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The Larvie Family Tree Project

Something amazing happened a few days ago. My cousin, Peggy Reed Brown, shared a childhood memory that was precious to both of us, and that started a nostalgia fest that got the attention of some other relatives on Facebook, and that started a conversation about family history, and then more relatives jumped in, and the next thing I knew I was working on a genealogy project, with a group of extraordinary individuals, that is very near and dear to my heart! The most amazing thing is that I did not know these wonderful people, or that they were members of my extended clan, until Cousin Peggy started the ball rolling with a story about me freaking out at a movie theater when I was a kid. A child's panicked reaction to Willy Wonka, and an older cousin's patience in missing most of the movie to comfort her, has kicked off an on-line family reunion that unites two strong and caring bloodlines into one diverse, and extremely interesting, extended family! As the saying goes, life is a funny old dog.

 

I would like to tell you the story of what kicked off the Larvie Family Genealogy Project! This story illustrates all of the reasons I have been devoting more and more of my time to genealogy work since I could no longer teach, due to my disabilities. Besides the fact that this is something that I can do and not waste my hard-earned English degree and not have my physical issues interfere, I have personally experienced the power it has to unite, and reunite, families. Since I began, I have found a missing McDermott cousin, discovered the stories about my father-in-law's notorious uncle, Abba the Gonif, were all true (and then some), and found the Lost Slussers (except I was surprised to learn that -we- were the Lost Slussers, but that's a story for another time). Of all the projects I have ever worked on I have never had one grow so fast, with so many people working on it, in such a short period of time (this began only 48 hours ago, as I begin writing this). Information has been pouring in faster than I can input it- I literally have over 20 windows open right now, each with a different research lead (which is why I thought I'd check in now- once I dive in, it'll be a while). This has been an almost miraculous experience- all the right pieces falling into place- everything in the right place, at the right time, with the right people. I must admit, my mind is reeling, and I am filled with a profound sense of wonder.

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Mary Margaret Slusser and Lloyd Larvie

 Mary Margaret Slusser and Lloyd Kenneth Larvie

Picture provided by cousin Gary Najera

To give you a little background, as Peggy and I chatted, we began to reminisce about her step-father, Lloyd Larvie, married to her mother, my aunt Mary Margaret Slusser. (One of the things about the Slusser clan is that we don't really differentiate in-laws. Once you marry into the family you belong to us, forever. It seems to be a deeply ingrained tradition and, I've recently learned, probably traces back to some of our roots in England, actually through the Potts line.)

 

I only got to meet Uncle Lloyd in person, once. I don't remember my exact age, but I was small, only 3 or 4- probably 4, because I seem to remember it was the summer before I started Kindergarten (in California, a November birthday means starting school a little early). You would think that a single visit, as such a small child, wouldn't leave much of an impression- you would think wrong. One of the things I have learned from this is that even something that adults may think of as a small and insignificant gesture can leave a big impression on the heart and soul of a child.

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This trip to Colorado was special for a couple reasons. First, it was my first plane ride, and the first time I ever left California. Also, it was the first time I was going to get to meet any of the relatives from "back East." (When you grow up in California, everything East of Las Vegas is "back East.") Uncle Lloyd made this vacation particularly special. When we arrived, I was barely through the door when he scooped me up into a bear hug. (I have only known 2 other people who could give as warm and sincere a hug as Uncle Lloyd- my Uncle Walter Slusser, and my Uncle Tim McDermott. All three of these men really understood hugs, and excelled at the art of Uncling!) He sat me on his knee, and he asked me what I wanted most in the whole wide world. The way he said it, I could tell he meant it. Some adults say that, but what they really mean is, "Do you want a cookie?" He looked deeply and thoughtfully into my eyes, and I knew that he wanted a serious, honest, answer and that he would be disappointed in me with anything less. I also knew that I did -not- want to disappoint him. For years, I have had a hard time explaining why this event affected me so much. Honestly, this was the first time an adult looked me straight in the eye, human to human, rather than adult to child, and saw -me-, and asked me to share a piece of my inner soul. And meant it. And, somehow, silently, let me know it was safe. So, I thought for a moment and, on a hot summer evening in Denver, I said, "I want to see snow." I think I heard a giggle from somewhere else in the room, probably one of the other adults, but my attention was on Uncle Lloyd, who held my gaze and just nodded, thoughtfully and quietly, and said, like he was making a royal proclamation, "Tomorrow, you shall see snow."

