Horace's paternal great-grandparents (through Jemima Laird Adam) were:

William Thom Adam, b. May 7, 1793 in Old Monkland, Lanarkshire, , Scotland and d. Jan. 5, 1875 in Gilroy, Santa Clara, CA. &

Isobella Laird, b. 1794 in Dundee, Angus, Scotland and d. 1844 in Lanarkshire, Scotland.

Horace's paternal grandparents were:

George Easton, b. Jan. 4 (or Apr. 1), 1829 in Old Monkland, Lanarkshire, Scotland and d. Dec. 6, 1903. George Easton came to Gilroy, Santa Clara Co., CA. in 1856 &

Jemima Laird Adam, b. Oct. 10, 1831 in Lanarkshire, Scotland and d. Dec. 6, 1879 in Gilroy, Santa Clara, CA.

Horace's parents were:

Robert 'Bob/'Rob' Easton, b. Mar. 17, 1853 in UT. and d. Dec. 30, 1940 in Monterey, CA. &

Mary Florence 'Mame' Hoey, b. Aug. 1868 in CA. and d. 1932

On Feb. 19, 1889, Robert Easton and Mary "Mamie" Florence Hoey were married.

Robert and Mame Easton's children were:

1. Jemima Elizabeth "Ebeth" Easton, b. Apr. 4, 1890 in Gilroy, Santa Clara County, CA. and d. Aug. 24, 1966 in Salinas, Monterey County, CA. On Apr. 20, 1918, Ebeth marr. first, William Edward White (1886-1922). In 1942, she marr. second, William Zimry "Buckskin Bill" Adam (1879-1964).

2. Horace Robert Easton, b. Aug. 28, 1893 in San Miguel, San Luis Obispo County, CA. and d. Jan. 19, 1963 in Salinas, Monterey County, CA. In 1919, Horace marr. Lida Lenore Hyatt (1893–1930).

3. Helen Lucille Easton, b. Jan. 28, 1896 in San Miguel, San Luis Obispo county, CA. and d. Jun. 25, 1993 in Atascadero, San Luis Obispo county, CA. On Dec. 19, 1920, Helen marr. Alton Titus Emery (1896-1950), a plumber/farmer in Salinas, CA. Helen raised Horace and Lida Easton's children after Lida died in 1930. Her own children were John C. Emery, Jayana Emery and Laura Jean Emery.

Horace spent his early childhood on the Indian Valley ranch in Plumas County, CA., learning the ways of caring for land and animals, and in Bradley, Monterey County CA., where his mother and the children lived during the school year. When he was thirteen, he started high school in Salinas (Monterey, Ca.). While he attended high school, Horace participated in school plays and other functions, but his greatest talent was on the athletic field - and there he excelled. During the track season, he competed in two events, the high jump and the pole vault, doing well in each. Rugby was another sport that especially held his interest. In his senior year, he became the team's captain and in this capacity, he was able to exert his authority, even to the extent of getting an eighth grade boy on the team. This boy, Alton Titus Emery, was a superb player, fast and accurate. Horace ended his senior year at Salinas High with his 'Class Will' which read: 'Horace Easton bequeaths his football honors to Raymond Griffith, hoping he will bear his glories with as great a dignity as he did. He also gives to Carlon Wright his incessant talking and laughing out in class. His numerous Watsonville girls he wishes to keep, but will put Walter Emery in charge of them during their visits to the high school.'

It was in Pacific Grove where Horace met his future wife, Lida Hyatt. They had both gone to see the same basketball game. Lida was a small, dark, beautiful and delicate woman. Horace was tall, very handsome and more than a little charming. This chance meeting turned into a romance and they were married on 1 Jan 1919. Afterwards, Horace took his bride to Indian Valley.

One of Horace's daughters remembers her father as having a very dominant personality. He was a strict disciplinarian but the children always knew they were loved. They weren't afraid of him, but knew not 'to mess' with him. He was the provider of all their fun. He got them ponies and often took the children around the ranch while he worked - which they loved, riding on the harrow behind the tractor as weights. He attached a cable from one big oak to another in their backyard so that they could climb up high on one tree, grab hold of the ring he had rigged to a pulley and they would have a wild ride down to the other tree, swinging way out and dropping to the ground. He would get a big old empty tire, put a kid in it and push it down the road.

