A French Monument for Uncle Ryland Howard and his crewman who died locating the German artillery positions, saving many American lives in the Battle of St. Lo in Normandy July 4, 1944.

Thanks go to Uncle Ryland’s son cousin Ryland Howard for the newspaper article and the touching note below.

It is a memorial monument to the 90th Division and the two men who went down with their Piper L-4 liaison plane on July 4, 1944. It is in the village of Pretot, less than a mile from where Ryland’s plane went down. Pretot was liberated the day before by the 90th, in the jump off to the battle for Hill 122, which lasted another 10 days of struggle and the 90th alone suffered 5,000+ casualties. 

The monument idea was started by one Louisa Howard contacting my French friend Christian about a small stone memorial somewhere. He took off with it, made a deal with the mayor and there it is. This is what Christian does. His father did this most of his life, as an avocation. I call his father Henri the French father of the 90th Division men in WWII. 

The monument is across from another monument, to the 82nd Airborne and one of their men, Lt. Williams. Ironically, I took a photo of Lt. Williams’ stone when I was there in 2019. On the day that Williams died, age 21, the message came through that evening that his wife had given birth to twins. He never knew. The twins were Green Berets in Vietnam and a grandson is a Marine fighter pilot. 

Tugs at your heartstrings. 

Informal dedication is this June; formal, with family is next May. The kids and the township paid for it. I knew nothing about it until we the whole family were gathered for Louisa’s virtual graduation ceremony at the ranch three weeks ago. 

So, you see, another chapter. 

And I knew exactly where it was going to be when they told me about it. I had been there on a warm afternoon in June, 2019. 

The above attached by Sperry Hunt

Below is a photo of the same Piper L4-B model flown by Uncle Ryland.

Family Names: Andrews, Flewellen (Fluellen), Clarks, Tilgham, Helm, Dickinson, Howard

