Did Dad Know? - Part lI

 

When my Aunt Mae Clayborn Damron, my Aunt Patty King Rendon, my brother and I met for the first time that July in 2011, one of questions posed later at the cemetery was how my grandparents, Thurston Clayborn and Pansy Hubbell, met.  This was a topic we would ponder for the next seven (7) years of Mae's life when we got together to visit.  

My grandmother would have been 19, and Thurston eight years her senior, or 27. One of the popular theories was that Clarence's wife, Esther likely was the one who introduced them, through a sewing club or some similar organization. Every person associated with that group are gone, so we likely won't ever know the truth.  

As to know what Dad knew and when, it wouldn't have been until my grandmother's funeral in 1985. He went alone, and Mae said she was looking for him, as she wanted to talk to him, but she was so busy she missed him. Mae thinks that Clarence went with him and my Uncle Billy.  So, he may have found out then.  Maybe, maybe not.  

One thing I've wondered is if he did find out, he never told my mother, as she would have told me. She never said anything. One fact that was shared is that my uncle did not want to go to the cemetery and my father insisted that he would be going, as it wasn't optional. The day of my grandmother's funeral was the last day that my dad and his brother were on speaking terms. After that time, he was estranged from the family until the day he died. The reason no doubt was that he didn't inherit any part of the estate of his mother. My dad and aunt agreed that all the money he had borrowed from his mother over the years would be counted toward his share of the estate.  In their eyes, this was only right. And, so it was. 

A final thought, reflecting as an adult on this story, and as a parent myself, as patterns repeat themselves. I know I certainly have, so I have no doubt that he did as well. I wonder if my father thought of his mother and her feelings when she came back home to her father's house pregnant, when I came back home in the same situation. I didn't know my grandmother's story then.  

But, as it's Father's Day today, I am remembering several difficult days during that time, and remembering how kind he was.  It was a time I felt especially close to him and thankful that I had a protector and a home to come to at a time when I needed one. I was blessed. 

Brothers and Sisters

Reflecting back on my childhood, the legend of "oldest child syndrome," definitely applied to our family and to me.  I was the "responsible one," the one expected to lead and take care of my brother, even from a young age.  The earliest memories I have are of a traumatic robbery when we were young in Hawaii (my brother was in a crib).  I also remember our old spanish home in National City, California, with hardwood floors and a phone with a bell ringer.  The ringer used to ring when we had earthquake tremors and wake us up.  My brother was a typical boy.  He used to pee through the fence on the kid next door in our duplex.  Hot summer days found us running through the sprinkler in the front yard, when my dad would set it up for us.  In Connecticut, we were close to my mother's New England family, which she liked, as my father was gone a lot on submarines.  It was hard raising a busy 2-year old boy.  For example, when a mailman didn't lock up his truck, my brother took the mail out of the truck and put in back in the mailbox.  When he got mad at a neighbor girl, he hit her over the head with a truck, leading to stitches.  Needless to say, Mom used to get plenty of moms knocking on her door about my brother. 

I was just over the age of three when my brother was born.  We happened to be in St. Petersburg, Florida, and dad had gone ahed to report for duty in Hawaii, while my mother

and I stayed in St. Petersburg with my grandparents until my brother was born, and it was safe to travel. To think she traveled by herself from Florida to Hawaii with an infant and a 3-year old alone to Hawaii.  She had it wasn't easy, as I was running all over the plane, with Ritz cracker crumbs everywhere.  Thank God I was potty trained. She said the Navy was no help to her in those early days. She was alone alot.  

I used to ask my mother where she found my brother, as I used to swear he fell off a turnip truck somewhere.  To say we are different, is a vast understatement (leading to my question).   He was short and round and I was tall and thin.  When he got stuck in the snow (up to his chest), I had to go rescue him at my mother's insistence. 

At the age of 3, my brother didn't talk.  He would point, and could not pronounce my name.  Even with extensive speech therapy, he used to call me "Pinda,"  Sissy was easier, but never stuck.  Mrs. Stovepipe was his speech therapist, and worked with him, enabled us to stay in Connecticut six months later so he could finish his therapy.

My brother was spoiled, and didn't have to do much to get my mom's attention or to get what he wanted. At Christmas, the base exchange would set up Toyland, and I remember being so excited to go see all the toys so I could pick out what I wanted for Christmas and to see all the decorations--It was really a wonderland. I remember thinking that I hoped my brother behaved himself as there was nothing worse than watching him through a fit in a store if he didn't get what he wanted.  Sure enough, it wasn't long as he was pitching a fit when he couldn't get some toy he wanted. I remember Mom telling him he had to wait for Santa, but he was having none of it.  I just kept walking as I couldn't take it.  I don't even remember how it all worked out, but eventually we all met up and got out of there.  I'm sure I got talked to about going ahead of them by myself. 

