Lawler, Iowa

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

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.

Thanks to Mary Lou Hoey Bruess from Monroe WI, my friend and Turkey Valley 1962 classmate, for sending me a clipping from the Dubuque Dicocese newspaper (The Witness). Mary Lou is the niece of Florence Goss who was postmistress in Lawler for many years. This article was written by Rev. Msgr. Edgar Kurt in March 1989 as one of many profiles of churches in the diocese. It shows me the importance of preserving memories in writing. I’m grateful for the opportunity to share this important bit of Lawler history with visitors to this site almost a quarter of a century later. Finally, I welcome an ‘update’ from 1989-present if someone is willing to research and submit it to me. Thanks. (Bill Sheridan)

Our Lady of Mount Carmel Parish Profile

The extension of the Chicago & Milwaukee Railroad from Calmar made the town of Lawler spring into existence. The Irish workmen came to build the rail line but joined the settlers to form a lasting Catholic parish.

The Chickasaw County town was named for John Lawler, a Catholic, who was overseer for the railroad construction.

Both pioneers and construction worker, mostly Irish, received pastoral care from visiting priests. One of them was Father Henry McCallow, who celebrated the first mass in 1868 in the home of Peter O’Byrne. The Conrad Kuennen home was also used for Mass. Father McCallow is mentioned in no other parish history.

Those early settlers continued to be attended from Saint Rose Parish near Waucoma. The priest was probably Father P. F. Harrison, whose mother is buried in Saint Rose Cemetery near Waucoma.

Father Patrick F. Farrelly was appointed to Saint Rose Parish in 1872 and also served the Catholics at Lawler. After directing the building of a church at Lawler in 1876 or 1877, he became their first resident pastor in 1877. It was a frame building costing them $5,500. The next year he left the two parishes.

Father Richard A. Byrne was then assigned to Lawler, and stayed until 1885. While he served as pastor, the parish built a rectory.

Father Byrne directed the building of a two-story frame school in 1882, a long building with only one room on each floor. The Sisters of the Presentation from Dubuque staffed the school, two Sisters in each room. They were Sister Mary Vincent Donnelly, Sister Mary Baptista Hussey, Sister Mary de Sales Weibel, and Sister Mary Cecelia Malloy. When school opened on September 15, 1882, about 70 pupils were enrolled. Seats that were made for two held three, and it was quite common to find someone sitting on the floor.

After Father John Hawe came from Waukon, he enlarged the frame church in the form of a cross in 1890. Some years later it was faced with brick. The school became both grade and high school in 1892, graduating its first class in 1897. About that time Father Hawe went on to Decorah.

Father Peter H. Garraghan served from about 1904, when Father Garraghan left, until 1910. That year Father Patrick Ryan came from Ryan and Father Leahy took his place there.

Soon after Father Thomas F. O’Brien came in 1918, the school was discontinued because of crowded conditions. A fire that destroyed the upper story in 1919 prompted the parish to restore the second floor and add a third story.

Father O’Brien left in 1922 to serve as chaplain of Mount Carmel Convent in Dubuque.

Father John J. Clune, the next pastor, saw to the building of a brick rectory in 1922. In 1928 he went on to Lamont.

Father John O’Donnell came in 1929 to serve until his death on April 30, 1946. However, the last year of his life was spent in the hospital in New Hampton. Father James F. Delay was administrator of the parish during that time and became pastor after Father O’Donnell’s death.

During Father Delay’s 24 years, the parish saw many changes. In December 1963 fire destroyed the school and its contents. The parish purchased the public school, which had been vacant since the previous May (due to construction of Turkey Valley High in Jackson Junction). Parishioners cleaned and repaired the building, and school resumed on January 6, 1964. When the school was closed a few years later, the Presentation Sisters had served the parish and school for over 80 years.

