52 Ancestor Week 4: Close to Home

Lowell Brosius, my Grandpa Red's brother, was born in Sedan, Kansas 21 Mar 1913. When his father died in 1920, he moved with his mother and the younger of the Brosius kids (he was the second youngest of them all) to the Pacific Northwest. He quit school at about age 13 and began working. He worked a number of different kinds of jobs throughout his life, along with a stint as an Army MP in Europe during WWII. Among his jobs, he worked as a logger, a gold miner, and a glazier. He was married once, but the marriage didn't last.

During my earliest years, he was renting the back room of a house in Portland, Oregon. There was a backyard with a tree, and Lowell used to feed the squirrels and scrub jays. They became so tame that the squirrels would climb on him and one of the jays would snatch a peanut from his open mouth. I don't actually remember that, but I have seen photos.

Lowell standing outside his pink trailer, 1988

When I was just a little bit older, he moved into a trailer court. As a child, I was amused that his trailer was pink. He lived there for many years, and I can easily conjure up the layout of his main room. The couch was to the right of the front door, parallel with the wall. Directly across from the door was his TV, which was always tuned to a football game, and which was topped by a gold-colored mantel clock shaped like a naked woman. To the left was his kitchen table and a chair or two. Stacked up behind the couch and TV, nearly to the ceiling, were dozens and dozens of old cigarette cartons--mostly Pall Mall, a few Lucky Strike, and one or two other brands--full of books by Louis Lamour. When we visited, we would be seated on the couch while Lowell sat across from us in a chair at the kitchen table. There was always a red plastic cup on the table, and every so often Lowell would spit into it. I made the mistake of looking inside it once, and seeing the brownish liquid that resulted from his habit of chewing snus.

At some point when I was in about seventh or eighth grade, Lowell could no longer drive. Dad would visit him at least once a week to offer to take him shopping, and I never turned down the chance to come along. Sometimes Lowell would take us up on the offer of driving him to the grocery store, and I can still visualize him in his plaid flannel shirt and jeans, leaning on the cart as he slowly walked up the aisles. More often, though, Lowell wasn't in need of groceries, and we would sit on his couch and visit with him. Budding genealogist that I was, I asked many questions about his family and childhood, and a couple of times brought my tape recorder along. Other times he and Dad would discuss current events and I would let my eyes wander over his belongings, especially those boxes of books.

Whenever it was time for us to leave, we would get into the car and wave goodbye as we drove away. Lowell would stand in his open doorway and salute us as we left. It wasn't a military salute, but rather a gesture of two fingers beginning at the temple and extending toward us, then remaining in place until our car was turning the corner. It's a rather simple, ordinary gesture, but as a child it puzzled me. Everyone else I knew just waved. To this day, every time I picture Lowell in my mind, the first image that comes to mind is of him standing on the top step of his pink trailer holding his hand in that casual salute.

Once I was in sophomore or junior year of high school, Lowell needed more care. He was still independent, but it was no longer advisable for him to live alone. So he moved in with us. We had a daylight basement, carpeted and furnished, so we set that up for him as his own apartment. He generally prepared and ate his own meals, but it became our habit to go down and offer him a bowl of ice cream every night. I know he enjoyed that, because sometimes we would come back from a weekend out of town and there were fork marks in the ice cream container where he had come upstairs and helped himself. I always found it strange that he scooped ice cream with a fork, but it was endearing too.

He kept a large supply of peanuts for the squirrels and scrub jays, and would spend time in the back yard feeding them. They never got quite as tame as the ones at his old back-room apartment, but an occasional squirrel did wander into the house demanding peanuts.

Lowell died there in our basement, sitting on Grandpa Red's big leather easy chair. Mom found him that morning when she went downstairs to do laundry. I was at school, and was called to the office to get the news. That was a rough day.

As a child, and well into my teen years, I always had an overactive imagination. I was afraid to go downstairs if the lights were out, and I didn't like to be the last one to go up the stairs, because of course there was a (imaginary) skeleton who resided under the staircase and would emerge and dance at the bottom of the stairs as I ascended. Looking back, I don't know how exactly that was threatening, but somehow it was. One would think that knowing someone had actually died down there would make the basement even scarier, but the opposite turned out to be true. The very next time I went down there, it felt as if Lowell's presence were protecting me. The skeleton under the stairs vanished, as did whatever other monsters my imagination had provided. I have never felt frightened in that basement since.