Note: This information, as well as that for several previous generations, was supplied by Paul Carleton Seymour.
Here's a link to the spreadsheet I've prepared with our direct line. It assumes that John of Sawbridgeworth was the illegitimate and unrecognized son of Sir John and Catherine Fillol, which is supported in the below link by a great deal of circumstantial evidence, but which will never be proven through unequivocal direct documentary evidence for the reasons also outlined. To me it's obviously correct, but I should also state, that many others in the family aren't buying it, and it's up to you as to whether or not you think it has been adequately supported or not. our_direct_line_back_to_the_year_1000.xlsx
Foreword to my book on the Seymour family history, including the history of the Norman invasion and early Norman England up to the Tudor period. early_family_history_to_website.docx
Here's an interesting look at John of Sawbridgeworth's power-hungry half brothers and sisters, and cousins. The Seymours had quite a long standing “friendly” rivalry with the Tudors surrounding their mutual desire to control the throne of England. After Queen Jane's death, and the subsequent executions of Lord High Admiral Thomas Seymour, and Edward “the Protector” Seymour, and the somewhat suspicious death shortly thereafter of Edward VI (Jane Seymour's son), four more generations of Seymours would spend time in the Tower for both marrying and procreating into, the royal succession. An understanding of these characters is necessary in order to comprehend why our John's existence had to be covered up. seymours_and_tudors_to_website.docx
Here's a listing of famous cousins found on the internet, separated into the American and British branches. If you compare the people in these listings and still don't see the obvious genetic link, then I'm sure I'll convince you in the following section. famous_cousins_both_american_and_british.docx
For the first time ever, here's the evidence linking John Seymour of Sawbridgeworth to his, and therefore our, ancestry: john_of_sawbridgeworth_to_website.docx
PAUL CARLETON13 SEYMOUR (Westley Francis12, Westley Carleton11, Clinton Henry10, Gilbert9, Willet8, William Jr.7, William6, Samuel5, Samuel4, Matthew3, Thomas2, Richard1), was born in Sidney, Delaware, New York in 1963. Married first, Lisa Holleman daughter of Thomas W. of Raleigh, NC, and second Ana Maria Duran, daughter of Martin and Freya Elena Hernandez of Tolima and Medellin, Colombia respectively
|Tara Brooke Seymour||b. 15 Sep 1988 in Jacksonville, Florida|
It has taken me longer to do this part than any other. I’ve struggled for months over how to describe myself. Should I give a brief outline, or should I make a long detailed biography. How does one be impartial about themselves? I decided, based on what I wish others had done before me, to err on the side of too much information. After all, if you’re not interested you can easily skip forward, and I truly wish that I had much more information about all of our ancestors who came before. For example, I'd give anything to know what was going through Richard's mind when he put his wife and three small children on a wooden sailing ship to leave England for the extreme uncertainty of 1639 America. Why would a guy do that? Also what was it like for Samuel in Greenwich running the Revolutionary government during the war for independence, and having his home burned to the ground, etc. It would also be very interesting to know what it was like for William Jr. making his way as a teenager with only his mother and $1,000 to the middle of nowhere to carve a new life out of the forest just after the Revolutionary war. Could you even imagine what a diary of Sir John's would read like? So anyway, although my life isn't as interesting, I've made it fairly plain what kind of guy I was.
In previous chapters I’ve already sprinkled in some anecdotes, and the following pages should fill out the whole story. Since a picture’s worth a 1,000 words, there are a lot of them, with some commentary here and there.
Growing up: Leaving Delaware County for Florida, sports and cars
Briefly, as a kid all I cared about was playing sports. From the time school got out till it was too dark to see, I was playing either baseball, basketball, or footbal depending on what season it was. In 1972, 172 years after William Jr. carved out his new life in the virgin forest near Cannonsville, NY, our little branch of his family left Delaware County and went south to Florida. Dad just couldn’t take any more cold winters, and longed to be warm year ‘round. Here’s a picture of his MG Midget to give you a little perspective:
Therefore, while we were on our annual vacation in 1971, which that year was to Florida, Dad realized that it never snows there, and we could live there. He then made a phone call back to Grandma and Grandpa in Sidney, and found out that it would drop down to the 50’s that night—-in July, and made his decision. After we got back home from vacation, the wheels were in motion. The house was sold, me and Tammy went to Sidney to live with our grandparents, and Mom and dad went to Florida to find jobs and a place to live. It was that quick.
