Settlers of Albion, New York

JohnHubbard
John Hubbard (1804-1883)

These portraits of Tim’s 3rd-great-grandparents are of the oldest generation we currently have in our possession.

John Hubbard, son of Joseph and Mabel (Sutlief) Hubbard, was born 27 December 1804 in (Jefferson) New York, and died 1 August 1883 in Albion (Orleans) New York. He married 28 January 1828 in Clarkson (Monroe) New York, Lydia P. Randolph, who was born 24 March 1807, probably in Canada, and died 1 February 1901 in Albion, daughter of Abram and Jane (Koyl) Randolph.

The following is from The Orleans Republican:

Death of an Old Settler: John Hubbard, who was, we think, at the time of his death, the oldest resident in what is now the village of Albion, died at his residence on Clinton street, on Sunday evening. His last sickness was only of a few days duration. He gradually failed after the death of a dearly loved grandson, Johnnie D, aged 16 years, only son of DB and Emma P Hubbard, which occurred July 25, 1883. The deceased was born in Jefferson county December 27, 1804, and came to Albion in the fall of 1824. On the 28th of January, 1828, he was married to Lydia P Randolph, by whom he had six children, one son and five daughters. Of these four are now living — Jennie F, now Mrs. GA Starkweather; Eva L Hubbard, now Mrs. John B Hubbard; DB Hubbard, and Fannie E Hubbard. Miss A Louise Hubbard died in 1850 and another daughter, Mrs. Laura A Allen, died March 28, 1883. Mr. Hubbard followed the business of wagon making for many years, but retired from active business some time ago. He was well known in the community in which he had so long resided and had the respect of all who knew him.

Lydia P. (Randolph) Hubbard (1807-1901)
Lydia P. Randolph (1807-1901)

The 1880 Census states that Lydia was born in Canada and that her parents were born in Vermont. However, the 1900 Federal Census states that Lydia, age 93, was born “Canada/English” and that her parents were born “Canada/English” and that she immigrated in 1820, when she was about 13 years old. By 1892, after being widowed, Lydia was living with her son DB and his family in Albion, 13 Clinton St., where she died 1 February 1901. Boxes of her poetry were found in the Provincetown, Massachusetts house belonging to the husband (Karl Freeman Rodgers) of her great-granddaughter, Allegra Estelle (Hamilton) (Rodgers) Lloyd. John and Lydia are buried in Lot #111, Beech Avenue, Mount Albion Cemetery, Albion, New York.

John & Lydia were the parents of six children:

1. Jane F. “Jenny” Hubbard, born 9 September 1829 in Albion, died 27 September 1919. She married 2 November 1853, Rev. George A. Starkweather, who was born 4 December 1828 and died 8 October 1910. They are buried in the lot adjoining Lot #955, Clematis Path, Mount Albion Cemetery. Jenny & George were the parents of two daughters.

2. Laura Amelia Hubbard, born 10 April 1831, died 28 March 1883 in Albion. She married (as his first wife) 12 June 1854, Tunis Barhide Allen, who was born May 1832 in Clarendon (Orleans) New York, and died 7 March 1917 in Albion. Laura & Tunis were the parents of two sons.

3. Louisa Amanda Hubbard, born 25 January 1835, died 12 July 1850, age 15. She is buried in Lot #111, Beech Avenue, Mount Albion Cemetery.

4. Eveline L. “Eva” Hubbard, born 7 December 1839 in Albion, died 8 March 1903 in Holley-Murray (Orleans) New York. She married (as her first husband) in December 1869, her first cousin, John Bradner Hubbard, who was born in May 1836 in New York and died 28 April 1888 in Illinois, son of Eldridge M. and Mary (Bradner) Hubbard. Eveline married (as her second husband) 1 October 1899 in Holley, Avon Newell Braman, who was born in March 1828 and died 6 July 1901 in Rochester (Monroe) New York. Eveline was a seamstress. She and John are buried in the lot adjoining Lot #955, Clematis Path, Mount Albion Cemetery.

Fannie Hubbard, 1876
age 30

5. Delorma Brown “DB” Hubbard (Tim’s 2nd-great-grandfather), born 8 May 1842 in Albion, died there 21 March 1915. He married 6 February 1866 in Marian (Wayne) New York, Emma Pridmore, who was born 11 January 1844 in Great Dalby (Leicestershire) England and died 7 April 1917. DB & Emma were the parents of three children, and lie buried in Lot #955, Clematis Path, Mount Albion Cemetery.

