Category: and More

Why We Need Friends Who Tell it Like it is.

Local author, Bill Sheridan, writes articles for “Those Catholic Men.” Enjoy . . .

I must have been a freshman or sophomore in high school around 1958-1959. Stepping out onto our front porch in Lawler, Iowa, there was no doubt in my mind that GQ Magazine would be asking to feature me on their next cover.

I felt quite dapper looking into the mirror before going outside to impress the world. Well, if not the world, at least my buddies down at Martin’s Café. I was looking very fine, thank you!

I had on a white shirt, white pants, a white belt, and (you guessed it) white buck shoes. My only concern was how to successfully fight off all the girls who would be clamoring to get at me.

But that dream was short-lived.

My dear friend and neighbor, Joe Scally, was self-appointed chief of the Lawler Fashion Police. To my delight, he happened to be standing in his front yard.

“Sheridan, get over here. I want to check this out.”

This was great. Scally was about to compliment me on my attire. Perhaps even ask me where the ensemble was purchased, so he could run right out and copy my style. I was about to become a trendsetter.

Frankly, I was totally unprepared for the next thing that came out of his mouth. “That’s cool. I didn’t know that you got a job at the creamery!”

After which he doubled up in laughter.

Suddenly the whiteness from my neck to my toes was offset by the embarrassing redness in my face. I turned around without saying a word and rushed back into the house, changing into blue jeans and a tee shirt before another soul on the planet could see me.

Even after slamming the front door behind me, I could hear Fashion Chief Scally howling in the background.

To this day I’m not sure whether to thank him profusely, or punch him in the nose.

Based on what would have most likely happened, had I not seen Joe first and walked into Martin’s Café in front of the usual gang, something tells me that a long overdue thank you is probably the appropriate choice.

But more importantly, the entire humorous episode has become an important life-lesson in my Catholic-Christian life. Am I always able to see my real self? Do I have true friends in my life today (like my buddy Joe) who have the courage and kindness to tell me what I need to hear rather that just what I want to hear?

Friends like that are a true blessing. The type of friends I want to have and the type of friend I want to be.

Memorial Day in Lawler 2003

Author’s Note: This is one of my favorite stories from “Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories” (available as an e-book on Amazon.com for 3 bucks)

 There were countless patriotic ceremonies conducted throughout the United States this past week. Some attracted dignitaries and politicians who delivered rousing oratories produced by paid speechwriters. Others featured elite military bands, F-16 flyovers, and elaborate stages designed for a television audience.

But not one of them could have been more moving to this northeast Iowa native than the traditional gathering conducted in Lawler—the home of my youth.

My wife Renee and I had driven up from our Des Moines area home on Sunday to celebrate the high school graduation of our niece in Fort Atkinson. That evening I suggested to her that we get up early on Monday, visit the cemeteries of our respective families, and get to Lawler in time for the Memorial Services in the city park.

Although I moved away from the community in 1964 at the age of twenty, there have always been wonderful memories of my childhood there. Many are directly connected to the small piece of ground just north of the tracks next to the lumberyard. There were pick-up baseball and football games with the Scallys, Timlins, McGreeveys, and Leonards. Ice skating on cold January evenings when they flooded the area for us. A berry tree on the east end that bore fruit for the taking. And the Memorial Day parade in which soldiers from World Wars I and II and Korea marched from the Legion Hall three blocks west on Main Street to the corner with the fire bell by the lumberyard. They turned north for one-half block and entered the park. The ex-military men seemed old to me then because I was so young.

My friends and I eagerly anticipated the 21-gun salute so we could dive for the empty shell cases. Paul Junko always got there first and got the most. The rest of us begrudgingly respected his courage and timing.

And even though I never fully understood the full significance of the pageantry, I knew instinctively at some level that it was important for me to be there. Then a simple request was made by a teacher, Alice Costigan, during my freshman year in high school. “Bill, will you recite In Flanders Field in the park on Memorial Day?”

“Of course,” I agreed. “I would be honored to do so.”