In 1972, there was still a marked cultural difference between the North and the South. While I was going to school in Binghamton, New York, I had really never seen a black person before, except on TV, and we were very racially open, while in the South, they were still fighting the Civil War. I learned on my first day of school in the then small, redneck town of Brooksville, Florida that I was a Yankee, and the worst kind. One from NY who not only came to visit and spend some money, but a “damned Yankee”, one that actually stayed. Also, the public school systems couldn’t even be compared. I went from learning pre-algebra in Binghamton’s 5th grade backwards to 3rd grade fractions. It was, therefore, almost like emigrating to another country.
I got into a fight the first week with the biggest kid in 5th grade, named Ulysses. I was surrounded by his friends, and myself alone, so pretty nervous. That all went away when he popped me in the mouth, and I then quickly got him down and drew my fist back which is when, suddenly, I got pulled off by about three of his friends. I thought it was all over for me then, but they all started laughing at him, saying they saved him and he’d gotten “whooped” by a “cracka”. Where in the world was I, and how did I get here? From that day on, though, I had no more problems. We then moved to Ocala after a short time, which was only slightly less feudal, then during 8th grade to Jacksonville, which in 1975 was run by the First Baptist Church. Literally. How did I get here? Well, there I was, and there I stayed for many more years.
Not a lot to say about junior and senior high school, really. I grew up quick, at least physically. I got an electric shaver for Christmas when I was twelve because I had a full beard coming in. My life as a child was mostly defined by playing sports, and being a kind of leader at school. Although while in NY I was a straight-A student, after moving to Florida that all changed. I don’t really know why. Maybe I was affected a lot by moving away from my grandparents in Sidney, or maybe at age 10 I was just at the age to start being rebellious, or I just didn’t see the point in relearning fractions in 5th grade. Who knows? I would be a major academic underachiever for the next several years until graduating high school.
Shyness struck me hard with the onset of adolescence. I don’t know why, but although I was aggressive with the girls in puberty, I suddenly got shy and quiet, and didn’t date as much as I easily could have. It might have saved me from becoming a father at an early age. In Florida, and the South in general, it wasn't all negative for me. Although academically, it lagged way behind the North, the level of football in Florida is arguably the best in the world. From the 1970's onward you'll find that Florida universities were national champion more often than from any other state, and you'll find more players in the NFL from Florida as well. One reason for this is the game's cultural importance. For that reason the fact that I was a damned yankee, and not from a rich family even, that since I helped the football team win games, I was right near the top of the food chain. Maybe just below the richest guy in town, and just above the mayor. I never understood that. It was just a game, but I enjoyed the perks.
The High School yearbook staff members were nice enough to put a few pictures of me in the Terry Parker High School yearbook. Here I'll be #54 in your program, number 1 in your heart:
Strangely enough, about 12 years after this last photo was taken, my boss at PricewaterhouseCoopers would start dating Debbie Dotson. He was openly jealous, and for what, I don't know. Who knows what she was telling him, and my career at PwC would get a little more difficult. Luckily, I was about ready to do something else anyway.
I was defensive captain, and had a couple of good games in high school, and we made the Florida State playoffs, and I made the All Conference team, which all got in the local newspaper:
I guess we were the only team that took our newspaper photos in the middle of practice, and therefore looking pretty ungroomed after taking off the helmet. Ken Elder here was a major rival for newspaper space, but since we won the conference I guess I won that battle in the end too. Me and Mike Jones would see a lot of each other in our last game of the year where we beat them to win the conference. He’s #20 in the following clip, and went on to play college ball at Tulane. We set up a special defense for that game where I played as a single middle linebacker with a 7 man line, and it was basically up to me to stop him, which I’m happy to say I did.
