Tag Archives: Colin Duncan

The Legend of Steve

Steve Kilted, n. d., courtesy of Colin Duncan

Steve Kilted, n. d., courtesy of Colin Duncan

I’ve always been proud and I’ve told friends of mine, particularly guys in the Lodge, because—a lot of you don’t know I’m a Mason and I’m an instructor in Masonic work. Every once in a while, I get a new guy who comes in and I instruct him in his work. And sometime they start bellyaching about how hard it is, how long it takes for them to memorize stuff and all that.

I say “Let me tell you a story about a relative of mine, who tried to get in medical school in the States and he had too many Bs on his grade card.” This is the story I heard. Anyway, “but he was accepted by a medical school in Italy. The only trouble is he didn’t speak Italian. So he went over there and learned enough Italian, had a tutor to help him, and went through four years of med school. He graduated, got his license, came back to the States and took his boards, and got a license here, and became a medical missionary in Africa.” And I said, “If he could do all that, surely you can learn this work.”


[Kathy]: There you go! The story of Uncle Steve.

story told by T. J. Ramey [Kathryn’s son] to the family reunion gathering on January 10, 2014; recorded and transcribed by Dawn [Steve’s daughter]

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  • Dad, you tell us the story now. Let’s hear it in your words.
  • Anyone else have a family story that got a little lofty or mangled in the re-telling? Tell us the story. How did you discover the “legend”? How was it different from your experience or your hearing of the story?

DNA Test Reveals Two Ancestors

One grandson of Taylor Duncan ran his Y-chromosomal DNA through Family Tree DNA in 2008. Since the Y-chromosome is passed from father to son, the tested DNA comes from Taylor Albert Duncan. (For you genetics geeks, that’s haplogroup R-P312.) The results reveal two ancestors.

The first is a legendary Irishman named Niall Noígíallach or “Niall of the nine hostages.” Traditional sources date Niall to the late 4th and early 5th centuries and list him as high king of Ireland. He is born in Tara of County Meath to his father’s second wife, probably a Briton.

He grows up to best his father’s first wife and older brothers, cementing his high kingship by taking hostages from the royalty of five provinces of Ireland, plus one each from Scotland, the Saxons, the Britons, and the Franks. Another source claims that the last four hostages all come from Scotland. At any rate, the Uí Néills (literally “sons of Niall,” now known as the O’Neils) reign in Ireland through the 11th century.

Niall dies at the hand of Eochaid, son of the king of Leinster, one of Niall’s tribute kings. Some sources record the circumstance as a war with Leinster, some as a raid on Brittany, France, or Scotland. (It is possible that St. Patrick was abducted in one of Naill’s raids on Brittany.)

Death of Naill of the Nine Hostages

Before he dies, however, Niall sires 12 legitimate sons and countless bastards. In 2006, geneticists at Trinity College Dublin perform a study that reveals 1 in 12 Irishmen, 6% of all Scots, and up to 3 million men worldwide carry Niall’s DNA. This puts Niall in the same category as Genghis Khan, whose DNA shows up in 8% of the Mongolian population and 16 million Asians.

It puts us Eight Duncans descendants in the same category as tons of other people. I hope you enjoy whomever you know named O’Neil. 

The second ancestor the DNA test reveals is much less legendary, but much more useful when trying to build a genealogy. His name is Matthew Duncan. He was born in 1697 and died in 1766 in Louisville, KY. We know nothing about him.


If you are interested in exploring your Duncan DNA further, you can contact the Donnachaidh DNA Project.

data provided by Colin Duncan, Bob’s son (2008), and collated by Dawn Harrell [Steve’s daughter] in 2014

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  • What stories of our ancestors do you recall being told by Taylor, Virginia, or one of Taylor’s eight children?
  • Have you had your DNA tested? What did you discover?
  • Do you have access to Matthew Duncan’s information, descendants ancestors? What can you share with us?

Robert Eugene Duncan, November 13, 1933–June 17, 2010

Bob, ca. 1968Mum called Thursday morning to tell me that Uncle Bob had died. On Monday, he was sitting up in the hospice care facility when Aunt Polly returned from a family wedding in Colorado. On Tuesday morning he was unresponsive and they decided to bring him home. Mum spent Tuesday and Wednesday nights with them. On Thursday morning, Mum was holding his shoulders while the hospice caregiver bathed him. He opened his eyes wide and stopped breathing.

How many people felt the air go out of them when they heard that news. Expected perhaps, but not welcome. Death never is. God comfort my Aunt Polly, my cousins Andy, Gene, and Colin, my dad and his sisters and brother. We all feel so sad.

