My July trip to Kansas City was incredible. Not only did I get to meet my dad's half-sister, Mae Clayborn, but we also had the first-ever Hubbell family reunion.
Hubbell Family Reunion
Olathe Park was over 100 degrees. Everyone brought a dish and we created a sign-in sheet for everyone. My dad's cousins, Terry, Larry and Ann Marie came. I met Larry back in 2003, and he reminded me of a younger version of my dad. He said he never knew Jimmy really well, as he was a lot older than he was.
Terry remembered that dad and Billy always got a ride to school and would make sure the others noticed that they were 'special' when the others had to walk.
We talked and ate and tried to stay cool. Next time, I'll have to plan a cooler time period (like April or May). I collected as much information on family group sheets as I could and Terry suggested I mail this ahead of time in the future, so the information can be more complete.
Meeting Mae
My brother and I spent an entire day with Mae, going over what she remembered about her uncles and what she knew of my dad and Billy. She mentioned a visit from her Uncle Clarence when she was an adult. Clarence brought pictures of both my dad and his brother. He said that her father had these two boys before he married her mother. He said Jimmy was in the Navy and doing well and that Billy, not so good. Mae told her uncle she knew about the boys as he mother told her.
Clarence and Esther Clayborn, I believe, were the ones that kept in touch with my grandmother, and kept up with the boys through my grandmother. There is evidence they went to one another's funerals and family events. Mae remembers rushing to look for "Daisy," who came to her dad's funeral in 1972, just to miss her by a few minutes. Clarence and Esther went to my grandmother's funeral in 1985, and my Aunt Patty's wedding in 1973. As I mentioned earlier, my first clue to finding this family were school pictures with the "Clayborn" name on them, similar to those pictures of my generation, in 2003, that were in my grandmother's things. I could not find these same pictures when I returned to Aunt Patty's this year.
Mae had tried for years to find my dad or his brother. One of the interesting obstacles was that the name my grandmother used was Daisy King, not her accurate name of Pansy King. What a difference a flower makes! Patty and I pondered if this was a nickname Thurston had for her or an intentional name change to make it difficult to be found. She had the name Hubbell, but no success, mostly due to the name change.
We went to the Olathe cemetary with Mae and Patty to visit graves and take pictures. Another fascinating fact was that Earl Clayborn (Thurston's brother) is buried a row or two in front of my grandmother, Pansy King, and her husband, Burnham.
Before Grandma was Grandma
Digging through a Hubbell box of pictures, we found many pictures that I don't remember seeing before. One picture was dated 1938 and had my grandmother with another young lady. My grandmother's notes on the picture said NYA (National Youth Association) Topeka with her name and 'Helen Graves' on the bottom. The picture showed a beautiful young woman with the style of the day. This was the summer after graduation from high school, shortly before she got pregnant with my dad.
What did I learn? The Kansas State Historical Society indicated this was the National Youth Association, the so-called New Deal for Women. It provided jobs and training for young women. As the WPA and other programs had been a god-send for many of my great uncles, my aunt said that she had no doubt my grandmother would have been encouraged to participate.
This was an interesting glimpse into the young life of a woman I never got to know that well. What I imagine is that this training no doubt was empowering women to go out into the workplace, by providing them training and skills. I'll be researching more about the NYA and the Topeka conference to see what I can find.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
American Immigrants
The stories of my ancestors are no different than those of other Americans, containing a myriad or melting pot of immigrants, all coming to this country seeking the freedom that some many of us take for granted today. Many came to be free from religious persecution, seeking the opportunity to worship free from a State Church, looking for a better life and fleeing oppressive governments or extreme poverty.
My father's side appears to be old stock immigrants, dating back to the Revolutionary War for both sides - English/Irish/Scottish to German and even a French Huguenot for good measure. My mom's maternal line were first and second generation Americans, from Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and Germany. My maternal grandfather's family were Pilgrims and Puritans on his mother's side, and Irish on his father's side, part of earlier immigrant waves. I've only researched back to my second great-grandparents on that side so I may find more surprises.
