Why this blog?

This blog is in memory of my grandfather, Leonard Philemon Matson, who spoke Danish as a child, built my first sailboat and taught me to love sailing. We called him “Pawp.” Pawp loved sailing. He grew up in Racine, Wisc., on Lake Michigan, and later moved to Chicago. He and his brother built and sailed a canvas covered sailing canoe. He later owned a 19’ Lightning sloop, then a larger sleek, fast, beautiful racing boat, a 22 square meter, "Teal." Finally, he partnered with some friends to buy a 50-foot yawl, "Truant." He sailed that fine vessel around the perimeter of Lake Michigan.

   My Dad met Pawp’s daughter while attending the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts on the eve of World War II. Dad, who had aspirations of being the editorial cartoonist for the Birmingham News, wanted to attend a speech by Wendell Willkie, who was given a good chance to be the next president. But a friend argued they should go to a church play and dance where they might meet some pretty girls. After a long argument, they agreed to flip a coin. Dad lost. In the church play was a cute girl playing the part of an old woman. Dad asked the preacher who she was. “That’s Virginia Matson,” he said. “Her parents are right over there; do you want to meet them?” That’s how Dad met Mom. Like many couples in love those days, they married before Dad had to be shipped off to the war. If the coin had fallen the other way, I wouldn’t be writing this blog.

   Dad was a combat engineer and landed on Utah Beach in the D-Day invasion of France. My sister was born while Dad was in Europe fighting Nazis. What happened the day he returned, he could never tell without choking up. When he reached for the daughter he had never seen before, she shrank back in Mom’s arms. Mom asked, “Don’t you know who that is?” Barbara shook her head. Mom had shown her Dad’s picture every day. She pointed at the picture, then pointed at Dad. Barbara’s face lit up. “Daddy!” she cried and hugged him.

   After the war, they lived in Chicago for a time before Dad found the chance of his dreams -- to become the editorial cartoonist for the Birmingham News. Pawp and Nana later moved from Chicago to Birmingham to be near us.

   Pawp was good with his hands and good with his head. He could do carpentry and add a long list of figures in his head. He retired from several jobs, including the post office and Lockheed Aircraft.

   He told me stories and jokes about the sea. We made trips now and then back to Chicago to see relatives. On one such trip, Pawp took me sailing on one of those sleek racing yachts owned by a friend of his. Sailing out of Belmont Harbor in Chicago, I wore a yellow foul weather coat and worked my way to the bow where I could feel the powerful pounding of the boat and peer out of the hatch at the bouncing waves glistening in the sun. I was 9. I was in love. Still am.

   I had to have a sailboat of my own. Once I got a notion in my head, there wasn’t any room for anything else. Dad said I had a “one-track mind.” After I pestered him for a time, Dad finally broke down and bought an aluminum skiff with outboard motor. Sailboats were too expensive. That was better than nothing. At least I could get out on the water. But it wasn’t a sailboat. We sold the “stinkpot” as Pawp called motor boats. There wasn’t enough money even for a modest Sailfish. Pawp found a new one design boat, the Windmill. It was inexpensive and could be built by a handyman. Pawp was a handy man. I mowed lawns and took cash instead of gifts for Christmases and birthdays to pay for the materials. Pawp built the boat in his backyard. He showed me all the steps; building the frame, gluing and nailing the pieces. I did whatever unskilled work I could do -- sanding and sanding and sanding to make it smooth. One fine day we launched my dream boat at Lake Guntersville. Pawp and I sailed it away rapidly with a good breeze, oblivious to the photographer trying to catch up with us in a motor boat. Dad had mentioned about Pawp and me to a colleague at the Birmingham News, and he thought it made a good human interest story. The story, with pictures, appeared in the Birmingham News Sunday Magazine.

   We took that little boat sailing often. Once, at Lake Martin, Pawp was on the pier, giving last-minute instructions and helping push me off, when he “almost” lost balance. He grabbed for a board sticking up at the end of the pier. “I almost fell in!” he said. A moment later, with a great splash, he was in the water. The rotten board had broken off in his hand.

   We wanted a place closer to Birmingham to go sailing. A dam being built that would form Lake Logan Martin was the answer. Pawp and some friends founded the Birmingham Sailing Club. They attracted enough members to build a clubhouse, pier and launching ramps. Pawp taught me the fine points of yacht racing. We even took “Skipper” (named after our beloved Cocker Spaniel) to the Windmill championship race in Tampa, Fla. (we didn’t win, but had a blast).

   It was at that time that Pawp decided he was “too old” for the little “tender” (tippy) Windmill. We sold it and bought a more substantial Rhodes 19 with a heavy lead keel. That renewed Pawp’s confidence. We enjoyed many more years of racing at the Birmingham Sailing Club.
I joined the Army and was lucky enough to be sent to Germany instead of Vietnam. I was even more incredibly lucky -- I met and fell in love with Lie Shia, who was working in a hospital lab in Kandel, Germany.

   After we got married and moved to the Gulf Coast, Pawp submitted his resignation to the Birmingham Sailing Club board. It was rejected with the following note:

Dear “Pop”,

The Board of Governors received your letter of resignation.

The Board, however, does not accept your resignation.

Instead, you have been unanimously elected to become the

first Member Emeritus of the Birmingham Sailing Club. This

is a life time membership with dues paid in full.

There is no way the Sail Club can get along without you,

Pop. We appreciate all you have done for the Club and for

sailing in general--we will always have a soft spot in our

hearts for you.

May the Great Skipper continue your voyage and may the winds

of life always keep you on the lifted tack. Best wishes

from all of us at BSC.

Good Sailing

Richard Condrey

Commodore

   Once when I was young and cocky, Pawp challenged me to arm wrestle. I thought, “I’ll take it easy on him; he’s an old man.” His arms were thick and muscled. He put my arm on the table so fast it was humiliating.

   We sold the Rhodes 19 when I joined the Army and later went to Chapel Hill, N.C., to study for the Ph.D. in German. While at Chapel Hill, my loving wife kept her husband sailing with a tiny Snark; anything to be on the water. And Pawp built me another boat -- a beautiful three-foot-long sloop with all the detail. We made it self tacking and sailed it in small lakes around Chapel Hill.

   It was at this time that Pawp started working on a book to tell the story of the Danes, leading up to a story of the Rosendahl/Matson family. He asked me to help him, but I was busy with my studies and frankly not interested. He wanted me to add fictional tales about the figures in his genealogical/historical research. I finally wrote a chapter, but my lack of enthusiasm was a factor in his giving up on the book. This blog is atonement for that sin against my beloved Pawp. It is mostly in his own words, with a little scribbling from me and much help from Wikipedia.

   I had always wanted to live on the water. When I moved to the Mississippi Gulf Coast, we bought a Columbia 26. I sailed that wonderful boat for 30 years. Pawp was still able to sail a little with me on that boat, “Gulf Trio” (Pawp, Dad and myself were the "trio").

   Pawp is no longer with us. Now that I’m retired, we have a nice house with a lovely view of Lake Guntersville (another present from my wonderful wife), just a short sail from the cove where Pawp, Dad, Barbara, Cousin Larry and I launched the Windmill back in 1961.

   And of course I have another boat.