Uncle Bob is most assuredly not sad. He’s been longing to hear his “well done, good and faithful servant” (Matt 25:21) for a while now. “I want to be at home,” he told me several times during those long months in the hospital. When he opened his eyes wide, I’m sure he was taking his first look at the Home of all homes.

He would have recognized it. After all, he and Aunt Polly created a home, not just for their children, but for me and my three sisters, for their many other missionary kid nieces and nephews, for the larger family, for their church families, for just about anybody who needed to feel welcomed. My dad tells the story of Uncle Bob catching heat from Aunt Polly when he even welcomed some hippies to set up their tent on the Duncan front lawn, years before I ever moved in.

For many of those years, Uncle Bob and Aunt Polly’s house was my Grandmother Duncan’s home, too—the family seat. When I was a kid, we would drive to the Fort Square parsonage for holidays and birthdays. Far flung family, returning from Illinois, Georgia, California, France, Peru, Colombia, and beyond, could be found in their house. All through high school and college, their home was the one to which I returned during vacations.

During one of my school breaks, I heard Uncle Bob praise me to my parents, “I’ve never walked into my own kitchen and had anyone ask me what they could get for me.” This might sound self-serving until you know that meeting other people’s needs, predicting and supplying them seamlessly was my childhood “job,” my role in the family, but no one had ever noticed that out loud. Uncle Bob saw it in me. He saw me. And for an adolescent girl, who wouldn’t figure out who she was for another fifteen years, being seen and celebrated was profoundly important. He saw into many of our souls.

Uncle Bob became my second father. There were things he could say to me, which I couldn’t have heard from my own dad. As a young adult in crisis, I craved his voice of wisdom, though it was probably the quality of his listening and his sense of assurance that changed things for me. And not just me. Years after he’d left one church, a troubled parishioner would still call him at home, usually at dinnertime, and pour out her anxieties. He always took that call.

He could listen, but Uncle Bob could speak firmly, too. During Urbana ’97, which we attended together, we met for lunch one day. I told him about a young roommate who was asking me many questions concerning women in ministry, which is still a controversial topic in some churches. Though I myself was in seminary, I’d counseled her cautiously because I didn’t want to get her in trouble with her elders. “It doesn’t sound like that is what she needs to hear right now,” he challenged me.

He was a good preacher, too. He’d trot out his sermon ideas during Saturday night dinners and I enjoyed listening to him weave them together on Sunday morning. He delivered the homily at my wedding seven years ago, driving with Aunt Polly from Ballston Spa in New York even though they had to turn around just hours later so he could be home to deliver the sermon on Sunday morning.

Uncle Bob officiated at many weddings, including my cousin Sandy’s thirty-three years ago. I still remember him complaining to my father, a surgeon: “Everybody thinks they know best. Family at weddings where I’m the minister is like relatives crowded into your operating room, all insisting, “Less blood now. Can’t you cut after the tumor is removed? No. No. We need fifteen clamps, not five.”

Being a preacher was good, but what he really wanted to be was a missionary. At least, he really wanted to experience the world. Before he tried seminary, he tried the armed forces, but they wouldn’t send him overseas because of the metal pin in his leg, the result of a youthful motorcycle accident. He and Aunt Polly even moved to Costa Rica temporarily to learn Spanish during the early ‘90s just to see if this wouldn’t morph into a call to missions.

Still God didn’t send them, so he had to content himself with traveling, which he did avidly. He visited missionaries and missionary family members ever chance he got. He led tours to the Holy Land. He joined a Presbyterian delegation to the church in Cuba. He visited his grand-children in Korea. For a long time, an apt cartoon of him in his preaching robe and hiking pack hung on the basement wall. “After the benediction,” it read, “Polly and I will be leaving for Israel.”

One time he and Polly were lost in Morocco. They’d eaten something that disagreed with them. It was hot and they were out of water. And now they were in danger of missing the ferry back to Spain. Afraid and unable to find anyone who spoke English, they leaned against a wall and prayed. Seconds later an old woman touched him on the arm and motioned for them to follow her, which they did. She led them back to the boat, but when they turned to thank her, she was gone. Years later, he still claimed that God had sent them an angel.

There wasn’t anywhere he wouldn’t go. And if he couldn’t fly, he drove. He loved to drive and he loved cars. On one long trip, we stopped at a gas station for a break. Heading back to the station wagon, he detoured to an old Studebaker. Without a qualm, he pulled open the door and leaned in to inhale. “I just wanted to smell it,” he explained.

There were many drives to and from college and during one, he collected me at my roommate’s house. “Whadya got in here, a dead minister?” my friend’s dad teased as he hoisted my suitcase into Uncle Bob’s car. Then realizing that Uncle Bob was a minister, he blushed and apologized, but Uncle Bob was too busy laughing. Laughter and tears came easily to Uncle Bob.

