Ralph S. Hosmer, 1874-1963
So we have a connection to the ‘I Love Lucy’ show on TV! Her husband, Marc, also directed Gunsmoke, Star Trek, Mission Impossible, Hogan’s Heroes and others.
Aunt Jane was one of the first, or first, non-Quaker students at Westtown School, which is the oldest continuously operating coeducational boarding school in the U.S.A. opening in 1799. Enjoy Aunt Jane’s sister’s account of their father, Ralph Hosmer.
A transcription of an interview with Prof. Ralph Hosmer from 1960 it is available here: https://foresthistory.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/HOSMER60.pdf
Emily Hosmer Daniels
N. Hollywood, Ca. 91607
MY FATHER, THE FORESTER
When we were growing up, my brother, sister and I thought
our father was a "character." "Wiki, wiki," he would shout at us
when we lagged behind, "kuli, kuli," when we became too boisterous.
These and other Hawaiian words which punctuated his stilted speech,
a Boston accent, and stiff Victorian manner, added to our conviction
that he was objectionably different. When we included his bushy
mustache, unfortunate stutter and thinning hair, it is not surpris-
ing that we thought others in the university community agreed with
us when we labelled him an "oddball," and "weird."
He was head of the Department of Forestry at Cornell Univer-
sity, and we saw very little of him. He left the house at 7:30 a.m.
for an 8 o'clock class and often stayed late at his office, research-
ing his latest book, or preparing for the next day. He also found
time to serve on the Board of Trustees of the Unitarian Church,
and the City Planning Commission, as well as taking an active part
in numerous other campus and community activities. Sometimes days
went by when we never saw him at all.
I was thinking about my father when I left the hotel in
Lahaina, Maui, not long ago and started on the two and a half
hour drive to the section of the Hawaiian National Park which
has been named the Ralph S. Hosmer Grove in his honor. As I
drove up the paved road toward the upper slopes of Haleakala,
I imagined him sixty years before, riding up the same mountain
on horseback, leading the men who would plant the seedlings he
had selected from all over the world. He had chosen the ones
he thought would prosper in this new environment, and would
provide a valuable watershed for the sugar and pineapple plan-
tations below.
As I drove along, eucalyptus gave way to flat, scrubby
vegetation which gradually thinned out until, at 9,000 feet,
there was nothing left but red earth and lava rocks. Except
for the ribbon of road twisting ahead, there were no signs of
life and I could have been on a desolate, uninhabited planet.
I wondered if my father had had similar feelings long ago.
Suddenly, ahead on the hillside, I saw a splash of green,
which looked incongruous and out of place. As I drove closer,
I could see hundreds of spruce, fir and pine standing together,
their heads piercing the sky. My father had been correct when
he said conifers would flourish in Hawaii, and, seeing them, I
was inordinately proud.
He had graduated from Harvard University in '96, planning
to become a Unitarian minister, but a serious bout with pneumonia
forced him to seek a profession outdoors.
Taking a masters degree in forestry at Yale (thereafter claiming
allegiance to both pres-
tigious universities,) in 1904 he was appointed Superintendent of
Forestry for the Territory of Hawaii under the Forest Service,
newly established by President Theodore Roosevelt.
As Hawaii's first Territorial Forester, my father not only
established government policy and a system of forestry that is
still being followed today, but also proposed a scheme of forest
reserves, recognizing that the most important resource of Hawaiian
forests was water for irrigation of agricultural lands, with which
the lives of the islanders were inextricably bound up.
He began large-scale test planting of exotic trees to de-
termine those best suited to extend the forest area and, in the
ten years he was there, established 37 reserves of 798,000 acres.
(Subsequent acquisitions raised the total to over 1,200,000 acres,
or one-fourth the total area of the islands, which he had origi-
nally proposed.) The reserve I had come to see had been planted
in 1909 and contained species from America, Europe, Australia,
Siberia, China, Japan and Polynesia.
An avalanche of emotions tumbled in my head as I drove
into the Hosmer Grove. I felt. overwhelmingly sad that my father
had never seen the trees full grown for, although he had been
invited to the dedication ceremonies in 1954, he had refused to
attend, preferring to remember the islands the way they were
when he was there.