It's my mother's side that have passed on stories one of which I I'm going to share today. Many of our early ancestors maintained their culture and language when they came to this country. The start of the 20th century saw a shift in this with the start of World War I. My great-grandmother's first language was not English, even though she was born in New York on July 3, 1888. My mom used to say she spoke broken English, saying "Make on the lights." and her mother, Charlotte, was known as "Großmutter", a German word for grandmother. Charlotte E Schoette, was born in New York in 1863, but I believe was German also, although I've only traced the family to Nova Scotia thus far. Anna Wilhemena Gurke, or Nana, as I grew up knowing her was a tough lady. My uncle says that she was mean. "She didn't like me and I didn't like her."
My uncle recalls one story that I wrote an essay on for one of my history classes in college. As the story goes, the Gurke household used to play the German national anthem, and during the time before the US entered World War I, many Americans with German heritage were having their loyalty to the US questioned. Are you American or are you German? See, my great-grandfather arrived from Germany to Castle Garden, New York in 1881, and was naturalized five years later in 1886. The US entered the war against Germany in 1917, 19 years after Heinrich became a US citizen. The very act of declaring war on Germany mandated that German-Americans take sides, and along else was unacceptable. While I understand the reason my family abandoned our German heritage, I think it is a shame that some of the traditions did not get passed on to my mom or me.
Nana died a few months before I was born in 1963. My cousin was 8 when she died, and she does have pleasant memories of Nana's visits, unlike my uncle, who actually lived in the same home with her for nearly 20 years. My mother used to say that my grandmother was just like her in the year we lived together (1979-80). While I didn't notice, I could tell it drove my mother crazy. When I told her to tell her, she said she couldn't say anything, but gave me full permission to set her in her place if it ever became necessary. Strong German women, very opinionated and outspoken. While I still see traits of this in my daughter and I, as well as a scary physical resemblance, I think we are strong, while still outspoken, but in good ways.
While I treasure jewelry that was given to me that belonged to Anna, her ruby ring (I was the only member of the family born in July.), and her daisy diamond ring, both gifts from my grandmother, Nana's photograph collection dating back to 1906, allows me to see my ancestors in their daily lives. However, most of what I treasure is the gift of freedom and the gift of being born into a country that has provided me opportunities that were only dreams to my ancestors. As I've had the opportunity to be a guest in other countries, I can tell you I wouldn't trade the American experience for any other.
Happy 4th of July to all of you, and Happy Birthday, Nana ! May all of us pause to reflect on how blessed we are to live in a nation founded on Godly principles and precepts. Thanks seems such a simple word to those who have fought and died to create and preserve the American way of life. God bless our troops!
My father's side appears to be old stock immigrants, dating back to the Revolutionary War for both sides - English/Irish/Scottish to German and even a French Huguenot for good measure. My mom's maternal line were first and second generation Americans, from Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and Germany. My maternal grandfather's family were Pilgrims and Puritans on his mother's side, and Irish on his father's side, part of earlier immigrant waves. I've only researched back to my second great-grandparents on that side so I may find more surprises.
It's my mother's side that have passed on stories one of which I I'm going to share today. Many of our early ancestors maintained their culture and language when they came to this country. The start of the 20th century saw a shift in this with the start of World War I. My great-grandmother's first language was not English, even though she was born in New York on July 3, 1888. My mom used to say she spoke broken English, saying "Make on the lights." and her mother, Charlotte, was known as "Großmutter", a German word for grandmother. Charlotte E Schoette, was born in New York in 1863, but I believe was German also, although I've only traced the family to Nova Scotia thus far. Anna Wilhemena Gurke, or Nana, as I grew up knowing her was a tough lady. My uncle says that she was mean. "She didn't like me and I didn't like her."
