Grandpa
There are memories of some people and
places that seem just a little bigger than life. My memories of Grandpa are
like that, partly because visits with him were relatively brief, often separated
by considerable lengths of time. Perhaps for this reason the memories seem
clearer and are necessarily more selective.
A grandson's recollections could not possibly be adequate to form a portrait of the whole man or of a whole life. However, the same selectivity allows the image to remain untarnished.
The resort on Lake Julia near Rhinelander, Wisconsin, a couple of hundred miles north of Milwaukee, flashes in my mind when I think of Grandpa and my childhood. I've been back as an adult. The lake is not nearly so vast, the woods not so thick, the cabins not so spread out, and the rock Cheryl and I climbed not so formidable, as when I was little.
There were deer in the clearings at dusk, bear at the dump, raccoons, squirrels and chipmunks; fishing, swimming until your lips turned blue, frog hunting, horse shoes, badminton and croquet; the invigorating aroma of pine on a crisp breeze, the smell of fish being cleaned; the sparkling shimmer of sun on the lake rippled by a gentle wind in mid-afternoon; the summer house which was also the office, pine board walls, oversized red leather davenport and matching easy chairs that groaned when you moved in them, the pungent odor of pipe tobacco, pipe collection, a cast iron stand holding a thick, square glass ash tray - just right for knocking the ash out of your pipe; the driftwood as part of the decor, Grandma's paintings, wide living room window overlooking the lake, Zane Grey novels, a big bar of Ivory soap in the bathroom.
2:00 am welcomes on summertime Saturday mornings, the start of our occasional long weekends; the necessary chatter about the route taken, the traffic, etc., before going on to bed.
Grandpa, to me, meant Cheerios for breakfast, Bisquick pancakes basted with warm sausage grease and syrup; big, milky white bowls mounded with vanilla ice cream topped with honey; cream sodas; the '49 Studebaker pickup with the starter under the clutch pedal - my first experience driving it (we almost ended up in the tree at the bottom of the hill); the shed with your rock cutting and polishing tools; the mosquito fogger - I can still hear it coming.
Summer, '68 graduation present: the fishing trip with you and Dad. I almost sent you into eternity from a 14' aluminum boat on a lake in Canada. Returning from a long day of it among several islands, I was at the throttle when I skipped us across a barely submerged rock pile in the middle of nowhere. You were still seated in the bow of the boat when we came to a halt. As I remember, the motor bounced out so quickly I didn't even shear the pin. The boat got us back to where the trailer was set up, but there was a small matter of damages to be paid to the owner.
Fall '69, continuing in college at River Falls, Wisconsin. I was following the same path I had set out on at Utah State the previous year. Only much later did it seem paradoxical for a peace-loving hippie to now be aspiring to radical activism (the Vietnam War Moratorium was one or our more conservative enterprises). At the height of activity and camaraderie, when least expected, I got your letter. It was several pages long, typed, as best as I recall a warning about the Left with its dubious aims, deceitful tactics, and undesirable consequences. It dragged me out of the clouds momentarily. I tried to shrug it off. It takes a 20-year-old dreamer to ignore the voice of years of first-hand experience. Your career in the Labor movement had opened your eyes to much that I could not yet see. You were not a Communist; you did not want the movement to come under their control any more than you wanted to see it corrupted by the mob.
Winter '71-'72: you had recently moved to the farm, a beautiful quarter section, just 20-30 miles from where the resort had been. Toby, the St. Bernard, filled the kitchen and then some, slobbering on all she met; Linda and I stayed with you while we were trying to resettle up north from the Milwaukee area. There was the long drive for me to work at the shoe factory in Merrill and your loan to help us with the down payment on our 80-acre place.
