Harry Hoyt Taylor was a child of English emigrants, born July 10th, 1895 at his parents' home in Philomath, Oregon. His father and grandfather had come to America from England in 1868 to build houses and churches in this country. They were Anglicans and their faith was not very popular in England when they finally decided to leave. They came with other carpenters, planning to build houses and use the money to build churches. They arrived in New York but didn't have to go thru Ellis Island as their entry into the United States had already been approved, since others had come before them and arranged for their support until they could find work. Their wives and children came later and they worked their way across America, getting as far as Kansas before a grasshopper plague ruined not only the farmers' crops, but their only means of payment. My great grandfather and his father continued Westward, having heard about Oregon with it's beauty and bounty. My great grandfather met and fell in love with Lena Toughy (Thompson) Ward, who had a son and whose husband had deserted them for parts unknown. He and Lena married and settled in Philomath area of Benton Co., Oregon, in a home he built for his new family. They were blessed with five children, including twin boys; Harry Hoyt Taylor was the eldest son, born on July 10th, 1895. Lena's son was adopted, giving them an older brother. They relocated to Portland, Oregon and were living there when the twins were born. They then relocated to Albany in Linn County, Oregon, living in town and Harry was attending school there when he first met Pearl Laura Baker. It was love at first sight. He adored her and courted her for the next few years, requesting her hand in marriage. Poor Pearl had to decide between college and an early marriage. Pearl's mother, twice a widow, had been raised that all children needed a good education and, as Pearl had graduated 1st in her class, she had been awarded a scholarship to what was then Albany College (now Lewis & Clark College, relocated to Portland, Oregon). Her mother wanted her to marry an apprentice jeweler but Pearl's heart belonged to Harry Taylor. On the day that they were to announce their engagement at a party planned at her home, the couple eloped to Newport, Oregon and married on July 12, 1914. They would return to his angry mother (his mother did not want him to marry as he was helping support the family) and settle in Marshfield (now Coos Bay), in Coos Co., Oregon where Harry worked for the railroad and also worked as a carpenter to support himself and his new bride. Their first child, a daughter, was born four years later, on Aug 27, 1918. They named her Helen Louise. My grandparents also had to contend with the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 while in Portland. Their only other child, Patricia Jean, was born at the Good Samaritan Hospital in Portland, Oregon on April 18, 1924, as the pregnancy was deemed to be "high risk". They returned to the Albany area and then back to Portland, Harry being promoted as a mechanic working on the locomotives in the railyard in SE Portland and renting until they had saved enough to buy a house. Harry's parents were visiting with his maternal grandmother in Portland when his father suddenly died while lying on the lawn. [It was the way his grandfather had died in 1907 and was the way he would die in 1975]. Harry and Pearl bought their first home in Portland, Oregon just as the Depression hit, living on SE Lincoln and @27th. He was now investigating railroad accidents and was hired by the Interstate Commerce Commission.
In the late 1930's, he was transferred to Columbia, South Carolina to determine whether railroad accidents were actually accidents or were sabotage [World War II would soon be coming to America]. His older daughter had married so he drove his wife and younger daughter across the country so they could see the nation. They lived in South Carolina until 1944 when he was promoted Supervisor of the Western Region of the ICC, headquartered in San Francisco, California. They returned to the West Coast and purchased a home at 3316 82nd Avenue in Oakland, California. It was near the top of the hill, overlooking Oakland and the bay. At night they could watch the sunsets from the kitchen windows and they often watched the blimp flying over the area before being moored at Moffett Field South of San Francisco. Pearl's mother lived with them until her death in 1948. Harry's mother also lived with them until she died in 1950. They then bought a 2nd house in Oakland for their newly married daughter and her husband to live in. They became the proud grandparents of three girls and always gave them love and affection. They also invested in a farm in the Oroville, California area, planting trees on the acreage. Harry had a terrible accident in 1960 when the tractor tipped over on him and he was trapped beneath it until a neighbor heard his cries for help, hours later. He'd put the fire out with his bare hands. He was hospitalized for quite a time before being allowed to come home, but had to lie in bed for many months due to a broken back. [I was just a little girl and was told I could lie down next to him if I remained very still. I think it's one of the only times I stayed still for over a minute, but I just wanted to be by my grandfather.] He eventually returned to work but was never quite the same, having pain issues the rest of his days. In 1964, Harry and Pearl celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. A banquet was held at the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley, CA attended by at over 50 people. Afterwards, he took Pearl to Hawaii, where she'd always wanted to go. He retired in @1965 and they moved to 141 Lombardy Lane in Orinda, a lovely area East of Oakland, Ca. They lived there until he died, suddenly, on March 25th, 1975 from a massive stroke. His remains were taken to Oregon and he was buried next to his parents. Pearl never recovered from his loss. She died of a broken heart on September 3rd, 1975 and was laid to rest next to her beloved husband, her 1st and only love. May they Rest in Eternal Peace together.
