Passed Down Like A Rod And Reel

I barely got to know my grandfather, but the strongest memories I have of him are of his smile, and of days that seem like dreams, on the beach at Cape Cod. We had a metal detector and walked along the sand looking for treasures.

What I do know about my grandfather is that he was a hard, hard-working man. He inherited a greenhouse business that was started by his father, who immigrated to this country at age 16. He came over with his siblings and mother on a boat called the Moltke, departing from Hamburg. The family was from Munich, and try as I might, I’ve never been able to learn anything about their lives there, or any relatives I might still be connected to in Germany.

The family Americanized quickly. My great-grandfather’s name was Heinrich when he came over; he changed it to Henry. His brother Ludvig became Uncle Louie. We did keep the Schnitzspahn name, however (which is both a blessing and a curse) but it has always shown that my family was part of an immigrant heritage. It’s even helped me bond with others who’ve suffered through Americans mispronouncing their names.

Soon, my great-grandfather had built a successful greenhouse business, providing plants, seeds, and berries. A standby in the local community. Garden Centers on Union Avenue is still a place that old-timers from Middlesex County remember.

I wish I knew more about my family. My dad once told me that his grandfather, Heinrich (Henry) who came over on the Moltke, was always working. Once, when my dad was playing with toy animals around a barn and put them inside to keep them out of the rain, his grandfather asked why. My dad said it was to keep them dry, and his grandfather replied, “The animals can take the rain, put the machines in the barn.”

My grandfather (also named Henry) was a playful man. We have videos of him splashing in the surf with his children at Long Beach Island, out on a boat with my dad and Uncle Henry, smiling, laughing, being a big kid. People often say I look a lot like him, and I think I share his faithfulness, too.

He served in the First Marines during World War II, in the Battle of Okinawa. A fight so brutal it was referred to in Japanese as “Tetsu no ame,” or “the storm of steel.” Okinawa was leveled, every building and plant incinerated. I don’t know how he survived, except that he had skills in typing, which kept him away from the worst of the front lines. I do have his journal, in which he describes hiking through rain and mud to bury bodies. The pages that deal with the battle at Cherry Castle, leveled to nothing but tunnels, speak of a vicious fight for the rest of the island. And then… nothing. He says nothing. And maybe that’s for the better.

What I do know is that when he returned, he was a loving father, a husband, a leader in the community. He was heavily involved in the Boy Scouts. He had canvas tents, tables, cookware; gear that they’d load into the back of work trucks to take kids from the neighborhood out into the woods. I’ve seen pictures of my dad at campouts and other spots, with my grandfather smiling, leading the way into the outdoors. A place that must have felt like peace, after the work life he inherited from his father and the horrors he witnessed in Okinawa and later during the Chinese Civil War. I know that long after he was gone, members of the community would remember him fondly as a Boy Scout leader.

He loved fishing, too. There’s a story that he took my grandmother fishing on their honeymoon. Because of the garden business, he had access to private ponds. He passed this love of fishing on to my father, who spent long hours at Long Beach Island on boats, on the bay, on the shore, perfecting the craft, even when the rest of the family was busy.

That love of being outdoors, of fishing, of teaching these skills to others was central to him. It was certainly more important to my grandfather than the treachery and toil of running the greenhouses, which fell on hard times in the early 1960s, as competition from tropical climates entered the business. I’m sure that, in many ways, all this time outside was his way of returning from the days of hell in Okinawa and later during the civil war in China. Like most men of his generation, he never spoke about the war.

I never got the chance to fish with him before he died, far too early, from lung cancer. He was a smoker, as so many men of that generation were. He worked in the greenhouse, exposed to who knows what chemicals. And who can say what the smoke and death of the battlefield (the storm of steel) did to him?

His love of fishing and the outdoors left a lasting mark on my father, even when he was working 7 AM to 7 PM at the bank in New York City, building a career and supporting our family. Still, there were days when we’d get outside. We’d walk and ask questions about trees and streams. We’d go to the beach, cast lures, then, later on, flies. For bluefish, striped bass, and the rare false albacore. That love and knowledge has passed on to my son and my daughter; and I hope someday, to their children.

All of this is to say that, at its most basic level, the outdoors is about community. Local community. It’s not an industry. It’s not politics. It’s not a social media reel. It’s something to be lived, loved, and shared; part of the fabric you build with the people you live among, in your home, in your town, and beyond.

It’s a place where we can feel most ourselves. I know you’ve seen this: people who seem awkward or out of place in the day-to-day world come alive when they’re outside. They are themselves again. Away from all the junk we carry.

These American communities were built by immigrants over generations. All of us are, in a way, invaders on this continent. It’s a sad truth we must account for and someday, maybe even begin to repay.

But when I think of my family and my 16-year-old great-grandfather coming here and making a life, I ask myself: Why? Why did he work so hard?

So that we could enjoy this. Being outside. Fishing. Loving and caring for the land.

This is our inheritance. And it’s what we must continue to cultivate.

Doug Schnitzspahn's Opened Container is a weekly column that highlights Doug's unique point of view on the intersection of outdoor culture, policy, business, politics, and conservation. To hear more, listen to Doug's podcast Open Container by clicking here. Let's get some.