Dutch
I never met Dutch. I never knew Dutch in the conventional way, as when one makes an acquaintance. Dutch died in May, 1944; I was born in November. Six months separated our coming and going.
Dutch had entered this world sixty-odd years earlier in Germany, hence the origin of his nickname. He was sent to live with his aunt in Philadelphia circa 1890, at age twelve. He missed his family, first by dislocation, next by his family forced to flee Nazi ascendency in the nineteen twenties. They were political opponents of the Nazis, leftists who opposed both Von Hindenburg and Hitler. Some never returned to Germany. Some remained, were hunted down, tortured and killed by the Nazis.
Early on, loss was a sentence for Dutch. As a father, Dutch lost his only son, Blair, my mother’s brother, in 1925. The cause was pneumonia. Dutch was forty something at the time. He never recovered from intermittent bouts of depression caused by the collective loss of family. In his later years, Dutch would sit in a leather armchair, tethered to a nearby radio, surrounded by clouds of smoke from relentless chain smoking. The armchair remained after his passing, in sight of where my grandmother would sit most summer afternoons, whiskey tumbler in hand hard by a 16 inch TV, watching her beloved Phillies take to the field.
Besides the nicotine afterglow armchair, little was left of Dutch physically except a conviction shared by my grandmother and her sisters that I was “his spitting image.”
In their imaginations, it was as if Dutch lingered. So began an affinity.
Dutch commuted daily by car to Trenton, where he was employed by one of Trenton’s newspapers. In those days, Trenton was an hour’s drive from Doylestown and the homestead. At a young age, Dutch had inherited a considerable fortune from his aunt, who in a fit of temper had invented the paper tablet. A kindly lawyer helped her file several patents and suddenly she found herself part owner in what would become a subsidiary of Mead Paper Corporation. With his inheritance Dutch first traveled, wrote about exotic lands, lived abroad for a while, returned to Philadelphia, bought a Revolutionary era “gentleman’s farmhouse” and fifty acres of farmland northwest of Doylestown on the Old Dublin Pike. There he sheltered his family, farmed corn, kept pigs, chickens, a few cows, employed farm hands and was no stranger to a tractor. A gate house and garage for three cars were built. Boxwood and rhododendrons graced an oval entryway. The ‘main house,’ c. 1812, was Bucks County vernacular: fieldstone and wooden trim. The original 1700’s farmhouse, named the “Hut” for its five-foot ten-inch ceilings, was preserved in the “L” formed by the main house. Pea chickens were allowed to roam. Was there a peacock? Maybe there was a peacock. Roosters greeted the day.
My family transported my sister and me to Glen Echo Farm frequently in the 1950’s before ‘sis’ and I were ushered away to boarding school. At age 4 and beyond, my view of grandeur and scale was influenced by visits to Glen Echo Farm. The place was exotic. There I imagined where streams led, smelled pig styes for the first time, saw sunsets over corn fields. Painterly landscapes invaded my head. Sounds of fowl and cows I awoke to.
And there I experienced Dutch’s legacy. His ‘office,’ where he wrote and kept a journal, was barely a large closet tucked outside a bedroom-dressing room suite on the second floor. Book cases lined the walls. An adjacent hall way took one to a chain of bedrooms, where my parents, myself and ‘sis’ slept during our visits. ‘Sis’ was assigned the last bedroom in the chain which had an unobstructed balcony view. My parent’s bedroom had a wall mural photo enlargement of the main entrance facade of Glen Echo Farm, for me a visual novelty. My bedroom looked out from under a portico towards the the driveway oval where pea chickens grazed.
The path to Dutch’s office was a gallery of collected photos, framed cartoons and remarkable framed lithographs. There my eyes travelled, curious of the detail and definition. A satirical cartoon of Europe’s WWI military/royal types was a favorite. So was the illustration of an imaginary Rube Goldberg like food dispensary showing men in bowlers and morning suits being hoisted, put on conveyor belts and unceremoniously fed like babies. The capstone was a large framed black and white photograph taken of a relative-in-law and photographer. The photographer was photographed with camera and tripod against a rocky precipice on a narrow rock strewn mountain trail.
Caption: Knox McCain Photographing the Andes.
Question: Who shot this photograph?
Dutch, as his adopted nickname referenced, was German. And German he was, identified by “America Firsters,” whom he ridiculed and then identified as such by the US Army who rejected his application to enlist in the war effort at age sixty-something. This was 1939, and German immigrants were eyed suspiciously. Dutch was insulted by the US Army rebuff. Like other German immigrants, Dutch had adopted his new country, so why didn’t his new country adopt him? He warned repeatedly about Hitler: “You don’t know with whom you are dealing .”
Despite the US Army, patriotic perseverance prevailed. Channeling his love of the cards — Dutch liked to gamble and tipple— don’t forget that — Dutch and wife, Edith, my grandmother, hosted card parties to raise money for the VFO, the USO, and any group dedicated to supporting families of servicemen and women, who were deployed and some who did not return. It was a big deal at the time, evoking not only feelings of patriotism, but also of sacrifice. “We suffer loss together,” was an unspoken mantra, and Dutch graciously honored companionship and communal support. After Dutch died, survivors returned to Glen Echo Farm while my grandmother was still alive. I remember them, farmers and children of farmers, who served and who mourned, dropping in to visit my grandmother. Those were gauzy afternoons spent around a farm table on the kitchen porch, reminiscing about the “old times.”
One of the favorite tales they recalled was when Dutch received a letter from the State Department. At first suspicious of a letter from the State Department — who wouldn’t be — Dutch read the letter out loud to Edith. He was asked if he would help settle an Austrian family of some renown, who, having renounced their country’s capitulation to Naziism, were touring the United States and performing. Dutch knew of a farmhouse across the ‘pike’ from Glen Echo that was recently vacated by the resident family retiring from farming and moving in with relatives. Dutch negotiated a lease with the farmer and arranged for the Von Trapp family to settle in Doylestown. Not for long. Alienated from their native country, the Von Trapps missed the “Alps.” Dutch convinced the family that Vermont had a similar Alpine feel, and perhaps that would suit them better. Dutch proposed to contact a family acquaintance who knew of a farm near Stowe, Vermont which was for sale. And so the Von Trapp family moved to Stowe.
Their journey, like Dutch’s, wasn’t over, which is probably why this tale persisted. Fighting loss and depression, by sixty something, Dutch retired from life. His generosity towards others, however, persisted. A cousin, ‘El,’ unable to support himself, occupied a room off the kitchen; a handyman who lost his hearing during WWI, which rendered him unemployable, was employed at Glen Echo Farm. My grandmother’s sisters, who could barely scrape by, were ensconced on the grounds. Dutch and Edith provided. Their presence was tolerated, abjectly perhaps, but with respect and a dose of irony. “Welcoming them, doesn’t mean I have to like them,” Dutch confided to my father.
In his last years, Dutch would sit in his leather chair hard by the entrance to the dining room. It was a small place. Dutch was a man with a big heart, though he would not admit it. From this perch, Dutch could survey the family comings and goings. He listened to the radio. He would dress every morning in suit and tie, looking as if he had just returned from Trenton, tired from the drive, but filled with stories to tell and memories to call up, as in “this reminds me of the time…”
June 1
