Mileposts We Wish We Could Share With Grandpa: Seeing Suzy Marry Rick

Big Day In The Wysong Family

Suzy's Wedding To Rick

WEDDING PHOTOS

Courtesy, Trish Wysong

September 12, 2015

Introducing: Susan & Rick Rinn

Sending A Tribute--Honoring Our Grandparents

Write Down Your Thoughts In An Email Or Text Your Tribute  --  You Can Write As Much Or As Little As You Wish.
If You Haven't Written, Just Send Along A Brief Note If You'd Like...If You Already Wrote, You Can Write Again!

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Email to: ncountry@gci.net

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Most "Tributes" Like This Are Written Over A Period Of Time
This is a "family and friends" look at Grandma and Grandpa's life, and how it ties into all of our lives.  If you'd like to participate, you can take a cell photo of a picture, or a place or thing that reminds you of our Grandparents that would add to your story. 

If you have any changes, or corrections, or photos you'd like to add to your existing blog, just send them right along, okay?

Grandpa Bob, Those Crazy French People -- And Let's Just Not Talk About Noam Chomsky

Grandpa Was One Of The Things You Saw When People Came To Alaska

By Linda --
For over 20 years, "August" meant "Grandpa's Coming!" in Gakona, Alaska.

Every summer, when August arrived, we'd all drive into Anchorage, greet Grandpa at the airport, and drive him back over 200 miles of winding road, through mountains and past glaciers, to our house on the hill above Gulkana Village. 

In no time at all, we had Grandpa up and running.   

He'd be riding a bike or walking --  several miles a day. He'd scramble up and down steep hills, pursuing blueberries. And he spent a lot of time baking dozens of loaves of bread, or cooking up grayling, or making cakes and pies.

Faded Memories Of Years Gone By

GRANDPA AND THE FRENCH PEOPLE

In the early years, another thing happened in August at our house: The French People came. 

Here's how that happened. When we first came to Alaska, Jeremy and I worked for a French-speaking Swiss mountaineer, named Ray Genet. We built him a cabin out near Mt. McKinley, far back in the woods, 12 miles into the trackless wilderness. 

Ray Genet (who died several years later while camped at the top of Mt. Everest) was a pioneer in the art of wholesale, bulk Alaska adventure. He hired mountain guides from all over the world, and then sold guided mountain climbing packages to rich American doctors and lawyers who couldn't do it on their own. 

One of these guides was Michel Flouret. Michel was from France, and about 28 years old.

Michel was charming and tall, and had tousled curly hair. He also apparently had an expired visa the winter we met him -- and was hiding out in the woods where we were building Genet's cabin. We, and Michel, lived in simple, charming already-finished cabins back there, with a stunning view of Mt. McKinley. 

Michel had studied to be an architect, to please his father. But, he had changed his mind. He had turned to professional mountaineering.  In America, anyone can be a "mountaineer." But in France, you had to undergo rigorous training, and to prove yourself a "Guide De Haute Montagne" by climbing all of the world's major peaks.

Michel didn't speak English very well, and he was there much of the time that winter, while we built Genet another cabin. So he offered a good opportunity for us to speak French on a daily basis. In addition to his possibly lapsed visa status, Michel was quite attractive. He apparently had numerous girlfriends in Anchorage.

We found this out when we went over to his cabin one winter night and saw him anguishing over his tiny transistor radio, intently listing to the Bush Pipeline.

The Bush Pipeline was a radio show -- a message-delivery system for people out in the woods who had no phone service. Other people called a radio station in Anchorage, and dictated their message (such as, "To Joe at Sourdough Creek: I will be in sometime next week on my snowmachine. Be sure to have some beans cooking on the stove!")  Then, people way out in the woods -- such as Michel Flouret (or Joe at Sourdough Creek) -- would listen every night on their battery-powered radios to all the messages to see if there was one for them. 

That night, there were two messages for Michel. They were back-to-back, both marked,  "To Michel Flouret at Pirate Lake." Unfortunately, though, they were from two different girls. Michel was caught in the act, and he was anguished, because it was obvious that both of his girlfriends had probably heard the two messages, too -- and one of them, the one who had just sent a Bush Pipeline message saying she had  bought a teepee, that they could now go have a romantic getaway somewhere, and that she dearly loved him -- was obviously going to have second thoughts.

