Greetings David, Gary, et al, The 1978 History of Lucas Co., has lots of details about he various descendants of John & Nancy Throckmorton's kids/grandkids accomplishments! There were MANY prominent ! Medical Doctors that descended from John Throckmorton, b. abt 1824 and wife, Nancy Lazear, b. abt 1828, [both b. Penn] Noticed another Throckmorton line ... and my unfinished question: In the 1870 Lucas Co., IA census, Union Twp.: Was A. Throckmorton [b. abt. 1833] a possible brother to John, b. abt 1828 ?? There was no wife listed in the census. Do you know about that family ?? Thanks for the additional information. Mary Beth in Wisconsin On 04.09.2004 at 15:45:13, <[email protected]> wrote: > Hello Mary Beth, thank you.. That is same information i now have as > well. > Gary Tharp has shared some information with me. I am just getting > some things > back i lost when i reformated my computer over last weekend. Alot of > the new > infrmation i had typed in was lost. > > I can add a little bit to your Throckmorton line... To both you Mary > and > Gary. Here is some information you might not yet have. > > 1 ) Biography: > Tom Bentley Throckmorton attended the Jefferson Medical College in > > Philadelphia, receiving his doctorate in 1909. He was successively > house physician at > the Maplewood Sanatorium, resident physician at the Philadelphia > Orthopaedic > Hospital as well as at the Infirmary for Nervous diseases in > Philadelphia, and > assistant physician at the Cheroku State Hospital for the insane. > > He was for a period lecturer in clinical neurology in Des Moines, > Iowa, where > he settled. He was the governor of Iowa from 1927 to 1936. > > Throckmorton also gave a simple method for recognizing motor > paralysis of the > lower extremities, reported in the Journal of the American Medical > > Association, Chicago, 1923, 80: 1058. > > 2 ) Tom D. Throckmorton, M.D. > Northwest Iowa Surgeons > General Surgery > Spencer, Iowa > > > The Giant Killers > Tom D. Throckmorton, M.D. > When memory keeps me company, I sometimes see, through childhood's > eyes, Old > Beecher's iron-shod hooves striking sparks from the cold, hard > paving bricks > of Main Street. Henry Ward Beecher was grandfather's faithful > carriage horse. > As the short winter day deepened into night, grandfather locked his > roll-top > desk, banked the fire in the reception room stove and shrugged > himself into a > voluminous horsehide overcoat. He then topped him-self off with a > sealskin cap > and turned the big key in the front door of the office. The sign > said "Dr. Tom > Morford Throckmorton." Scooping me up under one arm, he mounted into > the > lurching buggy and tucked me close beside him under a large buffalo > robe. This robe > smelled not only of its original occupant, but also of horse and > dust, and > that marvelously complex smell or medicine. Old Beecher knew the way > home and > took the last corner at a brisk trot. His hoof beat rang out into > the frosty > air, and the sight of those rhythmically swaying haunches together > with the > scattering showers of sparks held me spellbound. > Grandfather was a regulation, iron-clad, copper-riveted, > old-fashioned > country doctor. He practiced in a county seat town and knew every > soul and most of > the animals within a radius of fifteen miles. And that radius just > about > encompassed his lifetime. His lifetime spanned the expansion of > surgery from > amputations to the invasion of the abdominal cavity and the skull. > He saw the > germ-theory developed and proved. He owned one of the first > microscopes in the state: > a wonderously glittering brass-barrelled instrument prominently > displayed > beneath a glass bell-jar and seldom moved for actual use. > He compounded his own medicines, and proved both the safety and > palatability > of each bottle by shaking it briskly and then licking the cork. He > was stern > but beloved by the community. I have watched him hitch up a rig by > lantern > light and drive from the shelter and wavering shadows of the barn > into the face of > a dark, cold March rain - without a grumble. He brought an almost > palpable > sense of equanimity with him into an anxious household, but little > else. His > tools were pitifully inadequate to the task. I have the old > gentleman's saddle > bags, for he rode horseback when the bottomless gumbo clay would not > tolerate a > buggy during the spring thaw. They contain a variety of powders, > pills and > potions, but only three curative drugs: quinine, digitalis and > mercury. > Nonetheless, he brought almost a thousand babies into the world; he > cut and sutured > when needed; he allayed symptoms and fears alike. He treated > patients, and God > healed them. Grandfather was a towering giant in his community. At > least > half-a-hundred little boys wanted to grow up and be like "old Doe" a > term of love and > respect, never used to his face. > In 1875 grandfather swung off the Rock Island and onto the station > platform. > Just graduated from medical school in Philadelphia, he came equipped > with a > sheepskin diploma, a set of amputating knives in a teakwood case, > and a full, > deep chestnut beard which he hoped would disguise his youth and > testify to his > wisdom. When he died in 1941, the Methodist church was filled and > his > pallbearers were all old patients. Later, when his will was probated > and apportioned by > law, my share came to less than twenty dollars. > His accounts, kept in a flowing Spencerian hand, reflected thousands > of > dollars in unpaid receivables; yet, mankind was his business and his > charities were > numerous. Grandfather must have valued his charities, because he > always kept > them well hidden. > I come from a family that has always believed in giants. Many is the > time I > have heard father and grandfather discussing their old professors: > the elder > Gross and the younger Gross, W. W. Keen and DeCosta. Their > admiration for their > own giants was obvious. But I had my giants to think about; for > there were > giants in those days - men like grandfather and father. Father was a > towering > figure. He used words like honor, fortitude, charity, integrity, > responsibility, > dedication and love: these and many other such terms, now rusty with > disuse, > seemed to carry very specific meanings for him. > Father was a tremendously capable physician: general practitioner, > scientist, > neurologist, professor, and finally one of the original diplomates > of the > American Board of Neurology and Psychiatry. > Father didn't have the horse and buggy problem, but on many a fine > brisk > sub-zero morning I have watched him pour a tea kettle of hot water > over the > manifold and carburetor of his Model T Ford car before old Tin > Lizzie would shake > herself into life. And father had some real tools with which to > work: clinical > laboratory tests were burgeoning, electro-cardiography was a new > fad, x-rays > were increasingly reliable, and truly potent drugs such as > arsphenamine and > salvarsan became available. He was chief-of-staff at his hospital, > was the > secretary of the Iowa State Medical Society for many years, and > declined an > opportunity to be vice-president of the A.M.A. He was an > establishment man - and he was > his own man. I worked in the same office with him for eighteen > years. We > never had a harsh word; we truly admired each other. When father > died, his funeral > cortege was enormous. The newspaper ran a lengthy editorial > captioned "The > Beloved Physician." His passing was swift. He had been a frugal man, > had > educated four sons, and his top income for any year had been less > than $20,000. > Giants like those two great men, father and grandfather, are now > seldom seen. > Somehow when the old giants left the stage and disappeared into the > wings of > obscurity, their places were taken by men of lesser caliber: men > frustrated by > their roles, men so enmeshed in details that the thread of the plot > seemed > lost, and men who seemed to take a lesser pleasure in their work. > Here and there > a delightful anachronism does still exist, but by and large the old > medical > giants have vanished from the scene. Let us see if the causes of > their > disappearance can be found. > > > I hope these 2 items bring some life into the family names, sincerly > David > Niswender >