.jpg) |
| The editor with his late mother in 2018 |
On the cusp of being an immature octogenarian, I find myself looking for signs of dementia, a condition that afflicted my mom in her last years. Writing mediocre blog articles seems to verify I've not reached that stage yet, although I'm bothered with a gawddamningly annoying forgetfulness daily.
My late mom, pictured above seven years ago at age 95 while residing at Ebony Lake Nursing and Rehabilitation Center, suffered from that decline in cognition during her final years. One of her last semi-lucid observations, before full blown mental decline, was an attempt to praise the staff caring for her, saying "and they don't even throw rocks at you," an observation I associated with her childhood.(One of the first things Ana told me after flying to the United States from the Philippines in 2019, was "I have an appointment," meaning to visit my mom in the nursing home.)
.jpeg) |
| Grandma and Grandpa DeMan |
Yesterday, I started to tell my two precocious grandsons, Jack and Felix Barton, about the foundation of my extended family, my maternal grandfather, Adolph Joseph DeMan, who'd come to the United States, from East Flanders, Belgium, still in his mother's womb, likely in the third trimester, to be born in Republic, Michigan in 1885. After his father's death, Grandpa DeMan, who'd just finished second grade, left school to work in Republic's iron mines, then later, according to a document sent by my 15 month younger sister Sandy, invented some kind of wheat-harvesting, steam-powered contraption in Canada before eventually settling on a 1/4 homestead, 40 acres, in Maple Valley, Washington. One of my last remembrances of Grandpa DeMan, who, despite his lack of formal education, had become a veritable wordsmith with a Holy Bible and Webster's dictionary always at his side, was an exchange we had when I was about 12, trying to sneak by his rocking chair next to the wood stove without being detained for a story or lecture.
"Jimmy," grandpa started, stopping me in my tracks, "Adam and Eve were not just naked in the garden, they were nude," Grandpa explained, using an alternative word that conjured up shame.
"Actually, grandpa, you could say they were 'exposed,'" I responded.
"Oh, Jimmy, I like that," said grandpa, writing the word in the margin of that particular chapter of Genesis.(I remember glancing at his Bible, noticing that almost all the verses were underlined in either red or blue from one of those red/blue pencils people used in those days. It occurred to me that if you underlined every verse, how did anything stand out?)
Grandpa gave land portions to each of his kids and their spouses, with my religious zealot/sexual predator father the one who couldn't make that work, moving us to Renton, Washington, then to Battleground, Washington, Pilot Rock, Oregon, Payette, Idaho, Clarksville, Washington, Council Bluffs, Iowa, then, finally, back to Covington, Washington.
Grandpa DeMan's eldest, my Uncle Gene, also functioned independently, running a steel fabrication plant in Seattle, but inviting the entire clan to his home every Thankgiving, then finding his recliner afterward and lighting up a cigar. (A comical sequence I watched annually was attempts by by a couple of my religious uncles to preach to Uncle Gene. Gene, out of deep respect for his father, my Grandpa DeMan, would tolerate Bible talk from him, but not from his brothers-in-law.)
Uncle Gene, affluent, but living an intentionally modest lifestyle, regularly flew business cronies to Alaska in his private plane for fishing or hunting excursions, dropping them off, then flying back two weeks later to pick them up. On one of those return flights back to Seattle in '72, Gene encountered bad weather while flying solo, he and his plane ending up at the bottom of Seattle's Puget Sound.
On the forty acres Grandpa built, with his own two hands, a beautiful house that still stands firmly, after housing a family of six during the Great Depression. (For posterity, Gene was born in '22, mom in '24, Roselie in '26 and the baby, Doris, in '35.)
Enough land was cleared for an upper and lower pasture, a circle driveway around a garage, room for a horse, cows, pigs and chickens, a magnificent vegetable and berry garden, apple orchard and the woodshed of all woodsheds.
Whenever we visited, I would spend most of my time in that wonderful, two-story shed, using the hand crank to spin two grinding wheels to ridiculous speeds while shaping wood on wheels meant for sharpening steel.
Inside, Grandpa had drawers of nails of every size, retrieved and straightened over the years from discarded wooded boxes, lumber of various sizes, metal scraps, wiring, all components for future use. (It was by such frugality that people survived the impoverished 30's.)
Outside the shed was a huge wood pile and small cedar logs for splitting into kindling. I loved to split kindling, something Grandpa would notice, often telling me we had "plenty for now."
Rain barrels were stationed at each of the shed's corners to capture "soft water" for washing and metal screens were positioned to shovel gravel through, separating it into various sizes.
If I had to pee or worse, I'd never go inside the house, but head out to the old outhouse next to the pigs. Yes, the pigs squealed at my presence and there was definitely odor, but there was something old-timey about that wooden building with last year's Sears catalogue nailed to the inside wall.
Grandma found it odd that I used primitive facilities when indoor plumbing was available, but I could likely explain that better now.
Grandpa gave a small plot of land from the homestead to each of his three daughters and their husbands, although my ne'er do well dad quickly turned his house and land into cash for a brief life in Arizona which ended abruptly when mom got pregnant with me and they returned before my birth in Renton Hospital.
There's no way I can remember everything in Grandpa's extended garden, but it was enough to feed everyone on the homestead and then some: sweet peas, potatoes, green onions, lettuce, beets, rutabagas, cabbage, carrots, squash, radishes, spinach, strawberries, raspberries, black caps, watermelon, etc. (Grandpa kept root vegetables like potatoes in the cellar and always had a barrel of sauerkraut and beet wine fermenting in the attic.)
Adolph and Edith absolutely doted on each other. Grandpa would acknowledge breakfast with a tender kiss on Edith's forehead and likely she already had lunch working in the oven.
A.J.'s religion was work and he never stopped worshipping the ground and what it could produce.
Concrete footpaths or sidewalks extended to every corner of the property so no one had to step on the alway's wet Western Washington grass.
Grandpa built a trailer for hauling coal from parts and pieces in his woodshed and, of course, there was always cultivating and weeding in the huge garden. (In the only way I ever saw anything less than honesty, Grandpa had me accompany him to the town of Black Diamond for coal to stay in the car and trailer during the empty weigh-in, then exit before the final tally.)
Grandma and I had a verbal agreement that, if I picked a full pail of berries, she made the pie. While a pail could easily be filled up with the huge blackberries that came in spring, I usually went for a mix of huckleberries, gooseberries, blackberries and black caps. Raspberries, thimble berries and the super sweet wild strawberries were too soft for pie making grandma had told me.
Grandma also frequently made pasties, a covered meat and vegetable pie with beef, potatoes, onions and carrots.
Before tending to the animals and working his garden each day, Grandpa started with the morning meal served by Grandma in a window-covered breakfast nook of the old house. Grandpa had this weird habit of cooling hot coffee by pouring it into a saucer, drinking it from the same. Then, after breakfast, he kissed Grandma tenderly on the forehead, addressing her with his usual terms of endearment, then headed outside for work.
.png)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpeg)
.png)
.png)