From Cousin Dr. Gary H. Darden

Mystery is solved: that’s Eugenia Andrews Flewellen (1840-1923), who was the youngest child of John Day Andrews (1795-1882) and Eugenia Price (1805-1876). They had two daughters, and Eugenia had two daughters by her first husband, William Winston Tilghman (1798-1829). These two daughters were Barbara Overton (1823-1857) and Elizabeth (1825-1876).
With the death of William Tilgham in 1829, Eugenia in 1830 remarried the overseer on her large plantation in Hanover County, Virginia. Her marriage to John Day Andrews caused a scandal and her father Thomas Price, Jr. never reconciled to this marriage of unequals. She and John had their first of two daughters, Samuella, in 1835. Subsequently, John made two trips to Texas in 1836 and 1837 to set up a business venture and explore moving to the new Republic of Texas. 
In late 1838, John and Eugenia sold the 600 acres of their Virginia plantation and, along with her two daughters from her first marriage (now adopted by John), sailed from Baltimore to settle in Houston, the newly established frontier capital of the Republic of Texas. They took a ship with building supplies for a proper house. It is in this new house at 410 Austin Street that Eugenia gave birth to her fourth daughter (second with John) in 1840. This is the Eugenia Andrews Flewellen in the portrait in question.
John Day Andrews proved himself well, indeed reinvented himself, in the Texas Republic, becoming Houston’s fifth mayor, 1841-1842. He was asked by Sam Houston to become secretary of the treasury for the Republic of Texas, an honor he declined. He was close friends with Sam Houston, who rented a home from John. He amassed significant real estate holdings in Houston and in farmland outside the city. Part of this land is where those mineral rights in Waller County come from. 
See John Day Andrews bio link:
http://spotsylvaniamemory.blogspot.com/2019/01/john-day-andrews.html?m=1
All of us here are descended from Eugenia and William Tilgham’s second daughter, Elizabeth Tilghman (1825-1876), whose second marriage (after widowed to a Daniel Culp, married 1844-1852) was to a Scottish immigrant from Kelso, John Dickinson (1820-1871). 
Their daughter was Nancy “Nannie” Tilghman Dickinson (1862-1888), who married George Aldridge Clark (1855-1925). Nannie had 3 children, all in Houston:
1) Elizabeth “Bessie” Clark Helm (1884-1966), from whom I’m descended. 
2) Aldridge Clark (1886, died soon after childbirth)
3) Nancy Howard (1888-1977), from whom you all are descended. Their mother died of complications from her birth. 
This is where Eugenia Andrews Fluellen comes into the picture. Upon the death of her neice, Nannie Clark, the 48-year-old Eugenia took charge of her great nieces, the “Clark sisters” as they were known. Eugenia’s son and daughter-in-law adopted newborn Nancy Howard, hence her name becoming Flewellen, while Eugenia raised then 4-year-old Elizabeth Helm at the family home at 410 Austin Street. The two sisters had lunch every Sunday with their father George Clark at Eugenia’s home. He lived at a residential hotel and socialized at the City Club, according to my grandmother. He started one of the first fire insurance firms in Houston. He also drank a fair amount according to my grandmother, and this fueled my great grandmother’s ardent support for Prohibition. Luckily, none of her descendants shared that view! 
Eugenia also took charge of their education, with Elizabeth “Bessie” sent off to Agnes Scott in Atlanta, while Nancy went off to Hollins in Roanoke, Virginia. They were two-year finishing schools for girls at the time. Today they are four year colleges. 
The Clark sisters were married in a double wedding, if I recall correctly, in Summer 1908 in the family house at 410 Austin Street. 
At this point Bessie Clark Helm moved to Dallas, while Nancy Clark Howard remained in Houston. Each sister’s first born was named Eugenia in honor of the woman who took charge of their lives upon the death of their mother. So that portrait in question likrlikely meant a lot to Nancy Clark Howard. 
Eugenia Andrews Fluellen was born at the family house at 410 Austin Street in 1840 and died in that house in 1923. Upon her death much of the contents of that house went to the Clark sisters, but your Eugenia Howard Hunt (1910-1990/91?) and my Eugenia Helm Ince (1909-2007) inherited her wedding “coin” silverware ordered from F.W. Cooper in New York (sterling silver adopted in US by 1860s) by her father John Day Andrews when she married the widowed doctor, Robert Turner Flewellen, in 1860. 
I have that coin flatware and coin holloware from my grandmother Eugenia Helm Ince, while your Eugenia Howard Hunt received the coin tea set, which Eugenia who teaches at Westpoint now has. I had mine tested and cleaned here in NYC where I live, and the silversmith said it’s exceptional quality Antebellum coin silver. The flatware is known as the “Olive” pattern and the holloware is known as the “Medallion” pattern. I presume the teaset is “Medallion” pattern like the other holloware pieces. 
The attached photos are as follows:
John Dickinson (1820-1876), seated with hand rested against face. Scottish born.
Elizabeth Tilghman Dickinson (1825-1876), seated in black dress. Virginia born. Older half sister of Eugenia Andrews Flewellen in portrait in question. 
Nancy “Nannie” Tilghman Dickinson Clark (1862-1888), headshot in white blouse, daughter of Elizabeth & John Dickinson, neice of Eugenia. 
George Aldridge Clark (1855-1925), in suit with hand on his hip, husband to Nannie above. 
Nannie Dickinson Clark with her firstborn Elizabeth “Bessie” Clark (my great grandmother). 
House at 410 Austin Street, first built in Greek Revival style in 1839 by John Day Andrews and restyled Italianate in 1870s. Eugenia and her family moved back into the house in the 1870s to care for her aging and nearly blind father, John Day Andrews. She inherited this house and its contents when her father died in 1882. The torn photo shows its latter Italianate design. 
I have several pieces of furniture that was in this house. Both Bessie Helm and Nancy Howard got their bedroom furniture from this house, and when I was at Eugenia Howard Hunt’s funeral in Austin (Jan 1990 or 1991?), my grandmother Eugenia Helm Ince pointed out the pieces from the 410 Austin Street home of the Eugenia they called “Grandmother” (albeit she was their mother’s great aunt). Eugenia Hunt had a painted four-poster bed from this house. It had been painted because of a house fire, my gradmother said. There were also chairs and tables, etc. There was an empire hexagon top mahogany parlor table from same furniture set as an empire mahogany game table I have. The Clark sisters divided this all up when Eugenia Andrews Flewellen died in 1923. They also divided up some farm land. 
The house was inherited by Nancy Clark Howard and it sat empty after Eugenia died. The house on a full square city block was sold and demolished in Oct 1937, I believe, and made front page news in Houston because of its historic nature. It was, I think, the last freestanding house left in what was the original center of town from the Republic of Texas days. Malcolm’s mother Robin was on the front page along with the house photo. 
If you read this far, congratulations, and you can see why I am a university history professor! 
I hope everyone is safe and well, and that our paths cross soon enough. 

Best regards, Gary Darden

Gary H. Darden, Ph.D.Associate Professor of History ChsirChair, DepartDepartment of Social Sciences & History FairleFairleigh Dickinson University 

Monument to the memory of the 90th Division liberation of the village of Pretot on July 3, 1944 and honoring Alfred Ryland Howard and his observer who died July 4 just south of Pretot, France.

