Grandpa Glissendorf

Grandpa Glissendorf

My most treasured childhood memories are of the times that I spent with my Grandparents in my hometown, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. I clearly recall each of them as being affectionate, patient, and nurturing and I loved them all. Perhaps the one to whom I felt the closest was my Grandpa Gliss.

When I was nine, Mom and Dad moved in with Grandma and Grandpa Glissendorf at 28 Howard Avenue. It was 1951 and Grandma was dying from uterine cancer. Grandpa, Aunt Helen, and Mom cared for her at home. I already knew Grandpa G well, but grew even closer to him in the two years that we lived in his home.

He was the son of a German immigrant carpenter, philosopher, and farmer; Kristoph Klussendorf. Born in White Lake, South Dakota in1886 and named Otto Wilhelm Ernst, Grandpa's family and friends affectionately called him O.W. His father settled in the North Woods near Phillips, Wisconsin, where Otto grew up.

The lumber industry there had cut huge stands of timber leaving behind a vast sea of stumps. The government offered this land to any taker and Kristoph signed up for eighty acres. He intended to farm, which meant that he would first need to clear the stubble. It was on this land that he and his wife raised a family of ten. All but one of the children were boys and each learned early that clearing stumps is backbreaking work. Unfortunately, the need for labor eclipsed the need for education and none of the children was allowed to complete even the eighth grade.

When he became a man, Grandpa and several of his brothers struck out on their own. The logging industry in the North Woods needed railheads to facilitate movement of cut timber and one was located near the Glissendorf farm. Eventually, four of the boys succumbed to the magnetic attraction of the grand steam-powered locomotives and went to work for a rail line.

Although undereducated, they were all bright, strong, hard-working lads eager to realize their childhood dreams. Harvey found work as a fireman on the Northwestern Line. Brother Archie managed the tool crib at the locomotive and car repair yard in North Fond du Lac. Charlie was a telegrapher at the Byron station and Grandfather started as a fireman. Arch, Charlie, and grandpa all worked on the Soo Line. Grandpa soon passed the stringent examination necessary to become an engineer.

In this capacity, he made freight and passenger runs for the Soo to either Chicago or north through Stevens Point to the tie up at Spencer. The Soo paid its engineers according to the size of the engine they operated on any given run. The 3000 class, which he initially drove, were the smallest and used only to haul freight. Gradually he advanced to the 4000 class and finally to the top of the line: the 5000 class units. These beauties were used for both freight and passenger runs. The men entrusted with them were all senior engineers and, by that time, had a telling crown of gray hair.

Grandpa was no exception, although, when young, his hair was coal black. He was tall, about six feet, broad shouldered, trim but solid, and had a fair complexion. In his later years, he retained his stately appearance with a luxuriant head of soft white hair. He was a handsome man. His gaze was direct and his blue eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. His smile was open and engaging and he had a gold front tooth.

Ever the gentleman, I don't recall a single instance when he raised his voice, let alone his hand, in anger. His personality was warm and kind and I loved him unconditionally. I thought he hung the moon. If Grandma Gliss was a poodle, Grandpa G was a golden retriever.

His hands fascinated me. I studied them and still see them today if I close my eyes. Strong and smooth, they were big, but had a refined appearance. His palms were wide and his fingers short but in genteel proportion to the rest of him. His nails were always clean and trim and he wore a plain gold wedding band on his left hand.

Working the rails was a dangerous business. Many who did were maimed or killed in a moment of inattention. Some lost their grip on a handle and slid under the wheels; sharp objects impaled others. Still others were caught between the couplings when switching cars. Trains are big, heavy, and unforgiving of the careless.

Grandfather, too, suffered an industrial accident in his later years. While on a run to Chicago, a fireman was stoking the boiler with the door open when a cinder from the swirl of hot coal ash flew into grandpa's left eye. He developed an infection, which, with the injury itself, left the cornea scared and noticeably cloudy.

This blinded his central vision in that eye and he could no longer meet the physical requirements for engineers. Today, a corneal transplant would surgically correct this problem but in the forties, it effectively ended his career as a long-haul engineer. For the rest of his working days, the Soo assigned him the job of switching cars in the yards near home.