Frank Eichoff, a retired hardware dealer, died in December 1962, leaving a half million dollars to the parish for a new church to be started within two years. The dedication was April 30, 1967. Father John W. Moran came to Lawler in 1969 as Father Delay moved on to Clear Lake. During his 10 years, Father Moran directed the growth of religious education program replacing the previous school instruction. In 1974 he directed the parish dismantling of the old church and renovation of parish property.

Father Peter Bodensteiner came to the Lawler parish almost 10 years ago, in 1979. He serves 915 parish members in 235 households. He is assisted by two directors of religious education, Leslie and Dolores Cuvelier, each directing six grades. The program serves 223 students.

The parish is participating in the RENEW program.

Mount Carmel parish has had many vocations. Over 55 women entered religious communities and 12 men were ordained in the priesthood.

The following little tale from ‘Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories’ has always been one of the best-received when I’ve done readings at libraries, retirement centers, schools, or service clubs. MAYBE it’s time for me to forgive him. You can help me decide on that.

My Fashion Whiteout Moment

            I must have been a freshman or sophomore in high school at the time. Stepping out onto our front porch, I felt as though GQ Magazine would be looking at me for their next cover photo. For some strange reason I felt quite dapper as I looked into the mirror before going outside to impress the world—well at least my buddies down at Martin’s Café—with my outstanding wardrobe.

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

But the dream was short-lived when my dear neighbor and friend—Joe Scally—self-appointed chief of the Lawler Fashion Police happened to be in his front yard.

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

I was delighted that Mr. Scally was about to compliment me on my attire; and perhaps even ask me where the ensemble was purchased so that he could run right out and copy my excellent choice of clothing . 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.)

Instantly the whiteness from my neck to my toes was offset by the embarrassing redness in my face as I turned around and hurried into my house before another soul on the planet saw me. While slamming the front door I could hear the sound of Fashion Chief Scally howling with laughter in the background.

To this very day (50 + years after the fact), I’m not entirely sure whether to thank Lawler’s favorite banker profusely or punch him in the nose.

 Bill Sheridan: www.sheridanwrites.com       

Every year around World Series time baseball is on my mind. But not the kind played today by multi-millionaires. Rather it drifts back to Lawler in the 1950s. This little piece from ‘Depot Street Memories–The Lawler Stories’ was fun to write. I hope you enjoy it.

Sunday Afternoon Field of Dreams

            The late broadcaster, Paul Harvey, frequently stated in his fifteen-minute nationally syndicated radio news program, “Not all that we call progress is progress.”

I believe that to be the case sometimes even when I tune into my DirecTV on a Sunday afternoon and choose from virtually every sport or entertainment option throughout the world on one of the 150 available channels. If we are willing to pay the extra premium it is possible to get any NFL game MLB game that we want to watch. And that does not include PGA tournaments, track meets, volley ball, bowling, motor cycle racing, NASCAR, boxing, wrestling, basketball, or mixed martial arts battles—just to name a few!

We now take it for granted that we that we can sit in the comfort of our living room and watch highly paid professional athletes perform at the highest level in living color on our high definition televisions.

To be perfectly honest, however, I got much more enjoyment going down to Junko Park on the east end of Lawler to watch an amateur town-team baseball game on a sunny Sunday against Fort Atkinson or New Hampton or Fredericksburg or Sumner or Spillville.

The players ranged in age from 18-50 and performance enhancing drugs included a Marlboro between innings for some and a cooler of iced down Schlitz at the end of the bench for almost all.

Connie Kuennen was the paid umpire of choice for home games behind the plate. To save money, however, they often drafted some poor innocent soul out of the stands to ump at second base for no remuneration and enough grief to last a lifetime. The common lie went something like this, “Come on, Fred. Just come out and do the best you can. No one is going to care if you miss a call or two. It will be fun and we need your help.”

Some poor sucker always relented and ended up with a boatload of abuse before the 9^th inning mercifully came to an end.  I noticed through the years that those ‘volunteer’ unpaid umps seldom came back a second time. Put me in that category.

“Come on, Sheridan. There’s nothing to it. Stand out there and call safe or out. It’s not rocket science and you’re among friends. What could go wrong?”

