1 ) Thomas Morford Throckmorton born 04/05/1852 Waynesburg, Greene Co., PA. died 10/31/1940 in Lucas Co., Iowa. 2 ) Mary Ann Bently died 10/06/1927. 3 ) Charles G. Throckmorton died 1956 in Atlanta, Fulton Co., Georgia. 4 ) Maude Morford Throckmorton died 06/20/1925 in Lucas Co., Iowa. Married George D. Eaton born 1877 and died 06/02/1957. 5 ) Jennett Franc Throckmorton 01/26/1883 and died 1963 in Des Moines, Polk Co., Iowa. Married Charles M. Dean ( M.D. ) born 07/24/1880 and died 02/1970 ( they had no children ). 6 ) Thomas Bentley Throckmorton born 1885 and died 1965. Married Edna Jeniza Dudley born 07/02/1886 and died 04/1985 in Des Moines, Polk Co., Iowa. ( Biography ) 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. Daisy Throckmorton 1887-1969 Scott Throckmorton 1894-1963. Married Alma Otho Herreld born 01/08/1900 and died 07/15/1873 in Chariton, Lucas Co., Iowa. A Bio written for, Thomas Dercum Throckmorton. Son of Thomas Bentley Throckmorton, 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 hea led 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. sincerly David