My uncle recalls one story that I wrote an essay on for one of my history classes in college. As the story goes, the Gurke household used to play the German national anthem, and during the time before the US entered World War I, many Americans with German heritage were having their loyalty to the US questioned. Are you American or are you German? See, my great-grandfather arrived from Germany to Castle Garden, New York in 1881, and was naturalized five years later in 1886. The US entered the war against Germany in 1917, 19 years after Heinrich became a US citizen. The very act of declaring war on Germany mandated that German-Americans take sides, and along else was unacceptable. While I understand the reason my family abandoned our German heritage, I think it is a shame that some of the traditions did not get passed on to my mom or me.
Nana died a few months before I was born in 1963. My cousin was 8 when she died, and she does have pleasant memories of Nana's visits, unlike my uncle, who actually lived in the same home with her for nearly 20 years. My mother used to say that my grandmother was just like her in the year we lived together (1979-80). While I didn't notice, I could tell it drove my mother crazy. When I told her to tell her, she said she couldn't say anything, but gave me full permission to set her in her place if it ever became necessary. Strong German women, very opinionated and outspoken. While I still see traits of this in my daughter and I, as well as a scary physical resemblance, I think we are strong, while still outspoken, but in good ways.
While I treasure jewelry that was given to me that belonged to Anna, her ruby ring (I was the only member of the family born in July.), and her daisy diamond ring, both gifts from my grandmother, Nana's photograph collection dating back to 1906, allows me to see my ancestors in their daily lives. However, most of what I treasure is the gift of freedom and the gift of being born into a country that has provided me opportunities that were only dreams to my ancestors. As I've had the opportunity to be a guest in other countries, I can tell you I wouldn't trade the American experience for any other.
Happy 4th of July to all of you, and Happy Birthday, Nana ! May all of us pause to reflect on how blessed we are to live in a nation founded on Godly principles and precepts. Thanks seems such a simple word to those who have fought and died to create and preserve the American way of life. God bless our troops!
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Father's Day
Father's Day brings back many memories of my dad. He was a midwesterner, a very down-to-earth guy that made sure his children never looked down on anyone. A man who never met a stranger, a good friend and a person who sought to help and encourage others.
One of my earliest memories was of going to a San Diego Rockets game with him. They were giving away free basketballs. This event shaped my love of the game that continued through my high school years playing junior varsity. It was just dad and me, no one else, and it made me feel special.
Dad always had a soft spot for kids, especially those who didn't have anyone or have very much. I remember him playing Santa for a children's home one year. He was stationed in Groton, Connecticut, and he must have been home between his 3-month tours on submarines. I can't remember much, except riding in the car. I can't even remember where it was, as I was 7 or 8 at the time. I just remember being impressed and proud that dad allowed me to come along and watch.
Eating out with dad required best behavior. I used to love to blow bubbles with my milk or tease my brother. Dad wouldn't have any of it. If you didn't stop when he asked quietly under his breath, you got a soft kick under the table with those military-issue shoes. I survived on hot dogs and peanut butter and jelly growing up as I never had an appetite. Dad would always have to finish up when I didn't eat, as it was not acceptable to waste food.
When I say that dad never met a stranger, I mean just that. Dad was a talker, and it didn't matter that all of us where in the car waiting for him. His "quick stops," to drop something off, always resulted in long, lengthly waits. It seemed he was always on the go, doing something, and never stayed home. Dad was a junk collector, or a "picker" as they are called today. He collected electronics, old radios, tubes and parts and had the stuff stuck everywhere, including renting a storage unit to hold it all. He had many friends that he met as a result of this hobby. Ham radio was another love, and he joined a local club in Okinawa.
When I was going back to school, I took personality and skills test before I decided what to do for a career. When I brought home the results of the personality profile and description, my mother said that I had dad's personality. We are "feelers," people who base decisions on individual cases, in a subjective manner based on what we believe to be right within our individual values systems.
