Lawler, Iowa

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.

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

Teresa Terri CroelljohnsonDepot Street Memories — The Lawler Stories

‎!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.

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.

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!

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