I’ll tell you what could go wrong. I was one lousy ump and my baseball friends could not seem to take a joke about my ineptness! And the guys from the visiting team got downright hostile when a close call didn’t go their way.

A classic example came when our guys (first mistake…I was supposed to be neutral and instead still thought as a fan: our good guys vs. their bad guys) got an opposing player in a run-down (we used to call it a ‘pickle’) between first and second.

I don’t remember the players for sure after all these years, but it could well have been Mark Timlin and Johnny Ed Scally who were chasing the miscreant from Charles City between bases. They were both pretty good players and undoubtedly it would be a matter of seconds before one of the two tagged him for the final out of the inning (mistake two…never anticipate what MIGHT happen). So when the runner took a desperate head-first dive into 2^nd base hoping against hope that the defenders would not be able to touch him with the ball—volunteer umpire Willy (that would be me) raised his right hand in the air and confidently yelled, “Yer’ OUTTA here!”

The Lawler guys hurriedly headed for the bench for another cigarette and cool brew while the diving Charles City guy jumped up screaming at me, “Are you nuts man? He missed me by a mile!”

Now I was in a bit of a quandary. The Lawler guys had already popped a top and the guy who had just been called out was joined by 8 of his buddies who were forced to put down their own beers and get back on the field because of my call.

So, was he right? Was he safe by a mile? Well, he was only half right. He was  safe by at least two miles. All I could do is stand there with a stupid look on my face wondering how my right hand went up and I yelled safe when it wasn’t even close.

Back then it was not the cliché that it is today—but somehow I understood immediately that I’d better keep my day job because professional umpiring was not part of my future. Connie Kuennen’s position was safe.

The uniforms—sponsored by local businesses with company names on the back—never quite matched because the younger guys got new ones that had a slightly different color. There were rather vague ground rules about whether a ball hit on or over the road in left field was an automatic homerun or not. The highest honor one could receive would be hitting one onto John Junko’s yard in deep center or into his business in right field with huge storage tanks for fuel oil and gasoline.

Some of my peers (Tom and Eddie McGreevey; Tom and Mike  Leonard; Greg, Mark and George Timlin; Joe and John Scally; Ray Kuennen and others) played along with a cast of characters a little bit older (Roger Croell; Tom Grace; Lefty Murray) to make for a fun bunch of guys to watch. All had a bit of a competitive spirit but no one took it so seriously that they were going to lose a night’s sleep by being on the short end of a 15-2 thumping.

One Sunday they were short of players and recruited me to play right field. It turned out to be an experience that made umpiring seem like a Sunday school picnic. My throwing arm was abysmal and I couldn’t hit because of my back problem—a yellow streak from the bottom of my neck to the top of my butt. I couldn’t hit sand if I fell off a camel’s hump—so had no business in the batting box. On that particular afternoon I struck out four times after a total of twelve pitches. My spiritual life improved, however, as I spent the entire game our in right field praying that no one would hit a ball to me.

By this time in their lives most of the guys had families and full-time jobs so they approached the game the way it was meant to be played with the joy and gusto. It gave them a chance to relive some of their glory days in high school while entertaining 50-100 people in those pre-television days. We happily cheered for the home team and good naturedly booed the visitors. Often the opposing players were good friends with the Lawler guys and coolers were shared after the game was over.

They played it the way we did years earlier as little boys—at The Park. Lawler town team baseball games  were a sight to behold.

To steal a phrase for Field of Dreams: “Is this Lawler?”

“No. It’s Heaven!”

