Category: Reminisce

 

 

MY IRISH RELATIVES

My Dad would have been one hundred years old in 2011. He was born in a small farming town in Lawler, Iowa. The population at the time my father lived there was about 500. I visited there when I was a young man and it seemed to me that many of the town’s people were related to me. I recall visiting the local cemetery and observing all my deceased relatives tombstones including my grandparents who were born in Ireland. I was told my grandfather was a successful farmer who lost his farm due to the great depression in 1929. He reportedly deposited his money from a successful crop in the bank only to have the bank close the next day. After losing the farm my grandfather moved to Independence, Iowa where he obtained employment with the Iowa State Hospital, running their farm industry. My Dad, upon graduating from high school in Lawler, left to find employment in Chicago, IL, where I was born.

Even though my Dad left Lawler as a young man he never forgot his life on the farm. He often talked about returning there and always spoke of being buried there. He continued all of his life, whenever he returned to Iowa, to visit Lawler and often sent money to the priest at the small Catholic Church.

Years passed and my Dad retired after suffering a serious heart attack. While living in Glendale, California my Dad and Mother decided to visit us in Japan in the 1970’s.  They insisted they come in August, and although we strongly discouraged their visit in August they insisted. August in Japan is when all of Japan shuts down for vacations and travel is extremely difficult. Japan’s four main islands are only as big as California, with a population approximately 150 million people, making travel difficult.

My parents arrived in Japan and at that time we were assigned to Yokosuka, about an hour’s train ride from Tokyo. I was worried about their trip as I knew my Mom would most likely be in shock at the difference between the United States and Japan. I was right. They no sooner arrived and my Mom asked why these people don’t speak English. Next she said for me to slow down or I was going to cause my Dad to have another heart attack. Wow, I thought this vacation is going to be difficult. We finally made it to the base, having driven by car from the airport in Tokyo.

Later I planned a trip for them to Shimoda, a beautiful fishing village, where Admiral Perry entered Japan and established trade with the country. Although the trip was only about 90 miles, it took over 12 hours to drive there. I thought my Mother was going to drive me crazy with her complaining why it was taking so long. I reminded her I had told her it was vacation time in Japan, and I had warned her not to come in August. Then when we got to the Oceanside inn where we often stayed she said, “Don’t tell me we have to sleep on the floor.” Bev and I left and then went to the Saki bar and had a few drinks to escape after an exhausting day.

 

 

The rest of the trip went well, however, the return trip and another 12 hour ride back to Yokosuka was much the same with complaints about the long drive. So, I thought I would take them to Tokyo, and put them on a bus for a tour of the city. We took the train to Tokyo and went to the Sanno Hotel. American food was available at the Sanno so that made them happy. Then after a bite to eat we took them outside to where the bus was leaving, they got on, my mother was astonished that we were not going with them. Again Bev and I went to the bar in the hotel and indulged in a few drinks to survive. Bev being a Baptist laughed and said, “Now I see why the Irish drink so much.”

Back home at our base things went well. However, my mother started asking my wife why hasn’t any one called and told her about her mother and how she is doing. She then started complaining she probably died and no one will call and tell her. Finally Bev got a little upset and picked up the phone and called the United States and got Grandma McClung on the line and said, “Tell Mary you aren’t dead.” My Grandma McClung and I were very, very close and she was fully aware of my Mom’s disposition. My Grandma lived well into her 90’s and was one of the smartest women I ever met. She had graduated from a four year Registered Nurses training course at the turn of the century, and was the youngest of 13 children.

Next I planned a trip farther north to a very famous shrine where the Emperor of Japan went annually. The temple was over a thousand years old. We had visited it previously. So off we went in my new car which I had purchased for my parents, and the car had air conditioning, which was unusual for Japan. It seemed finally the complaints from my mother were slowing down, although I attributed that to my mother being mad at Bev, after she made the phone call to Grandma and was told to quit complaining and enjoy herself.

