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
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
1929: Eugenia Howard Hunt (2nd from left) at 19 in Bavaria on an art school tour.
I alway thought of my mother as a gentle woman. She was normally very understanding and always seemed willing to overlook or excuse the occasional slight. She most often took the high road by saying, “You never know what people have been through to cause them to act that way.”
Evidently she took a different tack when she was a child as I discovered in a passage in one of her many journals that I have fallen heir to:
I was little and thin, wiry and wild and loved. I loved people, days, and God with passions which I spread about. I loved physical combat and for my size enjoyed many victories. I learned to fight fair, so I enjoyed a certain amount of respect from my antagonists.
One of them Clark [Wren] (a cousin), his sister and my [younger] brother were in the kitchen one summer evening. Clark decided he wanted a drink out of the [unsanitary] water cooler by way of mouth. I’d been slapped [!] for that several days before. I was custodian of the water cooler.
I objected violently.
With his mouth still on the cooler he kicked out at me. I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him off. He let the spigot go and put his arms around the cooler. I grabbed the mop and worked him over. He spun around and tried for my weapon. I drove the beautiful , dirty thing deep in his red and freckled face. Finally he took it away from me, and slapped me soundly.
I boiled over and closed in. He hit me twice with his fists hard enough to raise all of my remaining anger to the surface. I was out of my class. I was being boxed and I was not a (?) fighter. So I clawed him from elbow to short shirt sleeve while he relieved me of a tuft of hair.
By this time, our audience screamed for the mothers sitting in the moonlight on the front lawn. Was Clark’s mother mad? She was a beautiful titian-haired, pink cheeked goddess and her children were her children, right or wrong.
Mother poured campho phenique in his mouth, which was horrible because as soon as my anger passed I could not bear to have my victims suffer, and I cried profusely and wanted to kiss him, which he said if I did, he was going to “beat the hell out of me!” So he was taken home and had his mouth soaped out for cussing.
Then Mother made me spend the next hour writing him a letter of apology while I did my sobbing and examined my purple bruises.
Clark fought in Europe during the 2nd World War from Africa to the victory in Germany. He was never wounded. He says his only battle scars were from The Water Cooler Episode, which he still bears in little white marks on both forearms.
Though I didn’t always recognize it in my youth, Eugenia Howard Hunt, my mother, was an extraordinarily funny woman. The following is a letter from her to my dad’s cousin Chan Hunt, a friend and fellow artist in Marin County, California. My parents had been there visiting us. My dad flew directly home to Austin where he was semi-retired judge. On her way back, Mom stopped to paint and rest in Alpine, a high desert town in far west Texas where my parents had a small vacation home on a hill overlooking the town of 6000. She called the house “The Gate to Heaven” for its spectacular sunsets – and because it was situated between the Cross’ and the Sohl’s homes. These bits of separation were enjoyed by both of my parents, I’m certain. Sperry Hunt 2019
Sept. 21, 1976
Dear Chan. I am sitting here at the end of the dining room table in Alpine right smack in the middle of God’s country. He is holding me in the palm of His hand and we have been having many soul expanding conversations. I am all by myself in The Gate to Heaven with all of the memories of everyone who has come in and out of its doors.
Grainger [her son older son] had the trim painted on the outside and my bedroom and bath are done in snowy white. It makes the rest of the house seem a bit worn but perhaps later…
My trip back to Texas was first filled with writing poetry and feeling I was flying with the birds. The rest was for the birds … except that my poor old guardian angel was there pushing and pulling for me as usual. Wilmer [her husband] told me explicitly that I came down in El Paso and Midland. So all the way from San Francisco I spun the verse and took pictures of the awe inspiring clouds. The plane came down and I descended with all of my accoutrements and walked and walked through the terminal. I flew American as you know and was supposed to change to Continental at El Paso. I arrived at the Continental departure gate, noting that the plane left for Midland at four o’clock, as the ticket had said. I was writing away when I realized that a line had formed. Then the nice lady informed me that I was in Tucson. I wailed. She said that all was well. She called American whose office was a mile back through the corridors, and calmly informed them of my dilemma. Continental would hold the plane for me while I went back for revision. You know when I arrived at that airport I though that it looked very Indian in décor, but the idea blew through my happy mind without stopping. And now for the first miracle. The Continental plane was to have picked me up in El Paso had been delayed coming into Tucson, so the hour was exactly the same for departure. And the poor people in El Paso had to wait all of that time, and it was as cool as a cucumber in Tucson ——- and uncrowded, and as my baggage was checked through —- no problem.
