Homestead, a Family History of Leon R. Hunt and Beth Carroll

By Douglas Allen Hunt

The genealogy of Leon R. Hunt and Beth Carroll including the surnames of Hunt, Miller, Carroll and Chamberlain with an historical summary of these families.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312286856

Book preview

Homestead, a Family History of Leon R. Hunt and Beth Carroll

Homestead

A Family History of

Leon R. and Beth Carroll Hunt

By Douglas Allen Hunt

HOMESTEAD

Copyright © 2014 by Douglas Allen Hunt

ISBN: 978-1-312-28685-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact Hunt Books at [e-mail].

Printed in the United States of America

Lulu® Edition July 2014

Dedicated to my parents,

Leon and Beth Hunt

And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers...

The Old Testament, Malachi 4:6

Contents

Forward

Chapter 1:  Dad’s Dream

Chapter 2:  Hunt

Chapter 3:  Miller

Chapter 4:  Carroll

Chapter 5:  Chamberlain

Conclusion

Photos & Illustrations

Biographies and Sketches

Historical Timeline

Documents and Indexes

Genealogy

Forward

A

n 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.  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.

This is the story of the building of that family.

Chapter 1: Dad’s Dream

I

can’t sleep.  The cool, blue glow from the alarm 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 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 with 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 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 Family History 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.  So I scheduled a vacation day from work and planned the visit for Friday.

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 difficult a navigation exercise as I had imagined and met with such trepidation.

Within the library I was directed to the Family History section and a helpful librarian 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 backpacking 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.  We were met with rustic buildings, oil lanterns, wood burning stoves, propane refrigerators and no TV or phone service.  At the end of the week we were entertained by the Friday night CBS Mystery Theater.  We’d crank up the old diesel generator, throw another log on the fire, and gather around the glow of the radio dial in anticipation of the night’s featured program.

I recall the initial journey and the alien landscape of Mono Lake with its cool azure waters and bone white tufa towers standing sentinel to the gate of Lundy Canyon.  The high desert sage makes way to bright maple and shimmering aspen as we make our steep ascent.  The canyon walls soon fill the sky and just before the lake is visible there appears an ancient giant conifer, clinging desperately to a barren rock outcropping, whose withered limb points the way to the idyllic view of a land lost in time.  At the site of the ghost town some of the resort’s buildings are remnants (or revenants) of a world long forgotten.  In the earth of broken foundations is a living museum of this other age. As we make our way up the canyon, now on foot, we pass the 6 foot tall painted rock, the colorful bust of an Indian chief in headdress.  This solemn guide encourages us forward to the picturesque Lundy Falls where we find ourselves truly alone, to contemplate the magic of this place.  This is pioneering!

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.

The family united that first summer at Lundy.  We left our jobs and schools to prepare the resort for the new summer season and to build relationships with one another that would last forever.  We scraped old paint from the wood fishing boats and applied fresh new coats.  We overhauled and tuned the boat motors.  We scrubbed floors, toilets, sinks and freshened the bedding in the cabins.  We ordered goods and stocked the store shelves. We cleaned out the septic pool, repaired fences, raked campgrounds, rebuilt fire rings, collected trash and kept the generator running. And on some nights when the work day had ended we entertained customers and ourselves with live music on the common, a grassy area between two of the larger group cabins where we had built a stage and a fire ring.

We found a common goal that tied us to the land and each other and stirred a memory in our souls linking us inexorably to this place.  Even though the business venture failed and the place was sold we continued to hold our family reunions here for years afterward.  But the place is more than a physical location. I imagine our ancestor’s experienced something similar as their efforts were concentrated in the production of the land they worked together, as a family.  Their farms and homes became an extension of the family unit because the land provided for their livelihood.  Perhaps, in part due to his upbringing, Dad realized the importance of family and wanted us to have the same experience. This certainly was a driving force in his exploration of our family history.

So I continued the work that Dad had started and hope that it has been accompanied