March 2nd, 2018 by their granddaughter, Kathie. Not to be copied without permission, please.
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I promised some day I'd write up his bio because he was a fascinating, intelligent, self made man with high moral standards who loved his three granddaughters, his two daughters, and his beloved Pearl, the love of his life who he cherished all of his years. I just start to cry every time I try to do this. His job required him to travel quite a bit and he had many opportunities to stray but the thought never crossed his mind, as he told my mother one afternoon a few years before he passed. He and my grandmother had been childhood sweethearts in Albany, Oregon and my sister and I were blessed to be able to see letters he wrote to her that she kept in a special box, all the way back to when they were dating. The love they had for each other was so special, the kind you only find once in a lifetime. It is no wonder she chose to marry my grandfather rather than accept the four year scholarship to Albany College (she had graduated at the top of her class in 1913 and was awarded an all expenses paid four year scholarship at Albany College, later to be known as Lewis and Clark College and moved to Portland, OR). I just get too emotional and start to cry... but I want his story to be told for he was such a special man, patiently teaching his little granddaughter (me!) how to polish shoes when he had other work to do in his work shop in the basement of their home in Oakland, then helping her to get all of the polish off of herself when the shoes were done. I have to go to a dr. appt. now but will be back, because my granddaddy was so important in my life. To be continued....Mar.13th,2012, Kathie Lynn Webb, his 2nd granddaughter.

Our last Thanksgiving together was in November, 1974, 40 years ago this year. My grandmother always cooked from scratch and cooked up the best dinner I could ever wish for both for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas. My grandfather used to put black olives on our fingers and we'd giggle as we'd eat them off of our fingertips. We'd help (?) our grandmother out when she made the pies up: Apple and Pumpkin, yummie! It was hard to sit thru Grace, but we knew we had to Thank God for His blessing us with more than enough food to eat when I could remember Mom telling us about how, when she was growing up, the Depression hit America and how Grandfather would find odd jobs for homeless, hungry men to do so they wouldn't feel ashamed when Grandmother would feed them, sharing food with them that they needed to feed their 2 daughters, but they didn't often turn anyone away, only if they'd been drinking. My mom and aunt would get the clothes they could no longer wear to give to children who needed them and toys they no longer played with to give to children for Christmas. Grandmother and Grandfather always kept a budget thru out their lives to the extent that they were worth so much money when they died we were all amazed since they always lived a frugal lifestyle. When I was in high school, I spent my last 2 yrs. with my grandparents from 1967-1969 due to family problems. I missed my mom and sisters so much, but loved my grandparents, too. My grandmother made many of my dresses, then took them in as I lost weight. We even made my dress for the Senior Prom. We had some issues due to the age differences and the fact that I lived with them from the time I was almost 15 until I was 17 years old. It was also 1967-1969 and we lived in the San Francisco Bay Area of California; there were social and racial issues, not to mention the war in Vietnam, and my grandparents were more worried than they let on. I wanted to have long hair and I even pierced my own ears so I could wear pierced earrings. I would babysit and spend some of the money on earrings, records and nylons. My poor grandfather and I had disagreements about nylons and short skirts since mini skirts were in fashion, although the only mini dress I ever bought was for the Senior All Night Party, the night I graduated from high school. They forbade me from wearing it but my mother snuck it to me in a paper bag and I changed at school, before putting on my cap and robe. If they'd known, they would've been so upset! I also would go out with girlfriends, saying we were going to the movies, when we actually went to visit boys we liked or go to Berkeley and San Francisco. My dear stepbrother, Steve, who was in the Navy, would come over on weekends during my Senior year and help out my Grandfather with some of the harder work in the yard, while I helped Grandmother with the dishes, laundry and yard work. My grandfather and I disagreed about politics although I tried not to challenge him to his face. I disagreed with him in other ways, but tried not to argue with him except when it came to being grown up enough to go to Santa Cruz alone with my girlfriend after mid term exams. I was 17 and felt I was pretty responsible; after all, I'd been all over the Bay Area and hadn't gotten into any situations that had caused too much trouble. He forbade me, so I lied and told him that her dad was going with us when he wasn't, due to his wife's illness. We had a great time in Santa Cruz all weekend, walking to the Boardwalk, stopping and listening to a guy play guitar (he gave us each a peach to eat, yummy!), and I got to see my new boyfriend, a guy I'd just started seeing [thanks, Steve, for introducing us!]