And Then It Was Two

At first, it was one—yet a task seemingly as epic as that one revolution racing through the bleak emptiness of space to encircle the sun. Day by day, stretching to reach that goal. One day: one post.

Simple. Three hundred sixty five times simple.

It started in May. The month for remembering mothers. I started out with those good intentions. I wanted to remember my mother, growing up in a family moving from city to city seeking employment wherever, whenever, just so the kids could be fed—but not in a soup line!—during those destitute years of the Great Depression. Coming of age in an amalgamation of the sounds of the Big Band era and the sights of pre-World War II tensions. A woman who followed her dream and left her Midwest hometown for an acting career before those bright lights of New York City.

I wanted, too, to remember my maternal grandmother—she of the old southern heritage, who could tell of roots reaching beyond the advent of statehood in Florida, before the genesis of nationhood in the Carolinas and even Virginia. I knew compiling documentation of her family’s history would yield me entrance into the historic company of lineage societies, but I wanted to take this journey to provide documentation for my own edification, also.

Then, too, there were the mothers whose stories lacked verification—some shrouded in outright mystery. I wanted to pursue my paternal grandmother’s stories—where she came from and who she left behind. Her heritage—as far as I know to this point—is a short trail from the mid 1950s back to a brick wall standing stubbornly immovable only sixty, maybe seventy, years prior.

From there, the trail led—seemingly—everywhere. There were the stories of my husband’s indomitable grandmother—granddaughter, herself, of an Irish immigrant grandmother with a mystery of her own to pursue. From mother to daughter to sons, their wives, their cousins, their distant kin—one story at a time, the strands of family wove themselves together. Stretching the connection at times, and at other times, nearly disappearing into the warp and woof of their surroundings, the stories kept coming, day after day.

And then, as incredible as it might have seemed at the beginning, it wasn’t one anymore.

Now—today—it is two.

What? Me Worry?!

Bridging the gap in time from the point at which he lost his wife in the midst of the Great Depression to the post-war years, Samuel Bean showed up again in a brief mention in the Oakland Tribune. Evidently, he had come out with an updated version of his booklet of poetry—this time with the augmented title, “Light in Darkness and Other Poems by a Deaf-Blind Philosopher.”

Tribune columnist Ad Schuster put in a plug for Sam’s book at the top of his “Other Fellow” recap for the day on November 1, 1947, and shared a whimsical piece from the collection.

            Samuel W. Bean of Alameda, who is blind, writes verse, philosophical and topical and in it sings of the many doors that are open to those who cannot see. He is out with a little booklet called “Light in Darkness,” and the verse below is one of his lighter efforts. It is called “A Scribbler.”

To be a scribbler is no joke;

   E’en with an education,

Wall Mason was a whisky soak,

   And had no reputation.

Until he found himself dead broke

   And gave booze a vacation.

To be a scribbler then of verse,

   Your pencil you must nibble—

Next puff and stew, yea, even curse,

   While thought and feelings quibble.

Then dash off lines in frenzied haste

   And murmur, “Ish ka bibble.”

Above: "Ish Ka Bibble" postcard from 1915 (courtesy Wikipedia, in the public domain), possibly inspired by the 1913 song by George Meyer and Sam Lewis. Whether the song, the postcard, or the phrase's namesake comedian inspired Sam Bean to employ the nonsensical words, I have no clue...

A Nick in the Jaw

While Sam Bean was collecting accolades for his prowess at the chess board, a very different type of battle was squaring off in distant places both to the east and to the west of his home in little Alameda, California.

At the same time, his two sons were coming of age, graduating from high school and entering the work world, themselves. The elder son, Sammie junior—who, as we will see shortly, embarked upon a unique career path, himself—had spent his after school hours in Boy Scout projects until his graduation from high school in 1940. Younger son Earle finished his schooling by 1943, and promptly enlisted in the Marine Corps.

Like many military sons of that era, I’m sure Earle was dutifully keeping his family apprised of his progress from boot camp to deployment orders. Oh, how I wish I had a copy of these letters—and wonder why not, considering the determined personality of his surrogate mother, his grandmother Ella Shields Bean.

One letter I did find record of, though, comes from an unexpected source: a historic newspaper archive saving the report of the Oakland Tribune from March 22, 1945:

            Alameda, March 22.—“A nick in the jaw I received from a sniper” won Marine Pvt. Earl R. Bean, 19, of 1853 Santa Clara Avenue his Purple Heart medal on Iwo Jima, his family was informed in a letter from the youth to his grandmother, Mrs. E. M. Bean, of the Santa Clara Avenue address.

