Never a Dull Moment: The Hartner Family in America

By Mike Hartner

Lost! Hidden quietly away in the dark attic, and waiting for discovery. The story of a young man, and his friend as they discover hidden gems of his family's history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 26, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595867257

Mike Hartner

Mike Hartner has had a life-long passion for recording his family genealogy. He lives in Vancouver, BC with his darling wife, and is a proud father.

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Copyright © 2007 by Mike Hartner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-42389-7 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-86725-7 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-42389-2 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-86725-1 (ebk)

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Recipes

Dog Named Sex

Is Hell Exothermic?

Bibliography

Endnotes

This book is dedicated to my loving, compassionate and inspiring parents, because of whom I cherish many childhood memories.

Acknowledgements

Numerous people deserve thanks. Among them are: Cousins Johnny and Gail, and sister Sue, for their editorial assistance; Karen Clifford, and the full Genealogical Research Associates team (Www.graonllne.com) for all their research, and to all of the friends who gave me reassurance along the way. Thanks to my wife especially, for continuing to tolerate me in spite of my faults.

My grandmother Marie Hartner (nee Blosat) inspired me to write about the past, and encouraged me to remember it. I would like to think she would be proud of this book.

Introduction

This book is a labor of love. It is the first in a series of books detailing the trials and tribulations of the characters in the Hartner family. Our family had quite a few characters.

As is always the case, the first and biggest problem is deciding where and when to start. After a lot of soul searching, I decided that it would be best to start with the family that immigrated to the United States.

Reader comments are always appreciated, and if you come across some parts of the family genealogical records, I would be pleased to hear from you.

Chapter I

When, in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary …

—Declaration of Independence

Lost in an attic, musty and old. Covered with spiders’ webs, dust, and attic rot. In that dark, damp room, hidden behind an entry hole in the second floor ceiling. A room that everyone was led to believe was filled with ghosts, and mice, and no light. Even the darkened window accessible from the patio roof was eerie. This was a room of secrets and skeletons. A room no one wanted to enter. No one, that is, except for young men who want to hide from their parents, and let their imaginations run wild.

That dark, eerie, attic stayed closed for many years. With all of the family members noticing its entry constantly, but not giving it any second thoughts or, in many cases, even first thoughts. Season in and season out mom, dad, and I just left it alone. During the spring, there was a necessity to focus on the garden. Summer brought reading, playtime, camps, and getting rid of the ‘skeeters’. During the fall, it was back to school, harvesting the garden, clearing the leaves. Winter, well it was a different story. The main winter focus was staying warm. It was easy for the British to coin the phrase ‘keep a stiff upper lip’, but in this climate you had no choice: it was frozen. So you see there really was no time to focus on the meaning of that one trap door or the room behind it.

Things change, however. In April 2053, in the spring of my seventeenth year, it finally happened. My name is George. I am the youngest of four boys, and the only one still at home. I am a reserved individual who feels more pleasure from reading good books than playing outside. At six foot three, and just under 150 lbs, I have a rail thin body, and a metabolism that burns everything I eat. Yesterday, I finally had my epiphany. I looked at that trap door a little longer than normal. And then set about asking the questions: What is in the attic? And how do I get to it? The first question would have to be answered in time. The second merely required a survey of the property.

This survey, given the decent weather, starts with stretching my lanky body out my second-floor bedroom window and lying on the back porch roof looking at the sky. For hours, starting in the early night, I will look at the sky and watch the aurora borealis, the Northern Lights. The aurora was explained to me as light trapped in the various layers of the sky. Where I live, it comes through in shades of red, blue and green, with purples and oranges mixed in less commonly. Every night, the lights have a different pace to them. Every night that pace keeps the tempo of a different dance. Some nights, the reds and greens do the foxtrot and race across the sky. Other nights, they look like a couple of seniors waltzing to a slow song with quiet memories of days past. On this Friday night, as I am watching the red, green, and blue square-dance across the sky, I imagine it (several times) forming an arrow pointed at the house. And so I start to look carefully at the back of the house. To my amazement, I find a dark window, too far up the wall to be my bedroom. This must be the attic window.

As I start to fall asleep, the aurora slows to perform a red—blue waltz, and I dream of opening that window and finding all kinds of ghosts and treasure. Little do I know …

Chapter II

We hold these Truths to be Self-Evident.