Howard Descendants –
Attached are the newspaper articles about the “informal” dedication of the monument to the memory of the 90th Division liberation of the village of Pretot on July 3, 1944 and honoring my father and his observer who died July 4 just south of Pretot.
Interesting that the regional paper pays so much attention to the historical details of the battle for Mont Castre and the liberation of Pretot. Basically the articles describe the dedication and those who made the creation and erection of the monument possible, including Christian Levaufre and the mayor of the township, Thierry Renaud, and my thoughtful children.
Louisa, Isabel and Anson came up with the idea, Louisa contacted Christian via email regarding some modest memorial near the crash site, Christian picked up the ball and ran with it, and Lo, a granite and bronze monument in the village, flanked by the US and French flags.
Regards, Cousin Ryland

Stèle Prétot-Howard Windeler. The monument to the U.S. 90th Division and the two American flyers downed in Pretot Normandy, France July 4, 1944

Stèle Prétot-Howard Windeler.

An email from cousin Ryland Howard 5/24/2021

t’s hard to read anyway. It is a memorial monument to the 90th Division and the two men who went down with their Piper L-4 liaison plane on July 4, 1944. It is in the village of Pretot, less than a mile from where Ryland’s plane went down. Pretot was liberated the day before by the 90th, in the jump off to the battle for Hill 122, which lasted another 10 days of struggle and the 90th alone suffered 5,000+ casualties. The monument idea was started by one Louisa Howard contacting my French friend Christian about a small stone memorial somewhere. He took off with it, made a deal with the mayor and there it is. This is what Christian does. His father did this most of his life, as an avocation. I call his father Henri the French father of the 90th Division men in WWII. The monument is across from another monument, to the 82nd Airborne and one of their men, Lt. Williams. Ironically, I took a photo of Lt. Williams’ stone when I was there in 2019. On the day that Williams died, age 21, the message came through that evening that his wife had given birth to twins. He never knew. The twins were Green Berets in Vietnam and a grandson is a Marine fighter pilot. Tugs at your heartstrings. Informal dedication is this June; formal, with family is next May. The kids and the township paid for it. I knew nothing about it until we the whole family were gathered for Louisa’s virtual graduation ceremony at the ranch three weeks ago. So, you see, another chapter. And I knew exactly where it was going to be when they told me about it. I had been there on a warm afternoon in June, 2019. Amazing what?

The Poetry of Grief

Eugenia and Wilmer Hunt circa 1931
Eugenia and Wilmer Hunt, 1931

The poem that follows was written by my mother. My dad died in his sleep – just before dawn we believe – in his bedroom connected to hers. She wrote it, as she described in her journal, “On my way to Boston October 30, 1984.” She was coming to visit Springer, Chris and me in the house we built near Burlington, Vermont. ~Sperry Hunt, April, 2021

1982 The Death of My Love

By Eugenia Howard Hunt

One morning as the

Sun reproved the night 

With light

I walked on bare feet

To the front of your bed

You lay like an El Greco

Thin elegant face to the East

The right hand cupped out 

Across the white sheets

Winding around your long limbs

Such curve of beauty

I could see slits of blue

Through your eyes

Your cheeks still flushed

I called gently your name

You light sleeper always

But now that body

That always responded to my love

Was vacant of its soul

Left me a few minutes earlier

I still called out your name

Then I knew and stayed

With you a while

The last time you were mine 

Alone

Later that morning I walked by a copse of trees

There was no wind

But the copse revolved

It rustled and I knew

Your soul had sought 

Its God

And now I am too alone

Lolly Lockhart’s Alpine Stories

THE HUNTS AND THE LOCKHARTS           

The Hunt family from Houston and the Lockhart family in Alpine were about as close as two Texas families could be. Their friendship began in the late 1940s when my parents Wilmer and Eugenia Hunt brought their children to the dry climate of West Texas to recover from bouts of winter asthma. The Hunts soon met Dr. Bill Lockhart and his wife Laura Bell who just a few years prior had settled with their nacent family in Alpine following Bill’s participation in WWII. Upon arrival, the Lockharts built with their own hands and those of the community a substantial building composed of a hospital at one end and a warm and friendly home at the other. The hospital later became a clinic. A great many people depended on Bill’s doctoring skills. Quite commonly, when all of us were having dinner together, Bill, being the people’s doctor, would be called out to an emergency. Both he and Laura Bell were much loved in their community.            The Hunt family and the Lockhart family each had four kids with a somewhat comparable age-spread, so all of us had at least one contemporary who became a fast friend. Mary Bell and Sperry were inseparable in the ’50s, and we tramped about the landscape from the Big Bend National Park to the Davis Mountains, enjoying many picnics, mountain climbs, and much fun. Around 1952, our mom had a house of her design built on a hill at the edge of town, and we stayed there for most of every summer.           

Forgot to mention that the train tracks from New Orleans to California passed right through Houston and Alpine, so it was entirely feasible to take the 12-hour ride when necessary. Remembering those trips through that vast region with all that history, I can still feel the clanking of the rails and recall meals in the dining car, and watching the staff play dominoes after hours. I should also mention that my father travelled the same route as a teenager beginning around 1915 or so. Arriving in Alpine, he and his family would rent “horses and buggies” and drive 25 miles to Fort Davis to vacation during several summers.           