So we won the conference but lost in the first round of the playoffs. I didn’t receive any scholarship offers coming out of high school, but one place did ask me to play for them. It was a unique kind of school where only freshman were allowed to play, just for one year, and they didn’t lose a year of eligibility. It was in Sweetwater, Tennessee at Tennessee Military Institute, and was a real dive but there were some really great players who couldn’t qualify academically for the schools that desperately wanted to give them a scholarship who went here for a year to “improve their academic standing”. The team was then rounded out by more guys like me, who wanted a scholarship but weren’t offered any straight out of high school, and who were given a chance to prove themselves against guys who were.
As a group of 18 year old freshmen, we beat JV teams from Notre Dame, Tennessee, and Kentucky, which were all big-time football teams, at least in the early 80’s, and had been for a long time. I started for the team, and did fairly well, and was offered some deals with smaller schools, but learned something important during the single season spent in Tennessee. Playing football at this level is long, hard work, and it doesn’t pay a single dime. On Saturday night there’s no money to put gas in the car, or take a girl to a movie, and the schedule was tough. School all day, practice until sunset, eat dinner, then study for next day’s classes, go to bed and do it all again the next day, with games, including travel sometimes, on Saturday. I decided to work my way through school back in Jacksonville. But here are some of the newspaper clippings from this little adventure that my Mom had saved: So in my first ever college football game, which was against an SEC team, I was leading tackler, and we crushed them. Man, was I feeling GOOD.
Note: Dale Jones went on to play first at the University of Tennessee, where he was All SEC twice, and as a senior named by Playboy as All American, and then played with the Dallas Cowboys. He was one of those physical freaks with something ridiculous like 3% body fat. A walking, talking muscle, especially his head (Dale, if you happen to hit this site, you know I'm just kidding, dude). We met the very first day of practice, and had lunch together. He and his friend Wesley Rakestraw were telling me all about how they had worked out all summer staying in shape, and lifting weights. I then went on to tell them how, as always, I had done nothing at all. I would suffer a lot for the first 2-3 days, and then be right up to speed. They looked at each other as though they had just met some kind of real freak. This impression never changed. I was the smallest (6’ 1”, 185 pounds) of the 12 guys that showed up trying out at linebacker, and proceeded to get to the ball more often, and hit harder than anyone else, and become a starter, which, as usual, surprised everyone. Scoring the highest on the SAT college entrance exam was also a big shock to all. It was an 1120 for those scoring at home, which was unusual for a guy who never cracked a book after moving to Florida at age 10. People routinely mistook my willingness to sacrifice my body, coupled with a lack of talkativeness, as some kind of stupidity. I was used to being considered strange by a group of crew-cut-wearing, tobacco-chewing, southern red necks, so wasn’t fazed, and enjoyed their surprise at my success. Although most of them couldn't understand me, and therefore considered me strange, some of them would be great, and loyal friends.
My roommate for example, an offensive tackle named Jim Wyatt from Miami, was a more intelligent type, and he got me completely. He was also a black belt in karate, a really sarcastically funny guy, and a notch above me in the crazy department (my football nickname in high school was “psycho”), and we had a great time together. He would routinely drop down into a full split like a cheerleader, just to freak us all out, and combined with the insane look on his face, always got a good laugh.
TMI BEATS NOTRE DAME?????? Who the hell is TMI???
