52 Ancestors #5 Sebe Cyril Miller Jr.

52 ancestors #5: Sebe Cyril Miller Jr.
No Story Too Small — 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks Challenge
http://www.nostorytoosmall.com/

The Day a Generation Died
18 March 1937 – New London, Rusk County, Texas

Sebe Cyril Miller Jr. (1920-1937)

His picture set on my grandmother’s dresser in her farmhouse in Oklahoma for as long as I can remember. I knew it was a picture of Sebe Cyril Miller Jr., who was called Junior by the family. He was the son of my mother’s oldest sister and therefore my first cousin, and I knew he had died tragically, but no one talked about it. He died before I was born, in a faraway place called Texas. In my child’s mind everywhere except the immediate environs was “faraway.”

I often looked at grandmother’s pictures. By the time I had come along, she already had nine grandchildren and most of them lived in Texas. Like grandmothers everywhere, she loved to show off their pictures and I was a captive audience. I enjoyed looking at the pictures of relatives in various faraway places and listening to grandmother tell stories about them.

One day I asked her about him – the one who died so young. Her eyes filled with tears and she said “his school blew up.” Then she changed the subject. I realized she did not want to talk about it. But, I was born curious, so I asked my favorite auntie the next time I saw her. She gave me the same story and I asked her “how.” How had the school blown up? What had happened and when did all this happen? She told me all she knew about the New London, Texas school explosion and how her nephew was killed in it. Then she cautioned me not to talk about it around grandmother or Aunt Lena when she came to visit. Aunt Lena was the boy’s mother. “She has never gotten over it,” my auntie said.

Years later, while doing research on the early careers of some American journalists, I stumbled across a story about a cub reporter who was working for United Press (UP) in Dallas in 1937 and who was one of the first reporters to reach the scene in New London, Texas after the school explosion. “When he finally reached the scene, it was dark and raining. Floodlights were being set up, casting long shadows from the big oil field cranes that had been brought in to help remove the rubble. Workers were climbing up and down the piles of debris like ants, instinctively going about their grim task. From the perspective of a news reporter, this was a tragedy of epic proportions. The UP team that eventually joined this reporter set up a news bureau in the Western Union office in nearby Overton Texas.” (1) Overton is where my relatives lived.

Walter Cronkite

That young cub reporter was Walter Cronkite. Decades later, according to the article “Walter Cronkite Remembers” (2) as his life in the public eye was winding down, Cronkite said, "I did nothing in my studies nor in my life to prepare me for a story of the magnitude of that New London tragedy, nor has any story since that awful day equaled it."

New London, Texas School, 1937

The picture, above from Wikipedia,(3) is of the remains of the New London School after the explosion of March 18, 1937.

The explosion was blamed on a gas leak inside the school, which ignited when an instructor turned on a sanding machine sometime between 3:05 and 3:20 p.m. Immediately the building seemed to lift in the air and then smashed to the ground. Walls collapsed. The roof fell in and buried its victims in a mass of brick, steel, and concrete debris. The explosion was heard four miles away, and it hurled a two-ton concrete slab 200 feet away, where it crushed a 1936 Chevrolet parked nearby. Reports from witnesses state that the walls of the school bulged, the roof lifted from the building, and then crashed back down and the main wing of the structure collapsed. Approximately 600 students and 40 teachers were in the building at the time. About 300 of them were killed in the blast, (4) making it the deadliest school disaster in American history.

Most of the bodies were either burned beyond recognition, or blown to pieces. Obviously this was one of the reasons why my family did not talk about the tragedy that took my 16-year-old cousin that day.

The New London Cenotaph (5) is located in the middle of the road in New London, Texas. It notes that here on March 18, 1937, 293 children and teachers died when the New London School exploded 10 minutes before dismissal. The memorial cenotaph honors those who died. The London Museum chronicles the town’s history and expostulates the tragedy of the school explosion. Among the names are Sebe C. Miller Jr. He was born 19 August 1920 and died in the school explosion 18 March 1937. There also is a burial marker for him in Pleasant Hill Cemetery in New London, Rusk County, Texas where his parents and a younger sister are buried.

1. Irvin M. May, Jr., "NEW LONDON SCHOOL EXPLOSION," Handbook of Texas Online (http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/yqn01), accessed January 23, 2014. Published by the Texas State Historical Association.