6. Frances E. “Fannie” Hubbard, born 15 February 1846 in Albion, died there 23 September 1883. She is buried in Lot #111, Beech Avenue, Mount Albion Cemetery. Fannie died unmarried at the age of 37.

Last Revised: 28 February 2023

We visited Mount Albion Cemetery in Albion, New York, on a research trip we took with Tim’s aunt Delorma many years ago. Unfortunately the pictures taken with a disposable camera (remember those?) didn’t come out well so we hope to return one day, now that we have a much better camera. Tim’s father, grandparents, great-grandparents, 2nd-great-grandparents and 3rd-great-grandparents (John & Lydia) are buried there.

deer tidings

white-tailed yearling by Greg Thompson

Once upon a time I was as curious as the yearling above, and in possession of a keen sense of wonder. The mysteries of nature and spirit were intertwined in my young mind. One early wordless memory I have is of lying on the cold winter ground in the woods and eyeing a little princess pine peeking through the snow. I was astonished at the connection I felt to the small precious life, and how thrilled I was to be aware of its presence!

My parents and grandparents were nature lovers, but from an early age I was locking horns with my scientifically minded father over the existence of the supernatural. It distressed me to no end that he refused to believe in anything that he could not measure in physical terms.

One afternoon when I was six years old I had a dazzling moment of transcendence when I encountered a stag, although I didn’t know enough to call it that when I later tried to tell my parents about it. As I was walking alone up the heavily wooded road from the school bus stop to my house, I strongly sensed that someone was watching me. When I turned around to look I was at first startled to see a huge stag with magnificent antlers. He was standing in the road, quietly staring at me, as if he recognized me, as if he knew exactly who I was. I was struck with awe. Completely enchanted, I was not at all frightened. In fact, I decided he was my guardian angel. A fatherly figure. Something about his presence was most reassuring. I never forgot him and have often felt his presence in my life, especially when spending time with my maternal grandfather in the years to come.

white-tailed buck at Parker River National Wildlife Refuge

Forty-five years later, a few years after my grandfather died, I had wonderful encounter with another deer. (Some of my readers may remember me sharing this in November 2008 on my Gaia blog.) I was visiting my father at his house in the woods, where spotting deer, coyotes, wild turkeys and fishers is not at all unusual. We were starting to watch a movie when my brother-in-law glanced out the window and noticed a doe in the yard, quite close to the house. Being so enchanted with deer I jumped at the chance to see one and went over to the window to look at her.

She was so beautiful with her large soft eyes and large ears lined in dark brown. Our eyes met and she stood there transfixed for a very long time. I could not take my eyes off of her. After a while she lay down and continued to stare at me, occasionally looking about to see what a noise might be, but then fixing her gaze back onto me. She seemed so peaceful and I wondered what, if anything, it all meant. It was as if I had lost my child’s sense of inner-knowing for a moment. Then I started to worry that my looking at her so intently might be threatening her in some way. But she was tranquil and serene. At one point a buck appeared and walked right past her and started helping himself to my father’s rhododendron. My brother-in-law was going to go shoo him away but I begged him not to. After the buck had enough to eat he slowly retraced his steps and passed by the doe again, glancing at her but unconcerned with her behavior. She ignored him completely, and kept looking at me.

white-tailed doe by Steve Hillebrand

After another long while she stood up and started nibbling at the ground, looking at me once in a while. She slowly made her way downhill around the corner of the house, so I changed my vantage point to another window on that side of the house. She was now one story below me. But she looked up to the window and saw me again and started looking at me again with the same intensity as before. Her look felt so reassuring in some way and yet I felt the thrill of butterflies in my stomach. It’s hard to put words to it. She definitely seemed to know me. It was getting darker and darker until I could barely see her, and just at the point where I felt I could see her no longer she suddenly darted away. More than an hour had passed. What an amazing gift! Even my father had to acknowledge this was an extraordinary experience.

I did finally understand the doe’s message with some help from my Reiki practitioner a few months later. I’m keeping it safe in my heart for now. I will never forget this special doe and had so often felt her guidance while caring for my father in his declining years, as well as my mother’s presence, very strongly, in my life. And it was after the doe visited the house that my father, the skeptical scientist, started reporting that he had been seeing my mother. Sometimes he would ask where she was because he was certain she had just left the room.

white-tailed doe by Greg Thompson

Fifty years after my first encounter with a deer, when I was fifty-six, my father died in his sleep in the early morning hours of September 19, 2013, under a full harvest moon. My sister called me to let me know he was gone so Tim and I left to drive up to Papa’s house to be with our family. As we reached the end of the hour-long drive, we turned onto the same road where I saw my first deer fifty years ago. In about the same spot on the road, standing quietly on the side, in the moonlight, was a lovely doe. Tim slowed the car down and she looked right into our car, into my eyes. My mother was letting me know that she had my father now. What a feeling of relief and release came over me.

