the size of a dollar,
And he lugs a hundred-pound hunk into a saloon icebox, helps
himself to cold ham and rye bread,
Tells the bartender it's hotter than yesterday and will be hotter yet
to-morrow, by Jesus,
And is on his way with his head in the air and a hard pair of fists.
He spends a dollar or so every Saturday night on a two hundred
pound woman who washes dishes in the Hotel Morrison.
He remembers when the union was organized he broke the noses
of two scabs and loosened the nuts so the wheels came off six
different wagons one morning and he came around and
watched the ice melt in the street.
All he was sorry for was one of the scabs bit him on the knuckles of
the right hand so they bled when he came around to the
saloon to tell the boys about it.
--"The Ice Handler," by Carl Sandburg
Have you ever looked into your family's history and found a gem of an ancestor? Have you ever sat and listened to stories of yesteryear and imagined how you might be like your forefathers and mothers? I am intrigued by many of my ancestors, but none more than my great-grandpa, Papa Len. I had the privalege of knowing him before he passed away, though I don't remember him well. Let me paint you a picture:
I quoted Sandburg's "The Ice Handler," because the moment I read that poem, I thought it must be written about my great-grandfather. Surly, swarthy, and stout, he was a man of few words but a man of many stories. He had a square face and squinty eyes, and a smile with widely-spaced tiny teeth. He never lost his hair, and he always wore plaid. Many of his sentences would end with the phrase "by golly." His laugh was a bit of a sly, raspy, cackle.
That is the man. Here are his myths and legends:
He was born to German immigrants in 1905 in Wisconsin. As a young man, about 14, he cleaned up for the famous Wild West Show. He even received an engraved pistol from this Show (that was later stolen). One day, he got into a fight with another young man, and a horse ended up kicking the boy in the head, killing him... at which point Papa Len ran away from home. He lived in South Dakota where he worked as a carpenter and helped create Yellowstone National Park. Around 1926, he made his way back to Chicago and worked as an ice man in the city. He may or may not have had a drink with a grateful Al Capone, and may or may not have delivered more than ice...*wink.* Somewhere along the way (I'm not sure of the timeline here), he became a champion weight lifter, and was approached to play for the Chicago Bears before football really took off. He laughed at them and declined. He was also a lumberjack, which is where many of his stories took place. I remember him telling me about the time he found a bear in the bathtub and the bear escaped out the window, ripping the windowframe with him, still stuck to his butt as he trotted off into the forest. He knew the horrific John Wayne Gasey, too-- he used to open up the park bathrooms for him to change into his clown clothes *shudder.* By the time I knew him, he was old and quiet, a husband to Josephine, a father of three, a grandfather to many, and a great-grandfather to me... and one would have never guessed about all he'd experienced. But he was always as tough as nails. Once, he had a heart attack. The paramedics were called, and when they tried to help him out, he punched them away. Tough as nails.
I am fascinated by him, and look forward to one day talking with him in heaven. My family's history is full of interesting characters. Who makes up your family tree?
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