Years went by.  One cold August day, when our kids were small, I was driving home from work at the Copper River Native Association. As I drove over the Gulkana River bridge, down on the riverside below, there were two or three rubber rafts sitting on the sandy banks. Standing around the rafts were about 20 people, men and women, all in various stages of undress. They were calmly wringing out their clothes.

I drove up the hill, and told Grandpa, Jeremy and the boys about what I had just seen, and about 35 minutes later, Michel was standing outside the door--with all those people, now fully clothed, lined up on the trail behind him,  still damp and shivering from the rain and river. 

Michel had a new job: running some kind of major French tour guide service to Alaska. And our house in Gakona turned out to be one of the features of his tour. That summer -- and about five more summers after that -- Michel and his French people would descend, abruptly, and without notice. They were always different visitors. But the basic story remained the same every year. 

We -- and our kids, our dogs, our parakeets, our Grandpa, and our general situation -- were apparently all part of the trip.

By mid-August, Grandpa would start getting ready for the French invasion by baking extra loaves of bread and freezing them -- they always had voracious appetites. And by cooking up pots of fish soup to haul out for them -- when and if they arrived. We never knew; some summers they never did show up. 

French people really don't like learning English. So, inevitably, their arrival would be a mass lesson in heated French politics, French phrases, and French culture. As they wolfed down Grandpa's homemade bread and slurped up their fish  soup, they would marvel that Americans still knew how to cook! 

The French people (though some of them were really Swiss) claimed that, back home, nobody cooked anymore. They probably didn't. These were all doctors and dentists, accountants, teachers and lawyers. Grandpa would gamely hold forth throughout these boisterous conversations -- interjecting French phrases, recognizing and translating cognates, expounding on French grammar -- and discussing his Citroen.

The years that Michel brought them tend to blur together, but the last time a group of French tourists visited was several years before the French Winter Olympics were held in Albertville, in 1992.

Some of Michel's clients that August were bigwigs for the Olympics, apparently in the computer-programming division. When they heard about our computer work with Grandpa, from our cabin in the Alaskan woods, they trotted right upstairs to examine our computers, and our modem, and to talk about the brave new world of technology that they

expected to implement at the Olympics. And how everything in the world was now possible. Even in Alaska. 

Matt & Grandpa, around the time that
the "French People" used to come.

PETE MARTIN, GRANDPA, AND THAT DIRTY WORD: "NOAM CHOMSKY"
If there's one thing that all five of Grandpa Bob's children knew, it was that he despised a guy named Noam Chomsky.

In some ways, Noam Chomsky bore the brunt of Grandpa's personal disappointment. He came to symbolize all that was wrong with "the academy." Grandpa couldn't say enough bad things about Noam Chomsky, and fell prey to a tangled mass of criticism about Noam, and Noam's thoughts about linguistics, and Noam's ideas about politics, and so on.

Noam Chomsky is a little-known linguist-turned-political commentator. He was an early opponent of the Vietnam War. And he is also one of the most important analyzers of the structure of language who has ever lived. 

When Grandpa left the Foreign Service, he went into linguistics, too. This was the days before computers. As he studied all this complicated stuff about language, he wrote his notes on neat little filing cards, which he put into actual little metal boxes. What with family, and commuting, and primitive typewriters, and no computers, and the need to get a "day job," the thesis he was writing (as so many people's theses do) never made it off the ground.


Although Noam Chomsky is known in several rarified circles, he isn't a common household name -- like, say, Donald Trump is today. And he never was.
But Grandpa knew who he was. And so did a friend of ours: Pete Martin.

Noam

Pete is a former Alaska State Park employee, and a longtime acquaintance. He left State Parks years ago, but continued to work out at Denali National Park, for many summers, at Camp Denali, a classy, high-end version of a Boy Scout camp for the wealthy. In the winter, he worked in Bend, Oregon, at a ski resort. 

As a former Alaskan, Pete loves "coming back home." He frequently drove the Alaska-Canada Highway in his little "vintage" car. Like Michel, he never broadcast that he was coming. He'd just show up, carting into the room a paper bag of granola he'd made, and some milk he bought somewhere -- probably Whitehorse, Canada, which was his last overnight stop, hundreds of miles away.

Pete frequently showed up in March, when he took to roving the roads. Or, sometimes, he'd drop by in fall, when he was looking for "fall colors" to photograph, during that four-day period that the trees in Alaska turn orange, before the leaves are blown off.

Pete is an intellectual. He has a huge collection of classical music, on vinyl and wax records. He's a photographer. He has spent many days, roaming the hills of Denali National Park as a naturalist, explaining the foliage, geology and wildlife to tourists. 
And -- he loves Noam Chomsky.

