Grandpa Ray
The scrap burner is about all that's left of the mill Grandpa used to work at. Vacation homes are now more plentiful than log rafts on the lakeshore, probably built from less-than local lumber.
Grandpa Ray was an engineer for Boeing in the late 1960's. He was a rocket scientist, but he wore a few hats at the company. Once he was assigned to to escort a visiting banker around the facility, a black man. It was standard operating procedure to keep an eye on visitors, just to make sure no one stumbled upon any top secret stuff or got on the wrong end of a rocket. The banker wanted to go visit grandpa's supervisor, who was also black. A few more people joined them in the supervisor's office, all of them black. They started talking about how they were treated at Boeing, when someone realized "Brothers, we have to remember that we are not alone here." Apparently Grandpa had wound up in a top secret situation himself.
Grandpa's supervisor glanced around confusedly, then said "Who Ray? He's as black as any of us!"
Grandpa said he's never felt so proud to be referred to as black, which is kind of a confusing statement. I'm not sure how many times he's been referred to as black, or if he was less proud about some of them, but I'd be surprised if anyone ever referred to him as black based on how he looks.
As a board member and president of Boeing's Good Neighbor Fund, Grandpa sometimes delivered large checks to local businesses. He would invite different coworkers along with him for the various meetings to show them how it was done. A check was to be delivered to the local Elks Club, and it was the turn of one of the ladies from the office to go with Grandpa, and she was black. At the door she stopped and said matter of factly "I can't go in there."
Grandpa claims he hadn't even thought about the fact she was black, and was oblivious to the fact that blacks weren't allowed at the Elks. "Well, we'll try it and if they don't like it then we'll leave. With this check for two million dollars in my pocket."
They went in and sat down at their assigned table, right up front by the stage. No one told them to leave. They had dinner, Grandpa went up on stage and said a few words, presented the check, shook hands with a guy, and they left. I wonder if the Elks knew how much money they had coming. They probably had some idea based on previous years' donations from Boeing. I wonder if Grandpa and that lady would have been kicked out if the Elks had only expected one million dollars.
Despite, or because of all the money he was throwing around on their behalf, Grandpa wasn't getting amazing pay from Boeing. He had a wife and three small daughters at home, so he was trying to save all he could. One way he did that was by not buying any Boeing bonds. The supervisor called him in one day to discuss it, and asked "Why aren't you buying any bonds?"
"It's voluntary, isn't it?"
"Yes, but why would you jeopardize your career over it?"
"If it's voluntary, then how am I jeopardizing my career?"
"I'm trying to help you Ray."
"I appreciate that, but is there anything else?"
"No."
A couple weeks later the supervisor called him in again, asking "Are you planning on moving?"
"Yeah, we are."
"Is your house up for sale?"
"Yes."
"That's good."
"How long have I got?"
"I can't say, but if I were you I'd put up a flashing neon for sale sign on that house."
A couple months later Grandpa got fired and the family bought a farm an hour outside of Spokane. Six-hundred acres seemed like a lot to Grandpa, who had grown up on a fertile forty-acres near Portland. The local Banker told them it wasn't enough to make a living in the scabby soil, but Grandpa didn't believe him.
"He was right." Grandpa told me, chuckling.
So they got some sheep and cows, and he worked as a night watchman at the lumber mill for about ten years.
Grandpa and my mom, regarding Lake Roosevelt. This is where the log rafts used to be anchored next to the mill, now it's a pleasure boat launch and a scenic viewpoint.
As a kid I only knew Grandpa Ray as a farmer. I often helped him get firewood, because that was their only source of heat besides milk jugs and old boots. He introduced me to the chickens, cows and fish that he raised. He would throw a handful of fish-food out into the pond and tell me to cast there, so I always caught at least one when I went with him.
The most engineering I saw him do was on the earthen dams for the fish ponds, which he elaborately irrigated and armored against gophers. But he's kept his mind sharp. In the last sixty years he's probably read every National Geographic Magazine cover-to-cover, and he always bought me a subscription for my birthday. My mom still talks about when she bought him an early calculator, which he happily used, but didn't completely trust. For years he checked the calculator's answers by hand or with a slide-rule.
Grandpa and Grandma moved off the farm about ten years ago. Between gathering firewood, keeping the two-mile driveway passable and and a few close calls with wildfires, they admitted to wanting something easier. They moved into a trailer in Creston, where my mom and her sisters went to high school. I believe Grandpa Ray and Grandma Barbara enjoyed having forced air heat and a five minute walk to the diner or the church about as much as anyone could.
About a year ago, my grandma was in rough shape, so there were a bunch of us visiting there. She had been on dialysis for months, and was seldom able to hold a conversation, but she smiled when she opened her eyes and we were all gathered around her. We watched the election there, Grandpa even watched it almost until the final result. All of us were for Hillary, and we all went to sleep in disbelief. The next morning we walked the couple blocks down to the local diner to eat our angst. Specials for the day were election themed. There was a Trump Slam Breakfast, and a Trump Victory Burger. My mom and aunts had gone to highschool with the waitress, and when she saw us over in the corner she bellowed "Hey! how are my liberal friends?". That got us all laughing. She asked if we had noticed the specials. We said we had. My mom asked what would be appropriate for a Hillary supporter. With very little hesitation the waitress said, "Oh, probably the crabby sandwich." That was hilarious because it's always on the menu. She went on apologetically, "You know I just had to tease you a little, I knew you'd be able to laugh about it. Daryl, though, I probably won't see him in here for a couple weeks."
That's a small town for you. Everyone comes to terms with everyone else. It's small, getting smaller though. There's definitely the feeling that things are on the way out around there. For many people in small towns, progressive does not evoke feelings of inclusion. They'll include anyone who has the grit to live there, but don't call them progressive. To many, progressives are the ones who lure the young people away to the cities, the ones who shut down the mills, the ones who build vacation homes where there used to be steady jobs.
Grandma died just before Thanksgiving last year, and now Grandpa's in long term care at the hospital in Davenport. I had a few good visits with him over the last year, and the more I get to know him the more I realize where my rebelliousness came from, and the more I realize how relatively lame and selfish my own acts of rebellion have been. I also see the source of some of my values about how to be decent to people, and how to do good work. I hope to visit again soon.