An ancient Chinese proverb reads, “To forget one’s ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.”
The old homestead, built by my Great-grandfather and his son in the late nineteenth century in Kansas, provided his family with roots, an anchor to his heritage, a source for future generations, a place to return and a link to an ever-growing community. That building now lays desolate, crumbling, dying. But the home is still alive, vibrant in our minds, in our souls, a living legacy of family ties, pride in ancestors who paved the way, a shared memory that binds us for eternity.
My father, Leon R. Hunt, son of Isaac and Opal Miller Hunt, taught me the value of family and honor, and introduced me to the family homestead and my ancestors.
Leon was driven by a sense of urgency to record the genealogical history of our family, to give substance to the emotional connection we feel. In the mid 1970s he began compiling the available information, beginning with the hand-written record kept by his mother, Opal, in her personal Bible, transcribed from other family records and oral tradition. He also acquired birth certificates, census records, wills and other documents to support his findings. These things he gathered together, along with family photos, in a black, three-ring binder; the layout for a book that he would someday write.
Although my mother, Beth Hunt, may not have had the same hobbyist interest in genealogy, her family was the center of her universe. She insured that we children had a safe and secure home filled with lots of love and attention. She always made us feel that we were the most important aspect of her life, maybe to a fault, but we knew that we were loved and believed we could accomplish anything. She was the glue that held it all together. And together, she and Dad built a family that has been uncommonly close for over sixty years. My siblings are my best friends.
I can’t sleep. The cool, blue glow from the clock on my night stand invades my dream, already forgotten, and I have to open my eyes to see what time it is. It’s 4:47 A. M. on a Saturday. I should be sleeping in but I lay there thinking about how to introduce this book which is again playing in my mind.
I recall the drive into Provo, Utah on another Saturday morning thirty-five years earlier. It was early August 1978 and James was in L.A. with his Mom for the summer. It was a perfect day, 75 degrees and a light breeze in the dry high desert air. I had the windows down as I drove the beat-up, black and blue actually, ’64 Mustang Fastback up University Avenue toward Brigham Young University and the Family History Library.
Jackson Browne’s smooth, hypnotic voice drowned out the leaky muffler singing “Rock Me on the Water” which seemed apropos, an anthem for today’s project. Maybe it was the line, “I’ll get down to the sea somehow” that spoke to me of family, home and origins.
Dad had called last night, reminding me again that he needed my help to further research our family history. He had “tapped” me because of my proximity to the Mormon Church’s extensive genealogical library that was open to the public. I didn’t ask why me and not Steve, who also lived in Utah—I was pleased to have this connection with Dad and the work he had compiled to date had piqued my interest. It was all about family for Dad which had been impressed on all of us recently with the “Lundy” experience—but we’ll talk about that later.
Anyway, I had run out of excuses for not visiting the library. I found out from Aunt Carla that I didn’t have to travel the 60 miles to Salt Lake City, the Church had a library in my backyard. Brigham Young University had copies of much of the microfilm that was available at the main Church building. The master salesman had eliminated all my objections and had squeezed the promise from me to make the trip the next day.
This was my first time to the college and all I knew was that the library was located in the Harold B. Lee building. I turned right at the intersection of Bulldog and University, where Provo High School is located, which placed me on campus. I continued driving a few blocks to Campus Drive, veering right I could see the big letter “Y” on the mountain, part of the Wasatch range which shot up dramatically at the east edge of campus as a wall that seemed to fill the sky ahead of me. I immediately found a public parking lot on the right where I was able to park the car close to the Museum of Art building.
I began walking south on the sidewalk adjacent to this building and the Fine Arts Center. I was impressed with the architectural design of the buildings, although utilitarian in the use of brick there were also cement constructed geometric shapes and accents which gave them a more modern feel. The landscaping was refreshing with trees, shrubs and flowers in combinations borrowed from nature, a welcome distraction from the confines of the classroom I’m sure.
I felt a little conspicuous with my long hair and beard as everyone else in the square was very conservatively dressed but as no one had yet raised an alarm I began to relax. I stopped a student to ask if he could direct me to the library and was surprised when he pointed to the building directly ahead. So it hadn’t been as daunting a navigation exercise as I had imagined and met with such trepidation.
I was soon directed to the Family History section and a helpful librarian at the information desk who found me a free “reader” and presented me with rolls of microfilm that had been indexed with the name Abel Hunt. This was the ancestor key stone, if you will, that would help me uncover the unknown, the unfinished family history. Grandma Opal had recorded his name in addition to his wife and children in the family Bible. He had been born in Barren County, Kentucky in 1812 but that is where the information on our lineage stopped. After the librarian had instructed me on the art of threading the film and offered pointers on what to look for I began the dizzying task of scrolling through what seemed miles of film. There were Abel Hunts all over the place! And trying to find a connection with my Abel seemed as daunting a task as I had ever undertook.
