© Kathy Duncan, 2026
I would like to dedicate my James S. Piper series of ongoing posts to my first cousin, Lowell Lennon. He is the son of my mother's only sister. His Facebook post in the fall of 2023 about the Mexican War Veteran's medal that belonged to his ancestor, Capt. James S. Piper triggered me to poke into Piper's history once again, and this time I had much more success than I had ever had before.
Lowell and I exchanged Facebook DMs and emails as information bubbled to the surface. He was able to answer questions for me about all things army. Along the way, life had several difficult turns and twists for us. Lowell's son, David Bush, was diagnosed with cancer and lost his life last spring. Lowell and his wife were devastated. Last year, Lowell's youngest brother and my youngest cousin was diagnosed with a rare cancer. He lost his battle last month.
Yesterday, I attended Lowell's own celebration of life service. He lost his six-month battle with leukemia a week ago. He was laid to rest by his mother, father, and brother. Maybe not so strangely, he is very near my paternal grandparents.
Lowell was the cousin who kept us giggling at the children's table during holiday meals. He was the older cousin who made the whole family beam with pride when he went off to West Point. Our grandmother had a newspaper clipping about it displayed under glass on the top of her coffee table, where no one could miss it. He was the cousin who came back with a Corvette and gave each of us a ride in it.
When my father died in 2018, Lowell spoke at his memorial. He told stories that revealed how my cousins viewed my father. Lowell described my father as the uncle who could be counted on to bring an amazing gadget each visit: one year a reel-to-reel tape recorder, another year a Polaroid camera, and one year a bright red Chevrolet Corvair. I was deeply touched that he commemorated my father's life with laughter and love. When I thanked him for coming all the way from Pennsylvania to East Texas for the service, he put his hand on his chest and said, "Of course, he was my own uncle!"
At the time, it reminded me of people in the past who, when referring to their full-blooded relatives, used phrases like "my own sister," "my own brother," and "my own aunt."
Bert Lowell Lennon was my own cousin, and he will be greatly missed.
