Roswell

My introduction to Ross was a picture.  My future bride was showing me pictures of her family and there was her dad, Ross, sitting in a chair, looking at the camera.  The expression on his face told me a bunch of things that turned out to be completely wrong.  He looked stern.  He had a faint smile, but he still seemed intimidating.  He seemed to me to be an intellectual.  He turned out to be intelligent enough, but not really the intellectual type.  I wonder why I saw a stern, intimidating intellectual,?

Ross turned out to be a kind man.  He never said much that I remember, but he enjoyed company and stories and conversations.  His contribution was mostly to ask questions and get people talking.  His own answers, even his questions, were seldom more than a few words at a time.  Once he got someone talking, he would just listen, smile, chuckle… whatever to keep it going.  He often interlocked his fingers and rested his hands on his belly as he listened.  If he was in his chair, he’d rock a little.

So, after all these years, I did see plenty of Ross in a chair, with that faint smile, but the picture is illuminated differently, now.  I’ve seen the expression many times.  It’s not stern.  He is a no-nonsense guy.  No funny-business.  But, he was plenty quirky—in a charming way.

Like many families in this part of the country, farming was once the foundation of how life was lived.  Ross grew up on a farm, working with his farming father.  I don’t know many of those stories.  The reason for that may be that when Ross was 19, his dad was killed working under a harvester… during harvest.  That changed everything.  So, Ross, the eldest of 6 children, became the head of the household in many ways.  That’s a pretty harsh introduction to adulthood.  My impression is that ever since that point, he thought about little else.  The burdens of the family and the farm and his own young age in all of that seemed to consume the better part of his life.  Yet, by the time I met him, he was out of farming.  By that point the farm was being rented, then sold altogether.  He had worked for another farmer for many years by the time I met him.  He was all but retired by the time I met him.

Considering the life between those two points, he did very well for himself.  He was not a wealthy man, but he was not poor, and certainly not broke.  Through his and his wife’s hard work and frugal living, they had managed to get to the point we all dream of which is to live comfortably, if simply, without having to work for a day-to-day paycheck.  He had grown kids who had families of their own and were building their own lives.  He had grandkids that loved him.  He had a comfortable house to rest in and keep him occupied.  He did not really have hobbies, unless you consider mowing grass a hobby.  Actually, maybe you should in this case.  Ross kept on top of his lawn.  He mowed it frequently—fanatically is probably a better word.

When Ross thought someone was peculiar, he would say [that person] is a funny duck.  And that, of course, is ironic since Ross was a funny duck himself.  He had his own language.  If you think about it, that is a convenient tool to have if you are minimizing your personal word count.  Whenever I met up with Ross, his greeting was a 3-beat long, “Sayyyyyy…”  Kinda like the way some people say, “Awwww…” when they see something cute or endearing.  He often referred to the mother of his children as “Mudder” but, that is just how he pronounced it, without reference to spelling.  He had a special greeting for his daughters, too, but that is personal for them and for them to share.  But, when we left, he would stand and wave good-bye by rolling his hands around each other like the actions to that line in the patty-cake nursery rhyme.  It takes a special person to leave such an endearing memory in so few words.  I always loved visiting my in-law parents.

But, if you ask anyone who knew Ross about his most defining characteristics, most would lead off by declaring that Ross was a John Deere man.  He treasured anything that bore the brand.  He has the most extensive toy collection I have ever seen (I’m sure it’s not a record or anything, I just don’t personally know of any other more grand.)  And, like a true collector, they are all displayed carefully, thoughtfully, and lovingly like the individual treasures they are.  He also has books and watches and caps and other assorted knick-knacks and was sure to get a new set of calendars each year.  The best way to do that is to drop in to a dealership during their annual “John Deere Days” which Ross did as much as he could.  Even long after being a serious customer, both he and the dealerships looked forward to the visits.  Every company striving to enhance their brand can only dream of such reverence and loyalty as Ross to John Deere.

I will always consider it a privilege to have the opportunity to earn my living working for the company that Ross so admired.  It certainly helped my relationship with Ross.  But, I dare say we liked—no, loved-- each other more deeply than that.  Of course, as I have tried to explain, I don’t have the words to back up the claim.

I knew Ross for about 20 years.  We both got older over that time, little by little.  I am blessed to have been able to have Ross visit my home a few times, and even more blessed to have visited his home many many times.  As those years passed by, he was gradually less mobile, less active.  He gradually had more health problems, but was only forced to live in a nursing home starting just last December.  We came to visit him, then.  At one point he asked me to push his wheel chair around the place for a little stroll.  It was my good pleasure to do so.  By Easter, we were still able to communicate with him and spend some time together in his company.  He was almost silent by then.  But, he and I went for another stroll.  This one was shorter.  He fell asleep along the way.  Eventually, I wheeled him up to the table where the rest of us sat and visited some more.  Ross was in and out of sleep as we passed the time, there.  At one point, after a while, he discreetly reached over and touched my hand with the tips of his fingers.  I took his hand in mine as we sat there in silence a few minutes—just listening, smiling faintly.

Those were the last moments I personally spent with Ross where we were both conscious.  He had better days with a few people after that, but I was not present for them.  I was fortunate enough to bring his daughter to be with him and his bride to say good-bye in their way as he breathed his last breaths this side of heaven.

I am thankful to Ross for my own lovely bride and for being her dad.  I am thankful to Ross for being a grand-father for my lovely daughter.  I am thankful for his kindness, his hospitality, his quirkiness, his faint smile, and his wordy silence.  And I will forever be thankful for the segment of my own life when Ross held my hand.

Roswell L. Brueshoff, 11/7/1928 - 4/21/2012