Bill Sheridan        www.sheridanwrites.com       william_sheridan1@msn.com

Back l-r:  Jane Sloan Huber, Elizabeth Cervenka Nockels, Mary Lou Hoey Bruess, Merle Huber, Vincent Barloon, Tom McGreevey, Dave Croatt, Bill Sheridan, Bob Kuennen

Front l-r: Elaine Schaufenbuel, Bea Brannon Bodensteiner, Rosemary Hackman Kriener Knox, Mary Ann Brown Smith, Pat Scally Lillis

TVHS 1962 50th Class Reunion in Rock Island, IL on 10/6/12

Recently my fellow graduates from the 2nd class ever to graduate from the consolidated school from the towns of Fort Atkinson, Lawler, Protivin, St. Lucas, and Waucoma met to fellowship and reminisce at the Holiday Inn located in Rock Island, Illinois. The site was chosen because Tom McGreevey (spouse Carla) and Jane Sloan-Huber (spouse Leo) who live in the Quad Cities agreed to host it.

There were 43 in our graduating class, 6 of whom are deceased and were remembered with a moment of silence: Allyn Einck, Frances Skretta, Marian Macal, Patty Carlin, Jimmy Wichman, and Kenny Lechtenberg.

Fourteen graduates (plus spouses/guests) were in attendance and we had a terrific time telling stories from the past, bragging about grandchildren, and expressing gratitude for those times together five decades ago. (Bill Sheridan)

(I gave many readings from ‘Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories’ at schools, retirement centers, service clubs, and libraries in the past couple of years. This little vignette often elicited a much bigger response than I expected…especially from men and women of a certain age. They talked about horse-drawn ice wagons and milk deliveries.)

Junk Man Don: Lawler, Iowa in the 1950s

            It sounds like a cliché to say that times were simpler back then. But it is a fact—times were simpler back then. It was pre-television; and then only black and TV for years. There were no microwaves or automatic dishwashers. Cars did not have turn signals in the early 50’s; the driver (in good weather) stuck his/her hand out the window—straight out to indicate a left turn and upright to indicate right turns. There were no FM radio stations, movie theaters played double features, no computers, no Internet, walking on the moon was science fiction, and all families had burn-barrels in their backyards to dispose of waste.

And that’s how Don Bemis fits into the picture. Although the word entrepreneur was not in our vocabulary at the time—that is exactly what he was. Don owned a horse and a wagon with big car tires that became his stock in trade. He called on citizens of Lawler once or twice a month to haul their garbage and burn-barrel remains out to the city dump several miles south of town. There were no ordinances about what could be thrown into that pit in those days, so it was a veritable treasure hunt for young boys who hitched a ride with him on his route.

He was a simple guy who lived on the west end of the main drag with his parents and siblings. Looking back—I am guessing that Don was in his thirties when in the draying business. I never saw him in anything other than bib overalls and recall the calluses on his hands from throwing junk of all kinds onto that trailer. And he was never in a hurry. That horse had one speed, and so did Don. He was very content with that pace of living.

We could not have imagined at the time that one day we would live in a world of recycling, non-burning and powerful machines that lift garbage bins high into the air to deliver contents into the back of the truck; with no human hands touching the material.

The trucks roar off to the next house in less than a minute to repeat the process, making a loud noise in the process. I know that it makes sense to do it the new way—but sometimes I get a little nostalgic for Don Bemis’ horse-drawn wagon and the ‘clippity clop clippity clop’ sound of his stalwart equine partner heading south, with two or three of us riding along to pass the time of day.

www.sheridanwrites.com

William_sheridan1@msn.com

Bill Sheridan, Freelance Writer

(The following piece from ‘Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories’ speaks of a day gone by when being a Lawler Irishman (or woman) had a certain flair to it!)

The Fighting Irish of Lawler High

My best guess is that a twelve year-old boy living in Lawler in 2009, as this is written, has never given one moment’s thought about Lawler being ‘Irish.’ And I’m perfectly okay with that. As I said early in the introduction to the book, today it is someone else’s Lawler. But back when it was my Lawler, we were intensely proud of our Irish heritage. St. Paddy’s day was a big deal and our high school nickname was the ‘Fighting Irish.’

