MORE ABOUT MY IMMEDIATE FAMILY, ESPECIALLY GRANDPA JACK
Having just written a piece about my wonderful and amazing mother, Virginia, I thought I might follow up with a note about my other family members, particularly my grandfather, Jack McGinnis. I know nothing about my father’s family, essentially, since I did not meet him until I was in college. Jack McGinnis was raised by a devout fundamentalist mother, which explains his complete lack of interest in anything related to religion. He had several siblings living in our town of Bellingham as I was growing up, but I hardly knew them.
Jack quit school after the 8th grade at 15, the required schooling in the late 19th century. He worked in a shingle mill and later sold life insurance and real estate around the city of Anacortes, Washington, where my mom, Virginia, was born and raised. He continued as a successful salesman in Bellingham, Washington, until 1932, when he ran for City Treasurer on the Roosevelt ticket and won at the age of 42. He was reelected three times on the Roosevelt ticket, and soon after that, he suffered a mild stroke. He never fully recovered his vibrant personality and health after his stroke and retired to a quiet, private life. He was very ashamed of the minor facial effects from his stroke and rarely went out in public. He divided his time between fishing, smoking, and playing solitaire.
However, on two occasions, he took his son Dale and me on extensive fishing trips up the Caribou Trail into Canada. My uncle Dale was just two years my senior, so we were more like brothers. The first trip was short-lived because of severe rainstorms, and I clearly recall standing in a stream, soaking wet, trying to reel in a catch or two. I also remember sleeping on the floor of a small, deserted log cabin for the two nights we were on the road. Frankly, the trip was a total bust, so I had reservations when, two years later, Grandpa Jack proposed we take another trip further up the trail, just past the town of Kamloops, Canada. My Mom insisted that I go along with Grandpa and Dale once again.
On this trip, we also took my uncle Vint and our Irish Setter, Red. Grandpa had scoped out a sheep ranch that offered a lake, actually “see-through” to the bottom, stocked with rainbow trout for vacation fishers. It turned out to be an absolutely clear lake named Bonapart, whose deep bottom was fully visible. The sheep ranchers were a friendly bunch, and Grandpa and Vint enjoyed playing poker with them at night. Dale and I were delighted to discover that, while we were not fishing, we could ride the ranch’s horses for a dollar a day. For three days, we rode wonderful horses across the surrounding rolling plains. We did have a few mishaps, like tearing the nut off the oil pan under the car on a rock, falling into the lake trying to catch a few minnows with a net, falling off an unsaddled horse that bolted when it first saw the lake as we approached it and smacking my head on the only rock in the path, and getting bit on the arm by a coyote when I tried to separate him from our dog Red, who was fighting with him.
My Mom was pretty upset when I arrived home with a bandaged head and arm, but she was glad I had gone along with Grandpa on the trip. It meant a great deal to him to spend time with his son and grandson. Grandpa Jack talked about our “great trip” for weeks. Indeed, when I think about it, my Grandpa was the closest thing I ever had to a Dad. We played cards together, and he even agreed to take me to my City League basketball game in a small blizzard so I could play. When they moved to a new house, he put up a backboard and a basketball hoop in the driveway so I could learn to shoot.
Once, when we were playing poker, I got impatient with his repeated shuffling of the cards, and he blew up. He threw the little card table over on me and sent me to the floor on my back. I was not really hurt, but I went upstairs to my room. When Grandma told him he should apologize, he quietly came halfway up the stairs, peeked through the railing, and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Nothing more was ever said, and we were still friends. Grandpa died a couple of years later, but I was out of town and did not get to go to his funeral. I have always regretted not being present when he passed. My Granddad was really my Dad. I miss him.