morty

My grandfather Morty lived in a state of grace.
And i never knew another kid who didn't also think so.
He was the only male role model of my youth. There was friction between my father and i as far back as i have memory, but Morty was larger than life, in my eyes. That he was part of my childhood, is probably a significant factor in the above-average happiness my own life has known.
It's impossible for me to know how Morty's peers viewed him, or whether his state of grace was something he only achieved in his autumn years. My dad has said that Morty was a far-from-perfect father who got divorced while the kids were young, and that he was a lady's man...which may sound romantic, but for someone of that generation perhaps wasn't quite as much of a treat for the ladies involved. I'd love to think that he was always as perfectly gentle as the man i knew, but i wouldn't think less of him to discover that he wasn't.
Percy Mortimer Rosenberger did his life's work in construction, operating the big vehicles. By the time i knew him, he had retired to fishing, golfing, and camping. It's impossible to think of Morty without thinking of Camp Mortiwachi in Monsoon Valley, by a stream in central PA. Relatives and friends would come from far and wide. There was always a kitchen tent and an outhouse, and anywhere from 1-5 sleeping tents, plus an annex tent for equipment. Every evening at dusk, while Morty lit the kerosene torches at the perimeter of the camp, we would sing a few lines of "Lamp-lightin' Time in the Valley" (to the tune of "Red River Valley", i discovered years later). If the campfire was slow in starting, he worked his magic with a coffee can of gasoline he called "the persuader" (the flame whooshed over ten feet). Finally, we'd play cards in the kitchen tent until the mantle in the Coleman lamp burned out. Much of the reason i love cards so much stems from those nights of upsy-downsy, poker, and blitz with Morty. The way he wished on a card was unforgettable, as was his reaction when he got the wrong card. So many afternoons of my youth were spent in that valley...skipping stones, chasing crayfish, searching for fossils or turtles, or sneaking off into the woods with Dustin, with the big carton of Middleswarth barbecue chips. Fishing too, but by the time i was a teen, my love for fishing had dimmed. From then on, i hiked and explored.
Morty's eyesight wasn't good, he had stopped driving before i even knew him. With golfing, my Dad had to aim him in the right direction. When i was big enough, i got to carry Mort's bag (which was still bigger than me). Even with his eyesight, he was good. I doubt i could best his scores today. And the fact that he was a smoker was a boon on the golf course...i stayed close because the gnats and mosquitoes avoided his haze. He smoked More cigarettes, a pack or two a day. The camp rooster call was Mort's hacking behind his tent...he hacked his lungs clear for a good minute or three, while we boys roused.
He was fond of rubbing himself down with alcohol. He used baby shampoo and had the softest white hair you'll ever touch. He had a pinhole in the center of his forehead, which he said he got from an indian arrow. He loved wint-o-green Life Savers and Green Leaf candies. After the Great Depression, he never again trusted a bank. He didn't drink much...my Dad and Uncle Cork were fond of laughing that if you got half a beer into him, he'd go out into the road and declare himself. As he had no ass, Dad and Cork often snuck up behind him to yank down his pants. There was always laughter around Mort. Dad and i still crack each other up with re-creations of his "Lonnie Smith" routine (it's a deep fly ball to left...this should be the game...Lonnie's circling...he's circling...wait, he's lost it in the lights...OH NO, IT HIT HIM IN THE HEAD...IT HIT HIM IN THE HEAD!). His favorite story was how he had a date when he was young, and bought a fancy suit and his first-ever pair of expensive Italian shoes. On the way, he stopped in an outhouse and the seat collapsed, sending him down. He made it out, but his shoes didn't.
The craziest camp weekend i remember was for his marriage to Bets. There were at least fifty people there. We heated the water for his bridal shower over the fire, and my reverend uncle officiated. Bets was an unforgettable presence, too. She loved nothing in the world more than cooking, so we ate better at camp than most people do at home. She would spend hours in that kitchen, humming away while she worked.
We always lived 4-8 hours away. I remember summer Fridays when Dad and i (plus my brothers Dave and Jeff when they were old enough) would leave when Dad got home, and get to the camp in the wee hours on Saturday, then head home Sunday afternoon. I always told Dad i'd stay awake while he drove, a promise i didn't always keep.
And the greatest week of my childhood was the one i had Morty all to myself.
I must have been six or seven. Dad and i spent a weekend at Monsoon, and then he told me he'd be back the following weekend. Bets wasn't around either. Without her, mealtime was an adventure, or misadventure perhaps...i remember Morty preparing a can of corned beef hash, not realizing that the corned beef didn't come with it. I didn't care, it all tasted wonderful to me. It was during this week that Mort's "larger than life" qualities were never more felt by me. One day, we were clearing tall weeds from the side of the road, and i swiped into a hornet's nest. He stood still while i ran. By the time i got to the stream a hundred yards away, i had five or six stings. When i returned he was slowly walking into camp, not a sting on him. I remember him opening a bottle top with his bare hand (in retrospect, was he faking out a wide-eyed kid?). It was just so amazing to be the only one with him...even while it was happening, i knew that there would never be a luckier kid ever.
On Wednesday it started to rain. I forgot to mention, there was a reason we called it Monsoon Valley. My sister is fond of saying that we were NEVER there, but that it didn't rain. And when it did rain, it often kept at it for a day or two. Dad said that certain rainclouds had special affection for Monsoon, and would keep circling the valley up and down, up and down. Come Thursday it was still raining, which was fine...it meant hours of cards, just me and him. I went to the stream, and saw that the water had already topped two rises. Which was okay, as there were four rises between the stream and camp. It was stunning to see...normally thirty feet across, the stream was now closer to eighty. I told Mort, and he nodded. Friday, the rains were still coming, and the third rise had been topped. By late morning, Mort told me he had a job for me, which i realized was to be the first adult responsibility of my life. He needed me to go down the road until i found a phone. He gave me the number of someone an hour away in Harrisburg, who would come pick us up. With trepidation, i set off. After knocking on the doors of several empty cabins, i got to Danny Devito's cabin (note: i have no idea whether this was actually Danny Devito, who wouldn't become famous until a few years later, but in my child's memory it sure seemed like him). He answered the door in a blanket and sleeveless T, looking like he had a hangover (note: at that point in my life, i wouldn't have had any idea what a hangover was, but in hindsight, his behavior can only be described as "hangover-like"). He was a little scary, and he didn't have a phone, so i splashed on. A mile or so later i found a phone. When i got back the final rise had been topped, and Morty was walking out with his golf clubs, rifle, and chain saw. We headed for high ground together. When he returned next week, he said that the equipment he was able to recover was scattered far and wide, except for the picnic table. The water had set it down forty feet away, with the lamp and place settings completely undisturbed.
Another time he and my Dad and i were boat fishing on the Susquehanna River, when a thunderstorm hit. We took shelter on an island, in the only standing structure, an outhouse. We squeezed in. The wind and lightning was beyond anything i'd ever known. The lightning strikes kept getting closer, and closer. And then a bolt hit so close...the boom and electric smell were so powerful i can't even put it into words. When the storm died, we came out and saw a broken, blackened tree six or seven feet behind us. Heading home, we laughed about the headline: "Three Generations of Rosenberger Roasted in the Shitter".
It's sometimes tempting to think that my image of Morty must be unique...but i know that it's not. Later, when new batches of step-siblings appeared, their reactions were as unforgettable as Morty himself. Gregg and Doug were teenagers, and teenage boys don't impress easily. After their first Monsoon weekend, my Dad asked whether Morty was awesome. They replied that he was more than awesome...he was a god.
I knew what they meant.