So we finally made it to the famous one thousand year old temple. As we pulled up to the temple on the hill I said to my Dad, “How do you like that?” He stated “Tommy this is no nicer than the cemetery in Lawler.” I still laugh about the comment to this day. I have told all of the relatives from Iowa of my dad’s comments and they get a big kick out of it. The funny thing, after my parents returned to the United States they did tell everyone what a wonderful time they had and how much they enjoyed Japan and their visit.

  • A side note to this story is that my father died before my mother. So my mother buried my father at the famous Forest Lawn cemetery in Glendale, CA. That location is where all the famous people in CA and all the movie stars are buried. Recently they buried Michael Jackson in Forest Lawn. I visit the location whenever, I return to Glendale and without a doubt it is certainly the most beautiful cemetery in CA. It is also the most visited with the exception of Arlington in Washington. D.C., That location is where President Kennedy is buried. Unfortunately my dad did not get his wish to be buried in Lawler, Iowa.

 

  • One time years ago when we were visiting relatives in Iowa my wife and I drove out to the cemetery in Lawler. After walking around I heard my wife looking up and saying to herself out loud Paul, my dad’s name, this cemetery is not as nice as the cemetery in Japan.

and More Reminisce

Hi,

Just happened on  this article (in response to the article concerning Our Lady of Mount Carmel in a previous post).   Rev  John O’Donnell (died 1946) was my grand uncle. He was ordained in Thurles seminary (Ireland) in 1898 for what was known as the “American Mission.” This meant that, as a poor kid, his fees were paid by an American bishop. He had a younger brother, Rev Edmund O’Donnell (died 1953), who also ministered in Iowa. Two of his three sisters became nuns. The third, my late grand mother, also wanted to join an order but was persuaded not too. A narrow escape for me!! I have photo of him taken in front of his Church and also post card pictures of what I presume is Mount Carmel Church which are dated 1929 (if interested)

Regards,
Tom Power
23 Shorewood
Ballinakill Downs
Waterford Ireland

Reminisce Uncategorized

Lifelong values and viewpoints can be taught to impressionable young minds in a variety of ways. The following little vignette occurred sometime in the early 1950s, and still affects my thinking as this is  written in 2013. It comes from “Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories.” (Bill Sheridan)

Chapter Forty

Facing the Music

            Do you ever wonder when, where, how, and from whom you learned that it wrong to cheat, lie, and steal? That integrity really does mean how you act when no one is looking? That you feel better when you do the right thing, even when it means that accepting the consequences might not be easy?

In my case, the who is a combination of Mom, the Presentation Sisters with those daily catechism classes, and other significant adults in my life.

WHEN was a summer morning when I was about nine years old.

WHERE was in the back yard of our Depot Street home.

HOW resulted from an incident with our neighbor to the south, Mrs. Jones.

I think that Mr. and Mrs. Jones were in their mid 70s when the incident occurred. They were not mean people. Rather, they were elderly and preferred that we not kick or hit balls into or play in their yard. I don’t think they ever had children and simply didn’t have the stamina to tolerate commotion. We tried to be respectful and never had any ‘little kids vs. old people’ altercations with them. It was clearly understood that it was in everyone’s best interest not to cause them grief.

What happened that day was both innocent and accidental. Several of my little pals (probably the Scallys and Timlins) and I were playing an impromptu game of kickball in our back yard. It was a relatively small rectangle-shaped area that had a basketball hoop with a wooden pole, wooden backboard, and rim with no net, on the north end. Our property was about twenty yards in length and separated from the Joneses’ garden by a shoulder-high wire fence on the south side.

We were having a lot of fun, running around doing what competitive little boys do, when someone kicked the nearly deflated basketball that we were using high into the air. It soared swiftly upward, heading south at a high rate of speed. To my horror, its path was on a direct trajectory directly toward the back of Mrs. Jones’ head as she was facing away from us, digging a spade into the ground.

Although it took only seconds, I can still picture that large ball making its way almost in slow motion toward the back of her neck. Suddenly it happened.

WHOMP!