Dad was a hillbilly. He loved traditional country music (Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline, Boxcar Willie, Loretta Lynn). Country music was always on in the car, and nothing else was an option. If he was home on Saturday night, it was HeeHaw at 7:00 p.m., otherwise, Mom insisted on Lawrence Welk. As kids, we prayed for dad to be home. He had a thing for Cathy Baker, the blond on the porch with the hound dog. My mom used to joke with him that she wouldn't have given my dad the time of day. It didn't matter, we just had to quiet so he could linger on her every word. When he was reading Loretta Lynn's biography, he chuckled and remarked that no one could have been as ignorant as she was. As poor as he grew up in Kansas, Loretta was even more isolated in Butcher Holler, Kentucky. He loved her music, a love that I adopted as well. For my 13th birthday, the family got to go to the Loretta Lynn/Conway Twitty concert in Oakland, CA. What a treat that was. He purchased her biography for me and waited while I got her to autograph it after the concert.
One of the most poignant memories of dad, were the various people I met, for the first time, that told me how much my dad's friendship had meant to them, how he came to see them in the hospital, and what an encouragement he was to them. He's been gone 21 years this summer, and I still miss him. My daughter was 3 when he died and she doesn't remember how much she loved bouncing on his belly and the fun trips in the wagon to see the egrets and ducks. He loved being a grandfather.
One of my earliest memories was of going to a San Diego Rockets game with him. They were giving away free basketballs. This event shaped my love of the game that continued through my high school years playing junior varsity. It was just dad and me, no one else, and it made me feel special.
Dad always had a soft spot for kids, especially those who didn't have anyone or have very much. I remember him playing Santa for a children's home one year. He was stationed in Groton, Connecticut, and he must have been home between his 3-month tours on submarines. I can't remember much, except riding in the car. I can't even remember where it was, as I was 7 or 8 at the time. I just remember being impressed and proud that dad allowed me to come along and watch.
Eating out with dad required best behavior. I used to love to blow bubbles with my milk or tease my brother. Dad wouldn't have any of it. If you didn't stop when he asked quietly under his breath, you got a soft kick under the table with those military-issue shoes. I survived on hot dogs and peanut butter and jelly growing up as I never had an appetite. Dad would always have to finish up when I didn't eat, as it was not acceptable to waste food.
When I say that dad never met a stranger, I mean just that. Dad was a talker, and it didn't matter that all of us where in the car waiting for him. His "quick stops," to drop something off, always resulted in long, lengthly waits. It seemed he was always on the go, doing something, and never stayed home. Dad was a junk collector, or a "picker" as they are called today. He collected electronics, old radios, tubes and parts and had the stuff stuck everywhere, including renting a storage unit to hold it all. He had many friends that he met as a result of this hobby. Ham radio was another love, and he joined a local club in Okinawa.
When I was going back to school, I took personality and skills test before I decided what to do for a career. When I brought home the results of the personality profile and description, my mother said that I had dad's personality. We are "feelers," people who base decisions on individual cases, in a subjective manner based on what we believe to be right within our individual values systems.
Dad was a hillbilly. He loved traditional country music (Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline, Boxcar Willie, Loretta Lynn). Country music was always on in the car, and nothing else was an option. If he was home on Saturday night, it was HeeHaw at 7:00 p.m., otherwise, Mom insisted on Lawrence Welk. As kids, we prayed for dad to be home. He had a thing for Cathy Baker, the blond on the porch with the hound dog. My mom used to joke with him that she wouldn't have given my dad the time of day. It didn't matter, we just had to quiet so he could linger on her every word. When he was reading Loretta Lynn's biography, he chuckled and remarked that no one could have been as ignorant as she was. As poor as he grew up in Kansas, Loretta was even more isolated in Butcher Holler, Kentucky. He loved her music, a love that I adopted as well. For my 13th birthday, the family got to go to the Loretta Lynn/Conway Twitty concert in Oakland, CA. What a treat that was. He purchased her biography for me and waited while I got her to autograph it after the concert.
