Down the Buster Trail

This exploration started out with a singular intention of wanting to know who my ancestors were, and nothing more, like anyone else on the planet.  For years I had procrastinated with my lack of commitment to finally swim in the many rivers of genealogy.  It was work.  It was consuming.  And serious genealogy is not for the faint of heart. I had once made a quick trip to one of my ancestral places, took photos of their tombstones, and returned home within the same day. Mainly, I was inspired by a class assignment in college to turn in for a passing grade. Mental synopses were deposited in my brain’s reservoirs, recited to me by my mother before her passing.  The only material I had about the Busters was the fact that my great-grandmother, Myrtle, had been one prior to marrying into the Kollenborn family on the Great Plains of Kansas, just on the cusps of the 20th Century. And oh, yes, to the story about how her father, Henry, threatened to disown her if she would elope with Harry who was a notorious womanizer.  You see, Harry hadn’t yet divorced when they got involved.  In fact, Harry’s first wife gave birth a year after Myrtle got pregnant. I can only imagine what her father said about that event in 1908. I envision chickens screeching in their coop and stray dogs howling right alongside of Henry’s high temperament, especially having been a single parent for two years. I also envision Myrtle, with her belly beginning to show a bump, sobbing on the porch, holding a cloth bag of her meager belongings, her youngest siblings still in the house, a sister and two brothers, despondently staring out the window as they watch their twenty-two year old sister slip off into the dark unknown to marry a man nearly three years younger than herself. 

Twelve years later, to magnify the scandal, Harry disappeared.  The rumor: one of the women he was having an affair with had two brothers who were released from prison. When Harry disappeared in 1920, so did the money, the Ford Model-T, and his mistress’s two brothers.  Harry never contacted his family since; including his father who was dearly close to him despite his foibles. Subsequently Myrtle moved to California while the decade was still fresh and prosperous and could offer promises her wayward husband could not. On the train to central California, (regrettably her two brothers died in 1918— one in France during the war, the other from influenza,) she took her three younger children, my grandfather among them, while her other two older sons stayed behind to finish high school in the rural town of Iola.  Henry, her father, never did remarry.

So now, let’s backtrack to my singular intention.  Foremost, middle age has an uncanny way of redefining your identity.  And so does the death of both your parents within nine months due to two types of cancer. Existential crisis echoes in between your ears like Woody Allen’s nasally voice. It’s poignant. And annoying and unwelcoming at times.  I couldn’t write during this transition.  The void left me anxious, sore in my chest, and extremely bored.  Insanely so.  Once I completed my TV binging, I finally monopolized the time to explore my parents’ lineages, and what’s more, had an unwavering commitment. The months spent revealed a heavy history.  I had no idea my lineage in America endured four hundred years.  I understood pre-Revolutionary on my father’s side, but not during early European colonization that went as far back as the 1620’s.  No, not the Mayflower, and certainly not Jamestown; although— pretty damn close! The Massachusetts and Plymouth Bay Colonies finally resonated as I was able to connect these old histories with mine. 

On my mother’s side, I could even trace back to Dutch New York during the 1660’s. However, when the Busters, also on my mother’s side, had emigrated during the early 18th Century from the United Kingdom at first I didn’t think much more about them as I did with the others.  I’ve always thought the surname was a bit odd and humorous, often thinking about old Depression Era movies with their Transatlantic accents, calling out to strangers, “Hey, Buster!”  I linked my direct line to the Revolutionary War, War of 1812, and of course, the Civil War.  I pursued the paper footprints from Virginia to Kentucky to Illinois, and ultimately to Kansas.  Striking facts about my many generational great-grandfathers accumulated. It became like an Easter egg hunt and I wondered how many “eggs” I could find in historical archives and newspapers. Then I got curious about my generational great-uncles as well; chiefly, Captain Claudius and Claudius Caesar.  With names like those, one would have to be a dullard to not investigate further. When I read about Claudius Jr’s exploits in Texas prior to and after the Mexican-American War, and about his direct descendants, I slowly realized that I had discovered something larger than my direct family tree. Aside from taking notice of how often their names appeared in historical print from the East and West Coasts, and finding shared stories on,, and other online resources, as their personalities transformed from one dimensional relics to human beings, that was when I decided to tribute to the Buster clan.

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