He believed that since his departure "money mad moguls"
had thrown up hotels and restaurants "willy nilly," spoiling the
lovely empty beaches and breathtaking views of which he had been so fond.
Recent photographs of Waikiki convinced him that all
the islands had been "ruined" and no amount of persuasion, even
from old friends still living there, would change his mind. I
was not surprised at the adamancy of his decision, for I had
learned long ago how stubborn he could be.
My earliest recollection of my father was unpleasant:
almost every morning of my childhood, his violent coughing,
like a faithful alarm clock, wakened me. Lying in bed in the
next room, I could almost visualize the paroxysm whirling around
his chest before it gathered enough momentum to hurl its way
upward and out his mouth. This explosion was followed by a gasp-
ing rush of profanity as he groped for his cigarettes. Sometimes
I thought all the swear words he had ever accumulated came pour-
ing out before breakfast. Though mild by today's standards,
they were harsh for those days and I was sure none of my classmates
had a family volcano like mine that erupted every morning with a
stream of fiery expletives.
His mustache bothered me too: it was so big I thought it
could have won first prize in a walrus contest. No one else I
knew had mustaches, except the family patriarchs who hung in their
frames on the living room wall. But when I over-looked Dad's
appearance and old-fashioned ways, we had good times together.
Sometimes he took me for walks on Sunday afternoon, or on rainy
days we might sit on the horsehair sofa in the living room and
he would permit me to wind the imaginary key on his back. I
watched with delight as his "mechanical man" went through its
jerky movements. But often, when the mechanism ran down, his
head fell back and he began to snore. Then I stared at him in
dismay, unable to understand how he could fall asleep when we
were having so much fun.
My older brother and sister often shared these games
with Dad. On rare occasions he might take us to one of the
university's experimental woodlots; we would happily follow
him along the barely distinguishable trail, searching for the
perfect spot in which to eat our simple picnic. In winter
we would trudge a long way through the snow in gleeful antici-
pation of the ride home on our tobaggan, we children clinging
to the ropes as he pulled us along behind him.
In spite of the limited time we spent with our father,
we were lucky children. We lived in one of the most beautiful
spots in the country, the Finger Lakes region of New York state;
we had gorges, state parks and a university campus to explore,
and we were not only permitted, but encouraged, to investigate,
analyze and study whatever captured our interest. This varied
from inching across the cat walk under a suspension bridge to
pretending we were multiple Elizas escaping across the ice in
nearby Fall Creek. We occasionally fell through, becoming soaked
in the shallow but freezing water, and then Mother rewarded our
adventuresome spirits with hot baths and cocoa, which she be-
lieved would ward off winter colds.
In spite of her precautions, we succumbed to the usual
childhood diseases of measles, mumps and chicken pox and then,
even if a fever hovered at only 99°, we were kept in bed. I
enjoyed having my meals on a tray and being the center of atten-
tion. My room was the only one on the second floor of our large
house which boasted a porch outside, complete with balustrade
and flagpole. My father thought it was a "righteous act" to dis-
play the flag on all "suitable" occasions, and that included not
only national holidays but commencement, family birthdays and
deaths of celebrities as well. I remember he flew it at half
mast for a week after Will Rogers died as a tribute of his esteem.
-
-
When I was ill, it was a pleasant diversion to watch my
father come through my room in the morning, flag tucked under
his arm. Pausing long enough to ask, "You stil p P - pilikia?"
he proceeded to the porch where he fussed over the fraying ropes
until he finally succeeded in hoisting the flag to the top of the
creaking pole. Standing back at attention, hair blowing in the
breeze, he saluted briskly before marching back through my room
without a word. At night, when he returned to lower it, he
went through comic gyrations in his efforts to keep the "blasted"
flag from touching the ground. Just watching his frantic motions
made me laugh so hard I felt better.