I had a sprained ankle, and missed playing at linebacker for this game (and a few others), which broke my heart, but I did put myself in on punts, as I was about 85%, and made a good play, but it didn’t get into the paper. I put myself in at end on punts, which is the only position which can leave when the ball is snapped. Everyone else must wait until the ball is kicked. Dale Jones was at the other end. On one punt we were fairly close to their goal line, so the punter lobbed it up high, aiming at the one yard line. He made a perfect kick, and me and Dale were running full speed, and untouched down field. I kept looking at the Notre Dame returner, a junior named Chris Stone wearing #1, and looking cocky, to waive for a fair catch. When I got about 15 yards from him, still running at full speed, I realized that he wasn’t going to, and started to salivate. I was looking back at the ball and trying to time it just right. I didn’t want to get a penalty for interference, but was already thinking about hitting him right in the stomach the same instant the ball touched him. Not only would that hurt like hell, but it would also catch the bottom of the ball and pop it out, and maybe get us a touchdown. At about 8 yards away, after slowing down a bit to let the ball get closer to him, I thought I had it timed about right and went back to full speed. Man did I want to knock this punk back into last year. As luck would have it, I was about a step ahead of Jones, but about half a step slow getting to him. When he caught the ball he had just that split second to take a step to his left, and I missed with my shoulder pad and just got my arm around his waist and flung past him into the back of the end zone. Dale, being that one step slower, got there about a tenth of a second later, and this time poor number one couldn’t take another side step. His head snapped abruptly forward as the rest of his body instantly went backward from 0-20 mph, and tried to separate from it. To his credit, he somehow kept the ball, and his head.
As you can imagine, we were flying high after this game. As all 18 year-old freshmen, we had not only won our first ever college football game against SEC Kentucky’s JV team, but also in our fifth ever college game beat Notre Dame’s JV team. Watching the game film on Monday was a real treat. We all got to relive it again. Coach Dupes was enjoying it every bit as much as we were, and he had a real penchant for understatement. On the punt play that I described above, he first let it play through at full speed. There was a loud OOHH! In the room as Jones hit the guy. Just as there had been in the stands during the game. Damn, I wished I had got him. Oh well. Then Coach rewound it, and played it again at slow motion.
You could see me and Jones running at full speed and angling down towards this guy, standing all alone at his 1 yard line. I’m pretty sure that even Dale would admit that I was the best hitter on the team, but obviously he was the overall best player, at least on the defense (see Stephon Moore below). So as we’re watching this again in slow motion, Coach Dupes (inducted into NCAA Hall of Fame) says in a slow deliberate drawl, something to the effect of “I don’t know about you, but if I was standing at my one yard line, and saw Jones and Seymour coming at me full speed with their red, crazy-looking eyes, I’d be tempted to call a fair catch”. Then he let it go back to full speed with me slinging off his waist, and Jones pan-caking him again. That got a good laugh.
Stephon Moore was a real phenomenon, and a really cool guy. He hung out a lot down at our room, and was a good friend of mine, and even more so of my roommate Jim. This guy had his choice of playing in either the NBA or the NFL, but wasn’t much in the academic realm. He played high school basketball with Charles Oakley, who did go on to the NBA. He had moves that just blew my mind completely. Considering the level we were playing at, and knowing how good I was, there was absolutely no doubt that he could make an NFL cornerback grab nothing but air, and look like a total idiot, in the open field. If you doubt it, just read the articles here, and imagine how easily he had 50 and 70 yard runs against teams like Kentucky and Notre Dame. He made them look stupid. But he was afraid of me, which went back to his first day on the team. It's a long story, but he knew that I was one of the very few guys that not only could get to him, but also hit hard. Stephon did not like at all to get hit. It was both his weakness, and his strength. His immense fear of being squashed, seemed to drive him to never get touched. That and his almost indescribable body control combined into untouchability. I'm sitting here now, trying to remember, and can't, ever managing to plug him. Not even once, but I can easily recall nailing every other back on the team multiple times.
Here’s a little story about our relationship. I had decent body control for a white guy, and one Sunday a bunch of us were playing basketball in the gym. I didn’t know Stephon was an NBA calibre player at this time, and he and I had a little rivalry thing. Mostly because I was envious of his awesome talent, and had a hard time accepting his obvious superiority. So while we were just warming up, I did a little 360 layup, just by myself, with no defenders. It wasn’t anything beautiful, but I got myself all the way around, a real feat for me since I could barely touch the rim, and also got the ball in the hole, which ain’t bad. Stephon took notice, and I could see the wheels turning in his head, but he said nothing.
