Guerney Milton Umholtz

born: May 5, 1882

died: April 23, 1969

Guerney was the son of Jonas and Hannah(Scheib) Umholtz. He married Flora Wolfgang, daughter of Daniel and S. Maria(Moyer) Wolfgang. Guerney and Flora are buried at Sacramento, PA.

Guerney,Flora and Family photo

THE SPARROW'S FLIGHT

The smell of tobacco, "chew", mixed with the smell of fresh earth haunts me to this day. I cannot see a spittoon without a childhood memory dancing in my mind's eye. Two generations
later, my children ask for "Pappy's meat" - our childhood term for Lebanon bologna - on their sandwiches. And my brother still packs large gingersnap cookies, known affectionately to us as
"fisher cookies", with his "Pappy's meat " sandwiches, for fishing trips.

Gurney Milton Umholtz, Pappy as I knew him, was from my earliest memory, stooped and bent, somewhat like the cherry trees he grew - a bit gnarled with age, but sturdy, strong, and as
productive as ever. He wore thick wire-rimmed glasses; he was legally blind in one eye from a mining accident. His smile was ever present, and mostly mischievous. He delighted in trying my
aunt's patience; she clucked about him constantly, worrying that his advancing years were making tasks too difficult for him.Somehow, she never won their daily skirmishes.

In the movie, "Fried Green Tomatoes" , there is a reference to the "bee charmer" as some one who could get honey from the bee hive without getting stung, someone who could "charm" the
bees. Pappy was a bee charmer; he had a productive hive. I barely remember accompanying him "to fetch some honey". I know that Pappy had to be quick about these excursions into the
buzzing hive with me; my mother and aunt were ever vigilant, lest I was injured. He never wore netting when gathering honey and neither did I. We always managed to exit the hive unharmed. (To
this day, in fact, I have never been stung by a honey bee.) Once out of the hive, we would take the honey comb into the house where it would rest overnight, dripping golden droplets of honey
from its wax moorings. I usually could not wait till morning for the honey and would coax my aunt or parents to let me taste it. There has yet to be a honey marketed that could compare to Pappy's in
flavor; on this, my cousins and I agree wholeheartedly.

Gathering the eggs from the hen house was often something Pappy would ask me to do for him. I loved the chickens - when they did not flap their wings. I was especially wary of the rooster,
however. He liked to give chase to any intruder. I soon learned that feeding them was a sure way of distracting the chickens from guarding their nests. It was always a race, though, because the
rooster was sure to wander into the hen house, as eggs were vanishing from the nests into the basket slung over my arm, and he instinctively knew what I was about. He raised such a ruckus,
crowing and what have you, that I soon had hens high-stepping in my direction, flapping their wings, with an occasional squawking lift-off. The rooster was pecking smartly at my feet between
crows. As my feathered friends tried to retrieve their losses, I dashed for the safety of the yard, swiftly closing the gate behind me, and gasping with relief. Always, Pappy would be there, one
hand on the post, and the thumb of his other crooked under his suspenders, with his straw hat shading his bright blue eyes from the summer sun, laughing at my encounter with his chickens and
then, clucking softly to calm his brood, but beaming with pride because I got the eggs!

The barn and the tool shed with the out-house were fascinating buildings for me. Here Pappy fashioned his tools. A hand-hewn garden rake and hoe are in my possession today. But
it was the out-house that really caught my attention. I had never known anything but indoor plumbing. Even though I grew up with the building's presence , it wasn't until I was old enough to
comprehend its function that I recognized this was not in every family's back yard. Who was this relative of mine that still needed an outhouse, and why?? In time I came to understand that it was
not a need (for the house had long ago been plumbed indoors), but rather, a choice. And a choice born out of stubbornness of will - Pappy's desire to maintain that which he was most familiar with
and to conserve that which he found most precious - water.

Concerned about the garden, and ever mindful of the weather changes, Pappy kept a measure of the rainfall. The meter still stands today. Indeed, he considered this such a precious
resource, that the outdoor sink on the back porch used for "washing up" before meals, had a bucket underneath the drain. When the bucket was full, the water was used for the garden
plants. Recycling? Pappy would not have considered it as such; he was simply returning to the earth a borrowed resource. His German heritage had taught him well the conservationist
techniques most of us are still trying to grasp.

In Pappy's household, nothing was disposed of. Everything was re-used, composted, or fed to the chickens or the garden. Grease from frying was saved, frozen and put out for the birds
during the winter. Some grease was kept for making soap, a process that I never observed first-hand because of the caustic lye involved, but which intrigued me, nevertheless. I remember
discussions by the grown-ups on where to put the coffee- grounds, under the azaleas or the roses , or both? As I struggle with this clay soil to grow my roses, I wish that I had listened and
understood. The azaleas and roses that Mammy grew, with Pappy's help, remain beautiful and full today.

Once Pappy tried to teach me to speak the Deutsch dialect. I was proud of my ability , as I caught on quickly, and promptly asked anyone who would listen, "Kanst du micka fonga? Ya,
whan sie hucka blieva." The adults smiled and laughed; I was pleased and proud. Now I was really becoming "Deutsch" ! Someone thought to ask me for the translation; I looked
innocently to Pappy. With that "I'm-up-to-something" grin, his blue eyes twinkling and a wad of "baccky" tucked in the corner of his cheek, he quietly spoke to me, gently rocking and lazily
waving his flyswatter that warm summer evening. (Pappy never actually killed any flies; he just shooed them away. And that was the source of his amusement that night).

