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The challenge of sharing Dad’s legacy

David Dodican Porter and Geraldine Isabel Helen Byrne are star-crossed lovers. Happily, their story is not a tragedy. Romance, drama, comedy, mystery, history and every other genre you can imagine was folded into the batter once they met and began their lives together. There were small tragedies as there are in all lives of real people. But viewed over the span of decades, the story is triumph and joy and wonder.

Dad created a lot of binders with immense amounts of content about our family. And of course there is a framework underlying everything. I almost immediately realized that the two Family of Dave and Gerry binders were divided between the older and younger halves of the family. Binder A is full of material largely about David through Brian. Binder B is material about the second half of the family. The front pocket of Binder A has a coversheet all made for a Binder C. I am not sure but Dad may have thought there would be other offspring. Or perhaps he was going to start through the grandchildren.

I have been puzzling how to share in a meaningful way. Binder A has 30 pages, each with two sides. I am estimating each sheet has an average of 5 photos. I don’t think it’s practical for me to pull individual pictures, scan them, replace them, and upload the images. My inclination is to photograph the sleeves with their contents so that they can be paged through. If someone wants a copy of something, I can make that available to them (also no small task–so no requests yet, please). In order to keep the page images from being hard to figure out (as in who’s in the pictures), I can provide an index with what I know or surmise for each page. If I do a page a day, I’d guess that I’d be through Binder A in June sometime. That’s a step from where we are now at least.

Denfield St. 1950-1955

The house on Denfield St was built in early 1950. Dad’s account of Denfield St and many memories starts on page 136 of Going Upstream. He states that he thinks turning the carport into an extra bedroom may have been in 1954 with the prospect of housing four children. I have vague memories of the construction project. The room was heated by an electric wall heater whose coils glowed orange white. I remember being admonished to keep my hands away from it. Other parts of Dad’s narrative about those years dovetails with my own memories. For example, I remember packing picnics and going out on Sunday afternoons to watch planes take off and land at “the airport”. I have always tried to place in my memory whether it was the Hillsboro airport, but in fact it was one of the small dirt strip airports of the time–just blocks from our house. I also remember going to the China Lantern to eat. I liked to get their fried chicken—not so much the Chinese food. I have a picture in my mind of the booths being lit by overhead ‘lanterns’. I don’t have any memory of Dad’s story about people getting glass in their salad. I remember the project to ‘float’ the oil tank out of its hole. Nick and I were very interested in this effort. First Dad dug the hole with the help of friends exposing the tank. And then filled the hole with water so that it floated up as he’d envisioned. The weakness of the plan was that the tank, even floating, was still largely underwater. That made dad’s plan of using ropes to winch it out a major undertaking. I remember that the tank, floating like a mini submarine in its muddy hole in the yard, was there for what seemed a long time. Once it was finally wrested from the hole, the water remained and didn’t drain away. I don’t know if Dad filled the hole or not. Another memory I have that ties to Dad’s narrative is of the empty lot down the street–my recollection says it was at the end of our street. As construction was still going on, big tractors and other construction equipment were often parked there on weekends. Dad recounts going with us and sitting us up on the big machines, and there is a picture in Binder A showing us so seated. My memory, though is that I climbed up on one of the tractors when we were playing. I pushed a button on the console and the machine started to turn over. Which scared the daylights out of me! Dad came running and all turned out well. One other memory of the field is that it was overgrown and we had worn paths through it. While running down the path, a very large black snake slithered across at my feet. That also scared me and I’ve been afraid of snakes in tall grass ever since.

I have many more memories of that time however. Dad’s story about entering the Christmas decorating contest and winning a prize for the colored cellophane and tape ‘stained glass’ Christmas scene makes me wonder if my own fondness for the idea of making ‘stained glass’ windows and holiday decoration started there. Without question, Mom was often doing creative projects in those days. I don’t remember this specifically, but when we were older at Montgomery Drive, she had ‘stained glass’ oil paper windows we could color. We used olive oil and I always remember that smell when I recall those projects. Another of Mom’s creative activities was a ceramics class. I think she took it one night a week at some local place, maybe a school. I remember being puzzled by what it was about until the night she brought home her project —a clown head cookie jar which she’d painted and fired herself. It was quite good and I still can envision cookies in it. Another memory I have must have been very early after moving to Denfield. I was still in a crib–because I see the crib bars in my memory. I was in the back bedroom at the house, which had a wall paper trim above wainscoting. I think the paper was not a pattern on the whole wall but it had figures like fairies or elves and foliage in it. I would not remember any of this except that one morning–with light dancing on the wall through the curtains, I believed the tiny figures were moving on the wall paper. I don’t know if I started to cry or called for mom but I was scared and she came in and soothed me.