Beverly and I have often noted in the months since Papa died that neither of us have felt the presence of either of our parents. But Larisa has felt her grandpa’s presence down in North Carolina. And we all see in her new baby daughter, Katie, a remarkable resemblance to him, especially in her facial expressions and the way she moves her long arms.

As I continue to mourn the loss of my father I feel like I’ve grown to a place where I can embrace being in the elder generation now, a contented crone with my fair share of hard-won wisdom to gently share with my children and grandchildren. It’s a feeling of strength, stepping into the place where my parents and my grandparents once stood.

junco-dec06
junco ~ image credit: mike at luminosity.allthepages.org

A couple of weeks I put out a couple of bird feeders and have enjoyed watching the birds who come to eat. My parents and grandparents were avid bird-watchers but I thought identifying birds was a tedious endeavor when I was a child. However, these past few days I’ve been amazed to discover that some of what they taught me got stored in my memory files. It seems like every time a new bird shows up a name pops into my head, so I look it up and find it to be correct! I’ve always loved and could identify chickadees, but when an unfamiliar bird showed up the other day and “junco” popped out of my mouth, well, I’ve fallen in love with another little one.

I almost posted the first parts of my deer story several times since I started this blog, but something kept holding me back. After I saw the doe the night my father died it became clear that the tale had not been finished. Yet something still kept making it seem like it wasn’t the time to share it. After spending three weeks with my darling new granddaughter, though, it feels like the whole picture has now been revealed.

in a garden of wisdom from some long ago dream

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Kentford Farm, Stonington, Connecticut

Wednesday afternoon Janet and I found a new woodland garden to explore, Kentford Farm in Stonington, Connecticut. We seemed to have the place to ourselves, but for a very charming tortoiseshell cat who acted as our hostess. When we left we spotted a sign saying the garden was open Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays – unknowingly we had been trespassing! But the gate had been open so perhaps our confusion was understandable.

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

The last time we had a cat as our guide was four years ago in May at the the Edgerton & Stengel Memorial Wildflower Garden in the Connecticut College Arboretum.

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

We introduce ourselves
To Planets and to Flowers
But with ourselves
Have etiquettes
Embarrassments
And awes
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #1184)

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

We will have to return as the seasons progress – it’s a perennial garden and there will be different things blooming every time we go. Please enjoy some of my favorite photographs. The plan was to travel light, with just the camera and not its bag, but it backfired on me when the camera battery died only about a third of the way through. Next time I will carry the whole kit and caboodle with me!

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

The wall is silence, the grass is sleep,
Tall trees of peace their vigil keep,
And the Fairy of Dreams, with moth-wings furled,
Sings soft her secrets to the drowsy world.
~ Ida Rentoul Outhwaite
(Tibetan Buddhism Deck:
Buddhas, Deities, and Bodhisattvas 30 Meditation Cards)

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

Way over yonder is a place I have seen
In a garden of wisdom from some long ago dream
~ Carole King
♫ (Way Over Yonder) ♫

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

Frequently the woods are pink –
Frequently, are brown.
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town –
Oft a head is crested
I was wont to see –
And as oft a cranny
Where it used to be –
And the Earth – they tell me
On it’s axis turned!
Wonderful rotation –
By but twelve performed!
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #24)

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
(Nature)

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

The good Will of a Flower
The Man who would possess
Must first present Certificate
Of minted Holiness.
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #954)

5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut
5.28.14 ~ Stonington, Connecticut

magic apples

“Vase with Apples and Foliage” by Henri Fantin-Latour

This little paradise was a happy place. Odin and the other gods often visited, marveling at Iduna’s kindness and delighting in her humor and her wit. Yet there was another reason that they came; Iduna possessed a special treasure — a golden chest of magic apples that kept all those who ate them ever young. Truly it was the precious fruit that kept the gods immortal. Odin knew the value of these apples. He never ventured on a journey without a few to take along.
~ Marianna Mayer
(Iduna & The Magic Apples)

true race of prophets

“Christ Before Pilate” by Mihály Munkácsy
“Christ Before Pilate” by Mihály Munkácsy

