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Isabelle Bewley's Perilous Journey
as Told by Fred W. Bewley
This material may at first seem a little off topic for a site dedicated to the Hathaway Ranch Museum and the Hathaway Family, but the family of Charles Arthur and Isabelle Bewley was destined to become closely involved with the Hathaway family. The Bewley's had four children, Thomas William, Wayland, Frederick Winslow and Helen Margaret. The relationship between the two families began with Thomas W. Bewley, who was a practicing attorney in nearby Whittier, California, and he was the oldest son of C. Arthur and Isabelle Bewley. At some point, probably during the early 1930s, Jesse Hathaway had contacted Tom Bewley in regards to his help with some sort of legal issue. Apparently the two got along well and a long term professional relationship took root, whereupon Tom Bewley would regularly visit the Hathaway Ranch to converse with Jesse Hathaway. On one evening in 1935 Tom brought along his younger sister, Helen Margaret, who was babysitting her brother's adopted son, Kent. While Tom dealt with legal issues his sister attended to Kent, while at the same time no doubt being courteously social with Hathaway family members. This visitation would have been of no further consequence except for the fact that Jesse and Lola Hathaway’s youngest son, Julian, met Helen. She paid no attention to him, but Julian, however, who had several young ladies interested in him, apparently decided at that moment that Helen was the girl for him. He later telephoned her on several occasions but Helen was always busy. Finally she accepted his invitation and on their first date Julian drove to the East Coyote oilfield (southeast of the little town of Brea) where he showed her some of the Hathaway Company's oil wells. The relationship grew and two years later they were married on June 27, 1937.
 The little white house on the Hathaway Ranch as it appeared in 2005. It is looking quite tired compared to when Arthur and Isabelle Bewley moved into the small house, circa 1944. |
In the meantime, beginning sometime about 1920 Arthur and Isabelle Bewley rented and lived in a large two-story house in the Bixby Hills area of Long Beach. There was a wooden oil derrick in the vacant lot next door to the house, as well as other oil derricks nearby. Although the Bewley's were never involved in the oil business they did, nonetheless, live at the edge of what was the Long Beach/Signal Hill oil boom that began about 1921, while the Hathaway Family enjoyed a similar "edge of the oil boom" experience in Santa Fe Springs. About 1944 the rental house was put up for sale and because Arthur and Isabelle could not afford to buy it they were forced to find a new place to live. Whittier was a first choice, but after a few days of uneventful searching Jesse Hathaway offered the empty little white house that was perhaps two hundred feet east of the ranch's main access driveway (this structure still exists and is currently used by the Hathaway Ranch Museum for an on site custodian). The rent was $12 per month. After moving in, the tiny back porch area was greatly enlarged into an additional room. C. Arthur Bewley passed away in the font bedroom of the little house after a brief illness in March of 1957, while Isabelle continued to live in the house until circa 1962-63, when she moved into an apartment close to her friends in Whittier, California. Isabelle Bewley passed away in January of 1966.
What follows below is an amalgam of some concise Bewley Family history coupled with Fred Bewley's story about Isabelle's courageous two-week journey to Long Beach. The source information for this article is excerpted from hand-typed autobiographical writings by Frederick Winslow Bewley, dated 1995, and entitled Till Now in My Life. Frederick (Fred) was the youngest male child of Arthur and Isabelle Bewley. The excerpted text is not strictly verbatim; typos and misspellings have been corrected, and a few paragraphs have been repositioned to enhance the logical flow of the story. The photographs accompanying this article have been added and were never part of Fred Bewley's autobiographical text. Notes/comments added for ease of clarity are in brackets.
In 1902 a book, published by Sir Edmund Thomas Bewley, and titled THE BEWLEYS OF CUMBERLAND, the genealogy of the Bewley family is traced back to 1332, which is much too detailed and lengthy to repeat here. A few bits of information must suffice for this writing.
As early as the ninth century the Latin phrase BELLUS LOCUS was used commonly in France as a place name for some particularly beautiful location and was often associated with monastic or ecclesiastical sites. One of those sites was in Normandy along the Dordogne River where an abbey was built under the Benedictine rule. In time the Latin place name became “Beaulieu,” a French equivalent of the Latin. Commonly, place names were taken as family names by those who lived there and Beaulieu is the origin of the Anglicized name "Bewley." There are, of course, many families which started as “du Beaulieu” but for this writing I am concerned solely with those from whom I am descended.