Later on, while I was in the stands waiting for the next game, Stephon was on the court in a 5-on- 5 full-court game. He proceeded to take the ball all the way down the court, drove to the hoop between 2 defenders, and leapt into the air…..he was up there for what seemed like an eternity, and while up there pump-faked, spun a nonchalant full 360, and laid the ball softly off the backboard and in, coming down like he could have done 2 360’s. We were all used to seeing him do things that no one else could do, but were all a little in awe at this manoeuvre. To cap it off, as he was jogging back the other way, he made sure to look over and find me sitting up in the stands to make eye contact, to let me know that that one was just for me. I was there with my jaw still dropped, and I just shook my head, and looked at him as if to say “are you even human?” He got a big grin on his face, and as I was shaking my head, he couldn’t control it anymore, and started to laugh, and even he shook his head. He knew that he just did something that was beyond normal, even by his high standards, and he went back up the court knowing that he definitely won that round.
I got him back the only way I could, though. Stephon didn’t like getting hit much, which didn’t happen often with his moves, but as I was known as the big hitter on the team, he had a little fear of, and respect for me. So a little later on, I let him know that I’d get him back in practice for that one, just to make him swallow hard, and to think about it. Come to think of it now, I think that that was when I finally came to the realization that my dream of playing in the NFL wasn’t going to happen. Not with guys like him to compete against. Our genealogy, the good knight blood passed down from “the Marshall”, through Sir John, might have made me tough, and fearless, but I wasn’t going to ever compete athletically with guys like that. Maybe I should blame them? Couldn't they foresee that some day we'd have to compete with black Africans at either moving, or stopping, others at advancing an air-filled, oblong piece of leather? Couldn't they have somehow prevented my minor physical shortcoming? Maybe have brought in a princess from Ethiopia to the blood line? In case you don't get it, I'm just kidding here. I've never once blamed anyone for my own shortcomings. We are what we are, and we do the best we can, and that's it. Anyway, I knew then that I’d have to use the big grey muscle lodged between my ears, and tough it out in the Corporate world instead.
I recently did a search for Stephon and found out that he was shot and killed by police back in his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. I was looking for him because I couldn’t understand why I never heard of him after he went on to play for Tennessee. I fully expected to see him in the NFL. It turns out that he destroyed his knee in either his first or second year at UT, and it ended his career.
One of the cops that killed him was some kind of white supremacist freak (Stephon was black), and was later convicted of murder for killing someone else. It’s too bad he never made it to the NFL. He was really a special talent, and like I said, a cool guy. http://www.clevescene.com/cleveland/loose-cannon/Content?oid=1487726
Note in the caption that Tennessee brought 12 guys from their varsity team. The fact that a bunch of 18 year-old freshmen, from unknown TMI beat a perennial nationally ranked Top-10 team so badly is pretty impressive.
Sam Henderson, above, was another physical phenom, at 6 foot 4 inches, 230 pounds, and running a 4.4 second 40 yard dash. The problem was that he wasn’t very tough. One day at practice, I’ll never forget, I got an index finger into the collar of his jersey and pulled him down with just that. The coaches, and us guys on defense, worked him over pretty hard about being a girl, and by the 2nd or 3rd game had him toughened up, which would come back to haunt me (remember his size and strength).
Towards the end of the season, after practice one day, Jim and I got into some kind of argument with him and three of his friends. This happened a lot with 50 guys crammed into a dormitory, under intense pressure to make it or break it, as they say. It got a little out of hand and there were four of them and two of us, and it looked like it was going to get ugly, until Jim went nuts. He suddenly dropped into his karate stance, and the two of us, back to back, with these 4 guys around us, screams –“okay, let’s go right now, black against white!!!” They all backed down immediately with Sam saying “wow Jim, just calm down”. I was a decent football player, but not much of a street fighter, and I was nervous, and really glad that Jim’s bluff worked. At least I think it was a bluff. Maybe not with him, he was truly nuts, and I miss him.
Sam Henderson also went on to Tennessee, and started his senior year, and played a couple of good games, but never capitalized on his physical abilities.