Jesus Christ belonged to the true race of prophets. He saw with one eye the mystery of the soul. Drawn by its severe harmony, ravished with its beauty, he lived in it, and had his being there. Alone in all history, he estimated the greatness of man. One man was true to what is in you and me. He saw that God incarnates himself in man, and evermore goes forth anew to take possession of his world. He said, in this jubilee of sublime emotion, ‘I am divine. Through me, God acts; through me, speaks. Would you see God, see me; or, see thee, when thou also thinkest as I now think.’ But what a distortion did his doctrine and memory suffer in the same, in the next, and the following ages!
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
(Divinity School Address, July 15, 1838)

borrowing weighty words

“Reader with Magnifier” by Lesser Ury
“Reader with Magnifier” by Lesser Ury

I apologize to big questions for small answers.
O Truth, do not pay me too much heed.
O Solemnity, be magnanimous to me.
Endure, mystery of existence, that I pluck out the threads of your train.
Accuse me not, O soul, of possessing you but seldom.
I apologize to everything that I cannot be everywhere.
I apologize to everyone that I cannot be every man and woman.
I know that as long as I live nothing can justify me,
because I myself am an obstacle to myself.
Take it not amiss, O speech, that I borrow weighty words,
and later try hard to make them seem light.
~ Wisława Szymborska
(Under a Certain Little Star)

my mother

Write something, anything…

Tonight there will be a full moon. Today is the day my mother died, nineteen long years ago. She was only 59. I was only 34. So young, the both of us. Fifty-nine seemed like such a long way off then, and here I am now, at fifty-three, wondering at the last nineteen years, each day so long in the living and yet the years speeding by. My son is 34. I look at him and try to imagine him motherless, as I became at his age.

It’s amazing that I still miss her so and often wonder what life would now be like if she was here… Somehow I want to do something in her memory, but I’m not sure how…

Elisabeth J. White

Mom was a nature lover and avid bird watcher. One time she found a baby owl that lived in our bathroom for a while until it was ready for release. Our childhood was spent camping, canoeing, and hiking. She was a physical therapist and loved to read. If she wasn’t outside, she had her nose in a newspaper or book.

Her high school classmates said of her: “With charm of soul possessed by her, she rules herself.” So true. Until I left home, I was unaware of the “war between the sexes.” My parents had a true egalitarian relationship. Mom disliked cooking and it was unremarkable to me that Dad did the cooking and Mom mowed the lawn. They modeled interdependence and mutuality for me and my sister.

She loved her grandchildren, my children, and took each of them separately for a special week-long visit at Grandma’s before she was too ill to enjoy them. After her special visit, my then ten-year-old daughter declared her intention to move in with her grandparents. Her grandma gently explained to her that it wouldn’t be as much fun if she was living there full-time.

Mom didn’t have any sons, so she adored her grandsons, who were thirteen and fifteen when she died. My older son was her little shadow and loved following her around, helping to feed her chickens, weed the garden, pick vegetables for dinner, or whatever else they found to occupy themselves out there. There was a special bond between them and he took her death the hardest.

It’s kind of funny, Mom had no interest in art or interior decor. My sister and I, who have more of an eye for balance and color, were continually exasperated at how she arranged the furniture and how nothing seemed to go together. One day while Mom was at work, my sister took it upon herself to make new curtains for the kitchen, paint it and put down some pretty shelf paper. Mom didn’t seem to notice and merely shrugged when my sister pointed it out to her and asked her if she minded. We later learned that her mother, who was an artist, had tried many times to give her daughter a hand with the decorating, but her efforts were for naught.

Some things skip a generation, and if my sister and I are like our grandmother, my daughter is very much like my mother. Especially in the wanderlust department. Mom loved the adventure of travel, and as Dad puts it, she dragged him to Greece to live for a couple of years when an opportunity to do that presented itself. And they took trips out west and through Canada to explore another of her passions, the culture of Native Americans. They also took a trip to the Ukraine, the land of my father’s ancestors.

First Congregtional Church Cemetery, Harwich, Massachusetts

Yes, I still miss her and her Seminole skirt. Had she lived I’m sure we would have found her rumored New England Native American ancestor by now. Yesterday I immersed myself in genealogical research, which was an occupation we both enjoyed. My goodness, what would she think of all the online research now available? When she died she was learning to use the online genealogical bulletin boards that seem so primitive now.

Well, I could go on, but this is long enough. Somehow I think my mother knows that she may be gone, but is by no means forgotten. And that I’ve learned that all we have is now, and that when all is said and done, that is enough.