Three Surnames and a Jr.

This life in the 20th century began with Scottish immigrants struggling to find opportunities in the new world, and ended with unexpected recognition. The author feels uniquely favored to have been a witness and participant in that life, which brought challenges, friendship, and devotion to the 65 years since his death, the life they shared is as vivid as if he had been at the breakfast table this morning. As I prepared food in our modest kitchen Logan sat in the living room where I glanced his way occasionally. When preparations neared completion, I announced, “Breakfast will be ready in six-and-a-half minutes,” or however long the estimation was. Logan looked up from his crossword puzzle, acknowledged with a wave of his pencil that he heard me, smile, nod, and prepare to get out of his chair. Now in his late 80s, he was cautious and deliberate with everything. He needed extra time to wash his hands and make his way to the dining table, reaching for a wall, a chair, or a table for stability as he went. When the food was ready, so was he. Each meal began with a bear hug. Sometimes we came close to toppling over as we forgot, in the fervor of the moment, to brace ourselves. On the last morning of his life, we repeated this breakfast ritual, followed as usual by a cut-throat Scrabble game. We played as if high financial stakes were involved, since only something truly earth-shaking could interrupt our thoughtful deliberations. Of course, the stakes in this case were high: our daily game kept us mentally agile even when the rest of the body clearly was not. However, we never thought of it that way—it was simply a good time we anticipated and shared. After Scrabble our morning included a walk outside to find something interesting. It was a gentle walk with time to observe the new buds forming on trees or bushes, and a chance to use his new walking stick. The stick itself was wrapped in black leather, and on top was mounted a beautiful engraved knob with the same Navy insignia seen on a naval officer’s hat. It brought a smile when he talked about it. The stick had more status, he liked to say, because it was not called a cane. Besides, it cost more. He never forgot his humble struggling beginnings when the prudent use of money was of utmost importance. Logan didn’t just happen to be a man of unswerving morality who found ways to keep life exciting through dreary times. Sometimes events fashioned his outlook. Often he found or created his own opportunities. Thirteen days before he died Logan began his hand-written memoirs. Without being able to include details that only Logan would know, I will attempt to flesh out the story of this dependable man, who had an aura of confidence, but never thought of himself as remarkable. What he wrote a few days before he died is only two pages long. I was born on July 6, 1914, so I can only give my views of the 20th century for the latter six-sevenths of it. But six out of seven ain’t bad, so here goes. Life for me started in Chicago, Illinois, at the Norwegian-American Hospital. My father was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, January 2, 1882, in a tenement at No. 3 Potterow which is now a part of Edinburgh University. My mother was born on September 2, 1888, in Bathgate, Scotland, a village approximately halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow. Thus, my Scotch blood is neat, although some native Scots feel that since I was born in the U.S.A. it is somehow diluted. To peg the time of my birth to other major developments: WWI started on August 4, 1914; the Panama Canal opened on August 15, 1914. In my early years, I remember there were many Union Veterans of the Civil War. Their group was the G.A.R., or Grand Army of the Republic, and they paraded on patriotic holidays. One of my earliest recollections—I must have been about two years old—is of my father taking me to one of Chicago’s city parks—Humboldt, I think. Although a working class man, he was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and a tie. As we sat on a bench, he reached into his jacket pocket for some peanuts which he then tossed one by one toward a nearby squirrel, with each toss bringing the squirrel a little closer. Eventually, the squirrel hopped up on the bench and when he saw the source of the peanuts was my father’s coat pocket, he reached in to help himself. I thought this was marvelous and that my father was the most wonderful man on earth! Incidentally, my mother and I, and eventually my two brothers, always called my father “Pa”, and he shall be so called in the rest of this account.