 THUD!

The elderly woman let out a startled shriek. Then I heard her moan before falling against the spade. The shovel kept her upright, but bent forward, in obvious pain. Everyone ran out of our yard in fear, shame, and embarrassment.

Everyone but me.

I was terrified because it was possible that she was seriously hurt. Every fiber of my being told me to run. She had no way of knowing who actually kicked the ball, and we all could have lied. But for some reason I knew that I should not run. I could not run. It happened in my yard with my friends and we should have been more careful. But we weren’t, and we had hurt an elderly lady who was my neighbor tending to her garden. So I walked up near the fence and timidly asked, “Are you okay, Mrs. Jones?”

It took a few moments before she was able to answer, and she never turned around even once. “Yes, I think I’m okay.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? Should I go get Mr. Jones? I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I just need to stand here for awhile. It’s okay. You can leave.”

And so I did.

But I’ve never forgotten about what happened and how relieved I was that she wasn’t hurt and how proud I was for accepting the consequences of my actions and thankful to Mrs. Jones that she wasn’t mad at my friends and me and determined never to let something so dumb like that ever happen to her again.

I was grateful to Mrs. Jones who taught me a lesson about forgiveness. Even though she must have been angry, she knew that we didn’t mean to hurt her so forgave us in an instant.

And grateful to my mom, and those nuns, and the catechism books that taught me that it may not always easy to do the right thing, but it’s always best to do the right thing.

 

 

 

Reminisce

Note: Teresa posted this note on her Facebook page and I took the liberty of copying it here. (Bill Sheridan)

‎!7 years ago tomorrow on Dec 15th my Mother, Leona Croell, passed away and at Christmas time I always remember as a little girl we kids would have to gather evergreen boughs from the trees that used to line Kipps driveway by the cemetery( which are no longer there) and we would have to weave them around the front porch and put up the big Chrismas lights.

Reminisce

Thanks to Mary Lou Hoey-Bruess for sending this clipping to me that her mother saved concerning an important piece of Lawler history. (Notes in parenthesis are mine.)  The writer’s name was not given in the article, but I’m thankful that he/she wrote it. (Bill Sheridan):

 

Historic Flag on display at Lawler Library

There is an American flag, first flown in Lawler in 1905, on display at the Lawler Library. It was donated by the Martin family and flew for years in front of the long-time popular Martin’s Cafe.

With the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, it might be difficult to focus on fireworks, flags, and the 4th of July. A correlation between the winter and summer months, however, can be made with a visit to the Lawler Public Library. During the holidays, stop by and see it.

Two years ago (1994) this flag, which was first flown on Independence Day 1905, was donated by the Vincent (Dint) Martin family. From 1905 it flew proudly in front of Martin’s Cafe (now known at Hole in the Wall) in downtown Lawler on special occasions; and full-time during WWI and up to and including May 1945 when the Germans surrendered, ending WWII. The flag was never used any place except in front of this family-owned restaurant known as Martin’s Cafe, “The Home of Hospitality.”

In addition to the Martin hospitality, Dint and his father P.J. were history buffs and loyal to their country in war and peace. Independence Day 1905 was a very appropriate time for the initial raising of the flag.

This piece of Lawler history will be well preserved in a special case purchased by the Lawler Library Board of Trustees. The town is over 125-years-old, and with three devastating fires in its history, memorabilia from the city’s past has literally gone up in smoke. This 91-year-old flag (in 1996) will remain at the library along with scrapbooks and books from interested donors sharing information about the community built along the Crane Creek in 1869 and incorporated in 1871.

Reflections of the past year or years are reminiscent with the dawning of a new year. As the blustery winter of 1996-1997 takes hold, once can only visualize the sultry 4th of July in 1905, when the Martins walked out of their cafe with flag in hand and raised ‘Old Glory’ for the first time. This flag represents many years, many seasons, and many people who passed by the Red, White, and Blue which proudly flew in front of Martin’s Cafe. Librarian Jane Lynch (in 1996/ Cathy Humpal in 2012) invites everyone to stop at the library to view the flag display and spend some time browsing through the books and videos at your disposal.

