Before moving on to new topics and other family breadcrumbs, I wanted to bring a bit of closure to the story of the Larsons, particularly the California travelers. There are a few things that happened in the years following that trip in 1938 that I did not want to leave out of the bigger story I’ve been telling here. I hope you enjoy this final chapter.

Side Note: Some of you may be latecomers to this blog or just want a quick review of my great-grandfather Frank’s family history leading up to the California trip. I invite readers to click on the link at the top of the page labelled Breadcrumb Filters. There you can find categorized compilations of my articles based on specific topics or themes. You can then pick a category and skim the different articles to find the ones most relevant to the Larsons, their historical context, and the California trip. In addition, if you click on Snippets and Tidbits in the menu, you will find a link that takes you to a family tree. That may help sort out who the people are whose names appear in the stories. I hope that helps.

Moving on…

The Triumphant Return from California

The Larson gang returned home from their epic trip to California somewhere around March 30, 1938, almost exactly one month from when they started. To get back to Fredonia, they drove from Rockford, Illinois, through Chicago (where they stopped at the Chicago Zoological Park) and around Lake Michigan to Detroit (where they toured the Edison Institute Museum and Greenfield Village). Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, was their actual destination, where they stayed one night and dropped Bertie off. Then they crossed the Detroit River and drove through Canada to Western New York, crossing back into the United States at Niagara Falls and Buffalo.

Knowing how she revered her dad, I’m guessing that little Joanie threw herself into his arms first, and that he scooped her up and held her high before enveloping her in a big hug. From there she would have run straight into the waiting embrace of my grandmother Josie, who would have held her close and showered her with hugs and kisses.

My Uncle Bill and Flo’s daughter Rhea, both teenagers, would also have been part of the welcoming committee. Bill would no doubt have had some sort of wry comment ready, and maybe gave his mom and dad a quick hug before diving in to help unload the car and carry everything up those back stairs. I’m thinking that maybe Rhea went to her grandfather Frank first as they had a pretty close bond, and then her mother, although it could easily have been the other way around. In any event, Loretta, Josie’s mother who had taken care of the children, would have brought up the rear, hugging and greeting everyone once the children made some space for her.

After the return from California, Flo made her move to Florida official. She had left her husband in Vermont the prior year and had been staying with her father Frank in Limestone since the death of her mother Emma in 1937. When Flo moved to Florida, she initially left fifteen-year-old Rhea behind to stay with Frank and finish high school. Once Rhea graduated she relocated to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to be near her mother, and ended up marrying and staying there the rest of her life. She and Flo made regular trips back to Limestone and Fredonia, and there were reciprocal trips south that my mother remembers.

After 1938, we enter a period of my mother’s childhood that she remembered very well.

The Party Years at the Lake

Once the travelers returned from the California trip, which of course had been months in the planning, Fred needed a new project to occupy his active mind. Over the years he had spent time collecting and displaying curiosities from around the world and building a small museum of sorts. His collection of “stuff” included everything from WWI era relics to old Edison phonographs, to antique American dollars, a spinning wheel or two, and various antique glass and ceramic knick knacks.

The scrapbook he made using the documents and artifacts from the California road trip may very well have been the last one he put together. His new project after their return involved shifting his focus from being a travel agent, collector and tour guide, to becoming a builder. I’m guessing that he had been thinking about this idea for some time, but I have no idea when he actually began moving forward with it. What I do know is that by the summer of 1939, a little over a year after returning from California, Fred had purchased a parcel of land and built a cottage in a new vacation community called Van Buren, right on Lake Erie just a couple of miles from the center of Fredonia where the funeral home was located. On July 1, 1939, he officially opened “Lotta Bunx” for the season.

As with all things Fred got involved with, he kept meticulous documentation, some of which has survived the intervening years. In this case I have the old guestbook where all (or most) of the comings and goings of visitors were recorded. Throughout each annual summer season (which generally ran from late June to mid-October), there was a steady stream of family and friends who came to party and have a good time. Some were locals who came just for the day and others came from farther away and stayed at the cottage. It isn’t clear whether Fred and his family stayed there all summer and entertained guests, or if they loaned the cottage out to visitors from far away. Perhaps a bit of both.

