Wayne L. Armstrong is my direct-line ancestor. He was born on December 25, 1920, in Wahkon, Mille Lacs County, Minnesota.
* Wayne Armstrong (Circa 1940 Army picture) was born in a small farm town in Minnesota and Arlin Anderson (1941 high school graduation picture )grew up just across the border in another small town in Pierce County, Wisconsin.
My father made his Christmas day appearance at 4:45 p.m., the last of six children born to the union of George Frances (Frank) Armstrong and Edna Merle Bulen. For reasons as yet unknown, Frank and Edna left their farm in Monticello township in Wright County earlier that same year and moved a couple of counties further to the north, settling in the small town of Hillman in Morrison County, just across the county line from Mille Lacs county and the town of Wahkon, Minnesota where my father was born at his maternal grandparent's home. I know little of my father's early life, except that he moved with his parents to Oregon in approximately 1924/1925 where his father worked for a logging company near Astoria, Oregon. He remembers little of his time there other than the seemingly endless huge trees, and fruit which seemed to be everywhere. He remembers another incident during which he and some of his friends were fooling around with firecrackers. He recalls having lit one which appeared to have gone out. When he picked it up it suddenly went off in his hand causing extensive damage to his right hand. His injuries were so severe, that the doctor who attended him feared that he might never be able to use the hand. They apparently lived there for only about one year, as he recalls that when he returned to Minnesota, he began attending school. When he was about 13, he and his family moved to a farm near Wahkon.
The following exerpts are taken from a letter written to me by Robert Bulen in February 1994--a cousin, and childhood friend of my father's (his father was Leo J. Bulen -- see Family Group Record for Willis I. Bulen on page ):
Years ago people didn't move around much and (when they did) the whole family went. Since W.W.II, families have become widespread and without a planned reunion some members are never seen or heard from again. I know it is important to you to find the Armstrong line because we had those same feeling in searching our roots. And men traditionally want to keep the name going.
When you mentioned George Armstrong my first thought was Gen. Custer. We never knew your grandfather by that name, we knew him as Frank. As I remember their mailbox had G. F. Armstrong on it. I also talked to Phyllis Heim (the daughter of Helen - known as Faye - Bulen -- see Family Group Record for Willis I. Bulen on page ) after talking to you to see what she knew about him that I didn't. She hardly recalled him at all except that she, too, remembered him as being grouchy and grumpy and that for some reason he did not seem to like her mother very much (we can guess why, although it certainly was not her fault). As I told you, our families were not close.
I have no idea where the Armstrong came from when they moved to Wahkon, maybe Monticello and maybe not. The senior Bulens lived in Wahkon. The McGraw family (Phyllis) lived about 2 miles west and our family (Leo) lived 1 mile south and the Armstrongs lived on the next farm south of us. Nobody had more that 8 to 10 cows and a team of horses because that was all that a 40 acre farm could sustain. When the Armstrongs came to Wahkon only Alva, Nora and Wayne came along. I guess the older ones were already married. Alva found the 2 or 3 wildest and toughest young men in town so he was in his element. He was 20 or so. Nora was a teenager and was very pretty but a little hefty, as were all the Bulen women. She was well liked by boys and girls alike. I don't think she went to high school, at least not much. Wayne was a good looking kid but also a little pudgy. He must have quit school, too, because none of my school pictures of those years has him in them. What he did for money is a mystery. I don't recall him ever having much of a job. Those were depression years and even the family men could hardly make a living.
He was an avid reader and spent much of his idle time, of which he had a lot, with his nose in a book. Good books like some of the classics and he could recant the plot, characters and story line of every one of them. Every farmer had a few goats and Wayne had his pets trained to pull his coaster wagon. He removed the handle from the wagon and built some shafts and made rope and leather harnesses for the goats. It was hilarious to see him coming down the road sitting all cramped up in that little wagon with the goat leaning into the traces. Another of his summer hobbies was to snare gophers when they stuck their heads out of the hole and put them in a cage. If they appeared to be a new mother he would dig out the nest and take the little guys home and feed and train them. He would make tiny little carts and string harnesses and would get the gophers to pull them all over the place. Everyone thought he was nuts, and he probably was, but he was having fun while I was hoeing corn. Who's nuts?
His affinity for the girls was legend. The word wasn't known then but today he would be called Mr. Testosterone. No girl disliked him and he was a very good dancer but most girls would not go out with him. They all said he had 3 hands. I used to wait in the car while he took his girl to the door and it either took him an hour to kiss a girl goodnight or he kissed her a lot more than once.