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The next day, we all bundled into the car, and drove up into the mountains. And we drove into a blizzard! (At least, to me. It was probably just a flurry, but to me, it could have been Siberia.) At the time, I was convinced that Uncle Lloyd had somehow made it snow, just for me (I'm still not completely convinced he didn't), and he became this larger than life, magical being, in my eyes- like Merlin from the tales of King Arthur, except better, because he was right there, holding my hand! Uncle Lloyd asked me what I wanted to do in the snow, and I said I wanted to build a snowman. We found a good place at the side of the road, and I jumped out, eagerly, to get my first feel of snow, only to be shocked, and even a little scared, that it was wet, hard and cold. (In the story books it always looks so light and fluffy, and in Los Angeles I had never known a day colder than 45 degrees, if that.) Most of the grown-ups thought that was pretty funny, but Uncle Lloyd was very patient and explained to me that snow was frozen water (obviously a concept I hadn't quite grasped yet, and I was a little offended that my preschool teacher had lied to me and it didn't feel like the cotton balls we used on our Christmas cards) and helped me roll the bottom snowball for the snowman. It wasn't very big, but neither was I. I didn't have much tolerance for the cold, and my borrowed mittens were soaked through, so my little fingers were so cold they were numb. I was determined to finish my tiny snowman, and some of the grown-ups were teasing me about having such a low tolerance for the cold after specifically asking for snow, but I was absolutely freezing, so, my lips turning blue, Uncle Lloyd had me get back into the car, in the front seat. He finished building the snowman on the hood of the car, so I could see it. I remember we named the snowman, but here my memory fails me completely, and I cannot remember what we called him. We all sat in the car together, admiring the snowman, and having one of those warm, bonding, family moments until it started to get late and we had to head back down the mountain. Uncle Lloyd carefully moved the snowman and set it up at the side of the road, so I could watch it through the back window as we drove away. (I vaguely remember trying to sneak a small snowball into the car. I wanted to hide it in the luggage, so I could take some of the snow home. I'm fuzzy on the details, but I'm pretty sure it didn't work.)

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There are a couple of other moments that stand out from that trip. On the way up the mountain, we stopped a couple of times at rest areas. At every stop, we noticed a very specific graffiti- a caricature of a cartoon mouse, with words written under it. I could not read yet, at least not very well, but I was told it was about the "potty-house mouse." I now know that that was a watered down version, designed for my innocent, child's ears, and that the actual phrase was slightly different. Be that as it may, the Potty-house Mouse became a part of our family lexicon for years (we would look for him on every road trip, and discuss where he might be hiding). In fact, a couple of weeks after we went home, Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Mary Margaret mailed me a gift- a gray, rubber, articulated mouse, sort of like Gumby, that, I was told in the enclosed letter, was left on their doorstep with a note from the Potty-house Mouse, to be delivered to the little blonde girl who had been so good on her visit to Denver. That little rubber mouse was a treasured possession of mine for about two years, when a family pet decided it would make an excellent chew toy. I still don't know which one of the pets did it- I don't even know if it was one of the cats or one of the dogs- but I was inconsolable for a long time.

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There is really only one other memory from that trip that I can sort out of the fog of time. The memory is kind of vague, but, in some ways the most deeply ingrained, after my initial meeting with Uncle Lloyd. Toward the end of the trip, Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Mary Margaret took me on an outing. I honestly don't know if anyone else was there- by that point my entire attention was focused on my Aunt and Uncle. Besides bonding with Uncle Lloyd, it was impossible not to completely fall in love with Aunt Mary Margaret. She was just so totally, intensely, happy to be alive, and her exuberant, loving, energy permeated any room she was in. If she thought you were on the periphery, she would draw you in and make sure you were a part of the activity. If you were shy, she'd solve that problem by talking enough for the both of you (or more). In fact, I misremembered her nickname (a child's translation) as Mary Talks-a-lot. Peggy told me recently it was actually Mary Rapid Tongue. Either way, you get the point- she was authentically herself, and was not someone who would let you fade into the background.​