The exact date is not known but probably about 1300 some “du Beaulieus” migrated from Normandy to the lake region of England known as Cumberland. The name “du Beaulieu” shows up in public and church records with a number of different spellings which can be related through other kinds of records and finally became “Bewley,” apparently about the time of Henry VIII who signed certain land grants using the latter spelling.
 The Bewley home in Mountmillick, Ireland, where Grandfather Bewley lived as a boy. |
From England some Bewleys migrated to Ireland to settle around the Irish town of Mountmellick and many of the relatives live now in and around Dublin. My great grandfather George and his sister Anne came to the United States to locate in Cincinnati, Ohio, from where my grandfather Thomas moved to Butlerville, Indiana.
The Bewleys of Cumberland became Quakers during the time that George Fox was preaching and gathering followers and in his Journal mentioned an ancestor of mine, “old Thomas Bewley.” The use of the word “old” in this reference probably was to indicate the elder of a father and son who were both Quaker preachers. The Quaker conviction has lasted though later generations with some, but not all, of the descendants of Old Thomas keeping the faith.
There have been many names used in the Bewley family but Thomas, George, and Richard have had the most frequent use. Happily, the name “Mungo” died out when my great great grandfather passed away.
The Anglicizing of the name became more understandable to me when I learned that the Normans had their own way of pronouncing it. Having the benefit of high school French I thought “Beaulieu” was pronounced “Bōloo” but learned (at a town in England named Beaulieu) that the Norman pronunciation was “Bulee.” The English kept the same sounds but changed the spelling.
 Charles Arthur Bewley, son Thomas William and Isabelle (Hoskins) Bewley, circa 1907. |
My elder brother, Thomas William Bewley [born May 25, 1903], also was born in Cincinnati [Frederick was born on May 10, 1907]. Another brother, Wayland, was born [November 5, 1905] in Cincinnati but survived only two days. While I was still a boy the family moved from Cincinnati to Indianapolis, Indiana, and lived in a house on Julian Street and it was there that my sister Helen Margaret was born [August 8, 1910], an event that I remember though only three years old. Incidentally, she later married a man named Julian [Julian Ivan Hathaway]. My memory of the house is unclear but I do remember a Christmas spent there. Mother's brother Charles and his family were there and he left to help Santa because he had heard that he was caught in the snow. Santa came in soon but, strangely, Uncle Charlie did not get back until Santa had left. The children thought it was too bad he missed the fun but he cheerfully brushed it off.
My father [Charles Arthur Bewley, born June 30, 1872] never went beyond the fourth grade in school but he read regularly and kept himself informed on current topics and tried to keep informed on national and world events. His thinking and behavior were deeply colored by his strong religious beliefs. Even at times of intense anger his Quaker background prevented him from resorting to physical violence. He took pride and satisfaction in knowing that his family had been Quaker since the time of George Fox and he sought to live by Quaker beliefs. Like others of us, he had times of shortcoming — but he tried his best.
My mother's girlhood was not always happy [Isabelle was born Nolabelle Hoskins on March 18, 1879, but hated the name Nolabelle and so she arbitrarily changed it to Isabelle]. Her father died while the family lived in Kansas and her mother moved the family back to Fairmount, Indiana. When mother was a young teenager her mother died and the family was broken up. It was her good fortune to be taken in by the Nixon Winslow family, a highly respected and substantial family in Fairmount. They provided her with a loving and caring home in which she was accepted like a daughter. The picture I have of her tells me they acquired a beautiful daughter and my middle name is an expression of her loving gratitude.
No child ever had a more loving and devoted mother than ours. With the limited income our family always had life was not easy for her but there was never a lack of caring love and honest interest in her children's welfare and activities. I wonder how often, when I was hurting from shin splints caused by a teen age spurt of growth, she sat on the edge of my bed rubbing my shins when I am sure she would rather have been in bed herself. Whether it was a cut finger or hurt feelings mother was there.
Social Security numbers, plastic credit cards and birth certificates were conceived after I appeared on the scene, so I began life without the benefit of formal identification. Years of my life were spent with no verification but my mother's word. This lack of official record was no problem until I wanted a passport to make foreign travel possible. I needed evidence that my date and place of birth entitled me to claim American citizenship.
