Charles Broderick Thorne
Charles B. Thorne died tragically on Monday, July 8, 1959, in Youngsport, Montana, in a cattle stampede. Charlie Thorne leaves his wife of three years, Susannah Thorne, and their two sons, Davie (5) and Joe (4), behind. Charlie Thorne was born on September 1, 1917, in Portland, Oregon, and is additionally survived by one brother, Eugene P. Thorne of Spokane, Washington. Funeral services to be held Sunday, July 13, (closed casket) at the Holy Trinity Methodist Chapel in the town of Dove, where Mrs. Thorne and the children reside. No viewing.
Enclosure 2
STAMPEDE OUTSIDE YOUNGSPORT KILLS THREE MEN
Youngsport GazetteTuesday, July 9, 1959
Yesterday just after six in the evening a herd of cattle owned by Ulysses Fitzgerald was spooked into a stampede. It is believed that a rattlesnake under the feet of a single cow was the origin of the disorder, although Youngsport Sheriff P. B. Tacoma is investigating the possibility of foul play. The more than three hundred cattle took off south toward Star Canyon, and three hands on the south side of the canyon were killed. The men who died were Howard Valour of Quebec, Charlie Thorne of nearby town Dove, Montana, and Peter Nubbin, known locally as Skinny Pete.The cattle were rounded up, four dead, and Fitzgerald will pay damages to the mourning families.
Enclosure 3
Manifest of Passengers Aboard the SSAdriatic, White Star Line, New York to Liverpool
3rd Class
Departure from New York, New York, October 30, 1943
Harland & Wolfe, Belfast
Thomas, Ian & Marie
Thomas, Mark & Sorcha
with children, Gerard, John, Roisin and Marie
Thorne, Louisa
with child, Henrietta (husband, Charles B. Thorne deceased)
Thosburn, Hermit
Tibley, Hamilton
(cont. Dec. 25, 2017, previous pages UNSENT)
We are having a white Christmas. I haven’t seen snow on Christmas in years, and this morning I woke up to a dusting and powdered sugar is coming down outside the window as I write. It’s really quite beautiful.
It was Enzo’s son after all, as I knew it was. Somehow I knew it was Dezi. In some ways, I’ve been waiting for him all these years. I could see it in his eyes that time he came to see me, that he would be back eventually. He is angry with me, of course he is, but even all the time I was reading the lashing he sent me by mail, there was something in it I was wanting. Something in it I was glad to receive, finally.
People assume a certain high morality of judges, but judges are merely people. There were many decisions over which Guy and I agonized, and you know, you make a decision and you hope and pray it’s the right one—but you’re not God on high with the ability to see all things! You’re human! The outcomes don’t exist yet. But this case, Enzo’s case, was different. This one—I knew we were wrong. Right away. I knew we were wrong before it was decided.
I look in the mirror and how can it be? I am an old woman. What has my life been, really? I’ll go blind, and then? I wonder—the letters. All the letters. I wonder if all of it was a waste. Pages and pages of letters. I wonder what has it all been, really. I’ll go blind, and they will be nothing to me. It will be as if they aren’t there, and does that mean, in a way, they were never there? I’m not sure. Dezi said something to me. He said there are complexities of human life that cannot be boiled down to black and white. Of course! Of course.
December 31, 2017
Dear Theodore,
Thank you for the Yule cake. When I was married I used to buy Daan kitchen items—good knives, a garlic press, a Bundt pan—for Christmas, and it was a joke we had, that when we were in retirement, he could take up cooking and I could at last devote my life and attentions to reading and correspondence and we would both live out our days in euphoria. Of course, Daan didn’t care a thing for being in the kitchen, and as it turns out I will not have much more time for reading or correspondence. You know I have trouble with my eyes, but I have not told you that I have a condition that is greedily circling, ready to render me blind. I have known about it for some time. As it is now, lately when I wake up it takes such a long time before my eyes can come into focus, and there is the odd day when I can’t see out of one or both eyes at all.
I did want to address another matter directly, and that is I have the sense your manner toward me grew cold when I mentioned the upcoming visit from Mick Watts. I’ll pop the head off the dandelion stem right here in no uncertain terms. At seventy-eight years old I have no intention of ever remarrying and I assure you I will conduct my life as I see fit, and if that means I pass some of my days with one man and other days with someone else, that is my choice to make. If it troubles you, then I suggest you reverse and go find somewhere else to park yourself. Mick Watts is a friend of mine, and our lives share a substantial quantity of overlap. Mick is funny and clever, and we have a good time together. I want nothing to do with it if you continue to conduct yourself in a snit.
If we see eye to eye on that, there is something I would like to show you pertaining to the massacre of my flowerbeds two springs ago. I find myself in need of assistance. We can discussthe matters of Mick and my flowerbeds on Monday when I come for cards and scotch. I’ll be glad to close the door on 2017. It has been a difficult year for me, but even still one must, for respect of auld lang syne, salute each annum with respect and ownership,
Sybil
Dezi Martinelli