In a telephone conversation with Robert Bulen, he recalled that he had visited my father (who he described as being very personable) and his second wife who he remembered as being a beautiful woman (my mother). He also recalled that when my father married his first wife she was pregnant at the time. I questioned my father about this, thinking that I may have an older brother or sister I never knew about, but he told me that his first wife--Rosalie--had subsequently had a miscarriage.
I never learned much about my father's family life, but he told me more than once that he never got along very well with his father who he indicated was mean to everyone, but especially to animals. He said that all the animals on the farm were terrified of his father, and he related a story as an example. When my father was a boy, he had an Indian pony that he was very fond of. One day as Grandpa Frank was passing next to the pony, it suddenly jumped sideways bumping into him. In a rage, Frank grabbed a pitchfork and stabbed the pony's haunches several times until the blood flowed.
My father did mention, however, that he and his father did share one thing in common--they both loved to read. He said that he used to bring two books home from the library, and he and his father would take turns reading them. Although his father never went to high school, he had probably read every book in the school library. The rift between my father and grandfather continued to grow until World War II gave him a means of escape. In April 1940 he enlisted in the Army and was stationed at Fort Snelling in Minneapolis (service number - 17 025 499). In 1941 he married Rosalie Romona Ross.
After a couple years at Fort Snelling, he was transferred to Fort Pepperell (Peperill?) in St. John's, Newfoundland. While there he initiated and secured a divorce from Rosalie. When I asked my father what he had did with the Army in Newfoundland, he smiled and replied, not a damn thing. After a bit more prodding, I learned that he had probably lucked into one of the best war-time assignments that any healthy young rogue may have hoped for. His company was responsible for rotating through various outposts that were designed to protect the area from potential assault from German U-boats that apparently infested the surrounding waters. This was not a particularly taxing endeavor, according to my father, but one which he was apparently rather good at. He became a good drinking buddy of the Lieutenant who was also his company commander (he referred to him as an alcoholic) and served as the acting company 1st. Sergeant for several months before his assignment was finalized.
Much of their time, however, was spent in St. Johns and he and several of his Army buddies spent much of their spare time hanging out at a bar at the Newfy Hotel. All of the young men of the area were serving elsewhere in the English Army and the eligible young ladies of the town were willing and eager competitors for the companionship and attentions of the American servicemen who they outnumbered several times over. Several of the mothers actively encouraged their daughter's pursuit, hoping that they would be able to induce one of these rich Americans to marry their offspring. For my father this must have been the candy store that most sweet tooths only dream about, and he clearly applied himself to fully satisfying his youthful appetites.
He further provided some observations about the female population of the area that provides nothing of lasting social value, but I am sure were of considerable interest to the fortunate young predators assigned to the protect the area from the Hun. Apparently the water of the area contained elements that had did considerable and rapid damage to the teeth of the populace. Few of the young ladies referred to above had any of their own teeth left and it was a rather common practice for them to share their dentures with each other when fortunate enough to arrange a rendezvous for the evening! Safe sex had a very different connotation in those days and a commonly held belief of the inhabitants was that making love while standing up was an effective means of avoiding pregnancy. My father related how many a darkened doorway in nighttime St. Johns was occupied by athletic couples putting this theory to the test. He further lamented that by the time he left Newfoundland he was exhausted--(in his own indelicate words) having very nearly screwed himself to death.
He concluded his reminiscing by describing an incident that very nearly sullied his otherwise unblemished military record. Apparently, one day he and a couple of buddies had pursued their second favorite pastime (drinking beer) and had gotten more drunk than usual. Somehow someone came up with the brilliant idea that they should filch one of the Army's tanks and pursue unauthorized maneuvers in the abandoned countryside. Using the wartime skills that the Army kept honed to the highest levels, he masterminded and carried out a daring military insertion and escape strategy that would have made the ancestral Scottish Armstrong border bandits proud. Everything went like clockwork and they were soon careening over the countryside and toasting their mutual success. Unfortunately, they neglected to pay much attention to where they were going, and out of nowhere an ill-placed countryside cliff appeared over which the unwieldy metal behemoth plunged. After rolling several times, the tank finally came to a bone-jarring stop, some distance below. With the luck of the seriously inebriated, my father's companions were somewhat shaken up but not badly hurt. My father, however, was not so fortunate. As the tank pitched over the embankment, he was thrown forward and the gear stick pierced his belly and protruded through his back.