            A graduate of Alameda High School in 1943 and a former Boy Scout, Bean entered the Marine Corps a year ago. He is now convalescing at a base hospital in the Marianas.

Becoming a Serious Contender

Just two years after winning his local chess club’s tournament, Samuel Bean had his photograph in the Oakland Tribune again. This time, he was being awarded the silver loving cup as Alameda’s best chess player for the year.

Perhaps it is the novelty of thinking that someone both blind and deaf could so soundly whip every other chess player in town that landed Sam that many column inches in the Oakland newspaper. After all, newsprint comes at a premium price—especially considering the trouble brewing all around the world that year.

The February 26, 1940, article did play to that theme. The caption below his picture mentioned, “Sam Bean of Alameda has not seen for 30 years, but he was awarded the silver trophy as Alameda’s best chess player today.”

The headline to the article below his picture repeated the motif: “Blind, Deaf Alamedan Awarded Trophy as Chess Champion.”

What has now become a familiar litany of Sam’s loss of eyesight and hearing followed in the article, though the article also picked up some new notes. It mentioned Sam’s two sons, for instance. It also gives us an idea of how Sam was earning his living—after all, just like booklets of poetry, there are only so many restrung tennis rackets that one can sell.

Overall, the story repeated the themes of optimism and good cheer that have been Sam Bean’s hallmarks ever since the first newspaper articles that covered the Berkeley student so many years before.

            Alameda, Feb. 26—Sam Bean, 43, 1807 Santa Clara Avenue, blind and deaf for 30 years, was today given the silver loving cup which is annually awarded Alameda’s best chess player.

            A rock thrown by a school mate at 14, cost one of Bean’s eyes, and infection shortly after took the other and attacked the auditory nerve, robbing him of his hearing also. This twin affliction would have downed many another, but Bean is cheerful, keeps busy endeavoring to make his own living by stringing tennis rackets, repairing chairs and making brooms. He has two sons in school, keeps in touch with the world by reading Braille books and magazines. He is a keen conversationalist, having kept his tone inflections remarkably well for one who has not heard speech for 30 years.

            He “hears” by having words and whole sentences spelled out on the palm of his hands which are highly sensitive and Bean usually devines [sic] a sentence from the first few words before his friends have had time to write it on his hand with their fingers.

            Bean was the proudest man in Alameda today, when given the silver trophy donated by W. J. Heisler, pharmacist, by Mrs. Olive Nagel, recreation department aid and past president of the Alameda Chess Club.

Tennis, Anyone? How About Chess?

It seemed logical, in those Depression-era classes we read about yesterday, to include lessons in such practical matters as typing or reading Braille. The one class that Sam Bean taught that didn’t seem to fit the qualifications of austerity was chess.

A love of chess, however, became what focused Sam’s energies—and brought him recognition in his later years.

After those quiet years of early family life—and through the loss of his wife, Maud, in 1933—Sam resurfaced in newspapers five years later in reports about his prowess in local chess tournaments.

An article in the Oakland Tribune on April 15, 1938, recapped Sam’s life story and added this new chapter to the tale. The headlines for the page 12D report read “Chess Club Honors Blind Champion.” Of special interest is the fact that this article includes a photograph of the now middle aged Sam, still looking very much like his twin brother, William Bean, although somewhat slimmer. (The article and photograph may be accessed here, both by subscribers to NewspaperArchive.com as well as by guest viewers.) The photograph shows Sam with the specially built raised chess board which was given to him by his fellow club members.

Still facile at working with his hands despite his visual handicap, Sam had evidently kept up on his cabinetry skills, and had also become adept at stringing tennis rackets. Perhaps these were some of the additional ways in which Sam continued to maintain his financial independence and also provide for his two sons.

            Alameda, April 14.—Although blind for 30 years, Samuel W. Bean, 43, of 1807 Santa Clara Avenue, is an outstanding chess player and cabinet worker.

            This week, as winner of the Alameda Chess Club’s season tournament, Bean was presented with a raised chess board, built especially for him by the club.

            Bean lost his sight when he was 13, the result of being hit with a rock while playing. The blow also destroyed his hearing.

            The injury did not, however, materially handicap him. In the hope someday his sight and hearing might be restored, Bean kept mentally and physically alert.

            In addition to winning his own club competition, he won the Alameda group’s competition with the Mechanics Institute of San Francisco.

            Bean does expert cabinet work and strings tennis rackets between chess matches.

            As early as 1915 he won a gold medal for work done by the handicapped at the Pan-American Exposition of that year.

Alphabet Soup and Sam’s New Lease on Life

Anyone who has experienced the loss of a spouse at an early age knows how insurmountable even the normal challenges of life seem to become. Having lost his bride of twelve years in 1933, Samuel Bean’s outlook on his future must have been dim, indeed.