When you grew up in the 1950s, high school sports were a really big deal.  It was a pre-consolidation era, so producing a successful basketball or baseball team was not only a main source of spectator pride, it was our best chance of getting recognized in newspapers or on the radio. From first grade on our heroes were guys like John Tierney or Roger Croell who excelled on the court and would be featured in the New Hampton Tribune; or maybe even hit it really big time in the Waterloo Courier. Going to a basketball game in our tiny gym at Lawler High on Tuesday or Friday night was an exciting event. Teams through the years shooting layups prior to the games in their green and white uniforms; cheer leaders in green and white waving their green and white pom poms; the school fight song by our pep band playing in the background; all these things sent chills down my spine in anticipation of the Lawler Fighting Irish winning yet another game.

I was so naïve that the first time I saw Notre Dame playing football on television, I was angry that they stole our fight song and our nickname. How could they be so callous?

Just as ‘Casey at the Bat’ didn’t always succeed, however, the good guys from Lawler High broke our hearts every once in awhile. In the 1957 season they played against the even smaller town of Alpha in a game that traditionally resulted in an easy victory. Unfortunately, the Alpha guys didn’t get the memo and took our over-confident Fighting Irish to the woodshed quite handily.

The next day my buddies and I rushed over from Mt. Carmel to the high school gym to see how the coach in his final season at LHS, Les Teeling, would react to the stunning defeat. I’ll never forget how he looked his shame-faced players in the eyes and held an orange sphere in his hand. There was total quiet before he began chiding them, his voice dripping in sarcasm, “Gentlemen. THIS is a basketball. You played last night like you’ve never seen one before. I think it would be a good idea for you run a bunch laps while you’re thinking about how the game is supposed to be played.”

My personal all-time favorite team, with first-year head coach Patrick Kramer, was the one in 1958 on which my late-brother Mike played as a senior along with classmates Don (Shill) Benz and Tom McGowan; plus juniors Eddie McGreevey and John Scally. Subs were Jerry (Muns) Timlin, Jerry (Giz) Hart, Mike (Next) Leonard, Pat (Pa) Murray, George (Soot) Timlin and Charlie (Koenig) Murray and Ronnie Sjullie. The fighting part of the nickname fit Mike’s temperament to a proverbial ‘T’ as he regularly majored in fouls and minored in points scored.

They won a fair share of their games and it was always exciting to me whether they did or not. I was in seventh grade when Mike was a senior, so way too cool to admit that they these guys were heroes to me. But they were.

Before a new gym was erected, games were played in a little cracker box similar to what you saw in the movie ‘Hoosiers.’ There was no seating on the floor level, so spectators sat on the east side in a balcony setting looking down on the action. The score clock was a real clock (the word digital was not part of our lexicon at the time) with hands moving around each quarter. Home fans and visiting fans, by necessity, sat next to each other rather than across the gymnasium for each other; so conversations between the two could get rather heated at times.

My biggest disappointment in basketball came when I was a sophomore, the final season before we consolidated into Turkey Valley High. We played a sub-state game against Hudson and lost on a controversial foul with seconds remaining in the game. It cost us our one and only chance to play in the state tournament, which was held in Iowa City that year.

Just about the time that we finished grieving the loss a week or so after the game, Superintendant Ed McGreevey posted a letter from the referee in the Auditorium. It was addressed to the student body from a remorseful referee, apologizing for making a lousy call and costing us the game. The pain began again.

Baseball games played at Junko Park were a thing of beauty. Again, the white uniforms with green lettering continued to remind us of our Irish heritage and the importance of athletics to our little village.

I noticed in a recent trip back home that the lettering on the Lawler water tower is no longer green. Instead, the coloring is red. I’m told this was chosen as a tribute to Turkey Valley High.

Even though I graduated from TVHS and have the utmost regard for its importance to the wider area, it saddens me to see the green gone forever. If I had a vote, not only would the letters still be in green; I would have added a shamrock. Underneath LAWLER would be the words: “Home of the Fighting Irish of Lawler High!”

