Lonnie and Marge Slayter, who had been faithful regulars at the service — and at “the corner” — were not present this year. Lonnie had died a week earlier, and Marge followed him eight days later, last Sunday morning.
There is no sign marking Hoyt Corner, but we dwindling number of regulars know where it is — at the corner of two cemetery lanes just northwest of the cemetery office — and why we call it that.
It was the place where Frank L. Hoyt would stand in the shade, and later sit in his car, to take part in Memorial Day. Frank, who served as San Joaquin County supervisor for 12 years (1960-1972), was a veteran of World War I. He was also one of the founders of the American Legion.
It was in Paris, France, in January 1919, three months after the war to end all wars ended, that the first congresses were held to found the Legion. Frank, then serving as a military policeman at one of the train stations in Paris after combat duty in the Argonne Forest, attended several of those meetings as the shape of the Legion began to emerge.
The Nebraska farm boy, who earlier had first served with Gen. “Black Jack” Pershing on the Mexican border, came to Tracy in the 1930s and became the ranch manager for the Holly Sugar Corp. and later general manager of Berverdor Inc., a major farming operation on Fabian Tract north of Tracy.
Frank was among a group of people who migrated from western Nebraska and southeastern Wyoming to Tracy in the 1920s and 1930s. A number were in some way connected to Holly Sugar, which has a plant in Torrington, Wyo.
I’m talking about the Hoyts, Sillivans, Sullivans, Grebils and Slayters, and probably others I can’t put my finger on as I type these words.
For many years, Frank was the godfather of the American Legion in Tracy. He earned that role as one of the Legion’s founders but also because of his quiet leadership qualities that everyone around him recognized. One of his most loyal sidekicks was Lonnie Slayter. In the early 1950s, Lonnie served as commander of James McDermott Post, and Marge was president of the Legion Auxiliary.
Beginning in the mid-1960s, Lonnie had his real estate office in the Tracy Inn Building and was a regular at the morning and afternoon coffee sessions in the Tracy Inn Coffee Shop presided over by Joe Wilson, Tracy’s first recreation director.
Frank would come by occasionally when he was on the board of supervisors and more regularly after retiring in 1970. I, too, would stop in as often as I could in the morning, but only occasionally in the afternoon.
You form a bond with people you drink coffee with on a sustained basis, and, for me, that included Frank and Lonnie.
That’s why I, too, would stand at Hoyt Corner, where Frank, Lonnie, Marge, their son Bill, Frank’s daughter and son-in-law, Jean and Joe Podrasksi, and occasionally Larry Sillivan, would gather.
After Frank died in 1986, members of the clan, anchored by Lonnie and Marge, continued their Memorial Day vigil. That’s when the name Hoyt Corner came into being.
Frank, Lonnie, Marge and Jean are gone, so Monday, the day after Marge had died, it was only Joe and me. As we stood there Monday morning, Joe and I talked about those who were no longer with us at Hoyt Corner. And we vowed to continue the tradition has long as we were able, with the hope that others would join us.
Next Memorial Day, I’ll be at the cemetery — at Hoyt Corner, of course.
• Sam Matthews, Tracy Press publisher emeritus, can be reached at 830-4234 or by e-mail at shm@tracypress.com.
When my young family was "in residence" at the Highland house, I was at the same window as Frank came out his back door. We made eye contact, and acknowledged each other with a wave.
He steped down to the driveway, and I noticed he began reaching out for his car to stabilize himself. He seemed to melt below my line of vision. On my way out the front door, I grabbed a baby blanket. He was bleeding from the head, but was aware of my presence, and called me by name. I put the blanket under his head, and applied presure with my hand to his wound, as we conversed, and devised a plan. As he became more lucid, and the bleeding had almost stopped, he assured me he would keep his hand on the wound, so I could call for help.
I stayed with him until the paramedics arrived.
He was on a gurnney, about to be lifted into the ambulance, when he called me and reached out for my hand. I extended my hand to him. He pulled me close and whispered in my ear,"Keep my wallet for me until I get home. I don't know any of these people."
Phil and I took his wallet to him that night at the hospital. He insisted we keep it for him until he reurned home. I was so greatful he did.
Low blood pressure had been determinded as the cause of his fall.
Because Phil was a Vietnam Veteran, Frank made his case many times that his VFW Group needed new blood. With utmost respect for all veterans, Phil would explain that when he was discharged the Army, he had joined Vietnam Veterans against the War. The mutual respect they shared was a constant. Frank always reminded Phil, that combat is combat, and they shared a common bond. The VFW would not consider Phil's membership in another group as a deterent to his standing, should he ever change his mind, and decide to join them.
I didn't realize Frank was a WWI vet, until I read your artical today. WWII newsreels were all we ever seemed to see at the Grand, and all of the movies on TV were either, WWII flicks or Westerns.
I attended Memorial Day Ceremonies at Modesto's Pioneer Cemetery for the first time this year. Phil always wanted to go, but SOS's Memorial Day
Handball tournament was a conflict, because he seemed to always make the finals.
I carried Phil's Vietnam scrapebooks to the ceremonies. I was so suprised that there was only about 50 people in attendance. The honor guards were all WWII vets, and when the order for Taps was called, I feared the bugler would not have the strenght to stand. As he pulled himslf to his feet, and began to raise the horn to his lips, the mournful notes of Taps began to sound before that honorable solider of a war long past, was able to lift the mouthpiece to his lips.
Next year, I'll meet you at Hoyt's Corner.