Eli operated a tavern in the Englewood neighborhood of Coos Bay that was called “The Joint.” His sons helped out behind the bar. He had a small dog that he brought to the bar and taught to smoke cigarettes and climb a ladder. It amused the patrons, and amazed those who were already pie-eyed.
After Sofia died, he moved to Florence and stayed with Johnnie, then with Sylvia and Buck, before moving into an assisted living facility, “Twilight Haven.” Sylvia had acquired a pedigreed miniature dachshund whose formal name was “Wee Prince Pogo.” Eli taught Pogo to jump through a hoop, then Sylvia tried it. “Jump!” she commanded, but the dog did not move. She tried again. “Jump!” The dog looked at her quizzically. Then she tried it with a heavy Finnish accent. “Yoomp!” she said, and the dog sailed through the hoop.
Sofia would never have used profanity or vulgarity on purpose, but at least once, her English as a second language caught up with her. She had loaded a squirt gun with ammonia water. She explained to Milly that she planned to shoot that dog “that pissed on my flowers!”
Sofia grew trilliums, transplanted from the woods, on the shady side of her back porch. They thrived, and we knew not to pick them. On the sunny side, she planted nasturtiums, and had to teach me “Don’t pick all of them. Let some grow.” I could bring her a handful of wild flowers from the woods, instead.
Eli grew strawberries, red potatoes, and Logan berries. Sofia used the Logan berries to make juice that she sweetened with sugar and thickened with cornstarch to make pudding that she fed to the grandchildren, warm or chilled, with or without milk.
Vake took starts of the Logan berries, and always kept a patch of them growing. Now I have a patch, my son Brook has an excellent patch of berries at the house he needs to sell at Kent, WA, and Sandy has at least a few vines. Sam installed some in his yard and some in his daughter Kate’s yard, so among us, we should be able to keep the tradition of growing these berries alive.
Eli took care of pruning the trees in his front yard. Vake laughed and commented that Eli’s pruning looked more like the clear-cutting typical of a Finnish logger’s work. However, the two huge camellia trees in the front yard continued to thrive.
Eli and Vake build a small house for Vake and Milly just down hill from Eli’s house, and Sofia continued to come in every morning to build a fire in the wood burning stove so that the house would be cozy when Vake and Milly got up.
Down hill from the small house, Eli built a garage, but yellow jackets nested in the eves. After one stung him on the top of his bald head, Eli decided to smoke them out. He ignited some rags on the end of a pole, and when they were smoldering, poked the pole into the yellow jacket’s nest. Unfortunately, he set the garage on fire, and the fire department had to put it out. The damage was only slight.
For as long as bottled milk was available, Eli drove to “the creamery” every other day or so to buy bottles of un-homogenized milk with a couple of inches of cream on top, and to return the empties. His driving involved revved the engine hard, on purpose, before he started to move. Vake claimed that when Eli was too old and arthritic to look both ways before he pulled onto the street, he just waited what he thought was an appropriate time, then plunged forward. I understand that Gene had provided the car, and Eli continued to drive until Sam was driving, and the car was Sam’s first car—that would have put Eli into his early 80s. With our current generation including some 70-year-olds who still drive, I guess that isn’t as scary as it used to be.
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