Reminisce

One of the great traditions back in the 50s was getting a gang together on a cold December Lawler night and knocking on doors to sing Christmas carols to the local citizenry. One such evening holds a special memory for me. Hope you enjoy this little tale from ‘Depot Street Memories…the Lawler Stories.’ (Bill Sheridan)

Chapter Fifteen

“Bless Me Father, for I Have Sinned”

It was one of these December activities that became a ritual and great fun for participants. One evening, a week or two before Christmas, a dozen or so boys and girls would get together to go caroling. We walked around town and knocked randomly on doors. When the homeowner answered, we broke into Jingle Bells, or Silent Night, or Frosty the Snowman, or some other song of the season, in mostly off-key voices.

More often than not, the folks who came to the door listened and then gave us a buck or two for our efforts. Although it was never stated, the unwritten rule understood by all was that any monetary gains from our venture were passed on to Mt. Carmel Catholic Church. At the time Lawler was 95% Catholic, and most donors to our caroling gig considered it to be just one more offering to the parish.

On this particular winter night, however, we sang at one of the few homes in town not inhabited by a family of our faith. The occupant was a business owner and nice guy who gave George Timlin and me an admonition as he handed us (as self-designated treasurers) a couple of bucks, “Now I don’t want this to go to the church. Buy yourselves malts with it.”

Neither of us said anything about it until it was time to go home. Fortunately, we happened to be the only ones who heard the man’s request. So as our group dispersed for the evening and went our separate ways, George and I discussed our dilemma.

“Wudaya think?” I asked.

“I dunno. Wudayou think?”

“Well. He did say that he didn’t want it to go to the church.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

“Wudaya think?” I asked again.

Neither one of us wanted to make the decision that might land our sorry butts in Hell, or Purgatory at the very least.

“Well, what about the other ten in the group? You can’t buy more than a couple malts at Martin’s Café for two bucks,” says he.

“Good point,” says I. “I guess we gotta’ do what he asks and turn the rest in to Father Delay. And I think it’s a good idea if we just keep this to ourselves.”

So that’s exactly what we did. Sometime that next week we handed in most of the money to Padre James, but withheld a small amount to honor the request of the contributor. Within a day or so after that, George and I plopped a buck apiece on Dint Martin’s counter and ordered up delicious chocolate malts for ourselves. If either of us felt guilty at the time, it was not a subject that we discussed.

I had conveniently almost forgotten about it until the following Sunday when I happened to be serving Mass. Father Delay was at the pulpit at the end of the service making announcements, one of which was, “And a special thanks to the Mt. Carmel Christmas carolers who raised $23 for the church with their singing.”

I would have made it okay if I had not looked down from the bench, where the altar boys sat during the sermon, and spied my co-conspirator with a big grin on his mug. He opened and closed his right fist five times.

I got it. Twenty-five. “That would be twenty-five dollars, Father Delay,” he seemed to be saying. “Not twenty-three dollars. Sheridan and I nabbed two bucks from God to down a couple malts at Martin’s Café!”

Somehow I managed to avoid the church giggles that normally come at such times. But I’ve never forgotten that grin on Timlin’s face.

I assume that the statute of limitations has run out after the five decades. But just to be on the safe side, maybe I ought to go to confession. And if I do, there’s one thing for certain, I’m not taking the rap by myself.

George Timlin downed one of those malts, so he’s gonna’ share in the blame.

I’m not sure that he can be forgiven if I make the confession on his behalf—but it’s worth a shot!

Reminisce

Thanksgiving has always been one of my very favorite holidays. It really helps me hone in on the many gifts that the Lord has given to my family and me. I’m eternally grateful for all of them. One such gift was being raised in Lawler in the 1950s. In ‘Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories,’ I described the community as a town of character and a town of characters. Following is a piece about one such character. Happy Thanksgiving 2012!