From ’61 to ’66, Grainger and Barbara Hunt lived in our summer house while both attended Sul Ross College, and Bill delivered two of their three children. He and Laura Bell remained close friends with all of us who continued for some years afterward to visit Alpine as a favorite spot with favorite friends.             

Below is a series of interesting and entertaining Lockhart family stories to give you some examples of who these wonderful people were (and are) and their joyful presence in their community.

Sperry and Grainger Hunt 2/20/2021

And now Lolly Lockhart’s tales of Alpine:

What Makes A Veterinarian? 
By Lolly Lockhart Ph D RN

Several years ago there was an article in the Leader Times entitled “Medical doctor’s kindness directed Swatzell into the world of medicine.” The article reported an interview with a veterinarian, Dr. Monte Swatzell, who had practiced in Cleburne for 45 years and was retiring.  One of the questions asked of the retiring vet was “What inspired you to become a vet?”  One of my friends from Graham forwarded the article to me knowing that the story would be of great interest.

It seems that in 1939 the steep road was being cut next to and up to Mount Lock for access in order to build the McDonald Observatory near Fort Davis.  The work crew lived in mobile homes at the base of the incline and in Fort Davis.  The head of the construction crew had a sixth grade son, Monte, who had a bird dog named Brownie.  One day Monte found Browne having a seizure on the back porch.  The father asked around Fort Davis where he could locate a vet to care for the sick dog.  He was advised that there was not a vet in the area; however, a new doctor in Alpine might be willing to help out.

The mother called Dr. Bill Lockhart and explained their concern about the dog and the distress of their son about the sick dog.  Dr. Lockhart, feeling great concern primarily but not entirely for the sixth grader, made a house call on location from Alpine.  He concluded that the dog had been poisoned by strychnine and treated him accordingly. He spent time with the little boy telling him what to do to help the dog get well.  The dog survived and brought great joy to the little boy.  The encounter also built confidence and inspiration for the little boy that he could make a difference in his dog’s wellbeing.

That little boy became the vet.  He stated at retirement that he would never forget the caring that Dr. Lockhart had for his dog and the doctor’s patience in telling him what to do for the dog.  It was then that he decided he wanted to be a vet and thus dedicated his life to caring for the animal world.

Over the years, Dr. Lockhart made many house calls to area ranches to help manage the stock until there were veterinarians in the area.  In return, he had standing invitations to hunt deer and cut firewood. He always maintained a supply of medication to treat pet poisonings.

Dr. Monte Swatzell, lives in Cleburne with his wife Joyce.  In 1987, the Swatzells and several of his brothers returned to Fort Davis for the 50th reunion at the McDonald Observatory.  They love the area, Fort Davis and the Big Bend.  During that visit, Dr. Swatzell visited with Dr. Lockhart’s wife, Lora Bell Lockhart, as Dr. Lockhart had recently passed away.

Rattlesnake Stories

By Lolly Lockhart Ph D RN

In the late 1950’s, local teenagers, Don Burgess and Grainger Hunt, became very interested in rattlesnakes.  They made “snake sticks” out of a pole with a strong loop at one end that could be tightened to control the snake at a safe distance.  Numerous snakes were captured and often brought to Lolly Lockhart, another teen, to skin.  Lolly made belts, billfolds and other items with the skins.

On one occasion, our group was at a party at the Brown’s Cathedral Mountain Lodge South of town off the Terlingua highway.  During the event, Grainger caught a rattlesnake and had it in a feed sack.  After midnight, when he arrived at his home, his mother Eugenia Hunt refused to let him keep the snake at her home.  He came down to Dr. Lockhart’s office, and came through the office door to the residence and knocked on Room 2, my bedroom.  He said he needed some place to put the rattlesnake until tomorrow.  Half asleep, I said, “Well, put it in the hamper just inside the door,” which he did.  The next morning I woke up thinking I had dreamed about Grainger bringing the snake. I cautiously went over to the hamper and lifted the lid carefully with my hairbrush, and the snake in the bag began to rattle.

Later that day, Grainger came by to get the snake.  Under my dad’s supervision we turned the snake out in the alleyway and took 8 mm movies in slow motion of the snake striking at a mop.  Grainger later took the snake to Houston where the snakes are milked for venom.

On a Burgess/Lockhart family outing/picnic to the Cathedral Lodge, Don Burgess caught a snake and we skinned it and decided to put the meat in a cooler and get our mothers, Merlyn Burgess and Lora Bell Lockhart, to cook it for us later.  They found the snake and decided that was not what they were going to do, so we did not get to taste rattlesnake meat that we heard tasted like chicken.