One of the most poignant memories of dad, were the various people I met, for the first time, that told me how much my dad's friendship had meant to them, how he came to see them in the hospital, and what an encouragement he was to them. He's been gone 21 years this summer, and I still miss him. My daughter was 3 when he died and she doesn't remember how much she loved bouncing on his belly and the fun trips in the wagon to see the egrets and ducks. He loved being a grandfather.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
May Memories
I'll continue with the story of breakthrough next month. For now, I want to talk about the month of May. It is an eventful month and one full of memories for me. Dad's birthday and Mother's Day are both in May and for many years it fell on the same day. As kids, we always teased Dad about this.
May is also a time that I reflect on a Memorial weekend loss in 1998 that forever changed my life. I had plenty of life events before this one, but this was especially difficult. It was Tuesday morning following a holiday weekend, and I knew the night before she had less than 24 hours left. Tumors filled her lungs and one tumor in particular, was affecting her kidneys and they she would die of kidney failure. She would go to sleep and they would make her comfortable. Funny, but she always said that the people who died in their sleep quickly were to be envied. It was a fitting end for a woman who had battled to a point of exhaustion for over six months. While it was a relief to have the decision made for me, I didn't know how I could make it without her. And, I would be an orphan at 34, as dad had died 8 years before. My prayers were either heal her or take her as it pained me to see her struggle.
To those that knew my mom, she was strong, a rock of sorts. She never showed illness or weakness to her children. She was stubborn, hiding her illness and not seeking treatment until it was too late. She was just like her father--waiting too late to get treatment. My grandfather had done the same thing, even going to the extreme of having a local for abdominal cancer surgery in 1979.
She would have a fever and you'd never know it. The only time I saw her physically ill was following radiation treatment. As an adult, it still shocked me, as nothing ever affected her. Now I knew the real reason why I moved back home six months earlier, renting out my home, and uprooting my daughter. I thought it was to follow a good job opportunity, which it was, but God had a better reason for me to be home. Had I not been there when she was diagnosed, I would have had additional stress. See, I was a full-time college student, single parent and working full-time. God orchestrated the events to have me in a stable job, right next door to Mom so I could devote my time and effort to her during the last six months of her life. I wouldn't change a thing about that time. What I wished I would have done was document her life, instead of relying on my memories.
She was typically of her generation, "the silent ones." She followed the social norms her parents gave her, but silently rebelled, leading the way for my generation to break out of traditional roles. I remember the glow on her face when I'd step off a private plane, coming home after business travel, the excitement that she expressed when I bought my first home. In her day, a woman could not get a mortgage without a husband. The thrill she had with my success in college, as I was the first woman in her maternal line to have a college education. She always wanted it, but didn't ask, as it was reserved for her brother, not for her. She was expected to get married and while she could work, it was to be secondary to her home and her family. Words like sacrificial, supportive, and unconditional were very descriptive of my mother. I always admired her patience, as I have my father's temperament and learned patience the hard way, it was never a gift. The mother and grandmother I am is a tribute to those that came before me. . . . Charlotte, Anna, Charlotte, Anna and Marilyn. Even the name patterns are broken as we move forward with Marilyn leading the way for Linda, Jacqueline and Savannah.
Thanks, Mom. I love you and miss you. Your great granchildren are beautiful. Colt even has your fingers. While they will never know you, they will hear of you often. We will pass on the legacy of your love, sacrifice and caring to the generations to come.
May is also a time that I reflect on a Memorial weekend loss in 1998 that forever changed my life. I had plenty of life events before this one, but this was especially difficult. It was Tuesday morning following a holiday weekend, and I knew the night before she had less than 24 hours left. Tumors filled her lungs and one tumor in particular, was affecting her kidneys and they she would die of kidney failure. She would go to sleep and they would make her comfortable. Funny, but she always said that the people who died in their sleep quickly were to be envied. It was a fitting end for a woman who had battled to a point of exhaustion for over six months. While it was a relief to have the decision made for me, I didn't know how I could make it without her. And, I would be an orphan at 34, as dad had died 8 years before. My prayers were either heal her or take her as it pained me to see her struggle.