I was always "in charge," as far as my parents were concerned. Even before my mother took her last breath, I sensed a struggle.  When I told her he would be OK, she peacefully took her last breath. 

Did Dad Know? - Part I

  One of the most perplexing questions I have is whether or not my dad learned who his father was.   If he did, it was following the burial of his mother in February 1985.  My grandmother died suddenly following an aneurysm.  Actually, I remember when the call came in.  I was over at my parent's house and it was lunch time on the weekend.  My father leaned against the wall of the kitchen, while on the phone, with his head bowed.  When he hung up the phone, I remember asking what was wrong.  He was slow to respond and obviously upset.  I remember he quietly said he was just getting to know her and his voice cracked as he spoke and I sensed the profound loss in that statement.  The loss of what would never be.  The loss of a mother. 



Clayborn, Clarence & Esther 1977

   Dad went to the funeral alone as money was tight for my folks.  Also, my grandmother owned property so there would be an estate to start talking about, so he would be longer than just a day or so.  Being newly married,  I had no extra cash and I had just seen Grandma at my wedding.  So, everything I'm sharing is based on what I was told from my mother or my Dad's youngest sister, my Aunt Patty. 

Note that the first two paragraphs above were written on 2/3/13.  It is  5/4/25 and I just logged in and found this blog unpublished.  I still don't know the answer to this question, 12 years later.  I will tell you that I know not knowing who his father was left a tremendous hole in my father's life.  Even if my grandmother was trying to protect my dad from rejection (my daughter's wise summary of the situation), which may likely be true, it still left a void.  The absence of his mother during those early years,(She went to work during the week in Kansas City to send money home.) left an even greater void.  

The 1950 census showed Pansy Hubbell, declaring herself a widow, at the young age of 30, which while possible, is not accurate.  Rather, she gave birth out-of-wedlock to my dad on May 11, 1940, and named him James Thurston Hubbell, after her father and his father.  While I will not understand the circumstances of her relationship with my grandfather, Thurston Clayborn, I do know that she fell in love at the young age of 19.  

I added the photograph of Clarence and Esther, as they were a key to alot about our family.  Clarence used to check on my dad and my uncle.  At least that is what my Aunt Mae told me when I met her.  She said that Clarence was the one that came to her one weekend to tell her about the boys.  She told him she already knew about them.  He talked about my dad being in the Navy and about being careful about approaching my uncle.  She had pictures of my dad and uncle I had never seen.  

Who Do I Think I Am?

   As I've been researching my ancestors for the past couple of years, I've verified some family stories and have been surprised by others. My family is truly a mix of the earliest colonists, with a blend of 18th and 19th century German and English immigrants.  While blogging about my family research was the original focus, I have decided to include memories of my childhood, my parents and grandparents lives as a way to preserve some memory of them.  After all, my daughter only has some vague memories of my mother, and my father died when she was a toddler.  And, my grandparents were lost to this life when I was a teenager and young adult.  My hope is that my 3rd great-grandchildren will learn about what life was like during the 20th century, and that images from the 18th and 19th century of their ancestors will be preserved for a later time.  While I have always been a student of history, seeing and living history through the lives of those that came before me has taught me alot about who I am. 


Anna Gurke abt 1898

As the original Nana (Anna Wilhemena Gurke, July 3, 1888-February 18, 1963), my great-grandmother, left pictures that I have preserved, I realize it may indeed be my great-grandchildren that take up my research.  My college history professor's request to, "insert ourselves" into history, allowed me to explore the emotions of my great-grandmother as she deserted her German heritage to "become American."  What I failed to understand until I put myself into the context of time, was that the threat of world war forced immigrants to chose sides, rather than embrace and carry on the traditions of the Fatherland. 



Ernest Withycombe's Headstone

   While my German heritage was known and discussed, stories of my "Newfie" great-grandfather were not discussed often.  I knew he died young, supposedly of cancer based on my grandmother's stories, and that "Bub" was really the one that raised her.  Images of him were preserved by my great-grandmother's photos and I knew her last name was rare--Withycombe.  That's pretty much all I knew. The excitement of first finding his death certificate, which verified the cancer diagnosis, and then the awe when I received this picture of his headstone.  Reading the quote:  "To my beloved husband Ernest W Withycombe, aged 28 years," left me breathless.  Nana loved flowers, so the headstone looked like something she woudl pick out.  It was like I could feel her pain, the pain of a young widow.  They were married in 1910, my grandmother arrived in 1912 and he died in 1913.  The Newfie part probably surprised me the most-- Canadian--who would have figured that!  Apparently, migration from Newfoundland to New England was not unusual in the late 19th century.  The Withycombe and Chafe families have been prominant in St. John's, the southside for several generations.  I continue to search for connections to these families. 