Another snake story occurred on one of our trips to Balmorhea for a swim.  On the way there, I found a snake dead on the road (DOR, as we would say) and placed it on the bumper of the 1952 Ford that had a lip to hold it.  On the way home, we stopped for gas in Fort Davis.  In the middle of the man pumping gas, I remembered the snake, and hopped out to see if it was still there.  When I pointed the snake out to the man pumping gas within inches of the snake’s body, he turned white as a sheet and immediately pulled the pump away and I got no more gas.

Dr. Bill Lockhart became an expert in diagnosing and treating rattlesnake bites.  He discovered that putting the limb with the bite in ice would stop the enzyme action and he published as article to that effect in Current Therapy.  He later discovered that when the ice is removed and the tissue warmed up, the enzyme would be reactivated.  So he expanded on his recommended treatment and determined that the ice was only a temporary measure.  He also discovered that the puncture wounds from a snake bite can be misleading and appear to be minor, when in fact the snake may have place a significant amount of venom in the tissue that would begin to destroy the tissues.  He concluded that every snake bite needed to be excised to determine if there was evidence of venom needing to be surgically removed.  He became a key witness in lawsuits involving the treatment of rattlesnake bites.

Remembering the Past

By Lolly Lockhart Ph D RN

This past year one of my nursing students mentioned that she shared with her elderly neighbor that one of her instructors was from Alpine and her dad was a doctor.  The neighbor replied, “You must mean Lolly Lockhart!” Thus, I was able to reconnect with Doreen Gillespie.

Doreen and her husband, Dr. James Gillespie, and two daughters lived in Alpine for about year around 1958-1960. James, an entomologist, taught biology at Sul Ross and Doreen became good friends with my parents, Dr. Bill and Lora Bell Lockhart.  James was waiting to hear about his acceptance to work on a grant at Harvard, that he was granted, thus their short stay.  Doreen was a character as anyone who remembers her will attest.

In October of this past fall, I was heading down to check out the Salt Lick as a possible site for Alpine in Austin 2012* (It was too expensive!) so I invited Doreen to go along with me.  Doreen was about 96 years young, “thin as a rail and sharp as a tack”!  All day she told me funny stories about her time in Alpine.  I have to share the funniest one.

James was a Lutheran, but attended the Presbyterian Church, so became good friends with my Mother who was also a regular attendee, played the organ and sang in the choir.  My dad most often held office hours Sunday morning for the ranch hands, as that was the only day they could bring their families in for medical care.  This particular Sunday, Mother and James were at church and my dad was working in the emergency room at the hospital – the old facility on the Loop road.  Doreen decided it would be a good day to saddle up Gypsy, our horse, and go for a ride.  She dressed up in her cowgirl boots, tight black riding pants, fringed jacket, ponytail, and cowgirl hat.

Since the only place with any activity on Sunday morning was the hospital, she headed that way.  As she rode up in the drive by the ER, someone came running out exclaiming “Doreen, go to the Presbyterian Church and get so-and-so, we need him to give blood right now.  Dr. Lockhart had set up a “walking blood bank” that included the names and blood type of anyone in town who would let him check their blood type, so they could be called in to donate fresh blood as needed.  Doreen and Gypsy headed to the church.  Doreen tied Gypsy up outside the door, and went in. She walked down the isle, spotted so-and-so and signaled him to come, which he did.  She sent him to the hospital and followed on Gypsy.  As soon as she arrived, there was another urgent assignment, as another person was also needed from the Presbyterian Church.  She said three time she pulled people from the church service to give blood.

There was a practice at that time if someone gave blood that they should receive a shot of whiskey to “rebuild their blood supply” or, more likely, to entice cowboys to give blood.  At any rate, Doreen said they claimed they had given each of the donors a shot of whiskey, and decided that since she had brought them in, she deserved a shot as well, and gave her three shots.  She said after that she was glad Gypsy knew her way back home!

The next day, Doreen got a call from the preacher, Rev. Clanton Newbill.  He said, “Doreen, I want to talk with you about your retrieving my parishioners from the service on Sunday.” Then he laughed and said, “I know what you were up to.  I want to know how did the patient do?”  Doreen replied with her dry wit, “ I think he got too much of that Presbyterian blood because he died.”  She said the preacher started to laugh, then caught himself, as it was not appropriate to laugh that the person died.

I called Doreen after New Years in anticipation of more funny Alpine stories only to find that her phone was disconnected and her jeep not in the garage.  I learned that she had a stroke several weeks after our fun outing, and died in November.  I miss her, but what a joy it was that we had that time to reconnect and to recall the 1950’s in Alpine. 

