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.
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.
Chan, Holland and Eugenia Hunt late 1980sDan and Chan HuntDan HuntEugenia Hunt house at Muir Beach 1980sHolland and Chan HuntHolland, Dan, Eugenia Hunt Judge Wilmer and Chan Hunt 1970sJudge Wilmer and Chan Hunt ThoughtfulMill Valley and Richardson Bay CA from Panoramic Hwy
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.