Pete Martin is very much like Grandpa was. But with that very peculiar twist. When you sat around with Pete Martin, the topic would invariably (just as with Grandpa) turn to Noam. Like Grandpa, Pete couldn't say enough about Noam Chomsky. Unlike Grandpa, everything Pete said about Noam Chomsky was good. 

So, one August, we looked out the door after hearing a car drive up. There was Pete, out under the yellowing August trees, looking for fall colors, rummaging around in his little car for his ziploc bag of granola to bring in, and all set to launch into his accolades about Noam Chomsky.

Inside the cabin was Grandpa Bob, drinking tea and admiring the last of the fall petunias in a vase on the table, surrounded by his three attentive grandchildren.

We rushed out the door to waylay Pete: He absolutely would not be allowed to come in unless he never, ever, said a single word about Noam Chomsky! 

We explained that Grandpa Bob, the only other person in the whole world who even knew how to say "Noam Chomsky" was indoors. And that he felt just as strongly about Noam as Pete did. 
And, that he was not on Pete Martin's team.

So, Pete agreed. He came into the house with his cereal, as his contribution to breakfast the next day. Everybody ate Grandpa's supper. 

Pete Martin and Grandpa got along famously that night, and had many lively discussions about all the things they both knew and had in common. But Noam was never mentioned. 

Poetry With Grandpa: Reflections on Life & Redemption

"The Year Ended In June"

By Robert Clayton Wysong

June 3rd, 1979

"They Who Get Most Are The Giving"

By Robert Clayton Wysong
(Linda's Version)

June-October, 1979

On Second Thought...

Same Verse, Revised & Lengthened

(Mary's Version)

Walking With Grandpa: September, 2010 Walking Tour Of Seneca Creek Park Near Montgomery Village

Grandpa Loved The Outdoors 

He Loved Trees & Old Buildings, And Ambling Around, Looking At Things

Many Fond Memories

We Were So Sad When We Heard

--By Mark Wysong, Son Of Grandpa's Little Brother, Bill Wysong

We were so sad when we heard your dad passed away. I always enjoyed spending time with him when he visited and have many fond memories.

Please confirm your mom's contact information. I have her phone as 301-963-2915 but have had trouble getting hold of her. I mailed a sympathy card to her at 401 Russell Ave. #101, Gaithersburg, MD.

Mark in Eden Prairie, Minnesota

Email: marsanwy@MSN.com

612-423-1989

Indiana American Legion: Nourishing Young People From Small Towns, Including Grandpa Bob

The History Of Your Father's Service

Thank you so much for sharing the history of your father’s service and involvement with his community and The American Legion. As I work for the national organization, I am including the Department Commander and the Department Adjutant on my reply to you, as I am sure they will enjoy hearing your story as well.

Semper Fi,

 Timothy Lankford

Assistant Director - Education, Americanism Division

Phone 317.630.1209  ::  Fax 317.630.1369

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Message sent from LINDA WELD at linda.ncountry@gci.net

My dad, Robert Clayton Wysong, died recently. He was from Marion, Indiana. When he was a boy in Marion, at least 75 years ago, he was singled out by the American Legion there, and awarded their leadership medal.

I live in rural Alaska, in an even smaller community than Marion.

And, sometimes we who live in small towns and settlements wonder if our communities can possibly recognize and foster excellence. I can tell you that we can.

But, how do we know?

It's hard to follow through: Will a simple award or recognition given today, in 2015,  to a young person in Marion or any other little town, help that child follow through into life?

The people who gave my Dad the award way back in time were veterans of World War I. They are long-dead now themselves.

They will never know that they found, predicted and fostered stunning success in one of their own.

When my father left Marion, and went into the U.S. Army, and became a diplomat overseas, serving our country -- and learned multiple foreign languages -- they never knew it.

They didn't know that the big copper-colored medal they gave him steadied him through the years of the war, and really did help give him the courage to succeed. Or that one reason he did do so well was not just his natural and considerable abilities. It was because the people of Marion nourished and believed in him.

Those legionnaires from 75 years ago are now gone -- as is my father, who was young then, and lived to be 92. But the children and grandchildren of those generous-spirited American Legionnaires live on in the Marion community,

I believe it is important for you to know that -- yes, you can literally help an ambitious young person in your town by encouraging them. Not just through the American Legion, but in many other organizations and in many other ways.

