𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗣𝗔 𝗗𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗡 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗣𝗦 𝗗𝗘𝗙𝗜𝗡𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗗 "𝗠𝗔𝗡"

 

Edith & Adolph DeMan

Had I been born George or Charles Merriam or Noah Webster, I'd have added to the definition of man: 1A: individual human especially adult male human, 1D: possessing in high degree the qualities distinctive to manhood (such as courage, strength and vigor)

1E: Adolph Joseph DeMan (1885-1967)

Yes, I'd add the man pictured above, in the crudely chopped photo from a sibling's family album, into the universally-accepted definition of the word man.

A.J. or Grandpa, and I knew him as both, epitomized that word.

If I've written previously that Grandpa was from East Flanders, Belgium, that was more of a simplification than an untruth.  

Certainly, the DeMan's were from East Flanders, but A.J's mom was likely in the third trimester when the family hit American shores and A.J. was born in Republic, Michigan in 1885.

Republic, MI Iron Mines

All I know from the earliest years were that A.J.'s father died and Grandpa quit elementary school to work in Republic's iron mines and help support his family, years later ending up in Canada.

In Canada, A.J. met Edith, a nurse on one of Admiral Robert Perry's expeditions, although, not the one where he falsely claimed to have made it to the North Pole. (In 1989, some researcher said Perry fell 60 miles short of the North Pole.)

My birth certificate says my mom was born in Medicine Hat, Alberta in 1924 making Canadian citizenship easy to acquire if I ever want or need it.

I've played with the numbers as if they mean anything; mom's birth=1924, mine=1948, my son's=1972, exactly 24 years separating each of three generations.

According to a document sent me by my fifteen-month younger sister Sandy, Grandpa invented a steam-powered contraption for harvesting wheat, but, obviously, it didn't work well enough to make him rich, although somehow he acquired a 1/4 homestead, that is, 40 acres of Douglas Fir-covered land in Maple Valley, Washington.

On that land, Grandpa built, with his own two hands, a beautiful house that still stands, and took a family of six through the Great Depression. (For posterity, Uncle 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.

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. (Uncle Gene chose to buy his own land elsewhere.)

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.  

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.

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 also frequently made pasties, a covered meat and vegetable pie with beef, potatoes, onions and carrots.

On a couple occasions I accompanied Grandpa to Seattle's Pike's Place Market where he purchased huge rounds of hardtack and salt herrings.

The hardtack was a huge rye cracker with a hole in the center where it'd been hung on a nail to dry.

Then, we went to Seattle's multi-story Goodwill Store and looked around.

Once home, Grandma Edith would not allow the salt herring in her home because of its horrible smell, but, anyway, A.J. bought it to hang and dry in the woodshed.

The garage was neatly set up for oil changes and other repairs with a removable panel that fit under the car and a basement under the garage.  Grandpa would simply let the old oil drain through a long tube  into a pan in the basement.

He added kerosene to old oil to make sort of a starting fluid for the coal/wood heating stove next to his rocking chair.

The rocking chair was where Grandpa read his Bible, marking passages he especially liked with a red/blue pencil, alternating the colors.

Unless you had time for a long, extended conversation you would creep past the stove while grandpa was taking his afternoon nap.

One day, when I was about 12, he stopped me and explained that Adam and Eve were not simply naked in the Garden of Eden as the Bible said, but actually "nude," a word that implied shame for breaking God's rule of not eating the forbidden fruit.

Quickly, I added that they'd been "exposed," a word Grandpa seemed to like and wrote in the margin of his Bible.

After that, I was viewed as somewhat of a consultant.