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Charles and Martha Brown House

In Memoriam

Ernst Lau  September 12, 1927 - January 14, 2006

Anything was possible for Renaissance Man

I remember the first time I met Ernst Lau. I was working on a series of stories about the history of the old Paris Woolen Mill. Everyone I asked about the mill and Stayton told me, “You need to talk to Ernst.”

I made a phone call and he and his wife Lee invited me to their “castle” on Water Street.

When I visited I was charmed by their graciousness, good humor and their unique home. He showed me stereo speakers he had invented, shaped like a ball to distribute the sound throughout the room. We even discovered that we had mutual friends in Alaska.

But most of all, I felt as though I had found the mother lode of information about the woolen mill and all things Stayton.

Ernst was a retired high school English teacher, but was not someone who sat around staring out the window. He stayed busy inventing, tinkering, philosophizing, writing and tracking down the history of his hometown, Stayton.

Oh, did he ever know his history. He knew it down to the type of blocks used on each building downtown. He could even describe how they were made – and who made them.

When I asked about the woolen mill, he pulled out loose-leaf binders containing photographs of downtown buildings and brief histories of them and the people who built them.

There are two types of teachers in the world. One type is the know-it-all, who lords his knowledge over students and shows his contempt for questions.

Then there’s the kind of teacher Ernst was. He’d patiently walk you through the history of the city or the mill and answer question after question, each time opening the window of knowledge a bit wider.

I suppose that’s the sort of English teacher he was. Although I couldn’t think of a tougher job than being locked in a building with hundreds of teenagers, he most likely knew how to challenge and bring out the best in his students.

He did in me. During that first afternoon, I felt honored that he and Lee would take the time to talk to me, a lowly scribbler of words. And I felt lucky to have made the acquaintance of someone so passionate about the people around him and the city in which he lived.

The last time I saw Ernst was in his inner sanctum – his workshop. It was unlike any workshop I’ve ever seen. Shelf after shelf of nuts, bolts, tools and gadgets I didn’t even recognize were neatly organized and labeled. I remember thinking that I needed to do something about the little workbench I have in my garage, which can best be described as a disaster area. I’ve seen demolition sites that were better organized than my garage workshop.

But there was Ernst, in his element, describing his latest inventions and reveling in the wonder of making something from a seemingly random collection of nuts, bolts, coffee cans and who-knows-what else.

I felt lucky to be invited into his workshop, the way a young boy might feel being invited into a wizard’s castle. With his ingenuity, anything seemed possible.

When I heard last week that Ernst had died, I stopped in my tracks. I felt awful that so good a man could go so quickly.
I drove past his house the other day. As I did, I remembered the ball cap, the suspenders, those audacious sideburns and that spark of knowledge he wanted to pass along to all who would listen.

I also remembered how much he loved Stayton.

And how much Stayton still loves him.

(Article written by Carl Sampson and appeared in The Stayton Mail)