 

The Original Stormin’ Norman

No respectable young Lawler lad in the 1950s grew up without earning a nickname. His was a long one:  ‘Stormin’ Norman–King of the Bloodsuckers.’

His real name was Norm McMullen; and I understand that he died a few years ago. I don’t know any of the details, but have to believe that he left this world kicking and screaming.

Norm was the first real dare-devil that I ever knew on a personal basis. He lived without fear. If there was a challenge, he accepted it. Once, when we were playing “Cowboys and Indians,” he fell off a parked railroad car and broke his collar bone.

It was a different time back in the 1950s when my friends and I swam in Crane Creek meandering through Lawler, Iowa. There is a railroad bridge over the creek that seemed enormously high to all of us. Only the bravest of the brave dared plunge into the depths below. In reality, my guess now is that it was only ten feet or so from the water. At the time, however, we viewed it as a tremendous act of courage tackled only by the bravest of the brave. Norm jumped off the bridge only when all eyes were on him—with reckless abandon and great flourish shouting, “Here I come! Tarzan–King of the Jungle!”

There followed a huge cannon ball splash as he savored our admiration for his bravery each of the dozens of time we saw it that glorious summer. One day, however, there was a startling modification to his ritual. Waiting until he was the center of attention, Norm stood at the edge yelling at the top of his lungs, “Here I come. Tarzan…king of the…” Down he went into the murky waters of Crane Creek only to quickly emerge with the final words of his proclamation, “…eeeeek. Bloodsuckers!”

Sure enough. Our hero was covered with tiny black leeches that drove the rest of us to the sandy banks of the creek in shear terror.

That day a new moniker was born: “Stormin’ Norman–King of the Bloodsuckers.” 

Norm had an innate sense of adventure and courage that would be good for all to emulate. He wasn’t the type of guy who wore a belt and suspenders at the same time. He wouldn’t take a map to go on a trip. I’ll bet he bungee-jumped when he was fifty.

I admire people willing to take risks and hope for the best. They know full-well that the proverbial dive into deep water holds elements of danger. But they do it regardless, believing  that the potential reward outweighs the risk.

Hat’s off to you, Stormin’ Norman. May your dive into the murky Crane Creek water those many years ago be an inspiration to us all. Despite those blood suckers, you’ll always be ‘King of the Jungle’ in my heart and mind!

Bill Sheridan 

william_sheridan1@msn.com

 

Reminisce

Reminisce

The following piece was recently published in the New Hampton Tribune and may soon appear in the Des Moines Register. It deals with a sensitive and controversial subject: curtailing postal service by stopping Saturday delivery and/or closing small-town post offices. Following is an experiment that you may wish to try yourself:

One Month of Snail Mail

The entire experiment was so unlike the way I generally live my life. I am not particularly introspective or analytical. But there is a sentimentality deep within my soul for the small town upbringing that I experienced in the northeast Iowa community of Lawler during the 1950s. In those days the population hovered around the 500 mark. Today there are 20% fewer citizens. Even though my wife Renee and I live in a suburb of Des Moines, more than three hours southwest of Lawler, a part of my heart truly cares about their future.

Reading about the potential closing of small town post offices by our nearly bankrupt United States Postal Service bothers me greatly. It represents one more nail in the coffin of the idyllic lifestyle these tiny communities offer. I am a supporter of any alternative that might help keep them open; one of which is giving up Saturday mail delivery. However, that idea made me curious about what we really do get in the mail each day.

On a whim, I made the decision to keep the envelopes from every single bit of mail that we received from September 1 – September 30, 2011, one year ago. I had absolutely no preconceived notion of what to expect, other than guessing that the majority of it would be advertising or what has colloquially become known as junk mail.

My wife and I had already both been retired at the time. And notably, it was not an election year, which would have significantly skewed what I’m about to report!

To develop a system and make some sense of the numbers, I broke the mail into 12 distinct categories. There is a fair amount of subjectivity involved because some of the mail, from a bank or credit card company for instance, had important information such as a monthly statement along with self-promotion material. At other times the same source sent out blatant advertising letters. In each case, I listed it under advertising unless there was otherwise significant information of importance to us.