And I have never taken the day for granted since. Too old to dive for shells and too young to understand the horrors of war—I memorized that wonderful poem about the dead asking to be remembered by the living, and it somehow changed my life. For the first time I really began to appreciate the sacrifices that have been made. Military men and women who survived and those who did not. Lives were given so that my family and friends could live in a free society. In New York or Los Angeles or Washington, D.C. or Chicago. Or Lawler, Iowa. And it moved me in a way that I had not been moved before.

Until this past week, thirty-nine years have passed since I last experienced the ceremony in person. However, every year I have thought of and thanked God for them—the brave soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen from Lawler.

Going back might have been one of those letdowns that occur when you return decades later.  The creek bed that’s not quite as wide or deep as you remembered. The buildings not as tall. The people not as friendly.

But it was not a disappointment. Rather, I was quietly overwhelmed with emotion as the veterans—who didn’t seem quite so old now that I am 59—marched west on Main Street. The building where they congregated to prepare for the march is no longer known as the Legion Hall. The fire bell on the corner has long since been dismantled. But they still marched with pride and dignity. With a sense of purpose. I watched as my cousin Jack McKone carried one of the flags. I heard the Turkey Valley band play God Bless America. And I stood there with a lump in my throat as they turned north at the west end of the lumberyard for one-half block and entered the park. Men, women, and children stood with hands over hearts, each bearing secret thoughts and memories of their own.

And then a young man stood on the bandstand overlooking the hushed assembled and began to recite, “In Flanders Field the poppies blow…beneath the crosses row on row…”

I thought of Alice Costigan and Paul Junko and soldiers and sailors and marines and airmen. And days in the park as a child. And more recent wars in Vietnam and Kuwait and Iraq.

As he finished the poem, tear drops unashamedly fell down my face. At that moment there is no place in the world I would rather have been on a beautiful sun-lit morning than in Lawler, Iowa.

On Memorial Day.

(Published in the New Hampton Tribune – June 6, 2003)

and

(Published in The Draft Horse Journal – Spring 2004)

Author’s Note: This is one of my favorite stories from “Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories” (available as an e-book on Amazon.com for 3 bucks)

Memorial Day in Lawler 2003
There were countless patriotic ceremonies conducted throughout the United States this past week. Some attracted dignitaries and politicians who delivered rousing oratories produced by paid speechwriters. Others featured elite military bands, F-16 flyovers, and elaborate stages designed for a television audience.
But not one of them could have been more moving to this northeast Iowa native than the traditional gathering conducted in Lawler—the home of my youth.
My wife Renee and I had driven up from our Des Moines area home on Sunday to celebrate the high school graduation of our niece in Fort Atkinson. That evening I suggested to her that we get up early on Monday, visit the cemeteries of our respective families, and get to Lawler in time for the Memorial Services in the city park.
Although I moved away from the community in 1964 at the age of twenty, there have always been wonderful memories of my childhood there. Many are directly connected to the small piece of ground just north of the tracks next to the lumberyard. There were pick-up baseball and football games with the Scallys, Timlins, McGreeveys, and Leonards. Ice skating on cold January evenings when they flooded the area for us. A berry tree on the east end that bore fruit for the taking. And the Memorial Day parade in which soldiers from World Wars I and II and Korea marched from the Legion Hall three blocks west on Main Street to the corner with the fire bell by the lumberyard. They turned north for one-half block and entered the park. The ex-military men seemed old to me then because I was so young.
My friends and I eagerly anticipated the 21-gun salute so we could dive for the empty shell cases. Paul Junko always got there first and got the most. The rest of us begrudgingly respected his courage and timing.
And even though I never fully understood the full significance of the pageantry, I knew instinctively at some level that it was important for me to be there. Then a simple request was made by a teacher, Alice Costigan, during my freshman year in high school. “Bill, will you recite In Flanders Field in the park on Memorial Day?”
“Of course,” I agreed. “I would be honored to do so.”
And I have never taken the day for granted since. Too old to dive for shells and too young to understand the horrors of war—I memorized that wonderful poem about the dead asking to be remembered by the living, and it somehow changed my life. For the first time I really began to appreciate the sacrifices that have been made. Military men and women who survived and those who did not. Lives were given so that my family and friends could live in a free society. In New York or Los Angeles or Washington, D.C. or Chicago. Or Lawler, Iowa. And it moved me in a way that I had not been moved before.
Until this past week, thirty-nine years have passed since I last experienced the ceremony in person. However, every year I have thought of and thanked God for them—the brave soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen from Lawler.
Going back might have been one of those letdowns that occur when you return decades later. The creek bed that’s not quite as wide or deep as you remembered. The buildings not as tall. The people not as friendly.
But it was not a disappointment. Rather, I was quietly overwhelmed with emotion as the veterans—who didn’t seem quite so old now that I am 59—marched west on Main Street. The building where they congregated to prepare for the march is no longer known as the Legion Hall. The fire bell on the corner has long since been dismantled. But they still marched with pride and dignity. With a sense of purpose. I watched as my cousin Jack McKone carried one of the flags. I heard the Turkey Valley band play God Bless America. And I stood there with a lump in my throat as they turned north at the west end of the lumberyard for one-half block and entered the park. Men, women, and children stood with hands over hearts, each bearing secret thoughts and memories of their own.
And then a young man stood on the bandstand overlooking the hushed assembled and began to recite, “In Flanders Field the poppies blow…beneath the crosses row on row…”
I thought of Alice Costigan and Paul Junko and soldiers and sailors and marines and airmen. And days in the park as a child. And more recent wars in Vietnam and Kuwait and Iraq.
As he finished the poem, tear drops unashamedly fell down my face. At that moment there is no place in the world I would rather have been on a beautiful sun-lit morning than in Lawler, Iowa.
On Memorial Day.
(Published in the New Hampton Tribune – June 6, 2003)
and
(Published in The Draft Horse Journal – Spring 2004)