Later, at the hospital, his company commander came to visit him and asked what in the world had happened. My father, in his best what the hell manner informed him that he had gotten drunk, stole a tank, and rolled it down a cliff. Apparently, this concise rendition of the facts struck a responsive cord with his Lieutenant who arranged to cover up the whole incident. My father's military and medical records make no mention of the incident, but merely indicate that he was hospitalized with (a severe but certainly believable) case of gonorrhea!
While in Newfoundland, he received word that his mother was very sick and returned home for 10 days of emergency leave. His mother--Edna--had suffered from diabetes for years and, as insulin had not yet been discovered as a treatment, she had experienced increasing problems with the disease over the years. Although her health remained fragile, she somehow managed to recover from this particular setback. At this time, my mother was working at the Butler Building in Minneapolis and had met and befriended Verna Marie Bloom, the oldest daughter of Merle Marie (Armstrong) Bloom (see Family Group Record for George F. Armstrong on page ), my father's eldest sister. They had become good friends and by this time were sharing an apartment. It was during my father's visit on emergency leave that Verna introduced him to my mother. According to one of my maternal Aunts, it was also during this period that my mother told her of the following incident. The story goes that my mother had returned to the apartment unexpectedly one day and had found my father and Verna (his niece) in bed together. I have no idea as to whether this is true or not, but I have met Verna's oldest son, Daniel, and he does bear a striking resemblance to my father. Based on my father's sexual track record, such an event would certainly not be beyond belief, but my father swears that the story is not true although he did say that Verna was always kissing, hugging, and hanging on him. There is certainly nothing to back up this rather sordid bit of family gossip, and I personally find it rather difficult to believe that my mother would have allowed a relationship to develop with my father if such an incident had actually occurred.
As indicated above, Grandma Armstrong recovered from her setback, and my father returned to Newfoundland to complete his tour of duty. During this period, he and my mother began to correspond. In 1945 he returned to Minneapolis for 45 days of R&R and he and mom began seeing a lot of each other. It was during this same period that Germany surrendered. From here he was transferred to Medford, Oregon and then to Camp Cook, in Long Polk, California where he served as a 1st. Sgt. at a German prisoner of War Camp.
My mother and father's correspondence continued and according to him, mom contacted him while he was there and told him that she was pregnant. He, in turn, arranged for her to join him in California just prior to his honorable discharge from the Army on September 22, 1945 They were married at the Congregational Church in Santa Barbara, California on September 25, 1945. Per my father, it soon became clear that my mother was not pregnant, but he looks back at this short period as perhaps the best time of their married life. While here, my father worked for a time as a milkman. He took over his route from a man by the name of Rocky Heim whom he had never met. Interestingly, this same man married his half-sister's daughter, Phyllis Heim. He subsequently met him after his return to Minnesota and described him as being a hell of a nice guy.
What kind of people were my mother and father? From pictures of them when they were teenagers and young adults, they were both very good- looking people. My mother had dark brunette hair, blue eyes, beautiful dimples in each cheek, and stood 5 feet 6 and 3/4 inches tall. She never met anyone she couldn't get along with, and was a sincere, sensitive person. She also enjoyed a good time and had a somewhat mischievous sense of humor. When she made friends with people they became strong friends. When she loved someone it was without reservation, and with a depth that became a part of her inner being. However, she also had a psychological dark side and a lack of self- confidence that would not allow her emotional wounds to heal. When her marriage fell apart, the emotional wound was every bit as severe as my great-grandfather's gunshot wound at Shiloh--and just as fatal. Although she loved me with all her heart and wanted to do everything she could for me, she was never the same and was never totally whole or happy again.
My father also had dark brown hair, was always a bit husky, and stood just about 6 feet tall. He had an outgoing personality, a somewhat devil- may-care self confidence, and even after everything that subsequently occurred, many of my relatives on the Anderson/Hanson sides of the family have remarked as to how much they liked him, recalled his sense of humor, and related how much fun he was to be around. He did not appear to be particularly close to his family and, in his earlier adult years seems to have been pretty much an unencumbered, self-confident free spirit.
One story that has endured through the years, is a trick that my parents played on a cousin, Kenneth Anderson (see Family Group Report for on page ). Kenneth was the stereotypical farm boy who, in his youth, blushed easily and was more than a little naive. My parents attended his wedding and afterward, he and his bride Vickie drove to Minneapolis where they were to begin their honeymoon. Somehow my parents found out where they were staying and waited until they were comfortably settled in the Bridal Suite. My father, pretending to be the hotel manager, called their room, cited the importance of maintaining the hotel's spotless reputation, and demanded to see a copy of the newlywed's marriage certificate. Shortly thereafter (to the glee of my parents), Kenneth rushed down the stairs (with his clothes in a state of some disrepair), requested to talk to the manager and, when the manager arrived, presented his marriage certificate for inspection. Needless to say, the manager had no idea what poor Kenneth was talking about!