One most surprising observation in my mind is that I missed my calling in life. Perhaps I should become a gambler because my first guess was right. Of the 89 pieces of snail mail received that month, one-half (44 of them) were advertising!

In alphabetical order with number of correspondence in parenthesis are a list of the senders. I admittedly claim nothing scientific about the results. Because I am a writer with few mathematical skills who rounded the percentages, it comes to a 98% total. But you will get the gist:

  1. AARP (3 = 3%)
  2. Advertising (44 = 49%)
  3. Banks (4 = 4%)
  4. Credit Card Company Info (2 = 2%)
  5. Insurance Company Info (5 = 6%)
  6. Magazines, Newsletters (10 = 11%)
  7. Medical Clinics (4 = 4%)
  8. Personal Letters (5 = 6%)
  9. Political Ads (1 = 1%)
  10. Request for Donations (7 = 8%)
  11. Social Security Administration (2 = 2%)
  12. Utility Companies (2 = 2%)

Frankly, a very high percentage of the advertising mail did not get read; much of it did not even make it into the house (except for the envelope) since I pass our recycle bin on the way inside.

We don’t subscribe to any magazines or newsletters, so much of what we received in that category also landed in aforementioned recycle bin. We pay our utility bills online, but do open anything coming from the water department or gas & electric company. Unless there is obvious advertising on the envelope, I tend to read AARP mailings because I volunteer as an instructor for their driver safety classes and don’t want to miss anything pertaining to that situation.

Had this experiment been conducted in 2012 rather than 2011, there would have been a plethora of political glossy postcards to report. And I always take at least a quick glance an any mail from Social Security Administration and banks, credit card companies, or insurance companies with whom we have a relationship. If we don’t already deal with them, it’s automatic recycle city without even scanning. Since we are no longer in the workforce, we carefully choose charitable giving based on past experiences and are not influenced by mailed solicitations.

So what are my conclusions about this little exercise?

  • I highly recommend you give it a try. Just make sure that you save absolutely everything for one month. It was quite easy to do by opening what we deemed worth examining, and then tossing the empty envelope into a plastic grocery bag to be counted later
  • E-mail rules. Without actually comparing, I have no doubt that we received 4 to 5 times as much correspondence (and probably much more) on our respective laptops
  • Texting is becoming a bigger issue almost daily as a way of connecting
  • There are a lot of trees being cut down to provide junk mail that often is never even opened
  • It is still fun to receive the rare written personal note from a family member or friend
  • In our case, getting snail mail on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday would be more than sufficient
  • Finally,  I hope that the post offices in small town Iowa and around the country can remain open for a long time. That probably does not make fiscal sense, but the fun of running into your neighbors while ‘checking the mail’ at the local post office and catching up on a little gossip is Americana at its best. Some things are worth paying for. And that, in my mind, is one of them

 

Bill Sheridan, Freelance Writer

8106 Brookview Drive

Urbandale, IA 50322

 

William_sheridan1@msn.com / www.sheridanwrites.com / Phone: 515.669.4913


 

 

Reminisce

Every little town had a favorite hangout when I was growing up in the 1950s version of Lawler. The following piece from ‘Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories’ speaks of such a place. Here’s hoping that you old-timers enjoy looking back; and those of you either too young to experience it or who have never been to Lawler get a feeling of such an important part of our history. (Bill Sheridan)

Chapter Seventeen

Martin’s Café

            THE place to congregate when I was growing up in Lawler was a restaurant on the north side of the main drag, next to Chick’s Barber Shop, called Martin’s Café. It was owned and operated by Vincent (Dint) and Gert Martin.

Dint and Gert made the very best malts in Lawler. Actually, they made the only malts in Lawler. Having a corner on the malt market on a hot August day in Lawler was a good thing, especially along with their scrumptious hamburgers and other home-cooked meals.

