Crossposted–with minor edits–from Street Prophets, in the belief that this extraordinary ‘ordinary man’ deserves wider recognition, and in the hope that my brief and incomplete account of his life will prove to be of interest.
He wasn’t wealthy, or powerful, or famous. (Though he did leave his mark on one city’s landscape; more on that below). He was merely an exemplar of that ‘Greatest Generation’ we’ve learned to revere and respect. And he was my father.
Born in Bismarck, North Dakota in 1922, he was a true son of the West. His father was a jack-of-all-trades: mechanic, fireman, cowboy, lumberjack (a man who left his parents’ home–and their harsh evangelical faith–as a teenager, never setting foot in a church again–though he carried a pocket New Testament with him for the rest of his life). His mother was the daughter of immigrants who left the German empire as that country became increasingly rigid and militaristic under the second Wilhelm.
The family wandered throughout several western states before finally landing on the Oregon Coast at the beginning of the hard years of the Depression. At one point they lived on a houseboat and were so poor that the only food they had was what they could catch off the side of the boat.
Dad graduated from high school, joined the Air Force in 1942, and served in the South Pacific; like many veterans, he spoke little of his wartime experiences, except to say that ‘we did the right thing.’
After the war he went to art school in Los Angeles on the G.I. Bill and was offered a job with Walt Disney; but he chose to return to Oregon, where he found work as a commercial artist, first on his own, then for the Portland Oregonian. That’s where he met my mother, a college journalism major on summer internship at the paper. She wrote the ad copy, he did the graphics: it was a match made in advertising heaven. They eloped to the state capital in 1953.
Despite their initial shock and dismay at their daughter’s sudden marriage outside her faith (her dad was a Mormon bishop), Mom’s parents hosted a wedding reception at their church, and Dad quickly won their hearts with his sunny sense of humor and his obvious love for his bride. Shortly thereafter he joined the church himself, due in part to the example of his in-laws.
A lifelong Republican, my father often had good-natured disagreements with his father-in-law (who was a dyed-in-the-wool New Dealer), but their mutual respect and admiration only grew and flourished. Conversation at family dinners was always lively and full of laughter. One Thanksgiving, while my grandmother was in the kitchen preparing dinner, he snuck in, grabbed the turkey neck, then called her out into the living room to show her something. She came out, wiping her hands on her apron, only to see Dad smiling at her with the turkey neck dangling from the open fly of his trousers. All she could manage was a weak ‘Ohhhh, Jim!’ while the rest of us collapsed in laughter. My grandfather, the Bishop, continued laughing about it throughout dinner, later admitting that he’d nearly peed his pants to see his wife so shocked and speechless.
Dad taught me to love the things he loved most: history, and art. For some years when I was a boy, his job required him to travel all over the state of Oregon, and summers he would take me with him. I loved those road trips. He bought me a map of the Oregon Trail that showed where traces of wagon ruts were still to be seen, and he was always patiently ready to pull over when I thought I saw those ruts, or whenever I spotted a roadside historical marker.
Though he bought me a baseball and mitt, he quickly and with good grace realized that my interests lay elsewhere; so he taught me the basics of his craft: how to wield brush and pen, how to choose and mix colors, how to frame and compose an image. He exposed me to great art, sharing with me his favorites from Rembrandt to Remington, and taking me to the Portland Art Museum for the express purpose of showing me one of Monet’s paintings of water lilies.
My father made friends wherever he went. By the time I was in high school all my friends were envious that I had such a ‘cool’ Dad; my sister’s friends dubbed him ‘Jim Friendly,’ and the little kids at church called him ‘The Gum Man’ and would always mob him for the pocket full of treats he always had ready for them. His conservatism never blinded him or made him intolerant of others: one night two young lesbians came to visit and to solicit my parents’ support for a summer theater program for kids that they were starting up. They stayed that night, and the next, and were soon a permanent part of our family, living with us for nearly a year. (Mom was always fascinated by ‘alternative lifestyles’; Dad was less curious, but ultimately more accepting, I think–though they were both steadfast in their love for their gay son. Dad’s only concern when I came out was for the pain I must have suffered growing up.)
As for his mark on a city’s landscape? if you go to the corner of SW Stark and 10th in Portland, Oregon, you will find a restaurant known for years as the Fish Grotto. Dad designed the restaurant’s iconic logo:
(This rather crude representation is not his original work, but, rather, a later repainting; a better example comes from the restaurant’s menu):
The Fish Grotto’s owner became a lifelong friend; our family dined there often during the ’50s and early ’60s, and we were always treated like royalty. Dad had that effect on people.
My father passed away on my birthday, February 6, 2009.
:::
From an email sent by my aunt (his sister-in-law) to her children:
Uncle Jim died last night. Hopefully, his reunion with your aunt [my mom, who passed away exactly one year ago] was all that he hoped it would be. I’m sure he was thrilled to see his sweet mother, and his father whom we never knew. I hope he remembered well some of the jokes he always carried in his wallet, just in case he needed them to provide a laugh. He is no doubt cracking up Grandpa [my mother’s father] as he could so easily do and busy making clown pictures for those who want them. And right after that, he will be looking for the nearest golf course!
I know what fond memories you all have of Uncle Jim. He loved being around children and children loved him in return. What a great and good man–so guileless.
:::
I owe everything I know about how to treat others to his lifelong example. Thank you, Dad. I love you.
-Scott
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Thanks for reading.
-Scott