Post-World War II America was attempting to reestablish itself after the lunacy of the second great war, and the influx of hundreds of thousands of veterans back into the economy resulted in a period of considerable upheaval. According to my father, he and mom had a great life in California, but he wanted to go to school, and the only way that the government would pay for a veteran's schooling was if he were to return to the state of his prewar residence. As a result, they returned to Minnesota prior to my birth. At the time of my birth, my father was working as a clerk at the Lake Street Shade and Awning company. After working there approximately one year, he switched to a night watchman job at a Sears and Roebuck warehouse. During this period, my father and mother also purchased their first home--an extremely modest cracker box home in Excelsior where I celebrated my first birthday. In 1994, I visited this area with my Aunt Delores, and we found the little house still standing where it had been when I lived in it nearly 50 years earlier. My parents also attended the Excelsior Covenant Church in Excelsior, Minnesota where I was baptized. Although my father had wanted to attend a four-year college, the prospect (at age 26) of waiting another four long years to get on with life was just too much, and he decided to enroll in the Minneapolis School of Business in 1947, instead. His night watchman job gave him plenty of time to study, and in 1948/1949 he completed his studies and was offered a position by the Minneapolis Headquarters of the Fullerton Lumber Company in Burlington, Iowa. From outside appearances, the marriage was prospering, although my father told me that it was while they lived in Excelsior that mom had her first bout with depression and had to have electric shock treatments. He also related that on one occasion she threw a can of paint at him, and shortly afterward barely missed him with a knife. As these occurrences reoccurred, he said that he became increasingly afraid of her.
Shortly thereafter, he accepted the job of assistant foreman in Burlington. While in Burlington, my parents became close friends with a family by the name of Uffelman. I remember an additional bit of family folklore from this period. The Uffelmans paid us a visit during the Christmas holidays and the adults thought it would be cute to see me and the other family's son Donnie, who, was about my age, go a couple of rounds with the new boxing gloves that I had received for Christmas. After my track record to this point in life, you would have thought that my folks would have known better. Anyway, the thick, pillow-like boxing gloves were tied on to each of us and the bout began (and ended quickly). Apparently, the other youngster felt that this was going to be loads of good fun and approached me with a happy smile and his gloves at an ill-advised low level. I never trusted a smiling face, especially when half hidden behind a pair of boxing gloves, and proceeded to cold cock poor little Donnie with as sweet a right hand as a three-year old could throw. Unfortunately, after performing an impressive backward, half somersault, little Donnie's landing was considerably less graceful, resulting in a nasty broken collarbone.
My father had learned his trade quickly, and after approximately one year in Burlington, he was transferred to Alexander, Franklin County, Iowa to manage a small lumber yard there. It was in this little town in north central Iowa that the lives of our little family began to seriously unravel. My parent's finances were beginning to improve slightly and dad appeared to be doing well in his new job. What happened next was completely unexpected by everyone that knew my mother and father and received considerable newspaper coverage in places such as Mason City and Des Moines, Iowa as well as in the Pierce County Herald in Ellsworth, WI. The following are exerpts from various newspaper articles that describe this bizarre episode.
Strange Disappearance of Father Casts Gloom On 5th Birthday Anniversary of Alexander Tot.
Today promised to be a very sad day for little five-year-old Dennis Armstrong of Alexander, who'd been expecting his parents to share in celebration of his birthday. Police were still futility searching for a clue that would shed some light on the mysterious disappearance of Dennis' father last Friday night after he'd gone to the Fullerton Lumber company office to do some book work.
Wayne L. Armstrong, 29 (wrong, he was 30 at the time), came to Alexander as Fullerton manager in September of last year. He'd previously been connected with Fullerton's yard at Burlington and had been employed by the company for the last three years. Officials of the firm report that the Alexander lumberyard had been doing good business under the young man's direction.
Mrs. Armstrong told how in the one year the couple had lived in Alexander her husband was elected to the city council, managed the soft ball team and served with the volunteer fire department. Everyone liked Wayne, she said, He had no enemies.