* “Alpine in Austin” is a gathering of ‘all who ever lived in Alpine or wished they had’.  The gatherings were held for about ten years in the 1980’s and will be held again March 17, 2012.  For information contact Lolly at Lollylock.gmail.com or 512-699-6055

As an end note:  As a child, I recall the “giving a shot of whiskey after giving blood,” but always interpreted it to be a joke.  I Goggled “shot of whiskey donating blood,” and the fifth hit was a World War II veteran who mentioned that during the War whenever a soldier gave a pint of blood for a buddy he or she was awarded a shot of whiskey.  Dr. Lockhart worked in a MASH type hospital on the front line during the War and that is likely from where the idea of a shot of whiskey came.  I question whether the donors actually received a shot – not likely, but Doreen likely did!

Bobby Hansen

By Lolly Lockhart Ph D RN

I am working on the Bobby story. I recall and confirmed by Paul Weyerts DVM that Paul was at a filling station visiting with a friend when Bobby’s friend came up distressed and told what happened and that Bobby was on the side of the mountain. Paul called DI and put the rescue in motion. Paul said that DI climbed up side of the cliff with his pocketknife and stethoscope.  Paul tried to carry the suitcase but it was too heavy and he could not even make it up the mountain.  So DI would have used the pocket knife and stethoscope alone to do the trach and torn off part of a shirt to hold the tube in place.  Paul said that Bobby’s friend got several SR football players and other friends to carry Bobby off the mountain. (I had always thought that DI did that) but Paul said they were all involved and helping.  Then I remember his being kept in Room 6 and SR students sat with him 24 hours as he was thrashing about for several days (weeks?) until the swelling went down.

Years later, I came upon Bobby and his German wife on the road to the Park and they had run out of gas.  I went and got gas for them.  Then even more years later, when I was doing Alpine in Austin and they printed my address in the Avalanche, I received a post card, probably still have it) that just said “If you are related to Dr Lockhart, he saved my life.  Bobby Hansen”

I think his or her family did ranching near Midland and Odessa and that was where they lived and visited from time to time in Alpine.  I do wonder where he is now.

There was another case of DI carrying a SR student down from Twin Sisters. Do you remember anything about that?  Was it someone hiking with Bill and Charles?

A Lot of Bull

By Lolly Lockhart Ph D RN

By 1956, Dr. Bill Lockhart had converted the Lockhart Hospital (built after World War II next door to the First Presbyterian Church) to the Lockhart Clinic. The West half of the building next to the alley was for his office practice, and the family residence was in the East portion.  The external doors and interior doors to the rooms of the building were extra wide to accommodate the hospital beds and other “large objects.”  The Xray equipment was placed in the former Delivery Room at the back of the office.  The stage is now set.

One of the local ranchers had a bull that had injured his right hip.  The concern was how best to manage the situation and that required knowing whether the hip was fractured or just bruised.  So the decision was made to Xray the bull’s hip.  The rancher and Dr. Lockhart explored possible approaches to getting that done.

Dr. Nilon Tallant had just finished his internship and was waiting to join the U.S. A. F. medical corp and, at the time, was practicing with Dr. Lockhart and participated in the Bull’s Xray procedure.  He does not remember if the bull was medicated or blindfolded to reduce the likelihood of the bull going amok in a strange environment.  There may have been a tarp placed on the polished cement floor to reduce the likelihood of the bull slipping.  Who knows?

The bull was led into the Clinic through the back door off the alley and into the Xray room on the right.  He was positioned in front of the plate on the wall used for chest Xrays.  The level of the plate was adjusted to the height of the bull’s right hip and the Xray machine adjusted to come in at the correct angle to view the hip.  A series of Xrays was taken. The bull was backed out of the room and out of the clinic without any problem.

Dr. Tallant does not remember whether or not the bull had a fracture, but this was another unique event in the frontier medical practice of Dr. Lockhart. Dr. Paul Weyerts, long time veterinarian in Alpine, remembers lots of dogs and other small animals being Xrayed, but did not recall the “bull story”.  It is a true story as I was in high school at the time and recall that evening being told of the event….”You had a what in the office?”Search for:

A Letter from Jeana

My mother died in 1991. I’m fortunate to have a large cache of her papers, I came upon a draft of a letter I don’t remember receiving. It appears to be from the 1980s, after my father’s death, because she didn’t mention him. Mom was living at the top of Red Bud Rail overlooking Austin. It was circa 1983, when Springer and I were building a house in Vermont, I think. Some background: Flower and Jingo were Lhasa Apsa dogs. My parents sometimes called me “The Caboose,” my being the last of four kids. And finally, my mother’s health was poor during the pregnancy with me, and her OBGYN Dr. Kincaid may have suggested that I should be terminated. Thanks, Mom! Jeana was a free-spirit and a wonderful mother, artist and poet. I was very lucky to be her son. Very lucky as it turned out.