I remember Lotta Bunx very well and loved spending several weeks there every summer in my early years. I don’t have a clue who came up with the name, but it fit. The cottage was small, with an “open concept” (to use today’s terminology) floor plan. It was basically one big squarish structure with a few walls here and there to separate the kitchen that jutted out into the middle of the square. No doors or walls anywhere else, just curtains to separate sleeping areas. One sleeping area was marked by two large, roomy bunk beds, one of which was a double-sized bunk that could sleep two couples. The smaller sleeping area was just large enough to squeeze in one double bed. A bathroom with shower was located in the back corner beyond where the bunkbeds were. My guess is that when the furniture was moved in and they were standing around looking at the brand new place, someone must have said, “wow, that sure is a lot of bunks!” and the name stuck.

When I say party I don’t mean the kind of party where people end up in drunken stupors. According to my mother there was never any alcohol on the premises, much to the amazement of other Van Buren vacationers in neighboring cottages, who were convinced that the only explanation for the loud laughter and partying that could be heard coming from Lotta Bunx was the free flow of alcohol among the celebrants. But no. Everyone had a good time, children and adults alike, and did not need artificial enhancements to the raw joy of being together. I can’t help thinking that the experience of living in Limestone during Prohibition (which you can read about here), as well as the struggles of Fred’s brothers Alex and Walter, had a deep influence on them. My mother had a palpable fear of alcohol her whole life, and thought that even a sip here and there could lead to problem drinking.

The early years from 1939 through 1942 were the most active (from the perspective of the guestbook). My mother, who was born on July 9, always had her birthday celebration at the cottage, as did Fred, whose birthday fell on July 21. Perusing the book it becomes clear that any excuse was used to have a party and invite guests. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. School graduations. Pinochle and Bridge buddies. Relatives visiting from out of town (the Rockford, Illinois branch seemed to find their way to Lotta Bunx every year, as did Fred’s sister Florence and daughter Rhea, who lived in Florida). As with many guestbooks, the guests often left comments when they were checking out:

“Oh, boy, what a nice vacation. Can’t move ate too much”

“thanks for a wonderful time hate to go home”

“will they ever make rafts that don’t tip over?”

“had a swell time and take good care of that tooth”

“checking out after an ‘almos’ wunnerful’ week. The cuisine was excellent and yours truly thoroughly enjoyed ‘no nagging’ in the mornings. Thanks a lot.”

“Just one of the great places on earth. If you don’t believe it just try it.”

“Had a swell time. Went to bed 6 am July 4”

“Never such a good time in my life.”

“Had a very nice time at a very very nice place with some very very very nice people”

“The grunt and groan artist had a grand time regardless”

“Pop was in swimmin’ and Ma went in wading!!!!” (this one was written by my mother)

“Off to the Larsons we went one night// To eat good food that was cooked just right// The food was good the folks were fun// Anytime they yell, to Larsons we’ll run”

“Had a wonderful time. Little sleep. Lots of noise. Can we come back?”

I just love these little glimpses into the people and conversations and activities!

By the summer of 1942, World War II was in full swing, and the guestbook announcement of the opening that year proclaimed The Year of World War II - “Many Changes” at the top of the page. Although the war didn’t seem to diminish the parties much in 1942, the first entry of 1943, written in big letters across the page was: “Off to the Wars!! Jan 3, 1943. Bill” The next page, again in big letters across the page: “Caught in the Draft!!” My Uncle Bill must have written the entries before he left in January knowing he wouldn’t be around when the cottage opened in June. All of the entries for 1943 fit on one page, so the parties clearly took a back seat as the country anxiously watched and waited for news of their loved ones who were overseas. My Uncle Bill was stationed in Alaska for most of the war, as safe a place to serve as any, and about a year after leaving Fredonia, in February of 1944, he showed up on the doorstep of the funeral home for a 15 day furlough, surprising his family and making the news.