He enjoyed music and reading, filling his theological shelves with all comers. “Don’t read that commentary,” he exclaimed one day when he found me in his office after Sunday worship. He didn’t think the author’s scholarship was sound, but the book was still on his shelf. Another time, he lent me his favorite book A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken. “What is it,” I asked? “A love story about a couple who try to build the perfect love between them. It’s a selfish love, though, because its only expression is inward.” In that book Uncle Bob recognized his own ideal as well as the temptation to selfishness curled up inside.

Uncle Bob was unselfish, a good minister. He preached well. He pastored empathetically. He visited the sick constantly. He used to wear a clerical collar when he went to the hospital to keep security and nurses from questioning his motives. This earned him the honorary “Father” because people thought he was a Catholic priest, and some not so honorary glares when people saw him with his beautiful young wife Polly sitting in the front seat of a car together.

During this past year in and out of hospitals, his ministry to his own caregivers continued. Word of his testimony filtered back to me through many sources: Our daughter’s babysitter’s husband played cards with him a couple of times and I heard about his love for Jesus. A woman who knew one of my co-leaders in ministry was married to one of his doctors. I heard about his faithfulness from her. His family and I are grateful to all those who cared for him and for Aunt Polly through this final, hardest sickness.

My sisters and cousins and I cannot properly thank Colin, Gene, and Andy for sharing their parents with us. Uncle Bob and Aunt Polly leaned on God for their apparently endless store of family love, but I know it was sometimes your space that we took up. All of us in the church families that they served have a debt of gratitude to you. Thank you for sharing even your grieving space with us.

The last time I heard Uncle Bob pray, we were together in one of his hospital rooms. I was taking up his grandson’s space, so I gave hugs and turned to Uncle Bob. He held out his hand.

His grip was strong. Before I could offer, he began to pray. He prayed a short blessing on me and my dad, who was in Angola at the time. Then he began to bless God. He asked him to “be with us here, too” and confessed “for we do not know what tomorrow will bring” in a cadence and with a strength that sounded like Uncle Bob in the pulpit. He told God, in a tone that felt instructive to us also, that “we will be careful to offer nothing but thanksgiving” and “we will have nothing but praise on our lips for you.”

And interspersed with his prayers he said, over and over, “and we will rise with the wings of the morning. We look forward to rising with the wings of the morning.”

He was misquoting Psalm 139, applying it to himself as he looked ahead to his new day. It reads, “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I fear, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you” (vv. 9–13).

Even this darkness is as light to our God. Uncle Bob has risen on the wings of the morning. Our turn will come.

written by Dawn Duncan Harrell (Steve’s daughter) on the occasion of Bob’s death, June 19, 2010

Can you add to the story? Please do. Write in the box below. (You may need to click “Leave a Reply” above to make the box, name, and address fields appear.)

  • Do you recall other stories about Bob as an adult? Please tell us.
  • Do you have a Bob preaching story? A visiting Bob story? A Bob’s book story? A Bob traveling story?
  • Can Did you live with Bob as a child while your parents were elsewhere? What stands out to you? Do you have a story of that time to tell?
  • Did Bob perform your wedding ceremony? How did it go? What do you remember about it?

Bob Is Not a Sugar Daddy

[Virginia] Now, explain.

[Bob] Oh, how we got this daughter?

[Virginia] Mn-hmm.

[Lee] How did you get the daughter? That’s what she asked you.

[Virginia] Well, yeah, but let him finish.

[Bob] Yeah. I know. That’s another story.

First Presbyterian Church of Mineola, present, 182 First Street, Mineola, NY 11501Well, the reason for that was: In the Mineola church [where Bob was pastor, 1983–1991], on the edge of, you know, Nassau County in New York on Long Island, we had a church that three or four Korean people came to me one day and said, “Would it be possible for you to let us use your church after you’re done? We’ll come in at, say, one o’clock.” So I got the session’s permission. Not everybody was excited about it. Ach, prejudice. Terrible. Anyway, we agreed to it. Well that group grew from four or five people to a larger group than my . . . church.

[Virginia] English-speaking.

[Bob] English-speaking church. I got very close to them. I taught the Korean young people Sunday school because they needed. . . . These kids were so acclimated to the United States they couldn’t speak Korean. So I said, “Well, I’ll teach them.” That was kind of fun.

This young woman was at Stony Brook University out on the Island and I got to be kind of close to the family. Her brother was in my youth group along with all the rest of them.

[Polly] Well, both brothers.

[Bob] Both brothers, yeah.