Author’s Note: This is one of my favorite stories from “Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories” (available as an e-book on Amazon.com for 3 bucks)

 

Memorial Day in Lawler 2003

There were countless patriotic ceremonies conducted throughout the United States this past week. Some attracted dignitaries and politicians who delivered rousing oratories produced by paid speechwriters. Others featured elite military bands, F-16 flyovers, and elaborate stages designed for a television audience.

But not one of them could have been more moving to this northeast Iowa native than the traditional gathering conducted in Lawler—the home of my youth.

My wife Renee and I had driven up from our Des Moines area home on Sunday to celebrate the high school graduation of our niece in Fort Atkinson. That evening I suggested to her that we get up early on Monday, visit the cemeteries of our respective families, and get to Lawler in time for the Memorial Services in the city park.

Although I moved away from the community in 1964 at the age of twenty, there have always been wonderful memories of my childhood there. Many are directly connected to the small piece of ground just north of the tracks next to the lumberyard. There were pick-up baseball and football games with the Scallys, Timlins, McGreeveys, and Leonards. Ice skating on cold January evenings when they flooded the area for us. A berry tree on the east end that bore fruit for the taking. And the Memorial Day parade in which soldiers from World Wars I and II and Korea marched from the Legion Hall three blocks west on Main Street to the corner with the fire bell by the lumberyard. They turned north for one-half block and entered the park. The ex-military men seemed old to me then because I was so young.

My friends and I eagerly anticipated the 21-gun salute so we could dive for the empty shell cases. Paul Junko always got there first and got the most. The rest of us begrudgingly respected his courage and timing.

And even though I never fully understood the full significance of the pageantry, I knew instinctively at some level that it was important for me to be there. Then a simple request was made by a teacher, Alice Costigan, during my freshman year in high school. “Bill, will you recite In Flanders Field in the park on Memorial Day?”

“Of course,” I agreed. “I would be honored to do so.”

And I have never taken the day for granted since. Too old to dive for shells and too young to understand the horrors of war—I memorized that wonderful poem about the dead asking to be remembered by the living, and it somehow changed my life. For the first time I really began to appreciate the sacrifices that have been made. Military men and women who survived and those who did not. Lives were given so that my family and friends could live in a free society. In New York or Los Angeles or Washington, D.C. or Chicago. Or Lawler, Iowa. And it moved me in a way that I had not been moved before.

Until this past week, thirty-nine years have passed since I last experienced the ceremony in person. However, every year I have thought of and thanked God for them—the brave soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen from Lawler.

Going back might have been one of those letdowns that occur when you return decades later.  The creek bed that’s not quite as wide or deep as you remembered. The buildings not as tall. The people not as friendly.

