When I’m in 5th grade, one day we drive to Moline, IL for Grandpa Dunbar’s funeral. It’s packed standing room only with adults. I’m surprised because Grandpa Dunbar was really old and I thought he’d out lived almost everyone he knew. Genealogically thinking, if there was a day I’d like to relive, it would be to returned to 1962 at the DeRoo Funeral Home, with all those people, who were family, including Grandpa’s cousins, now long gone.
Frank Dunbar (L) Hiram Dunbar (R)
Grandpa Dunbar’s real name is Hiram Perry Dunbar, nickname Hi. Even from my young eyes, I knew he’d been a tall handsome man; my great grandfather. Born in Piper, Kansas, to Perry Commodore Dunbar, and Catherine Coffey, he grew up in Atkinson, IL. His father had inherited a large part of an estate, so his family was considered wealthy in this tiny farm town, east of Moline, in Henry County. He married Florence Knudde, and together they had 4 children, Mary Pearl, Esther, Catherine and Robert. As a young man, he worked at his father’s livery business. Next, they farmed for a dozen years near Linwood, Kansas, and when Florence had enough farming, they returned to Moline. On 16th Street, Hiram built a beautiful two story Victorian family home complete with a large front porch, a porch swing, stained glass windows, and when you entered you saw a beautiful winding staircase. He first worked at Wilson Body Co. He was innovative. He built a hood for a Vely Roadster automobile but didn’t get credit. He was told he was the best salvage man, a job he worked for years at John Deere. They lived a comfortable life. Florence his wife died in 1953. I don’t remember her, only him as a widower.
I spent many
vacation weeks with my grandparents.
Every afternoon, Grandma and I would walk the mile to Grandpa
Dunbar’s. She’d straighten up his house,
make a little meal, and check to be sure everything was okay. Even though it was in the late 1950’s neither
household had a telephone. Grandpa
Dunbar always gave me a dime to run down to the pharmacy down the street, and
I’d buy an ice cream sandwich. I was
never allowed to eat it in the house. I sat on the front steps watching the
cars go by, eating my snack. Across the
street was a nice park with swings where I played while waiting for Grandma to
finish up her chores.
I wandered
the home, it had beautiful four big bedrooms up stairs. It was furnished with beautiful antique
furniture. A beautiful stain glass lamp
hung over the oak table in the dining room.
Downstairs was a cellar, and lots of tools, that Grandpa Dunbar used in
his younger days. Sometimes he would
play darts with me in his big kitchen.
He was always sweet and kind to me.
It became
apparent in the summer of 1962, Grandpa didn’t have many days left. He was getting weaker and weaker. A bed was put in the dining room, so he
didn’t have to go upstairs. Someone
started spending the night, my grandma or her sister, Aunt Essie. When he quietly passed in the night, it was
not a surprise.
Now back to
the funeral. I have the book that was
signed. The names are his cousins, and
other people I’d love to have known better.
At the funeral were the Coffey sisters.
I’d heard a lot about them. They
lived far away and my grandmother adored them and looked forward to their
letters.
Before I met
them, they seemed exotic to me. In my
mind, they were the Coffee sisters, and they wore hats wrapped around their
heads, covered in tropical fruits and coffee beans, and they lived far away,
like South America. (Think the singer
and dancer, Carmen Miranda.) In actuality, they were the Coffey sisters, my
grandmother’s three Irish cousins, who lived in Kansas, and they were hard
working farmers. Pleasant, but rather
plain and old like my grandmother.
Grandma’s siblings were there. I
knew Aunt Essie who lived nearby. Aunt
Catherine came from California. You
could tell she’d been a beautiful woman, and still had her long, dark, lush
head of hair. Uncle Bob, who liked just
like his dad, also came. My sister and I
were by far the youngest in the room.
I look back
on that day, many times. So many
important people in my family’s history are all in one room, and only a few
still living today. It’s my desire to
find some of their stories and share with others.