Her father was taken down to Philadelphia because he was quite sickly. They didn’t know what was wrong with him. He died down there of cancer. He was just full of cancer and they didn’t know what the trouble was. So I had part of the funeral and all of the rest of it. A few weeks later, a month later, she came to me in the hallway one Sunday morning. She said, “You know my daddy’s dead. Will you be my daddy?”

[Polly] Yeah.

[Bob] So that was the beginning. We’ve been very close. She still is—I was just down last week to see her.

[Polly] Mn-hmm. With Andrew.

[Bob] With Andrew. She’s very generous. She married a guy who became a pharmacist. She’s just very generous with her gifts and all the rest of it. She was raised in a home where she couldn’t talk to her father. She told me more about that while we were there.

[Virginia] Because of the language barrier or because. . . .

[Bob] No. No. Because he was very austere.

[Polly] He just wasn’t, he just wasn’t. . . .

[Bob] Very distant and austere.

[Polly] And even her mother—if I might just interject—

[Bob] No you can’t.

[Polly] Ha! Well, anyway. Since when did I ask permission?

But because her mom was still alive. I have to admit I kind of dragged my feet about this a little bit. I was happy. I really liked JiYoung a lot. I was actually closer—her sister died very young of cancer. Her sister was older than she is. And I had gotten to know JiYan [sp?], she was. . . .

Grandma Duncan was part of this family. They just dearly, dearly loved Grandma Duncan. They really were very respectful, as you would imagine an Asian of age would be anyway. They would always approach Grandma—I’m diverting for a moment, but I know this is important. They were wonderful to her. They would just always, always, all the Koreans would come and greet Grandma first, and then the pastor, and then me. That was just the way it was, which was very, very special.

Anyway, you know, I knew the family. Really didn’t get to know JiYoung very well. Because we had such a good family I said, “Oh, are we going to embrace another family member?” And yet, I wasn’t really mean about it, but I have to admit. . . . And the other fact was, yes, she had lost her dad and I knew her dad, too, a little bit, JiYoung’s dad, but I also knew her mom and felt I didn’t want to usurp that.

[Bob] Intrude.

[Polly] Though she is not close to her mother. She loves her mother and everything, but they’re not really, really close.

[Bob] They’re not buddies at all.

[Polly] She has confided in me, as the years have gone on—and I’m very, very fond of her; I consider her now my daughter—but it took a while for me personally until the relationship, umm. I’m always trying to be careful when Grandpa, when Uncle Bob explains this, I don’t want him to come across as a sugar daddy or something like that, you know. Whatever that means. He did become a confidante daddy to her that was very, very needful for her at the time, you know. I realize that more so now as the years have gone on. I’ve gotten close to her. She’s shared a lot with me, too.

[Virginia] What’s the age difference between Colin and I’m guessing she’s younger?

[Polly] JiYoung is what 32 or 33 maybe now?

[Bob] She’s closer to Colin in age.

[Polly] Yeah. Colin’s 39, so maybe she’s 36 or 37.

[Bob] Yeah. Oh, it’s terrible. I don’t remember her age.

[Polly] You’re bad.

[Bob] I’ll have to find out.

[Polly] And I’m bad, too. But anyway, yeah, we’re fairly close.

redacted transcription of a story told by Bob and Polly (his wife) to Virginia (Lee’s daughter) and Lee and Ken (Lee’s second husband) during a visit to California in January 2004

Can you add to the story? Please do. Write in the box below (You may need to click “Leave a Reply” above to make the box, name, and address fields appear.).

  • What is JiYoung’s sister’s name, the one who died of cancer?
  • What year did JiYoung’s father die?

Grandma Gets Mugged

My stories about Grandma D. [Virginia] tend to be from the perspective of a teenage boyLee, Virginia, Bob at the Fort Square Presbyterian Church Manse, Pleasant Street, Quincy, MA, n.d. (strangely enough), but I did get a lot of insight on her prayer life (while I squirmed at the dinner table), an appreciation of her knowledge of the Bible, and a kind of awe about her “toughness.” When she was about eighty years old [ca. 1979], she nearly got her purse—a big suitcase of a thing—snatched from her while walking home to the house [at 28 Pleasant Street] in Quincy [MA]; but she refused to give it up. She didn’t let go and eventually sat on it, depriving the would-be snatcher of a supposedly easy take. She called for me when she finally arrived home, shaken, but whole. Not sure there is a reformed—and/or humiliated—purse-snatcher out there, but Grandma knew how to handle herself. And she didn’t take any guff from her grandsons or their impudent friends.

Colin Duncan (Bob’s son), November 7, 2012

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  • Do you recall other details of this story such as: Where was she walking from? Why was she walking? What was the exact year?
  • Can you share your own story of Grandma’s “toughness”?