Grandpa Nick letter

Hello Porterville readers, I am writing this as Brian and Donna are driving back from a trip to Minnesota for a gathering of her family in Stillwater. They took the opportunity to swing down to St. Paul to visit the Sampson/Byrne graves at Forest Lawn cemetery and also to visit Hazel Park where Mama and her family lived. I was able to send them images from Dad’s Byrne binders and some other sources.

On reflection, I recalled that I had intended to go back to identify the circumstances of Grandpa Byrne’s death in 1943. I remembered that he had been working with the American Association of Railways and was on the road. I also had a memory that the binders included a letter he had written back to his family. I found the letter without any trouble. With it was a brief funeral notice from the newspaper noting that he had died Saturday morning while being transported to a hospital in Sioux Falls after a heart attack. The letter is two pages and was typewritten on stationery from Hotel Lawler in Mitchell South Dakota. Several things stood out to me. His kind and playful salutation and tone in writing (“Little Girl” must be Mama). His self-deprecating, funny description of his misadventures losing track of things. And also his recording of how cold it was out there in the Dakotas. Last is his frugality in finding and repairing a “galosh”? In winter 1943 the war had been underway slightly over a year. I am guessing rubber was rationed and getting a new pair of galoshes would have been expensive even if available. His signing “Daddy “ and “Good night God bless you” connect him to our own times and habits. GBAKY’s ancestor I suppose.

One further note is that Dad appended a comment in the binder with the letter. Mama had kept this treasured message from her father for years. She wrote “My Dear Husband- I entrust this letter to your care. It is the letter we received from Daddy which he wrote on the 20th. He died on the 23. I think I have one other letter, but so far I cannot put my hands on it. This is for our family archives.” It is in that spirit I add it to Porterville.

Oakridge and other travels

Mary and I just completed a home remodeling project. An arduous undertaking over three plus months. One by-product of the work was creation of a small ‘studio’ space to which I could move my paints and other art materials. I also moved the steel case cabinet which contains the bulk of Dad Porter’s binders, notes and related items.

In the course of unpacking the cabinet and then repacking it, my attention was caught by an envelope, recycled of course, from which a wad of snapshots threatened to tumble. I did not remember looking at this material before, so I carefully removed the pictures in order to handle them.

The bulk of the twenty-nine photos fell neatly into topical clusters. From oldest to newest, there were four from Oak Ridge Tennessee where we spent the summer of 1956. There were four from Nelscott in 1957 and another four from a beach trip which may also be Nelscott. There are also four pics from Road’s End probably in 1959. Another four pictures are from the summer of 1960 when we relocated to Hawthorne House in Corvallis while Dad worked on his master’s degree. Lastly there are four pictures taken in the summer of 1964 when Mama put some of us on the bus to Aunt Harriet’s in Visalia. Two of the pictures are from the long drive back in the station wagon with Dad. Another five pictures are either duplicates or unclear as to where they fit. I did not scan them.

I’ve scanned the images by location and time as noted. A substantial number of the pictures are of Beth who was very small in most of them. I am hopeful that Susan and Nick might have memories stirred by some of these images.

I have segregated the snapshots into the categories and marked each group with a folded paper label. They are back in the envelope and will be returned to the ‘to be done’ files in the cabinet. For now, they will be available on Porterville.

Oak Ridge Tennessee 54. “Farmerette” Beth on tractor. Susan and Beth after the ice cream man came by. David with Mardi Gras mask for an apparent party at a nearby school. Susan and David on steps of our barracks. In the previous post about Oak Ridge, I had tried to find a photo of our building. I had a picture in my head of what I thought it looked like. The building in the picture doesn’t fit the memory at all.

Four pictures around ’59, I think in Nelscott. The background shore in the Beth jumping picture matches the shore in the next set. Susan and Nick at surf’s edge. Mama with Beth and also Beth ‘jumping waves’. Susan, Nick and maybe David?