There were more stories, hitchhiking up to Knoxville after a tough Saturday game, to enjoy the keg parties, and sleep on someone’s dorm room floor, but you get the idea. As I noted earlier, this was the end of a little boys’ dream to become an NFL star. A few pounds too light, and a step too slow, and just getting a college scholarship no longer made sense, so back to Jax to do it on my own.
Early adulthood: college, family, work, and big boy’s toys (more cars of course)
The old Hornet wagon, which Mom had given me at 16 (see previous chapter) was about shot. The poor old girl had made several round trips between NY and Florida before I got a hold of it. Then, with me abusing her in the Jacksonville sand dunes, where teenagers got away from prying eyes in those days, and a couple of more trips between Jax and Sweetwater, Tennessee, she was done. So first thing I did when I got back from Tennessee, was get a job and buy this baby:
I had already aroused attention with my aggressive driving style in the hornet, but I would really make some waves and start getting into problems with the Z-car. Keep in mind that I never got into an accident, nor even caused so much as $3 of property damage to anyone else (outside of my little mishap by myself on the dirt road at 16), but I really liked to drive fast, and aggressive, which wasn't viewed real positively by some. Not long after buying her with some 90,000 miles, the engine started to go. So of course I took her to a Z-car race shop, and had the motor rebuilt almost like a race car. Then the temptation was just too much….Unfortunately, it was the 80's, not the 50's, and things were coming under ever increasing control. I can't tell you how many years I spent in Florida with a suspended driver's license, but we'll start with all 5 years of my college career. I spent this whole time catching rides with my father, wife, and a slew of co-workers taking me home after closing down the various restaurants that I worked my way through college in. It was torture, not driving, but it wasn't all negative. An optimist can find something positive in any situation.
Here, I'll never forget, my future father-in-law was taking this prom photo and he said in his best barritone “go ahead and look at 'em, they're there”. Caught me by surprise. He was a really cool guy that died too young. Gave me a set of clubs, bought me some shoes, and taught me to play golf, too.
How cliche. Captain of the football team marries his prom date. Maybe Mom was right…..In the last photo with Tara, we're in the townhouse that we bought in construction, completely on our own with no help from our parents (same as with tuition, etc), at age 22 while also working ourselves through college. At the time, we didn't realize what an achievement that was. We were simply glad to be out of the roach-infested apartment that we had been living in (above and to the right).
Tara was born during my last semester of graduate school, so since her Mom was working 8-5, and I had a flexible schedule, and since Tara was bottle feeding, guess who was in charge of feeding. I didn't sleep more than 3-4 hours straight for about 3 months. I didn't mind, I loved my little girl, but it was good to start working at Ernst & Young in January and catch up on my sleep…..Immediately after signing the contract with E&Y I found this baby for sale at a reasonable price.
High miles but only a couple of years old. When I graduated we were buried under an absolute mountain of debt. Five years of putting me through college wasn't easy, nor cheap, and there were times when I almost gave it up. It was easily the toughest five years of my life. I was taking a full load of classes, and maintaining a minimum 3.5 GPA, while working nights and weekends. It was the thought of buying a Porsche that kept me going at those moments, and as it was only $14,000, less what I would sell the now tired Z-car for, I wasn't going to deny myself the promise. Amazingly enough, if you look at the family tree you'll see that I was the first Seymour in this line to graduate from college, and also to live in the city. That blows my mind. We're talking about 1,000 years, and there were some really rich guys back up that tree, but not one of them graduated college, and all of them lived in the country. In mansions sometimes, and maybe making frequent trips to London, but their homes were in the country. Let's put it into perspective. None of them needed to go to college. They were knights and warriors, and swinging a sword, riding a horse, or marrying brotherless daughters of wealthy noblemen weren't skills being taught at Cambridge. In America, our line were either businessmen, or had big farms, or both, up until my grandfather.