To those that knew my mom, she was strong, a rock of sorts. She never showed illness or weakness to her children. She was stubborn, hiding her illness and not seeking treatment until it was too late. She was just like her father--waiting too late to get treatment. My grandfather had done the same thing, even going to the extreme of having a local for abdominal cancer surgery in 1979.
She would have a fever and you'd never know it. The only time I saw her physically ill was following radiation treatment. As an adult, it still shocked me, as nothing ever affected her. Now I knew the real reason why I moved back home six months earlier, renting out my home, and uprooting my daughter. I thought it was to follow a good job opportunity, which it was, but God had a better reason for me to be home. Had I not been there when she was diagnosed, I would have had additional stress. See, I was a full-time college student, single parent and working full-time. God orchestrated the events to have me in a stable job, right next door to Mom so I could devote my time and effort to her during the last six months of her life. I wouldn't change a thing about that time. What I wished I would have done was document her life, instead of relying on my memories.
She was typically of her generation, "the silent ones." She followed the social norms her parents gave her, but silently rebelled, leading the way for my generation to break out of traditional roles. I remember the glow on her face when I'd step off a private plane, coming home after business travel, the excitement that she expressed when I bought my first home. In her day, a woman could not get a mortgage without a husband. The thrill she had with my success in college, as I was the first woman in her maternal line to have a college education. She always wanted it, but didn't ask, as it was reserved for her brother, not for her. She was expected to get married and while she could work, it was to be secondary to her home and her family. Words like sacrificial, supportive, and unconditional were very descriptive of my mother. I always admired her patience, as I have my father's temperament and learned patience the hard way, it was never a gift. The mother and grandmother I am is a tribute to those that came before me. . . . Charlotte, Anna, Charlotte, Anna and Marilyn. Even the name patterns are broken as we move forward with Marilyn leading the way for Linda, Jacqueline and Savannah.
Thanks, Mom. I love you and miss you. Your great granchildren are beautiful. Colt even has your fingers. While they will never know you, they will hear of you often. We will pass on the legacy of your love, sacrifice and caring to the generations to come.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Breakthrough - Part I
It was surreal, and amazingly simple at the same time. A family secret kept hidden for a generation, and revealed that Saturday morning, April 16, 2011. My surname is Clayborn. Although I was almost certain of this a year ago, it has been a journey of piecing together clues left behind by my paternal grandmother, Pansy Nadine Hubbell King. This discovery would never have been possible without the prodding of my Aunt Patty King Rendon and the encouragement of one of my closest friends and fellow genealogists.
It seems that Mae had been searching for my dad and my Uncle Billy for over 40 years, when her mother told her she had two brothers from an earlier relationship her father had. She had tried searching for King's and Hubbell's, with no success. My call was an answer to her prayers, as well as mine.
My grandmother, Pansy King, left clues behind, school pictures with the name Clayborn. My Aunt said she knew the name, but did not know any tie. The thought being that my grandmother wouldn't have left behind the clues unless she wanted us to solve the mystery. After this came Ancestry, and searching for Clayborn in the Kansas City area about the time of my dad's birth. The shock of finding similar names (a son named Thurston and a brother named Earl and a father named William) seemed too unusual to be coincidence. My father's middle name is Thurston, a name not known on his maternal side, and his brother was named William Earl. Now, to find a current Clayborn to find out. This answer came when a friend found a site named "Find a Grave" and I searched for Thurston Clayborn. To my shock, I found Mae Damron, and a memorial that stated, "Miss you Dad". A Google search found a posting on Yahoo that she was a genealogist, and was tracing her family history for her grandchildren. I found an address in Kansas City, Kansas and then Patty verified the phone listing was still in the current phone book.
It has been a journey that started for me as a curious young teenager. My mom mentioned that she had ordered my dad's birth certificate for his employment with the Pinellas County Sheriff in 1982/83. When it came in, the birth father was listed as Burham Martin King, and it was registered by the clerk in 1958, following his adoption. So, Kansas changes the original birth certificate, no help to our curiosity.
