The only ancestor I knew was my maternal Grandfather. All of the others had finished their span of time on the earth before I was born. His name was Alfred Thomson, but all the family called him Papa. Papa often entertained me, and my siblings, by telling us stories about his childhood and his father.
He often reminded us that his name was “THOM ‘p’ SON - without the P”. Papa’s father came to America from the coal mining area of Wales, therefore when Great-grandfather Thomson arrived in America he went to the coal mining region of Pennsylvania and Ohio. When my Grandfather, was born his mother died, either of child birth or shortly after, and Papa was cared for by the Matthews family. After that his father went out west, and was known to have been a friend of Wild Bill Hickock. It was also recorded that he was a writer and reporter and that his book, “The Early History of the Methodist Church in America” is in the Library of Congress, but this has never been checked out as far as I know.
Papa was never adopted by the Matthews family. However, when the west opened up, and many families were going there to claim their offer of free land, the Matthews went to Oregon to claim their homestead. Like many others, they got 2 Conestoga Wagons and loaded everything they could take and Papa signed on as a driver for one of the family wagons even though he was only in his late teens.
They took the Oregon Trail (some of that route is still evident today). When their wagon train arrived in Denver, Colorado, it was late in the year so they wintered next to the Old Fort, both for protection from the winds and the Indians. It was a rough winter. One day, during a blizzard, when everyone was in the canvas shelter eating, ten Indians cut slits in the canvas and stepped in, ready to do battle if necessary. Papa was about to take a bite of his sourdough flapjack. He turned to look at the young brave who had stepped in beside him, and said “Do you want a bite?” The Brave looked to his father, who was the Chief, the Chief nodded slightly, and the rest of their group passed flapjacks out to the other Indians, and a peaceful meal was continued. While they were eating some of the women sewed up the cuts in the canvas, to keep the cold wind and snow out. After the blizzard was over, Papa and Mrs. Matthews went with them to teach their women how to make flapjacks.
Papa was made a “Blood Brother” to the Chief’s Son and was given an Indian name. He was also given an Indian Pony. After that, every morning the Matthews would find fresh meat; a deer, antelope, goat or buffalo, hung outside their wagon. Even though they never saw who had delivered them, they knew it was their new friends – the Indians. Somehow word gets around, and though others had problems with the Indians, the Matthews party and those with them never did. Once they reached their planned destination, and got settled in, Papa returned to visit the Blackfoot Indian tribe in North Dakota.
He then went on to Missouri where he boarded a train for Washington, D.C. By this time Papa had grown up quite a bit. He was 6’ 2” tall and had not an ounce of fat on his frame; he could shoot a chicken hawk in flight, and work from dawn to dark every day of the week. When he arrived in Washington the muddy ruts on Pennsylvania Ave. were so bad he had to walk his horse instead of riding him. When he met his father there, his eye level was at the top of Great-Grandfather’s stove top hat. The first thing his father said to him was, “How is the weather up there?”
About that time Papa learned that an uncle had just completed the first successful transatlantic cable. When the Queen of England knighted him and changed his name to Lord Calvert, the entire Thomson family disassociated themselves from him forever and never spoke his name again.
Papa stayed in Washington and got a job at the Government Printing Office. He had married and had a son, Henry, and two daughters, Grace Louise and Mildred Ross (Auntie), who was not well and was under a doctor’s care. Grace Louise was my mother, and our family was living in Cherrydale, Virginia, when both my Sister and Brother were born. When my brother was four years old and my mother was expecting me, they moved to Hyattsville, Maryland. When I was born it was not an easy delivery. I was fine, but Mother had lost so much blood the doctor prescribed a medication for her, to build up her blood. The medication was “German Black Beer”. Since it was during prohibition, Papa had to arrange with some Old German folks he knew to provide it for her.
Through it all God provides for our every need. At this time there was a black preacher in Georgetown who died. He was Rev. Jackson, and his wonderful wife prayed for help from the Lord, and asked, “What am I to do?” She knew she was led by the Lord to come to our house, and knock on the door. Papa answered the door and this Black Angel (Papa said that was what she looked like to him) said “Mister, God has sent me here. What am I to do?” Papa said, “Come in, we need you, and she did. She stayed with Mother and nursed her back to health. She helped Auntie with the housework and took care of my brother, sister, and me, and I had to be bottle fed, which was not done very often in those days. The Black Angel’s name was Vivian Jackson and she stayed with us as long as she was needed. Then one day she simply said “Goodbye, it’s time I went home,” and she left. Papa knew she was dearly loved by her people. They would often come to see if she needed anything even though she only had to ask for anything she wanted, and Papa would see to it that she got whatever it was. Papa liked to tease her about all her boyfriends and she would say “Now Mr. Thomson I’ gonna starch your shirttail,” and one time she really did. Some years later we heard that Vivian was sick, and we went to Georgetown to look for her. Her address had changed, so we went to the church to inquire, and were told that we could do nothing, they were attending to her needs and that was the way they wanted it to be.
When I was 2 years old, we moved to Beltsville, Maryland. Papa was very busy doing all the farm work, as my Dad worked the night shift at the Evening Star newspaper, and had to sleep in the daytime.
Ten years later we moved back to Hyattsville, Maryland. When my brother finished High School, Dad got him a job at the Evening Star Newspaper, in the Composing room, as a printer’s devil. My brother said it was hard work, but he was making $10 a week working 6 nights. This meant he had to sleep in the afternoon and evening. I’m sure that wasn’t easy, since he and Papa had to share the “sun room” which had windows all across the back of the house. One evening he woke up and was just lying there waiting for Papa to call him, when he heard him praying. He was saying, “Please Lord let me come home, I hurt so bad, and I’m not good for anything anymore,” My brother said, right then the room got so bright that he knew the Lord was standing right there, and he squinted to keep from being blinded by His presence. Then he heard Papa say, “Thank you Lord, thank you.” After a few minutes Papa took hold of my brother’s big toe and said, “It’s time to get up and get going to work”. He got up, dressed, and got his lunch. Then went back to kiss Papa on his high forehead (not quite bald yet) and said “Good bye Papa” instead of ‘Good Night’ as he had always done, and Papa looked up and said, “Good bye, be a good boy.”
That night my brother didn’t tell anyone what was on his mind, but at 6 a.m. when the telephone rang, in the composing room, he knew Papa had died. He walked toward his boss as he hung the phone up, and his boss said, “You go on home, I’ll check you out at 7”. So he left early for home that morning.
The funeral service was at Gashes Funeral Home in Hyattsville, MD, and burial was in the Congressional Cemetery in Washington, DC. When we all returned home from the service, we gathered in the living room and just thanked God for Papa’s life, which he had shared with us.
*Much of the information in this story was from a paper written by my Brother, Wallis Montgomery Hurley, which he entitled, “The Way it was 1919 to 1999”. He wrote the paper when his Great-Grandson, Justin Gold, asked him what it was like having his Grandfather living with him while he was growing up.
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