Christmas 2009

Rebecca’s father died last week, and that has added a bitter sweet note to Christmas, but our grandsons, the twins. are seven this year and Christmas, and I can’t imagine a better age for appreciating Christmas. It is still early; no presents have been unwrapped; and we are busy preparing for the arrival of relatives for dinner. In defiance of the recession, we bought more expensive gifts than usual, hoping the generosity will dispel some of the gloom that hovers over the holiday this year.

The sun shown for a while yesterday. The skies this morning are still dark but behind the dark mountains in the east, it is shining bright, and the weather forecast holds out the possibility for clear skies tonight. The twins are mad about science, astronomy, biology and we are eager to encourage them. We bought a telescope for them, a nice four and a half inch reflector that fills their grandfather’s requirements as well as the boy’s. I would like to demonstrate it to the boys (and myself!) tonight. I wanted a telescope desperately when I was their age and older, and now, through the generations, I have it and so do they.

Another Christmas in the house my great grandfather Gottlieb built for my grandfather.

Merry Christmas

Eldon Barrett

Brandt's Cormorant
Brandt's Cormorant

Eldon Barrett, my father-in-law, died 16 December 2009, a few minutes past midnight. I had already gone to bed. My wife, Rebecca, woke me to tell me her mother had called. Her dad had died and she was going over to help her mother. For the last few years Rebecca’s parents have lived in a mobile home a hundred yards north of our old farm house on land that we lent to them. I stayed in bed, but did not return to sleep. After an hour or so, the dogs let me know that something was happening. I got up and saw the lights from the undertaker’s vehicle.

I already miss Eldon. He grew up in Olympia. He was a newspaper man all his life, but I have always thought of him as cowboy from eastern Oregon. He always had a story about riding horses and herding cattle on his uncle’s ranch near Burns. He had the down-to-earth, no nonsense, unrelenting attitude of someone with cow manure on his boots and a bunch of stubborn cows to chase.

Eldon once described himself as a “grab your hat and get the story newspaper reporter.” When he retired, he was working for the old United Press International in an office close to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer building. The UPI is gone now and the Seattle-PI is Internet-only. When he retired, both were going strong. Eldon and I talked often about the transformation from print to Internet and what it means for the news business.

Although congestive heart failure weakened him physically, especially during his last six months, Eldon was keeping up, doing most of his newspaper reading on line. Like the rest of us, he fumed about Vista on his recently purchased laptop and more than once asked me about installing Ubuntu.

Our last conversation was about James G. Swan, the Port Townsend historian, ethnologist, promoter and ne’er do well who has captured my interest lately. I asked Eldon if he knew about Lucille MacDonald’s biography of Swan. His answer was typical Eldon “Lucy? Yeah, I knew her really well. She was a good writer. Told the truth. Swan was an old drunk. Smart man though.” Then he proceeded to tell a story about an office party at the PI fifty years ago.

Education

Neither of my grandfathers went to school past the third grade. They both read the Bellingham Herald every day, never needed help with written instructions, voted in every election, and kept themselves as well informed as the average voter in their precinct; they were both quick mental calculators with the wits to sniff the air and negotiate a favorable deal while the stakes were changing. My mother said her father could play any musical instrument he touched. He fiddled to entertain the neighbors and he read, transposed, and arranged music. But for both my grandfathers, from grade three on, their only classroom was work on the farm.

I believe my grandfather’s lack of education was a thorn in the side of my great-grandfather, Gottlieb, who was raised in East Prussia and orphaned about the age of twelve. Lucky for him, nineteenth century Prussia was busy founding European social democracy. When he and his younger brother were orphaned, the newly established Prussian social safety net snatched them up and educated them in the Prussian public school system. The pair emigrated to America with an exemplary liberal and technical education.

Life in America was a success for Gottlieb. Technically trained as a woodworker, he was quickly hired in railroad car yards building passenger cars decorated with ornate woodwork in Detroit and then Stevens Point, Wisconsin. He worked in the car yards until he accumulated the resources for his next step: he bought a farm in Minnesota and became a land-owning farmer in about 1880.

Gottlieb’s farm in Blue Earth Minnesota was ten degrees south of the 52nd parallel of Gottlieb’s birthplace in Prussia, but Blue Earth’s temperature extremes are closer to those of harsh Scandinavia or Russia than the mild northern marine climate of Prussia.

Gottlieb and his growing sons learned to farm in Minnesota, and apparently they learned well. By the 1890’s Gottlieb had collected the resources for another step. This time a move to Whatcom County, Washington Territory, a place with a wet marine climate that called itself the “fourth corner” because it was the last corner of the country to be settled. This was Gottlieb’s final move.

Gottlieb’s Minnesota decade was as harsh as the Minnesota winter. The family has never said anything good about Minnesota in 1880s.

Cold, hot, dusty, miserable. Not enough rain and too much snow. Hail recalling biblical stonings. Few schools, a dismal fact than scarcely mattered when there was too much work to allow school in the summer and too much cold for school in the winter.

My grandfather was born during the Minnesota decade in Blue Earth. He had an older and a younger brother. Older brothers had first right to education, my grandfather’s younger brother was too young to do a man’s work on the farm. If someone had to stay home to work, it was my grandfather. A third grade education was the best Gottlieb could give him. Gottlieb’s thorn was his intelligent, energetic second son who had no trade, no science, no history, no literature, no art, no philosophy, no theology; only the bare skeleton of literacy and far too advanced training in hard labor and disappointment.