2. Walter Cronkite Remembers: New London School Explosion. http://web.archive.org/web/20080423031400/http://www.nlse.org/walter.html

3. Explosion: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_London_School_explosion

4. Perished. http://newlondonschool.org/ListOfNames.htm

5. Cenotaph: http://www.newlondonschool.org/index2.html

52 Ancestors #4 John Anthony Vanderpool

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks:  Challenge #4
John Anthony Vanderpool

http://www.nostorytoosmall.com/52-ancestors-in-52-weeks/blogs-participating-in-52-ancestors/

Handsome Skeleton Dancing in the Family Closet

   By Myra Vanderpool Gormley ©2014

Probably every family has a scoundrel or two — if you dig deeply enough. However, my family seemingly has far more than its share, but they vivify my family tree with their adventures and misdeeds.

John Anthony Vanderpool must have been a handsome dude — with black hair and gray eyes — and at 6-foot-2 he would have towered above his Union army compatriots who on the average were only 5-foot-8½. He probably was a charmer, too, perhaps even a silver-tongued devil as after the war he “took up preaching” and wandered around the hills and hollers of Arkansas and Indian Territory. He never owned any property or worked at anything that required hard manual labor. There’s no doubt that he was a ladies’ man as evidenced by the fact that at least five women married him.

His enormous Civil War pension files disclose several wives and relationships. In researching the man the government labeled a “bigamist,” I discovered his neighbors were more than willing to share what they knew about him and his women and that information has enriched, enhanced and confirmed his genealogical data.

·       “I know John A. Vanderpool and his brother, Capt. James Vanderpool . . . they lived in Newton County and were Union men. They married sisters — the Henderson girls. I know nothing about John A.’s subsequent marriages.  

·       “His first wife, Docia, died at Springfield, Missouri on or about August or September 1862.”

·       “After the war I saw him over in his home over between Cove and Big Creek near Lick Springs . . . he was apparently married — living with a woman who as a girl was Martha Pruitt . . . know that soldier and she quarreled and got along unsatisfactory. He told me he was going to quit her and I think he did.”

·       “Informed that he was living with a woman named Huggins whom he had married at the time of his death . . . He died in the Indian Territory and I think Huggins and Martha Pruitt [his second wife] are related.”

·       “Jane Huggins is my sister’s daughter and therefore my niece . . . I did hear that he married Moriah Huggins, a sister of Jane, and lived with her in Indian Territory.” I do not know whether there was any truth in the rumor of their marriage or not.”

·       “It does not appear from the records of this office that there was ever papers filed or a divorce granted between John A. Vanderpool and Sarah A. Vanderpool.”

·       “I was not present at his death but I saw him shortly thereafter and helped to bury him. He died about 1888 near Webbers Falls in the Indian Territory.”

The claimant to the Civil War pension, which she never obtained though she tried for nearly five years, was his fourth wife. In one of her depositions Sarah said that she  “didn’t know how many times John A. Vanderpool had been married as he was always rambling from place to place, but that hers was only marriage license and that he had told her he had not married again since death of first wife.”

The government rejected her claim “on grounds that the claimant was not the soldier’s lawful wife since he was still legally married to Martha (wife No. 2) when he married her (wife No. 4)".

For decades several cousins and I have researched the Vanderpool family. We have never heard from any of John Anthony’s progeny, although we believe he had at least five daughters. Imagine my surprise when recently I found a picture of one of them posted on the Web – evidently by a relative. Now I have a dilemma – did his children and grandchildren know what a scoundrel he was? Do I keep the skeleton closet shut or throw the door wide open – if his descendants ask.

 

 

 

 

 

School Bells Ring

It is that time of year in many areas where teachers, parents and children prepare for another school year. It was always my favorite time of the year. (Some of us are strange, but I loved school). In the memoir-writing class I facilitate, one of our topics is to write about the teachers we remember and why. I am so glad that I had the wit to thank the teacher who made the greatest difference in my life. A few years ago. I wrote the following and it was published in the Garden City (Kansas) Telegram in the town where Miss Sitts taught high school for 35 years.

Choices mark the pathways of our life. Ironically it is the small, seemingly insignificant ones at the time that affect us most profoundly. It is not always the choice itself, but the window that it opens and introduces us to someone who will play an important role in our life.           

Choosing to take Latin rather than Spanish when I was a freshman at Garden City High School was a choice I made many years ago and looking back, I'm not sure why. At 13 what do you really know? Two years of foreign languages were recommended for those planning to go to college then and my older sister had taken Latin, so I followed in her steps.

In 1953, Garden City Junior High School was composed of seventh, eighth and ninth grades and next door was the "old" high school, which housed the sophomore, juniors and seniors. The "new" high school did not open until the autumn of 1954 when my class (Class of 1957) entered as its first sophomore class. The Latin class was at the high school — in a dark basement or lower-level room, but the teacher was a young, intense woman whose passion for the subject and her students shone like gold. That teacher was Bernadine Sitts.

