The New Californian

Also published as, "The New Iowan," The Chronicle, February 4, 2010


Every February I reminisce about my grandfather John “Jack” Hartig, Junior. This is the time of year when I get excited for the NASCAR Daytona 500 and recall my grandpa’s love of stock car racing. February was also the month of his death, shortly after my eighth birthday. This year I started my stroll down memory lane a couple of days early because I attended a high school basketball game. My grandpa, who we kids called Pa, was an avid basketball fan – especially if the Los Angeles Lakers were involved. But I don’t imagine he became a Lakers fan until 1962 when he moved his family from Barnum, Iowa to sunny southern California.

I don’t know too much about Pa’s early days. From pictures I know he was tall and handsome, especially in his Navy uniform. Although he was one of nearly a dozen children, he and my grandmother had only three children of their own. Pa worked at the elevator in Barnum; his office was a tiny white building adjacent to the scale and it still stands today. His sister headed to California first – my “Aunt Dode” who resides there even now. He raised my mother and her siblings in a couple of different cities that were never far inland from the Pacific Coast.

What I don’t know about Pa’s life is made up for by the memories I have of his involvement in mine. As a little girl I would spend time visiting his rubber stamp production shop in Costa Mesa. My grandmother and I would walk a few doors down to the German bakery and gather items for Pa’s lunch. I remember once Grammy asked me, “What should we get Pa to drink?” and I replied, “Well, he likes beer and milk.” We bought milk that day.

Pa did more than just work. He loved to spend time with his grandkids. Grammy and Pa were often responsible for babysitting my brothers and me and these were days that I cherished. When I was five, Pa taught me how to skip with only verbal coaching – no demonstrations. I was doted upon, but he was not hesitant to discipline me like he was my own father, either.

My grandparents spent their retirement traveling the country in a motor home, while my mother and I collected their mail and missed them dearly. Those trips came to an end when Pa began a short and ugly battle with a rare, terminal cancer at the age of 64. From there my memories flash from sitting with our feet in the spa together as he explained the large surgical scar on his chest, to seeing the strong man bedridden and medicated to the point he could no longer speak. Judging from my second grade journal entries, my first experience with death introduced me to some strikingly adult emotions.

Although Pa’s ashes were scattered at sea outside the Newport Beach harbor, I like to think his legacy lives on in Iowa as well as California. Today a little house that he built by hand for his family stands occupied and well-kept in Manson. I hope his legacy also lives through me, following my dreams like Pa did – though somewhat in reverse. I’ll be watching the Daytona race with either beer or milk – I love you, Pa!


Copyright Rachel Burns 2010