Remembering Mr. Butzke
It started as a low hum. A slow kind of rumble that seemed to come directly from the depths of the earth — or the heights of heaven. You couldn’t really tell which. Whoever was the luckiest, whoever heard the slow growl first, got to (with great pride) scream, “Wait! Shush!” That one directive could silence an entire crowd of people. From our perch on the mountain, on my Grandmother’s farm, we stopped — silent. We listened. We watched. Could it be what we had been waiting for? Was it finally time for that toppling, terrifying trip? Is was!
It was Mr. Butzke’s hay wagon — and if you never took the trip — atop full wagons of hay, touching treetops and swearing the next sway of that swinging wagon would be your last — well you missed the trip of a young person’s lifetime. And that is just one thing I remember about Mr. Butzke. Mr. Butzke, and his young family — Gretel, his wife, and Johnny and Billy, their sons, were neighbors near the 161 acre farm my Grandmother bought in the Catskills of New York, and they used part of the property to graze their diary cows and grow hay.
Their tender love of that land, and the diary cows they bred there, made an impression on us young children that we still carry today. In retrospect, Mr. Butzke was the first immigrant I ever met — and his strangeness was both stupefying, and splendid, at the same time.
A Force to be Reckoned With
My Grandmother was a force to be reckoned with. I’m not sure I understood then just how extraordinary she was. Finding herself unmarried and pregnant with twins in her late teens, Audrey Daum went on to have one of the most rewarding and challenging careers available to women at the time — as chief of staff for the earlier leaders of AT&T. Audrey was the bread winner for her family at a time when few women even worked outside the home. And she had a very definite plan for her retirement.
When my Grandmother was young her family, intellectual emigrants from Germany, were fairly well-off. Her family had a Summer home in up-state New York where so many wealthy German emigrants summered, the town’s name was literally ‘Germantown’. It was there that my Grandmother remembered many beautiful times in her childhood, running rampant through woods with her brother, Al and sister, Ruth.
At some point in her life, my Grandmother made a vow to not only return to the woods she remembered so well, but also to give those woods to her children and her grandchildren — a gift that perhaps has shaped me more than any other I have ever received, and one that I’ll never be able to pay back.
Learning about Being German
Although we knew my Grandmother was German, I’m not sure we knew what that meant, but in Mr. Butzke we found our answer. Remembering Mr. Butzke today I see an incredibly strong man, although not large in size. Shortish but sturdy, with ever twinkling eyes, and a grand grin that more times than not would have the stub of an old cigar planted firmly in the corner.
It seemed Mr. Butzke could do just about anything. We were proud of our own fathers of course — but I’m not sure we could really relate to what they did. My Father was a ‘Banker’, which I knew had to do with money, and I knew my Uncle was a ‘salesman’, but what Mr. Butzke did was different. You could hold it in your hand — you could see it. Smell it.
Mr. Butzke ran a dairy farm that housed 100’s of cows, but the Butzke family knew every one of them by heart. After each calf was born, Grettle would sit with the new born and draw her or his spots so that each animal had it’s own individual story, and history.
It was hard to know what to do first when we were invited to the diary barn. Did we want to watch as the Butzke’s herded in the cattle, put them in their stalls and attached large sucking machines to their udders? Yes! Did we want to go watch the huge stainless steel machines twirling and swirling and treating more milk than you’d ever seen? Yes! Did we want to taste real milk — warm and creamy straight from the cow’s massive body into ours? Yes!
The truth was that pretty much everything about the Butzke’s and their farm seemed magical to us. Whether we were splashing in streams with our sneakers still on, or discovering an old barn full of kittens, everything seemed perfect. Time stood still. I think about us now, and what it must have been like for Mr. Butzke, my cousins and I (the ‘city kids’), six sets of adoring eyes the size of saucers watching his every move. Mr. Butzke grew crops, raised animals and in some small way let us children peek into life as it had been back in his homeland — which through similar heritage, in a way, was our homeland too.
Mr. Butzke loved to shock and confuse us. When we asked him where his favorite beagle was one year, the one that helped him with the cows, he let us know the dog had passed. When we asked if we could pay our respects at its grave, Mr. Butzke told us with that huge smile on his face that he had used the dog’s remains for manure — which was much more useful — and then had a big belly laugh watching our horror filled faces. Driving full speed in an ancient, open-top jeep through all of those thriving woods and fields. Trying not to scream out load even though the terrain below seemed pitched at 90 degrees.
Happy Hour
Whenever we would come up to visit, my Grandmother would be sure to invite the Butzke’s at least one night. I loved those evenings. Being freshly bathed after a day of running through the woods made our coke and peanut filled “Happy Hours” even better. There was a certain excitement on the night the Butzke’s would come. We would wait and wait until we heard that old jeep clawing its way up our mountain’s road, and then we’d run outside to meet it.