But it was not a disappointment. Rather, I was quietly overwhelmed with emotion as the veterans—who didn’t seem quite so old now that I am 59—marched west on Main Street. The building where they congregated to prepare for the march is no longer known as the Legion Hall. The fire bell on the corner has long since been dismantled. But they still marched with pride and dignity. With a sense of purpose. I watched as my cousin Jack McKone carried one of the flags. I heard the Turkey Valley band play God Bless America. And I stood there with a lump in my throat as they turned north at the west end of the lumberyard for one-half block and entered the park. Men, women, and children stood with hands over hearts, each bearing secret thoughts and memories of their own.

And then a young man stood on the bandstand overlooking the hushed assembled and began to recite, “In Flanders Field the poppies blow…beneath the crosses row on row…”

I thought of Alice Costigan and Paul Junko and soldiers and sailors and marines and airmen. And days in the park as a child. And more recent wars in Vietnam and Kuwait and Iraq.

As he finished the poem, tear drops unashamedly fell down my face. At that moment there is no place in the world I would rather have been on a beautiful sun-lit morning than in Lawler, Iowa.

On Memorial Day.

(Published in the New Hampton Tribune – June 6, 2003)

and

(Published in The Draft Horse Journal – Spring 2004)

Bill Sheridan

Brother Pat’s Big Catch

(This little story comes from Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories, available as an e-book on Amazon.Com for $3)

            Patrick was ten years old at the time. Since he is two years and two days older than me, I was eight on that sunny July 1952 afternoon.

            He was fishing off the roof of our back porch on the east side of the house with a cane pole and bare hook, as was his habit. No night crawler was necessary since the nearest body of water was at least three miles from our home. Brother Pat was ‘pretend fishing’ by trying to grab the clothesline near the southeast corner of our house. Whenever successful in the venture, he shouted to the world, “I got one!”

            Luck was on his side as he felt a tug on the line which he had blindly tossed out over the edge of the porch roof. He gave a powerful yank on the fishing line giving out an extra exuberant yelp, “I got one! I got one! I got a really big one!”

            Unfortunately for me, my luck was not as good as Pat’s. I had just stepped down from the porch when I felt a sharp pain in my left ear, and my head inexplicably began to rise.

In a split second, a fish hook was deeply imbedded in my outer ear. Patrick had not caught the clothesline. Patrick had snagged little brother Billy, and tried to haul his 89-pound trophy in until he heard me screaming.

            Now we had a serious problem. Mom was in Waucoma about seven miles away running the family locker business. The nearest doctors were in New Hampton or Fredericksburg, each approximately eight miles away. Even had there been a car at home, no one around was old enough to drive it.

            Fisherman Patrick suddenly morphed into First Responder Patrick and came up with the only solution we could think of, “Let’s go see John Costigan!”

            To this day I have no idea how he knew to do that. But it was the perfect answer. John had been in the service and must have had some training as a medic. We ran the three blocks to his business on the west end of downtown. Pat was terrified and I was crying as blood streamed out of my ear, where the hook remained buried.

            Thank God, John was not concerned about practicing medicine without a license. He calmly took a jackknife out of his pocket and proceeded to extricate the hook from my ear. After wiping the blood off my cheek, he sent both of us home with a recommendation that Pat try his luck next time at Crane Creek rather than in our land-locked back yard.

            As I write this, it’s been fifty-seven years since Pat tried to pull in that prize fish with his non-baited cane pole.

And it’s also been fifty-seven years since I’ve gotten within a hundred yards of him whenever I see a pole in his hands.

I have no desire to be mounted on the wall of his home office.

(Bill Sheridan)

 

 

Swimming in New Hampton Pool

Not sure whether Lawler kids  still take ‘swimming lessons’ at New Hampton Pool…but here is my experience back in 1954. It was published in the New Hampton Tribune and Des Moines Register in March 2014 almost 60 years after it happened:

High Board Anxiety

With winter soon to be in our rear view mirror and summer hanging on to the heels of spring, I have been thinking about my youth in Lawler; and the thrill of learning new things each season. One such event was the year I learned to swim at the pool in nearby New Hampton.