 Frederick Winslow (Fred) Bewley and his German Sheppard dog, Fritz, at the Bixby Hills, Long Beach, house, 1922. |
The Long Beach school system (fortunately) had kept old enrollment data and sent me a copy showing that my mother had made statements about these facts when entering me in school. I had a life insurance policy showing the same facts and got a copy of a 1910 census record attesting to identical information. Since the statements had not been made in connection with a passport application they were presumed to be true. These were sent to the Probate Court in Cincinnati and in time an official document was returned to me in which the Court certified that, as alleged, I had been born on May 10, 1907, in Cincinnati, Ohio, to Charles Arthur Bewley and Isabelle Hoskins Bewley. I can now leave the country with assurance that I can come home.
The records mentioned above state that my full name is Frederick Winslow Bewley, which is what it remained until I entered high school. By that time I had grown to dislike being called Frederick and I thought that changing schools gave me an opportunity to undo the evil, so I registered myself as Fred, although I seriously considered becoming Winslow Bewley, a name I much preferred. I decided that much of a change might confuse my records and I could end up without credit for attending elementary school. I am more comfortable being Fred than I would have been as Frederick.
However, I came perilously close to having a tragic name. My father had two ancestors who were named “Mungo” (that's right, Mungo) and he wanted to give me that name. My mother (God bless her) stood firm in her refusal to agree and I shall be eternally grateful. Very likely my descendants will share my gratitude. Beyond that, would there ever have been a "Mrs. Mungo?"
I loved my father, I really did, but sometimes his short fuse made it difficult. He often “flew off the handle” (my mother's term) without what seemed to me adequate provocation. I have no memory of him using corporal punishment but his loud verbal lashing made his displeasure unmistakably clear. At the same time he was devoted to his family and worked diligently to provide for us. During the depression of the early thirties when jobs were hard to get and he, as a carpenter, had no full time work, he was out every day finding work and there always was food on our table even though we had to skimp in other ways.
My mother often told me that all my life [toy] trains had been of special interest to me and that, as a small child, I would entertain myself lying on the floor with something in my hand which I pushed back and forth as I said “choo choo.” One day, when I must have been about ten or eleven, I saw a wind up Ives train in a store window and set my heart to somehow acquire it. The price was an exorbitant $4.00 which, when eggs were ten cents a dozen and bread eight cents a loaf, seemed to be beyond a boy's reach. I cannot remember what the projects may have been but the day came when the nickels and dimes came to a total of $3.50. A cousin, Margaret Neill, came down from Denair for a visit and stayed at our house a few days. She learned of my project and just before leaving slipped fifty cents in my hand with the words "Go get your train." I had always been fond of Margaret but I suddenly loved her with a passion. No model train ever had better care and, if Margaret were still living, I would write her to say that the train is still in running condition and is now probably worth several hundred dollars, if a collector had a chance to buy it.
Some of my father's brothers and sisters had previously moved to California and the urge to "go west" hit my father. There is not too much I remember about the trip except that it was a long train ride. We went to Fairmount for a last visit with mother's family and took the train to Chicago late on a snowy, cold night and changed to the California train there. We must have been on the Union Pacific since I remember going through Salt Lake City and getting off to see the Mormon Temple and then getting snow bound for a while on the way to Los: Angeles. The highlight of the trip, if it can be called that, was when the conductor locked the door of the toilet just before we came to a station -- with me inside. It was quite a commotion but it got my release.
In Long Beach we went to live with father's brother George and their mother who lived with him. She was well along in years, not at all active so my memory of her is that she spent her days in a rocking chair complaining about the noise three kids could make. Mother entered Tom and me in the Atlantic Avenue School but our enrollment was short lived. I got the mumps and put all three of us in quarantine. Happy grandma! Two weeks later Helen Margaret began her turn and not long after that Tom did the same. Tom had a severe case that went into pneumonia and the doctor told our parents that we had to get away from the ocean. Somehow father found someone who had an orange ranch in the San Joaquin Valley and wanted a caretaker. We packed up, took the train to Strathmore and settled into a ranch house near the grove.