I finally set down in Midland at 5:30 and there was Vic Ward, a C.D.R.I [Chihuahua Desert Research Institute] man to meet me. The first thing he did was to ask, “Do you have a driver’s license?” He informed me that I had to drive as the hi and he hadn’t brought his license. Then he disappeared. All of the people at the baggage left and I was there in that hot spot with everything. I looked like a laburnum in full bloom with all of the carrying cases and surrounded by all of that luggage and the canvases. Here came a large Georgia man who informed me he was a taxi driver and said that he was taking me where I was going. I re-informed him that as Alpine was my destination that I thought not. He said, “Well you sure can’t carry them things to Alpine on your back.” I told him I had a friend, and he snorted that it was some friend to leave a poor helpless lady with all this luggage in all of this heat. He never stopped talking. He became so obnoxious I though he was going to kidnap me, and not a soul in sight. Finally I spied Vic down at the end of the terminal (I forgot to tell you that the man had carried everything out and put it in the hot sun by his taxi.) with two burly policemen, and Vic about as big as a peanut and the same color. I called to him and one of the policemen gave me one of those long arm gestures, you either come down here or else. Then I became furious and I yelled, “I will not leave my luggage. You come here.” With that they put Vic in his car and here he came. Oh, Lord what a vehicle! It must have come form the bottom of the small Volk’s heap from the beginning of all Volks. No paint. No nothing. Loading it was horrible. I got in to drive with the police hot on our rear bumper and when I came to a stop sign I discovered that there were no brakes. Vic told me calmly that I should have pumped them. Ahead I saw a hotel with a restaurant. I slid into it, stepped out and looked the law straight in the face and they left.
We went into a dining area where we were the only customers. I had some gin and water and began to breath.
The trip home was a nightmare. The heater was not turn-offable, and it blew on my feet for 160 miles. I didn’t drive. When we arrived here in the black of night, I reached for my camera under the seat and it wasn’t there. He had taken it in and left it in the restaurant.
The next morning I called Irene [Irene Gallego] and she took me back to Midland. I was still holding on to my guardian angel’s hand. The dear sweet 200 pound waitress swarmed toward me and grabbed both my hands and said, “I prayed all night you would remember where you left it.” And there it was. I didn’t tell her I couldn’t have called as I didn’t remember the name of the place.
My angel and I certainly slept hard that night. We were wore!
I went to the Alpine library and took out books on photography and Chinese architecture, set up my canvases and have one in a beautiful state. Grainger is still on his vacation and this is the most delightfully quiet spot. I love not having a car.
After a day of painting I took a long walk. Laurabelle called and decided that I had died so that when I came back here was Irene and Johnnie Newell waiting to hold each others hand after they broke in. Johnnie said, “You committed the cardinal sin. You walked. “I paint everyday and then take a long walk. You won’t believe it, but between rains. I rains everyday and Alpine is knee deep in long grass and yellow daises. This morning there is even a fog over the village. The black cattle are fat and sleek even in the high mountains. Sunday the Lockharts took me to Glass Mountain so that he could cut wood for his fireplace. We met a man with a pet javelina. Bill [Dr. Bill Lockhart] has muscles like a stevedore. He cuts wood and operates in the same day and Laurabelle is building muscle by helping him load the trailer.
The grapes are luscious. Everyone comes in with a bunch, munching.
Did you know that scorpions fluoresce? Dr. Stancke from Temp, Arizona, a poisonous animal expert came to Alpine Sunday night. We all went to the Lockhart Salon and the C.D.R.I. came and Stancke gave an informal talk and the took us out to the wood pile. He produced a black light and lo and behold there were lavender scorpions all over the wood like chorus girls dancing about. He retrieved, with long tweezers, four of them in a special container. I could have done without that.
Well, back to my canvas and my walk. Love and kisses for all your many kindnesses.
Jeana at 19 (circa 1929) with best friend Marie Phelps (seated)
Eugenia Howard Hunt (AKA Jeana), my mother, was a pistol. Pictured here with her friends, was a free spirit and adventurer. She was a nature girl who loved nothing better than to set up her easel on a mountain or a beach – or pack up and drive from Houston to Santa Fe, West Texas, or San Francisco on a whim. She would often stand with her hand on her heart, rapturous before a sunset. And she loved to sing. Her favorite song, as I recall, was the “St. Louis Blues” by W.C. Handy, which was a huge hit song and musical in 1929, when the photo above was likely taken. She called it “St. Louie Woman” from the lines: “Saint Louis woman with her diamond rings/Pulls that man around by her apron strings.” Click on the link below to see the song sung by Bessie Smith in a 16-minute short film directed by Dudley Murphy.