I am guessing it was circa 1954 when my 10th birthday had arrived. To be able to swim in the ‘deep end’ without supervision, it was necessary to be approved by an instructor, but only  after performing proficiency in floating, back floating, breast stroke and other such tests. There was one, indeed, which required overcoming a phobia ingrained in me: I am afraid of heights.

The east end of New Hampton Municipal Pool at the time had five diving boards. The high board in the middle was approximately 10 feet above the water. To me it might as well have been 100 feet and terrified me! Below it on both sides were middle boards, probably five feet above the water, and on the outside of these, low boards a couple feet above splash down.

I had completed every task except bounding off the high board. The high school girl swimming instructor urged me on, “Don’t worry. You can do this. I’ll be here to catch you the minute you hit the water! It’s okay to jump. You don’t have to dive.”

Frankly, I did not share her optimism. Simply getting to the end of the board was ominous enough, let alone leaping to certain death at the end of that sojourn. “Nope,” I hollered down, “can’t do it.”

“Sure you can, Bill. Run out quickly and leap without thinking. It will all be over in a couple of seconds and you’ll be so proud of what you did. It’s the only thing left to pass your test,” she coaxed.

Buying time, and secretly hoping that the horn signaling the end of swimming lessons would blast, I asked, “Is it okay if I sit down and push myself to the end of the board?”

“That would be fine,” she agreed, much to my chagrin. “Do whatever it takes to get to the end of the board and then drop into the pool. But hurry. We are running out of time today.”

Now the rest of what happened is somewhat cloudy in my mind. After all, it was 60 years ago and sometimes a little difficult to separate historical fact from fiction. But I recall that time stood still, everyone else departed from the pool to watch, and the instructor looked up at me with a conglomeration  of empathy, exasperation, hope, and evil in her eyes.

Now I was doomed. She had agreed to my demands and there was no honorable way out. My buddies, the Timlins, Scallys and Leonards, who could do double back flips off the high board, would surely never let me forget this moment if I chickened out.

So, ever so slowly, I crept out toward the end of the board lifting my rump with my arms. She looks up. I look down. All eyes are on my next move. My white knuckles are velcroed to the diving board. My 10-year-old heart is pounding.

“Jump, Bill. You can do this. Close your eyes and jump!”

I really want to please her and want to get this over with and want my stupid buddies to look the other way, but I’m terrified. And not even half way to the end of the board.

“Come on. Do it. I will be so proud of you.” But for some inexplicable reason she turned her head, just for a split second.

At that very minute I did it! I pushed myself off the side of the board into the depths of the deep end at the east end of New Hampton Municipal Swimming Pool. Seconds later I came up to surface grinning as if I had successfully leapt off the Grand Canyon into swirling rapids.

And she missed it! Well, she probably heard it. But she didn’t see it.

Since I’m  70, she must now be in her mid to late 70s. I wish I knew her name so that I could thank her and apologize for taking so much of her time and energy that sunny summer 1954 morning. Hopefully, she will read this and remember the little red headed kid from Lawler who listened to and heeded her urging. She was able to sign my ‘Certificate of Passing’ to allow me the right to swim alone in the deep end.

One last thing. You might be wondering how many times I’ve since jumped off a high board in the six ensuing decades since that momentous occasion. The answer to that question:  Zero. I’m afraid of heights!

Bill Sheridan

8106 Brookview Drive – Urbandale, IA 50322

515.669.4913 (Cell)                    515.276.4790 (Landline)

Aunt Stella, Santa and the Hot Stove Pipe!

The following is another tale from ‘Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories’ (available on Kindle and Nook for 3 bucks) that is one of my favorites. It has to do with my Dad’s sister who was Lawler’s telephone operator back in the 1950s. In it is a story about how she kept my brother Tom and me  from seeing Santa every Christmas Eve…but we loved her anyway!!!

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Number, Please?”

            Anyone reading this born after 1960 will not be able to comprehend the concept of a small town telephone operator. As mentioned in a prior essay, that person in my growing up years in Lawler was my Aunt Stella Shekelton, Dad’s sister.

Her combined office apartment home was in a small cement block building on the south side of Main Street, adjacent to the Lawler Locker on the east and Martin Dergen’s small wooden home on the west. She was widowed before age forty and had what many believe to be the most important job in Lawler.