I took rambling notes and later Dad and I tried to make sense of the information we were gathering, making conjecture as to origin countries and migration paths of our Hunts. Whenever we’d uncover a bit of history as with the migration of a group of Primitive Baptists, including Hunts, from Kentucky to North Carolina and Tennessee, we would try to find a correlation with the Primitive Baptist cemetery in which Abel was buried. But this was time consuming work and years passed with little or no information bringing us any closer to the missing link.
Of course we didn’t know then that Dad didn’t have years. We would discuss family history for the last time from his bed at Kaiser Hospital close to his apartment in Claremont, California. It was on the eve of his cancer surgery and he wanted me to promise that I would take the baton if he could no longer carry it. I now have the baton.
King Solomon writes, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven..”, well this thing was unseasonable. A short time afterward Steve and I climbed a mountain peak, as we often did with our many back packing trips to the Uinta, and began to reminisce. I commented, “At least Dad lived a full and satisfying life”. Steve’s response, with some anger in his voice was, “He was only 56, he had hundreds of places to see and a thousand things left undone”! As I have now passed that milestone I feel the full impact of those words spoken so many years ago. It feels like it was yesterday. Yes, he left us too soon but he left us with so much, enough to build a life.
Leon R. Hunt was a pioneer in his own right. He may not have packed “lock, stock and barrel” in a Conestoga to set out across the Plains but after selling their home and business he and Mom loaded the Mayflower van that moved them to Lundy Lake, a fishing resort in the eastern California Sierra mountain range, near Lee Vining.
Dad had a proposal for uniting our family. We had all pretty much gone our separate ways but he had another plan. He outlined it as follows in this written proposition to his children:
“ I dreamed that all the family had a common goal and purpose, that everyone worked together and stayed together. Then I found Lundy and I knew this was the answer. One person can’t accomplish much but a group can work wonders. Lundy was back to the basics, a good place for children to grow up and yet a place where we could make a living. Lundy Lake will be yours in two years (1978), with a quarter share going to each of you.”
“You’ll not get something for nothing. Some of you will make no money. Others will have to live in two places, only earning a salary during the operating season and working another job when the resort is closed. But the payoff will be worth it. In sixteen years you will own Lundy free and clear with a real value of $250,000.00 or $62,500.00 each. The yearly profit on your investment will be $30-37,000.00 or $7,500.00 each ($625.00/Mo.) plus a seasonal salary & living expense for the ones who run the resort.”
“Your cost will be $350.00 per month for life for Mom and $350.00 per month for life for me. The property will always remain in the family and there will be a place for us to stay. We will help out each season.”
“The changeover will include forming a corporation. Next year we will run the operation then the following year you will run the resort under our supervision. The third year you are on your own.”
“I will elect officers the first year and from thereon you will elect your own officers. For the first year, Steve Hunt will be President and General Manager with overall responsibility to make things work, Doug Hunt will be Vice-President with responsibility for building the business, Roger Hunt will be Treasurer with responsibility for the financial end of the business and Kathy Hunt will be Secretary with responsibility for reservations, store accounts and deposits. I recommend that the President and Treasurer sign all checks jointly, two of you stay on regular jobs and the President and Secretary draw a salary for the 7 months of the season and 2 months afterward.”
So I continued the work and with the advent of the Internet it became something I could undertake more easily in the convenience of my home office. I didn’t need to employ professional genealogists to search faraway county or parish records for crucial information as Dad had; it was now at my fingertips. Year after year more and more documentation was scanned, indexed and searchable on the Web. I believe the missing pieces have been found and the puzzle is now complete, at least going back a few more generations. Ours is an American story which starts with our ancestors’ first steps in the colonies of this then burgeoning nation.
So I put pen to paper in the hope that Dad’s vision is realized; that his descendants will have a sense of who they are and what stuff they’re made of from the stories of those who have gone before them. His desire was that his children and their children, and so on, have a clear path to the future through the hope and passion of the standard bearers of past generations. His dream was to see the Hunt ensign held high, eagerly carried forward with willful, measured tenacity, passed on from generation to generation. Perhaps rather than a culmination this work is also a beginning.
It is with certain knowledge that as we explore our past we will find significant contributions to the growth and security of this great American enterprise that are predestined by that heritage to continue for generations to come.
What part does this heritage play in our lives today, in our make-up, in what drives us? I believe it is everything. It’s that which breathes life into us. It’s a treasure map we must explore. And we must also pay homage by remembering.