Mrs. Armstrong reconstructed this account of the events leading up to her husband's disappearance: Friday morning Wayne got up at his usual time--about 6--and went down to the office. About 7 he returned for breakfast. Then he made a trip to Mason City and Hampton on business. He came back to the house about 3:00 in the afternoon for coffee. He called once later to tell us that he would be late for supper because he was helping to move a house out in the country. Wayne came home for supper about 6:45. He usually helps with the dishes but wanted to get back to the office to work on the books. I usually keep the books but I was sick for a week and we got behind. Mrs. Armstrong said her husband kissed her and their son good-bye and that was the last time we saw him. (He apparently left for the office about 7:30 p.m.)
John Ostendorf, Fullerton truck driver, reports he passed the yard about 8:15 p.m. and saw no light or any sign of activity. Neither was Wayne's car--a recently purchased 1949 Chrysler sedan--in evidence.
Mrs. Armstrong had expected her husband to view the Louis-Marciano fight telecast at a friend's house with her and when he didn't arrive when expected she called the yard. There was no response, but Mrs. Armstrong decided he must be out for a cup of coffee. When another call two hours later was unanswered, she and the town marshal went to investigate. They found the front door of the office unlocked and inside there were indications that a scuffle might have taken place. A window adjacent to Wayne's desk was broken and the shade torn. The safe was open and record books were scattered on the floor.
Figures written on the report sheets, which lay untouched on the desk, indicated receipts in cash and checks for the four days covered had been slightly over $2,000. A cash drawer under the office counter, reportedly containing about $15 in cash and $150 in checks, had not been tampered with. An audit of the office books by a company official on Saturday showed they were in excellent order and correct to within a few cents.
Police authorities from both Franklin and Cerro Gordo counties arrived at the scene in the early hours of Saturday morning. Franklin's sheriff, Lee Lemke, sent out a statewide watch order for the Armstrong car bearing the license 17-4658. He and Deputy Ralph Jones combed the premises for helpful clues, but were able to find little that was useful to them.
Wayne's many good friends in Alexander and his Fullerton associates unanimously veto the possibility that embezzlement might provide the answer to young Armstrong's puzzling disappearance--which authorities, as a matter of course, were inclined to examine at first. Mrs. Armstrong revealed that family finances were in good shape, with payments still due on the car representing the only debt.
In the meantime, there's one person who finds Wayne's absence even more difficult to understand than do the authorities who are trying to break the case. That is young Denny. His Daddy had thoughtfully bought him a cocker spaniel pup for his birthday. Now the big day has arrived--and, although the perplexing fate of his father has prompted a visit by his grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Ben Anderson of Ellsworth, Wis., there's no Daddy on hand to share in the festivities that had been planned.
Missing Alexander Man Phones Wife From Los Angeles.
By DICK HABEIN, Globe-Gazette Staff Writer
ALEXANDER -- The missing Alexander lumber yard manager called home Wednesday night from Los Angeles.
Mrs. Wayne L. Armstrong said Thursday her husband told her he was slugged by two men who abducted him from his office last Friday night.
He was so confused that I'm sure something happened to him, Mrs. Armstrong said. I told him that it was our son, Dennis', birthday tomorrow and he asked -- who is Dennis.
Mrs. Armstrong said she talked to her husband about 6 minutes. He said he was calling from Long Beach or Los Angeles but the operator said the call came from Los Angeles.
According to Mrs. Armstrong, her husband told her that the two men had left him a big, black Chrysler. That's our car, Mrs. Armstrong said, but he didn't seem to realize it.
Mrs. Armstrong told authorities her husband went to his office at the Fullerton Lumber company in Alexander to do some work on the books, When he failed to return home Mrs. Armstrong and some friends went to the office. They found it in a state of disorder.
Authorities first said some money was missing but a preliminary check by Fullerton officials showed cash on hand balanced within a few cents. Robert W. Wilson, who is managing the office in Armstrong's absence, said Thursday the books still are being audited in Minneapolis and it will not be completed until Monday.
Mrs. Armstrong said her husband promised to call again Thursday night. He said he was going to sleep, she related, and said he would start for home in the morning. But I'm afraid he doesn't know where Alexander is. It's wonderful to know he's alive though.
Lee Lemke, Franklin county sheriff, said the call came about 10:30 Wednesday night. Lemke said Armstrong told his wife he was on Anaheim street. The call was made from a pay phone. Telephone company officials attempted unsuccessfully to trace the call.
Lemke asked Los Angeles police to join the search for Armstrong.