He once allowed me to visit him on one of the big locomotives. Grabbing the vertical handle at the side of the steps, he swung easily up into the cab. The steps were so big and high that someone handed me up to the platform.

It was a small space with a black metal deck. The boiler door opened in the middle of the front wall of the cab to reveal the firebox. Various levers, valves and gauges showed temperature and steam pressure. The engineer sat on his stool in the front right corner where he could reach the throttle and lean out the window to scan the track ahead.

Immediately behind the engineer's platform was the coal tender from which the fireman kept the firebox stoked. The wheels on this creature were enormous. Taller than me, they were thick, black, and heavy. The engine sat belching steam and smoke like an impatient steed, intolerant of delay.

When the engineer eased the throttle open, the whole beast shuddered and the drive wheels would spin a revolution or two. It would chug again, and again; each time closer as wheels grabbed the rails and the power slowly defeated inertia. The locomotive with its coupled cars would gradually begin forward motion. Sometimes the fireman would sprinkle ashes onto the track in front of the big wheels to offer purchase.

The concept of the steam locomotive was a simple one and ingenious in the application. The crew kept the boiler filled with water and maintained a fire under it. When power was called for, the fireman diverted the steam generated in the boiler to the giant pistons. They turned the drive wheels that rolled the train along the track.

The steam whistle, the smoke stack, and the cowcatcher captured my imagination as a child and I still can conjure up those images at will. The brakeman, conductor, and engineer communicated with kerosene lanterns that were used in a pattern of signaling motions. Individual locomotives had personalities and peculiar foibles. The crews affectionately referred to each by its designated number. A steam locomotive was a glorious creation and I could appreciate Grandpa's love for this marvel of engineering and mechanics.

The movement of trains along various lines is like a well-choreographed ballet. Accurate and pinpoint timing is required to avoid accidents. The Soo had stiff requirements about the timepieces used by its personnel. Each employee on the line was required to have a 16-size Elgin, or other fine pocket watch.

Those living in the Fond du Lac area were mandated to have their watches serviced every two weeks by the jeweler, J. P. Hess. Such maintenance accurately synchronized each timepiece to the second and assured that the watch would not fail the engineer or the system. Grandpa kept his watch in the left pocket of the vest that he nearly always wore. Out of habit, he would frequently reach across with his right hand and grasp the watch by the stem, carefully slide it up and out of its resting place to check the time; then slip it back into its security.

Although he only completed fifth grade, Grandpa was well spoken and had beautiful handwriting. For many years, he served as secretary to the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen and Engineers. This body often asked him to serve as their negotiator or to represent someone with a grievance. That job and his frequent correspondence with his father and brothers often saw him at his big desk with pen in hand.

O.W., his father, and six of his brothers were members of the Masonic Order. Grandpa was one of the founders of the Lutheran Church of Our Savior in Fond du Lac and a life long member there. Gertrude and he enjoyed a long and happy marriage and, if they ever disagreed, the rest of us never saw it. They socialized with neighbors, friends, and family.

Grandpa's favorite meal was breakfast; he savored his "speck und ei" with toast. He neither smoked nor drank to excess but enjoyed the occasional "schluk" of peppermint schnapps. He saved pieces of string that he wound in a ball. He used it for many things, but the purpose I remember, was to tie the kitchen garbage bags in neat packages before he placed them outside in the can for collection. Though a frugal man and not given to extravagance, we lived comfortably in the "Fond du Lac square" at 28 Howard.

In his life, Grandpa taught me patience, that a man can be gentle and strong at the same time, that a hug is a good thing, and that education is important. I learned how to hold a conversation and the importance of honesty in all things from the example that he set.

Grandpa Glissendorf died in 1955 of heart failure. It is difficult for me to understand how one with a heart as magnificent as his, could ever find it lacking in some way. I still think of him and miss him; miss sitting on his lap for stories, miss holding his hand when we walked together, miss his kind smile, just. . . miss him. A passage from the Gates of Prayer, Reformed Judaism prayer book, reminds me that he is still close:

"Memory can tell us only what we were, in company with those we loved.
It cannot help us find what each of us alone must now become.
Yet, no one is really alone;
Those who live no more echo still within our thoughts and words,
And what they did is part of what we have become."

That's how I remember my Grandpa Gliss in my hometown, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.