One other clue was when Pansy was visiting us in California in 1973/74, when she told my mom one afternoon that, "Jimmy's daddy had just died." When I asked Mom why she didn't ask more, Mom stated she didn't remember, and that it felt awkward, as Grandma never talked much about the past.
Being born born out-of-wedlock, was a social stigma in 1940. The stories my mother shared with me were of pain, the pain my father experienced of not knowing about his father and seeing his mother only periodically, a boy scarred by a painful childhood. She mentioned that he used to cry when they were first married as he still carried the stigma.
Dad and Billy were raised by their grandparents, Vesta Diltz Hubbell and James J. Hubbell, farmers in Olathe, Kansas. I don't remember ever meeting them as they died in the early 1960s. I never remember my father talking about his childhood--ever. Like most men in our society, a name is so critical to identity and a sense of belonging. Dad grew up with his mother's maiden name, Hubbell, as did his younger brother, Billy.
My earliest memory of the story of the name King, were of a Burnham Martin King, a friend of my grandmothers that she married in her 30's and my Aunt's father. "Billy" King died in 1968, so I never remember meeting him. From what I'm told, he was a good man, a man that cared about my dad and Billy. Aunt Patty told me that he adopted both my dad and my uncle in 1958, just before my dad was 18. Billy King worked to impress a feeling of pride and responsibility to dad and Billy during the short time before they were out on their own. What a gift -- to be given a name. My dad barely knew his mother, as he only saw her on weekends as she worked at Montgomery Ward in Kansas City, during the week.
My father was a wonderful protector, but never expressive about his affection, and never emotional. I always felt loved and protected, but never received a hug or "I love you" from Dad, which I now attribute to the way he was raised. Holidays and gift-giving were foreign to Dad, he never knew how to receive a gift, with Mom usually opening them. I sensed many times he was uncomfortable and felt awkward. Never the less, I always felt loved, wanted and appreciated. Actually, Dad couldn't wait to have children and when it took time for my Mom to get pregnant, he asked what was wrong with her.
As what would have been my dad's 71st birthday, is May 11th., I'll be sharing more about my memories of him. I am extremely proud of the man he became, overcoming a harsh childhood and making a life for himself and a family, passing on the strong, midwestern values and work ethic that have made me the person I am. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you and miss you very much.
 |
| James Thurston Hubbell |
My grandmother, Pansy King, left clues behind, school pictures with the name Clayborn. My Aunt said she knew the name, but did not know any tie. The thought being that my grandmother wouldn't have left behind the clues unless she wanted us to solve the mystery. After this came Ancestry, and searching for Clayborn in the Kansas City area about the time of my dad's birth. The shock of finding similar names (a son named Thurston and a brother named Earl and a father named William) seemed too unusual to be coincidence. My father's middle name is Thurston, a name not known on his maternal side, and his brother was named William Earl. Now, to find a current Clayborn to find out. This answer came when a friend found a site named "Find a Grave" and I searched for Thurston Clayborn. To my shock, I found Mae Damron, and a memorial that stated, "Miss you Dad". A Google search found a posting on Yahoo that she was a genealogist, and was tracing her family history for her grandchildren. I found an address in Kansas City, Kansas and then Patty verified the phone listing was still in the current phone book.
It has been a journey that started for me as a curious young teenager. My mom mentioned that she had ordered my dad's birth certificate for his employment with the Pinellas County Sheriff in 1982/83. When it came in, the birth father was listed as Burham Martin King, and it was registered by the clerk in 1958, following his adoption. So, Kansas changes the original birth certificate, no help to our curiosity.