The rest of 1944 saw little activity at Lotta Bunx, suggesting that the war was ever-present and more serious matters were dominating the lives of the Larson family and their friends. The cottage was opened in June, but when people showed up for the annual July 4 celebration that year, the notations indicate that no one was around to celebrate anything, so the holiday was a bust. The July 4 parties did not resume until 1945, after the war in Europe was over. That year Fred wrote in the book: “Grand Opening for the Fourth 1945. First in three years all on account of Joan” (my mother, who turned 16 that year, must have insisted that they not skip it again). The 1945 July 4 party was a big one, with many of the guests commenting on the missing years and appreciating the return to good times. Right under her father’s big flourish of a signature, my mother wrote in smaller letters: “Joanie Larson - Oh! Boy! First time in 3 years!”

Once the war was over, the cottage again had a stream of visitors and parties throughout the summer months. After 1949, there is a two year hiatus and no entries until June 24, 1951 one week after my mother married my father. The last entries in the book are from the summer of that year when friends and family visited the newlyweds (my parents) at the cottage.

Fred Leaves Us

The first entry in the Lotta Bunx guestbook for 1947 was dated June 23 and began with “well, they say we are the official openers.” It was written by one of my more distant Larson relatives. Conspicuously absent for the entire summer season that year are entries or notes from anyone in Fred’s immediate family. Based on the prior years, this is rather unusual. The people who visited and had good times at the cottage that year were less familiar names or more distantly related. Clearly, something was different.

My mother was a senior in high school when she lost her father on March 3, 1947. He was 59 years old. They adored each other and I can’t begin to imagine the depth of emotional suffering in the immediate aftermath as she struggled to finish school and carry on without him.

Fred died of a rare genetic condition of the blood called Protein S deficiency, which can lead to Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT). This is a condition in which, once the DVT is triggered, blood can clot easily, creating a high risk of a clot entering the lungs, heart or brain, causing death. The early symptoms of DVT may include swelling and pain in the legs or arms, and as the clots move they can enter vital organs. This typically leads to a pulmonary embolism, which is when a blood clot blocks an artery in the lung. Once that happens the sufferer will experience shortness of breath, chest pain that worsens when taking a deep breath or coughing, severe headache, dizziness, fainting, rapid pulse and breathing, and coughing up blood. Not a pleasant way for one’s life to end.

Fred probably lived for many years with this genetic condition without knowing he had it. From news reports at the time, it appears to have caught up with him in early 1947, shortly after they returned from a December 1946 trip to Florida for the holidays. At some point after getting home he must have started having serious symptoms and had to be hospitalized. Although the memories of my siblings and me are a little fuzzy, I believe my mother told us that in those final days, she and (I think) Josie were not allowed in the room to see Fred (I’m sure the medical staff thought they were protecting them in some way, but by today’s standards it seems cruel). I also remember my mother describing that in the final days and moments, Fred was “out of his head” and not able to communicate and that his moans of agony could be heard in the hallway. While we don’t know exactly what Fred was experiencing or the actual course of his illness, this description does fit with how the disease might progress once a clot entered a vital organ or the pulmonary embolism occurred. It must have been heartbreaking to witness the tragic, rapid decline and intense suffering of a man so revered by his family and friends.

My Uncle Bill recalled that Fred’s doctor, known as Doc Wheelock to everyone who knew him, stayed at the hospital during those last days when Fred was so sick. Doc had been a close friend of the family for many years, and was the one who had to tell the family that Fred wasn’t going to make it. According to Bill, in delivering this sad news, he said, “Lucille, I’m sorry, but Fred is just tired out,” and then he turned away, tears in his eyes.

Here is the story that appeared in the newspaper, describing the magnitude of the loss of Fred to the Fredonia community:

Fred Larson, Prominent Fredonian, Died Monday, After Brief Illness

At infrequent intervals in communities like Fredonia, death takes from the ranks of the citizenry a man whose personality has become so much a part of public and private affairs that the entire village is profoundly shocked. Such a man was Fred Larson.

Within a few hours of his death last Monday afternoon in Dunkirk Hospital, everyone in town knew that he had passed away. Word passed from person to person and everywhere the comment was in similar vein: “This town won’t be the same without him.”

… His impact on the community was such that his friends and neighbors think of all the humorous remarks and merry comments that were on his lips. He leaves a memory of the kind that brings a friendly smile to mind - a truly priceless personal attribute.