Slow Trip For Kidnap Victim
(Des Moines Sunday Register, Nov. 4, 1951)
ALEXANDER, IA. (AP)--Wayne L. Armstrong, Alexander lumber yard manager who is driving home from California after being missing several days, told his wife by telephone Friday night it's a slow trip.
He said he could make only about 100 miles a day because so many peace officers stop him, not knowing he no longer is missing and is on the way home. His call came from Flagstaff, Ariz.
Armstrong said he hoped to reach Alexander, about 20 miles northwest of Hampton, by tonight.
In an earlier telephone call from Los Angeles, Cal., he told his wife he had been slugged by two men who abducted him after he had gone to the lumber yard office to work a week ago Friday night. Mrs. Armstrong said on the first call he sounded dazed.
The yard office was found in disorder, but company officials said an audit showed no money was missing, and that books were in order.
As is frequently the case, newspaper coverage is not always complete or necessarily true. After my father returned from California he admitted that he had concocted the whole scheme and had, in fact, stolen money from the lumber yard. In order to keep him out of jail, Grandpa and Grandma Anderson, Parents of Arlin L. Anderson - (see Family Photo Theatre) who had come to Iowa to be with my mother during my father's disappearance, paid the amount that was missing with the understanding that my father would reimburse them.
I do not know exactly what happened next, but shortly thereafter, I do know that we moved to the nearby town of Hampton, Iowa. That Christmas, we all went to Ellsworth, Wisconsin to spend Christmas with Grandpa and Grandma Anderson. My uncle, Roy Rook Nelson was home from the Korean War on leave and we all spent the holidays together. Dad left early as he apparently had work to do and Grandpa and Grandma brought mom and I home to Hampton after New Years of 1952. When we arrived, dad was gone again. Neighbors reportedly saw him load a suitcase in his car and leave some time earlier.
A couple of months later, he called from New Orleans, Louisiana, apologized for leaving again, told her that he had found a job as a milkman, and begged mom to join him. I was not privy to what transpired between my parents at that time, but I know that my mother loved my father deeply, and against her parent's advice, we went to join him in New Orleans. I remember almost nothing of the next few months, except for the scene that occurred the day my father left for the last time. I remember mom trying to stop him from leaving and hiding the car keys behind her back. I guess I didn't really realize what was happening and thought they were playing a game, as I remember telling my father that mom had the keys.
According to divorce papers originated by my father in Cuidad Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico on March 27, 1953, he lists the following as the grounds for which he initiated divorce proceedings (english translation): the abandonment of the home and of marriage obligations on the part of the defendant for more than three months without justified cause and the incompatibility of personalities of both mates, reason for which separation occurred on September 20, 1952. The abandonment issue does not jive with my memory of what occurred, nor with subsequent stories that I have heard. Apparently, at the time he had met another women by the name of Margaret (Maggie) Hall (married name), and wanted a divorce so that he could marry her.
My mother and I returned to Minneapolis where I attended first grade and we resided at 628 21st. Avenue. In response to my father's petition, she enlisted the law firm of Stiegler, Casey and Goulett, and initiated her own divorce suit during the September 1953 General Term of the District Court, Fourth Judicial District , in Hennepin County, MN. On January 7, 1954, the Court granted a divorce decree in my mother's favor granting her custody of me and awarding her weekly child support payments of fifteen dollars per week when a certain obligation that defendant owes to plaintiff's parents is fully paid, such obligation being more fully described in the Stipulation on file and of record herein. If defendant defaults in payment on the indebtedness to plaintiff's parents, then support payments will be in the sum of Twenty Dollars weekly. In addition to said payments defendant shall pay all reasonable medical and dental expenses of said minor child. Further, mother was to be held free and clear of all claims of the defendant the sole and exclusive use and title of all household goods and furnishings of the parties now in her possession with the following exception:
a. Certain of defendant's tools in possession of plaintiff's parents to be returned upon completion of payment of his obligation to them (the money that they had paid Fullerton Lumber Company to keep him out of jail).
According to what I have been told, my father never paid the child support judgment, never took care of my medical or dental bills, and never paid my grandparents back the money he owed them for bailing him out of jail.
