He had a winning smile

Considering how often he narrowly avoided death, it's not hard to be awed by Ingebright Ostness, the gentle lifelong Hillyard resident everyone knew as Ibby.

"I was always kind of awed by him anyway," said Ostness' daughter, Gail Reed. "But the stories I've heard about him recently, he's become like a superperson."

Since her father died on Aug. 25 at age 83, Reed has heard countless tales of his heroics from friends who served with Ostness either with the railroad or in the Coast Guard during World War II.

Like diving out of a speeding locomotive engine moments before it crashed headlong into another train.

Or when his passenger train collided with a rockslide, sending the engine off the cliff into Lake Pend Oreille. The engineer was unconscious, but Ostness - battered, bruised and bloody - pulled him to safety before climbing back to the tracks to tell the passengers what happened.

Or facing a barrage of bullets during military landing craft invasions on the beaches of Saipan, Angaur, Leyte and Luzon. As a beach master, Ostness was responsible for setting up beach invasions, directing boats and troops onto shore as enemy artillery shells exploded all around.

One shipmate, Dan Smart, told Reed about one of the many invasions he witnessed Ostness direct, illustrating the kind of man he was.

"He was the first beach master on the beach, in water up to his knees, bullets zinging past him," Reed said. "He told me, `I remember him directing, never turning around or ducking, just totally concentrating on his job. And as we got closer he gave us that smile, that smile that told us you can do it.'"

That winning Ostness smile was a million-dollar grin that won the affection of nearly everyone he met. "When he walked into a room his presence was like a glow or radiance," Reed said. "People gravitated toward him."

Reed, astounded by the stories she'd hear from friends and family over the years, started prying information from her dad, who never thought himself too remarkable.

"He never wanted to draw attention to himself, never wanted credit for anything," said Reed's husband Terry.

But when Ostness and his wife Mary Nell moved in with the Reeds last year, Reed began recording her dad's remarkable life in a notebook. She was amazed at the experiences that shaped her dad - a man she always loved but, because of his humility, never completely knew.

Ostness was the fourth of four children born to Norwegian immigrants who moved to Hillyard in 1921. The youngest by 13 years, Ostness was the neighborhood "rascal," often found walking to nickel double features wearing a top hat, knickers and twirling a cane at age 6.

The knickers came off when he transferred from Bemiss Elementary to Whitman Elementary in the eighth grade, where Ostness was beat up for wearing the less-than-masculine clothing.

"Whitman was a tougher school," laughed Terry Reed.

By the time he reached Rogers High School he played football as a center, and - at 6-foot-1 - was a pretty tough guy. In one game he had his front tooth knocked out. Rather than leave the game, he picked it up from the ground, shoved it back in and kept playing.

"And when he passed away, he still had that tooth in his mouth," said Reed.

Like many young men on Dec. 7, 1941, Ostness couldn't wait to get off work to enlist in the armed forces. He had his mind set on the Navy, but Ostness, never known for his patience, saw that the Coast Guard line was much shorter. He went on to serve 37 years of combined active duty and reserve service, retiring in 1979 as a Coast Guard commander.

That impatience with lines also led to his getting married several days earlier than planned.

Ostness and Mary Nell were applying for a marriage license in Seattle in February 1942, just days before Ostness was sent to war.

"It was a three-day wait to be married," said Mary Nell, "and Ibby, who didn't believe in waiting in lines, said to the clerk, `Can't you hurry this up? I've got to go to the San Juans.'"

The clerk said he'd hurry, and "before we knew it, he took the paper to an acting judge who signed it, then stood us in front of a judge and we were married." The couple had planned for a family wedding in Spokane.

"We weren't sure what was going on," Mary Nell chuckled. "There were a couple of elderly ladies standing up with us who we didn't know from Adam."

Later, Ostness was stationed in Cleveland, where he won a chance to call his wife long distance after singing a song on a radio station.

"You just didn't get to call long distance in those days," Reed said. "He sang, `Wait For Me, Mary' over the radio, and the station was so taken with him they asked if they could broadcast their conversation over the radio."

Indeed, the couple made beautiful music together, harmonizing over the ukulele during one of many trips to Hawaii in their retirement years.

Among his accomplishments, Ostness started a Coast Guard Reserve unit in Spokane shortly after the war.

"He felt it was an obligation, that you owed it to your buddies who didn't make it back to preserve what they died for," said Terry Reed, himself a Vietnam veteran who, inspired by Ostness' commitment, served in the Army National Guard after his discharge.

Ostness' humility carried on past his death. He left strict instructions that no service be held in his honor.

Said Reed: "Sometimes I look at the world and think, `I wish you knew how great my dad was.'"

Copyright 2002 Cowles Publishing Company
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.