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| The Herron brothers, arranged by age. George, the oldest on far left, followed by Jack, Francis, Carroll, Bill, Edwin and Ronald. |
It's one of the photos that I saw many times when I was growing up. My mother kept it in an album but I don't remember where that album was kept. My mother had her own special way of organizing things. I believe it was a Herron family trait, that I inherited. Just stuff the photo in an envelope that you keep in a box. Who knows where that box goes?
The photo shows my mother's seven brothers, all older than her, standing in the snow in their yard in Havre, Montana, we think in the early 1920s, about 100 years ago.
My mother, Dorothy, loved to tell stories in the manner we've come to know as oral tradition. Family history comes from the lips of a grandparent, uncle or auntie, with emotional embellishment adding color to the family yarn.
Growing up, I never quite knew how many cousins I had, although I assumed hundreds. Almost all of them were older than me, since my mother made her earthly appearance (in 1912) later than her seven brothers, and didn't "birth" me until she was 35. My cousins were all on their way to having families of their own, and more unknown cousins for me.
I knew very few of them.
So, recently I was cruising through Facebook and what do you know, I come across this photograph of my seven maternal uncles, digitally rendered, the same shot that was kept in a box somewhere in our home. It makes sense that someone else in the far-flung family has a copy of the photo. Another example of how social media has shrunk the world.
I didn't recognize the name of the person who posted the photo, nor any names of those who commented on it. I didn't expect to. The image was associated with a Herron and Lee Family Group Page, so I joined the group. So far, this is the only photograph and I have not received notice of a new posting. Maybe all Herrons are as loosely organized as my mother and me.
It comes from being hasty, wanting to move on to the next thing. I saw this in my mother, who often read two or three books at a time, leaving open pages on various tables throughout the house. She was a full-time registered nurse, an amazing cook and baker who was forever re-arranging our furniture with new lamps, chairs, wall colors and even a mural on the living room wall. She did not paint the mural.
The photograph
Following is a brief round-up of what I know from the recollections of my mother, family hearsay about these Herron boys, and my mostly brief meetings with them, starting with the youngest (farthest right in the photo), the seventh son, Ronald, who did not leave any progeny because he became a Jesuit priest.
We called him Father Ronald. My cousin Ronald Wheatley, son of my mother's younger sister, Cecelia, was taught English by Father Ronald at Gonzaga Prep in Spokane. He told me that Father Ronald was a state champion 440-yard runner.
As an altar boy at St. Joseph Church in Pomona, CA, I served mass for my uncle during his visit to Pomona around 1958. He moved through the liturgy like a speeding bullet, or a miraculous flash of light. I had never witnessed a faster service. Maybe 15 minutes. I saw the same thing when my mother dashed through our house.
Father Ronald, the youngest brother, died of heart failure in 1960 at age 51 in Portland, Oregon. We were living in Spokane because my mother wanted to be near her sister, Cecelia. Five of their brothers showed up at our house for the funeral and memorial. The only brother not to attend was Edwin (second from the right).
Although I had never met him, based on my mother's stories, Edwin was my favorite uncle. "One summer my brothers went to a ranch camp," she recalled. "They came back singing the praises of the camp, all except Edwin. He said he didn't have a good time, didn't like it. Even though he won the prize for being the best all-around camper."
That really impressed me. I found it poetically inspired. How do you please a smart, complicated man? I see this in his posture. I think he objected to posing for the photo in the first place.
I finally caught up with Uncle Edwin during a rough period of my life. I had separated from my wife and two small daughters. In my late 20s, I was trying to find myself, as the saying goes. Uncle Edwin in my mind was the black sheep of the family. He lived a bohemian life as a painter and illustrator. I would also discover that he was an accomplished writer, having published a short story in the prestigious literary magazine, Southern Review. I have a copy on my bookshelf.
I tracked him down in Berkeley, a trail that had led me, through tales of my mother, from Paris to Athens to New York City. He and his current wife, Nausicaa, a chef and needlepoint artist born in Egypt, were living in a small cottage. At seventy-something, he was gracious and enthusiastic. Nausicaa, with her alluring accent, was lovely. He sat me down and launched into stories about the family.
Early history
"Your family history is connected to the Civil War," he began.
His father, George Edward Herron, was born in St. Augustine, FL, where his father, Benjamin Franklin Herring (my Great Grandfather) was stationed following his capture and release as a Confederate soldier, North Carolina Troops. Orphaned and living with a distant relative, he had enlisted at age 15. The post-Civil War South was decimated. With no work available, he joined the U.S. Federal Army in Montgomery, Alabama.
He was eventually assigned, as part of the Seventh Cavalry, to Fort Assiniboine located outside of the then rough-and-tumble town of Havre during what is called the Indian Wars. He was thought by family to have perished with Gen. George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of the Little Big Horn. When he showed up later at the fort, they thankfully learned he had been on separate detachment during the battle.