One other clue was when Pansy was visiting us in California in 1973/74, when she told my mom one afternoon that, "Jimmy's daddy had just died." When I asked Mom why she didn't ask more, Mom stated she didn't remember, and that it felt awkward, as Grandma never talked much about the past.
 |
| Hubbell, Billy & Jimmy abt 1945 |
 |
| Hubbell, Vesta & James 1962 |
 |
| King Billy & Pansy 1953 |
My father was a wonderful protector, but never expressive about his affection, and never emotional. I always felt loved and protected, but never received a hug or "I love you" from Dad, which I now attribute to the way he was raised. Holidays and gift-giving were foreign to Dad, he never knew how to receive a gift, with Mom usually opening them. I sensed many times he was uncomfortable and felt awkward. Never the less, I always felt loved, wanted and appreciated. Actually, Dad couldn't wait to have children and when it took time for my Mom to get pregnant, he asked what was wrong with her.
As what would have been my dad's 71st birthday, is May 11th., I'll be sharing more about my memories of him. I am extremely proud of the man he became, overcoming a harsh childhood and making a life for himself and a family, passing on the strong, midwestern values and work ethic that have made me the person I am. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you and miss you very much.
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| Wedding Day, 1962 |
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Easter Memories
As Easter approaches, it brings back many memories of new Easter dresses, white gloves, egg hunts, and of new life. I have several pictures of family posing for a picture in their Easter finest, and my grandmother, Charlotte, with her famous Easter hats. The most special memory of those hats, is that none of them ever looked good on her. I have the same problem -- only one or two types of hats look good on me and if it's not flattering -- don't wear it! I remember many jokes about those hats. But in 1950's and 60's society, you weren't dressed on Easter without a hat.
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| Mom and me 1965 |
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| me and Jackie |
Another precious memory for Easter for me is a picture of my mother and me in front of the house in St. Petersburg, I'm not sure that I was even a year old yet, so it had to be 1965 and Mom was holding me up. This picture was repeated with Jackie and me, and my grandmother Charlotte in 1987 in the same spot in front of the same house with her Easter bunny.
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| Jackie & Dad |
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| Colt |
Egg hunts were always great fun. One my favorites was at Lake Maggiore Park in St. Petersburg. With all the trees, there were plenty of hiding places, but I was concerned about looking for alligators. Jackie like hunting eggs also, and we'd participate at any church in the Spring Hill area that had a hunt. But the champion egg hunter of all, has to be my grandson, Colt. Easter 2009 we hid eggs for him outside my home in Stuart. It's inevitable that you (adults) forget where you hide the eggs, well Colt didn't quit easy and even when we told him they were all found, he discovered one we had missed. I have never seen a child more fascinated with eggs. He also hunted at Aunt Carla's Easter party and would play with the eggs for a long time!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Let the blogging begin !
Welcome to my blog. . . .
If you're one of the people I invited, you're a close family or friend of mine. As many of you know, I've felt impressed ever since my grandchildren have arrived to tell stories that only I know, stories of struggle and of victory, and especially stories of the second or third generation back that only I know. Everyone has stories, so why tell these? Because they are important, and because they are worth telling. They tell of people who are a part of me, and people who are reflected in my family that are living now, and they are of value to the generations to come and need to be preserved.
As I journey ahead, I'll be sharing my discoveries and frustrations of looking for my history, and I'll be sharing stories of my childhood and the memories of people and events in my life. How often? Hopefully, one a month at a minimum.
I truly believe that discovering our past allows to see who we will become. We are not only physical reflections, but we are the hopes and dreams of the generations past.
If you're one of the people I invited, you're a close family or friend of mine. As many of you know, I've felt impressed ever since my grandchildren have arrived to tell stories that only I know, stories of struggle and of victory, and especially stories of the second or third generation back that only I know. Everyone has stories, so why tell these? Because they are important, and because they are worth telling. They tell of people who are a part of me, and people who are reflected in my family that are living now, and they are of value to the generations to come and need to be preserved.
As I journey ahead, I'll be sharing my discoveries and frustrations of looking for my history, and I'll be sharing stories of my childhood and the memories of people and events in my life. How often? Hopefully, one a month at a minimum.
I truly believe that discovering our past allows to see who we will become. We are not only physical reflections, but we are the hopes and dreams of the generations past.
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