If there was not an occasion to raise the flag, my father
seldom came to my room, although he might wave as he went by on
his way to his study upstairs. He thought taking care of children
was women's work but, once in a great while, he would make an ex-
ception. When I had whooping cough and was confined in bed for
days, Dad came in one night, his hands mysteriously behind his
back. Slowly, deliberately intensifying my suspense, he withdrew
a little package and handed it to me. I ripped off the tissue
paper and discovered a fuzzy, toy kitten, the first stuffed
animal I had ever had. In those days, when little girls had one
doll to last them through childhood, an unexpected gift was an
unheard of treasure. Even though I was only about 7 or 8 at the
time, I was old enough to know that though it was given with a
gruff, "Heah, take c C cayah of it. It c c- cost me hap-a lua," it was a gift of love.
It might have been that same night that he snuggled me
close against his smoky tweeds and, in a monotone, plodded
through all 24 verses of the Blackberry Girl song. I lay in
his arms, cozy and content, counting the buttons on his old-
fashioned vest, and studying the gold chain which ran across it,
his watch on one end, Phi Beta Kappa key on the other. But
these tender moments were infrequent, and I learned to cherish
them because they were so rare.
Mother made up for Dad's brusqueness with her gentle, lov-
ing ways. She had been raised in New England and attended Drexel
Institute in Philadelphia, and Simmons College in Boston; at 30,
she had not yet met the man she thought possessed the qualifications
to become her husband.
She travelled extensively and in 1912, on a trip to Hawaii,
met the balding, mustachioed forester who was ten years her senior.
Perhaps unaware that his mother would be joining them on their
honeymoon, she accepted when he proposed, and after a year together
in Hawaii, moved with him to Ithaca, where he became head of the
DEpartment of Forestry at Cornell. There she settled down happily
as a professor's wife, content to place her husband at the top
of her list of priorities.
Oddly enough, she was the disciplinarian of the family;
when necessary she firmly sent us to our rooms, washed out our
mouths with laundry soap, and, for breakfast, served what we
wouldn't eat at dinner the night before, all recommended methods
of child discipline in those days. But, on occasion, Dad could
be strict too; if the small talk veered in a direction of which
he did not approve, he would jut his chin up in the air, purse
his lips together and announce: "This c-c- convahsation is
not pr
-
Pr profitable!" Silence followed for we knew we had
overstepped his boundaries of decency and decorum!
I thought my parents a most unlikely combination when I
was small but, later, could see that my father's personality
required a gentle, quiet person like my mother. Her perennial air
of serenity permitted her to cope with his exasperating eccentrici-
ties, and her undemanding nature and unruffled outlook made her the
perfect choice to share his life. No one knew it better than he.
Mother appreciated Dad's courtly manners and enjoyed his
colleagues' reference to him as a "consummate gentleman," but I
sometimes wishes those who showered him with such accolades could
witness one of the temper tantrums which he usually reserved for
the privacy of his family. They were legion and nearly always
related to academic deadlines or the malfunctioning of mechanical
contrivances.
When pressured with a deadline he would scowl and, leaving
a meal half-eaten, storm up the stairs to his study muttering
about the "fussy ahticle" he had to finish. He was a perfection-
ist: even a letter to a friend would undergo two or three drafts,
a magazine piece perhaps twelve or fifteen. of the more than 70
articles, bulletins and books he wrote, all were characterized
by his deceptively easy style and meticulous accuracy.
machines.
Dad's infinite patience with revision did not extend to
When he acquired his first car, at the age of 54, he
became frustrated and enraged when it did not function properly.
Racing the motor, jerking the gear shift and jamming on the
brakes were all part of his normal driving pattern but if, God
forbid, the car should stall, he would lapse into a diatribe of
swearing that seemed to be endless. Attacking the door handle
ferociously, he would careen out of the car, yank up the hood and
stand there regarding with vitriolic hatred all the exasperating
parts of the engine which he did not understand.
I vividly recall one time when we were all returning in the
car from church. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the car came
to a spluttering stop. Like machine gun fire, my father's pro-
fanity blasted forth in a staccato burst that annoyed me so much
I jumped out of the car and angrily walked home. I naively
thought I had done a great service to him and all the family,
and my daring action would eliminate his swearing forever.
It never occurred to me that I was only demonstrating how much of
his irritability I had inherited.