 I was fortunate enough to have her for two years of Latin, for junior English and served three years on the high school yearbook staff where she labored tirelessly as our adviser. In the 35 years of her teaching career, she touched the minds and hearts of thousands of students and kept in touch with many of us via a Christmas-time letter as we went about our lives, careers and adventures. How she managed to keep track of us — long before computers — is both a mystery and a tribute to this remarkable woman who was born to teach.

Recently I received a note from Miss Sitts advising that she was moving into assisted living in Garden City and was having to clear out her files. Enclosed was a copy of some things I had written about Latin class in 1955 and a poem I penned in 1957 — items that she had saved all these years. I was touched, not only because she remembers me but because she saved those things.

What an excellent choice the educators of Garden City made when they hired this pearl of a teacher. What a lucky choice I made when I chose Latin so many years ago. Here's to Miss Sitts — nulli secunda!

MYRA DeVEE VANDERPOOL GORMLEY

P.S. Miss Sitts is gone now, but not forgotten.

A-Hissing and A-Tickling

Tales from my Past

By Myra Vanderpool Gormley (c) 2013

 

A-Hissing and A-Tickling

She was just a ball of fur when I first saw her on that October night — the night Mother sent me out on my first “trick or treating”  adventure all alone and on the wrong date.

The nice lady at the antique store located just a couple of blocks from where we lived was caught off guard and without any treats for a kid who arrived on the wrong evening. However, she graciously offered to save me the kitten of my choice — if it was OK with my mom.

Mother, as I was to learn many times, was a soft touch when it came to animals, so she agreed to let me have a kitten — if I would learn to take care of it.

Of course, I would. I was eight years old and would do everything. I stopped at the antique store every day after school to check on the kittens — torn by which one to select. They are all so cute. One day the antique store lady told me I could pick out my kitten and take it home. They had their eyes open and were weaned.

Decision time! Oh, how I agonized over which one to pick. Finally, one of the kittens stole my heart. She was feisty and impish — arching her back, jumping about, hissing playfully and pouncing on her siblings.

I named her “Curly” though the reason escapes me. She was just a nondescript multi-colored kitten who might have had some calico ancestry.

Curly made herself right at home at our house. Her homemade litter box (a cut-down cardboard box with dirt from the backyard) was placed in the bathroom and she soon learned that when anyone went to that room, she could go too. In fact, soon no one was allowed in there without Curly. She asserted her rights from the beginning. Going to her box and watching was a favorite game. Her ability to mimic the humans’ facial expressions while utilizing the facilities in private moments became legendary family tales. One day we heard my Aunt Thelma laughing so hard at Curly’s bathroom antics that Mother thought her sister was going to pass out and sent me to check on her —Aunt Thelma, not Curly.

 Curly was allowed to sleep in my room and she soon took over our twin bed and learned that my feet were ticklish .We would play the tickle game under the covers until I would give up exhausted from giggling or mother yelled at us.

Mother was about eight months’ pregnant when Curly arrived and the cat discovered that mother could not reach her if she perched underneath the easy chair up in its springs and swatted away the broom. Mother was pregnant with my twin brothers, but we didn’t know it was twins back in 1948. Everyone kept saying what a big baby it was going to be. It became increasingly difficult for her to bend over, let alone chase a rambunctious kitten.

Curly seem to realize that and took advantage of having full run of the house — especially at night.

Once upon a time, Mother and her brother had gone to the Texas coast to visit other family members and she brought back a collection of beautiful seashells. She displayed them on the second shelf of the tiered coffee table. Curly considered the shells her personal toys — as well as the floor-length lace curtains on either side of the fireplace.

Scrape. Scrape…. The sound was unmistakable. It was Curly, standing on her back feet, playing with the shells on the coffee table.

Many nights, Mother, who was having difficulty sleeping in the last trimester anyway, and was becoming increasingly large, would venture forth before the crack of dawn to yell at Curly or try to swat her away from the shells to get her to stop that *&^%$  noise.

Curly would arch her back, hiss, and run for the lace curtains — take a swing on the left one, then the right one and when Mother came forth with the broom, Curly would head for the hallway and my bedroom.

The hallway — with its lovely oak hardwood floors waxed to a glowing finish —sported a couple of throw rugs. This was Curly’s private slide area. That cat could take a flying leap from the living room, hit the first throw rug and slide into the second one and then into the linen closet at the end of the hallway. She’d unroll herself from the rug, bouncing stiff-legged into my room and be under the covers in slightly under nine seconds.

The birth of my twin brothers just after Christmas that year changed many things for my family. I caught the mumps and Curly and I were shipped off to my grandparents’ farm. Sometime later in January or February, my folks and the little twins moved to the farm, too.