If there was a fire, she was the first to know. Stella literally had the fire alarm switch within reach of her chair.

When someone died, she was the first to know since people called Stella to notify a priest, doctor, undertaker, sheriff, or relative.

When a new baby was born, she was the first to know.

In the 1950s there was no such thing as a direct call from one person to another. Instead, you dialed the operator and told her whom you wanted to reach. That is unless you happened to be on a party-line. In that case, you had to either wait for your neighbors to finish their conversation, or ask them to hang up so you could make your call. There was no hope of privacy in those instances, as your neighbor felt perfectly free to listen in on your conversations. The process began in the home when callers hand-cranked a phone on the wall, held a receiver against one ear, and spoke into a mouthpiece device that enabled them to talk to her.

People left messages with Aunt Stella similar to what you might leave on your voice mail system today: “Stella, if anyone tries to call me, please let them know that I’ll be in New Hampton until five o’clock. They can try again after that.”

Father Delay was the Mt. Carmel pastor for twenty-five years and, I think, considered her to be his private secretary. Many times I sat listening to Aunt Stella taking calls. She explained his whereabouts and when they could expect to reach him. You didn’t get to Pastor James without going through Operator Stella!

I was fascinated by what seemed to me amazing technology of the era. She wore a headset that was really cool, and sat at a control board that had plug-in wires similar to what you might see today on the back of a flat screen TV. The cords retracted back into the base when pulled out of the board. People would often place their calls, address her by name, and say something like, “Hi Stella. How’s it going today? Please call 42R3 for me.” (Or more often than not, just ask for McKone’s Station or Annie Corrigan because she knew everyone’s number by heart.)

Stella responded with a friendly, “Hello,” and asked how the garden was holding out in the dry weather or if hubby was getting over his cold. Only then did she plug one of those cords into a designated hole to make the connection. I’m sure it was a process that she could do with her eyes closed, but seemed like magic to me.

In a way I consider her to be a precursor to 911 calls, because there was no doubt what to do in case of an emergency: crank your phone and Stella would get you help.

I have especially fond memories of her on Christmas Eve because of a tradition that began when little brother Tom and I were very young. Mom, our older siblings, Uncle Carl, and Aunt Lois (visiting from the Twin Cities) would send the two of us down to wish her a Merry Christmas. It was a half block north and half block east of our house, so literally took us only about three minutes to get there. During our conversation there would come a call that she would answer and turn to us with an excited look on her face, “Get home right away boys! That was your mom and she said that Santa is at your house. You need to hurry if you’re going to catch him.”

We sprinted with wild enthusiasm toward home, but always “just barely” missed him racing up our chimney. That raised two concerns: 1.) It was very frustrating to come so close to seeing the old guy, but never quite be able to do so; and 2.) we didn’t have a fireplace in our Depot Street home. Instead it was a fuel oil burning stove that furnished heat for the house and changed the pipe’s color to a scary bright orange. It was beyond me how an overweight, bearded old man managed to wiggle his way up that skinny, scorching -hot pipe—and come through the ordeal unscathed.

Thank goodness he was able to leave toys despite those seemingly impossible obstacles. But it occurred to me more than once that Tom and I would have been able to witness it for ourselves had we not gone downtown to wish Merry Christmas to our beloved aunt.

All of my friends liked Aunt Stella and she liked them. I mostly remember her as being frail after developing Parkinson’s Disease at a relatively young age, probably in her mid-fifties. She was able to continue working for a long time despite her handicap and, to the best of my knowledge, was the only full-time telephone operator that Lawler ever had. It was during her later years in the position that phones were installed with which you could actually dial a number directly, without the services of an intermediary.

I understand that progress is progress, and do not wish to turn the clock backward. Cell phones are terrific. Being able to talk to and see my little brother Tom and his family, living in the Netherlands, on the Internet via Skype for free is great.

But there’s something just a little bit sad about not having a telephone operator wish you well on that new baby. Or congratulate you on the job-promotion. Or tell you how sorry she was that your grandma died.

Or let you know that Father Delay drove to Dubuque for the day, but will be back by noon tomorrow.