Dad was not without a sense of humor, though it often
appeared in such an intellectual form it escaped me when I was
small. He could tell a good story, and knew quite a few but,
to hear them, we children usually had to sit behind the upstairs
railing and strain to hear as he related them to guests below.
He often wrote verse; his most famous effort was an epic
poem about the adventures of a goat owned by a woodsman named
O'Grady. This was originally written to provide levity at an
annual meeting of the Society of American Foresters, a presti-
gious group in Washington, D. C., of which my father was a
charter member and also, at different times, President, Treasu-
rer and Council Member. His poem was such a success that fellow
members demanded new verses every year; before long a musician
in the group composed a tune and my father's words turned into
lyrics for a song. When he returned home from these meetings
we insisted that he sing us the latest episode and, smiling, he
would do so with unexpected abandon. We laughed with delight,
not only at the antics of the silly animal, but because it was
so unlikely that our father should be singing them.
Trying to
Sometimes Dad's humor took a wry and salty form. One
summer we were invited to visit some of Mother's cousins at
their cottage on nearby Seneca Lake. We started off in a
downpour and by the time we reached the unpaved road, which zig
zagged along the shoreline, it was full of ruts.
To avoid them, Dad swerved too far to the side and we became mired
in the ditch. A passing stranger, well endowed with patience,
ingenuity and rope, pulled us out and we continued our journey,
only to blow a tire before we had gone another mile. Swearing
vociferously, Dad changed it. Once more we proceeded, next to
become the target of a small, black and white animal, whose
sojourn on the road we had interrupted. He attacked furiously,
spraying us with several generous squirts.
Reeking of skunk, we presented ourselves as guests
and my aunt gently suggested we repair to the lake for a re-
freshing dip before lunch. There my sister discovered the
rocky shale ideal for skipping on the lake; she picked up a
sizable piece and threw. Instead of rippling over the water,
the stone sailed off in the wrong direction and hit my father
on the head. Exasperated by this final blow to his dignity, he
launched into a scathing denunciation of rocks, lakes and the
necessity of visiting relatives and, ignoring my aunt, whose
mouth had dropped open in dismay, finished his tirade with a
few choice words, and stalked off into the bushes. A few hours
later, when we were departing, she presented her guest book for
signatures. Under "Comments," my father wrote, "Events too
numerous to mention."
Business trips were more to Dad's liking than visiting
Mother's relatives, and when he was away the house was delight-
fully peaceful; on his return we were more interested in hear-
ing about the hotels where he'd stayed, or the trains he'd
ridden, than the White House Conference he had attended or the
fact he'd been hob nobbing with his good friend Gifford Pinchot,
Governor of Pennsylvania.
Although he enjoyed these sojourns, I think the happiest
time of year for Dad was June for that meant Commencement and
Alumni Week-end. It became a yearly treat for all of us to
gather in the kitchen and watch while Mother pressed Dad's
academic robes to wear in the baccalaureate procession. He was
extremely proud of them, especially Harvard's crimson hood,
which he invariably chose over the blue of Yale. After he
had put on his best blue suit, we helped him don his pristine
garments. Then, after carefully adjusting the brown tassel on
his cap, (which denoted the field of forestry,) we accompanied
him to the campus where the faculty was lining up on the lower
quadrangle. Marching two by two to the strains of Tannhauser,
played by the Cornell Band, they crossed the campus to Bailey
Hall where the Baccalaureate Service was held.
My father marched with great dignity and looked as if he had just won
the Nobel Prize; I thought he was truly regal, particularly
Compared to some of the other professors who slouched along
in dirty shoes, wrinkled gowns and sometimes wore no hoods at
all.
Although students came to our house all year long, during
Alumni Week we were besieged with returning graduates eager to
renew acquaintance with their old professor. Dad welcomed them
all, but particularly enjoyed those with an articulate tongue
and our large front porch became the scene of many intellectual
discussions. While he led a lively conversation which veered
from the latest methods of conservation to the ticklish issues
of the day, we children proudly served Mother's endless supply
of home-made cookies and lemonade. He was at his best when
participating in a scholarly skirmish, less comfortable in his
role as a father. Perhaps this was because he was 46 when I
was born, and in his 50's and 60's when we children were growing
up.
