Let’s start early on celebrating Father’s Day. Yes, it’s two weeks away, but I want to share my father with you, Harold Horner and his story and how it unfolded.
Where Dad Started
Harold Horner was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma on March 20, 1918, the eldest child of Laurence and Pearle and the first grandchild, celebrated and spoiled by both sides of the family. Because of Dad having “a touch of tuberculosis” that turned into asthma, his family doctor encouraged his young parents to relocate to a higher and drier climate. Such a twist of fate!
I can’t imagine the heartbreak for both sets of grandparents as the possibility of a move of this couple and their children hundreds of miles away loomed overhead. And what about my grandparents? They had lived near their parents their whole lives, but the health of their eldest won out.
Granddad carried the mail in Tulsa after trying his hand at a bike repair business with his brother. Way before the internet, he somehow connected with Mr. Bass in Branson, Colorado and they exchanged jobs. I have idea how they connected, but they did, and the wheels started turning.
Travel in the 1920s
In April 1927 my grandparents, my nine-year-old dad and my eight-year-old aunt left Tulsa, Oklahoma’s tree lined streets to Branson, Colorado in an awesome old car, probably a Model T or A. I don’t know for sure—I’ve seen pictures. As I’ve thought of this, I marveled at my grandparents’ adventuresome spirit.
Was this move necessity in their eyes? I will never know. I do know my grandmother never adjusted to the plains and canyons of Branson and blamed my dad for this move his whole life. Standing at the window, looking out over the vast tree less prairie, she yearned for the tree-lined streets of Tulsa and the green.
Dad never spoke of this journey to me. I just can’t imagine making that five hundred miles then in that car. In a car today, Google says it would take about eight hours. Google AI overview says it would have taken them 14-20 days in the 1920s. I never asked Granddad or Dad how long it took.
Dangers of the Trip
Google AI overview also notes that they would have faced unpaved road networks with dirt or gravel roads. They may have faced mud slippery roads in April. Or they could have faced a spring blizzard, wind and snow drifts.
As “the early automobiles like the Ford Model A or T required frequent maintenance, and flat tires were a daily hazard on rough western roads,” another obstacle followed them. The last issue they faced was the lack of the amazing infrastructure we know today. “Services like gas stations, mechanics, and motels were sparse. Travelers often had to carry extra cans of fuel, motor oil, and spare inner tubes.”
Taking a break from writing, I shared the topic with my husband, Lin. He asked about the speed limit in the 20s. Again, I ran to Google and found out in the AI Overview no federal speed limit existed. On the dusty country roads, my granddad would have driven, the speed limit would have been between 30 and 35 mph on the rural dirt roads. Imagine that! In our 75-80 mph world of today, that seems impossible. No wonder it took so long to travel the five hundred miles.
Where Dad Ended Up
So, at nine years old, Dad and his family started a new life on the plains of southeastern Colorado. He adapted quickly to the rural life and immediately acquired a horse. Horses and the country living became his life.
Dad saw a T.B. specialist in Colorado Springs, Colorado—176 miles away. It would have taken 10-14 hours to travel dirt roads there, so it was another lengthy trip for the times. The T.B. was arrested, but he lived with asthma as a child.
More next week. Meet my dad, the cowboy!
Finally,
For Dad’s 75th birthday, Mom and I compiled a book he helped us put together about how the Horner ranch was put together. This book is available on Amazon in paperback or e-book format.
I would be remiss for not writing down Dad’s stories—he exceled at storytelling. My sister chided me after she read this book to her. She questioned with sadness in her eyes, “Where are his stories?”
So, it’s never too early— be sure and write down, record—do anything to capture those stories. I really would have liked to hear Dad’s nine-year-old version of that long trip from Tulsa, but he’s gone! Don’t wait!
PS – I’m sorry to say I have no pictures here of my dad as a child.
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