Thank you,

Linda (Wysong) Weld

Gakona, Alaska

.

Mom Loved Her Brothers Very Much

Vera & Bob Wysong. 

Fond Memories Of Uncle Bob & Aunt Rita

Note: Vivian Whirledge is as much of a "Wysong" as any of the 5 Wysongs who are the children of Grandpa Bob. That's because she's our cousin (just like -- for example -- Laura and Priscilla are cousins, or Matt and Katie.) Her mother was Vera Wysong, Grandpa Bob's little sister. This means that Lucille Wysong was her grandmother, too; and Ira Wysong was also her grandfather. She and her family have exactly the same degree of relationship to Ira and Lucille Wysong (our ancestors) as Grandpa Bob's family does. 

Vivian, Uncle Phil, Aunt Vera and Jeannie. 

--From Vivian (Whirledge) Mynhier

We were saddened to hear about Uncle Bob's passing. We have fond memories of Uncle Bob and Aunt Rita bringing all of you, our cousins, to visit. There were five of you and five of us; ten kids having great times together. I remember the first time Uncle Bob drove his European car to our house in Cromwell. Was it a SAAB?

   

Thank you for sharing your blog about your father with us. Reading it helped me process some things about my Mom's death that I am still working on too. It was a great idea to have the blog for those who wanted to write and share their memories. I couldn't help noticing that the Wysong's grandkids have a lot in common with the Whirledge's grandkids. I think Mom and Uncle Bob talked about that sometimes too. Mom loved her brothers very much.

   

Joe and I are living in Georgia now just north of Atlanta.  Here is our preferred e-mail address: joevivmynhier@gmail.com

      

Our thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.

Always, Vivian

Indiana Chronicle Tribune: Obituary & News Story Marion Native, American Consul, Dies At 92:

Obituary Published on June 14th in the

Chronicle Tribune Newspaper

Marion, Indiana

Your Connection To 

Grant County, Indiana

Robert Wysong

Posted: June 14, 2015 - 12:00 am

Robert Wysong, 92, was born in Marion in 1923 to Ira and Lucille. He died June 1, 2015 in Maryland. A star student and Eagle Scout, he was chosen by the Marion American Legion as someone who would do well, and awarded their leadership medal at least 75 years ago. They were right. He did do well: World War II Vet, U.S. diplomat, linguist and excellent father and grandfather. He showed that small town people can find, predict and encourage young people's excellence. He leaves a wife, 5 children, 14 grandchildren and a great-grandchild.

News Story Published on June 5th in the

Chronicle Tribune Newspaper

Marion, Indiana

Your Connection To 

Grant County, Indiana

Marion Native, American Consul, Dies At 92
World War II Veteran, Distinguished Diplomat Learned Values In Marion, Indiana

From his humble beginnings in Marion to his life abroad as an American consul, Robert Wysong lived a fulfilling life.

Robert Wysong passed away June 1 in Gaithersburg, Md., at age 92. His burial will be this morning at Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Silver Spring, Md.

He grew up on East Sherman Street. His father, Ira Wysong, came from a

long line of bricklayers, and his mother, Vera Lucille Wysong, worked in a glove factory.

Robert Wysong carved out his niche in Marion as a gifted student and as a Boy Scout. His daughter, Linda Weld, of Gakona, Alaska, recalled trips to Marion in which his mother showed her his Boy Scout badges. Wysong was an Eagle Scout, the highest attainable ranking in the Boy Scout program.

A Marion chapter awarded her father the American Legion School Award, honoring him for courage, honor, leadership, patriotism, scholarship and service.

Robert Wysong graduated from Marion High School in 1941 and served in World War II. After the war, he passed his Foreign Service test and served in: Mexico City; Sao Paulo, Brazil; Jidda, Saudi Arabia; Beirut, Lebanon; Khartoum, Sudan; and on the Mexican border in Chula Vista, Calif. He later lived in Washington, D.C., and translated Arabic documents and newsletters as an Arabic linguist.

He graduated with his bachelor's degree from the University of Maryland and a master's degree in linguistics from Georgetown University. Late in his life, he volunteered his services as a computer graphic designer and map maker for a company run by Weld and her husband.

Robert Wysong occasionally returned to Marion with family in tow to visit his parents until they passed away. The trips to Marion left a lasting impression on his daughter. "I loved Marion. Marion was fun. It was wonderfully 'American'," said Weld, who credited the city for instilling values in her father and preparing him for an extraordinarily successful career.