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
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
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
I went down to Jury Duty on Wednesday, March 23, 2016 in
response to my Jury Summons.
A group of about 40 prospective Jurors were called – we
lined up to go to court, went through the tunnels and up to the 11th
floor of the District Court building. Just
outside of the courtroom, we lined up in lines of eight.
The sign next to the courtroom door said 133rd District Court. I thought, the 133rd – wasn’t that Judge Hunt’s (my grandfather’s), court, or was my memory playing tricks on me? We walked in, and sure enough, Judge Hunt’s picture was there on the wall just to the left of current judge, Jaclanel McFarland.
I talked to the Judge afterwards and told her that the big picture behind her was my grandfather. She said that Judge Hunt was the first judge in that 133rd court and that at the time it was known as the “catholic” court. Judge McFarland said she wished that she had known a grandson of Judge Hunt was there in the jury and would have brought that to everyone’s attention.
Left: Walter Johnson and Ty Cobb| Center: Georgetown Freshman Class 1921; Right Judge Hunt (upper right) in the 1920’s
10/31/2019
Last night the Washington Nationals beat the Houston Astros in a magnificent seven-game World Series. My father, Judge Wilmer Hunt, loved baseball especially the hometown Houston Astros. He and I went to many games going back to when they were the Houston Colt 45s. He would have been very happy to have seen the Astros win the 2017 Series. But I think he would have been equally happy at last night’s Washington Nationals victory.
Dad got his undergraduate degree at Georgetown University in D.C. He was in the class of 1924 and would certainly have attended series games that year to see the Washington Senators to prevail behind their star pitcher Walter Johnson affectionately know as “The Big Train,” He spoke of watching Johnson many times, and of his team’s duals with the Yankee’s Babe Ruth and Detroit’s Ty Cobb.
Here’s a Wikipedia report of the last series the Washington team won.
1924: World champions
Washington’s Bucky Harris scores on his home run in the fourth inning of Game 7 of the 1924 World Series.
In 1924, Griffith named 27-year-old second baseman Bucky Harris player-manager. Led by the hitting of Goose Goslin and Sam Rice, and a solid pitching staff headlined by the 36-year-old Johnson, the Senators captured their first American League pennant, two games ahead of Babe Ruth and the New York Yankees.
The Senators faced John McGraw’s heavily favored New York Giants in the 1924 World Series.[11] Despite Johnson losing both of his starts, the Senators kept pace to tie the Series at three games apiece and force Game 7. The Senators trailed the Giants 3-1 in the eighth inning of Game 7, when Bucky Harris hit a routine ground ball to third which hit a pebble and took a bad hop over Giants third baseman Freddie Lindstrom. Two runners scored on the play, tying the score at three.[12] In the ninth inning with the game tied, 3–3, Harris brought in an aging Johnson to pitch on just one day of rest – he had been the losing pitcher in Game 5. Johnson held the Giants scoreless into extra innings. In the bottom of the twelfth inning, Muddy Ruel hit a high foul ball near home plate.[13] The Giants’ catcher, Hank Gowdy, dropped his protective face mask to field the ball but, failing to toss the mask aside, stumbled over it and dropped the ball, thus giving Ruel another chance to bat.[13] On the next pitch, Ruel hit a double and, then proceeded to score the winning run when Earl McNeely hit a ground ball that took another bad hop over Lindstrom’s head.[12][13] It was the only World Series triumph for the franchise during their 60-year tenure in Washington.
From an email Malcolm Scott McCorquodale III wrote to Sperry Hunt: “I found the attached documents at my aunt Ellen McCorquodale Martin’s condo. Her father, Malcolm Scott McCorquodale, Sr., wrote these letters to Ellen shortly before he passed away from a heart attack during a hunting trip in West Texas a few weeks later on December 15, 1958. Reading the letters and knowing the future caused me to have bittersweet feelings.
Amid this tragedy, there arose joy as my mother Robin Howard Hunt, the daughter of Eugenia and Judge Wilmer Hunt, who had been engaged to my father, Malcolm McCorquodale, Jr, were married on December 27.”
Envelope of Letter 1958-11-18 from Malcolm to his daughter EllenLetter 1958-11-19 from Malcolm to his daughter EllenLetter 1958-12-11 from Malcolm to his daughter Ellen
Below is a bit of West Texas history from Jane Dunn Sibley’s book: Jane’s Window. Jane was a friend of Euguenia Howard Hunt. It covers the origin of Big Bend National Park and then Texas itself.
Senator Winfield’s major achievement was persuading the state to appropriate money to establish Big Bend State Park, which was a Texas state park before it became a national park. Obtaining funding to acquire the park land from a conservative legislature was not easy. It took Mary’s father many hard years of lobbying and arm-twisting to convince his colleagues to fund the Big Bend Park acquisition. Finally, he got a group of legislators to agree to take a look at the proposed park site. Sen. Winfield arranged a special train to transport them from Austin to the small town of Alpine, way out in West Texas.
Upon arrival, the state legislators would be greeted by local dignitaries and then taken by automobile to tour Big Bend. However, on their long train ride west, the legislators started drinking. They also became seriously involved playing a serious poker game. When they arrived in Alpine, the game was still going strong, so they moved it directly into the Holland Hotel. They were not about to leave that game until it was over, so local officials were left waiting outside with empty cars. Heine could not persuade a single one of them to leave that game. Finally, the legislators all agreed. “Hell, Heine, we’ll pass your bill if you’ll just leave us alone!” He did and they did. So that’s how Texas got Big Bend State Park, which was later transferred to the Department of the Interior under the supervision of the National Park Service.
Mignon Rachal Mignon is descended from Texas pioneers on both sides of her family. Her mother’s ancestors arrived in Texas in the eighteen thirties and her father was a descendant of the Peters Colony, which came to Texas under a contract from Stephen F. Austin, the charismatic entrepreneur from Missouri, who helped colonize Texas. In 1821, after Mexico broke away from Spain, they gave Austin permission to invite American settlers to Texas, thus creating a buffer between the North American Indian tribes and the people of northern Mexico. The Texans became the first line of defense against the Indians, who had frustrated two hundred years of Spanish efforts to conquer them and convert them to Catholicism.
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.