… The outstanding feature of his private life was his love for his family. The relationship of Mr. and Mrs. Larson to their children, Joan and William…was one of exceptional comradeship. Few knew more merriment around the dinner table than the Larsons. Few families enjoyed trips to Florida with pleasures in each other’s comradeship as the Larsons did. The surviving members of the family cherish his good spirits as a heritage.

Fred’s family was always convinced that the deep vein thrombosis that ultimately killed him was triggered by the trauma he had received in a serious car accident in 1933. The accident occurred when Fred was out on an ambulance call in the middle of the night and had to go to Port Allegany, New York from Fredonia. According to the news report at the time:

Mr. Larson and Mr. Ferm went to Port Allegany Wednesday evening on account of the death of Mr. Ferm’s mother and they were on their way back to Fredonia at 6 this morning when the accident occurred. The driver lost control of the car and it went off the pavement and struck the railing of a small bridge, then crossed the road and turned over.

Oscar Ferm, who was driving the car, was a relative of Fred’s and worked for the funeral home. He escaped the accident with no injuries, but Fred had to be taken to the hospital in Salamanca, where he stayed for a few days before being transported to the Dunkirk hospital where his friend, Doc Wheelock, could take care of him as he convalesced. According to my Uncle Bill, Doc Wheelock “literally saved Dad’s life when he was in that bad accident over by Salamanca.” I’m pretty sure that there were no seatbelts in cars at that time and Fred (who was probably sleeping before being jolted awake) was likely tossed about inside the car as it spun, careened into the railing, and then rolled over. He received a serious chest and side injury that included several broken ribs. According to what is known about Protein S deficiency, the shock of a car accident and resulting trauma to the body could easily have been enough to awaken the sleeping gene and activate the deep vein thrombosis. It is also possible to have DVT with no noticeable symptoms, and I’m guessing that was the case with Fred. Until 1947.

Bill was 23 when he lost his father. He had been planning to go to medical school, but when Fred died he took his father’s place in the funeral home business and shifted his education to acquiring the training and credentials he would need for that. In June 1947, just three months after losing his father, he completed the necessary courses at the Cincinnati College of Embalming and got his license.

By the time I knew my grandmother Josie Lucille, she was living a full life, still above the funeral home at 20 Central in Fredonia. I knew her as a jovial, fun-loving grandmother, who loved games of all kinds and had a great sense of humor. Neither she nor my mother ever talked about what it had been like to lose Fred, and as a child I never asked. By the time I would have wanted to talk about that with her, Josie had been gone for many years. She was a young 52 when she lost Fred and had to put her life back together. (I was 61 when I lost Jay.) In one of my mother’s old scrapbooks, I found a telegram sent to Josie by Fred’s sister Florence, who was on the California trip with them and who they visited in Florida several times. The telegram had this message:

Lucille you have been a wonderful wife to a dear brother. I know you are crushed, so are we. Brace up and carry on for Joan Bill and poor dad. He will depend on you now. … Lovingly, Florence.

Josie Lucille not only “braced up” for her children and her father-in-law, but she figured out how to embrace life again for herself as well, and I so appreciate her for the guidance she (unknowingly) provided to me after I lost Jay.

And it is at this point that Fred Larson’s personal breadcrumb trail comes to its final end. Of course, his legacy lives on in so many ways…

We Say Goodbye to Frank

Frank Larson, patriarch and businessman, loving father and family man, died two days before Christmas on December 23, 1950, having lived three years longer than his much loved son Fred. He was described in the newspaper as a “former prominent driller in the Bradford oil fields.” We know from my previous articles on this site that he was much more than that, but such is the case sometimes when those who didn’t know you well try to sum up the highlights of a long life. In this case, the reporter apparently only had one small piece of Frank’s story to work with.

A small digression: Frank’s brother John’s death in 1941 was a particularly tragic loss for Frank, given how close those two brothers were. They made the voyage from Sweden together in 1881 and lived within a few short miles of each other their entire lives. Their children grew up in each others’ shadows and shared many family events over the decades. Newspapers reported that John, 82 at the time, was brutally attacked near his house and died from a slow developing subdural hemorrhage a few months later. The perpetrator was caught and tried, but I’m sure that did not provide much solace to the family or to Frank.

