Howard Family – Welcome, all y'all.

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

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

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

An Excerpt from Ryland Howard’s 42 page account of his trip to Normandy in 2019

The following was written by Alfred Ryland Howard’s son Ryland Howard in 2019.

This is an excerpt from my 42 page account of my trip last year. As if you had not heard enough.
I certainly enjoyed enough with my time with M. V.
By then the afternoon was well along, my car was low on fuel, and I was planning to drive by Blosville, a small town not far away on the main road from Carentan through Ste Mere Eglise. In reviewing my father’s service records, I had discovered where he was first interred (or last interred in Normandy). It was a US cemetery for temporary burial of the soldiers who died in Normandy. There were three of them. Two were near Ste Mere Eglise, and this one was near Blosville. In Blosville, I asked where the cemetery might have been. I was given good directions. Close to the turn outside of town, I gassed up and asked the nice young lady attendant where I would find the location of the cemetery. I was almost there – la prochaine gauche, prenez la route, et c’est tres proche a gauche (very close). I did and there was the monument, flanked by the French flag and the US flag. In the field that lay beyond the monument, 6,000 men had been buried, awaiting final disposition of their remains after the war ended. Now there was just a beautiful, large Norman field, with cows in the distance and the house and barns of a typical farmstead. There was no one there, just peace. It was so peaceful. It was so appropriate. It was sacred ground, but had returned to its bucolic origins.

Well, it was possible that he was originally buried nearer the battle site, along with all the others who died near Mont Castre, but this was the definite last resting place in France. Some time later, between 1948 and 1950, my father’s remains were repatriated, at the wishes of his mother and father, to the family plot in the venerable Glenwood Cemetery in Houston, north of Buffalo Bayou. When I would stay in Houston with my grandparents over Easter, my grandmother Howard would take me over, we would purchase an Easter Lily, and place the flowers at my father’s, grave, the resting place of their eldest son.

My mom was a fighter.

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.

Jeana’s Letter about her trip to Alpine 1976

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.

Eugenia Flewellen Howard Hunt

Jeana’s Birthday and St. Louis Blues

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.

Happy Birthday, Jeana!!!!

And just for the joy of it check out this past post: https://allyall.org/2016/11/25/jeanas-conundrum-whether-to-take-a-husband-to-europe-or-not/

A Memorial Day Tribute to Thomas “Jack” Helm

Jack Helm Army Air Corp Portrait

Jack Helm

Thanks to cousin Gary for contributing the photos and text below. I heard about Jack from my mother Eugenia Howard Hunt and my uncle Alfred Philo Howard. Both spoke happily to have known him and deeply saddened by his loss. Philo spoke of Jack a number of times as a close friend, as Gary points out. My other spoke of Jack solemnly in the way one does after a recent loss. ~ Sperry

Hello Extended Family,

Given that it’s Veterans Day, I thought I’d share some photos I found of Thomas “Jack” Helm, the younger brother of Eugenia “Nina” Helm Ince. He was killed in a bombing raid targeting a munitions plant over Wiener Neustadt, Austria in Nov 1943. I believe that Jack Helm & Philo Howard were the same age and quite close growing up –– much as Eugenia Helm Ince & Eugenia Howard Hunt were the same age and quite close growing up.

It’s very sad to think that the two “Clark sisters” (Elizabeth Helm & Nancy Howard) would each lose a pilot son in Europe, not to mention that Philo spent most of the war in a POW Camp near Peenemünde on the Baltic Sea, if I recall from what he told me at Gene Hunt’s funeral in 1990.

Attached below –– Jack’s Army Air Corps photo (he was based in North Africa); his Purple Heart & Air Medal; the War Dept Telegram declaring him MIA in Nov 1943; photo of his B-17 “Flying Fortress” plane –– all of which were among his belongings sent back to his mother, Elizabeth Clark Helm.

Best wishes,

Gary