Story by Kristen Cart
Workers were taking down an old silver maple today on the greenway beside the Boise River. It was a living tree, and I wondered why they chose to remove it. All along the park stood younger trees–sugar maples and walnuts and spruce trees–and under some of them, memorial plaques were placed, probably at the time the trees were planted.
I noticed one plaque had partially sunk in soft ground, and a puddle of water covered most of it, but the birth year of 1911 could still be seen. This person had come into the world 105 years ago. His children, if living, would be in their 70s or 80s perhaps. No one tended the memorial. The Boise State students who strolled by might not know why he was remembered.
These memorial trees were intended to grow in beauty while families and colleagues remembered the dead. When the names are eventually forgotten, the trees will provide shade and nesting places until they become unsightly or weak or damaged. Then they will go.
I remember a book about the ubiquitous stone walls in Kentucky horse country. The author explained how they came to be, how they disappeared into hillocks of rock, and how they sank back into the soil. Frost heaved stones out of the ground every winter, and farmers endlessly piled them onto the edges of their fields every summer. The stones were stacked and filled into walls, but after many years, weather and erosion consigned the stones back into the earth in a sinking process which all heavy stones must endure.
Today, even the locations of some old walls can only be estimated, in spite of the labor invested into them over many years.
Cemetery monuments–in fact, whole cemeteries–disappear in this manner, taking their inscriptions with them. The identities and locations of the dead are not resurrected unless a caring relative intervenes.
My grandfather’s generation was slighted in the monument department. He lived too late to be conscripted into the Great War, and by the time the next conflagration arrived, he was considered too old to serve. My father slipped through a similar gap between the Korean and Vietnam wars. Whole families lived their lives between one glut of glorious war dead and the next–to their good fortune, but at the cost of corporate memory.
Grandpa was fortunate, however, to have left the elevators he built. With his name forged into the manhole covers and plaques set into concrete walls, his legacy seems more certain. Grain elevators are a durable memorial–but much like the trees in the park, they only represent him until no one remembers. Eventually, his great and useful contribution to the world will pass into utility, then into obsolescence.
Like the silver maple tree, the elevators will come down when they no longer serve. The plaques and covers will be recycled, and even his name will disappear. And those who loved William Arthur Osborn, beloved father and grandfather, will be past knowing when they go.
But part of this will remain because of you, thank you. I am late entering this story of these beautiful Giants, but my father, Cecil B. Garrison, built some of them for Mayer-Osborn, some for Chambers and Borton and Samson -Johnson. I am trying to remember all of the places where he was Forman or superintendent! He did build the first hexagon in Enid, Okla for a man whose name was Pucket. Oh, how I wish I had paid more attention! Thank you again for all that you’re doing. Charlene Garrison Hickok
Charlene, thank you for your contribution here. There is marvelous ingenuity in the construction of hexagonal elevators, and I wonder why more were not made that way. Perhaps the innovation came late in the elevator boom. The carpentry might be more complex, or the slip process might be more difficult to accomplish. I hope you are able to learn more about your father’s work. The information is out there, but the sooner you inquire about it the better–memories do fade, and it is getting harder to find people who were involved at the time. We wish you good luck in your investigations–please let us know what you find.
This post gave me chills. I’ve missed reading your articles, and they are still as wonderful as ever.
Thank you, Darla. The compliment is especially appreciated, coming from you. I hope to get back to writing before long–we have a backlog of material to publish, so we look forward to continuing our mission of documenting these old marvels.