A professor's salary never would have permitted college
enrollment for three children at private institutions but, years
before, Dad had been given a generous gift by a friend named
Mr. Pingree, which he earmarked for our education. On frequent
trips to Boston in our youth, Dad took us to Cambridge to see
the impressive house where Mr. Pingree had lived, thus insuring
that none of us would forget his bounteous gift.
Although as children of a professor we were entitled to
free tuition at Cornell, Dad thought the finest schools were in
New England. Having gone to Harvard and Yale himself, he was
determined that his children should have an equal opportunity;
it didn't occur to us to question this opinion.
He wanted us to go to Harvard and Smith, so we did.
When it was time for my commencement, Mother chanced to
be ill; I was a bit apprehensive when Dad wrote he would be
Coming to the festivities alone. Though I was 21, I still
thought him too Victorian to compare favorably with my class-
mates' fathers, but when he arrived in Northampton he captivated
my friends. He attended four performances of Le Bourgeois
Gentilhomme, in which I had a small part, invited four of my
peers to dinner, and topped off the week-end by allowing me to
drive all the way home, his way of showing me I was now a full
fledged adult. I did not understand until much later how mean-
ingful my graduation must have been to him, for now all of his
children had graduated from Ivy League schools, and one of his
dreams had been realized.
My sister rewarded Dad's concern for our education by
graduating cum laude, becoming a Phi Beta Kappa, and going on.
to receive a master's degree in social work.
My brother's graduation from Harvard coincided with Dad's 40th Reunion, so
in 1936 they enjoyed a memorable celebration in Cambridge to-
gether before my brother started his job as an engineer for
Bethlehem Steel. I majored in English and Drama, little
knowing at the time what an overwhelming interest Dad had in
the theatre, or the small part I would later play in sharing it
with him.
I should have recognized my father's fascination with the
entertainment world long before I did for he had always been a
proud and enthusiastic spectator at the shows we children staged
on the built-in, twenty-foot-long bench in the downstairs hall.
We hung over the upstairs bannister manipulating marionettes
below, acted out scenes we had written and at Christmas presented
a pageant which invariably included my brief appearance wearing
nothing but a sash proclaiming the new year.
Dad also took us to see the touring companies which came
to Ithaca, and to Cornell and Ithaca College productions of
Gilbert & Sullivan, Shakespeare and Shaw. But it was not until
I was in my 20's, home for the week-end from New York City
where I was working, that a chance encounter introduced me to
the depth of his interest.
When a special delivery letter arrived for Dad, I volun-
teered to deliver it to him in his study. I tip-toed up the
creaky steps and found him, green eye shade in place, hunched
over his roll-top desk, papers strewn in disarray before him.
On the floor bits of red carpet peeked through mountainous heaps
of magazines, galley proofs and newspapers, some 15 to 20 years
old. The walls were lined with overflowing bookcases and addi-
tional volumes were heaped on the floor. A large Tiffany lamp
hung over the desk, illuminating the work area, but leaving
the rest of the room in darkness.
I had not been to his study in years, as it was off-limits
to the entire family. Even my mother had long ago been forbidden
to clean it: "DD Damn it, Jessie, I like it k - k -kapakahi."
Now, however, he cleared off a stool for me to sit on, and, opening
the top drawer of his desk, withdrew a giant Hershey bar, as
though he were a naughty boy caught in a prank, and offered me
half. I could scarcely believe what I saw for, where the choco-
late had been, now lay revealed a stack of faded theatre programs.
"Are those Playbills?" I asked.
He nodded and picked them up as if they were rare jewels,
showing me the familiar names from the '90's and early 1900's:
Maude Adams, E. H. Sothern, John Drew, Mrs. Fiske. I gasped with
delight at this unexpected treasure.
"But why didn't you ever show these to me before?" I asked.
"G g guilt, perhaps," he replied. "My fa fa - fathah
was a ministah, and I was f f -- fahbidden to attend theatricals."
"But you went anyway?"
"Yes.