—Declaration of Independence

Getting up on a Saturday morning is a paradox. On one side of the ledger is the absolute desire for a long leisurely sleep that goes on for twelve to fifteen hours and is so deep that even blowing bugles next to my ear will not wake me. Prolonged rest is great, and its biggest drawback is that the rest of the day includes living with the smell of sleep (similar to stale heat but harder to clear). On the other side of the ledger is waking up early with dad, watching him shop for the weekend groceries, and watching him return to wake mom with a fresh pot of coffee, and pancakes, or waffles, or a German surprise. The morning smell of the kitchen is heavenly. Sometimes, the smell is the only reason to wake up early.

This morning, the kitchen smells win. It is 8:30 as I rise and go straight downstairs. Just as I land at the bottom of the stairs and round the corner to go down the hallway into the kitchen, dad enters the house. He is just returning from the local grocery store. Starting the coffee and breakfast are now within range. Being two steps ahead of dad as he enters the house, I decide to jump-start the coffee, and keep moving toward the kitchen.

Our kitchen is the focal point to our house. It isn’t the largest room, but at 150 square feet, it is certainly a baker’s paradise. The kitchen opens into the hall a bit so on the left side you have a nook, which holds the fridge. Next to the fridge, there is an old, white enamel oval table (about five feet long), with four metal backed chairs seated around the outside of it. Next to the table is the opening for the dining room and a small (four feet) corner. The wall directly in front of me consists of wood on the bottom three feet and glass windows the rest of the way up the nine-foot height. Next to the four windowpanes is the door to the back porch (opening out), and another wall corner. On my right hand side, starting at the back is a small two-foot cabinet, the stove, a long five-foot cabinet, the sink, and the towel rack. The towel rack, right next to me, is there because this is also the position for the basement door to open out. Above the stove, and the cabinet space, is more cabinet space for holding spices and dishes, and anything else. The coffee grinds are next to the stove, and so is the built-in electric can-opener.

One ten-cup pot of coffee usually lasts half the day. But the first pot on this Saturday morning goes in less than 45 minutes. There really is no need to wake Mom. The fresh smell of coffee brewing does that on its own.

What are you making for breakfast, dad? I was considering waffles. Are you interested? Quite! said I, as I licked my lips.

Grab the waffle iron from the bottom shelf, and let’s get started.

Breakfast, in addition to being the most important meal of the day, is also a signal. In this household, weekend breakfasts are a signal for everyone to stay out of the kitchen. Dad is cooking, and few interruptions are expected. Judging by the groceries: lotsa mozza, lotsa toppings, and some sauces, it will be a pizza weekend. Of course, there are other groceries in the bags as well, so it isn’t a given that today will be pizza day. If not today, it will be tomorrow for sure.

By nine o’ clock, the coffee pot is two cups shy of finishing, and the first of the waffles are being inhaled as they finished cooking. Nothing makes fresh waffles better than covering them in real butter, and drowning them in pure maple syrup, or Mrs. Butterworths’ Original Style syrup.

By 9:15 mom is approaching for her first cup of coffee (the last of the first pot), and dad is sifting the flour, measuring the sugar, and cracking the eggs for a second batch of batter. By 9:30, the second batch of batter is finished, the second pot of coffee is finishing its brewing, and there is nothing left of breakfast but the cleaning. One thing about breakfast with teens: even the ants don’t eat very well. Food is just inhaled too quickly.

By 10:00, with all of the dishes cleaned from breakfast, it is on with the rest of the day. I agree to spend the next hour helping dad cut the pepperoni. After finishing the cutting, and watching him add 2 packages yeast to 1 cup warm water to proof (with a pinch of sugar to help the proofing), I start to help him stiffen the dough by mixing flour into it. The first two cups of flour are easy, as they bring a relatively thin mix. The third cup gets tougher, and by the beginning of the fourth cup, I am rolling the dough onto a well-floured counter. After five or so minutes of kneading the dough in and out, I let dad place it in a buttered bowl, and make my excuses to leave. After all, it will be at least another ninety minutes before the dough is ready.

After making excuses and being dismissed, I go upstairs to my bedroom. Closing the door, opening the window and stretching onto the roof, it is mere minutes before I am right above the back porch again, and another minute before I approach the attic window.

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