In the early 1900’s a young German man boarded a ship bound for the Americas, he sought a better life, a bigger life than what he left behind him. A long journey was only the beginning of the adventures life would bring him. Soon he was greeted by the feet of Lady Liberty, and he passed through Ellis Island and embraced a new country as his own. He began a trek some 500 miles inland to a plot of dirt perfect for farming, and a new start. His bride, a young Swiss, worked tirelessly by his side, finally bearing a son in 1918, Charles, and later a daughter. The barns were raised, a house was built and a life began in the small town of Oak Harbor, Ohio.
The Fastinger Farm grew from a few crops and animals, to 600+ head of the best hogs in Ohio, and land of 200 acres. People would come from hundreds of miles to buy one of their hogs. Charles learned his trade well, loved the land and grew into a fine young man, finally marrying Ruth and going on to have six children. When fire claimed the barn, they rebuilt from the ashes, bigger and stronger, when drought threatened the crops, they worked harder to make it through till next season.
This is my heritage, my history, my family, my grandpa Charles.
Just down the stone path from the two story farm house sits a pump house. It is quite simply a stone building that houses the well for the main farm house and summer kitchen. On the outside of the pump house, was a spigot where cool well water flowed on hot days and next to that spigot an old metal cup. The cup was forged in the shop by my great grandfather, it was simple, nothing fancy, welded together to serve a purpose, but it was a steady fixture on the old pump house, and when drink was required, everyone used that cup to satisfy their thirst. If a stranger happened onto the land, the cup offered refreshment, if there was work to be done, the cup replenished strength. The cup hung there, year after year, always welcoming the tired weary soul.
Growing up many summer days were spent on the farm, at the crack of dawn, off I’d go, traipsing behind my Grandpa in oversized rubber boots, old jeans and a tee shirt, my white blonde hair pulled up in a pony tail, doing my darndest to keep up with him.
Chores were always first in the morning, feeding the pigs, he’d let me scoop feed into the buckets and help me pour them into the feeders, we’d scrap pens together, count the new babies, ride on the tractor, or combine, he’d teach me things about the ground, and the hogs. Then, when the hard work was done, and sweat beaded over our upper lips, he’d motion to me, and hand in hand we would make our way to the pump house for a drink. He always offered the cup to me first, and with large gulps I’d hastily drink in the cool water. He was patient, and though thirsty, he never rushed me. He’d smile, and tell me that I’d “drank half the well”, and then he would drink his fill, toss whatever remained, and hang the cup back on the hook by the spigot. I was his sweetheart, and he was my champion.
It was a cold December day when Grandpa Charles died. A sudden heart attack on the strongest heart I’d ever known. As I watched this man walk into the hospital on his own, I was hopeful, but he never came back out. He lies resting just a quarter of a mile from the farm.
Summers were never quite the same after he left, and slowly I stopped drinking from the cup, leaving it to hang on the hook as a timeless reminder of the drinks that were shared there. There are days I sit in utter disbelief that he’s been gone some 25 years now. There are days I wish he were here to meet his great grandchildren and teach them about sweet corn and soybeans, eat donuts and coffee with, or give them a baby pig to care for. I take them to his graveside, to introduce them to Grandpa Charles, and tell stories, and talk to him… and remind him quietly that I miss him so.
Last month, I went home to my parents house, and briefly went by the farm, and passed by the pumphouse. It is barely a glimmer of what it used to be, the walls are now grown up with weeds, the summer kitchen is falling down, the stone path brittle and broken, but the cup still hung by the spigot and memories flooded like cool water into my soul.
“Grams”, I said… “I have a sort of odd question for you…. Does anyone use the cup on the pumphouse anymore??”
“No”, she replied, “I don’t guess they do.”
“Well, can I have it?” I asked hesitantly.
She looked at me oddly, processing my request but not sure why I’d made it. My heart caught in my throat as I waited in anticipation.
“Ooooh, wellllll, I don’t see why not…. Sure..” Grams said.
A smile gripped my lips, as silly as it sounds, I expected a “no”. I could have the cup! Happiness exploded in my heart.
I didn’t wait for her to change her mind, or ask my uncles or my aunts… It was mine…I grabbed up the old cup, dodged a few dozen wasps that had taken up residency in it, raced to the kitchen and cleaned it out. I plopped it in my purse and wondered how I’d explain the cup to airport security but didn’t care. The cup, the precious memory was mine and mine alone.
I summoned the help of my dad to pick out the perfect board from the old family barn next to his house, and once I have that in my possession, the board will become a shelf on which will sit my picture of the farm and the cup. It will be my forever memory and small shrine to my best friend of my brief 11 years that was stolen from me all too soon. You may look at it and see a piece of bent welded metal, I look at it and see love spilling onto the ground, kindness overflowing the rim, and a flood of strength exuberated by my childhood hero.
And old tin cup. Weathered by time, crafted with love, filled with water, shared by many, a memory to be cherished and passed down to future generations of how it came to be.
This is my heritage, my history, my family, my grandpa Charles.
Your thoughts….