A few decades ago Oscar Theodore Blank was contemplating his mortality, organizing his final wishes, and asked if I’d say a few words at his memorial service. I agreed. As the years skimmed by and he showed no evidence of slowing down, I began to wonder if I should have been the one making arrangements with him. But here we are, as he intended.
My wife and I first met Ted when we were hired to move a spruce tree from the yard of his friend Jud Druck to Ted’s yard at 301 Davis Road. Lee and I had a landscape and nursery business and in that first meeting Ted showed an interest in helping us out on a part time basis. We felt an immediate connection with the old farmer and a deal was struck.
On the week he showed up we needed someone to man a booth at the WSAL Home Show and we asked Ted if he’d stand in. He seemed a bit shocked by this vote of confidence, but agreed. Late in the evening we slipped in and found him sharply dressed, exuding professionalism. He was with a prospective client, paging through a book of plants as if it were a well practiced routine. He was listening respectfully, responding with humility, fostering a relationship. We knew we had a winner.
From that moment his friendship, value and dedication were rock solid for the nearly 15 years he helped us out. He became a surrogate grandfather to our two sons, a sounding board and a source of advice in all matters of business and personal life, and a man we leaned on and worked, in his words, “like a dirty yellow dog.” And then, at the tender age of 83, he announced he would pull stakes and move to Bainbridge Island.
It surprised us. His history and livelihood, his community, his long established and close friends were all here. He was by definition not a young man, but he set his jaw to moving cross country and pulled it off. In no time he was volunteering at the local art scene, counting wild salmon in area streams and raising oysters in Puget Sound, all while transforming his yard into a garden showcase and establishing himself as Bainbridge Island’s new troublemaker. Few that met him could resist his charm and humor and home spun simplicity.
I’d never known a centenarian before Ted and often wondered what allowed him to exceed the century mark with gusto. Maybe it was diet: half and half on breakfast cereal, biscuits and gravy, lots of bacon, marbled steaks, rich pastries, daily martinis. Maybe avoiding the dentist chair played a role, or an aversion to exercise for exercise’s sake. It could not have been for lack of worry because the man worried— about family and friends, community, country, money. He’d get fed up and claim he didn’t care. “To heck with it,” he’d say. But he lied. He cared deeply. No doubt his longevity was fueled by his social life, his broad range of interests, his curiosity and willingness to engage. He had a trap line requiring daily tending and it kept him abreast of goings on. Years after he moved away we’d call Bainbridge Island to get Logansport news and he’d always have it.
He had a memory like an elephant and his ability to solve math on the fly left me astounded. Give the man a string of numbers and he’d tilt his head and squint one eye and spit out the answer as sure as a Texas Instrument calculator. He was quick to embrace new practices in agriculture but carried to the grave a disdain for home computers and modern gadgetry. He was a hands-on manager who kept business transactions under his thumb and clearly recorded on lined paper. When information deemed personal began showing up on the internet, he drew the line and would have no part of it. There was a limit to what a man could accept having had intimate experience with workhorses and threshing machines and home butchering.
He would often remind me that there was no better advice than what came from an old farmer, and that I was indeed fortunate to receive said advice free of charge. He was driven by persistent effort, careful planning, and balance sheets free of red ink. We once had a prominent location in town to sell Christmas trees and we asked Ted if he, with other employees, would run it for all the profit it held. He took to the job like a boar in a pen full of receptive gilts, recruiting family members to assist, and over the years it arguably became the best Christmas tree stand in the county. The trees were hand picked and of finest quality, and if the customer needed home delivery and the tree placed in a stand inside the living room window, so be it. You won’t find that kind of service at Walmart.
Back at the nursery, when a plant combination didn’t suit him, he’d say, “That looks shitty,” or if Lee was present, “Pardon me, Lee, that looks shitty.” If he disapproved of something I said he’d remind me that I fell from a tree and hit my head and had yet to fully recover. Every morning he’d arrive at the office ahead of the other employees and pull a notepad and sharpie from his overalls chest pocket and scratch off pertinent news and thoughts for the day. His concern for us and our welfare sometimes exceeded our own. He was thrilled on the days he could report he was “making bag,” and apologized on those when he felt fine but just didn’t want to do a damn thing. His presence in our lives was a constant, his service and companionship beyond measure.
A man who valued education, hard work, and integrity, he was at once a jokester and gentleman, a devoted husband, parent, gramps and great grandpa. I was always moved, long after his relocation to WA, by his requests for fresh roses on Helen’s tombstone and evergreen blankets for the graves of his mom and dad on Christmas. He was a respectful man and it earned him the same.
When Ted asked me to say a few words on this long dreaded day, he insinuated that I not be remorseful but instead say something smart, liven the mood, celebrate. I’m not sure I’m entirely capable. I often called him an old goat, which he said wasn’t very nice and it probably wasn’t. Nevertheless, today I want to thank him for being the stubborn old goat he was: stubbornly dedicated to friends and to being the best he could be, stubbornly determined to spend his earthly time well, to smile and laugh often, to encourage by example. His influence will live on for generations. Well done, Mr Blank, very well done. We’ll miss you, ole Yellow Dog.