Now I was 25, and not quite so wired, but I still liked to put a car through its paces from time to time. One night at an E&Y after busy season party while I was a staff auditor, me and a senior auditor, along with everyone else in attendance, had had a few. For some reason, we also had a little rivalry thing going. I should say that he did. I somehow inspire that in people, and it's not an advantage. Anyway, he had a Renault turbo, and he admired my car. We were outside of town, at least it was back in those days, and on a long country road. After we traded arm punches for about 10 minutes (he was a stout boy, and I was glad it was over) he begged and begged, and finally convinced me to let him drive my car, but only if I could also drive his. The theory was that he would be as worried about me in his car, as I was about him in mine. That was a bad assumption. He wasn't at all worried about his Renault, and as I found out, it would only go 105 mph as the tailights of my Porsche disappeared into the horizon. As always, we made it back alive, and it was the talk of the office until the next gossip item came along. By the way, I already knew that the 944 would do a little over 120, I was sadly disappointed with the Renault turbo. Neither could hold a candle to the old Z-car, which at least once had made it's way down J Turner Butler Blvd, between Jax and the beach, at 135. The modified engine outdid the stock aerodynamics, as at that speed the air made the front end feel really light, as it drifted easily. I guess it was more exciting that way..
I don't have any photos of me fresh out of college. This was taken in Saudi Arabia after nine years working, and I was already getting a little crusty:
Speaking of debt…Before graduating I had to invest in a proper wardrobe. It never occurred to me to buy cheap starter stuff. If you look at my grandfather's page, you'll see that he was the kind of guy that wouldn't be caught dead outside of the house in less than the best duds. When I was a little kid he bought me a suit, just so that it would seem natural to me, I guess. He continually preached to me the value of investing in high quality goods. I'm sure this came from his fairly high style up-bringing, which because he didn't share in the inheritance, coupled with the Great Depression, he fell slightly out of. With this in mind, I went out and charged, at 18% apr, the finest clothes available. Five name brand suits, 10 silk ties and tailored white cotton shirts, and 2 pairs of name brand shoes, which even back in 1987 was $3,000. Ouch. Not to mention grad school tuition on the credit card as well. So though I was really tired coming out of the box, I had plenty of motivation. A mortgage, wife, 3 month old little girl, and 5 years of tuition and books, and a new wardrobe. No problem. The wardrobe, by the way, was worth it. The partners both noticed, and approved. Said I had real executive presence. Shucks…just give me a raise so I can pay visa…Luckily, my wife was expecting more of a blue-collar life. A man that worked Monday through Friday 8-5. So the fact that I was working as a new-hire with a Big 8 CPA firm, starting in the busy season, and studying for the CPA exam in my spare time, was a real advantage. See divorce in the next chapter below…..
Here's a cool family portrait we had taken at some Florida theme park around 1995. I distinctly remember that I had the old photo of GG Grandpa Cuyle in mind, and was trying hard to mimmick him for the photo. I looked around hard before taking the photo to find a cigar, but in the 1990´s they weren't considered so cool, and I didn't find one. I'm guessing that Alvin Cuyle didn't have any such problems at the 1876 World Fair in Philadelphia. I wonder if he took a logging raft down to Philly from Cannonsville like William Jr., Willet, and Gilbert had? Did he walk back? I wish I knew these things. So sans cigar, and without legs crossed, but with hands on top of the sword, I made a decent remembrance of him. Obviously I also didn't have such a cool cap nor boots. By the way, this photo, with me as a Union (damned yankee) soldier, infuriated her grandparents. The true stud, of course, was cousin General Truman Seymour (right) who had ironically, conquered Jacksonville during the civil war, and ruled as governor of Florida for a while. This guy lived a full life, read this and other articles about him. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Truman_Seymour http://www.martharichardsonfineart.com/artist_catalog_thumbnails.asp?id=1721680292 As always, the girls made the photo what it is, as belle, and young Tara as debutante-to-be.
General Henry Seymour Lansing http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/lansing/henryseymourlansing.htm He fought at Bull Run and Antietam, and it was at Bull Run where he was promoted to General. This cousin and general was also an auditor and accountant. Who says accountants can't be tough guys? And vice versa.