JUNE 1925
THE UNITED AMERICAN
Page Fcrty-four
»
“Mine Own America
By JOHN DOHERTY RICE, 1580 Portsmouth Avenue, Portland,
(Special for The United American)
HEN I graduated from college, my
father bought a newspaper plant
in the town and turned it over to me;
Evidently he assumed from bits of
college news which I sent to the home
papers from time to time that I had the
newspaper instinct. Possibly, too, he did
not care to have a dependent B. A. on his
hands. Also,.he was wedded to politics.
While no longer an office-seeker, he
loved to have his say, and a newspaper in
the family afforded an excellent mouth
piece. He had held almost every county
office, and naturally he had made enemies
in the perennial give and take. But I’m
sure that any desire to hold them level
was entirely outweighed by his love for
certain principles, For father’s record
was as clean as a bright, new chisel and
his intellect was as keen as its edge,
Not that he was quick at repartee—he
was not at home in a rough and tumble
argument—but when he would compose
his thoughts on paper, his power of ex
pression was amazing.
However, I would not unduly intrude
myself and my family into this narra
tive. For it is mainly about Stoltz—
old 'Stoltz everybody called him. He was
old Stoltz when he chased me out of his
garden years ago. I will never forget
the wild flight and pursuit that sent me
into -father’s presence, with Stoltz ex
ploding denunciation of my predatory
ways. Had I clutched in my hand a ten
thousand dollar bond, I could not have
felt a weightier guilt.
“I’ll attend to him, Herman,” father
assured him. And he did. A willow
stick, ceremoniously withdrawn from be
hind the kitchen stove, was vigorously
applied. Yet the pain of chastisement
was nothing compared with the effect of
the shock waves of father’s disapproba
tion. I had disgraced the family. The
applications' of the stick actually brought
relief.
Many things passed through my mind
as I sobbed myself to sleep that night.
I even wondered if father stole when he
was a boy, and at once dismissed the
blasphemous thought, and resolved to
pull the weeds' behind the barn in the
morning, in hopes that I might win my
way back into his good graces. As a
reward, I had a beautiful, satisfying
dream of old Stoltz expiring amid the
flames of his burning home.
For a long time I gave old Stoltz a
wide berth, although his boy Fred and
I were chums and fought each other’s
battles at school. But on the way home
from school when we reached the Stoltz
place I would shun the board walk and
take to the middle of the road. Some
times I would glimpse him in the yard—
a squat statue, his bare, shaggy head
tilted back, gloating over a pair of fine
ash trees that interlocked branches
across a cinder path running up to the
square, white cottage. Occassionally, he
would catch sight of me. Squinting an
eye, he would watch as if I were a mis-
W
creant plotting some terrible mischief.
Once Fred was kept in after school
all because a caricature which he drew
on a fly-leaf of his grammar was recog
nized by the teacher as a personal al
lusion to herself, I sorrowed outside
until his outcries came to my ears; then
hurried home to get the agate shooter
I had won from him that noon. I had
hidden it in the hay-mow, lest father’s
penetrating gaze might locate it in my
trouser’s pocket, Fred’s mortification
was healed when I restored to him this
treasure.
Not until later did I know that he often
confided in his father. Late one evening
in early June, mother hurried me off to
the postoffice with a letter. Returning
I made every minute count because it
was getting dark—even braving the
Stoltz terror and keeping to the walk.
Suddenly a great hand reached out from
a bush bordering the walk and dangled
a luscious strawberry before my eyes.
Suspecting a trap, I gathered my en
ergies for flight. Another ponderous
hand came out and clutched my shoulder.
Squirming, I looked up into the full-
bearded countenance of Stoltz—now a
new Stoltz to me; for his blue eyes
twinkled beneath tangled brow thickets
and his features were twisted into a
ludicrous expression of amusement.
“Thank you sir,” I stammered, seizing
the strawberry.
“Goot!” was his rumbling approval.