Dearest Sperry,

Every night when I go to bed I think of my darling son, and hope he’s having the time of his life. The air here is like wine, and I write and paint and housekeep, but every so often when my blood feels cool and I’m not feeling good, I put on my corduroy coat and run all over the lawn in the sunshine with Flower and Jing too. The yellow daises are all in bloom up Red Bud Trail and I feel that they have been placed there by God just for me, so I thank Him and want Him to know that I read the card from His private florist and send Him a kiss of “Thank You.” My great love is for all of the beautiful children He set to me. What woman could be so fortunate as to have so much joy and sorrow and love and all of life that I have had, and not the least of that, the Caboose. Your understanding has always been a boon of steadiness and poetical flare that has filled many of my days with joy. And to think had I been a pat little soul, Dr. Kincaid might have talked me out of you, my beautiful baby and fine young man.


So you can see that this is nothing on earth but a love letter. May God bless you and keep you until we see one another again.
Mother

Robin and Europe 1970

About ten years ago, on one of my annual trips to Texas, Robin and I were sitting around her dining room table musing happily about about my staying with her in France. She laughed and said it was one of the happiest times in her life. I said I felt the same way.

The stars were aligned for me in the fall of ’70. I was an unfocused student at the University of Texas confused about what I should study for the next two years. And I had just ended a four year unsettling relationship with a girl I was afraid I might go back to. I was looking for a fresh start with a true love. I thought a bit of traveling might help me find way. Robin heard of this through our mother and invited me to stay with her and her family in Versailles, just outside of Paris where her husband Malcolm was an attorney for a global oilfield service corporation based there.

I arrived at Orly Airport, famished, at dawn on a 747 redeye from JFK. I quickly took the train to the city, where I found a café. I ordered the only thing I could say in my Texas French: “Deux croissants e café au lait, s’il vous plait.”

An hour later Robin picked me up in her spongy blue Citroen, and we sped off to Versailles, a grand suburb where every building is elegant, multi-story and real stone. Her house proved to be no exception. It even had a pool in the basement.

Good grief, I fretted. Had my dear affable Texas sister joined a higher society than I could or would want to join? Was this the woman I saw in Blake’s Cafe in Luling devour a chicken fried steak the size of a competition Frisbee? Was this the singer who could belt out “Does Your Chewing Gum Loose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?” like Kitty Wells at the Grand Ole Opry?

Yes.

That was the magic of Robin. She was at home anywhere. She could be a mischievous and adventurous Southwestern girl by day and perform as a mezzo soprano with the New York Choral Society that night

The next ten weeks were wonderful. I stayed in Paris the first week. Being a suburb, Versailles was really very ordinary, unless you like the palaces, which I don’t. I took the 9:30 train every day to Paris to see the art, architecture and history of the city. I returned in time for dinner with Robin, Malcolm, young Malcolm, Angus and Wil, who were wonderful kids. As an early teen I would offer to babysit the boys so I could stay over. Each was an individual and very much like they are today. Being an early riser, Robin usually went to bed around eight. Malcolm and I stayed up late drinking and talking, often about the two years he spent in Europe in the Army, where he and Roy Kiesling became friends. The thing I loved about Malcolm was that despite his proper international lawyer façade, he had a love the absurd, which we shared.

I think it was in Paris where Robin began to write novels and poetry. She would sequester herself every day behind the tall, provincial doors of her office off the living room. She was very dedicated to her work from then on.

Having seen what I wanted to see in Paris I went on to London but returned, by Robin’s request, for my birthday. Robin and her cook Virginie arranged a birthday feast (pictured) and a beautiful American birthday cake. The boys enjoyed my birthday immensely. Robin did too. She was happy in France but lonely, I expect, for someone from home, which I was delighted to be. One of Robin’s best qualities was listening. It never failed that when I returned from anywhere, she would sit me down and eagerly ask all about it, and not just what happened, but why and what was my reaction to each occurrence. I felt like a brother in a Jane Austen story. I suspect everyone who knew her well did. Her gift to us all was her attention.

In November I visited Copenhagen. Our brother Grainger had done his thesis work on the genetics of Danish field mice. My understanding is that in doing so, he proved that they had migrated from Russia by following the spillage of the people who brought the grain that the Russian mice were so fond of. Grainger had been aided by a fellow named Claus Schroder who was doing a masters degree in biology at the university in Copenhagen. Claus turned out to be an generous and energetic guy my age. He found me a space in his graduate house where I had a terrific time with him and his friends. To put the time in context, I heard the Bridge Over Troubled Waters album there first.

On a return trip to England I bought a very affordable green MG-B roadster. (See receipt photo.)

Left-hand drive MG receipt from dealership in Piccadilly.

It was a British racing green left-hand drive roadster with a black convertible top and tan interior. The thing I most remember about the day was leaving the dealership, receipt in hand, and looked up to see the famous actor Rex Harrison, dressed in impeccable steeple-chase attire, riding a magnificent horse serenely across the street amongst the black taxis and the red, double-deck busses.