"He did love to trick us. Like the old cow flop game. 'Step on this one.. it's dry.. Daddy wouldn't trick you. Ha!' He pulled teeth and took off bandages the same way - could always get us to trust him again. (But not jeannie in later years with the teeth bit!) He would have us (always Bob and I) ride on the harrow behind the tractor as weights. He'd let us grab hold of the 'handle like' things on the back of the flatbed truck, instruct us to hold on tight and then go tearing down the dirt canyon road ('tearing' probably being 20 mph or less). I remember our feet would hit down about every 10-15 feet - Neat! - poor Mother must have died. He took me on a long ride back into the hills once to check out a big burn, looking for hot spots still smoking and again on a long cattle drive down to the Big Sandy and up Stone Canyon to Merle's (Ferris), then home through the hills where he cut a fence to get us through, but stopped to mend it, then rode off fast and hid from me. I don't remember why Bob didn't go, maybe it just wan't his turn, or maybe he'd gotten in trouble." (M.S.)

"He was also an extremely tender and caring father, spending hours taking care of his children when they were sick or hurt. The one time I cut my finger bad - 'saving' baby Jeannie by taking a knife away from her by the blade, he picked me up and carried me around in the dark until I came to. Then there was the time I almost died, pneumonia, I guess. They even had a doctor come out (the only time I remember a doctor - ever!). When the doctor said I'd go one way or the other, I sat on the side of the bed, half delirious, waiting for the big crisis to come. Daddy spent hours putting my feet first into hot water in a bucket, and then into cold water to help the circulation." (N.S.)

"He made hoar hound cough medicine for us, built our fireplace, dug the spring, dynamited trees, laid pipe to bring water from the spring down into the house. He broke up bull fights by yelling and running towards them with a pitchfork or whatever he could grab in his hands. He did all the stuff and we were most always there watching him do it. Mostly Daddy and Bob were my world, because that was where my fun times were. Really not fair to Mother, but that's the way it was." (M.S.)

Horace and Lida had four children - Bob, Margie, Phyllis and Jeannie. Lida traveled to Pacific Grove every time she had a child and then returned to Indian Valley. While Horace would work the land and do the errands, Lida made the bread, washed the clothes and taught school to the children of the valley - all eight of them. She worked hard and her life was very lonely. Her relationship with her mother-in-law was very close. Their mutual love was a bond that went deep.

In 1930, Lida died - a victim of hepatitis. With her death, Horace was left grief-stricken. He was also left with four small children he did not know how to care for or rear alone. Family members pitched in to help raise the children. His sister, Helen, immediately took Jeannie in to live with her. Phyllis, Margaret and Bob went to Rob and Mame, their Granny and Granddad. At the end of the summer, Phyllis also went up to live with her Aunt Helen and marjorie and Bob returned to their home, where they lived with the new Indian School teacher, Mrs. Whitten. The brother and sister stayed together for one year in Indian Valley, pretty much left to their own devices, riding on the ponies and doing as they pleased. Their mutual loss, isolation and dependency forged a love that was very precious and still exists in a certain way. After one year, Bob moved up to the little house in Buena Vista; Marjorie stayed in Indian Valley with old Mrs. Montgomery for the summer (1931), and then to Buena Vista.

Says another daughter, Phyllis Medlin, "My daddy was something of an enigma.

So many pluses and a number of minuses. Somehow he grew to manhood with many talents, much charm and a truly loving heart for the family he grew up in and the family he sired, but escaped the requirement of responsibility to the necessary degree. He was tall, handsome and wore a small mustache (some called him Clark Gable). He was sociable and loved friends and had a most beautiful, rich voice for singing tenor, full of depth, harmony and feeling, with a memory for songs unlimited. He was an accomplished horseman, training saddle horses and polo ponies and, when the ranch was leased out, he opened a riding stable in Pacific Grove and did very well. He appreciated flowers, mainly roses and honeysuckle, which he took to Lida's grave at the cemetery and put in Phyllis' car when she married.

"He would take us children for auto and horse rides, pointing out the beauties and oddities of nature. He provided ponies and taught us to ride and other fun. Daddy had an excellent and inventive mind and loved to read, especially about police work and olympic athletes. His lifetime saw many types of work, from what he loved - ranching - to whatever had to be done to earn a living.

He served in the Army in WWI, saved from overseas duty by an injury. During WWI, he was a security guard at the Mare Island shipyard in San Francisco Bay, but was back on the ranch when news came that his son had been killed. Life crumbled and lost all flavor from that date - May 1, 1945.

In 1930, when he lost his wife, Horace was 37.

In 1932, his mother died, in 1940 his father died and in 1945, when he was 52, he lost his only son. Those years took their toll.

Where he used to be full of life, robust energy and humor, now cynicism, frustration and anger made their inroads with telling, painful effect. Still, even later, he could still be a magical man, handsome, sweet-talkin', with the kind of personality that could be pure charm! I aw him in his bad times up at Buena Vista - heard him cry." (M.S.)

