His Name was George
David Freund

George Freund was my paternal grandfather. He immigrated to this country with his parents from the Austro-Hungarian Empire at age eight. The family eventually settled in the small town of Mansfield, Ohio.

When George was 28, he married my grandmother, Margaret. Although they weren’t related, my grandmother ironically shared the same last name — Freund. At 18, she had immigrated to the United States with her family. By the late 1920s, she was helping her father run a small knitting mill in Brooklyn, New York.

After they married, Grandpa began working alongside his father-in-law and my grandmother at the knitting mill. During the Great Depression, there was so little work that my grandfather’s sisters came from Ohio to work at the small factory as well.

Their efforts were blessed. Even though they found themselves in the middle of the Great Depression, Grandpa was eventually able to purchase the business from his father-in-law. Later, he sold the business and moved his family back to Ohio, where he bought a small farm and a rental property in downtown Mansfield.

As my father grew up, he often wondered why his immediate family never seemed to suffer the way so many others did during those difficult years. Yes, his pants were patched, and his parents made do with what they had, but somehow, they always had enough. One day, he decided to ask his aunt why she thought that was. Her answer was telling.

According to my great-aunt, when my grandfather would leave the knitting mill in Brooklyn to catch the train home, he would often take a few dollars from the safe and slip them into his pocket. As he made his way to the train, if he saw a mother with children who had no shoes or a family that seemed in desperate need, he would quietly slip the mother those few dollars. No fanfare. No recognition. He simply saw a need and did what he could to meet it.

My great-aunt believed that because Grandpa always watched out for others, his own family was somehow blessed and cared for as well.

I don’t remember a great deal about my grandfather because he passed away when I was only eight years old. But I do remember that he was an amazing dairy farmer and a very soft-spoken man. He never had to say much because his life spoke so loudly. I also remember his calling hours. The line of people stretched out the door and around the corner of the funeral home. Even as an eight-year-old boy, I knew that meant something. A quiet man had made a very large impact.

The older I get, the more I realize there is still so much I can learn from Grandpa.

I’m not sure why this story came back to me so vividly this past weekend, but I felt I needed to share it with you. Perhaps it’s because, in a world that so often measures success by what we accumulate, Grandpa’s life reminds me of a much better measure:

The true measure of a man is not what he gets, but what he gives.

Just my thoughts on this early autumn morning.