The heart is not judged by how much it loves-
but how much it is loved by others… Frank Baum
Due to his diminuative size, Marshall was a great favorite with young people. He had only one daughter Bette, and four grandsons. Great- Grandson Andrew who lived next door was a constant companion in Marshall’s last years. Often we would sit in the little cottage, he strumming a ukelele and singing old camp songs or creating fanciful origami animals from colorful bits of paper- thin cigarillo hanging from his lips. Riding in his little red car was always an adventure as he drove everywhere at breakneck speed- red beret tipped to one side. The jaunty cap was filled with souvenir pins; sometimes he wore a blue Civil War cap and red suspenders. Marshall spent many summers with his Great Uncle Henry Christian, a Civil War vet, who lived in Southold, Long Island.
Over the years Marshall would point with a wry smile at the memorial volumes listing him as lost in the Titanic disaster. After being hauled up on deck of the Carpathia, Marshall acknowledged the only thing he could think of was getting something to eat- and was having doughnuts and cocoa when the first lists were being compiled of those saved. When Carpathia reached New York, and a comfortable hotel found for him and Aunt Lu, he sat on the steps pricking out a silhouette of the Titanic with a common pin on a scrap of paper. Marshall became a master calligrapher and artist, origamist, and photographer.
sample of his German Fractur
During his long retirement, Marshall made many friends in the art community. Friday mornings would find the group at BeeBee’s Dairy or Noah’s in Stonington- most were newspapermen, artists and photographers- and historians. In March of 1986 we went to see Dr. Ballard’s slide presentation at the University of Rhode Island. Marshall was anti-salvage but enjoyed the undersea photography of the ship. We made a final trip back home to Greenport in May of 1986, – he would never return . We parted at the ferry landing, that last morning. A lunar moth had perched on a pier piling- we got out our cameras, then said goodbye for the last time. That was sixteen years ago but he will always be with me-one of those remarkable people who enters one’s life for a brief time, and changes it forever. I asked him once in jest how he would like to be remembered. His immediate reply was “Teaching is what I’ve been most proud of.” And so when it was time to write an epitaph for the blue Westerly granite stone for River Bend cemetery , the inscription was easy. I asked him if he minded being remembered for Titanic- and being an historian of the first degree- he said, “One day, someone walking by this way may be interested to know . . . ”