As I listened intently, my expression quickly changed. With a pout befitting Shirley Temple, crestfallen and indignant, I stepped back, tipped my head and lovingly chided, "P-a-a-py!" Where upon, my Deutschische relatives promptly chastised Pappy in a string of
words my beginner's lesson did not allow me to follow. My language lessons ended after this playful interchange, for Pappy had taught me to say, "Can you catch flies? Yes, if they stay
sitting" , while gently swatting the air to insure they did not! The sound of Pappy's Deutsch remains a warm, happy memory. Like an old familiar tune, it is well remembered, and instantly
recognized.

Music played an integral role in my life. It was no accident. Pappy played bass tuba, bass horn, bass viol, violin and piano. All my aunts and uncles played an instrument and were active in
choirs. Visits that were special occasions, like birthdays or anniversaries, brought the whole family together and inevitably, we all found our way to the living room and the piano. "Papa sang
bass" was literally true in my case. Pappy, however, was a melodic tenor. Content with alto harmony, I blended in. Usually my aunt or mother added the melody when my brother outgrew
that role. More often than not, thought, it was Pappy's tenor that guided us through the familiar hymns. This was my favorite part of the visit - this wonderful music and blending of voices in song.
It never mattered what we sang - just that we did.

My piano playing is a direct result of these musical family gatherings. My taste in music today is a reflection of that time. I favor the hymns with close melodic harmony, yet feel equally
comfortable with Broadway favorites. The piano is still a source of joy and comfort to me. Yet it is clear that I will never match Pappy's ability.

I remember the thrill I would feel when he consented to play the piano- something like being granted an audience with a grand master. His playing was simple and straight-forward; he read no
music, kept perfect timing and played solely from ear and memory. Bent with age, eyes focused on some inward notation, his hands stiffened by arthritis, he gently caressed the keys. And
they yielded under his touch an unwavering sound, belying his years. His innate musical talent, his ear for note and time, graces my house today. My vocally talented daughter did not have the
good fortune to know this man from whom her talent is inherited; it is a mutual loss. Her clear soprano voice and her ear for notes and her intrinsic timing constantly propels me back to another
time.

It is this element of generation, this connection of family that has helped me through my most difficult times. When others faded from my life, my family was always there. When Pappy
died, I was already in nursing school. As a neophyte student of the healing arts, I knew the processes of death, especially in the elderly. I could rationalize, I could categorize and I could explain, from a nursing perspective. I could and should be able to handle
this. After all, in my profession, this was routine. Life and death. What I had not counted on was that my loss was not clinical - it was personal.

I remember visiting Pappy in the hospital right before he died. He was not really aware of my presence. I noticed that his mouth was dry and demanded, probably from a student nurse,
some glycerin swabs for this. In trying to swab his dry, chapped lips, I was trying to soothe my own pain. So many memories flashed before my eyes - Pappy tending the cherry trees, showing
me how he started lettuce in his cold frame (I have one like it now), Pappy's garden and his chestnut tree that grew up with me; Pappy coming down the path to greet us and standing at the end
of the drive waving goodbye (we waved until he disappeared from our view, with our arms arcing over the car in summer and or faces peering through the back window in winter); the fishing
trips, and the extra whiskey he always tried to sneak on his mincemeat pie, (as he winked conspiratorially at me), that always elicited a scolding from his eldest daughter.

I thought about, as I slid my hand around his, all the childhood games my brother and I played under his carefully tended grape arbor, and the cherry tree I loved to climb and
lounge in, reading my latest book, until the bark pressed too smartly against my back. I savored these memories as I held his hand, squeezing gently now and then, listening to the harsh
breathing of this proud, yet humble man, knowing my childhood guide was aware that his purpose had been fulfilled. I waited for the slightest squeeze in return, and my thoughts slipped back
further still, to Mammy, his wife. My memory of her is brief, but filled with a sense of warmth and love. I remembered crawling onto her lap as a young child, an impudent seven year old,
correcting her grammar. I politely informed her that "ain't" is not a word since it was not in the dictionary. I impolitely informed her not to use it. She laughed, a soft, gentle laugh and hugged me to
her as she replied in a lilting Deutsch accent, "A-a-int?"

Against my hand, I felt a movement. I spoke softly to Pappy and distinctly felt his grasp. It was strong, but fleeting. I wanted to rescue him from this nether world he was in. My thoughts turned
to his eighty-sixth birthday, almost one year ago. Because of graduation commitments, I missed the family celebration. One of Pappy's pleasures was telling stories- fish stories. I remembered
the letter I wrote to him and the article I had written about him:

"...and I threw the line again, waited, then hooked him! I felt he
was a big one. I couldn't let this one go....he started to run on me and
got fast in a rock. I jerked him hard and started to feed him; I jerked
again. This time he came up, all silver and shiny in the sun ".

With a rather tremulous and excited voice, he finished the
story......Yes, that was the thing I would always remember about him.
He did not tell the story - he was the story....his brown,
weathered hands with sensitive fingers, played with the
imaginary line.

As I held his hand, somehow sensing that I was holding him to life, I recalled the last line of that letter: "His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches you!" Gently, I eased my hand from his,
bent and kissed him. It was time for this fisherman to cast his net in other waters.


The above was written by Twila Kay Umholtz Colville, daughter of Joseph Lester Umholtz and granddaughter of Guerney Milton Umholtz.