My father preserved his favorite uncle's journal. Uncle Harve Schoonover kept a journal most of his life. A writer in the best tradition of down-to-earth Midwesterners, Uncle Harve covers topics from his boyhood in Kansas and Illinois, to his teaching Indians in Montana in the early 1910's, to politics and his Midwestern neighbors.
Uncle Harve and I meet exactly once. He was unimpressed. My encounter with his writing leaves me much more engrossed, though. He wrote his journal specifically so that those who came after could understand what life was like for him. I've edited it. Check him out..
It may surprise my father, but I remember visiting Uncle Harve once when I
was very young. We went to Grandma Sidebottom’s. I remember riding as Dad drove
us in good weather, either spring or summer, because the light was bright, and
it hurt my eyes. I later discovered that light-sensitive folks are often
near-sighted, but I didn’t know that yet. I was glad when we rolled into
Grandma’s house where things could be a little darker.
I still remember her sifting by the old hanging scale with all her produce
about waiting for folks to come by. Her house was an amazement to me: especially
the two-hole outhouse. I’d never known anything like that, and I must confess I
was more than a little afraid that something might come up from down there and
get me.
This trip was different, because Dad decided to go visit Uncle Harve and he
took me with him. Uncle Harve lived in a cabin on Grandma’s property, and I
guess he had decided not to come in that day for lunch. Dad and I made it out to
the cabin, and went inside.
I don’t recall too much of what they said to each other, and I kept quiet. I
recall the cabin vividly, though, and I realized this wasn’t the way I’d ever
been raised to live. I wondered how he liked living this way: alone, and without
the television and niceties that I thought were essential. I did get the
impression that he’d sized me up, though, and concluded I was a wimp.
He was right then, and he would be right today: my idea of roughing-it is a
room in the best hotel in town. But I think we might have more to say to each
other if we met again today.
Apparently my relationship with Uncle Harve started when I was born. I guess
Dad called Grandma Sidebottom with the news, and finally relayed my name: Thomas
Omar. I gather Uncle Harve’s reaction was something along the line of: “Where
did she get a name like that?’ Mind you, I haven’t confirmed this story with
either of my parents but I got it from Grandma Gerichs (Mom’s mother), who was a
fount of (generally reliable) information about the family. As you might expect,
Grandma Gerichs was totally indignant about anyone thinking poorly of her
daughter's choice of names.
I live a radically different life from Uncle Harve, but after editing this
material, I somehow feel like I’m from the same stock as he. The storyteller, I
suppose, is the greatest similarity. I let several of my friends read these
stories, and their most frequent comment was how Uncle Harve’s stories remind
them of stories I tell. I like to observe what happens around me and reinterpret
it for friends and family. And there’s the side that always likes to be busy and
always learning. And then, of course, we both love Agatha Christie.
There are some real differences between my approach to life and Uncle
Harve’s, though. My greatest sadness in reading this material is the absence of
music. Music, more than any verbal or written material, has been my teacher in
spiritual matters. I suppose there was singing and playing instruments in Uncle
Harve’s life, but if there was, this account mentions it only in passing.
Uncle Harve’s writing is mostly wonderful, and in editing it, I’ve changed
very little. He had a preference not to use pronouns, and I got a bit cross and
edited out some of his repeated noun phrases.
All this material comes from a package Dad sent me some years ago. I rather
think he imagines I’ve filed it away somewhere, but I decided to get it out and
put a proper book together for his seventieth birthday. Now, twelve years later,
I'm making it available on the Internet.
Dad provided some commentary throughout the book. You'll see his initials
(OMS) to distinguish his writing from Uncle Harve’s own words.
Hopefully Uncle Harve won’t mind that inventions he probably wouldn’t have
liked (my computer, optical scanner, and laser printer), not to mention his
great-nephew, who collects a good salary for sitting around doing nothing but
thinking, have gone to work to present his thought.
—Thomas O. Sidebottom
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