Several aspects made Martin’s a cool place to hang out. I loved the way they let you spend as little as a nickel, dime, or quarter on something, and did not expect you to leave right away. There was a circular bench facing the main drag where teenagers sat, sometimes for hours, discussing the main issues of the day. “Can you believe the price of gas? It’s up to a buck for three gallons. When is that price increase going to end?”

Or, “That Presley dude from Memphis is weird. He ain’t never gonna’ amount to anything. This rock ‘n roll stuff they’re talking about is just a fad.”

And they had wonderful photos above the booths on the west side of the café showing off all the Lawler High basketball teams going back years and years. It was terrific to study those old black and white pictures and imagine what their games must have been like in the 1930s and 1940s. And many of the people in the photos were now middle-aged and still living in town, so it was great fun to compare them to the way they currently looked with their expanded bellies and receding hair lines.

During the 1950s, after a big basketball win on a Friday night, we’d all head for Martin’s, put a dime in the juke box to hear Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino, Bill Haley and the Comets, Buddy Holly and the Crickets, Conway Twitty, Gene Vincent, Buddy Knox, and a bunch of others sing on 45 rpm (revolutions per minute) records.

Then we cheered for the players as they came into the cafe one-by-one or in small groups.

Romances began and ended in those booths. Arguments over the merits of John Deere vs. Farmall, or Oliver tractors were never settled; and secrets were shared over Cherry Cokes that have not been divulged to this very day, decades later. The black and white television, featuring sporting events such as Wednesday Night Fights and the World Series, was considered community property because most Lawler families did not yet own a TV.

That’s how I learned I was as nearsighted as Mr. McGoo. I was sitting at a round table one Wednesday night watching a boxing match with some friends when my third grade classmate, Bob Boeding, came in wearing a pair of glasses. He may have been the first in our grade to do so. I said, “Hey, Bob. Can I try those on just to see what it’s like?”

“Sure,” he answered while handing them to me.

I was shocked. I saw what the world was SUPPOSED to look like. A cloud had lifted. I saw shapes and forms that I did not know existed, and hated to hand them back to Bob. Within a week, I was taken to an eye doctor and have not been without glasses since.

On summer Saturday nights Paula and Jim, daughter and son of the Martins, sold freshly popped popcorn in a stand in front of the restaurant as Lawlerites milled through the street.

Outside, on the west side of the building, were vines much like those in Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs. Sparrows by the hundreds lived in those vines, so my buddy Ronnie Sjullie and I could shoot blindly into the wall with our BB guns and be assured of hitting a random target in those pre-PETA days. One evening we got into trouble by firing at sparrows sitting on top of the façade wall facing the street. There was a vacant lot behind the wall so we faced south and tried to hit the birds. Dint walked out around 7 p.m. and asked if we had been doing the shooting.

“Yeah,” we replied. It wasn’t exactly a case that needed to be solved by CSI since each of us stood there with a BB gun in our hands.

“Well, Florence Goss (the postmistress) needs to talk to you.”

“Okay. Do you know what she wants?”

“I sure do. You’ve put a couple holes in the window of her apartment above the post office!”

We were ashamed, terrified, and feared the worst as we marched up the stairs to her home. Fortunately for Ronnie and me, Florence was a forgiving soul who kindly asked us to use better judgment in the future and declined to send us to Leavenworth for destroying federal property.

On the front side of that same wall was a fading patriotic painting of a flag, along with printed names of military men and women from Lawler who had served our nation during WWI and WWII listed under it. It saddens me that I don’t have a photo of that precious sign.

I don’t recall how long Dint and Gert ran the café, but I know that they raised their wonderful family and provided a terrific service to the town with their hard work and generous spirit. Through the years I’ve had the good fortune to eat at some wonderful restaurants around the United States, but none of them have offered the same comfort and joy as the burgers and malts sold at Martin’s Café in Lawler, Iowa.

It was a special place.

What a kick it would be to go back in there to have the Martins serve up their delicious chow one last time.

Reminisce