I sneaked out and b - b bought a seat in the second b-b- balcony."
I tried to visualize him as a small boy climbing the
stairs at the Plymouth or Colonial Theatres in Boston when,
Suddenly, a startling revelation swept over me. Jumping up, I
threw my arms around him and shouted, "Now I know why I love
the theatre so much. I inherited it from you!" I watched
as he beamed with delight.
We sat together for a long time in his dusty hideaway
and as I listened to his memories I thought what a fine actor
he could have been. His voice was resonant and clear (he
never stuttered when reading or reciting,) his presence com-
manding, and he had been holding the rapt attention of audi-
ences in his classrooms for years. He would have been superb.
"You could have been more famous than the Barrymores,"
I told him, carried away with enthusiasm.
You were cheated of the star of the century!"
"The theatre was "Kani ka pila," he returned, joining in the game, then
quickly became serious again. "I never heard such r
rubbish. Pau, pau. But in spite of his protestations, I
knew he was pleased.
Years later, when I was working on the TV show, I Love
Lucy, as camera coordinator, my parents came to Hollywood for
a visit. Dad attended every rehearsal and studied the jobs of
the crew, talked to them on head-sets, peered through the
camera finder, chatted with Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz and the
other actors, and had the time of his life. At last, if only for
a few days, he was part of the theatrical life he had longed for
so much since boyhood.
When Dad celebrated his 68th birthday, he was at the peak
of his creativity. His writings were being published, students
filled his classes, conservationists consulted him from all over
the world. But New York state laws ordained that when a person
working in a state university turned 68, it was time to retire.
Suddenly he no longer had a campus office, no classes to teach
and, although no one knew it, 23 more productive years ahead of
him.
Having anticipated this change, he began to devote more
time to recording the history of national and international fores-
try and chose, as a hobby, genealogy. He visited historical
societies, genealogical organizations and countless cemeteries,
as well as carrying on prolific correspondence with distant
relatives, eventually collecting enough data to trace Mother's
lineage back to Francis Cooke, a passenger on the Mayflower,
and publish it in book form. Having gone this far, he was de-
termined that Mother should become a member of the Mayflower
Society, an eminent group in Boston. Mother wisely went along
with this, appreciative of Dad's diligence and grateful for his
absorbing interest.
When a representative from Bachrach's came to our home to
photograph her for the Society's Membership Book, my father se-
lected the long gown she wore and the chair in which she sat.
When her photograph was included in the book the following year,
I thought she looked like a stuffy Beacon Street dowager, but,
for my father, it was the culmination of another dream.
Having polished off Mother's genealogy, he began the task
of researching his own. He was proud of his New England heritage,
which included an illustrious group of scholars (8 generations
attended Harvard University before him,) among them his father,
George Herbert Hosmer, a distinguished Unitarian minister; cousin,
Frederick Lucian Hosmer, author, who wrote the words for many
hymns still widely sung today; and uncle, James K. Hosmer,
of the Concord literary group which included Hawthorne, Thoreau,
Alcott and Emerson. Although Dad was completely absorbed in his
research, he was never to complete it. He occasionally voiced
regret that none of his children were interested enough in the
job to take it over, should he die before its completion, but it
was a statement of fact, not a lament or a criticism, and it
remains unfinished today.
When he was not involved in genealogy, forestry trips or
helping establish the Cornell Arboretum, Dad liked to listen to
the news. The Ithaca Journal and New York Times (delivered a
day late in the mail,) kept him up to date on national and inter-
national events, but in addition he found the remarks of radio
and TV commentators indispensable. Lowell Thomas was an early
favorite; later he rarely missed Edward R. Murrow's reports from.
London during World War II. He also followed with interest the
career of another correspondent, Charles Collingwood, who hap-
pened to be the son of a Cornell colleague.
In the '50's Walter Cronkite became Dad's favorite news-
caster and every night at 6 p.m. he sat in front of TV waiting to
hear what the news analyst had to say. He thought Cronkite's
word was gospel and we did not dare suggest that even this most
erudite newsman might exaggerate a point or two once in a while.
To Dad Cronkite could do no wrong and when necessary, he would
leap eloquently to his defense.
