Among
the arcane
information
stored in
my head is
the fact
that Oct.
13 fell on
a Friday
in 1902. I
know this
because on
that day,
in the
hamlet of
Meadowdale,
WV, Paul
Meredith
was born.
He was my
father.
He did
not like
being
"fussed
over," so
when his
100th
anniversary
arrived
last month
I did not
undertake
any overt
celebration,
except to
ask my
children
to write
down some
of their
memories
of him. He
would have
appreciated
this, I
think;
family
memories
were
important
to him. In
passing
them down
to me he
became my
most
important
link to my
genealogical
roots.
That, in
turn, has
led me to
understand
why it was
inevitable
that I
became an
ecologist.
He grew
up in a
house
known as
the "old
homestead,"
which was
built by
his
great-grandfather
in the
1840's.
The
original
family
farm, a
quarter-section
(160
acres),
was still
largely
intact;
only a few
building
lots had
been given
to the
male
heirs, and
there were
four
uncles
living
within
easy
walking
distance.
On the
farm were
a
blacksmith
shop and
sawmill.
It was a
grand
place for
a boy to
grow up,
and its
influence
still
shows; it
was passed
on through
me, and a
century
later my
grandchildren
enjoy
gardening
and making
things
with their
hands.
Although
he was
born at
the
beginning
of the
20th
Century,
my father
was a
child of
the 19th.
His father
worked in
the Post
Office, so
his early
childhood
was
dominated
by his
grandfather,
a vigorous
70-year-old
who still
operated
the
sawmill.
As a pre-schooler,
playing in
the mill
and
smithy, he
learned
basic
principles
of physics
without
realizing
it;
levers,
pulleys,
and
hydraulics
were
second
nature to
him.
Although
he had no
knowledge
of the
theories
behind
their
operation,
he could
apply them
in unique
ways to
solve
problems;
he was a
practical
inventor.
All of
this was
passed on
to me in a
peculiarly
traditional
manner as
I grew up:
he
expected
me to
watch as
he worked,
and to
participate
as soon as
I was big
enough. He
was not
very good
at verbal
explanations,
but he
could
always
demonstrate
how things
worked,
and what
to do when
they
didn't.
Thus when
I got to
high
school,
physics
was one of
my easier
courses.
In the
sawmill,
the
smithy,
and in his
own
workshop
when I was
young,
nothing
was
wasted.
Broken or
worn-out
tools were
repaired,
or were
used as
raw
material
for making
something
else, and
scraps of
wood were
saved
against
the time
when he
would need
a board
just that
size. If
he were
here now,
he would
enjoy
visiting
my
workshop;
he would
understand
the
clutter
generated
by never
throwing
anything
away, and
he would
recognize
many of
the tools.
The
bandsaw he
bought in
1949, the
pliers,
drawknife
and plane
from his
workbench,
the drill
press that
he made
from the
wringer
mechanism
of an old
washing
machine…
all still
function,
to the
delight of
my
grandchildren.
When
recycling
became
popular in
the
1960's, I
did not
have to be
convinced
of its
worth; it
was
already in
my blood.
Much of
the area
around
Meadowdale
was
lumbered
in the
early
1800's,
and by
1900 it
had
re-grown
into a
mature
forest of
chestnut,
oak, maple
and beech.
This
forest was
being cut
again at
the turn
of the
century,
and by the
time he
was 8 or 9
years old,
my father
was
driving a
team of
horses
that
dragged
logs off
the hills
to the
sawmill.
His
grandfather
must have
been a
good
teacher;
he never
was
seriously
injured at
that work.
He knew
the names
of all the
trees in
the
forest,
the kind
of soil
and slope
where they
grew best,
and the
quality of
each kind
of wood.
But he
also
understood
that a
forest is
more that
a source
of lumber.
He was a
practical
ecologist;
although
he never
heard of
Aldo
Leopold,
he lived
according
to a Land
Ethic.
He
noticed
the
erosion
that
occurred
along the
logging
trails;
thereafter,
he was
always
concerned
about
preserving
soil. In
the
1950's, he
refused to
lease his
farm to
strip-miners,
although
several of
our
neighbors
were
making
easy
fortunes
by doing
so; he
simply
said it
wasn't
worth it
because
"the
ground
would be
ruined."
He
understood
the
connection
between
healthy
forests
and
streams;
he had
seen the
trout,
pike and
bass
disappear
from
Prickett's
Creek,
which
regularly
flooded in
the spring
and went
dry in the
summers
after the
watershed
forests
were cut.
We
talked
about this
once when
I was well
into my
academic
career,
and he was
detached
and
practical
when
speaking
of his own
role in
cutting
the
forests.
It was a
way of
life, and
he felt no
regret or
guilt
about it.
The
forests
had been
cut
before;
everyone
assumed
they would
grow back
again.
From his
vantage
point, he
could not
have
foreseen
that the
human
population
would grow
so
explosively
and
pollution
would
become so
rampant in
his
lifetime.
It was
only
toward the
end of his
life that
a note of
sadness
appeared
in his
voice when
he talked
of these
things and
realized
that the
changes he
had been
part of
were not
reversible.
We did
not talk
much about
my work. I
knew when
I entered
college
that it
would have
pleased
him if I
had gone
into the
Methodist
ministry;
but one of
the
greatest
gifts he
gave me
was to let
me choose
my own
career,
without
pressure.
When I
decided to
become a
biologist,
he was
proud that
I seemed
to be
achieving
success,
and that I
was
earning
enough to
be
comfortable,
but he did
not have
much
understanding
of what an
academic
biologist
actually
does. He
did know I
was happy
doing it.
I would
like to
think that
by the end
of his
life he
had
learned
enough
about it
to take
satisfaction
in the
knowledge
that he
had
prepared
me well
for it;
but I am
not sure.
It took me
until this
100th
anniversary
to realize
how