The picture of Beth and Mark Leipzig (back note) at the railing says this is Nelscott which would make sense in ’57. David digging in the sand, Nick and Susan petting a dog, and Susan walking the beach with a headless man all fit. Note the seawall in the picture of Dad and Susan. Did Mama intentionally decapitate Dad in that photo?

Pictures from Summer 1960. David and Nick in front of Bompop and Grandmother’s Roads End beach house. David with balsa airplane in Corvallis. Beth astride “Chica” a horse in Corvallis and a picnic in Corvallis. Nick, Susan and Beth. Brian in a blur. Mama is pregnant with Bruce.

Maggie Byrne and the starfish is at the top of our stair. The Byrnes stayed in the rental just north of us which may be the visible building. Beth at the foot of the stair in the ‘sand fort’ recalls hours spent building driftwood things and tunnel or castles. The great picture of Susan is atop the point I think. The print date says December but the picture appears taken in a warmer season. Last is the picture of Dad with one of the boys and perhaps David in the surf.

These last pictures are a jump forward in time. The back yard and pool at the Manchesters’ house in Visalia. Nicoli Anne is sitting in the chair. Mama is standing with Nick, and Susan and Beth are also sitting facing Nicki. It is David with the surfboard. At that age he was fixated on surfing (Beach Boys, Jan & Dean) and Mom and Dad agreed to stop in Santa Cruz where he could rent a surf board and experience surfing. They were kind. It was an underwhelming experience for him. The picture of the family group on the rocks is labeled “Susan’s Birthday” and I assume we celebrated it on the side of the road on that California trip.

Porter Family Book C- Part 3

The last section of Dad’s Porter Book C shifts forward in time to the 20s when Fletcher and Florence (Bompop and Grandmother) were young parents and lived in Columbia SC and then to the 30s in New Jersey as Fletcher started his career with IDS financial services. The pictures are increasingly of Pete and David and sometimes of their parents. The section also includes clippings and various other documents. I am captioning the images for clarity when there isn’t a handwritten note on Dad’s page. As I have done before, I did not pull individual photos off Dad’s pages but took images of the pages themselves in the interests of practical efforts to ‘share’ Dad’s work. The last 11 images are not mounted on pages in the binder but are inserted in the back pocket. Please add comments or ask questions if you have either.

Pictures of Fletcher “Pete” Porter. Columbia SC

One of many pages where Dad’s note references a photo that’s gone.

This photo is familiar to us all, I believe.

This is the back cover of Porter Family Book C. I am pretty sure the man in the hat is Bompop.

Middle name mystery- Schley

I have always been puzzled about where my grandfather’s middle name came from. His father was Fletcher Smith Porter and Bompop was Fletcher ‘Schley’ Porter. Through families like ours it was common for people’s names to reference and reinforce connections to past generations of folk. I did not realize that this naming convention had a formal structure. Our cousin, Jean Marshall, was the one who pointed this out to me. Looking on the internet I found several sites that discuss the issue. (I would point out that our family did not follow the pattern.)

The Irish pattern for naming children goes as follows: oldest son would be named after the father’s father (paternal grandfather), a second son would be named after the mother’s father (maternal grandfather), the oldest daughter would be named after the mother’s mother (maternal grandmother)A second daughter would receive the father’s mother’s name (paternal grandmother). If more male children arrived, the pattern continued. A third son would receive the father’s name. A fourth son might be named after the father’s oldest brother. If a fifth son was born, he might receive the name of his mother’s oldest brother. The pattern held for additional female children as well. A third daughter would have the name of the mother. A fourth daughter could receive the name of the mother’s oldest sister. And should there be a fifth daughter, she might be named for her father’s oldest sister.

The name “Schley” had puzzled Jean Marshall as well. She noted that in her research she had not found any family members or family connections involving Schley. As I am working on the Will Dodican book, I have been poking around social and cultural events at the beginning of the 20th Century, among them the Spanish American War. While going through the Wikipedia posts on the conflict, I came across a description of the US Naval campaigns against the Spanish Esquadron. I had known that Admiral Sampson (many family members have wondered about a family connection there) was the leader of our naval forces, but had not realized that Winfield Scott Schley, Rear Admiral under Sampson, had been hailed as the hero of the battle of Santiago de Cuba in 1898. Our grandfather was born in July 1897, so sadly, I concluded that his middle name was unlikely to have come from that source. When I told this story to Jean Marshall, however, she suggested that it would not be unusual to have had his middle name added or amended at the age of one because of Schley’s victory.