Most of the time we would be with the Butzke’s down at the barn, where no task was deemed too dirty. Rubber boots, overalls, flannels. That’s what we were used to seeing the Butzke’s in, so when they would come for cocktails, their transformation was sheer magic. Mr. Butzke always looked like a school boy who’s mother had just washed his face and combed his wet hair over in a desperate attempt to make him look respectable, but Gretel was the star.
It was almost impossible to even see Gretel down at the Barn, cloaked as she was in so many covers and clothes. She also wore a kerchief around her head so that even her hair was hidden. I always liked Mrs Butzke, and for as grizzly and gruff as Mr. Butzke’s heavy German accent was, Gretel’s voice was soft and sweet — ever patient as she answered the excited questions from so many little ones. (My cousins and I were 6 in all, 3 girls and 3 boys all born within 10 years).
At Happy Hour however, Gretel was a completely changed woman. Gone were the drapes of worn men’s clothes, Gretel looked as pretty and pure as an angel from the sky. Her skin was flawless I thought, so much like the beautiful milk they produced — and I wondered if that was somehow the reason? I remember thinking how glad I was that she didn’t think to use make up to cover her real, live beauty. And I remember that I thought her one touch of glamour, a deep red rouge for her lips, made her look exactly like an old movie star pin-up. I thought she was exquisite.
Going Back to the Butzke’s
Years rolled by. I lost my beloved Grandfather much too young in his 60’s and after that my Grandmother had to sell the farm. Much too dangerous for her to be all the way up there, alone on top of a mountain, but it broke our hearts all the same. Years later when My Grandmother passed, and a year after that when I lost my own beautiful Mother much too young, we returned to what we called, “High Haven”, to spread their ashes. For years around my birthday, I made the pilgrimage back to the farm, back to my Mother and to my Grandparents before her. And I went back to the Butzke’s.
Each year my Sister and I would nervously look for the sign for Butzke’s Farm — always fearing it would be gone. After seeing the sign and allowing ourselves to breathe, we would pull in the drive and gingerly knock at the door to the house — not wanting to disturb. Mostly we’d find Gretel at home between milking times, and we’d settle in for a little chat, “How are things? How are the boys? Married? Kids? Remember when…” But Mr. Butzke was never home — he was always out in the fields. Mr. and Mrs. Butzke had bought the farm when my Grandmother sold, so we’d ask politely if we might go up and look at the house, and sit in the peace of the place. We were always kindly told ‘Yes’.
Birthdays with Mr. Butzke
I’m not sure how he did it, but he did it every time. I don’t think Mr. Butzke used any of the 5 senses we rely on to know what was going on, on his land. He just knew. Some type of undetectable essence would flow through the very ground he stood on to tell him, “The girls have come back to see the farm.” Within moments of our arrival we would hear the rev of that old jeep, somewhere back in the upper fields and within minutes, aboard his rusty red steed, Mr. Butzke would appear.
With the patience of a saint he would walk my Sister and I around my Grandparents’ home, as we cooed and cried and remembered when. A worn welcome mat inscribed “High Haven”, my Grandfathers’s coat hanging in the garage, and my personal favorite, an antique clothes hamper which depicted a family picking apples — a silly piece that would entertain me for hours on end and that I’d pay a $ million for today.
After our tour, which was the same every year, we’d offer Mr. Butzke our bounty — champagne and birthday cake — which we promised we would keep secret from Gretel. (Mr. Butzke was diabetic but cheated once a year just for us.) Then one year, finally, he wasn’t there. The world had lost one beautiful light, and we feel that loss whenever we think about the kindness of Herbert Butzke.
A Final Call Home
When I close my eyes, and let myself travel back to that place and time, when everything was ours, with no end in sight, I can hear Mr. Butzke. In the early evening hours, Mr. Butzke walked the fields, gently calling, “Commmmmmmme, come, come, come, come”, signaling for the cows to come home to the barn before nightfall. The melody of that call each and every one of my cousins could still sing today. I think of Mr. Butzke, and I think of the family I loved so much, and I think of all the joy we shared, from the land we shared as well.
As we say good bye to Mr. Butzke, I’d like to believe he saw in our young faces things we perhaps did not say. Thank you for your generosity and your humor, your patience and your German pride. I’d like to think that when the time comes to relinquish this life, and we look back over our great many gifts, and forward to the future, we will hear once again that calming, loving call, “Commmmmmmme, come, come, come, come” as we make our journey home.
Thank you Mr. Butzke. Rest in Peace.