Alex Larvie and Mollie Gerry Larvie- Uncle Lloyd Larvie's grandparents 

So you can see why these two amazing people filled my young consciousness to the exclusion of all else. I'm not sure where we went on that outing*- there were awe-inspiring rock formations, and I seem to recall dwellings on a hillside. It's fuzzy, but what I remember clearly, and what sticks with me even now, is a single moment at the end of the day. We are standing together on a hill, and we are quietly observing the natural beauty of the place as the sun is starting to set. I am holding Uncle Lloyd's hand, and feeling the firm, but gentle strength of his grip- it is a grip that will not let you fall. Aunt Mary Margaret is standing on the other side of Uncle Lloyd, just a tiny bit behind him, with her hand on his shoulder. It is almost like an electric current- you can feel the love between and within these two people, and at that moment I feel honored and proud to be included in their circle. I look up, and the rays of the setting sun blind me temporarily. When I look again at Uncle Lloyd, it appears as if he is surrounded by a halo of light and, while I cannot see Aunt Mary Margaret, I can feel her loving presence. Uncle Lloyd looks down at me with his dark knowing eyes, smiles, and gently squeezes my hand. No words were spoken, but it was the first time in my young life that I had what philosophers call a numinous experience- an overwhelming sense of serenity and belonging that I'm not sure I can explain even now, which is probably why this moment is indelibly etched in my memory, while so much else of that day is lost.

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I have told bits and pieces of this story over the years, but never all at once, in the same place, and I've never fully explained exactly why -this- particular moment impacted me for the rest of my life. I guess, in a way, I've kept that moment, looking up into my Uncle's eyes, in the fading Denver sun, secret and safe, like a talisman. It turned out I needed it. Not too long after this, my life became very complicated, confusing and painful, and it was returning to this moment of belonging that, mentally, helped me survive some of the worst of it. I have never completely shared the full impact of this experience with anyone- not even the people I usually share everything with- not my mother, not my brothers, not my best friend of 38 years, not my children, not even my husband of more than a quarter century (although he has been reading over my shoulder, periodically, as I write this). I never even shared it with my counsellor when I started therapy in my teens, although when he taught me meditation, and instructed me to mentally go to my "perfect, happy place," this moment is where I went. It was just mine. Until now.

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When I started doing genealogy work, I tried to research Uncle Lloyd's branch of the family tree. In a small way, it was something I could do to thank him, since he is no longer here for me to do it in person. All I had to start with was that his name was Lloyd (I didn't even know his last name, because it just wasn't used in conversation. Who uses a last name when introduced to family? Especially a 4 year old?), he married Mary Margaret Slusser, and he died in Colorado in the '70s. That was it. To my chagrin, I could only get back a generation, when I hit a tangled, confusing, pile of records that seemed to indicate that Lucy Eagle Bear had married three different men, at about the same time, and had at least two sets of parents. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't know anyone on Uncle Lloyd's side of the family that I could ask- not even a name so I could search for someone on-line. It broke my heart, but I had to put the project aside, at least until I got some lead or break that led me to the right records, and there it languished for almost two years.

That is, until a couple of days ago, when Peggy posted a shared childhood memory on Facebook, and I responded with a shorter version of my memory of Uncle Lloyd. And Gary Najera (to whom I am deeply indebted for providing the picture of Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Mary Margaret, above), one of Uncle Lloyd's nephews, introduced himself, and then another relative joined the conversation, and another, and before I knew it we had a group of us, all tied together through Lloyd Larvie, all working to put back together the puzzle of the Larvie family history.

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And this story is just beginning. It will be continued, and I look forward to getting to know -all- my cousins better- both the cousins I have known and loved all my life, and those I have been blessed to meet recently, related both by blood and marriage. (In Shakespeare's time, most people simply referred to -all- relatives as 'cousin' to eliminate confusion- not a bad custom.)  Marion C. Garrety  said, "A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost," and, I would add to that, cousins enrich our lives and deepen our familial connections, as adults.

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I just have one final comment. When I was teaching English in East LA, my students and I participated in a Day of the Dead celebration. We were instructed to bring a handmade object to commemorate a loved one who had passed on. I was taking a ceramics class at the time, so I made a candle holder for Uncle Lloyd (it holds flowers, now). On the bottom of it is engraved, "In loving memory of my Uncle Lloyd. Thank you for the snow. Love, Di."

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*My cousin, Peggy, has since informed me that it was Mesa Verde that we went to. You can find out more about this beautiful, magical, place here. 

The candle holder/ flower holder I made to commemorate my Uncle Lloyd Larvie at a Day of the Dead Festival 

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