By that time, Curly had discovered the joy of being a barn cat. She had made new friends and no longer cared to sleep with me.

Through the years though, I have wondered if Curly’s descendants might roam the Muskogee, Oklahoma environs — arching their backs, hissing, pouncing and making little girls giggle as they tickle their feet.

Taking the Country Out of a Girl

Tales from my Past

Taking the Country Out of a Girl

by Myra Vanderpool Gormley (c) 2013

Looking back, I see a number of things that happened in the fourth grade that would forever change my life and guarantee that I would never ever be the same. That was the year I began to write — to deal with the pain of growing up and change. Growing up is tough and one of my many flaws is the inability to deal with changes thrown at me from all directions. Additionally, I didn’t have anyone who would listen to me — they were all so busy — so I began to scribble to myself.

I am not sure if it was everything that happened or just the cumulative effect of so many things that occurred in a tumultuous year. But, that was the year:

·         I saw President Harry Truman. My daddy lifted me up on his shoulders so I could see the man who was the topic of many conversations in our diverse political family. I don’t remember what the President said on his whistle-stop in Muskogee, Oklahoma that day, but I knew it was a big event and we knew he’d beat that New Yorker with the movie-star mustache — Thomas Dewey

·         Mother sent me out to trick or trick — alone and on the wrong date. She was good in political predictions, but with calendars and holidays not so much.

·         There was the big move. I went from being a happy country kid in pigtails and overalls, sitting cross legged in the grass of a one-room school yard eating fried ham on a biscuit surrounded by giggling friends to being the friendless new girl at a city school. I hardly recognized myself — decked out in a starched scratchy dress, with curls all over my head and sock-eating saddle oxfords. Somewhat shy, but terribly unsure of myself in this strange new world, I would stand in school’s cafeteria line with dread. Clutching a quarter to purchase lunch, I was never sure of what I would have to eat. There were some weird-looking food available, but I was afraid to ask about the ingredients, lest my country-bumpkin ignorance be uncovered. The exposure to mysterious culinary fare such as shredded carrots in green Jell-O and tuna casseroles educated my taste buds, somewhat, and helped me overcome a fear of putting things in my mouth that might bite back. However, there was the unending challenge of finding a seat at a table with a friendly face and someone who would talk to me. No wonder I often had stomach cramps.

·         I learned that some teachers can be unkind — even junkyard dog mean — and seemingly delight in embarrassing you in front of everyone. There was also the discovery of sweet revenge when your eight-month-pregnant mother confronts the teacher and her principal with irrefutable evidence that your book report was 100 percent correct, forcing Mrs. [W—-] to apologize in front of the class in which she had humiliated me. Always document your sources.

·         I tried to find a “nice” girl to invite to go to the state fair with mother and me. That lesson taught me how to use all my wits. I went to my favorite auntie for help because I did not have a clue as to what “nice” meant or what kind of girl it was that my mother wanted me to have for a friend. How can you tell nice girls from the others when you are only eight years old? I did not like girls who pinched you when their parents weren’t looking, but that hadn’t happened since I was three. I did not like crybabies, but had seen none of those in my fourth-grade classes either. There was one smarty-pants who thought she knew all the answers (but she did not), and who under no circumstances would I consider nice. I had crossed her off my invisible-ink list from the beginning. Thank goodness, there was another new girl in my class. She was quiet and shy, too, and I finally gathered up enough nerve to ask her if she would like to go to the fair with us. She accepted the invitation and more than met my mother’s approval. Mission accomplished.

·         Just after Christmas, my baby sister finally arrived — but she was two boys. Somehow, the name that we had picked out for her — Cynthia Elise — was not going to work. What was I to do with twin brothers who couldn’t walk, talk, play or keep their milk down? The smell of molasses and goat milk still haunts me. Those ingredients turned out to be the magical formula that finally worked for the twins’ fragile digestive systems.

·         My big sister came to live with us again. She stayed with our paternal grandmother during the war and had been allowed to remain there until now. With the arrival of the twins, mother obviously needed all the help she could get. Sis moved in, with tons of her stuff, completely took over my room, and became alpha dog. She was 15 and knew everything. Everyone claimed she was very smart. I wouldn’t know. No one asked for my opinion about anything. However, Curly (my cat) and I continued to play tickle games under the covers at night, even after sister squealed on us.

·         I caught the mumps. I was promptly shipped off to my maternal grandparents — where I was warm and happy, especially when I could snuggle up to grandma in her warm bed. When I recovered, I went back to my country school where we played Annie-Annie Over and ate our biscuit sandwiches. I no longer had to worry about cafeterias, strange food, mean teachers and whether the girls were nice or not.