The key to deciding, she noted, would likely be a look at a birth or baptismal certificate. Neither of those appear to be available. Which Jean Marshall also said wasn’t unusual for South Carolina at the time. The puzzle still sits on the table unanswered. But I lean toward thinking that the Admiral Schley explanation is likely. You all can have your own views. Fun to consider, and don’t hesitate to share your comments.

Porter Family Book C- Part 2

Dad’s Book C is focused on our Porters in the early years of the 20th century so much of it focuses on Grandmother coming to Carolina (part 1). In this second section, the two Porter brothers as cute babies appear and we see Grandmother(FDP) and Bompop(FSP) as a young couple. Included, I believe are pictures from New Jersey where FSP moved the family after his early success in South Carolina. One document in this section is a letter written by his former secretary detailing that early success, his good qualities as a boss, but also his return after a relatively short time. Her account says that New Jersey was not for him and his family though it doesn’t say why. The South Carolina market was being ably handled by a protege of Bompop’s. IDS offered him the opportunity to go to Oregon and take on the uncharted Pacific Northwest market. And so the story unfolds in the direction of the part we know. FDP put the pencil mark above his head. This was before they met, she wrote. I can’t help but think of Jack Kennedy when I look at that smile.

FSP with glee club members on boat. probably post war.

The picture labeled “To Jerry” is Grandmother. As dad notes, locations of these photos are unknown.

The first page of a document about FSP’s college experience. I did not scan the rest.

Three items paper clipped into the book. Mrs. Jean Bennett is Jean Marshall Von Schilling, our cousin. Enclosed is a letter from FDP to her. The other two are from FSP to FDP.

A notable letter from Mrs. Golden who was FSP’s secretary when he first worked for the Investors Syndicate in South Carolina. Her letter details his return from New Jersey and being offered the territory based out of Portland.

First page of Dad’s recap of his father’s life- I did not insert the secondary pages. I think this may well have been part of our packets from Dad.

Dad’s recap of FSP’s progress from being a college graduate to being a business success.

Another one of the amazing stories in our family archives. FSP and the FBI.

A selection of pictures of ‘Pete’, Dad’s older brother.

I love the picture of Bompop with young Pete on the left. And the one with all three family members.

Grandmother must have been quite petite to fit behind little Pete. I wonder who the man with a uniform cap was.

The way the pages are laid out presents a challenge

This leather baby book had only a baby picture and a handwritten description of Pete’s birth.

The record of “Pete’s” birth and early notable facts.

Remarkable to me that this is so clearly “Pete”.

The bicycle picture has a pencil note “Pete Watertown”.

This page is still Pete but appears to be another season and place. The flag might suggest July.

These pictures appear to be yet a different place and day. Attire is different and houses bigger.

These photos may be the same city as the page with the flag–brick pedestal. Also note FSP at top.

Pictures are in Second Ave house in Columbia SC. Believe the mini car picture is DDP.

The picture of FSP and child labeled Pete. Animal is a cat? Palmetto in picture above page.

Dad’s birth info is in a cardboard folder. Note Dad’s birth weight is double Pete’s.

This picture is as clearly DDP as Pete’s picture is not.

Porter Family Book C-Part 1

I have been struggling with my approach to cataloguing the Dave Porter binders in recent months. I recognize my limited time to heavily curate the work as I post it up. My highest priority is to make the material available to family so they can scroll through and find things. I decided recently that the best approach at the start was to photograph the unaltered binder pages and post them as they are–book by book. To that end, I am making a stab at Book C –Mr & Mrs. FS Porter, Fletcher and Dot in Columbia S.C.

Porterville Summer Times

As the school year ended thirty-five years ago, Mama decided that she needed to initiate an activity to engage the minds of her growing tribe of grandkids during the summer. Her natural interest in writing led her to create the Porterville Summer Times. Mom Porter would write a Grapevine column for each edition to keep the editorial voice present. And her journalist neophytes would come up with stories, drawings, cartoons, puzzles and other interesting content to be decided in advance of each issue at an editorial meeting.