After that I had a liking for old Stoltz,
and it grew with the knowledge of how
consistently he had been a friend to
father through the years. They were
early settlers in the west end of the
county and had adjoining farms. Father
had studied law, but enlisted in the civil
war before he had finished his course.
After the war, he homesteaded in a com
munity which was mainly German.
There be became acquainted with Stoltz
and mastered his mother tongue. In later
years, when father was admitted to the
bar and established a practice in town,
Stoltz and his countrymen brought all
their legal business to him. “Whatever
Judge White says is right,” was their
unqualified expression of confidence. And
at certain election times father prided
himself upon the solid German vote for
him, especially when he was elected
County Judge after a bitter campaign.
I can see the old fellow now, after he
had moved to town, toiling up the stairs
to father’s office, his stocky form bent
almost double, while he puffed from his
exertions. “Ach!” was his exhaust upon
reaching the head of the stairs. For,
hours he and father would sit conversing
in German. It was amazing how Stoltz,
whose Englilsh speech was halting, would
roll out such an eloquent Germanic tor
rent, while father would nod gravely,
then reply with studied effort.
Even in college, I never lost touch with
old Stoltz. Many a time when I was
stuck for a theme for a character sketch,
he would come storming and gesticulat
ing into my fancy. During my Junior
Oregon
year I was saddened to read in the home
paper that his wife had died. She was a
gentle, most loveable woman. How she
would come in at times with a sack of
eggs or a bunch of rhubarb for mother—
her hands rough and seamed and her back
bent with the toil of years. And some
times she would come over with no
further evident purpose than just to make
sure that mother was there. Around the
corner she would intrude her kindly,
wizened features while mother was busy
on the back porch.
“Goot morning,” she , would say and
smile.
“Good morning,” mother would reply,
“Gootbye,” and without further ado
she would vanish to return the way she
came.
Old Stoltz cried like a baby at the
funeral, Many trips he made to her
grave with flowers, the dew drying upon
them, from the neat little garden she had
tended so lovingly. Father was his chief
comforter, although he never knew how
to gush. Often Stoltz would stop short
in a conversation about the crops or the
weather and cry out: “Dorothea, mine
Dorothea!” Father’s rush to the rescue
would consist in looking gravely sym
pathetic and a few exclamations of
regret. Presently Stoltz would pull out
his red bandana handkerchief, swab at
the tears and murmur: “Mine goot friend,
you comfort me so much.”
When I graduated and came home to
take charge of the newspaper I found
that my predecessor had a wonderful
lack of system. Many subscriptions were
in arrears, and one statement which I
made out from the records alleged that
H. Stoltz was one year in arrears. I
mailed it to him, and left Uncle Sam to
do the rest, Next day, I heard a slow,
heavy thump-thump Up the stairs. A
moment later I was dominated by a
glaring, bristling monster of wrath. It
was old Stoltz!
His heavy fist fanned the tip of my
nose. “You say old Stoltz ain’t honest?”
he thundered. “You go off to college and
get your head full up with foolishness,
then you come* home and say old Stoltz
don’t pay his bills. Ach! All night long
I have such a pain in mine heart! Young
man you get smart—you lie—you ask
your father if old Stoltz ain’t honest.
Ask him if he don’t pay his bills!”
“Why—Mr. Stoltz!” I floundered.
“Doubtless, there’s some mistake.”
“Mistake! Old Stoltz make no mis
take. Here!” He jerked forth a faded
wallet from an inner pocket and clawed I
out a packet of receipts. “You look!”
The receipts were in exact order from I
eighteen years back, and showed that he I
was paid not only to date but a year in I
advance. I apologized, explained ' and I
protested, but suspicion still lingered in I
his eyes as he turned to thump away. In I
the next issue, I invented occasion to I
refer to him as a highly respected citizen. I
He came up and bought an extra copy, I
apparently much mollified.
When it was evident that war would I