Nearly all of my memories of that trip were pure comedy. I arrived with my gear, which consisted of a large, tan canvas backpack on the top flap of which I had earlier stitched as large an American flag as would fit. The flag of my country at that moment in time, as seen from abroad, was much as it is now were you to substitute Richard Nixon for Donald Trump. With my longish hair and my pack I got a lot of looks and not a few thumbs-up signs. I stayed in a small, cheap Victorian B&B where you needed your shillings to pay for heat. There I met a Greek my age who introduced me to ouzo by producing a bottle of it from his greatcoat in a showing of Seven Brides and Seven Brothers. We drank most of the bottle and were forced to watch the movie twice due to our inability to walk and think properly. I met a beautiful Canadian girl who announced straight-off that she was saving herself for Randy Bachman of the Toronto-based band the Guess Who. It was never clear, however, that he was saving himself for her. I spent several of days with a young Canadian guy. We became fast friends immediately. On the fourth day he got a call from his mother saying that his dad was very ill, and could he come home right away. Being the weekend, she couldn’t put together the $350 he needed for the flight home. I loaned him the money. He left. Four days later the amount was delivered to me via American Express, with a sweet note of thanks from his mom and news that her husband was recovering well.

I returned to Copenhagen in late November and picked up Claus. We set off on a trip to Italy via Paris where we were entertained generously by Robin and Clan McCorquodale. Completely taken with Robin, Claus said he wished she had a younger sister.

Claus and I threaded our way down to Lyon where we witnessed a night, riverside firework show celebrating the American moon landings. A few days later we were in Rome where I was pinched on the bottom by a pretty signorina as she passed by on the Spanish Steps with her mother. Half of the nights on the trip we slept in the bucket seats of the MG zipped up in our sleeping bags against the cold – especially in the snowy Black Forest of Bavaria. It was there, in Hitler’s beer cellar in Munich, that we were refused service, I expect, for the length of my hair, which I hadn’t cut in months. German youth were in the midst of prying ex-Nazis out of their government. At breakfast on the ferry to Denmark we were stared down by a bullish old sailor. On the drive to Copenhagen, we visited two nursing students on the Island of the Moon whom we knew from my first visit.

By mid-December I was getting homesick. When I told Robin and Malcolm, they graciously invited me to live with them. Malcolm said I could learn French, finish school, and he would help me find a job, perhaps with his company. It was very tempting. Europe had been interesting and exciting, and I had always loved to stay with them. But Texas was calling me back.

Christmas was a white one in Paris that year. We had a wonderful feast and a festively lit tree. I romped with the boys in the snow. I left a few days later already missing Robin. She and Malcolm were warm hosts. And Robin was Robin, who everyone who knew her, loves to this day.

Oh, and by the way, I did find that true love six weeks after my return. I proposed to Springer three weeks later. Here we are the next summer (pictured with my marvelous mother-in-law). We’re at Love Field flying off to San Francisco for our honeymoon, without my marvelous mother-in-law.

Springer, Sperry and Bobbe Springer at Love Field 6/15/1971

My father’s first law case

My grandfather, Wilmer Sperry Hunt.

My father and I went on many a hunting trip. He invariably told stories during the pre-dawn and dusk drives. When Dad finished UT law school and passed the bar, he worked for his father who had a thriving civil law firm in downtown Houston. It would have been around 1928. They had just moved into offices, high in the new Esperson Building. At first he did research and filings only for the firm. Then one day Grandpa handed him his first court case. Dad said he was very nervous. Having studied the case extensively, he drove forty-five miles south to Angleton, Texas, the seat of Brazoria County. It was a hot day in the unairconditioned courthouse. The high windows and the transoms were open wide, and the paddle fans whirred overhead. Nonetheless, Dad sweated profusely in his linen suit.

Brazoria County Court House (1894)

The client was very upset and demanding justice. My father did his best, but his best wasn’t good enough, and he lost the case. He felt terrible that he had let his client and his dad down.

He went home and apologized over dinner. (He lived at home with his parents until he married.) “I’m so sorry, Papa,” he told his father. “You sent me down there to win the case, and I lost it.”

My grandfather laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t send you down there to win, son.”

Dad was dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

“It was hopeless,” Grandpa said. “The client was out of his mind to think otherwise. I couldn’t have won it. Clarence Darrow couldn’t have either.”

“Then why…?”

“I sent you down there to lose,” my grandfather said. “You’re going to lose lots of cases, and you need to know what that feels like, so you don’t get so rattled in the future. Now you know. Let’s eat.”

It was a good story, a good lesson for me, and a way for him to let me know that he was vulnerable and sometimes unwise. Thanks, Dad.