The Grandfather Who Lived in a Tree

3/22/2001

The most pleasant time of the day for Tom and me is between 6 and 8 each morning. Tom brings two cups of coffee and three newspapers back from his trip to Bob's Market and we trade comments and chuckles as we sip and read.

The other morning, during our coffee time, I said something about my grandfather, and Tom asked, "The one who lived in the tree or the other one?" I thought that was a great line with which to start a little family history.

Now it is true that one of my grandfathers did live in a tree. Most people would not want to admit to that, whatever their views on evolution may be, but I have a good explanation about mine.

My grandfather was born in Germany in 1838. He was a son of the Hartmann family that manufactured trunks and luggage, and the name of the company exists even to this day, though I have no idea if any of the family is still involved in it. Reared in a well-to-do family, he was not prepared for his future life. You see, he committed the sin-of-sins and fell in love with a beautiful blonde girl who happened to be a servant, and he was promptly given a choice--either the girl goes or your inheritance does. My grandfather died 46 years before I was born, but I always liked the guy because he promptly chose the girl, took whatever money he could gather together and headed for America. It has been lost in time whether she came with him immediately, but I somehow doubt it, for the family legend says that only Grandpa lived in the tree.

Making his way to America, he chose Wisconsin as his destination, as it was already filling up with fellow Germans. He arrived in the fall, however, and though he thought heÕd have time to build a cabin, either an early winter or his lack of knowledge of manual labor found him in desperate need of shelter, and what he found was a big, hollow tree. (I never said he spent his time swinging from the branches, ˆ la Tarzan style!!) So this became his home for his first winter in Wisconsin.

His family must not have thrown him out without a sou, for shortly he had a farm and a house with fifteen rooms. It was not long before this home was filled with a noisy family, for he and the love of his life had ten children in a period of about fifteen years.

I have pictures of Grandma and Grandpa Hartmann. He was a handsome dark-haired man, she was a truly beautiful blonde, and all those children were healthy and lived long lives except for one boy who died in an accident. I have always given the credit for their longevity to their peasant mother, for their father only lived to be 46 years old, but Grandma was a strong, proud and courageous woman. When her husband died, she communicated the news to his family in Germany and they said that if she returned with the children and raised her family there, she would receive her husbandÕs share of the business. She refused, running the farm herself until my father reached the ripe old age of 14 or so. She died in 1914.

All of the children remained in Wisconsin except for my father and his sister Clara. For some strange reason, Dad, the youngest, inherited the farm, and after paying something to each of his siblings, he had enough to follow his dream to Montana. The dry years around 1917 soon depleted his funds, but he had inherited his parents fortitude and had also married another strong German woman, my mother, so they survived and eventually prospered. I think the only reason they didnÕt live in a tree during those difficult years was because there were none to be found on the prairie.

When Tom and I moved to the Chicago area, my cousins in Wisconsin arranged a "cousin reunion" to meet us. I knew very few of the seventy-five or so who were there, but as I met them and learned about their lives, I thought that Grandma and Grandpa would have been proud. There was not a horse thief in the group, and while none were famous or extremely wealthy, we were a good cross section of America: teachers, nurses, bankers, a doctor or two, a musician, farmers, an army officer, lawyers and even a professional baseball player, as well as many who were involved in various businesses. How more American could we be!

And there is another little story about Hartmann luggage. I own a Hartmann trunk, actually a Gibraltarized Hartmann Cushion Top Wardrobe Trunk, but it did not come to me from any Hartmann. It was in Tom's Aunt MattieÕs basement, and his cousin graciously gave it to me.

I have never heard that there was ever any communication again from the family in Germany after Grandma refused to return.