   My hillybilly heritage has been the most interesting and the most mysterious, as it was never discussed in my childhood.  While most of the family originated in Jamestown, Virginia, in the 1600s, there is a German Rhineland line, as well as a French Hugeneot thrown in for good measure. 

Nancy Vertrees Headstone
 

   Pioneers is probably a better term for this family, although as they moved westward with the promise of become landowners, they did become hillbillies, as they settled in the Ozarks.  One story, in particular, is an example of the stories of pioneers carving a life out of the land as they moved westward, the story of Nancy Haycraft Vertrees (1782-1865), my 5th great-grandmother, from the history of Pike, Illinois. 
 

Nancy Vertrees is reputed to have had much knowledge of "wilderness medicine." She could concoct salves and ointments from roots and fibers of wild plants and could brew "teas" to allay illnesses incident to a new land. So widely was she known for her art that she was sometimes called many miles from home to cure a "white swelling" or an attack of "ager." Once, it is said (although this must refer to an incident in Kentucky), she was called to attend a sick child at a great distance from her home and with a wide river to cross. Her own youngest child was then of too tender age to be left alone so, mounting her horse, she took her child with her, and, arriving at the river and finding no means of crossing, she set her steed to the current and swam the wild stream, bringing succor as quickly as possible to the suffering child, whose life was saved by her knowing ministry.  So, from out of the lives of these old pioneers, gleams now and then a radiance that is almost divine.

 

  Who Do I Think I Am?  Definitely much more diverse than I could ever have imagined before I began this journey.  My ancestors all came here for a better life, for the life I enjoy in this generation with its opportunities and freedoms that they could only dream of. I look forward to finding out more about them. And, by more, I mean not just their vital statistics and their names, but more about the stories that made up their struggles, joys and hopes.  Stories like those of Nancy Vertrees.

For the Love of the Game

  The recent win of our Miami Heat as NBA champions brought back memories of all things basketball.  Actually, my first outing with my dad was to a San Diego Rockets game where they had a basketball giveaway for all the kids that came to the game.  I'm not sure of the year, but think I was about six or seven, and I just remember feeling special, as my dad explained the game. 



Rick Barry, 1975. 

Nana abt. 1972

   When we loved in Northern California (1974-1976), we used to go as a family to home games for the Golden State Warriors at the Oakland Coliseum.  Rick Barry, Clifford Ray, Butch Beard, were a few of the players that year for the team.  It was truly exciting that year to watch them proceed to the playoffs and then to win the NBA championship.  "Barry Duck," as my brother and I nicknamed him, was truly an outstanding athlete and role model.  To this day, I think he is one of the only players I've seen that throw free throws underhanded.  I'll admit that I tried this technique back in the day, but was never successful. 

   Our love of the game continued, when I tried out for youth basketball when we were stationed in Okinawa.  I made first string for the Zukeran Rookies, and shared the position of point guard with another girl named Carol.  I can handle the ball, and shoot well from outside the key, but I'm way too tiny to be down by the boards.  I remember my dad volunteered as an assistant coach, so we were able to share the experience of becoming division champions, undefeated against all teams.  I remember working hard and being in the best shape, primarily due to the half court sprints we had to do during practices.  And, dad never cut me any slack, and in fact, I probably had it harder than the rest of the girls. 
  At Kubasaki High School, I tried out for Jr. Varsity basketball.  Since there was only one American

kubasakihigh.com

high school on the island (over 3,000 students), we actually had 4 athletic teams for every sport within the school and played one another for sports.  The teams were always the Falcons, the Eagles, the Knights and the Warriors.  So, it was a little easier for everyone that wanted to play to make a team.  I took #24 on the Knights for my favorite warrior, Rick Barry.  I played most of the entire game for the JV games, and every now and then got to play a few minutes in a varsity game.  This was the year I started wearing glasses full-time, as I find it helped improve my depth perception, increasing the accuracy of my outside shooting.  We left Okinawa in February 1979, just before basketball season started, or I would have automatically got to play varsity.  Sadly, I never continued basketball at Lakewood High, as I had to get a job and work.  I doubt I would have made the team, as it was much smaller, with less opportunity. 

  I still love basketball, and showed my grandson how to dribble a ball, as well as teaching him the word, "B-Ball," much to the dismay of his football-loving father.  We'll see what sport he ends up playing.  As for me, I choose basketball every time. 

