Dr. Alfred Philo Howard – Welcome, all y'all.

A Memorial Day Letter from Cousin Ryland Howard about his father

I received this touching email from cousin Ryland Howard some time ago. With his permission I am posting it on the family website today, Memorial Day 2018, to celebrate Uncle Ryland’s life and to honor his sacrifice.

For the younger generations who may not be familiar with the history Alfred Ryland Howard II, here is an article by his grand-niece Eugenia Kiesling: Uncle Ryland’s military service

Love to all and thanks to Ryland,
Sperry

Dear Sperry –

This means so much, not only to me, but to the children. They grew up with “Alfred” as they called him. Their way to differentiate him from me. My mother kept his memory in the forefront of my life throughout. As I have said before, I said the Lord’s Prayer, “My Father who art in heaven…” Well, he was. So I did my best to keep Ryland’s memory for his grandchildren. I never had a problem with having two fathers. It all made sense. One died for his country and the other lived serving his country. One was in heaven and one was on earth. I knew I was the child of the first and not the second, but that I was blessed to have them both. Ford treated me as his son. The children were in a way too young to really know Ford and appreciate his great sense of humor, but I have done my best to let the kids know what he meant to me and why.

These children really understand the warmth and connection among the Howards. I know it was not all warm and fuzzy, but they did a pretty good job. Each of Aunt Jean, Aunt Georgia, and Uncle Philo became special friends and soulmates to me over the years, and so for Uncle Wilmer, Aunt Mary, and Uncle Brother. I cannot think of a time where there was an awkward silence in my conversations with any of them. We just talked with mutual respect and shared feelings; communication came naturally.

The Howards were so special to my mother. She revered Nanny Mine and looked to her for counsel over the years. She respected the wisdom and skill of Dr. Howard. And she so appreciated the warmth of having this family as hers. She had grown up without a permanent home, with her father gone at age 5, living across Europe, in and out of schools and hotels, with her grandparents and aunt gone by her teens. You can imagine what this warm Southern family meant to her. When she married Ford and was going to Houston to introduce him to the Howards, she was very concerned about their reception of the person who was taking the place of their revered lost son. She called Georgia to ask how to handle it. Well, as Aunt Georgia told me, the Howard family swept Ford up. They loved him from the get go and he fell in with Philo, Wilmer, and Brother each on their own. That is just the way they were.
So, as another family half-orphan (I never thought of myself as such; just had two fathers), how could I have been better blessed.

I did not have to endure the loss of my father. He was always there; but not there. I did not dwell on it. But Mother endured it and the tragic loss to Daddy Philo and Nanny Mine must have been brutal. Timing. The last letter from Ryland to his parents, dated June 30, 1944, was cheering for everyone just learning that Uncle Philo was alive, and relatively safe in prison camp. So, almost up until Ryland’s death, they did not know that Philo was alive. He must have been MIA until then. From the date that he was shot down over Germany until then, he could have been dead. And so soon after the good news came the really bad news. No hope there. Just faith, and the comfort that a son was on the way, to be some solace in this time of sadness.

If you saw the movie saving Private Ryan, the opening scene after the Omaha Cemetery and the landing is the house on the prairie and the car driving up and the officers getting out of the car and the mother, who looked and dressed rather like our grandmother, realizing why the officers were there and collapsing on the porch. That was pretty strong you are there stuff. It was too close to home, that home on 3608 Audubon, JA44961. We can only imagine how that hit. Uncle Dwight Hunter said that people told him later that Dr Howard was in shock after that and would just look at people and say “My son is gone.” There is a description in the biography of Joe Kennedy of when he learned that his eldest son Joseph was killed in the war. The same thing happened to Mr. Kennedy. Total loss for a time. Something gone that will never come back, no matter how strong one’s faith in God. We can only imagine.

So much for my train of thought. I will stop here, and thank you for bringing so much of this family back to all of us.

My regards, Ryland

The Howard House at 3608 Audubon in Houston

This is a picture of cousin Ryland Howard in front of our grandparents’ house in 2016. It was taken by his lovely daughter Isabel who graciously sent it to me. This is my reply to her.

Isabel,
I’ve been past it myself. It’s a law firm now. There was an air conditioned porch on the south side (to the left). Dr. Howard, Dal or Daddy Philo as people called him, sat there every day as an old man. He listened to the [baseball] game and played pitch with me using enormous cards. Diabetes hurt his vision. He ate figs and spoke very little. The house was originally a block to the south on West Alabama. My dad and I weathered out Hurricane Carla at his house with Nannie Mine and him. I was about 13. Chunks of the palm trees from the median blew down the street. My mom said many of her older relatives passed away in the house. As a girl she and her friends pulled old clothes out of trunks in the attic and put on plays with them. Our grandmother was very wise and good with money. Her mother died when she was little. She live with her mom’s sister who married a man who adopted her and left her and her sister Bessie land. Nannie Mine’s was “the farm” in Chambers County.

Much love,
Sperry

[See other post about Dr. Howard and baseball. Also, the name Hunt on the awning is strictly divine comedy.]

Ryland’s Account of Being Treated by Grandfather: Dr. Alfred Philo Howard

So, back to the beginning of these threads.

As the kid from the country, even I had my share.

Yes, I did go on calls in Dal’s old black Ford, or so it looked. Recall a Sunday afternoon going into a warm, unairconditioned modest home with an old man in a sleeveless T shirt who looked very emaciated. Whatever was needed was done; Dal with his black doctor bag. We saw others that day.