At this time my husband and I lived in New York City; we
had become acquainted with the Cronkites when my husband directed
an institutional film Cronkite made for General Motors. One day
in 1958 his wife Betsy telephoned to invite us to dinner and when
she discovered my parents were visiting, included them in the
invitation.
Dad was agog with excitement at the prospect of meeting
the august figure whom he had admired for so long, and prepared
himself for their meeting with great fervor. He gave his shoes.
a fresh coat of polish, trimmed the wispy ends of his mustache,
and agonized over the selection of his Harvard tie, before pre-
senting himself to us for approval.
In the taxi, driving to their apartment, while his fingers
checked once more to be sure vest, gold chain and tie were all
in order, Dad admitted there was probably not a person on earth
he would rather meet. That night Dad sat with his idol (a man 42 years his junior,) and for several hours discussed with
dignity and perspicacity, the complex state of the world.
As he grew older Dad began to receive many tributes. He
was awarded the Schlich Medal, highest honor of the Society of
American Foresters, made an honorary member of Societas Forestalis
Fenniae, and was feted by state and national conservation groups.
He travelled to New York and Washington for ceremonial dinners
and returned home to add still more honorary plaques to the growing collection on the living room wall.
Though urged to return to Hawaii, he refused, but he
and Mother did accept an invitation to drive with my husband and
me to northern California to see the High Sierras. Every morning,
as we drove along, Dad's eyes searched for an American flag.
Sometimes it would be noon before he would spot one. Then, drawing
himself up to attention, he would smartly salute. The first
time he did this, my startled husband nearly drove off the road,
but we soon learned to respect Dad's solemn morning ritual.
When we reached Yosemite, he stood at Glacier Point and
as he saw at last the magnificent view of the Sierras (which he
had wanted to see all his life,) his eyes filled with tears.
Braced against the railing, still as a statue, oblivious to
everything else, he tried to imprint each inch of the silhouetted
trees, craggy rocks and snow-covered peaks on his mind. Clutching his coat against the chilly winds with one hand, he gallantly
removed his old grey hat with the other and held it reverently
over his heart before making a sweeping gesture to the majestic
mountains of greeting and farewell. When he turned away, he
cleared his throat noisily and said, "M- m mahalo. Mahalo
nui. Then, bowing again in gratitude, he climbed back into
the car.
When he was 88, my father's mind was keen, but his
memory was not. He couldn't remember people's names and sometimes
couldn't remember where he was going. He might take the bus down-
town in the morning to do a few errands, then get delayed at the
bank or barber shop when he encountered friends, for he was as
gregarious as ever. Often he would not reappear at home til
late afternoon.
"Don't you worry about him?" I asked Mother.
"Of course," she responded, "but everyone knows him.
Someone will see that he returns safely." She was right; some-
one always did put him on the bus or deliver him home by car.
When asked who had served as chauffeur, Dad couldn't remember,
but he would be quick to add that whoever they were, they were
delightful people.
My father several times expressed the hope that he would
be stricken with a fatal heart attack while crossing the campus
and fall dead on the spot. He was not to be so lucky; he spent
his last four months, a paranoic invalid, in a nursing home and
finally died at the age of 89.
His burial instructions were typical: "I have long held
the view that cremation is preferable to burial. For this reason
I direct that my body be cremated and the ashes placed in the
simplest container, preferably wood of a dark color, though not
an expensive variety, and at some convenient later time interred
in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, Mass." There his name, with
dates of birth and death, are engraved on a marble slab, a per-
manent record.
His real memorial is not in Concord, however, but on the
slopes of Haleakala in Maui, where the tall trees of the Ralph
S. Hosmer Grove push against the sky. There strangers from all
over the world delight in his campground and picnic under his
trees, sitting on a carpet of fragrant pine needles. They take
the trail past different species of experimental trees to the
deep ravine where exotic birds enjoy the rich oasis near the
mountain top and marvel at the magnificent conifers towering
above them despite the barren soil in which they stand.
in the Visitors' Book, they write in many languages, expressing
their appreciation for being allowed to share this forester's
dream.
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