. We had no phone, so were happy and smug when we went to her aunt's house on the way back. It was then that we learned I hadn't been that smart after all. Her dad had called and told her aunt that my grandfather had called him, so I'd been busted! My grandparents knew that my girlfriend and I were in Santa Cruz without an adult or even a phone so they could make us come home early!! I was freaked out, knew I could never go home, but my girlfriend assured me that she'd help explain everything to my grandparents. We went up to Berkeley 1st, and she kept telling me I didn't need to run away; she was going to explain it all to my poor grandparents who were worried sick by now. She took my overnight bag to the door and ran for her car! I could only start to cry and apologize over and over again; I did tell them that we'd been safe and hadn't done anything dumb, but I was forbidden from ever going back to Santa Cruz again [I spent Memorial Day weekend in my grandparents' backyard, listening to the radio and thinking about all of the fun I was missing, as my other girlfriends had gone to Santa Cruz so no one was left in Orinda for me to do anything with. I wasn't taken anywhere that weekend, either, for additional punishment, even though it had been four months.] Steve was busy; my boyfriend had stopped calling me right after the Senior Prom on May 2nd. I was bummed. It was hard on them, though, to try to raise their granddaughter who was almost 60 yrs. younger than they were, during the Hippie & Vietnam Era. I had started sneaking cigarettes by then, but they never said a word. My poor grandmother had become very forgetful by then and my grandfather and I would go around checking to make certain the stove was off, the doors were locked, etc. There were times she would forget where I was, and once even called the Police after I'd told her I was going out with my girlfriend. We got back to the house to find a police car in the driveway. Poor Grandmother and Poor Grandfather! After that, I always wrote her notes to let her know where I was. Dear Grandfather would sit on the couch at night as they watched TV and rub Grandmother's feet, which would swell terribly. He always told her when he was going outside and would tell her he loved her thru out the day, every day. It was so sweet to see the love between them, a love I wanted before I would ever marry. I felt so terrible when my marriage failed and I had to go stay with my father when my son was just 7 months old, but they were happy I was back in the area and I tried to go visit them at least once a month, if not more often from where I lived in San Jose, about 50m. from Orinda, CA. He adored his great grandson and it was so cute to see them together. But then my mom called me after dinner one night in March of 1974 to tell me that my grandfather had had a heart attack and was in the hospital in Oakland. I was dumb struck, not knowing what to say or do. I felt like I should have known, remembering how I'd gone to work that day and hadn't thought anything was wrong all of that day and evening. My mom and stepfather came down from Oregon and we all went to see him at Kaiser in Oakland, the same hospital where I had been born some 22 1/2 years before. He wasn't awake, was in a coma, they said. My aunt and uncle had come out from New York and my aunt kept saying, "Daddy's going to die!" It was the only time I ever told my aunt to shut up. I then stood by grandfather's hospital bed, stroking his forehead and telling him I loved him and he would be okay. I even snuck my son in to see his great grandfather for just a minute, knowing, somehow, that he knew my son was there. He did recover, after a few months in a nursing home, but they would have to have a housekeeper stay with them to cook, help Grandfather and Grandmother with their numerous medications, and do the harder housework, plus transport them to appointments, etc. He could never drive again; Grandmother hadn't been able to drive for many years. We went out to celebrate their 60th Anniversary by going out to dinner; that was about all he could handle, after that 1st heart attack. My older sister and her husband were also living in the area and would visit them. That Thanksgiving I drove my son & grandparents to San Francisco International Airport to catch a flight to Oregon so we could spend Thanksgiving with my mom and stepdad, although I had to return to work all too soon. My son and I slept in sleeping bags on the living room floor, which he thought was fun, like camping. After arriving back at the airport, I gathered up the baggage and we went back to my car. I drove them back to Orinda and came home, exhausted, but happy. Right before Christmas, my son got sick and I didn't dare go up to Orinda to visit my grandparents, so we just talked on the phone over the holidays. Then my son got sick again right around his 3rd birthday in mid January, and I got sick, too. I called my grandparents and promised to visit before or on Easter. In mid March, I came home from work and fixed dinner, putting my son to bed, then my mom called, rather late for her. She told me that my grandfather had suffered from another heart attack and had died that day. I couldn't talk or even breathe. Sunday was Easter & I was supposed to go see them, with their ever growing great grandson. Then I started to cry, but stopped, knowing if I kept on crying, I would never stop. I don't remember much about work or anything except that my older sister and I went with our dad to Good Friday services and I couldn't stop crying. His memorial service was the next day, the day before Easter. Six weeks later, I had my 1st migraine and continue to have them to this day. My dear grandmother couldn't conceive of life without her loving Harry. My mom took her up to Oregon and put her in a nursing home. My younger sister went to visit her grandmother every chance she had and my grandmother would refer to my mom as "that woman". She also told my sister that she wanted to be with Harry. Within six months, she went to join him in Heaven. I flew up to Oregon for her memorial service and realized I no longer had any reason to hold back the tears. I cried thru the entire service. A year later, I sold my home, quit my job and returned to Oregon. I bought a new place in Portland, got another job and knew I was home again. But I can't help crying every time I visit my grandparents' graves, although I know they aren't really there. I know they are together in Heaven, young again and free of pain, walking hand in hand along the beach of 1914 Newport, Oregon, on their never ending honeymoon. For the story of their lives, including dates and places, please refer to my grandmother's memorial. Just click on Pearl Laura (Baker) Taylor's name.
Finally completed, November 28th, 2014, by Kathie L. Webb Blair, their 2nd granddaughter. With Love.
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