Uncle Edwin spoke unkindly about his father who made him stay on the ranch in Havre when he wanted to attend university at Utah State, which he eventually did. I never met my Grandfather.
He was employed in law enforcement, hired to help clean up the boot-legging in Havre during prohibition in the '20s, according to Honky Tonk Town, a book by Gary Wilson about the wild and woolly days of Havre, MT (published 2006 Two Dot Press).
"He used to play guitar and sing in the evenings," said Edwin, admitting, "He did have a good voice."
George Herron (the original family name was Herring, see below) married Katherine Courtney at Fort Assiniboine. My Grandmother's father, John Courtney, a soldier, walked with a limp that is thought to be from a Civil War battle wound. His daughter, my Grandmother, must have been an amazing woman, having raised, fed and clothed nine children on the plains of northeastern Montana. "She cooked on a coal-burning stove," said my mother. "We had an earthen floor. In winter our laundry would freeze on the clothesline. Sometimes in winter we would get a warm Chinook wind."
I stayed in touch with Uncle Edwin exchanging correspondence, and with Nausicaa, as a widow, following Edwin's death in Mendocino at age 80. "The reason I've lived so long is because I stayed out of the hands of doctors," he had told me. Politically, he sat at the far-left side of the table.
I believe much of his bravado was a front, based on the sensitivity expressed in his paintings.
To his left in the photo, is my Uncle Bill, the jock of the Herron family. He's wearing his high school letterman's sweater with the "H" for Havre High School.
"Bill played football and he was a very good dancer," my mother said. The summer of '57 when we visited him, his wife Aunt Lucille and their kids at home, cousins Ron and Chad, he owned a donut and ice cream parlor in Kalispell. Uncle Bill was friendly and outgoing. That's where I had my first maple bar.
To Bill's left is Uncle Carroll. I met him only once, at our house in Spokane, following Father Ronald's memorial. A short, wiry dude in a fedora, he sat down at the piano and banged out a few bars of music the likes of which I had never heard from that piano. A piece from Rachmaninoff? I don't know, but it was very loud and powerful. It sent me to a deep abiding place.
To Carroll's left is Uncle Francis. He ran the Herron Ranch outside of Havre when we visited during our family trip in 1957, the only time I've been to the Herron birthplace.
My sister Mary and I rode horses with our cousins Tom and Kathy Herron. Tom rode his horse, Sissy, bareback. They leaped over the corral fence! We swam in a muddy swimming hole with leeches. We ate fresh trout caught by the ranch hand, Gary. Soaking wet from the swimming hole, cousin Kathy rolled around in the dirt until she was caked with a frosting of dust, including her long brown ringlet curls. My sister and I laughed our heads off.
It was the only meeting I ever had with cousin Tom, who was two years older yet my same size. I was in heaven.
I ran into Uncle Francis the morning following Father Ronald's memorial. I was heading home from my paper route. The sun had risen early, as it does up north. "It's a beautiful morning," he said. "Fancy meeting you." Indeed. I still remember.
Left of Francis is Uncle Jack. As with Uncle Carroll, I met Uncle Jack at our house following Father Ronald's memorial. He was the tallest of the Herrons. That was our only meeting. He arrived late. Both Jack and Carroll married and had children, cousins of mine, that I never knew.
Left of Jack, at the far-left, is Uncle George, the eldest son. When I was growing up, he lived in Santa Ana, located about 25 miles though the orange groves from Pomona. He worked for the Post Office and gave historical tours of the railroad train that carried the mail. Politically, he found a seat on the far-right.
He lived with his wife Helen and their children, my cousins, Janice, Cort, Marvine and Juleen, all quite a bit older than me. Marvine and her husband George Tillitson settled in Pomona and had four children, Donald, Nadine, Lenore, Beth and George, Jr. My mother and Marvine formed a tight bond. She and Juleen babysat my sister and me when we were young.
Marvine was an excellent seamstress and figure-drawing artist. Juleen was my favorite babysitter because she was so much fun, inventing games and stuff to do. My first trip to the beach was with Juleen and her high school friends. We ate sandy bologna sandwiches for lunch.
My parents, Frank and Dorothy, both grew up on the prairies of Montana and North Dakota. They were not beach people. They were "salt of the earth" folks. They both told good stories, especially my mother, when I could slow her down.
Note: the family name was originally Herring, according to ancestry records. George Tillitson, mentioned above, studied family genealogy as a hobby. He believed that Benjamin Franklin Herring (who went by Frank) had a southern drawl that altered the pronunciation of the name to Herron. Intrigued by his father's study of genealogy, Don Tillitson has taken up the hobby. Parts of the Herron story above have been unearthed by Don. He has traced the family roots back hundreds of years. Thank you, Don, for all you have discovered, your kindness and good cousin-ship. My story here is only a riff based on the wonderful photograph above.