Not withstanding that grief-induced cloud that surely hovered over him, Sam was in the midst of an even larger storm: the United States had been struggling through what we now call the Great Depression. At the beginning of the year in which Sam’s wife Maud had died, the country had inaugurated a new president in hopes of conquering a miserable economic downturn that had plagued the country—and the world—since 1929.

Considering the big picture that enveloped the once-promising blind and deaf poet (as well as everyone else who might have bought his optimistic booklets) it is no wonder that there was no word on Sam’s business endeavors in the local newspapers as of late.

Almost a year and a half after Maud Woodworth Bean’s passing in Alameda, California, though, a tiny entry in the November 26, 1934, Oakland Tribune surfaced, mentioning that young father’s name once again. Tucked away on page 12D of that issue, the article was headlined, “Braille Classes to Open in Alameda.” The report was far more practical and business-oriented than the earlier feature stories that seemed to fawn over Sam and his school-year accomplishments.

The article had the fingerprints of that New Deal era alphabet soup of agencies designed to pull America back out of the economic doldrums. The article mentioned a “County Emergency Education Relief Program” and “SERA Courses”—organizations for which I have no clue as to their establishment or mission, but have no doubt they were government-designed to turn around the financial crisis.

Sam, it seems, was putting some of his skills to good use—teaching classes in reading Braille, for instance—and was also able to provide the instruction at his own home. How he managed to sell himself as a likely prospect as instructor, and tap into the new flood of New Deal agencies just then being formed, I don’t know.

What I do notice is that this excerpt from the article provides some clues as to the focus of Sam’s life as he reinvents himself after losing Maud.

            Alameda, Nov. 26.—Classes for the blind in reading Braille, chess and typing have been opened at 1807 Santa Clara Avenue, Alameda, as part of the county emergency education relief program. Classes will be conducted by Samuel Bean of Alameda.

About That Heart Trouble…

Finding the confirmation of what we all knew had surely happened—the passing of Maud Woodworth Bean—led to yet more questions. No surprise here; genealogy research is likely to do that.

In the comments to yesterday’s post, reader Mariann wondered “if this ‘heart trouble’ has any connection with the Marfan syndrome you've been researching,” and then questioned whether the syndrome was linked to the Woodworth or Bean family.

A little recap of the family constellation may be in order here. Of course, the Woodworth line we’ve just spent the last few weeks zooming in on found its latest iteration—as far as the generations go—in Maud, her siblings Nieva, Helen and Lucius, and their cousins in California, Wisconsin and Michigan.

When Maud married Samuel W. Bean, she unwittingly introduced a specific gene into their children's lineage, a gene which contained a detrimental tendency that she had no possible way to realize. Sam and Maud's two surviving children—Sammie Junior and Earle Raymond—subsequently succumbed to heart ailments, themselves, in early adulthood. However, at the time of their passing, their physicians were able to diagnose the cause of their heart trouble, which prompted a mad scramble to provide preventive medical care for the one in the next generation—Earle’s son Greg—who was already showing symptoms of the syndrome.

So, in answer to Mariann’s question—Woodworth or Bean?—the response is actually: “Both!”

With the marriage of Sam and Maud, the Bean line now carried the syndrome, but we’re fairly certain the entrance of the gene came from Maud’s Woodworth line. We’ve already read some stories that have telltale signs of the syndrome from past generations of Woodworths. Those whom I’ve known of the next generation of the Woodworth line—Maud's brother Lucius’ other sons—have dealt with Marfan syndrome, too. And I’ve found even more stories in online newspaper archives providing hints that others in the Woodworth family may have succumbed to the disease before it was widely recognized in medical circles. Take a look at this short article on the front page of the January 24, 1930, Covina Argus about Lucius and Margaret Frizell Woodworth’s eldest son:

Death of little Gene Woodworth, two-year-old son of Mr. and Mrs. Lucius E. Woodworth, occurred in Beaumont Tuesday morning, following an illness which lasted all his life.

Would an early death like this have been caused by Marfan syndrome? Hard to say at this point; medical professionals were not likely equipped to determine such a diagnosis at that time in 1930.

Of course, knowing the reason for Maud's "heart trouble" would have been of no consolation to a grieving husband and family. At the time of Maud’s passing, her oldest son, Sammie junior, was almost twelve. His younger brother, Earle, was about to turn seven. And their blind and deaf father, Sam, had lost not only his heart’s companion, but the business and traveling partner who was his second set of eyes and ears.

We’ll take some time in the next couple days to revisit Sam Bean and learn the rest of his story.