The original issue, hot off the press, from Marigold street featured the work of reporters Meaghen Wells, Angela Lamb and Nicky Porter. The issue also promised future ‘advice’ columns from Dear Donna. The concept took off as concepts did under the wise and kind leadership of Gomma. I am not sure I have the entire series but I do have a substantial number of issues. The highest volume I saw in a quick glance at the stack was 15 which means the paper still continued past the Millennium. As grandchildren aged and their interests changed, younger members of the tribe took up pen and paper and became part of the legacy. I have no doubt that this endeavor, like so many other things Mama undertook, was a good influence on the participants.

With Mama’s recent departure to become writer and editor at a more lofty publication I heard many generations discussing the Porterville Summer Times. I am hopeful that some of those who grew up in the “Times” will send me their comments or memories so I can add their voices to this post.

A bunch of “bunk”

One turn of phrase I vividly remember Dad using was “That’s bunkum!” or “That’s a bunch of bunk.” He used it to express deep skepticism about some assertion I’d made and it implied serious lack of critical thinking on my part. I know he used the term in reference to other folks’ ideas from time to time as well, but used to me it always included the appended but unspoken “you dimwit”.

I believe that I wondered many years back where the phrase had come from. I was more curious because the term isn’t one I heard come out of many other mouths. However, I never looked it up and mostly forgot about the question until this week.

In February, I listened in on an OHS Hatfield lecture via Zoom. Joanne B. Freeman, a scholar whose focus is the US Congress, spoke on the strident conditions in that body in the years preceding the Civil War. The topic seemed particularly timely in the context of current events. Her book, “The Field of Blood”, recaps the turmoil. I bought a copy after the lecture and have been reading since. My attention was caught halfway through the book when her discussion of inflammatory speeches surfaced. “Buncombe speeches” so called because a North Carolina congressman from Buncombe County claimed that “…his heated diatribes were intended only for the folks back home…”. The term caught on enough for the term “bunkum” or “bunk” to become slang. At the same time they were hated by many because according to another congressman, “…they fan the bad feeling of which heaven knows there is enough already.” This sounds very familiar to speechifying in our own congressional sessions which draws ire for similar reasons.

In that the county seat of Buncombe County is only some seventy miles from Pickens SC, it is not much of a surprise to find that the slang term persisted in Dad’s vocabulary.

Independence Day-Things We Remember

I have not been able to get back to Porterville for some weeks. Today being Independence Day , I set out in search of the familiar picture of Dad sitting on the front stoop with Greg and holding a sparkler. I finally found it in my Photos archive and scanned it to the Gallery pages. I also set out to find pictures from a Fourth of July parade I remembered seeing in Binder A. I scanned and attached three of them. They are from July 1964. None of the three oldest kids are present. I don’t know if perhaps we were just busy or ‘too old’ to be part of a parade. Regardless, the photos show Beth “Betsy” Ross in front of our house in a very clever costume. (I am both sad and grateful when I look at this little slice of our sister’s life) And the start of the parade on the street with Beth, Brian as a wounded Minuteman, and Bruce Gerard as a dapper cowboy. I believe Greg is partially in view and perhaps Donna as well. The last picture shows the entire troupe with perhaps hangers-on resolutely attacking the ‘hill’ on Roswell on their way past the Stevensons’ picket fence. In the upper right of the photo is the house where the Englishes’ lived at that time (I believe that because I was babysitting their two boys). Just barely visible is their front porch off whose wet concrete surface I slid one day over the edge and onto my head on a rock by their hose bib. I am disturbed a little when I think of the number of shots to the head I took from various incidents in childhood. Anyway, I don’t recall any Fourth parades in my younger years though there may have been some. I am happy to see these photos of that time. A nice 62 (I think) Impala on the street in that last shot.

I am hoping that some of you who do feature in the photos will take a moment to comment or will send me your own thoughts and recollections so I can add your voice to Porterville. I’d be happy to include any Fourth of July memories–not just from this time. Going back to the picture of Dad with Greg, I am struck by the hint of a smile as he looks at the sparkler. I imagine him enjoying the spectacle of the sparkler but also the experience of introducing another one of his children to this American holiday tradition. I am fond of that smile.