I recall my first visit to the Homestead. As we drove down the graveled road, the rear tires spitting out clouds of dirt, like smoke filling the sky and obscuring what lay behind us; I imagined we were traveling back in time. When I had to squint my eyes to see the towering poplars that framed one edge of the homestead now visible in the distance, I imagined that fields of crops stretched out like a lush emerald carpet over the acres that comprised the Hunt farm. As the two-story rough-hewn sandstone house and dull red barn, equal in size, began to take form, I imagined a cacophony of barnyard sounds, a thing magically transformed to song by eight-year-old ears. It wasn’t until the car skidded to a stop in front of the house and the cloud of dust that had engulfed us slowly dissipated that the mirage shook, shifted and threatened to dissolve. When Dad stepped out into the sweltering July heat and slammed the car door shut, it was gone.
Gone, the sounds I imagined, replaced by an ominous stillness punctuated by the electric hum of cicadas, a ringing in my ears that left me disoriented. The doors and windows of the old farm house were empty frames, the deserted building was like a skull, bleached and dry on the parched ground. I shuffled through this ancient graveyard feeling as if I’d been robbed. Something of great worth had been taken from me, stolen before I’d had the chance to possess it.
Dad shouted from the barn. By the time I glanced up, he had emerged from the building. In an awkward and lumbering walk he approached us. He was on stilts! Grinning ear to ear, he entertained us like a circus clown. Rummaging through some dusty artifacts Dad had found the stilts Grandpa had made for his sons in some forgotten time. Dad taught his boys how to walk on stilts that afternoon.
Later, sitting on a rock embankment with arms on our knees, a blade of grass hanging from our mouths, an occasional rock tossed to give pause to the stories, we heard about life on the family farm. We began to understand our connection to it. The setting sun seemed to pour color back into the landscape. Reviving the memories of his childhood, Dad breathed life again into the Homestead.
It is with certain knowledge that as we explore our past we will find a significant contribution to our individual being as well as to the growth and security of this great American enterprise that is predestined by that heritage to continue for generations to come. This knowledge defines our present and prepares our future. It is the sure foundation upon which our children may build happy and satisfying lives.
This presentation is but a preamble to that exploration. I’ve tried to weave a texture into the telling of it, to enliven it. In so doing I may have, at times, relied too heavily on conjecture or supposition but my hope is that you feel the same personal connection to these family members that I do.
Wherever available I have also included proof documents which are displayed in the following pages along with as many family photos as I thought reasonable. In the descendants charts I used an Ahnentafel list which assigns an ascending number to the generations so that the reader may more easily follow family relationships within the display limits of these pages. I included photo copies of censuses, certificates and other documents to which I had access.
An online display of our family tree is available at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints website, http://familysearch.org. You can use the online Family Tree program or you may also freely download the genealogy program, Ancestral Quest Basic, from this site to help you create your own family history record. This is a great place to start your search as it has a repository of census, birth, baptismal, marriage, tax, draft, death and other indexes and photocopies of actual documents.
Of course, this hasn’t been a solo effort. I’m grateful to all who have contributed to this work, especially to my wife, Carolyn, whose love and patience allowed me the freedom to follow a line of inquiry to its conclusion—even into the twilight hours of some evenings. My Mom’s encouragement and great story-telling examples have set the standard—I hope I haven’t sold her short. I thank my brother, Roger, and cousin, Karen Hoover, for the inspiration of their work that preceded this. It goes without saying, that none of this would have been possible without the pages of research Dad had done and for his involving me in the journey of discovery. In that journey I met heretofore unknown family members who inspired me through the pages of their journals. The genealogical community at large has been a great help with surname mail lists and websites dedicated to the collection of historical documents available on the Internet. I’m especially grateful for the LDS site, FamilySearch.org, which has collected thousands of family files, documents and photos, making them freely available to all.
I encourage you to expand on this work by searching out your family tree and links to your extended family, and begin making a record of your own. Keep a journal of memorable events in your life to pass on to generations to come—they will be interested in knowing you. Sharing the struggles and joys of life help to ground us, these stories give us hope and direction for a future that we control. The sharing reminds us that we are loved and not alone in a world that can sometimes be a trying place. As a family we have added strength and power to endure. United we have the hope of a future full of promise. I am eternally grateful for the sacrifices and examples of my ancestors. I endeavor to honor their legacy in these pages.
I wrote a song shortly after Dad’s death that expressed the loss I felt:
After the dance, when the music’s gone,
as the laughter fades, the night is so cold.
After the dance, when the leaves go dry,
as the harsh wind blows, the land is so old.
Memories still wait for me, they’re rich and alive
they’re a song I sing in a storm.
After the dance, when the sky is black,
as the silence falls, there’s no one to hold.
After the dance, when the music’s gone,
as the laughter fades, the story’s been told.
It is the memories that keep our loved ones alive in our hearts and minds. Rather than as the song proclaims, “the story’s been told”, I testify that the story never ends. The stories, the life experiences, the struggle and triumph, the sorrow and joy, are shared with this generation and the next. The God of our fathers and those lives He touched enliven the stories which continue to teach and inspire us. I hope that this work can help in that effort.
Hunt Homestead 