Family

My father, Jackson “Jack” Willard Van Brunt, was the youngest of five children of his parents, Hattie Buck and Walter Wright Van Brunt. I do not remember what business my grandfather was in. Grandma had been an almost-concert-level pianist in her youth. They lived on the West Side of Saginaw, Michigan, in a roomy gray Victorian house, which they rented from the nearby Catholic Church. Aunt Mary was the oldest and only daughter. The other three boys, in order of seniority, were Uncles Fred, Frank, and Walter.

The family was of very modest means. Grandpa Van Brunt died young, before I joined the family. After his death Grandma Van Brunt went into full mourning dress and continued the antiquated style for the rest of her very long life.

Her ankle-length dresses were black, gray, or white, depending on the season, with tiny prints in the same monochromatic shades: high necks edged with lace or with a small collar; tiny buttons down the front; long sleeves, often with a ruffle of lace around the cuffs; high, buttoned black shoes. When Grandma went out for a drive in Uncle Frank’s car, she wore a black bonnet with a shoulder-length heavy black veil edged with two inches of black satin binding.

One of my favorite stories about my Grandma Van Brunt tells of a time she had trouble getting the rent money to the church because the priest in charge of collections failed to arrive. In her old fashioned “widow’s weeds,” she marched the two blocks down to the church, flounced into the Confessional, and told the astounded priest that it was the only way she could find him to pay her rent on time.

Jack was the only one of the children to attend college. He was within days of graduation when he was drafted for World War I, lacking only his final camp session. His professor refused to graduate him and other classmates in the same predicament.

While Dad was in the army somewhere in France, standing in the chow line for lunch, he heard someone call out, “Jack.” Turning around he found his brother Walter standing just behind him. Walt’s army unit was camped nearby.

According to Mother, their conversation in full, typical of the laconic Van Brunts was:

Walt: Hello, Jack.

Jack: Hello, Walt.

It took years for justice to prevail, but the year I graduated from college, Dad received his diploma from the University of Michigan. His recalcitrant professor had died. The Dean rectified his meanness. Dad said he should have worn a cap and gown to meet the mailman at the door.

 

My mother, Katharine “Kitty” Carlisle Church, was the older of two daughters of Anna Carlisle and Edgar Damon Church. They lived in a large gray Victorian house in “The Grove” on the elite East Side of Saginaw. Grandpa owned a foundry and prospered. He was something of a town celebrity, being the honorary police chief. While his own family had not been well-to-do, the Carlisles were both wealthy and prominent. Mother and Aunt Helen grew up in the top echelon of Saginaw society.

Mother attended boarding school at Emma Willard, a prestigious Eastern girls’ school. She studied to become a kindergarten teacher. Mother was an inspired teacher, filled with imagination and able to communicate with children of any age.

 

Mother and Dad married soon after he returned from France at the end of World War I. After a few childless years they adopted, first me, and five years later, Mary.

Adoption was unusual in the Twenties and was not universally approved. Aunt Helen went to the extreme of resigning from the prominent Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) because she knew that neither Mary nor I would be eligible for membership because we could not prove that an ancestor was active in the Revolution. Mother had not joined the DAR, but she was very proud of and grateful for her sister’s stand.