conniption. Aunt Sylvie had him flown from their home in Almo, Idaho, to the McKay-Dee hospital, in Ogden, Utah. Surgeons performed open-heart surgery, and discovered that his heart was in excellent condition.

Unfortunately, however, they snipped a nerve which left him paralyzed from the waist down until he died, twenty-two years later.

He told me in private that he believed that God had caused this catastrophe to keep him humble - that it was for his own good, and he was grateful. He was truly a modern Job.

They were wealthy, and could have hired a nurse and servants, but they did not. Instead, they bought my Uncle Olaf's home, next to my Aunt Sylvie's sister, Aunt Ruth, in Mantua, Utah. They had a new home built there, exactly to my Aunt Sylvie's specifications.

Whenever it was time to move Floyd, from the bed to his wheelchair, or from his wheelchair to their car, for example, Sylvie bore his weight, although she was a petite, old woman, and he was a big, old cowboy. If he were going to fall, it would be her fault, but, as far as I know, she never let him fall, and she personally tended him for twenty-two years, cleaning his bed sores, and changing his bag of urine, or whatever he needed. To her, he was precious; far be it from her to stand for anyone to call her husband "an old fart."

When my Uncle Floyd died, he left my Aunt Sylvie about 750 acres, some of which she donated to the U.S. Government, and it became a National Park already known as "The City of Rocks." I had visited it as a child, not realizing that my Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Floyd owned it.

In their final years, my Uncle Floyd and Aunt Sylvie leased their ranch to a cattleman. As far as I could tell, they were always independently wealthy.

Their minds were like steel traps, and their character was impeccable.

When my Aunt Sylvie died, she left their ranch to the Mormon church, thinking that they would turn it into a museum and/or park. Instead, they sold it.