Fishing with Nick and other stories

Bruce’s guppies

My first memory of fishing and perhaps the most vivid, was also a day spent with brother Nick. I’m not sure this is correct, but it is what arrives when I think of my youth. It comes to me in fits and bursts, but I see a picture of Nick and me on a dock on what I remember as the Ecola Creek, but not sure if that is right. The thing that stands out in my mind is the first fish I ever caught. I believe it was a freshwater perch. Not a large fish, but as my first, it was a momentous moment. As I landed my opponent, Nick looked on with pride and amusement. The Perch, flopping on the dock, knew it had been defeated but would nonetheless not stop its fight. Nick pulled his leather strapped hunting knife and handed it to me, saying, “you need to stop its suffering. Take aim and hit it over the head”. I hesitated briefly, but Nick’s assurance and confidence in me soon had my arm raised, knife held between my thumb and first finger, and the handle flying toward the flopping perch. The next moment was completely unexpected for both of us. As the knife handle landed, my landed perch gave birth to a dozen or so babies. I was frozen in time and space; Nick told me to gather up the guppies and get them in the water. I did, silently and stunned. Nick explained that sometimes fish have babies and sometimes they lay eggs. I can still feel the little fish squirming in my fingers. I also remember the pride I felt in catching a fish – which by the way was delicious. Thank you Nick, for that experience, and for the fact that memory lays a foundation for our future selves – happy that you are a part of that foundation.

Mark’s corky and yarn

Another thing that has resonated through my whole life: steelhead fishing with brother Nick. We still lived at Montgomery – meaning I wasn’t even 7 yet and we would get in the El Camino (“blue devil”) and head for the coast range. Drank black coffee that had enough sugar in it to make Gommie’s eye brows raise. Drive in the pre-dawn black to the banks of a wild river. Magic. Forests shrouded in fog. Plying for sleek steelhead beneath the placid surface with corky and yarn or roe in borax. Bumping the river bottom with slinkies, no way to know what was or wasn’t there but feeling what might be there… Rich coast air filled with cedar and alder and dairy and wet with mystery. That was enough to keep a kid thinking about the woods and wilds for a LONG time! Thanks so much Brother Nick!

Greg’s whale

I have a fishing memory with brother Nick also. We climbed in the El Camino and drove forever to the mouth of the Deschutes. We hiked in and another fisherman hooked a rattlesnake? In my memory I had one of the trusty Porter family little spinning rods. Nick helped me set it up for bouncing a weight down the river and explained the how to’s. Then fishing began. It wasn’t long before I felt a tug. Nick had instructed me to pull hard to set the hook. Fish on!!! With the little rod it felt like trying to land a whale. Nick talked me through to pulling out my first steelhead. Though it was a hen that was probably almost done by the time I latched onto her, the memory of her running with the adrenaline rush that produced is still vivid. My memory says Nick was gracious and complimentary at the time. He was gentle as we released her and watched her swim away. After being skunked the rest of our time, we went back to our campsite where he cooked one of the signature meals of my life. Being ravenous at that point, I can still taste those delicious hamburger patties and instant mash potatoes! For a hungry kid it was gourmet. I remember Nick being patient, good natured, happy to be taking his kid brother on an adventure. I’m eternally grateful brother Nick.

Too many tom cod

Sad to say, I never have been fishing with Nick either-not in the sense of having him take me out when he was a fishing guide. I am pretty sure the number of fish I caught in my life would have been higher if I had. However, both of us started our fishing careers on the pier at Siletz Bay (though then we called it Taft Bay). I think it was probably when we were about 9 and 7 maybe. Bompop took us down to the bait shack, got us poles and bait and set us on the edge of the pier with baited hooks. My recollection is that he left us there for a good while–perhaps he was just having coffee with the man who ran the place– because he seemed to know everyone—but there we sat pulling in fish we were told later were ‘tom cod’. ( I had to look to see if there were such a thing–Microgadus proximus). By the time Bompop returned we had twenty some —the most fish I’ve ever caught. We told Bompop we wanted to take them back to the house (our rental place in Nelscott) so Mom could cook them. I recall Mom looking a little taken aback when we presented our catch, but they were cooked up– pan fried with cornmeal batter and salt n pepper. They were incredibly bony. But it was a great adventure I won’t forget.