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.

The following is a story taken from ‘Depot Street Memories—The Lawler Stories’ (available now as an e-book on Kindle and Nook for $3.00). It has to do with a decision my buddy George Timlin and I had to make on the spur of the moment. I’ll let YOU decide if we made the right choice. Either way…the statute of limitations has run out!

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!

At that time he was ‘Mr.’ Purtell as he taught Latin. He was much loved and respected by us with his caring attitude and wonderful sense of humor. It was no surprise to us that he eventually joined the priesthood. Our loss is Heaven’s gain!

 This information comes from “ancestry.com:”

ID: I599

• Name: John LAWLER
• Surname: Lawler
• Given Name: John
• Sex: M
• Birth: 4 May 1832 in Carlow Co., Ireland
• Death: 24 Feb 1891 in Prairie du Chien, Crawford Co., Wisconsin
• _UID: 7BD7AE03E5C2504B9CC9F4909EFA434851E4
• Note:

According to a bio, John was the eldest son of Mary Cantwell and Patrick Lawler, who came to the US in 1836 and lived in New Jersey. At 15 [abt 1847] John started working for a railroad company in Middletown, New York. Three years later [1850] he became a foreman at the Erie Railroad docks in Piermont. In 1856, he and his new wife left for Chicago, and a year later, settle in Prairie du Chien. { The Columbian Biographical Dictionary and Portrait Gallery of the Representative Men of the United States, Wisconsin Volume, 1895, by D. I. Nelke, <googlebooks>, 9 Aug 2012}
“While in Piermont [Rockland Co., New York], he had become acquainted with a young Irish girl, Catherine Dinon, whom he married in 1854.” {‘The Life of John Lawler’, by William B. Flaherty, Wisconsin Magazine of History, Dec 1940, <http://content.wisconsinhistory.org/cgi-bin/showfile.exe?CISOROOT=/wmh&CISOPTR=13742&CISOMODE=print>}
John Lawler and his wife Catherine (Dinan?) had at least 13 children:
John D. 1855-1896;
Thomas P. 1857-;
Daniel W. 1859- ;
Louis Dana 1860-1885;
Frances J. 1862-1890,
Joseph C. 1865-1920;
Mary J. 1866-1894 m. Charles J. L. Lantry;
Vincent 1868-1869;
Augustine 1870-1871;
Katherine Emily 1874-1945;
Clement A. 1874-1923;
Ellen ‘Nelly’ Caroline 1876-1933;
and Julia P. 1876-1876.
“Born in a small village in Carlow county, Ireland, May 4, 1832, he came to America in boyhood. At fifteen [1847?], he began working for a railroad company in upstate New York. Almost immediately his fine talents came to the knowledge of his employers, and three years later we find him foreman at the Erie railroad docks at Piermont, New York. Continuing to advance, before he was twenty-one he had secured a desirable position on the Canandaigua and Niagara Falls railroad at Tonawanda, New York. Moving to Chicago in the following year [1853?], he engaged in general railroad work. The summer of 1857 found him in the Wisconsin town of Prairie du Chien, an agent for the Milwaukee and Prairie du Chien railroad….” {‘The Life of John Lawler’, by William B. Flaherty, Wisconsin Magazine of History, Dec 1940, <http://content.wisconsinhistory.org/cgi-bin/showfile.exe?CISOROOT=/wmh&CISOPTR=13742&CISOMODE=print>}
“John Lawler 1832-1891: railroad executive, businessman, philanthropist, b. Carlow County, Ireland. He migrated to the U.S. with his parents in 1836. As a young man he worked for various railroads in the East and, after living briefly in Chicago and Milwaukee, settled in Prairie du Chien in 1857, where he was station agent for the Milwaukee and Mississippi Railroad. A short time later he became general agent for the line; in 1861, it was taken over by the Milwaukee and Prairie du Chien Railway Company. In 1863 he became vice-president of the newly organized McGregor Western Railway Company, and in 1867 both lines became part of the Milwaukee and St. Paul. Recognizing the importance of the Mississippi River to the transportation system, Lawler gained control of the river ferry in 1859, received a contract to ferry rail traffic in 1863, and remained in virtual control of all rail traffic between Prairie du Chien and McGregor until his death. In 1864, he became president of the Northwestern Packet Company, which merged with the Davidson line in 1866. To meet the problem of transferring railroad traffic between Prairie du Chien and McGregor, Lawler at first utilized railroad barges and later financed construction of a pontoon bridge, which was completed in 1874. He was a director of the Northwestern Life Insurance Company and a regent of the Univ. of Wisconsin. Active in many local philanthropies, he was particularly interested in furthering Catholic education. He was one of the founders and financiers of St. Mary’s College and Academy and St. John’s (now Campion) College in Prairie du Chien, and gave liberally to Georgetown Univ. and the Catholic Univ. of America.” {Dictionary of Wisconsin History, <http://www.wisconsinhistory.org/dictionary/>}
“In April 1857 the railroad came to Prairie du Chien and determined the economic and social life of the community for a century. That summer a young John Lawler came as the station agent…. The railroad built a hotel on the Upper Mississippi known first as the Railroad House and later renamed Dousman House. About that same time John Lawler bought much of Fort Crawford and donated a block to Catholic nuns for St. Mary’s Academy…. Lawler made his money transferring railroad cars and passengers across the river first by ferry. In 1874 he launched the pontoon railroad bridge that operated until 1955 and was dismantled in the early 1960s. Lawler Park was named after John Lawler, Prairie du Chien’s greatest philanthropist.” {Crawford Co., Wisconsin, <http://crawfordcounty-wi-us.org/>}
“The width of the Mississippi River posed a challenge for further expansion of the railorad into Iowa. This problem was temporarily solved by disassembling the trains at Prairie du Chien and ferrying them across the river to be put back on the tracks on the other side. A better solution was found by two men named Michael Spettel and John Lawler, who designed a permanent pontoon bridge to span the river in 1874. Lawler took most of the credit for this invention, and made a small fortune through its operation.” {Wikipedia, ‘Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin’, <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page>}
“[Lawler, Chickasaw Co., Iowa] was named after John Lawler, of Prairie Du Chien, he being the active agent representing the railroad company when the town was laid out. “ {http://iagenweb.org/chickasaw/maps/mapsnames.htm}

John and Catherine are buried in St. Gabriel’s Catholic cemetery in Prairie du Chien, with a number of their children. There are photos of their memorial listing “John Lawler, May 4,1832—Feb 24, 1891, born in Cnty Carlow, Ireland”; and “His wife Catherine, Dec 23, 1833—Apr 1,1922, born in Cty Cork, Ire–died in Kansas City, Mo.” There is also a memorial for their children Vincent A., Augustine E., and Julia P. who died young; and another for their children Clement A., Ellen Caroline and Katherine Emily; with Mary and her husband Charles J. L. Lantry. {WIGenWeb, <http://www.rootsweb.com/~usgenweb/wi/cemetery/crawford.html>}
There is also a record made by WPA of graves for Louis D. 1860-1885; Francis J. 1862-1890; Joseph C. 1864-1920; Clement A. 1874-1923; S. D. Sturgis 1892-1949, son of John D.& Ella; and John D. 1855-1896. {St. Gabriel’s Cemetery, Crawford Co., Wisconsin, USGenWeb, <http://ftp.rootsweb.com/pub/usgenweb/wi/crawford/cemeteries/stgabriels.txt>}

• Change Date: 12 Aug 2012 at 09:50:45