At the time of his death, Frank was living in Oil City, Pennsylvania near the home of his one remaining son, Raymond. Of his six surviving daughters, only one, Dorothy, was still living nearby, in Olean, New York. Jenny was in Bakersfield, Bertie was in Michigan, and Florence, Jule, and Helen were all in Florida. The funeral for Frank was held the day after Christmas at the family home in Limestone and he was buried in the Limestone cemetery. It is interesting to me that the funeral is reported to have taken place at the family home because it appears that Frank may have moved from there around 1941. The house was listed for sale that year, but I don’t have any information about whether it was sold or to whom. I have no idea who might have bought it or who owned it or was living in it in 1950. Regardless, Frank would have been 79 in 1941, so it’s not surprising that he would have moved out of that big rambling house. None of his children or grandchildren were living in Limestone at that point.

Whether it was in 1941 or not, Frank at some point moved to Oil City to be closer to Ray. Some evidence suggests that he likely lived with Ray during those declining years before spending his final month at a convalescent home, also in Oil City. The death certificate lists “arteriosclerotic heart disease due to senility” as the cause of death. Looking at the dates, it appears that Frank was moved to the convalescent home four weeks before his death, which would have been around Thanksgiving (which fell on November 23 that year).

It’s hard to know who was at that 1950 Thanksgiving gathering when the realization hit Ray that he could no longer care for his father’s needs at home. The decision to move a loved one out of the family home and into a nursing home is always difficult, even when it is the best option available. Hospice as a concept and viable caregiving choice was nonexistent in 1950 (and in fact would not be available until 1967). If Frank’s cognitive functions were in serious decline, as the mention of “senility” in the death certificate suggests, then it could not have been easy to care for him and keep him safe. I’m left wondering if something happened at that Thanksgiving feast that led Ray to conclude that Frank needed to be cared for in a different setting. In any case, somehow the decision was made to move him to the convalescent facility, a misnomer since he was not moved there to convalesce but rather to be cared for and kept safe in his final weeks.

My mother would have been 21 years old when she lost her grandfather. Earlier that same year, in the summer of 1950, she had met my father and the two fell madly in love. They would marry the year after that in June, 1951, and my brother Sam, the first of their four children, would be born in January of 1953. But in December, 1950, as she was making wedding plans and meeting her future in-laws, I’m sure that all she was thinking about was the loss of her “Gramps.”

Frank’s passing would have left a big hole in the family. Over the ensuing years family gatherings continued without him, organized by the later generations of Larsons who stayed in the Olean and Bradford area. I can remember attending some of those reunions and being thoroughly confused about how all those relatives fit together. Frank and Emma had eleven children, most of whom went on to have multiple children of their own. It can be very difficult for a young child to have any understanding of how they are all related to each other when you only see them once every few years. Every now and again, my mother would try to explain all the relationships between herself and her various relatives, and would create elaborate charts separating out first cousins from second cousins, those who were once or twice removed, who was an uncle or aunt, and who was descended from her mother's side of the family and who was descended from her father Fred. Way too much information to digest and remember! But such is the nature of expanding families, particularly when there are a lot of children in those early generations before the availability of birth control options. These days, most family trees (at least in my family) are not so elaborate when you are only looking at the most recent two or three generations.

And so ends Frank’s personal breadcrumb. I’m kind of sad to see him go…

Next Steps

From here we say goodbye to the collective Larson Breadcrumbs, at least for now or until I have more tidbits to add or expand. My goal from the beginning of this blog has been to lift up precious memories and bring them to life as best I could. No doubt there are inaccuracies, particularly in places where I make inferences or draw conclusions (i.e. totally guess) about what exactly happened, or why. I have had a lot of fun letting my imagination try to fill in gaps using the information (very scant at times) I had available. I tried to honor their lived experiences as best as I could, and I hope that their descendants today can feel the depth of respect and love I have for these people whose stories I have tried to tell, and that they know how much I care about preserving the history and legacies they left behind.

To all you Larson relatives out there: Please feel free to contact me in order to set the record straight in places where I got it wrong!

I’m not sure what will come next, but Sadie and I do have some road trips coming up in the near future. I’ll be sure to share some of the highlights here. There are also some additional writing projects getting organized. Stay tuned!