I can understand a married couple not being able to get along and going their separate ways. I can also understand how my mother may have been somewhat difficult to get along with due to the emotional peaks and valleys which I observed later in life. As an adult, however, what gives me considerable trouble understanding, is how a human being can carry out his regular day's routine, kiss his wife and four-year old son good-bye a few days before his son's birthday, and then execute an organized, calculated kidnapping hoax that completely fools everyone who has ever known him. I cannot get inside his head nor do I know much about their relationship at the time, but it seems strange to go to such lengths to end his marriage. It was clear that he had become a respected member of the community, and that financially, things were beginning to come together. Were things really so desperate and bleak that this seemed to be the only way to gracefully extricate himself from what he clearly perceived to be an untenable existence. Is there a clue to be discerned from his unhappy relationship with his father? Did it have anything to do with the carefree independence and periodic introduction to new locations that are a way of life in the military? Was the study, hard work, responsibility of a family, and life in a small town too mundane and lacking in excitement? Is that why he ran away to large metropolitan areas like Los Angeles and New Orleans? He is clearly an intelligent person with some conscience unless there was some other, unknown motive to his return to Iowa and his attempt at reconciliation in New Orleans). Although I got to know him better in later years, I never felt close to him, nor did I ever feel that he really cared about me, my wife, or his grandchildren.
When my mother and I joined my father in New Orleans for the last time, he was working for the Estelle Dairy as a milkman. In 1956, my father's sister Nora (see Family Group Record for George F. Armstrong on page ) and her husband Marvin Richardson, also moved to New Orleans. My father had expanded from one to three milk routes, and Marvin began working for him. Unfortunately, the route had been expanded too rapidly, and my father could not make his scheduled payment to the dairy due to outstanding payments that he was having trouble collecting. Although he requested an extension so that he could make necessary collections, Estelle saw fit to deny him credit. As they had decided not to work with him, he decided not to work with them and promptly sold his route to another dairy. This caused an instant change of heart from the Estelle Dairy, but my father proved to be as inflexible with them as they had been with him, and the transfer of ownership was consummated.
Marvin and Nora stayed in New Orleans until their divorce in 1965. Marvin had fallen for a Cajun women and Nora went to live with her daughter Vada and her husband Lee in California where he was stationed in the military.
After my parent's final separation he married Margaret Hall (see page ) and I did not see him again until he and wife #3 came to visit me in Ellsworth when I was seven or eight years old. I remember that he brought me a bicycle. My father recollects that he was paying my mother $35.00 a week (the divorce decree says $15.00) which probably went to my grandmother during the extended periods when my mother was in the hospital. Shortly after he came to visit me he said that my mother had his arrested for nonpayment of child support. He further relates that when his case went to court he was fortunate enough to have brought his check stubs with him and was able to show that he had made regular payments up to that time. He said that my mother swore under oath that she had never received any money from him and that both he and Margaret felt she was telling the truth. He suspects that my grandmother had taken the money. Again, according to him, the judge actually lowered his subsequent payments to only $10.00 per week which he thereafter paid on a monthly basis. Some time later, his third marriage soured and also ended in divorce. As a result of the bad experience described above, I can at least understand to some degree why he did not attempt to call or visit me again for several years.
The next time I heard from him was about ten years later, a few months after my mother died. At this time I had already decided to join the Navy and I was surprised when he called and offered to pay my way through college. I was already committed to the military, but it felt good that he had at least made the offer.
I did not see or hear from him again until 1971, after I completed junior college. At this time I had accepted a position as a Federal Police Officer, and was sent to Independence, Missouri to the Federal Protective Service Academy. As this was about half way between Minnesota and Louisiana, I called my father and asked if he would mind if I came to visit him. I subsequently spent an enjoyable weekend with him and his new fourth wife, Myrtle, and we agreed to get together again when we could. He and Myrtle latter came to visit us in Minnesota and again later after we moved to Houston in 1973, where I worked as a Federal Investigator. In November 1973, I had an opportunity to move into a new field--personnel management--and my family and I were transferred to (of all places) New Orleans. For awhile, we visited regularly with my father and his family. However, he subsequently decided he was going to retire, and built himself a farm outside of McNeil, MS, where he and Myrtle moved. Pina, I, and our two kids then spent a period of over five years in Sicily, before returning once again to New Orleans. When we returned, we tried to reestablish a relationship with my father, and continued to visit him for some time. However, things seemed to get a bit tense when he seemed to show less and less interest in his grandchildren. Gradually, we stopped visiting.
Our relationship continued to worsen, and by the time I moved to Merritt Island in November, 1985, it had been some time since we had communicated.