When the next school year started I began the first grade over again in the school at Strathmore. We had a horse and buggy in which we drove to church in Lindsay and on one of these trips I had an accident which has caused me lower back pain frequently since. I was standing, along with Tom, in the back of the buggy when the horse jumped forward throwing me out backward and landing on my back. Two doctors have said I have a cracked vertebra and there are times when I believe they are right.
Tom's health improved as hoped and the following summer it was decided we should go back to Long Beach. Here starts the story that has always made me feel my mother was a woman of great courage. Father went on to find a job and a place to live and mother was left with three children, a horse and carriage (which had replaced the buggy) and no money to ride the train. The household goods were shipped by train but the family was to travel the miles in the carriage.
Early in the summer of 1915 the carriage was loaded and with the goodbyes and best wishes of neighbors we started off early one morning with our little dog trotting along beneath the carriage, shaded from the hot sun. By noon we had gone perhaps twelve miles and reached Porterville where we stopped in a park to have lunch. I do not know how mother did it but when a meal time came we always had food to eat. Beside the park was a small irrigation ditch and we kids had a cooling paddle in the water before getting back on the road. That evening we reached Ducor and found a friendly farmer who let us camp in his yard and even let us have a dip in his irrigation reservoir to wash off the dust and heat of the day.
The following two days we traveled on through Richgrove and Famoso to reach the outskirts of Bakersfield on the fourth day. There we found some friendly people with a big grassy yard who welcomed us to stop. When they learned that we were to cross the desert area south of Bakersfield they insisted that we stay for a day to rest ourselves and the horse. This idea sounded too good to be true and I have no doubt both mother and the horse needed that respite. In 1915 the area from Bakersfield to the mountains was an expanse of undeveloped desert traversed by a dirt road that was little more than a wagon track. We had been told not to go directly to Grapevine but take a longer route where we could stop for the night at Rose Station, an old Butterfield Stage stop where we could replenish our water supply. The people at Rose Station were amazed that we had made it across the desert and welcomed us warmly to their Spartan but friendly hospitality.
The next day we drove in the cool of morning to Grapevine to join the auto road that climbed up the Grapevine canyon and reached Lebec by evening. In those days there was a small lake east of Lebec that offered a pleasant place to camp where we again could have a refreshing splash in cool water. Not only were our weary bodies relaxed but spirits were raised also by knowing that the most difficult part of the trip, the desert, was behind us.
After leaving Lebec we climbed over the divide and down into Gorman where the road turned eastward along the south side of Antelope Valley. For a ways we were in desert again but soon the road went up into the hills so we had water in streams and cooler air. That night we camped by a school that was closed for the summer but provided a source of water. The next day we went on to Elizabeth Lake and had what we later learned was our last chance to enjoy the fun and beauty of a lake.
 Left to right: Arthur Bewley, friend Vern Hedden, Isabelle Bewley, son Thomas William Bewley, son Frederick Winslow Bewley, unidentified friend, daughter Helen Margaret Bewley and friend Nina Hedden posing alongside the Bewley's Willow Street house in Long Beach, circa 1918. |
From Elizabeth Lake the road turned southwesterly to follow down the canyon to Saugus which, at our speed, was two days away. As we got to lower elevations the summer sun got hot and all of us were ready for the trip to end. The fun, the excitement, the anticipation were gone. We finally reached Saugus and camped, then over the last divide to San Fernando and, weary and bone tired, we arrived in Long Beach just after dark on the fourteenth day. Yes, my mother was courageous—and I am tired just from the telling.
Having lived in California as long as I have I have learned many things about the desert which could not have been known to either my father or mother. They had never lived near, and certainly not in, desert country, so they were completely ignorant of the dangers of travel it presented. Mother blithely took off from Bakersfield to cross through what then was open desert on a dirt wagon track where there was no place to get water for the horse and only enough for lunch for us. We traveled the whole day without seeing another human being and with no one ahead knowing we were coming and would have missed us if we did not arrive. A breakdown or having the horse fail from simple dehydration would have had fatal results for the family. Ignorance may be bliss but it also is dangerous and I often shudder at how close we may have been to tragedy on the trek from Bakersfield to Rose Station then on to Grapevine. The ending of that trip was a blessing we little comprehended.
Fred W. Bewley (deceased), Terry Hathaway (Introduction)
Terry Hathaway.
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