I volunteered to wash dishes at an early age at 3608 Audubon one afternoon. Determined that the piano stool was a suitable place to raise my small stature up to the sink. So, ever stood up on a rotating piano stool? Not a stable platform, especially when turning around to talk to people. Off I went and off I went to Dal’s office for broken forearm repairs, setting, and cast. Do remember that clearly. No blood and gore, though.

Regards to all the saved patients, serious, and lightly injured. Amazing. Most of us were under his care.

Cousin Ryland

[The photo on left is of Ryland and his dad, Ford Boulware, Christmas, 1963, as inscribed above by Eugenia Howard Hunt.]

Mary Mize’s Story of Dr. Howard’s finger

Note from Sperry: The story was that my grandfather, Dr. Howard, mangled his finger badly as a boy in Palestine, TX. His mother wanted him to be a doctor, so she sewed the finger up herself. Here’s my cousin Mary Mize’s quote:

I heard something about his finger had allowed him to have a great pitch, and to play in the minor leagues in Philadelphia paid his way to med school. Thanks for helping explain the finger issue.

[That’s Mary Mize, front-and-center in the white dress next to Biba and little Sperry.]

Splitting (and Tying) Hairs, Grainger’s Story of Dr. Howard

There was the 12-year-old, hammering nails up in the tree-house, the head of the hammer sporting a hatchet blade on its other side. Now imagine: Hammer… hammer…hammer…chop! Uh..Oh! Running to the house with a bloody scalp, on to down-town Houston with Mom at the wheel, Dal, the resourceful doctor, tying pinches of my hair across the wound as sutures, muttering “Gotdammit, Gotdammit,” correctly identifying me as a stone-age moron, an opinion regularly corroborated, past and future.

[The photo of Grainger is from earlier, but certainly pertinent nonetheless. And, boy, does Wil McCorquodale look like him, or what??? – Sperry]

Angus’ Story About How Dr. Howard Became Dr. Howard

Angus’ story:

My mother [Robin Hunt McCorquodale] said there were a few pin hole scars on one of Dal’s fingers.

In his mother’s fingertips

As a child Dal was playing with a meat cleaver.

He cut off one of his fingers, clean off, not a deep gouge, not a partial tear; right through.

Below the nail, bone and all.

Before, one boy; then a boy and fingertip.

Dal’s mother. That would not do.

… Dal’s mother had decided that Dal was going to be a surgeon.

Don’t ask the child, ask the mother. (Aunt Heather has told me that over and over).

Surgeon – ten intact digits required.

Child, finger, needle, and thread.

Large stiches with thick thread first.

Small stiches with thin thread next.

Following in her fingertips, not her footsteps;

Dal became a surgeon.

Dal and Robin

No one quoted Dr. Howard more than his granddaughter Robin. Here’s an example of why, from Robin’s sister Lalu.

Robin asked Dal for a horse when she was 10 and we were in Alpine. He sent her $25 and she rode the horse every afternoon.

(The photo in front of the church is of Robin with her two grandmothers at this time by the way.)

Two Remembrances from Ryland Safford Stacy about her grandfather Dr. Alfred Philo Howard

When I was 4 I had to have my tonsils out, and Dal said no grandchild of his would have to stay in the hospital at that age, so he gathered his doctor friends (Carlton, Kincaid,Thorning) and I think I became the first outpatient surgery case in Houston! This was 1950. Mom got me a new pair of pj’s, slippers, and robe for the occasion, and I was promised all the ice cream I could eat. I thought that was great until I woke up….. I remember Dr Thorning holding the ether thing over my mouth and nose and I counted forward (because I couldn’t count backwards) and we did the deed in Dal’s offices!

Also:

When I was in high school, Biba was at Vanderbilt so i spent many chunks of nights at Nannie’s while Mom and Dad went out of town. I LOVED being there because Dal and I would listen to the radio in the evenings if he could find something in the sports category (especially baseball!) and we would play gin rummy. I don’t think I won many games in those two years! Needless to say, he was a crackerjack at any game we would play. why didn’t I inherit that trick?????

Love, Ryland (the younger)

A story from Heather Wren Welder about Dr. Alfred Philo Howard born October 25, 1878 Palestine, Texas

Precious Uncle Philo… Mother, Florence Wren, always credited Uncle Philo for mine & Campbell’s births. I do not know any of the details but Uncle Philo never refuted the compliment. Campbell was born Jan. 26, 1943 in Sandwich, Mass. My father, Clark, was on a last WWII maneuvers before he left for Africa & Italy in March, as was the doctor. Mother left me with their landlord and she took a taxi to Hyannis Port, Mass. to the hospital as she was in labor. When she got to the hospital, she was told that the dr was on maneuvers and would get back to help her as soon as possible. The nurses put her on a steel table with a sheet covering her feet & left. Campbell came quickly and Mother, all alone, helped to deliver her own son. She was badly hurt & not sewn up correctly. After my Father left for Algiers in March, Mother with a 17 month old and a 6 wk old baby took the train to see her sisters, tell them goodbye and went to Texas in May of 1943. Uncle Philo immediately put her in the hospital, found the best surgeon and according to my parents, saved Mother’s life and made the rest of her life bearable.

I have my own special memory as he diagnosed my ruptured appendix as he and Dr Worhall conversed over me, deciding that the 6 year old was dehydrated and could possibly die. They rushed me to St Joseph’s Hosp. Uncle Philo came every day for 2 weeks to check on me and bring me, I think, a lollipop. It is little wonder that I loved him dearly and respected him greatly. We are all better for having had this dear and precious man in our lives.

Heather