Bill Sheridan

www.sheridanwrites.com

(The following piece was published in the New Hampton Tribune a few months back and will soon be printed in a regional magazine):

You can take the boy out of Lawler but, even at age 67, you might not be able to take Lawler out of the boy.

Growing up in the small northeast Iowa village in the late 1940s and 1950s, I learned the art of waving and saying hello to everyone that I met. Today, on my daily Meredith Park walks, that habit continues whether I know the folks or not.

Okay, so Meredith Park isn’t really a town. And I’m not really a mayor. But it might just be possible for me to get elected if it ever does become one, because I’m on a first name basis with more residents than anyone I know.

Meredith Park is a housing development located in Urbandale, a northwest suburb of Des Moines. Renee and I moved here almost 20 years ago from Fort Dodge when a job opportunity opened up for me. At the time, there were still houses being built and few trees or any other type of landscaping in sight. Today it is well established neighborhood with mature trees, bike trails, and lovely modest homes. Ironically, in the approximately two square miles development, there are probably more homes than in Lawler and the population most likely exceeds that of my hometown.

Somewhere along the way I became an avid walker and could never shake the habit born as a youngster of saying hello to everyone that I met; often stopping to introduce myself. Because I don’t wear a headset with music blaring in my ears, it’s easy for me to stick my hand out and say, “Hi. I’m Bill Sheridan. And your name is?” This inevitably leads to a brief conversation and I go on my way.

That’s where the real fun begins. I repeat the person’s name to myself for the rest of the walk so that I can call them by name the next time we meet. The technique serves two purposes: 1.) They are complimented that I took the time to know who they are and; 2.) It drives them a little crazy trying to remember what the heck my name is!

Through the years I’ve had some remarkable encounters using this little ploy. For example, I met Dan, a landscaper who grew up in Elma, about 15 miles or so from Lawler. One day while passing by I noticed a car, obviously owned by his parents, pulling into the driveway. It was a kick to ask them, “Now who in the heck are you folks from Chickasaw County?”

Another time I chatted with a a retired minister who became ‘Pastor Jim’ to me. He is a delightful man who’s fun to visit with and loves to talk about the Lord. Recently his wife of 60+ years passed away, so Pastor Jim and I went out for lunch to find out how he’s getting along and have him share details of her funeral with me. When we returned to his home, he invited me in to show me the quilts that she had made through their long marriage. It was inspiring to see and hear the love he had for her and how proud he was of her work. Pastor Jim has turned from a walking acquaintance to a friend that I’ll have forever.

Brian and I talked about my love for the Brooklyn Dodgers and the late Duke Snider; and his admiration for the Baltimore Orioles and Cal Ripken.

Kevin not only worked with me at the Principal Financial Group and used the home-based daycare center across the street from our house, but turned out to be a graduate of Turkey Valley High School about 10 years after me, and his late father (‘Pete’ Kleve) was a friend of mine.

To my wife’s chagrin, I can’t resist asking people shooting hoops in their driveway to throw me the ball. They always do so willingly with a big smile. I proceed to tell them that I haven’t missed a shot since 1962, and then loft an ‘air ball’ every single time. One day while buying coffee in an Urbandale Panera’s, the cute young high school girl asked, “Do you live on Brookview Drive?” “Yeah, I sure do. Why do you ask?” “Because you’re the guy who always asks to shoot the ball at our place…and I haven’t seen you make one yet!” We both laughed as I walked to my booth and I couldn’t help but think, “Score one for my Lawler upbringing. I have a new friend.”

There are other people and other stories I could share. And my hope is that there will be many more in the years ahead, as I continue my small town tradition of knowing no strangers. I look forward to making new friends on the Urbandale, Meredith Park walking path.

And maybe…just maybe…I’ll finally make one of the driveway shots. If that ever happens, I’ll calmly walk away trying not to looked shocked; as if it’s the most normal occurrence in the world!

Bill Sheridan

8106 Brookview Drive

Urbandale, IA 50322 

www.sheridanwrites.com 

william_sheridan1@msn.com