His nephew, Don Emery, was there with his parents at the Indian Valley ranch that cool, dark, gray, overcast day in spring when Horace received word of his son's death. He remembers that terrible moment seeing a father filled with agony, hate, frustration, anger, impotence, sorrow - and love.

Horace spent his latter years out in Buena Vista caring for the house, fence, wells, animals, etc. This was the time of his life that I can remember. Many of my memories are visual - bushy, gray hair and mustache, flannel shirt, well-worn hat, heavy set but not fat, skinny ankles and very penetrating eyes. He could roll his cigarettes and light them one-handed. Car rides were an experience. -An old tan/gray vehicle that might or might not stay in the correct lane. His voice was the source of one great talent - his singing. He had a rich tenor voice, full of depth, harmony and feeling. To a little girl, he was a very romantic figure. There was always an aura of excitement about him. Certainly no other man in my life was anything like him. I've always thought that he would have done well to have been born one hundred years earlier and to have lived the life of a mountain man. He was that sort of man - proud, fiercely independent, self-reliant, with an affinity with the forces of nature.

The following is an excerpt from a letter he wrote, dated January 1, 1957:

"I wish you a garden on fire

With Roses and Columbines for your delight,

A little house with friendly rafters -

And someone who needs you there.

Wine of romance with friendly laughter

And all the fine things to bear."

Horace finally moved into Salinas and lived in a downtown hotel. In January of 1963, he caught the flu. When no one saw him for several days, the hotel personnel broke down his door and found him unconscious. He was hospitalized and pneumonia set in, still without any family member being aware of his condition. Horace seemed to be on his way to recovery when he suddenly died. He carried a paper that informed which family members to contact in case of emergency, but it had been overlooked. He died alone at the age of 70.

After he died, his nephew, Don Emery, wrote of his uncle Horace; "..With me, he was interesting, funny and usually cheerful. He is a legend of sorts. He was, to my knowledge, the only real cowboy this family ever had. He roped, branded, busted horses, drove cattle, fixed fences, sang songs, played the guitar, made love, laughed, drank, and told good stories. He was happy, sad, kind, mean, delightful, depressing, carefree, irresponsible, talkative, sullen. He was colorful and he was entertaining. And I don't believe anyone ever knew him, not even Horace Easton.

Surely he never told anyone else what really went on inside of the impenetrable façade. And if he ever thought about it, which I am certain he must have, I doubt that he ever discovered why he did the things he did and led the life he led. He was an enigma.

He was good to me, gave me little things, fixed things for me, showed me how to do things, was patient with my questions, let me watch while he made ingenious mechanical contraptions, and you can believe that I learned more from watching him than any course in physics. He told me jokes. He kept me company, when I had no friends to play with. He talked to me.. and listened to me! I was a lonely kid, at times unbearably lonely. There was no one, no thing, inaction, a stifling vacuum, the brown, dry hills and dusty road, the old buildings, nothing to do, nothing to see. It was dull. But there was Horace - he was my one hope, the single active object, principle, in my environment. "Uncle Horace, can we do something today?" 'What are you gonna do now, Unk", and he would say, "Come on", and we would get a hammer and saw and do something, and I would watch and help. -And he talked to me. And he listened to me. And I love him for that."

The Californian (Salinas, CA.), P. 7, Col. 2-3

Mon., Oct. 1, 1945

Silver Star Awarded

(See accompanying photo to left)

Caption: FORT ORD - Flanked at each side by his two daughters, H. R. Easton, Box 500, River Road, Salinas, last week in a simple but impressive ceremony received the silver star decoration awarded posthumously to his son, Technician Fourth Grade Rockwell R. Easton, parachute infantry, for gallantry in action against the enemy.

Presentation of the award, one of the nation's highest, was made in behalf of the commanding general, Ninth service command, and on direction of the President, by Lt. Col. Preston D. Callum, Ford Ord staff officer, in the privacy of Fort Old's post headquarters.

The citation to the award to Sergeant Easton, who was serving in the parachute infantry of the 82nd Airborne Division when he made the supreme sacrifice in defense of his country, is as follows:

Silver Star

'For gallantry in action on 1 May, 1945, near *** Germany.

While on a wire patrol, Technician Easton was standing next to his vehicle when a passing tank destroyer exploded a large magnetic mine and blew it on top of his jeep.  Although stunned and badly bruised, Technician Easton and his crew immediately went to the burning tank destroyer, the ammunition of whose guns were exploding violently, and aided in the removal of its occupants.  The wire to one of the forward units was broken by the force of the explosion.  He began to repair this wire amid exploding shells from the burning tank destroyer.  While engaged in this hazardous work, Technician Easton was killed by flying shrapnel from the exploding ammunition.  His unflinching devotion to duty and unsurpassed courage typify the spirit of the American parachute infantryman."