I last visited my father at his farm outside of McNeil, Mississippi in July 1995, and, as we had parted on somewhat strained terms ten years earlier, both of us were somewhat uneasy about our reunion. Neither of us had made any attempt to contact the other until around Christmas of 1994 when Pina and the kids had pressured me into giving him a call. I had subsequently called him again to get some genealogical information and then had not thought about contacting him further until Pina suggested we visit friends in New Orleans. Lia and Damian had expressed the desire to meet their grandfather, and I thought that he might also be interested in reading about what I had learned of our ancestors. Although I had drafted part of the narrative about both he and my mother's lives, it was still pretty rough and I decided that I wanted to work on it a bit more before I offered to let him read it (if he was even interested in seeing it). When we arrived, I was surprised to see that both Myrtle's son Peter and his three daughters, and her daughter Bunny were also there. I had the distinct impression that Myrtle had decided to call in reinforcements in case we proved unfriendly.
I had last visited my father a few months before transferring to Kennedy Space Center in 1985. At Christmas that year, he had sent the annual check for the kids, but by this time both Pina and I had become increasingly upset about his apparent disinterest in the kids, and the fact that he never came to visit us. As we were moving away, it seemed an appropriate time to return the check to him with a note saying that the kids needed him, not his money. Part of my anger at the time may have been somewhat tainted with jealousy, as it seemed that he enjoyed the company of Myrtle's two daughters, son and grandson more than he did my family.
When I told Dad and Myrtle that I had brought a copy of a portion of my book, my father had asked me why I was even interested in taking the effort to do such a thing. I told him that I had never felt that I completely fit in with the Anderson/Hanson side of the family and that for me it was probably an attempt to find out a little more about what makes me who I am. Myrtle asked if I was writing about my dad also and I replied that I was. She then said that she and dad didn't care what anyone thought of them and I replied that I was happy to hear that as it made it easier to write whatever I felt like writing. Fortunately this was all said in a joking manner, but there was a tension behind this exchange that none of us missed. The ladies and kids adjourned to other areas of the house, and he, I and his step- son, Peter Ugulano, sat at his dining room table, and for most of that rainy afternoon we talked of his Army days at St. Johns, Newfoundland, reminisced about relatives and incidents that he remembered, and even talked a bit about the years he spent with my mother. In the ten years since I had last seen him he had retained his love of reading and as we had arrived, laid down a dog-eared paperback about China titled Dynasty. His hair was now completely white but his mind was still sharp and he had lost none of that slightly belligerent attitude with which he always surveyed his surroundings. He had aged quite a bit and arthritis in his hip merely made it possible for him to dedicate more of his time to his reading. As I sat down at the kitchen table and accepted a beer, memories of previous visits and similar afternoons flashed through my mind. It was as if nothing had changed for him as he sat with his ever present cigarette in one hand and a can of beer in the other.
As we discussed people, places, and events, tensions on both sides began to ease, I could see that he seemed to enjoy our conversation. Before we left, he told me that he did not initially think that he was going to enjoy our visit, but that he had been pleasantly surprised. He said that he was looking forward to reading what I had written, and I told him that I would call him in a couple weeks to see what he thought of my efforts and to get any additional information or corrections that he might care to suggest. As I think back on this last visit, it struck me with finality that he would never fit the fatherly role that I wanted him to and would never be the doting grandfather that my kids longed for--too many years and events had combined to make that impossible. However, it was clear that Peter and he had a great deal in common and that Peter genuinely cared for him. As they talked about things that dad had taught him and the experiences they had shared (Peter had also been an enthusiastic extramarital swordsman in his younger years) Peter mentioned several times that he had been fortunate to have been able to take my place. This was not stated in a mean-spirited way, but as a way of expressing that my father meant a lot to him.
Although Peter's expression of affection for my father rekindled that spark of envy that always seemed to be there, such an obviously sincere expression of love was perhaps the single most important thing that I took away with me from this last paternal encounter. It may be a bit difficult for me to put into words, but the fact that someone cared so much for my father has modified somewhat the heretofore biased view of him that I had carried with me.
When we concluded our visit, I hugged my father and told him how much I had enjoyed our visit. As I went to get the van, Peter followed me and left me with what is perhaps as concise yet meaningful a eulogy as a man could want; When you write about your father, he said, say that he was a good man. Although my father was certainly not an angel, I am somewhat more ready now to think that perhaps Peter was not entirely wrong.
A couple of weeks after we returned to our home in Merritt Island (unfortunately, Hurricane Erin got there before we did), I called him again and he repeated how much he had enjoyed our visit. He went on to say that after our visit he liked me more now than he ever did and that maybe we have both matured some. Like is not as strong a word as love, but it still meant a lot to hear him say it.