The Cat House

King, Linda 1965

   I've had cats ever since I can remember, and even earlier than that.  With Dad being in the Navy, we moved every 2 - 3 years, so I'd get attached to my animals and then have to find them good homes.  Actually, this picture was taken June 1, 1965 in Edinburgh, Scotland, so I was almost three years old.  When I asked my mom whose cat this was, she didn't know, but remarked they used to "find me."  You'll also note I'm playing with a Yogi Bear bubble bath figure, apparently toys were in short supply.  You'll see from this story that the animal lover in our house was my Dad. He was always finding some stray cat and providing a home for them, much to Mom's dismay.  She tolerated cats, but that was about it.  


Lele with her first litter of kittens.

  My first cat was Lele, a pure-bred seal-point siamese.  The name is Hawaiian, which is fitting since we adopted her in Hawaii.  When my Dad was considering the purchase, the breeder questionned him, as I was only 5 and she wondered if I was mature enough for my own cat.  Dad said not to worry, as he was confident I would be a good Mom.  Dad actually paid to fly Lele home from Hawaii to California and then on to Connecticut.  This was one cat I didn't have to give up when I moved.  This picture was taken at Grandma King's house and shows Lele with her first litter:  Loomis, Louie & Lester.  Grandma kept Loomis, a beautiful Lilac-point, and we gave away the other two kittens.  Before we went to the Panama Canal Zone in 1972, we drove back to Missouri to leave Lele with my grandmother.  That cat was the ultimate in spoiled, as my Grandma King used to make her an egg every morning for breakfast.  Lele lived a long life out in the country and kept my Grandma company, and Grandma would always keep me up-to-date on what she was up to.

Francine, July 1978

When I was thinking about this article, I remembered a joke when I was little (maybe about 8 or 9).  I used to tell my Dad that when I grew up, that I was going to have a house full of cats, a cat house.  He used to laugh like crazy, and, of course, I didn't realize he was thinking of the adult-version of a cat house.  In all honesty, I've always had cats and I enjoy the fact that they are their own people, independent, and still very loving and accepting.  To date, I've only had a max of 3 cats at a time, so I've never had a cat house.  Actually, my last several cats have been homeless and in need of adoption, rather than pure-breds.  I keep thinking if I'm ever home enough, I might try a dog for a change.  We'll see. . .

Memories of Mothers and Grandmothers

(L to R) Withycombe, Charlotte, Wood, Marilyn & King, Linda
abt. 1966

That's me with the two best mothers I've ever known.  So much of who we are as people comes from our parents.  And, in my family, the mother was responsible for bringing up the children.  This photo appears to be taken in front of our church in St. Petersburg, Florida--Fifth Avenue Baptist Church.  St. Petersburg was always home, as we moved from one duty station to the next.  We had just returned from Scotland, and mom was just a few months pregnant with my brother.  We would remain in St. Petersburg until after his birth in September and then join my dad in Hawaii.

Mom often told me how hard it was, particularly around this time to have to travel without my dad, with an infant and a 3-year-old, pretty much across the world.  I always remember Mom having an extraordinary amount of patience and long-suffering, which I always admired.  As a young Navy wife, she had to uproot her family and pack us up every 2-3 years.  As an adult, I can't imagine having to pick up and move that often.  I know she missed her mother, and back in those days, letter writing was the only option and they wrote every week or two to stay in touch.  My grandparents did come visit us on several occasions, including overseas trips to Scotland and Panama. 

My grandfather was in the Coast Guard for 30 years, so my mother moved as well, but not as often as we did.  She moved from her native Massachusetts to St. Petersburg, Florida, and attended Southside Elementary in 1946, and relocated again during high school to Rockville, Maryland, while her grandparents stayed in St. Petersburg.  Mom remembered how hard it was moving during high school.  I did the same, relocating from Okinawa, Japan back St. Petersburg in my Sophomore year.  "Take regular classes you can transfer," she said, recalling some of the credits she lost when she moved.  One of the qualities of a good mom is passing on wisdom to the next generation.  No mom wants to see her children make the same mistakes. 

I have warm, wonderful memories of being at home with Grandma and Granddad in St. Petersburg.  From mile-high ice cream cones at Webb's City, relaxing in the inner tube at Passagrille Beach, digging for baby crabs at Bay Pointe park, baking with Grandma and my most favorite, cuddling up for storytime with Grandma.  My favorite book was, "The Little Engine that Could," and Grandma always read the story with great feeling and emotion.  We'd be snuggled on the couch and I'd get caught up in the story and not want it to end.  Those were precious times that I'll always treasure.  I learned how to bake at my grandmother's elbow.  Molasses cookies, apple pie, homemade brownies, and bread pudding were some of her specialities.  Mom's baking skills were limited to Tollhouse cookies, and I was responsible for most holiday baking as an adult. 

Four Generations

I miss both of these women more than I can express.  As with most things in our lives, we don't truly miss our loved ones until they are gone.  I was very blessed to have had these wonderfully strong and loving women in my life and on this Mother's Day, I salute them.